#they’ve already been through that once - brain!!!!!! let them rest!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fernandoswarcrimes · 1 year

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𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓶

Summary: The one where Charles finds out Mick and Lance are bestfriends with Monaco’s very own Princess. Word count: 3.7k Requested: no but I hope you enjoy <3 Warnings: google translate German, otherwise this is nothing but soft wholesome fluff Note: this has been sitting in my pea brain for a WHILE now so please enjoy what I think it’d be like to see Charles with a princess 🫶🏻

Taglist: @totostables @yourmom-lmao @weirdestmentalityphilosopher @dessxoxsworld @aracee

If it was one thing Charles dreaded every season it was the Monaco race.

The one race that always evaded him and seemingly had it out for him like some sort of curse. But atleast he could sleep in his own bed for the weekend that was the only plus.

Some of the drivers decided to get together and have dinner Friday night since most of them lived in Monaco anyways. There were a few who opted out, mostly the older drivers who wanted to rest from the flight in.

But what piqued Charles' curiosity was once the group had got to the restaurant, Esteban explained that Mick and Lance declined the offer to come out with them, claiming that they both seemingly already had plans. It was unlike the two to not go where Esteban went, usually you never saw the trio far apart.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, they’ve been talking about Monaco for a few weeks now so there’s no telling what the two are up to, they said they’d see us tomorrow.” Esteban shrugged as he sat down next to Daniel.

“Maybe they’re at Jimmy’z?” Lando questioned, causing Max to snort. “Mick? Partying?? Yeah I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. Lance on the other hand that’s more believable but not Mick.” The Dutch boy said shaking his head, he had grown up around the German boy and even now he was still shy and kept to himself.

“Maybe they just don’t wanna hangout with us, have you ever thought of that?” Pierre asked, causing Yuki to shove him “be nice, mick is nice guy, maybe he is just busy.” The shortest driver hadn’t spent much time around the German boy but he knew how nice he was just because everyone spoke highly of him.

“Gracelinde please! We’re not supposed to leave the palace!” Mick whisper shouted as he chased after the smaller girl. Lance could only laugh as he followed after the two. “Oh come on Mick, have a little fun there’s no harm in a little exploration stop being a goody two shoes.” He said, patting him on the shoulder before catching up to the blonde, wrapping his arms around her waist as he hoisted her up, swinging her around in circles in the middle of the dead silent street.

Mick sighed as he heard Gracie’s laugh echoing through the night as Lance swung her around. He knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the palace, at least not without supervision of her bodyguards Dimitri and Alexei since it was a security hazard but she had somehow convinced him and Lance to sneak out with her.

Scratch that she convinced Lance to follow her which meant he had no choice but to go with them to make sure the two didn’t get arrested or kidnapped. Which he wouldn’t doubt the two would somehow get themselves into if they weren't being supervised.

Sebastian would be so disappointed if he saw what he was doing right now, he was sure of it.

Mick couldn’t help but be a stickler for rules, he just never felt the need to break them. He wasn’t his dad. Which is why it was stressing him out that the older girl convinced the dark haired boy to sneak out like a they were still fourteen, he was sure if they got caught they’d be in so much fucking trouble.

“Come on guys really let’s just go back already, Grace if your parents find out they’d have our heads that you didn’t take Dimitri and Alexei with you.” He tried reasoning with the bubbly blonde who just looked up at him with a pout once Lance had finally put her back on her feet. “But what if we got ice cream instead? We’re already almost to the main strip” she asked hopefully. “Yeah come on Mick ice cream??” Lance added on mirroring the hopeful look the older girl wore hoping that he’d agree with the Gracie’s idea to get the sweet treat before going back.

Mick just put his hands on his hips as he gave them a disapproving look. Lance wanted to make a comment about it but Gracie had beat him to it.

“You look just like your dad when you make that face.” The smaller blonde blurted out honestly as she pointed a finger at the look he had on his face. Which caused Lance to cover his mouth to keep the laughter at bay. The German boy dropped his hands from his hips as he threw his head back with an exasperated groan. “Gracie!” “What! I’m being honest, you do!” She said, throwing her hands up in a “what” motion.

Mick just sighed knowing she meant well. “If we get ice cream do you promise we will go straight back home?” The blonde boy questioned as he looked down at her, he was trying to think of what Sebastian would do in this situation, he probably wouldn’t have let any of them get as far as they did that’s for sure, but they were already near the ice cream shop so it wouldn’t hurt to just get it anyways before going back, it’d probably make the two listen to him better. “Yes! Swear it!” Gracie shouted, clasping her hands together excitedly.

“Fine, we can get ice cream then, but we’re going straight back to the palace afterwards-” Mick said leaving no room for argument but the blonde girl and Lance had already taken off towards the main road causing him to sigh and follow after them, he could already tell it was going to be a long night.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gracie was never good at time management. It was something her mother always complained about but it wasn’t the blonde's fault she easily got distracted, she just couldn’t help it. Her grandad always compared her to a bunny rabbit, brain always getting sidetracked by little things never staying on track.

Which is exactly how she ended up stopping at the bakery down the street to get some croissants instead of being on time to meet Lance at the Aston Martin garage like she promised.

After glancing at the clock in the shop, she quickly paid and was soon rushing through the streets, Dimitri and Alexei hot on her heels as they tried their best to keep up and not lose sight of the smaller girl through the crowd of people lining up to watch the race that was due to start in the next forty five minutes.

The blonde princess felt her phone ring causing her to frantically dig in her purse, nearly dropping the ringing device once she pulled it out to answer it. But before she could get a word out the Canadian boy was already speaking through the phone to her.

“Twinkle Toes you said you would be here and you’re not, because I don’t see a five foot blonde ballerina princess standing in the Aston Martin garage right now. Sebastian thinks I was fibbing when I told him I had a friend coming today Gracelinde. You’re making me look so uncool right now.” Lance spoke quickly and quietly through the phone as he paced around the garage, the older German driver found it amusing how worked up the kid was getting over this.

“Lancelot relax, I’m walking into the paddock now. I got a little distracted on my way here. There were these croissants at the bakery down the street and I had to have one you know me. I got you one as well because I’m so nice-“ Gracie said before getting cut off as she ran straight into someone, her phone clattering to the ground as she caught her balance.

Both her and the mystery stranger had the same idea of bending down to pick up the phone because not two seconds later their heads were knocking against each other causing the blonde girl to let out a string of giggles as she took her phone from the stranger's outstretched hand. “I’m so sorry!”

“No no I’m sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going and I should’ve been-“ Charles blurted out before looking at who he bumped into, his words trailing off as he locked eyes with the blue eyed girl he felt his heart catch in his throat as he realized just who she was, it was hard not to know, she was Monaco’s own crown jewel.

Holy shit he just nearly knocked over the fucking princess of Monaco-

“I’m uh- I’m Charles.” He stuttered out holding his hand out which caused the blonde to giggle again as she gently shook his hand. “I know. You drive for Ferrari, they call you il predestinato don’t they?” She questioned, her head tilting to the side as she looked up at him with a smile. Her French accent made the Italian nickname sound even sweeter which nearly made him melt on the spot had it not been for Mick calling out to her as he jogged over.

“Grace! Komm schon, Lance bekommt gleich einen Anfall, du weißt, wie es ihm geht, und Seb will dich kennenlernen.” Come on, Lance is about to have a fit, you know how he is, and Seb wants to meet you. The blonde boy spoke, putting an arm around her shoulder as he started leading her away from Charles after giving him a quick hello and a goodbye, she threw the fellow Monègasque a smile and a wave over her shoulder before focusing back on what Mick was rambling about as the two quickly walked off towards the Aston Martin garage to meet the two drivers.

Charles just watched the two leave, being left with even more questions now than before. He didn’t notice the Aston Martin Guest badge hanging around her neck, nor did he know that Mick and Lance knew the country’s princess let alone were friends with her, or that she knew German. Everything was just shocking him this weekend.

Carlos had seen his teammate standing in the middle of the paddock with a weird look on his face and wondered what was wrong with him, so he decided to go see for himself. “Ay! Cabrón you alright?” He questioned laying a hand on the younger boy's shoulder making him yelp out of fright from suddenly being knocked from his racing thoughts.

“Merde! Carlos don’t scare me like that.” Charles said, pushing the Spanish man’s hand off his shoulder as he hugged his arms close to his chest taking one last glance in the direction where Mick and Gracie had walked off to before looking at Carlos. “I’m fine mate, just a bit jumpy for the race is all.” He lied, he couldn’t tell him it was because he nearly trampled the princess of Monaco. Carlos would never let him live it down and he knew if he told Carlos, that’d just mean Lando would know and then everyone else would too because Lando and Daniel couldn’t keep secrets to save their lives.

“I need to go see Pierre, I will see you before the race mate.” The bright eyed boy said before quickly walking off towards the AlphaTauri garage in search of his best friend, surely Pierre would have advice on his sudden dilemma right?

What could possibly go wrong?

“Pierre! I need your help!” Charles called out once he spotted the Frenchman sitting outside the AlphaTauri motorhome with Yuki talking about god knows what, he didn’t have the time to be curious and ask.

“What did you do now Charles? Scare a girl and embarrass yourself?” Pierre questioned looking up at his best friend through his sunglasses who just stood there frozen causing the light haired boy to raise his eyebrows in question when the Ferrari driver didn’t deny that statement. What had Charles done now, he thought.

“Nevermind- I don’t want to speak to you anymore. I’m going to find Max, he won't make fun of me.” Charles said, turning on his heel with a pout and walked off over to the Red Bull garage. “Charles what the- did you really scare a girl!? I was being sarcastic!” Pierre called out, throwing his hands up in confusion, causing Yuki to look between the two with a questioning look not really understanding what was happening.

Charles quickly made sure to send the Dutch boy a text explaining he was coming by to talk to him.

Max was already standing outside waiting for him after getting the text, because he’d always help Charles when he needed it. “Is everything okay mate? You look a little pale.” Max questioned looking Charles over, he knew the Monaco race always stressed his emotional support rival out but this didn’t look like it was that. This looked like something more serious.

“Inearlytrampledtheprincessofmonacoafewminutesago-“ Charles blurted out, frantically as he ran his hands through his hair, the reality finally setting in for him of what a disaster it could’ve been while the Dutch boy just stood there dumbfounded not catching a single word of what Charles just said.

“Listen, I know you speak three languages but that was not any of them, try again, slower this time so I can actually help you with your problem.” Max said, placing his hands on his hips waiting for him to repeat what he just said, this time more clear.

Charles took a deep breath before explaining, “I was on my way to find Carlos and I wasn’t watching where I was going and I bumped into this girl-“ Max nodded following along failing to see the problem, Charles could charm any girl he pleased even if he was a little bit dumb, that was part of his ever growing charm. “-and when I handed her phone back to her because I completely knocked it out of her hand, I looked at her and I realized it was Gracelinde Grimaldi the fucking princess of this country mate! I nearly knocked her to the ground and I couldn't stop stuttering, I introduced myself and she said she knew who I was which just made me panic even more.”

Max gave Charles a deadpan look as he listened to him ramble, because only he could manage to be that unfortunate, of all the people he could’ve nearly knocked over of course it had to be the literal Princess of Monaco. “You do realize who you are right mate? Ofcourse she knows who you are, everyone in fucking Monaco does. Did you atleast apologize to her?” He questioned which made Charles let out a noise of offense “of course I did mate! Who do you take me for?” He questioned before pausing “don’t answer that I am already embarrassed enough, I went to Pierre and he just bullied me before I could even explain what happened.”

Max stayed silent for a few seconds, taking in all the information Charles had thrown at him. “Well, did you atleast have a conversation with her?” He asked, crossing his arms as he tried to see how Charles could redeem himself after this. If the girl wasn’t mad then there wasn’t anything to be freaking out about all he had to do was give her a charming smile and move on with his day he didn’t get why he was freaking out so bad.

“I- no. Mick showed up and pulled her away to go see Lance and Seb, I think? He was speaking in German and that’s all I understood.” The Monègasque boy said, throwing his hands up trying to get his friend to see the bigger picture of this delima.

“Wait Mick and Lance- you think that’s where they were Friday night?” Max questioned after Charles pointed out that Mick and Lance seemingly knew the girl, and both were absent from dinner; everything was starting to make sense to him now.

“I mean I guess? It’d make sense. I just don’t get how they’d know her, they don’t live in Monaco?” Charles questioned, causing Max to shrug. “So what’s your game plan? You’ve got to talk to her again after the race.”

Charles shrugged, scuffing his shoe against the ground. “I think I embarrassed myself enough for today mate, you know? I don’t want to make it worse by trying to talk to her and getting too nervous to speak again!”

Max wanted to strangle Charles.

Mick also wanted to strangle Gracie.

She had not stopped talking about Charles ever since he pulled her away to go meet Lance and Seb. He didn’t know she’d be so fascinated by the fellow Monaco native, If he had he probably would’ve introduced the two sooner but he figured she had already met the Ferrari driver before remebering how Charles got invited to the palace a few years ago.

“He seems like a really nice guy Micky!” Gracie said, looking up at the taller boy. “He is Grace, you can talk to him after the race if you like, but we promised your parents you’d be at the Aston Martin garage with Lawrence before the race started so that’s where we have to be.”

The blonde just nodded with a small sigh knowing he was right as they walked inside, Lance letting out a shout of relief at seeing the two. “Where have you been??” He asked, pulling the smaller blonde into a tight hug. “I told you! I got distracted at the shop and then I ran into someone and dropped my phone-“

“It was Charles, Charles ran into her.” Mick filled him in which Lance just looked at her like everything suddenly made sense now, of course Charles would be the one who accidentally ran into her and vice versa, the two were so oblivious sometimes.

“Oh! Your croissant!” Gracie said, pulling the paper bag out of her bag and handing it to him with a wide smile as she excitedly told him. ”It's a chocolate one, you said those were your favorite!”

Lance smiled, shaking his head as he took the bag from her outstretched hand. “Thank you G, I’ll eat this after the race.” He said handing it to his trainer to hold onto since he could really eat anything else before getting in the car.

“Okay, Dad brought you a new book to read if you get bored cause it’s gonna be about two hours but after the race I think some of us are going out to eat if you wanna tag along, if not I’m sure Mick will hangout with you at home.” Lance said, guiding her over to where his dad was sitting towards the back of the garage.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Charles managed to miss the podium by mere seconds, but he supposed P4 was better than nothing. It just sucked that he wasn’t able to win his home race yet again. After gathering his things he started making his way out to the back lot. Max and a few others wanted to go out for drinks to celebrate a good race and weren't going to let him out of going despite him saying he just wanted to relax at home.

He thought back to what the Dutch boy said about trying to talk to the blonde girl again but he figured she had left already, seeing as alot of the drivers had.

Though to his surprise he saw her standing in the middle of the walkway with a confused look on her face as she looked around it seemed like she was lost. He weighed his options, chance facing more embarrassment or just go on ahead to his car?

He chose to chance it and walked over to her.

When he was a few steps away he saw the look of relief that flashed across her face when she noticed him. “Charles! Finally a familiar face, I’m kind of lost.” The blonde admitted as she looked around “Lance told me to meet him at the back lot but I’m not sure where that is, Mick isn’t answering his phone, and I was too scared to ask Sebastian when he was leaving.”

Charles noticed the two older men standing a few feet behind her glancing at them for a second, he assumed tbose where her body guards before giving her a soft smile finding it adorable that she was scared to ask Sebastian of all people for directions knowing the German man would’ve more than likely walked her there himself just because he was that nice.

“I can show you where the backlot is I’m headed there myself, I know how confusing it can be around here sometimes especially after a race when everybody’s busy trying to pack everything up.” He offered, he didn’t mind showing her, it would give him more time to talk with her which is what he was hoping for.

“Really? You’d do that? You’re such a gem Charles.” Gracie said with a bright smile as he offered her his arm to take which just made her shake her head amusedly but looped her arm through his anyways. “Congratulations on P4, it was a good race. You did really well.” She complimented which caused his face to flush as the two made the walk to the back lot.

Charles' mood about missing the podium was lifted at hearing her say he did really well, coming from her was better than any position he could’ve placed. “Thank you, that means a lot.” He said softly as he looked down at her watching as her eyes roamed around at all the different team hospitality buildings.

“Do you come to races often?” He couldn’t help but ask, wanting to know more about her. The boy hadn’t seen her around the Monaco paddock years prior let alone any of the others but then again he doesn’t pay very much attention to his surroundings sometimes, hence the mishap of nearly knocking her to the ground earlier.

“This is actually my first time attending a race,” Gracie said with a small smile. “I watch them when I can from my phone though. It’s such an exciting sport” she gushed as she talked about how exciting it was to actually be able to be there today to see the race in person. He understood her excitement. He had been invited to the palace in 2019 but she was out for a charity event that day so he didn’t get to see her at the time but fate clearly works in mysterious ways by making them bump into each other three years later, in Monaco, at the Grand Prix.

As the two made small talk getting closer to the gate she could see Lance and his Dad talking and knew this would probably be her only chance to see him again. “Are you free this week by chance? I’d like to get to know you better when things aren’t as hectic.” The ocean eyed girl asked, looking up at him, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Charles felt dumbfounded, she wanted to see him again??? Even after nearly trampling her? This weekend had to be a fucking dream and he was fully prepared for the rude awakening that was gonna happen any second, but it never came. “I am, I am free, yes.” He stumbled over his words and nodded quickly with a bashful grin once he managed to get the right words out to answer her question.

“Gracie! Let’s go, I'm hungry!” Lance called out noticing her walking through the gate with the Ferrari driver. She ignored the boy as she came to a stop, turning to look at Charles happy that he was indeed free.

“Great! Say Tuesday? We can meet at La Pampa around one?” Gracie asked with a bright smile to which Charles nodded in agreement. “Tuesday yeah yeah, that works for me. I’ll be sure to be there, consider my whole schedule cleared.” He said giving her a smile, it was hard not to smile at her when she was looking at him with such a genuine smile. It made him feel seen, as just himself, and not Charles Leclerc, formula one driver for Ferrari.

“À bientôt!” See you soon! She said leaning up on her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before skipping off towards Lance and Lawrence, the brown eyed boy giving her a light shove into the backseat before getting in after her closing the door as his dad started the car. Dimitri and Alexei getting into the car next to theirs.

Charles couldn’t believe his luck, because for him the luck of the draw only draws the unlucky and usually that meant he became the butt of the joke due to Ferrari's strategies. But this? This felt different. He would just have to see how far his luck would go before it inevitably ran out.

He just hoped this time

just this once

that luck would be on his side.

#I just love them so much I want to wrap them in bubble wrap #it’s going to get so much softer from here on out #y’all aren’t ready #imagine #formula 1 #charles leclerc #princess protection program #charles leclerc imagine #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #skylightlanterndivider

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jamesunderwater · 3 months

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Jily Microfic - Daring

@jilymicrofics - feb 28th, prompt: daring- words: 687 Summary: Lily's finally reached acceptance. Now she just has to do something about it. Part 2 of 3! Read Part 1 here & Part 3 here; read the academic rivals micros collection here (there's parallels to each of the four micros in this little trio-finale)

She’s going to do it. She, Lily Matilda Evans, is going to crash a date.

After spending hours last night reviewing muggle medical books to confirm it isn’t just a case of a misdiagnosed heart murmur, acceptance finally hit her around three in the morning. And now, there's just no going back.

She, Lily Matilda Evans, has feelings for James Potter…whose middle name is Fleamont – a red flag, for certain.

But despite the red flags – that they can’t go two minutes without arguing, that she wants to pull her hair out when she’s with him, that she once wrote a poem about her love for the giant squid just to prove to him how much she doesn’t think about him (to name a few) – and despite the fact that they’ll have to withstand the awkward torture of working together the rest of the year if this goes wrong, Lily has to do this. She already can’t stand the fact that James is getting dressed for a date with another girl right now. She won’t survive it if she has to watch him be someone’s actual boyfriend.

So might as well cause a scene sooner rather than later, right?

—

Lily waits until the two are seated inside the Three Broomsticks, rolling her eyes at James’s choice of venue. Leaning against the wall as casually as possible, she sneaks glances over her shoulder and through the front window of the pub. They’ve found a table toward the front of the room; James leaves Tamara to go get them drinks; he’s ordering from Rosmerta and Lily can see his smirk from here; Tamara, she thinks, is staring at his arse, and while the girl isn’t wrong for this, Lily feels the urge to shove a pie in her face.

“Evans, Evans…” Lily's blood turns cold as someone tuts. “Not spying, are we?”

Hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, Sirius saunters over to her from across the way, Remus and Peter beside him. All three boys wear varying expressions of curiosity.

“Told you she’d get jealous – did I not say she’d get jealous?” Sirius turns to confirm this with his friends, a finger pointed lazily at Lily. She wants to bite it off, he’s so annoying.

“I’m not jealous,” Lily argues, gaze flicking into the pub again even as she crosses her arms in defiance. James has just returned to the table with drinks, and places Tamara’s before her with a smile. Lily’s stomach churns.

Sirius laughs. “Right, so there’s another reason you’re stalking our boy while he’s on his first date in nearly two years?”

“It’s not been two years, he went out with Holly Hartley at the beginning of last year.”

She only realizes she’s stepped into the trap when Sirius smirks triumphantly.

“So, what’s the plan, Evans?” he asks, tilting his head. She doesn’t understand what he means, and her face must say as much, because he says, “C’mon, it’s you, know you didn’t come down here to spy on them without a plan.”

Cheeks burning, Lily squeezes her arms tighter around her chest. “I was going to…” She looks between the three boys, all of whom seem keen to hear her answer, and while this confuses her, it also spurs her on. “Well, I was going to interrupt them. You know–” She brings a hand to the necklace around her neck and tugs at it. “I was going to crash it.”

She jumps when Sirius lets out a booming, “Ha!” then glances into the pub window to make sure he wasn’t heard. Her cheeks as red as her hair now, Lily opens her mouth to defend herself, but Sirius cuts her off.

“Well damn, Evans, if you aren’t the picture of ‘daring, nerve and chivalry’.”

Lily glares at him, and though she wants to make a retort, only half her brain is paying attention. The other half is busy glancing repeatedly into the pub, where she can see James laughing around the lip of his butterbeer bottle.

Her mind comes back into full focus when she hears the words, “Can we join you?”

To be continued (again)...

#jilymicrofics #jily microfic #jily fic #jily #jple #jily*#james potter #lily evans #hp #my writing

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kkpwnall · 7 months

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if it wasn’t for bad luck i wouldn’t have luck at all

part one | rated t | 1270 words | cw: parental death

all my thanks and love to my beloved @fragilecapric0rnn for beta-reading 💜 you're a rockstar and your feedback was so so helpful

Eddie was born under a bad sign. That’s what his momma always used to say. Friday the 13th, and in October? He never really stood a chance and neither did anyone else he got close to. He was like a black cat walking across their path.

[ keep reading below, or read on ao3 ]

His momma was first, of course. Cursed by the fate of Eddie’s birth from the very beginning. And if he hadn’t dawdled on the way home from school that day, if he had gone straight home just like he’d promised, if he hadn’t stopped to pick a bouquet of ditch weed wildflowers for her and got distracted by caterpillars and rollie-pollies— Well, maybe he would’ve been able to tell the 911 operator she was still breathing when he found her.

His daddy was next, not much long after. Eddie worshiped him like a hero in one of his fantasy stories, the charming, devil-may-care, down on his luck protagonist who stole from the rich and gave to the needy. But the first time Floyd brought him out on a real job, just the two of them, when all Eddie had to do was hot wire the getaway car after he heard the signal (three hoots like a barn owl), Eddie panicked. Did he say barn owl or barred owl? Was that two hoots or three? Why did the wires all look the same in the dark?

When the police cars painted him in their flashing red and blue lights, he dropped the wire cutters and ran. Floyd went down in a hail of bullets behind the car Eddie had been trying to steal, and Wayne got his own life sentence when the State dropped Eddie on his doorstep.

Uncle Wayne got the worst of it, obviously. Working himself to the bone, nights and weekends, to put Eddie through school. Not to mention senior year for a second and third goddamn time.

It was too late by the time young Eddie figured it out. By the time he decided to keep everyone at arm’s length.

It’s safer that way, for everyone.

Chrissy was just the latest in a long line. And he’d only lowered his guard an inch, a millimeter, when he saw someone just as lonely and desperate for a friend. He’d only barely started to let himself have an inkling of what an actual friendship with her might be like when—

This is exactly why Eddie doesn’t have friends. He has minions. He has little lost sheepies, he has twerps and shrimps. And that’s it. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

But all that changes the day he dies.

Or maybe it’s the day he finally wakes up. His new birthday, welcomed to the world once again in a cold, bright, sterile hospital room.

And really, the way he sees it, it’s all Henderson’s fault.

The little shit wanders in every day at visiting hours and makes himself right at home. He props his cast up on Eddie’s bed, and steals the remote to change the channel on the ancient, minuscule tv over to cartoons, and then he just… camps out! All day!

The kid will not leave him alone, no matter how cold a shoulder Eddie tries to give him. He even broke down and explained everything to him. How he’s bad luck, he’s bad news. And people who get too close to him end up dead.

But maybe the painkillers they’ve got him on scrambled his brain as bad as the bats scrambled his guts, because Dustin steamrolls right over him.

“If curses were real, which they aren’t,” he posits in his professor voice, “Your dumb curse can’t try to kill me again. It already took a shot and it missed, and the worst I got was a busted ankle.”

Eddie opens his mouth to tell Dustin that’s not how curses work but—

“And what was its goal anyway? To get you alone and friendless, dead in a ditch? Well then, mission accomplished!”

Which is… weirdly comforting when he puts it like that.

Dustin brings with him a rotating cast of the rest of the fellowship. Eddie finally gets to meet Baby Byers and finds out he’s already been recruited to Hellfire before Eddie can even say hello.

More often than not, Steve tags along too since he’s already ferrying them all between the hospital and home. Usually after he’s spent some time with Red and the other kids in her room, he’ll drop by. To check on Dustin of course.

It’s not because he likes Eddie. Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t even know him.

All that… before… it was just some harmless flirting to keep himself from completely losing it while he was on the run from homicidal bible-thumpers. And Steve was just humoring him.

So he hides behind stupid flirtatious remarks, easy to brush off when it’s always undercut with sly winks and salacious expressions. Enough to keep everything surface level. Keep him at arms length.

It doesn’t matter that his eyes still seem to linger on Eddie, even when he hasn’t said anything for a while. Or that he brings Eddie extra pudding cups from the cafeteria. It doesn’t mean anything when he stands in the doorway trying to finish one last story or joke, until the kids almost literally have to drag him out when visiting hours are over.

Because it turns out Steve is an incorrigible gossip. And Eddie’s not about to be the one to corrige him. Not when he brings an extra dr. pepper for Eddie every time he stops by the vending machine for a coke and gleefully tells Eddie which of the doctors, nurses, and shady government agents are sleeping together.

A can of coke he taps on the lid with a peculiar rhythm before he cracks it, every time.

“What’s up with that?” Eddie finally has to ask one day, when it’s just the two of them and the Price is Right.

Steve hums this confused little sound at him, tilting his head with furrowed brows as he takes the first sip.

Eddie repeats the pattern, tapping it out on his own can.

Steve blinks a few times, first at Eddie, then at the can in his hand.

“I didn’t even realize I did that,” he huffs out a laugh. “It’s uh… something my grandpa taught me when I was a kid. Y’know just for luck.”

The blood in Eddie’s veins freezes and he’s stuck like that for a painfully long moment. Propped up against the lumpy hospital pillows with his mouth half open, staring at Steve.

“For luck.” he says flatly.

“Yeah, so the fizz doesn’t explode when you open it.”

“And has that ever happened to you?” Aiming for flirty, aiming for scathing, aiming for anything that’s not desperation.

“Well no,” Steve says with an easy shrug and a conspiratorial smile, “that’s why it’s lucky. It’s like picking up a coin that’s face-down on the sidewalk.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s face-up, darlin,” Eddie says coyly, like every alarm bell in his head isn’t ringing a deafening cacophony.

“Nah see, you gotta leave those ones for someone who really needs the luck.”

“But then you get the bad luck.”

“Nah, doesn’t work that way,” Steve says, and fucking winks at him.

Eddie wants to shake him. What is wrong with him? He’s got it all backwards and it’s dangerous. How is he walking around like this?

Whatever, it’s not his problem. Steve can do whatever Steve wants. Eddie doesn’t need to protect him from himself. It’s not like they’re friends. And really, that’s the best way to protect him.

[ part two ]

[ also on ao3 ]

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basilone · 2 months

Note

Thanks for the reminder, I've had the prompt page open since yesterday in a tab. Can I prompt 06. — surface for either Brady and/or an OC of your choice, please?

Love that my little post from a bit ago reminded you that you wanted to send me something! 💙 I had to sit with this one a moment, as I'm still wrangling Brady in my brain, but landed on the following...

surface

He hears her before he sees her.

It’s rather a common occurrence on base these days. Can’t move five feet without hearing a woman’s raised voice carry over the din. Can’t set foot outside a hut without hearing their shouts or their laughter – in worst cases both at once – as if all of Thorpe Abbotts now belongs to them. The woman currently cursing up a storm in the belly of his plane is one of the worst offenders. Voice with the power of a foghorn, voice that only seems to stop when she’s eating or sleeping, voice that has all but elbowed its way into his subconsciousness already.

John Brady heaves a sigh. Takes another sip of his coffee while he leans against the one part of the space that hasn’t been subjected to her rather impressive array of tools. She treats this plane like she owns it, having draped her jacket over the other gun, using her previously pristine white scarf as an extra cloth to wipe the grime off her hands with before unceremoniously flinging it to the floor. He eyes the dirtied scarf a moment. Refocuses on her only when she lets out a rather large snort.

“You on your coffee break, Brady, or are you thinking ’bout helping?”

“Helping with what?”

She wipes at her forehead. Leaves it with streaks of black. “Damn gun keeps jamming on reload. Max complained about it after our last run. She kept having to slam down on it with her fist.” Her dark eyes narrow as she peers at the gun’s slide. “Son of a bitch is gonna cost me more work, think it needs to come apart before we’re wheels up again.”

“Just the one, not the other?” John nods at her jacket. Isn’t surprised when she nods back to indicate that only one of their guns is out for the count. “Sounds like a job for Morrison herself.”

“Max ain’t flying this one next time. Egan said she’s up with him, and Dee’s gonna be wheels up with Crank. Guess we’re getting one of their gunners in return?” She scoffs a moment. Rakes her short hair back best she can, which isn’t well at all. “Don’t you look at me like that, ain’t our fault brass keeps shuffling crews like a deck of cards!”

“Just wondering about the end game,” he says carefully, setting his empty cup down atop her toolbox. “They’ve been moving you around different crews since Trondheim. Filling gaps.”

“Softenin’ y’all up for more female replacements, more like,” she snipes. Her hands deftly pry a part of the gun away from the slide. “C’mere, hold this for me, easier with two”– and his hands are on the panel before he can think twice about following orders –“gonna get this baby up and running for you and me. I don’t wanna get mid-flight only for this to decide it don’t wanna play no more.”

John’s eyebrow raises. “Keeping me company, Perrault?”

Her laugh is throaty but loud. “Sweet baby Jesus, you and Darlene are just about the only ones gettin’ my name right around these parts. Egan keeps callin’ me Perry, for fuck’s sake, and all them rest calls me Push. Stupid nickname.” Her hand covers his a moment, directing him to the edge of the panel. He takes a shallow breath in through his mouth as she leans forward and fills the air with gasoline-and-grease smell. “But yeah, Jules said they were gonna shift me to your crew for the next run. Somethin’ about your engineer getting frostbite up in the turret?”

“Hole in his suit.”

“That’s shit,” she says conversationally, tugging at the gun between them until it clicks apart. “Can ya take me through this baby once we get this gun fixed? I like to know what I’m workin’ with. Know she had a belly landin’ not too long ago, yeah?” She hums as he kicks a wrench over to her. “Ken said she’s all right now, but I want a look at that landing gear before we go.”

“Landing gear should be okay. More worried about the plating around the second engine,” he confesses as he holds two parts of the gun while she’s loosening a third. “It felt like it wasn’t quite feathering the way it should.”

“What, on the surface? Or deeper?”

“Could be deeper. Think it’s surface.”

“You tell Ken that?” She grins at him, unapologetic, as he frowns at her. “Of course ya did. You’re a smart one, John Brady.”

“Perrault,” he says, feeling just a little unmoored about the totally sober way she just called him smart, “just don’t get frostbite up there.”

He flinches a little at her booming laugh. Bites his tongue when her oil-stained hand lands atop his. She pats it reassuringly, as if that’s answer enough in the universe she inhabits. No boundaries between pilot and engineer, or so Bucky would say. The man’s insane.

“Chin up,” she says, then, and her hand squeezes his fingers before letting go. “Your face went all sour lemon. Thinking about repairs?”

“Bucky and his big mouth, actually,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Perrault lets out a groan that practically reverberates off the walls. “Please, say no more.”

“You too?”

He decides he likes Perrault just plenty when she rolls her eyes and slams the wrench down on the gun’s chamber. “Lord, where do we start?”

#masters of the air #john brady #oc: push #mota oc #basilonefic

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 2 months

Text

Clarity of Creativity

I was thinking, perhaps what if one of the others like, actually took time to listen to Roman explain, or just, showed him patience, Logan, maybe, but you don't have to, of course – 🇵🇱

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: none

Pairings: also none

Word Count: none--no I'm kidding it's 1270

Remus is the one to give him the idea.

They’re in the Imagination, Roman on his knees in a small tidal pool, hands gently resettling the rocks where a large wave had disturbed them. Remus sits next to him on one of the sun-warmed rocks, swinging one leg back and forth. The clear water splashes up around Roman’s arm. A crab scuttles over the sand nearby and disappears over the crest of a small dune.

“I think it would help,” Remus says, as quiet as the setting sun, “especially for the assholes that don’t give you the time of day.”

“They’d have to read it.” A fish nibbles at the tip of Roman’s finger. “Would they?”

“Would they read it? I’d fucking hope they would.”

Roman sighs. He lets the fish dart around his hand for another moment before he gets up and goes to sit on the rock next to Remus. He leans his head on his brother’s shoulder and closes his eyes. After a moment, he feels Remus’s head come to rest on top.

The waves grow a little louder as clouds begin to spread over the horizon. Roman turns his face into his brother’s shoulder. Remus takes one of his hands tightly in his and squeezes as the red sunlight effortlessly pierces the clouds. The waves crash against the shore to a cry of seagulls as Roman’s eyes squeeze shut. Remus kisses his forehead as the win blows warmly across the sand.

“…okay.”

“And you’ll always have me to kick their asses if they don’t listen to you.”

Roman smiles. “Thanks, Re.”

It isn’t a bad idea, truly. He’s always been better at expressing himself through the strange abstract of prose than the fumblings of verbal communication, especially when it comes to things he’s liable to get…emotional over. Even as he works, his mouth tightens at the thought of it.

Like trying to drink through a straw with holes, he writes, when you’re dying of thirst and you just can‘t get your mouth around it.

Already, he can see the reactions of some of them. The bemused and indulgent half-smile of someone who really doesn’t understand but wants to keep up appearances. The furrowed brow and the pursed lips of someone who is compiling a list of how this is incorrect. The vacant stare of someone who is reading this as a favor and has no intention of actually digesting any of it.

Perhaps he’s just jaded from how they’ve reacted to him attempting to speak in the past. Perhaps he’d be better off writing two versions of this, one where he can be as vindictive and angry as he wants, and the other to actually further the conversation.

He’ll have Remus and Remus alone read the first one.

(He does, and the two of them have to spend an afternoon in the Imagination doing nothing but smashing rocks.)

It’s the most honest thing he’s ever written, and he stares at his computer with muted horror once he’s finished. This isn’t just writing an explanation, this is…flaying himself and letting them come examine his bones. Is this too much? What will they think of him? How much does he want them to understand if it comes at the expense of his own soul?

“You’re overthinking it,” Remus says to him one night when he’s curled up under the light of the full moon, his head in his brother’s lap, “you know they won’t abandon you over it.”

“How?”

“We won’t let them. Hey, hey,” he soothes when a distraught noise leaves Roman’s throat, “I mean it. We’ll tell them it’s an exercise to get Thomathy’s poetry brain going, or something, you don’t just have to sit there and be hurt by them not understanding.”

“Janus.”

“Janny can piss off for a thousand years. He knows better than to be a hemipene about shit like this.”

Roman snickers despite himself. Remus ruffles his hair.

“I know I’m not one to talk about brains doing awful shit and running with it, but I really think they’ll listen.”

Roman shifts enough to peer up at his brother. “Promise?”

“I promise, Roro.”

So, he does what he thinks is best, and he goes to find Logan.

Logan, to his credit, simply nods and holds out a hand when Roman tells him he’s got something he wants him to read. It takes him a moment longer than normal to hand it over. Logan notices.

“Is everything alright, Roman?”

“Yes.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, but no hissing comes from the dark corners of the room. “You seem distressed.”

“It’s…just read it, please.”

Logan gives him another concerned look, but goes to begin reading. And suddenly Roman can’t be here while Logan’s looking at his bones so he sinks out and grabs a canvas and just does something. Just to keep his hands busy and not think too much about the thing that’s being read downstairs.

He’s just putting some dots of white paint along a dark blue swatch when the knock at his door comes. He opens it with a flick of his less-messy hand and Logan steps through, his eyes shining.

“Roman,” he says, his voice soft with something that Roman wouldn’t dare describe as wonder, “is…this is you, isn’t it?”

With his hands covered in paint, Roman nods. Logan’s face splits into such a wide grin that for a moment, a hysterical part of him thinks it must hurt.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” he says in a rush, “this is—this is a truly excellent display of writing skill, first of all, your use of extended metaphor and pathetic fallacy is commendable. Secondly, I thank you for being willing to explain it to me, have you—are you familiar with the term ‘cluttering?’”

Roman blinks. “Like when you have too much stuff on your desk?”

“Well, yes, but it’s also a speech condition variant to stuttering.” Logan indicates the paper. “From what it sounds like, it may be an accurate term to describe your speech patterns.”

“There’s…a word?”

At this, Logan stops. Some of the excitement goes out of his expression and he looks at Roman almost…sorrowfully.

“I noticed that you spent a fair amount of this saying how difficult it was when you attempted to talk to people and they would dismiss you for not ‘speaking properly.” He adjusts his glasses. “I apologize for the part I have played in that. It was—well. It was not my intention to dismiss you.”

”Still hurt, though.”

“Of course, and I’m sorry for it. What I meant to say was that I…are there things I should be doing instead? To help?”

Roman’s eyes widen. Even after all the words and work he’d put into making sure it was just coherent, he never expected this.

“I…”

“Take your time,” Logan says quietly, “I’m happy to wait.”

The little air-purifying plant in the window sways gently in the warm breeze. Roman smiles and stands up from the canvas to wash his hands.

“That’s wonderful, by the way,” Logan says, indicating the painting, “your use of color is inspired.”

Roman glances at it over his shoulder. Random splashes of vivid colors, dots and strokes and splotches alike. Harmonious chaos, beautiful noise.

“It just makes sense to me.”

“It’s beautiful, Roman.”

Somewhere in the back of his head, he hears stick out his tongue and say I told you so.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

#sanders sides #dragonbabbles #fic #roman sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #logan sanders

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flowerfan2 · 1 year

Text

After Eddie gets back, he’s haunted by nightmares. They all are, really, but the rest of them have been through it before. Eddie doesn’t tell them what happened to him in the week before they managed to retrieve his body, and no one knows why he isn’t dead. Steve thinks that’s probably what he dreams about, but he doesn’t ask.

Eddie stays at Steve’s house for a while, until his parents come home and he goes over to the Byers’ for a few days. But Steve didn’t prepare Will for what happens during Eddie’s nightmares, how their friend seizes and twists, how he spends hours unresponsive, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling.

Will shows up at Steve’s house the next day, furious, wanting to know how Steve could have let this happen. Will makes them all sit together in Dustin’s bedroom, Eddie curled up in the corner with his arms wrapped around his knees, brainstorming together as if it wasn’t futile.

Steve’s in the kitchen making mac and cheese and cutting up cucumbers for a salad – they’ve got to eat something healthy once in a while – when the music starts blaring. He doesn’t recognize it, except to assume that it’s a hit list of Eddie’s favorites. Dustin has concluded that just like with Vecna, playing Eddie’s favorite songs will stop his nightmares. Steve doesn’t tell them he’s already tried this, maybe it will be different this time, maybe they’ll play just the right song at just the right time.

That night Dustin and Will give it their best shot, but it doesn’t work.

The next day Steve finds Eddie sitting outside on the back porch, eyes red and practically swallowed by the bags underneath them. He looks like shit. Steve asks him if he remembers his nightmares, and this time Eddie actually talks about it. He says when he’s in the dream, he thinks he’s dead, he feels the demobats eating him, carving their teeth into his skin, and even though he hears the music, it doesn’t make any difference, he’s still stuck there.

That night Eddie comes back to Steve’s house. His parents are away again, and the Byers need a break. When Eddie’s eyes fly open and his body tenses, Steve turns on his tape player and starts singing along, off key, into Eddie’s ear.

Jitterbug. Jitterbug.

Eddie stills for a minute and blinks. Steve keeps going.

You put the boom-boom into my heart (ooh-ooh) You send my soul sky-high When your lovin' starts Jitterbug into my brain (yeah-yeah) Goes a bang-bang-bang 'Til my feet do the same.

By the time Steve gets to “wake me up before you go-go” Eddie is staring at him, breathing heavily but awake and aware. Steve sings another verse just for shits and grins, and then breaks off, laughing at the astonished look on Eddie’s face.

“It worked,” Eddie says, his eyes wide. “How did it work?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured you’d never voluntarily listen to Wham! – even in a nightmare. So you’d have to realize this was something different.”

Eddie never criticizes Steve’s taste in music again.

-----

Read my more fic-like Steddie story here: Let in Light and Banish Shade.

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #Steve Harrington #Eddie Munson

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compacflt · 1 year

Note

I absolutely adore your writing!!! If you're taking prompts, then anything involving Maverick + Ice's academy ring would be 💖💖

In bed. Early afternoon. The mid-‘90s.

Midsummer sex in Southern California is one of those things that feels more romantic than it probably is, maybe just because of how it leaves you: sweltering and sticky and satisfied. It’s two in the afternoon on a Saturday, and he and Ice are currently sweltering and sticky and satisfied, and working on being asleep, with absolutely no plans otherwise. Which is nice. Nice to just do nothing for once in their hectic lives. Well, they have to go to Bradley’s Little League game around seven, and then take him out to dinner, per Carole’s orders, but that’s it. Otherwise no plans.

He’s just kinda pondering. Thinkin’. They’ve been sleeping all day, so they’re not gonna sleep tonight…maybe Carole will take them out dancing…that would be fun, even if they’re a little old…what was that movie called, Saturday night fever, yeah, he could use some of that…But not right now.

Right now is pretty perfect. Not a hundred percent perfect, because nothing ever is, but pretty close. The sun (maybe too hot, it’s Southern California) is high and strong and golden; the windows (letting in all kinds of bugs because they aren’t screened) are tossed wide open; the curtains (the previous tenant’s, moth-eaten and ratty) are billowing in the breeze; the ceiling fan (creaky and could crash down and kill them any moment) is circulating lazily; Ice (Ice) is dozing next to him. Romantic, in an imperfect, Southern-California way. Easy. Laid-back. No-stress. Maverick is staring up, through eyes-half-closed, at the shimmering ocean-blue caustic reflections of Ice’s Naval Academy ring, swaying on the ceiling in time to his gentle breaths. Kind of beautiful.

And then Maverick has a thought. Well, maybe more of an idea. Which is never good.

And it’s one of those thoughts. One of those ideas. Not necessarily dangerous, per se, but definitely a little impulsive, definitely a little stupid. In college, one of his engineering professors had told him, You know, the problem with you, Mitchell, is that you’re a certifiable genius ninety percent of the time, but it’s that other stupid-ass ten percent that gets you in trouble. Maverick had answered, That’s a solid fucking A.-minus! and nearly got stuck on academic probation. Saying something like that is an A-, stupid-ass ten-percent idea. So, too, is the idea he’s currently having. But he’s not gonna stop himself from having it. He’s fucked-out and still up for anything. He’s in his early thirties. Basically puberty round II, and he’s in bed with Tom Kazansky, who’s resting his big Naval-Academy-ornamented hand on his chest, so excuse him for not thinking straight.

Maverick picks up Ice’s right hand, the one on his chest, and holds it gently, trying not to wake him. He wants to get a good look at this ring. He’s never really looked at it up close before. That ugly gaudy blue stone is almost surely fake. Glass, maybe. What’s it taste like?

He brings Ice’s hand to his mouth. Doesn’t stick Ice’s whole ring finger inside, because Ice would wake up then, but he does lap the jewel of the ring with his tongue (tastes like Ice’s sweat, as expected), and then bites the crown, and then draws as much of the ring into his mouth as possible. Just trying to get it wet. Tracing it with his tongue for sensory pleasure. When he takes it out of his mouth, some of his spit goes with it. And now, sufficiently lubricated, he reaches up with his other hand to wriggle it off, so curious, brain-addled, a little desperate, his chin still wet with his own saliva…

…and Ice whines, “…No.” Barely even a coherent sound. Almost like a moan. Fuck, so close to a moan.

“No?” Maverick whispers. His fingers go still on the ring, indecisive.

“Already tried,” Ice breathes, then sniffs and licks his lips and swallows and sighs. Eyes unmoving behind his eyelids.

This thought goes straight to Maverick’s dick. Ice, experimenting. “…You…have?”

“Doesn’t fit.”

He can hear himself breathing for a moment. Shaky breaths. “…Even soft?”

Ice’s face scrunches in half-asleep annoyance, mock-wounded offense. “You’ve seen me.” You’ve seen me soft, you know I’m not fitting in a ring meant for my finger. Okay. Maybe that should’ve been obvious. But Maverick sometimes loses his mind a little when it comes to sticking his dick in places it shouldn’t be, which is how he wound up in bed with Iceman Kazansky in the first place. And also how he keeps winding up in bed with Iceman Kazansky. “…Even soft.”

Maverick whispers, “…Can I… try?”

Ice grumbles, “No-Gimme-my-fuckin-hand-back.” And he pulls his hand away and half-consciously wipes the spit off on the sheet and then starts moving and lumbering and shifting his weight in bed, preparing, as only half-asleep people can prepare, to roll over onto his other side. As he does, he keeps on mumbling, his brain clearly not online yet, “Not-takin-you-to-the hospital ‘cause you got stuck-in-my…fuckin’…if you wan’ me to jerk-you-off wearing-it, okay, I’ve done that forty-one-thousand-times…but not…” And his other shoulder hits the mattress and Maverick can hear, in the cadence of his breathing, that he’s immediately passed out cold again.

Maverick pokes him and prods him and wakes him up. “Ice.”

“…What.”

“You just said you would. You can’t say it and then fall asleep.”

Ice mumbles something very rude, but reaches back behind himself anyway, gropes around blindly until he finds enough purchase to give Maverick a few half-hearted and not-very-compelling tugs.

Then, apparently getting tired, he pulls his arm back and carelessly orders (rather lucidly for a man who’s supposedly sleeping), “I’m sleeping, Maverick. Finish yourself off.”

“…Gimme it.”

Ice acquiesces, if only to make Maverick leave him alone; and pulls his ring off and passes it over his own freckled shoulder.

No, of course it doesn’t fit, even only half-hard. Maverick’s flopped over onto his back to try. He glances over at Ice—at the downy invisible fuzz on his shoulders glowing white in the sun, at the smooth suntanned plane of his back, at the sheet pooling over the sharp angle of his hipbone—then back to himself. Gives himself a couple pumps, gets himself all the way hard, sets the ring atop his cock like a little crown, looks over at Ice again, wishes he were awake so they could laugh about this together for a minute and then Ice could tell him to not be so fucking juvenile and then suck him off. Ring in his mouth as he does. (That would probably hurt, actually. All that motion and all that metal. Lots of ways that could go wrong. Moving on.)

And then—here’s a thought—Maverick…puts it on. Just slips it onto his right ring finger. Steps into a heritage he’s never owned. Could’ve, but never will.

It does feel powerful, to wear it. Like marrying the Navy. This is forever, Navy-baby. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. He imagines the life he could’ve had at the Academy; and wonders if Ice, who was twenty-one when Maverick was still only eighteen, would have even given him the time of day. Probably would’ve shoved him into lockers in high school. Okay, that’s a turn-on, too, weirdly. Okay. Things to consider. The brass of the ring is still warm from Ice’s long slender fingers. Feels good. Inspires the question: does Ice keep the ring on when he jacks off out at sea? Probably. It does feel good. Feels powerful. The historical force of America’s Navy, condensed into the force with which he’s gripping his own cock. (And other normal thoughts.) Yeah, Ice probably keeps it on. Definitely. He’s married to the Navy. Jacking off out at sea wearing his Navy wedding ring is just consummating the marriage. (And other normal thoughts.) Maverick wonders how many times Ice has done exactly what he’s doing now. And that’s a turn-on, too, obviously.

He turns onto his side, tips his forehead against Ice’s upper spine, mouths at the velvety skin there, presses his nose against him. Of course there’s the musk and salt of his dried sweat, but also the softer, cleaner smell of him that Maverick’s come to recognize as unmistakably Ice…who left the Naval Academy as Brigade Commander and whose class ring is being worn by the hand Maverick’s slowly lazily fucking…willingly given…Ice has always kept it on, for all their various activities. Married to the Navy even with his fingers knuckle-deep inside Maverick. Sort of like an extramarital affair. Maverick likes being the other woman; and also, those are good memories, the ones where Ice was knuckle-deep inside him, and this ring was pressed up against the most intimate part of him, does the Navy know you’re cheating on her with me? —he comes a little quicker than he had intended, and a lot more quietly than he thought he would; just sort of lets it wash over him, inevitable, unsurprising. Not earthshattering or anything, but he also wasn’t dragging it out.

And then he has another thought, ooh, goody! —lodging itself inside his honey-thick burning pleasure. So he indulges this impulse, too, and before the last couple spurts, he thumbs Ice’s ring off into his palm and then cups himself loosely and finishes half onto the ring and half onto the sheets. (It’s laundry day. That’s why they were up all night having sex, and not exactly stressing about the mess. Ice has Maverick’s laundry schedule memorized by now.) Fuck. That’s good.

Before the clarity can hit him and take all the fun out of his idea, he catches his breath, solidifies, and holds the wet ring back over Ice’s shoulder—has to tap him to drag him back into the land of the living. Ice startles a little, but he accepts the ring back into his hand. What’s he gonna say? What’s he gonna do? It’s got Maverick’s come all over it! Maverick is instigating. Intentionally.

…Ice just sleepily puts it back on, and in a couple seconds is dead to the world again.

Maverick’s stuck there for a minute, his brain going clear and his mouth open idiotically, but then he closes it. There’s nothing he can say. Yeah. That was the logical conclusion of that interaction. Whatever.

He smiles to himself, yawns, and rolls over to doze off again. Deal with it later.

And a few slow golden hours later, when the sun is floating orange and swollen above the horizon outside, and the alarm Maverick set on his digital watch goes off, ensuring they don’t sleep through Bradley’s baseball game, Ice groggily comes to and sits up on the side of the bed and yawns big and fucks up his already-fucked hair a little more with his fingers. Sighs, drowsily drags a hand down his stubble, scrapes a hand over his stomach, itches the hair on his chest. Then he looks at his right hand, at the glinting ring, glinting a little duller because of what’s dried on it; then he glances accusingly down at Maverick, who’s still stretching next to him long and lazy like a cat, silently inquiring, …did you…? And Maverick (who hates being accused of anything, even and especially if he’s guilty) huffs and rolls his eyes at the presumption, but finally relents, yeah, I did. And Ice just exhaustedly nods and smiles and shrugs his shoulders in common understanding, saying, yeah, I get it; don’t worry about it; it does that to me, too… and then tiredly heaves himself out of bed to go wash his hands.

#obviously ns/fw below the cut #this is also for the anon who asked for ‘icemav + 🐓💍🫡’#which COULD be icemav + roosters wedding but could ALSO be icemav + cock ring #(the dangers of asking for emojis in this fandom)#and also #I don’t know how you could read MY very chaste vanilla boring fics & think i would know how to write cock rings but thanks anyways #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #icemav #top gun #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #🫡🫡🫡#soundtrack for this one is ‘1995’ by the radio dept and OBVIOUSLY #the glue song by clairo & beabadoobee #stuck in the glue… of you <3

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factorialsotherfandoms · 5 months

Text

And, done! Please enjoy 5 chapters of xcom au nonsense, specifically that mission I keep referencing where many people get fucked up. (Unfortunately Pac gets 2 PoVs and Roier none because... *gestures* I suck at writing Roier?). Also god I want to write Forever's PoV but its 9pm and I started this at like half 11 and shhh.

TW: blood, explosions, major injuries, near death experiences, head injuries, possession, hosptials, nausea, violence, panic, player-on-player violence, really stupid life choices, *hand waves medicine with scifi excuses*

Chapter 1 - Pac

It’s a long flight from Canada to Norway. Even with the emergency call coming through as soon as it did, Pac knows there is likely little they can do to help. Mike sits beside him in the helicopter, adjusting the settings on the Rats for the terrain. Nobody imagines there’s much to hack, but the team is a mess of people who could be scrambled that fast - himself and Mike, Roier, Missa and Philza. Philza is nominally in command, but stuff like this…

Once they get to the ground, it’s just a case of going wherever there’s civilians still alive and hope for the best.

Mike nestles in his brain, and Pac takes a breath. He unclenches his fingers from his trousers, and checks over his own kit instead.

Knife, gun, potion in place of a grenade. They hadn’t been able to scrape many together - Philza has the rest, loaded into his Crow for easier distribution - and they hope it’s enough.

Check inside your gun

A reminder from Mike - it was jamming on the training range a few days back.

Pac nods and sends a vague acknowledgement back along the bond, pulling out his screwdrivers. A couple of the parts he oils, but otherwise everything seems fine. He’s satisfied, and so is Mike, so Pac closes his eyes and nestles himself in the back of Mike’s brain, and lets his body catch some rest.

“We don’t have a map of the camp,” Philza’s voice pulls him into the present, though he remains where he was before. “We’re unlikely to have much cover. Missa, if you want to get up on a roof as soon as we land, I’ll join you when I can.”

The sniper nods, tying back his hair despite it already being under his hood, “you’ll be okay?”

“We’ll be fine,” Philza glances around the rest. “Whatever building Missa picks - you guys take the right, Roier and I take the left?”

So long as Pac is with Mike, he doesn’t mind; he gives Mike that vague impression, and lets him speak for both of them.

“Do you want us to focus scouting or clearing?” Mike asks.

Philza looks at Roier, who shrugs.

“If you see people, focus on getting to them. Otherwise, make sure there’s nothing to sneak up on you.”

Pac stretches just enough of himself back into his own body to give a thumbs up. Then, under Mike’s nudging, he slowly drags the rest of himself back.

There’s only o much to do in the helicopter, so he reaches down and stretches out his back. With the limited space available he does his best to prepare his body, working his muscles out of the cramp from the helicopter seats. Around him the others do the same.

No but seriously what is up with those two

Huh?

Pac looks up - Mike steals his body a second to slam his face back down. Instead he shows him an image of Missa staring at Philza, doey eyes. And a return, of Philza’s attention a little too taken by the man’s shoulders while he stretches.

Pac knows the smile meets his lips.

I’m not sure he answers Mike but Fit says Phil’s wife has been trying to get them in bed together for years, so it’s nothing new.

I knew that, it’s just painful

They’ll work it out.

What, like you and Fit?

Hey!

There isn’t time for Pac to be more than indignant; no sooner as he snapped to glare at Mike than Niki’s voice comes over the intercom.

“We’re two minutes out,” she says. “There’s no clear landing zone, so you’ll have to use lines to get in. Once you’re there, you’re on your own - they’ve got MECs out, so I can’t loiter, and I can’t collect you until they’re taken out. Will park up as close as I can and I’ll be back as soon as you give me the all clear. Stay in contact, okay?”

While she’s in the pilot’s seat, there’s no good way to reply to her - Philza sends a text message of acknowledgement through on the comms.

Roier is already up and working on prepping the lines; Pac goes to help, and leaves the others to the fine print.

---

Everything is on fire.

That’s an exaggeration, but not by a whole lot. Almost everything is on fire, and Pac pulls out a mask to protect him from the smoke. He sees the others do the same, taking it in turns to cover each other.

And by the time they have masks on, filters so they can breathe the air, already the aliens are there. At the edge of his vision, Pac spots one harassing an older gentleman. Mike knows where he’s going before he does, already shooting at the stun-baton wielding Federation Guard as Pac slides into place.

He gets his knife between the baton and the gentleman, and tells him to run.

The man doesn’t need telling twice, taking the distraction to get himself out of the fight.

With a glance Pac spots Missa signalling to a building. He acknowledges, and shows Mike how to loop behind.

They don’t get very far. Pac feels the familiar headache of someone else using psionics nearby, and a sickly purple glow covers the corpse of the guard they just killed.

He backs away, finding the security of Mike, as they watch the corpse reanimate. It holds itself wrong, strangely, stumbling and lopsided and still very, very much dead.

One of the Lost - a zombie.

Across the car park they see Philza and Roier contending with more of the same, all glowing purple. Missa, already up one storey, turns and kills one of them. There’s not…

A Sectoid can raise one zombie at a time. But five? Five is not a Sectoid, that’s…

He looks at Mike, finds his eyes.

What is that?

I- I- I don’t know

Mike’s eyes are wide and wild, Pac’s sure his own are much the same.

Greetings

Another voice - not Mike’s - pierces into Pac’s brain. His fingers grabs onto Mike, latches tightly, tries to breathe and breathe and breathe as he continues firing on anything dangerous in his line of sight. Maybe he isn’t a sharpshooter, but he has a gun, and he knows how to use it.

The Elders have chosen me, and I shall not spurn their blessings. Humanity’s destiny lies only at their side, to bring their vision to this world and beyond. Come, allow yourselves to be reclaimed for the glory of the gods!

Pac thinks the voice might intend to say more; dizzy under an array of images, visions of the speaker’s view for the world, he feels Mike’s mind pull on his. Grab him, hold him, pull him back through the bond.

As soon as he makes it to Mike’s mind, mental shields are thrown around him. He’s unsteady too, breathing heavily in a way the smoke does not account for; Pac grabs his hand, and takes a moment.

One breath, two breaths, throw his own shields around himself.

“Pacy?” Mike whispers to him, in voice and bond.

“I’m here,” Pac takes a sharp breath. “Thanks.”

“Be more careful, idiot.”

Mike lets go, and leaves Pac to find himself. He does - and quickly - for there are more civilians here to save.

He eases himself back into his own mind. He feels Mike follow and check his shields, before the bond fades back into a dull presence. It’s harder to feel Mike when they’re both shielding their minds, but with something that powerful present… It’s not worth the risk of leaving the hole for each other.

Philza’s Crow circles them. Pac looks up, finds its owner’s eyes and gives a shaky thumbs up. He gets a nod back, and a gesture to be safe, before Philza jogs after Roier.

They should leave too; Missa’s already in place, and whatever the fuck that was it’s already here. There’s a few people hiding inside the building - Pac gives them directions somewhere safer, back into the area the group have already killed. Mike briefs another pair, sending them along.

Across and outside there’s some commotion. An explosion.

He watches the end of the two zombies exploding - stood next to Roier, already scratched. Roier has the presence of mind to cover his face, but it’s… The explosion is psionic, Pac feels a twinge of it against his shield. Roier takes some shrapnel, but what it’s done internally is more the worry.

Roier’s standing, though - Roier is still standing, so he’ll live.

There’s another shout - through another window he sees Philza stagger under some… Some creature they’ve never seen before ramming a gun straight into head. Roier turns back and shoots it, but it takes another shot from Philza to go down.

He gestures through the window, asking Philza if he’s okay.

Their mission commander is clearly /not/, but Roier is there, and seems to help him shake it off.

Pac looks back to Mike.

Mike looks over to Pac.

They’re careful as they make their way outside.

Outside is a gas station, a counterpart to the car park on the other side. There’s a woman hiding terrified between a surprisingly functional looking car - the fuel tank has been leaking, but that’s an easy patch job if the rest of it is as okay as it seems.

There’s also a fucking MEC leering around, just the other side of the car, seemingly looking for her - like she just ran, just escaped.

Missa is already swapping buildings for a better line of sight, abandoning his current hiding spot for the gas station roof. Lower, but better lines of sight.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Mike hisses at him.

Pac dares.

He leaves Mike cursing behind him, and hops out through an already shattered window. He sprints over, and around, getting to the woman as Mike’s Rats move towards the MEC.

“Hi,” he smiles at her. “Are you hurt? It’s going to be okay.”

She doesn’t reply.

She instead stands to her full height.

The skin peels away from her flesh, an oozing, pulsating glob of tissue and sinew pushing it’s way out of her corpse, and to its height twice as tall again.

Pac doesn’t have time to scream as she - it - raises one hand. It forms claws of metal, absorbed from else where, and brings them down.

There’s not even time to shield his face before the claws drag down. He can hear himself screaming - hear Mike screaming too. And then, an ungodly screech, as metal claws catch on the car behind him.

As soon as it’s over he grabs at his face, putting on pressure, trying to stem the bleeding as he hears Mike scream for him, and Philza.

Right, right, Pac has a potion, he should… Probably use that - ah, fuck, there’s a lot of blood.

It’s one of the last thoughts he has; he lifts one hand to look for his potion, only to see the fuel beneath the car alight.

Metal on metal.

Sparks.

There’s no real time to do anything as it catches to the engine, catches on what ever experimental fuel this complex has been using. Pac manages to angle his flesh leg away from the oncoming explosion and pull his arms up to protect his head.

That’s it.

Fire and shrapnel hits him full force. He doesn’t even have breath to keep screaming as agony sets every nerve on fire. He reaches out mentally, scraping, searching for Mike - but Mike’s shields are still up, and he’s just clawing against a wall, begging to be let him.

He can still hear their joint screams - one of agony, one of pain.

The force of the explosion has him prone on the floor. The flesh monster is still there, looking battered but still standing.

And the MEC, standing for now, but full of fuel and explosives and some of it’s been caught by the fuel explosion and Mike’s Rats manage to run but Pac’s on the floor and he knows, he knows that this explosion is going to be bigger than the last.

Some of the explosives catch.

Pac can’t even move well enough to protect his head as, a few feet from him, a MEC full of gunpowder and explosives goes up in flames.

Somehow Pac, despite everything, is still conscious, just conscious enough for just long enough to realise that this is how he dies as he feels his body burn and the concussive force slam his very being into his skin.

It’s not a state that lasts long.

Chapter 2 - Philza

With the zombies exploding on Roier and his own head wound he’s pretending very hard is not a concussion, Philza knows this mission has already gone to hell. The addition of one of what can only be the third of the Chosen, from how it implanted messages into their minds, from how sick Pac and Mike looked, puts it all in the handbasket.

But he can see well enough to read his screen, direct the Crow, and shoot, and they don’t /have/ an escape from this mission - he’s not going to ask Niki to get herself killed, especially not when it means abandoning the civilians to die.

So, he pushes on.

He first knows something is even worse when he hears Pac and Mike /scream/. Mike’s calling for Pac, and Pac’s just screaming, so he flicks the touchscreen embedded in his gloves to showing him the team’s vitals. The suits read them, and it’s not entirely accurate, but fuck it it’s good enough. Pac’s still screaming, and he hears Mike calling now for him - for Philza - so he leaves Roier to the aliens this side and runs around the wall.

And, oh god, running is making him feel fucking ill.

A bullet whistles past him, embedding itself in the one Federation Guard who thought to follow him. He tracks the bullet’s path, looks over to the petrol station roof, and offers Missa a brief hand of thanks.

He doesn’t see if he gets an acknowledgement, because that’s when the first explosion happens.

Right next to where he /thinks/ Pac was.

He checks his screen - Pac’s still breathing, and his heart rate is only panic levels of elevated, even the suit beneath his armour is showing heavy damage to its own structure.

Philza puts the Crow into heal mode, and is about to order it to go spray a splash potion where Pac’s wounds seem worst when there’s another explosion.

How can he not look up?

This one is larger, worse, heavier - it catches the roof of the petrol station. He hears Missa shriek as the heat catches him, only for the roof to collapse and his friend go tumbling with it.

Philza joins with Mike’s screams as he scrambles through readouts and screams, trying to work out what’s going on.

Somehow - somehow - they’re both alive. The explosion hasn’t helped his headache, but he ignores it as he squints, focusing on the numbers.

Missa’s aren’t great, but they’re holding steady.

Pac’s…

Pac’s blood pressure is dropping fast, his heart picking up as it tries to compensate.

Philza runs the numbers, and, fucking shit - he directs the Crow towards Pac, and is already running himself. There’s not a /lot/ he can do for burns and blunt force injuries in a firefight, but he can at least check if the potions worked and get him a fucking shock blanket.

Or he would, and the Crow would, except that Mike gets in their way.

His eyes are glowing green - expected, they have been since the message from the third Chosen, presumably shielding his more sensitive brain from further intrusion - and panicked - not wrong, but a problem

Doubly so when he points the gun at Philza.

Fuck.

“Mike,” he tries to be calm, keeps glancing at his glove, checking the numbers, seeing if he has time left. “I need to treat Pac.”

He gains a string of angry, sobbing, terrified Portuguese. Philza recognises Pac’s name, stop, something about death, and the rest of it’s too garbled.

Mike has some medical training - everyone running the bots does - but his are designed for hacking, not healing. He doesn’t have access to the potions, or the readouts.

“He’s not dead,” Philza tries to impress upon him. “He’ll live, if you let me fucking treat him, Mike!”

And he doesn’t speak Portuguese, so he can’t even use that to try cut through Mike’s panic.

When it doesn’t work, he tries to step forwards.

Mike’s finger twitches on his trigger - Philza stops.

Philza can see the readout on his screen; Pac’s heart rate is continuing to skyrocket as his blood pressure continues to drop. He doesn’t have long, his chances are counted in seconds, seconds Mike is stealing and Philza knows it’s a panic attack he knows it isn’t on purpose but he doesn’t have fucking /time/.

“Mike!!” He yells. “If you don’t let me past right now, Pac /will/ fucking die!”

Mike still hisses as him, the gun pointed out, tears streaming down his face. Philza doubts he can even hear him at this point, cursing under his breath as he glances between the readouts of Pac’s vitals and the gun.

There’s a clatter.

Mike turns his gun to the noise - just Missa, pulling himself shakily from the rubble. Philza takes the opportunity as he can. He orders Crow past Mike, ducking around and potions already loaded. He has them dropped around Pac’s head and his torso, praying the application is enough to stabalise him.

It takes a moment, but with the sealing of the major wounds his blood pressure stops dropping. It won’t last more than a few hours - potion work never does - but he can hope it’s enough to get him home, and to Aypierre, where their resources aren’t great but they’re a damn sight better than a burning wreck of a town. They’ve dealt with severe burns before, they’ll deal with them again - even the helicopter has better resources, with access to the IV fluids and possibly blood which Pac desperately needs.

And Pac will live to get to them, if Mike just lets him past.

“Mike!” he tries again, trying to quell the anger, trying to sympathise with what has to be terrifying because oh, Christ, Missa was caught too and Philza needs to treat Pac first but /Missa/ and, yeah, maybe he /can/ sympathise a bit. “Try feeling for him - he’s not fucking dead, so god help me!”

Something seems to get through to Mike; his eyes flicker. The green glow drops for a few seconds. His breathing evens a bit and he twists to Pac, his voice softer as he calls out “Pacy…”

Philza isn’t having more of this; he sends Crow to use the last of the potions to stabalise Missa’s injuries, and hurries over to Pac’s side.

Up close, Pac looks even worse. In places the heat has burnt bits of his clothes into his skin, and said burns coat much of his exposed skin. His leg - prosthetic, thank fuck - seems to have taken the worst of the damage. It’s dented, melting in places from the extreme heat, bits of shrapnel embedded in it. The reinforcement in Pac’s hood and armour seem to have protected him from the rest of the shrapnel, but not the heat or the flames. It’s battered, and torn, and Philza would put good money on a head injury from how he fell. Dislocated shoulder, broken ribs would not surprise him. The data he gets from the suits to his screen doesn’t tell him shit like that.

Mike hesitates, Philza does not. He shifts Pac onto his side, and unpackages a foil blanket to drape over him. The fluids are on the helicopter and - fuck, they can’t just evac Pac now, it’s still unsafe for Niki to approach.

There’s one potion left in Pac’s belt.

Philza grabs it, and hands it to Mike.

“Keep him safe,” Philza instructs - and, fuck, Mike’s in no state to be doing more than that. “If his lips go blue, he starts shaking, or he gets any fainter in your head, or something fuckingshoots him, pour this on him and /scream/. Understand?”

“Can I move him?” is the first English Philza earns from him.

Philza considers it a second, looking around. Here is… Moving him anywhere other than the helicopter isn’t ideal, not with his injuries, but the other option is leaving him here. Open, in the middle of an active firefight, near more barrels of extremely flammable material.

And that’s not going to /help/.

“That petrol station has a shop. Hide in there - make sure he stays warm and keep him on his side.”

Simple instructions, Phil, simple instructions - the man’s scared out of his mind. It’s all shit Mike should know, but reminders help.

Mike nods, blinks hard to stop his tears, and scoops Pac up. Philza covers for them as they duck inside the building, hopefully away from the glass.

And then he turns back, looking at the two remaining people. Missa is also covered in burns, and Philza would put money on his ankle being broken. Roier is still covered in claw marks from the zombies, but at least those have stopped bleeding.

Thank fuck, as they’re all out of potions.

Tubbo’s going to kill him for using all of them, if they even get out of this.

Because there’s still the fucking Chosen somewhere around here, and a good few Federation Workers left.

Philza takes a step to press on. His vision swims, and he grabs at the wall.

When he opens his eyes, Missa is there, grabbing his arm and worries. Philza smiles at him, waves him off, pulls himself back up.

“It’s just a long day,” he says, ignoring his pounding head. “Mike’s looking after Pac, let’s just… Get this over with.”

No sooner does he say that than he curses himself. There’s no enemy in sight but Missa /screams/, dropping to his knees and clutching at his head. It lasts a second before it stops.

“Missa?” Philza kneels beside him. “Are you good?”

Missa’s pistol is pressed against his forehead.

Fuck.

Missa’s face twitches up, almost glitching into a smile. His eyes - his eyes are consumed by glowing purple.

Just like the zombies. Just like…

Oh, crap.

Philza might not bring knives to gun fights any more, but he was a melee specialist long before he was a healer. He knows this, like instinct, it’s in his blood and is his reality. He shoves up with one arm, pushing Missa’s hand aside.

The pistol fires, but only hits the wall.

Fucking mind control.

Not-Missa laughs, and gets up. Philza can hear the crunch of forcing weight onto a broken bone as not-Missa steps away, pulling out the pistol and -

And it was a civilian. A civilian who was alive and now dead, and Philza prays and prays that Missa won’t remember any of this once they break the control.

To break the control they need to kill the controller, and looking…

There’s the obviously psionic Chosen, laughing in time with not-Missa from one of the nearby rooftops.

Philza flags down Roier, and points it out, and makes a warning about not-Missa too.

Roier nods, and jumps into action, and clutches at his head in turn. Philza’s terrified for a second - terrified of having to face two possessed comrades alone while his nausea and his headache are growing steadily worse - but rather than control Roier just… slumps.

A quick check at his screen and… it looks like he’s under a sedative? But clutched at his head?

Either way if it’s psionics getting the Chosen away will break it, and if it’s an actual sedative then clearing out the last of the danger serves the same.

Philza pulls out his gun, shoots at the creature.

And then…

And then the roof the Chosen is standing on collapses beneath its feet.

Confused, Philza looks around only to see… There’s Mike, in the doorway of the petrol station shop, face stained in tears and fury in his eyes and the pin of a frag grenade in his hand.

It doesn’t free Missa, nor does it take out the Chosen, but it does free Roier.

Who staggers to his feet, and joins in the attack.

Roier pulls out his knife, and hacks at the creature while Mike stays in the doorway, and cleans up the last few guards.

The knife seems to do a lot, but not-Missa is raising the pistol again - thank fuck its his pistol not his sniper rifle to be honest - and Philza knows he doesn’t have time.

A wave of dizziness, of darkness washes over him.

Philza Minecraft swallows it down, points his gun, and fires.

Chapter 3 - Missa

The Warlock teleports away, and Missa can breathe again. Missa can breathe, and seconds later Philza also collapses. He’s closest - Missa runs for him, picks him up from the floor, and holds him in his lap.

His wounds smart, his body is in ruins and - oh, fuck, what do they do now. Where’s Mike, where’s Pac, he didn’t- What did-

“Missa,” Roier’s voice snaps him out of it.

All six of his once-friend’s eyes blink at him.

Missa takes a breath, meets the largest two, and says, “Roier, he-”

“I’ve called Niki,” Roier says. “She’ll get us out, then send someone else for the civilians. Have you got him?”

Civilians, civilians, oh God what did he-

“Missa!”

Right. Philza is not a heavy man, nor is he tall, but between wings and armour he’s still awkward to carry. Awkward to carry, and Missa’s body shakes under the weight of even his gun. He moves an arm, he tests it, and he shakes his head.

“Don’t you dare pass out too, idiot,” Roier’s words catch as he speaks. “Throw some flares for Niki. I’ll grab Pac and Mike, you watch him. We’ll work it out.”

“I’m grabbed.” Oh, and there’s Mike, really close by. “I’ll be with Pac. Yell when the helicopter’s here.”

Roier will work it out, but that’s fine. So long as somebody is.

There’s a slap against his face. “Get your shit together, man, or they’re actually going to die!”

Missa takes a deep breath and his shit is far from together, and everything hurts, but Roier is also terrified and Mike is terrified and, yeah, he can throw the flares.

He takes a deep breath, and does exactly that.

Roier seems to crumple when he sees that, sitting down on the ashy tarmac. Missa can’t blame him - even with the aid of a mask, it’s still a struggle to breathe.

They don’t say anything as Niki comes by. She seems to hesitate a bit, hovering for a moment.

Missa… Missa looks at Philza in his lap, then across at Roier, then at the shop where Pac and Mike are sheltering, and he knows they aren’t managing to climb a ladder or take the ropes up. Niki must realise it too when they make no move to stand - she lands the helicopter on the ground nearby. Missa can see her check around before pulling out her pistol, unstrapping herself, and slipping down.

In his lap, Philza stirs. Missa tries to nudge him to consciousness, and it kinda works… Ish. His eyes won’t focus and he doesn’t seem able to make sense of words, but he lies against Missa and keeps those eyes open and breathes with intent.

Niki spies Missa first. She walks over to him, and he - exhausted, shaking, burnt - gestures her over to Roier.

It doesn’t take much wrangling; she gets stretchers for Philza and Pac. Roier runs on ahead to get medical stuff set up, while Mike helps with the stretchers.

Missa… Missa lets them take Philza, and then… And then he doesn’t know how to get up.

He closes his eyes for a second.

When he opens them Roier is there, shaking his shoulder and dragging him up.

Missa puts weight on one leg, and it buckles. Pain shoots through his spine, and it’s everything not to scream.

Roier doesn’t bother waiting for another stretcher - he scoops Missa up, and carries him inside.

He’s sat down in one of the seats. Missa manages to strap himself in, only for Roier to grab his arm and stick something under his skin.

Needle - he looks up, and sees a bag of saline attached.

“Roier?” he asks.

“You’ve got burns,” he replies. “And spacing out - you’re getting fluids, idiot.”

There’s other things, important things, “is Philza alright?”

Roier pauses, “head injuries. He’s awake, but not coherent. You?”

“One of my legs is broken,” Missa replies, because that’s the other thing and it’s easier than worry, in this place where worry won’t help them. “I don’t… I think that’s it.”

There’s a tap on his head, and Roier hesitates then says, “it isn’t your fault.”

“It was my hand and my gun.”

He’s not the first of them to get mind controlled, and he doubts he’ll be the last, but still. He… He remembers the realisation on Philza’s face, the look in the civilians’ eyes as he killed them, the-

His nose is flicked.

“Dumbass,” Roier says, as the helicopter takes off. “I need to help Mike with Pac - I’ll check on you in a bit.”

Missa waves him off, puts his head in his hands, and starts crying.

---

It’s not a long trip back to the Avenger, for all it feels like it takes an eternity. Missa feels like he should be helping more - he knows he should help more - but every time he tries, Roier forces him back into his seat with a snap and a ‘just sit still’. Mike manages to gather himself enough to radio in their injuries, and both of them are monitoring the rest, and Missa…

Missa is just there.

Some missions are just shit, he knows some missions are just shit, but God he feels awful in every way possible.

When they arrive, they take Pac first, and then Philza. Mike goes with them - you could never convince Mike not to - while Roier lingers. Jaiden, just about awake, brings a wheelchair. Missa doesn’t have a choice about using it, or letting someone push it, but he feels he should have a choice about how Roier lingers by his side.

When they get there, Aypierre’s lab has been cleared. One of the research assistants and Bad are with Philza, keeping him lying down as they check over his head. There’s a few chairs left to one side. Roier is forced next to one, and Missa is parked next to it, and she goes over to one of the trays to bring antiseptic, needle and thread.

Mike is sat on the floor, off to one side, taking forcibly deep breaths as tears stream down his face.

“Can’t do much for the burns,” she apologises. “And you’ll have to wait for Aypierre. Don’t want to mess things up for him. And as for you,” she turns to Roier. “This will sting.”

That’s all the warning Roier gets before she pours antiseptic onto gauze, then shoves it against one of Roier’s many cuts. She holds it there a minute, before pulling it away and starting to sew.

There’s the sound of fast boots on the stairs outside. Missa looks up just in time to see Forever, more stressed than he thinks he’s ever seen him, and Felps enter into the room. They make a beeline for Mike, his sobs becoming audible in a hailstorm of Portuguese.

Missa looks at his hands, and finds them empty.

Philza is being treated across the room. Kristin is an ocean away. Spreen…

Spreen’s still missing.

Roier is right next to him, he’s right there, right in grasping range, but his flesh is being stitched back together and even if it weren’t…

Even if it weren’t, Missa isn’t sure he would accept his hand. It’s been ages, and it was Spreen’s fault, but Missa is also at least partially to blame.

So Missa curls over, and holds his own hands, and ignores the ice creeping up his spine.

Chapter 4 - Mike

It’s been hours since they returned. Mike’s the only one who came out of the mission unscathed, but he doesn’t feel like it was a victory. He’s sat in the common room now, clinging to Pac’s hand. It’s the only room with multiple beds, and the medical equipment is limited, so…

Well there’s now only five free beds for everyone not critically ill, and three of those involve wading through medical equipment to get to a top bunk.

Pac is all wires and bandages, smelling of antiseptic and not his proper cleaning oil. There’s monitors, and fluids, and antibiotics, oxygen and food… The sedatives from surgery are being continued, Aypierre said, to make sure his body gets a chance to heal.

It’s the same for Philza, he was told, and Missa isn’t being kept in a coma but his surgery was last and the sedatives are still wearing off.

Mike just doesn’t… He doesn’t understand what went so wrong, nor how fast.

He’s not injured, not like everyone else, but he is very much still in a state of shock.

Everyone seems to be. Mike has the chair - he’s not /allowed/ on the bed - and Pac’s hand, but Felps is also at his side, crying silently into Mike’s leg. Forever was at his other side earlier, but Bad managed to drag him away. Something about a contact who might have more medical equipment and-

And Bad should have fucking said something earlier, because they’ve been /trying/ to get an actual hospital together for weeks, and they’ve even got the space cleared for it, but where the fuck do they get the equipment? They haven’t even been able to track down some beds high enough that someone can treat a patient on them without hurting their back.

Mike is angry, Mike is furious, he’s got nowhere to send it though. It wasn’t even the stupid Chosen - Warlock, whatever. The flesh monster and the MEC both also died in the blast and there’s nothing to blame but physics and dumb luck and perhaps Pac for running off but…

But sooner or later /someone/ would have checked on that civilian, and the same shit would have gone down.

The blanket on him shifts as he leans forwards, clinging to Pac’s hand with everything he’s worth. Aypierre said it might help, because of their bond, because of the way their souls merge. So he takes it, he takes whatever excuse he can to stay with Pac, to hold him in the one place he’s allowed to touch, to reach out along their bond and cradle him.

It’s usually Pac cradling him. It’s usually Pac - older, louder, quicker - protecting him. Not exclusively - Mike protects him too, pulls him back when he runs too far, shields him when he forgets, helped him through his exams when the anxiety of the papers caused the world to crash in. It’s a balance, it’s an equilibrium, but Pac doesn’t need cradling so often as he needs someone to remind him to /breathe/.

There’s not so much of that, now. Pac’s not conscious enough for Mike to remind him, and anyway there’s a machine in place just in case he stops being able to.

The fact that’s an option?

Mike is terrified.

And Felps is doing his best, but Felps is also terrified, and it’s all Mike can do to worm his way into Pac’s head, and wrap him up. Mike can’t even go completely, lest the sedative catch him too. He has leave enough of himself behind to stay conscious, even as he curls around Pac’s soul and keeps him tethered, keeps him safe.

Sometimes he can feel Pac’s mind try to respond to him, only to be prevented by the drugs. It terrifies him, it horrifies him, even as the others theorise it’s probably a good thing.

And then there’s Felps, who reaches up to fix Mike’s blanket then carries on crying into his leg.

But there’s nothing to say and nothing to do except to hesitantly take one of his hands from where it’s clenched around Pac’s, and wrap it around Felps’ shoulders.

---

It takes ten days, every single penny and barter good belonging both to the Order and to every conscious person on the ship, and what Mike is pretty sure is the last of Forever’s sanity to complete the infirmary. They even find a doctor, via a chain of eight or nine contacts of contacts. Mike isn’t sure he trusts the woman, but he doesn’t really trust Aypierre either, so he does his best to pretend.

She’s got everyone safely under her care and proper monitors hooked up and Mike checked her working on medication dosages and it all seems to be proper, at least. Roier has mostly healed by now, which leaves her with three patients - ones she lets wake up one at a time, assessing their conditions.

Mike had been removed from the room for that - Forever was allowed to stay and translate, but Felps couldn’t either - and he’s not sure he’ll forgive her for it. Pac had reached out and latched onto him, confused and terrified and Mike couldn’t even calm him down before he was forced back to sleep.

He doesn’t think he’s going to forgive her for doing that to Pac. To him, maybe, but not to Pac.

So he stays closer, and cradles Pac harder, and while he acts on her words he does not always accept them. Pac was terrified, and scared, and a medical ward is indisputably better than their fucked up common room - it’s clean and there’s space both for equipment and access for treatment and all the supplies are on hand and if needed the surgery is just there - but Pac was scared. Pac was scared, and afraid, and the doctor would not let Mike /help him/.

It’s something about needing to assess Pac’s mental state, not Pac-and-Mike’s mental state, and Mike gets it, but doesn’t she understand Pac was /terrified/?

He can only hope his soulmate was too out of it to remember when he wakes again.

Mike and Felps are back again, now, a few days after that, one on each side of Pac’s bed while Forever shifts between holding Pac’s other hand and hovering by Philza at random. Philza’s awake, just about, but still out of it enough his object permanence is hazy. Missa is sat up on his own bed, chatting to him quietly. Roier lingers by Missa, but not quite at his bedside, too far to join the conversation, and that’s possibly even more fascinating gossip he needs to find from someone.

Pac will be able to dig it up once he wakes, he hopes.

He’s sure.

The doctor has stopped with the sedatives now, and Mike can feel it in the bond. Pac’s still suppressed by sleeping, but no longer is it under a false, oppressive haze.

Mike… Mike wraps himself around Pac, and tries to relax. He holds him, has comfort right there and ready, and presses himself deeper in.

And Pac - cautious, hesitant, scared, still half asleep and half drugged - finally, finally presses back.

Chapter 5 - Pac, again

Pac wakes, and the world is hazy, but Mike is there. There’s a memory that never quite formed, one of Mike being gone, but Mike is here, so it must surely be okay.

It hurts, it hurts so bad, but Mike is here and is calling and Pac will wake up for Mike, if it’s what Mike demands.

If he slips more of himself into Mike’s body than he usually would, an attempt to escape the pain… that’s their business and theirs alone.

Still, he does have to wake somehow. He hides in Mike and puppets his body, opening eyes, twitching fingers, searching for answers. Mike’s conscience holds him tight, praises him, cries on him and reminds him to listen to more than his soul.

Right, ears, eyes, touch…

There’s a hand on his forehead and another in his hand - both hands. His prosthetic is missing - his breath catches as he realises he can’t run, and Mike soothes him, promises he’s somewhere he won’t have to - and voices are calling his name.

Mike, Felps, Forever.

He finds Mike’s eyes first - of course he does - one blue and one green as they both cling to each other. It doesn’t feel like Mike is visiting, though - between them they must have three blue eyes.

And the next to Mike is Forever, Forever who sees the eye contact and takes it as permission for a hug, leaving no room for anyone but for Felps - on the other side - who tugs the hand he’s holding free and hugs Pac’s arm.

Pac doesn’t know what to do, but does know that it hurts - he wants the hug, but cannot stop the whine.

Forever pulls back, horrified.

“It’s okay,” Pac tries to say.

The words come from Mike’s mouth by mistake, and maybe he should pull back but he doesn’t want the pain.

“No it’s not that hurt you,” says Mike, also with his own mouth.

Felps catches onto what’s happening first, his confusion twisting to a smile.

“Hi Pac!”

Pac waves with Mike’s arm, and then Forever gets it.

Forever’s laughter sounds suspiciously desperate, but nobody says anything about it.

“Can I scold him yet?” Forever asks Mike.

Mike tries to say yes, Pac tries to say no, and the jumble of words is enough gibberish to knock Pac back to his own body.

His own body, where the painkillers might be helping but he’s now hit with the full force of pain. He chokes off the scream with a sob, the hand held by Felps weakly trying to move up and cover it.

Felps lets go, and looks heartbroken.

Pac uses what strength he can find to reach out, and grab that hand again.

Felps thumb runs over his knuckles.

Pac smiles at him, and remembers there’s more friends in the room.

He turns his eyes back to Forever, whose fingers still rest on his cheek.

“Can I help?” Forever asks.

“I thought I was going to die.”

It’s not a reply to the question, it’s not even close to one, but they’re the words that escape Pac’s lips. Tears begin to drip with them - slow, quiet tears which leave trails on his face and he can taste on his lips.

Mike freezes up and Pac… Pac prods him with a question.

The question is turned away, but Pac isn’t - he settles a little of himself in Mike’s brain, leaning against him in an attempt to comfort.

Mike wraps metaphorical arms around him; Pac closes his eyes in body and seeps into the comfort.

“You didn’t,” is what Felps says, covering for the room. “It was bad, but you didn’t, and now you’re here.”

Pac opens his mouth to ask where here is; Mike answers before he can ask.

“Medical,” Mike says. “We… Got the medical ward finished. And found a doctor.”

That bad. However bad Pac’s injuries were, they were bad enough that what should have taken at least another month was done in… less than that.

“Don’t worry,” Forever smiles at him, and the smile is twisted, in pain himself. “Just get better, and we’ll fill you in later. When you’re less fuzzy.”

It’s true, Pac is very fuzzy. He closes his eyes and settles on Forever’s hand, and clings to Felps in flesh and Mike in mind.

At times like this, Cellbit’s absence is like a gaping wound.

Pac focuses from the hands and the holds to his body and traces it over. The pain is everywhere, all over, dimmed by the same painkillers that must be clouding his mind. It’s hard to focus, but he does, searching out for something they can do, they can fix.

Throat. They could fix that.

“Drink?” he asks. “Can I…?”

“I’ll get it!” Forever leans down, kissing Pac’s cheek before letting go.

He goes to speak to an unfamiliar woman, then vanishes through a door. Pac watches him go, turns back to find Mike speaking.

He closes his eyes and mentally leans on his soulmate, letting him know he’s too tired for a single word that was said.

“... Okay,” Mike sighs. “But I am still yelling at you later, bro.”

Pac nods - of course Mike is going to. It’s just going to happen, after something like this.

Felps kisses his other cheek, and Mike his forehead.

“Do you want us to let you sleep?” Felps asks.

For a moment Pac wants to agree, and then terror seizes him again - the dark, and the pain, and fire shoots through his veins and-

And Mike, inside his mind, grabs him, pulls at him, tugs him from the smoke and the sharp, sharp pain.

In Mike’s panic Pac sees other things - sees Missa with a gun to Philza’s head, sees Philza collapse, sees Roier bleeding all over the helicopter, sees Missa covered in bones and with a break in his leg that pierces the skin.

Sees himself, mostly dead, surrounded by ash and debries and if he’s breathing it’s imperceptible.

Mike shutters that memory quickly, and gently turns Pac aside.

“They’re fine,” Mike says. “You were the last to wake up.”

Pac’s eyes still skim the hospital, and find them - find the rest of them.

They don’t look good, he’s sure he looks worse; he breathes, and squeezes Felps’ hand in a silent request to be held onto tighter.

Felps gets it.

He always did.

Even when he didn’t want him to.

“Will I…”

Pac doesn’t know how to end the question, and it turns out he doesn’t need to - Forever returns not just with a glass of water, but a tray with some soup, too.

“Doc said you should eat,” Forever places the tray on the bed. “Do you…?”

Pac doesn’t want it, but he will. On instinct he tries to lift himself up, only for both Mike and Felps to grab him.

That turns out to be a good idea; there’s no way his arms would have held.

It’s a little awkward but he gets comfortable on the cushions. Felps helps him with the cup while Mike blows on the soup, and Forever perches on the end of Pac’s bed and pats his good foot.

“You’ll be okay,” Forever promises, even as Pac has to take a break from the water when he breathes some in by mistake. “I know it’s scary, but we won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay? Just eat up, and heal.”

The something bad has already happened, but Pac sees the fear in Forever’s eyes and…

And he can’t.

So he clears his throat, and offers Forever a weak smile, and sips on the offered water some more.

“He kept me, so I’m sure you’ll be no trouble,” Felps offers, with a small grin.

Mike does actually lean over the bed and slap Felps for that comment. Seconds after, and Felps has Forever wrapped around him. Impersonating an octopus.

Pac strongly suspects he’d be the victim, if he weren’t held together with bandages and struggling with even just water and soup.

“You can’t get rid of any of us,” Mike says, and it sounds like it should be directed at Forever, but he echoes the words in their bond and looks Pac dead in the eyes.

Pac reaches out, entwines his fingers in Mike’s, and whispers only for his soulmate I don’t want any of you to go.

#qsmp x xcom #qsmp fanfic #qsmp tazercraft #qsmp pac #qsmp mike #qsmp philza #qsmp missa #qsmp roier #sorry for not really closing off phil and missa's bit it ran away with me #I'll ao3 this... god only knows when its late and I'm getting cake and /finally/ watching phil build

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diazsdimples · 7 months

Text

Buck followed Bobby into the kitchen and began to run the water, watching as suds appeared from the small amount of detergent he’d squeezed. He started washing the dishes, scrubbing away at them until he felt Bobby’s hand on his shoulder.

“I wanted to check how you were doing, kid” Bobby said, his voice gentle.

Buck set down the plate he was scrubbing and let out a sigh. “Honestly, Bobby, I’m not sure. All my emotions about this, they’ve been so confusing.”

“Confusing how?” Bobby asked.

“Confusing because I don’t know how to feel about it all. I’m sad she’s dead because I loved her once, but I’m angry because now I need to explain to Aidan who she was and what she did, but I’m also guilty for being angry at her because she was sick, and it’s all so fucked up Bobby!” Buck voice broke and he hung his head, arms still resting inside the sink.

“Hey, it’s okay, Buck, it’s okay” Bobby grabbed Buck’s shoulder and spun him around, pulling him into a tight hug. Buck clung to his shirt as he sobbed, and Bobby couldn’t have cared less about the way the fabric became uncomfortably cold against his skin. He held Buck as his body shuddered with the release of all his pent-up emotions, rocking them gently from side to side. “You’re okay, Buck, you’re strong”.

“I just feel so stupid, Bobby. Why can’t my brain produce a rational thought about this?”

Bobby chuckled. “Grief isn’t rational, Buck. It takes you for a ride and shows you what really matters. Like your sons and your partner. Aidan, Christopher, and Eddie aren’t going anywhere, Buck. Nor are Athena and I, or Hen, or Chim, or Maddie. We’ve all got you and we’re all here to support you through this.”

Buck sniffled and pulled back to wipe his eyes. “What should I do about Ellen?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Bobby shrugged. “That’s entirely up to you and Eddie, Buck. But if it were me, I’d probably let her in. She doesn’t have to be here every week. Just, you know, send her a photo every so often. Invite her to his birthday. Small things that would mean the world to her but won’t be too much of a burden for you.”

“That doesn’t seem too bad” Buck agreed. “I don’t know why but I suddenly had visions of her turning up on my doorstep and demanding custody of him.” He laughed at this and wiped his eyes again. “It sounds so stupid, but I really thought Taylor might have given her instructions to take Aidan, just to fuck with me”.

“Considering the hell she put you through, it doesn’t sound at all stupid. A little dramatic, sure, but not stupid.” Bobby put a hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Talk about it with Eddie. That man loves you and your son more than anything in this world and I know he’d bend over backwards to help you. We all would”.

Buck sniffed. “I appreciate you being here for me, Bobby.”

Bobby smiled and patted his shoulder. “Anytime, Buck. You’re a good kid and I hate to see you hurting like this.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will. But, I think it would be a good idea to see Dr. Copeland again. Maybe she’ll help you sort through some of these feelings.”

Buck let out a small laugh as he returned to scrubbing the dishes. “Did Eddie make you say that? Don’t worry, I’ve already got an appointment scheduled. I’m going to see her next week.”

“Good” Bobby replied “because I don’t want a repeat of Eddie’s breakdown, got it? I can’t lose another valuable firefighter.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll see her regularly, I promise”.

And Bobby knew he would.

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supermarvel-fics · 2 years

Text

Tickletober Day 4: Reward

fandom: criminal minds

word count: 740

pairing: spencer reid x reader (established relationship)

summary: you successfully win your first case with the team and spencer rewards you with your favorite prize

Spencer settled himself on your 3-seater sofa, smiling as you followed and laid down to rest your head on his lap. He moved your hair away from your face and continued brushing his fingers through it, relishing in the happy sighs you let out.

The two of you had just returned back to DC from your first case with the BAU, catching the killer in just two days. Hotch had mentioned that it was probably the fastest they’ve solved a case and that you were a great addition to the team despite his previous wariness due to your relationship with Spencer.

Together, you and Spencer were an unstoppable duo. The way your brain worked in tandem with his got things done a lot quicker than if he were working alone. So, on the flight back home, Spencer promised you he’d come over to your place to celebrate your first successful mission together.

Lounging on the couch lazily in your pajamas was your favorite thing to do with him. It was the only time your brains got to switch off and you got to just be. Be present, be together without interruptions, be yourself around him.

Spencer slowly massaged your scalp, his nails reaching the base of your neck every so often and eliciting a shiver. “I know I already told you this, but I’m very proud of you.”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see, and exhaled in content. “Thank you, Spence. It was exactly what I’d been dreaming it would feel like. I know they don’t all end that well, but for my first one, I’ll take it.”

“It’s a rush… the first one always is,” He responded. His fingers traveled a bit too close to the sensitive skin behind your ear, causing you to shrug your shoulder up and squeak quietly. Spencer grinned at your reaction. He knew about your likeness of soft and calming touches—the ones that left goosebumps in their wake and pulled sweet giggles from your lips—and thought that there was no better time to reward you for a job well done.

He resumed his ministrations; combing his nimble fingers through your hair, but purposefully sweeping them across your neck every time. Every once in a while, Spencer heard a breath shoot through your nose, but nothing to make you audibly laugh.

He stroked the nails of his right hand down your arms before landing on your side while keep his left near your head

“I know what you’re doing,” You mumbled out sleepily.

“You do?” Spencer replied, a grin tugging at his own lips. “Are you asking me to stop, then?” Slowly and teasingly, he traced circles on the soft skin of your side through your t-shirt, biting his bottom lip as your stomach quivered under his touch.

“N-No,” You answered almost too quickly, settling more comfortably into him. You shut your eyes to try and focus on nothing but your boyfriend’s touch.

Spencer slipped his hand under the hem of your shirt, his warm skin making direct contact with yours, only intensifying the ticklish sensation when he began dragging his fingers up and down the side of your belly. A smile pulled at your lips as you tried to hold in your laughter, but it all came out once his left-hand resumed brushing at the skin of your neck. The sound of your soft giggles only egged him on, his fingers speeding up to flutter rapidly at your side. Instinctively, your elbow moved to cover where he was tickling, causing him to stop momentarily.

“I thought you didn’t want me to stop,” Spencer said tauntingly, nudging your arm from under your shirt.

“I-hi don’t…”

“Then you’re going to have to move your arm.” He wiggled his fingers at the skin beneath your ear to get your shoulders to rise in response and your arm moved with them. “Thank you.”

Letting out a giggly groan, you crossed your arms in front of you to the best of your ability to have something to hold on to. Spencer started back up at your side, his touch still light enough to keep you laughing, but not enough to make you want to leap off the couch.

“I lohove you, Spence,” You announced, rubbing your legs together and hiding your blushing cheeks into his lap. He responded with a flit of his fingers at your hipbone, making you squeal.

“I love you, too.”

#criminal minds tickle #criminal minds #augtickletober2022 #tickle prompts #tickle fic #lee!reader #ticklish!reader #ler!spencerreid #ler!spencer #sfw tickle fic #tickletober2022 #tickletober prompts #tickle drabble #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid

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onestepbackwards · 1 year

Note

I love Zelda and i love the twins, same as you

So I offer you this idea of mine that’s been haunting my brain:

You go to fight Ganon. And you go without the twins. You love them, you know they’re strong, but like with the blights, they are not suited for this fight. It’s your responsibility, and if this is where you lay down your sword? You’d rather it be yours alone.

Emmet and Ingo beg, beg you to take them, then to at least promise them you’ll come back. You have Mipha’s Grace, you have a rival should you need it. But only if you need it once. They’re so worried, so desperate to ensure your safety because this isn’t a blessing, it’s a curse. Hylia’s chosen is cursed to die. And they can’t stand it.

You don’t deserve any of this.

But you go. Because of course you do. Your heart is too big to be weighed down even by the most impossible of tasks. You kiss their hands at their last campsite, where they’ll remain until you return to them. Because you will return, right?

You say nothing, and disappear into the castle.

The twins watch the divine beasts do their duty, they watch as the castle explodes with a beast so terrifying. It rages the land around the castle, and they have to force their feet on the ground. They can’t go to you, they can’t save you from this. And they hate themselves for not being able to take this horror from you and deal with it themselves.

But the beast falls. It hits heavy on the ground, and the sky clears. The castle grounds are silent, no more guardians crawling around. They’re all at rest, no more movement.

And the twins wait for you, poking around the new husks full of delectable parts for their plans. But they don’t wander far from their campsite, too eager to see you. You did it! A congratulations is in order, not to mention you need to visit everyone and tell them the good news!

You’re not a failure!

But the day turns to night that turns to day. You’re not there, not racing to greet them, or soaring down from above.

The worried twins pace and fret and eventually decide to charge the castle. They climb the ruins and debris, screaming for you. They’re so scared you’re hurt, dying. They’re terrified you’ve been pinned somewhere, slowly dying while they just sat on their asses and let you die.

But they find you. You’re lying on the ground, in the arms of a gorgeous woman that glows golden. Your face is slack, more peaceful than they’ve ever seen you look, even while asleep, and the woman smiles down at you so fondly.

The twins feel their guts wrench. You. . . Are you. . ?

You let out a snorting snore, and the woman alights with laughter. The twins fall over themselves to rush you, hug you where you lie sleeping.

“I am Princess Zelda.” The woman introduces herself, but they don’t care.

Emmet and Ingo grip your hands and press kisses to your rough palms. They bathe you in praise and tears, even if you can’t hear them. You’re finally resting, finally relaxing.

And they are so, so happy.

Angst/comfort botw au my beloved

They’ve seen how heavy this burden had become, how it affected your day to day life. Even when sleeping, there was never truly any rest.

It broke their hearts, and there wasn’t a single thing they could really say or do that would help with that burden. You already had been through so much, the best thing for you was to get the fight with the Calamity over with.

Even if it was something they all dreaded.

But they made a point to let you alway know you weren’t alone! Even if they couldn’t join you on the battlefield, they’d be there in spirit.

So seeing you actually rest after fighting such a frightening foe, it has them so relieved. You can finally sleep. Finally rest.

They are so, so happy.

#submas #submas botw au #botw au #subway boss ingo #subway boss emmet #renee i love this 💕#bellafragolina #ask #zed.talks #long post

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pigeonwit · 10 months

Note

these two seemed like your vibes: pizza place au and magic au :3

URBAN FNATASY MY BEST FRIEND URBAN FANTASY

(gonna be clear - when i hear 'magic' my brain goes 'dnd' so this is very much a 'fantasy high' style universe.)

(also jupes how long did you spend on the randomizer trying to get a good combination. i know you're a perfectionist jupes there's no way you got those right away.)

Alright, here’s where we start – it’s been about a year or two since Race bought this stupid elemental-powered oven (on a whim) and this is the third time they’ve needed the fire elementals to be replaced. It seems like every couple of months, the fire spirits die down into flickers, and it takes a whole day to cook just one pizza all the way through.

Of course, Jack would rather die than hire the Delancey’s again – every time they’re in the shop, it’s like all his hair is on end. They only ever solve the problem, never fix it, and Jack can’t prove it, but he’s certain they’re scamming them. So, he goes to look up other mechanics who specialize in magical tech, and stumbles across Jacobs Artificers. Not much information about them – their website is awful, very ‘graphic design is my passion’, and it burns Jack’s eyes to look at it – but their reviews are great, and their evaluations are free, so it sounds like a decent idea.

Enter Davey, wearing cuffed jeans, a tank-top that was probably once white but has gone permanently grey with time, and a burned, bleach-stained, poison-damaged flannel. He’s skinny, weedy, and doesn’t look like any artificer Jack’s ever seen. He’s doubtful, to say the least.

oOo

“So…” Davey as he leans over the oven. “How long have these guys been acting up?”

“Since we got it.” Jack mutters, pointedly not looking at what those ratty jeans are doing to this scrawny wannabe-mechanic’s ass. “This is third time we’ve had to replace it in a year.”

Davey pops his head out of the oven like a rabbit – there’s already soot on his face, a little smear right on his nose, and Jack refuses to find it cute.

“For an elemental oven?”

“Fuckin’ rip off, what can I say?” Race shrugs. Davey frowns, nibbles his lip between his teeth.

“They really shouldn’t be acting up so much…”

He emerges with a tiny fire-spirit resting on his palm – although ‘fire’-spirit is probably too generous a term. The elemental’s mostly smoke and ember at this point, barely any bigger than a candle – and the mechanic’s jaw drops.

“What the hell have you been feeding these things?!” He snaps, rearing towards them like a wild animal. Race takes a panicked step back, holding his hands up in a weak surrender.

“I – pizza?” He squeaks. Davey’s face goes incredulously slack.

“Pizza?” He says incredulously. “I – that’s it, pizza? Just pizza? These spirits are emaciated, they’re dying-!”

“You don’t feed elementals!” Jack tries to protest. “They’re elementals. They feed when they burn, don’t they?”

“Feed when – but – I don’t…” Davey rakes a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes heavenwards as if in prayer over the sheer stupidity of the men before him. “Okay, let’s start over here – who told you that?”

“The Delan-” Jack’s eyes widen as he says it. He trails off, his whole body going stiff and fuming, and Davey’s fury seems to calm just slightly.

“The Delancey’s?” He asks tentatively.

Race nods, still hanging his head like a kid who got scolded. Davey sighs, looking just a little bit sorry for them.

“Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, so you – yeah. I see what the problem is now. One moment.”

He raises the fire elemental to his face and whispers something Jack can’t hear. The spirit coughs a little and bounces its flame as if nodding. Davey smiles, cups his gloved hands over the little candle-flame – and his eyes glow a bright, burning blue, like the center of a welding flame, as motes of fire lick over his leather gloves.

“Jesus-!” Race shrieks, leaping backwards, but Jack pays him no mind. He’s too lost in the fire in Davey’s eyes, the slight movements of his lips, as he holds the fire spirit between his hands.

(Perhaps Jack’s a romantic, but it looks almost like prayer.)

The fire flickers away. Tentatively, Davey walks to the oven and uncups his palms – he only needs to separate them an inch when a rocket of fire shoots into the oven, bouncing off the brick walls as flames spread to its smoking, flickering brethren – and soon, the entire oven is alight with roaring elementals.

Davey closes the door behind him, waving bashfully as the fire spirits chatter at him in a language of crackling embers – Jack can hear him whispering to them, bashful little “okay, yes – oh, you’re welcome – no, I have to go now, thank you – okay, bye, buh-bye-!” – until they’re closed behind the iron door.

Davey turns to where Jack and Race gape at him.

“Okay. I cannot emphasize this enough; you did not hear this from me.”

Jack and Race glance at each other, then nod sheepishly. Davey claps his hands together like a teacher.

“The Delancey’s-” he tips his hands forward- “are con-artists.”

oOo

According to Davey, the Delancey’s have made a business for themselves by catching rogue elementals, forcing them into cheap machinery unsuited to their magic, and then selling them at a high mark-up as genuine elemental-tech. Not only that, but they’ve also made a pretty successful side-hustle of allowing the elementals they sell to fizzle out over time so that they can be re-hired to replace them – they then take the elementals they’re replacing, load them up on just enough fuel to keep them going, and then wait until the next elementals fizzle out to replace them with the exact same elementals they already took out. The elementals that Jack and Race have in their oven – supposedly the third replacement lot of elementals they’ve had so far – are the same elementals they started out with.

oOo

Jack can only cover his ears as Race all but screams in what can only be described as a pile-up of about fifteen different curses.

“Oh, those little-!” He flaps his hands, paces a few steps in one direction, then the other, then rakes a hand through his hair. “Fucking God damn it- Jack, where’s the phone? Where’s the – there-!”

Jack lurches the phone over his head as Race lunges for it. He growls behind his teeth and makes a few leaps for it, like a dog jumping for its prize.

“Jesus, what’re you gonna do, Race, sue ‘em?!”

“I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna get DOME on their asses so quick-!”

“Defense of Magical Entities?”

They both stop their squabbling long enough to realize that oh, yes, Davey is, in fact, still here. He’s watching them both with a quirked brow, a slight smile toying at his mouth. Jack swallows.

“You’re welcome to try, but I’m not sure it’ll do much good. I have a buddy, she’s pretty high up there – according to her, every case against them gets thrown out. I’m thinking they have someone in civil court, but-”

“We didn’t hear that from you.”

Davey shoots Race a finger-gun.

“Exactly.” He winks – Jack’s stomach flips. “Look, I have an old elemental-oven in my workshop – second hand, doesn’t cost too much, and you’ll get way more efficiency from your elementals. Y’know, as long as you feed ‘em.”

Race grits his teeth as Jack cringes a little, both still a little embarrassed that they’d been apparently starving their elementals for months.

“Um…” Race mumbles into his collar. “I dunno if we can afford that and elemental replacement…”

Davey cocks his head, a mop of dark curls tumbling over his brow. Jack can feel his wrist twirling at his side, mimicking how he might move his brush to capture those little flicks and corkscrews.

“Replacement?” Davey glances towards the elementals still roaring away in their oven. “There’s nothing to replace. These guys’ll do just fine.”

oOo

They settle the payment for the new oven, and Davey sets it up for them the following day. I could not be bothered to write this, since the ask game did specify ‘snippets’ and I’ve already written far too much for that.

oOo

“Uh…” Jack coughs into his fists, scuffing the toe of his boot along the tiled floors. “You’re, uh – you’re not gonna report us to DOME, are ya?”

Davey looks up from his work and smirks, wrinkling his nose playfully.

“Thought about it.” He shrugs. “But it does seem like an honest mistake. You were working off of misinformation, after all. And besides…” He shoots a glance at the pile of kiln-dried cedar logs stacked against the wall (because Race is nothing if not consistently irresponsible with Jack’s money-). “I think you’re making up for it.”

Jack sighs, his whole body sinking in relief.

“You’re a gem.”

Davey’s grip slips on one of the pipes he’s fastening – a little flicker of fire-elemental seeps out from the gap, which he lunges to catch with a strangled yelp.

“Um – speaking of DOME!” Davey laughs awkwardly as he stuffs the elemental back into its pipe. “My friend, the one I told you about? She’s trying to build a case on the Delancey’s, something ironclad that can’t just get dismissed – you mind if I send her your way?”

“Sure.” Jack shrugs. “What’s her name?”

“Saoirse Conlon – she goes by Spot sometimes? I-If I could just get a contact number-” Davey stiffens, his whole face going suddenly red. “I – not that I – y’know, just – an address works, I’ll just give her the address-!”

Jack hands him a business card, hoping Davey won’t notice the second one he’s tucked underneath until it’s too late.

oOo

Race absolutely rags on Jack for giving the hot artificer his number, but it’s okay – Jack gets his own back when Race becomes absolutely humiliatingly head-over-ass smitten with the hot beast-master ranger.

#i got. way too invested in this. this is so long #anywhore #newsies #uksies #livesies #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #david jacobs #pigeon scribbles #javey #ask #rebuke-me

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heliads · 8 months

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everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter Five: A Treacherous Road to Safety

Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.

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The ground is shaking, and it takes Connor far longer than it should to realize that he isn’t going to die. He’s jumpier than he was a few days ago, already, and he can only assume it will get worse as time goes on. Connor will shed whatever innocence he had left before his parents signed him up to die a thousand painful ways all at once, and he will become a twitchy skeleton, the nervous bones of what was once lively flesh and blood.

The source of the disturbance isn’t the disaster he’d envisioned. A loud rumbling had split the air, and Connor had flinched like he’d been slapped, picturing the land beneath him crumbling to dust, or the ship cracking at the seams. Instead, they’d started to move, and Connor realized belatedly that they were only just now taking off. It’s okay. They’re starting on their journey, the destination unknown but at last somewhere they can be safe.

He glances down at Risa, who’s somehow still asleep by his side. Growing up in a State Home, she must be used to sleeping through all sorts of sound and commotion. He envies her for it now. What a blessing it must be, to close your eyes and let the world slip away. Every time Connor so much as thinks about taking a break, his brain goes into high alert and refuses to let him rest. After so many close calls, he’s certain that one more will ruin them both, and Connor cannot have that after how far they’ve come.

Still, Risa seems to think it’s okay to rest, so maybe he can too. Not enough to sleep, just enough to take the edge off his already frazzled nerves. Connor does his best to relax along with her, let his breathing ease in unison with hers. They’ll do everything together until they get wherever Sonia wanted them to go, and even past that too, no doubt about that. They’ll survive together, run from the Juveys together, and yes, even breathe together in the underbelly of a massive shipping cruiser, curled away like rats in a cellar. Well, Connor’s already a pest in the eyes of the Collective. He might as well sink his jaws into the brightest parts of life around him while he’s at it.

So he sits perfectly still, careful not to so much as topple a stack of tools lest they somehow be heard over the distant clanging of the superspeed engine and the roaring of the ship around him, and he waits for their destiny to ship them off to somewhere farther beyond the stars. There are no windows in this glorified storage closet, so Connor can’t see where they’re going nor how far they’ve already come.

He swears he should be able to feel it in his bones when he officially crosses the boundary dividing the OH-10 star system from empty, nameless connective space, but instead they just keep going, paying no mind to the total terror that is leaving one’s home for the first time. The next time Connor looks up at the sun, it won’t be his. There might even be more than one. The stars will no longer be the ones that shone down on him, not in the same order, not the same way. Connor is away without leave in every sense of the word. Homeless, groundsless, purposeless. All he has is the infinity of stars somewhere around him.

Risa wakes at some point; Connor has no way of telling when. She comes to gradually, wrinkling first her brow and then her fingers, moving the digits together in her lap. Risa straightens up from where she’d started to slouch against Connor’s shoulder, both of them pointedly not bringing up the fact that her face had been so close to his, and to cover up for the mistake she asks, voice still groggy, “How long was I out?”

“No idea,” Connor answers truthfully. There’s no way of sensing anything here. Hours could have passed or mere minutes. They just keep going.

She frowns. “Still too long, though.”

Connor lifts a shoulder. “What else would we do?” He’s careful to keep his voice quiet, just in case.

Risa follows suit, her eyes flicking around the empty space before she continues in a whisper. “Do you really think there will be someone waiting for us?”

“Other than Juvey-cops, you mean?” Connor asks, then sighs. “Who knows? I’d like to think so. Sonia seemed like she had her stuff together. If she wanted to turn us in, she would have let Lev do it while we were at the boundary checkpoint. Would’ve been much more efficient for both of them.”

He’s unable to hide a slight snarl in his voice when he mentions Lev. Sure, he’d kind of kidnapped the kid, but he’d only stolen him from an early death. It’s not like his family was taking him on a fun vacation or something, unless you count the wild sendoff to a surgeon’s knife as an exciting thrill ride. Lev should be grateful for his second chance at life; Connor had to fight for his, and he gave it to Lev free of charge, yet the little bugbait ran off and sold him out, too.

Next to him, Risa arches a brow, evidently able to tell where his mind is headed. “Still mad at our favorite runaway tithe?”

“How could I not be?” Connor protests. “He stabbed us in the back.”

“After we kidnapped him,” Risa muses, and at Connor’s wordless but energetic protests she rolls her eyes and admits, “Yeah, I’m mad too, obviously, but you’ve got to think about it from his end. He’s probably been trained to accept this all his life. Just when he’s about to fulfill his divine destiny or whatever, we swoop in on a stolen cruiser and don’t even give him a chance to say his goodbyes. He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”

This saps some of Connor’s anger from him. At least when he ran away, it had been on his own terms. He’d decided what night to leave, and he’d treated his parents accordingly. He might not have been stupid enough to say goodbye outright, but he could still let that shape what conversations he had with them. Lev may have been ready to die, but he might not have been ready to let go quite yet.

“D’you think he’s already in a harvest colony somewhere?” Connor asks after a pause. “Last time I saw him, he was raring to go under the knife, but I can’t help but wonder…”

He lets his voice trail off, not sure what he’s wondering at all anymore. It’s easier not to ask questions about what happens to fiery tithes after they sentence themselves to death. Same way no one at home will ever talk about him again unless they physically have to. Thinking about someone who has seen you before, someone who remembers your name and spoke to you, having those same eyes and vocal chords ripped away on a remote lunar outpost is too disturbing to consider.

Risa gets what he’s trying to say, though. “If he changed his mind or something? If he did, Sonia could have found him. Maybe we’ll see him wherever we’re going.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, not entirely convinced, “Maybe we will.”

He’s not entirely sure that he believes it, but it’s a better thought than most, so Connor lets himself accept it for now. The two of them drift into a silence that’s slightly more paranoid than companionable, letting the roaring of the ship around them do the talking for them.

Some time later, the ship touches down. His hands are clenched into fists the entire time, terrified of a bad landing doing them in. However, they’re still alive when the dust clears, so Connor counts that as a win. After so long stuck inside the noisy, clanging behemoth, it’s strange to carefully climb out of it in complete silence. The absence of sound makes him uneasy, and causes him to be extra aware of the quiet shuffle of their footsteps as they head away from the shipping hauler.

Once they’re a safe distance away, Connor gestures for Risa to follow him into a darker, quieter hallway. “What do we do now?” He asks.

Risa shrugs. “Try to find that man Sonia told us about, I guess. What did she say his name was? Cleaver?”

Connor can’t help a wry smile. “That totally sounds like the kind of guy I want to see right now.”

Risa nods solemnly. “All the most trustworthy people go by Cleaver, I’m sure. Any idea of how we’ll find him?”

Connor shakes his head. “No clue. Do you think we should have stayed on the ship? Maybe he was supposed to come to us first.”

Risa tosses a nervous glance over her shoulder towards the ship, which is now swarmed with workers anxious to unpack the cargo. “If we stayed, we would have gotten caught. I think our best bet is to lay low and see if we see anyone else hanging around.”

It’s not like they have any other options, so Connor nods his agreement and they do their best to blend into the shadows of the corridor. The area is busy with disembarking passengers and ground control all bustling around. A few times, they have to duck into a closet to avoid overeager sec-officers patrolling the area, but everyone stays moving long enough for them to come back out soon enough.

The flow of workers starts to slow, but no one’s found them yet. Connor can’t be sure if that’s a good thing or not. Even if Cleaver doesn’t show, they’re still out of OH-10. It’ll be tricky to make their way out of here and find a regular source of food and shelter without a single grounds license between them, but they’d surely figure something out.

He’s about to suggest to Risa that they start to make their way out of the spaceport when she gently nudges him with her elbow, her eyes on something behind him. “This guy’s been staring at us for a while.”

Connor casually fakes a cough, using the motion of twisting and covering his mouth to glance behind him. Sure enough, there’s some guy in dark clothes loitering down the hall. A datapad is open in front of him, but the guy’s not doing much more than that to keep up the pretense of work. Instead, he’s eyeing Connor and Risa with an expression almost akin to hunger.

“Let’s get moving,” Connor suggests.

“What if it’s our guy?” Risa asks.

Connor gives her a sarcastic look. “Do you really want to go up to that guy and ask if he’s looking for two groundsless who look like us?”

Risa winces. “Good point.”

They turn and head down the corridor. The guy watches them go, and starts to follow a few paces behind them. Connor starts to pick up his pace, but the man just speeds up accordingly. They take a few random lefts and rights to shake their stalker only to find themselves at a dead end. Connor meets Risa’s wide eyes, and slowly turns back around to face the man who’s been following them. He shifts forward a little to step in front of Risa, but the guy doesn’t strike. Not yet.

Instead, he glances one last time at the open datapad before eyeing Connor. “You two are Sonia’s latest kids?”

Connor swallows hard. “How about you tell me who you are first?”

The guy stares at him as if Connor has just asked the most useless question in the world, then sighs. “I’m Cleaver. Sonia sent me, obviously.”

“It’s not obvious,” Risa remarks from behind Connor’s left elbow, “You’re a stranger. We have no idea of knowing who you are at all.”

Cleaver shrugs one muscular shoulder. “Can’t argue with that. Now come on, we need to get moving before someone else notices you. The two of you stand out like a sore thumb.”

Connor and Risa frown at each other. Connor had thought they’d done a pretty good job of hiding, but apparently not. Cleaver gives them one more look of vague disgust before turning and walking back down the corridor with long, purposeful strides. He’s moving fast enough to make it clear that he doesn’t want to talk to either of them, but Connor has more questions and he’ll be damned if they don’t get answered.

Hurrying to catch up, Connor presses on as they round a corner and head down a long hallway lined with doors to other sectors of the spaceport. “Is that how you knew it was us? We were too obvious?”

Cleaver grunts in reply. It takes Connor intentionally matching his strides for half the length of the hallway before the man finally caves and answers him. “That was hard to ignore. Other stuff too, though.”

Paranoid, Connor glances back behind them, but anyone passing through is too intent on their own destination to pay much attention to the three of them. “What else?”

A snide side glance from Cleaver; Connor returns his stare as intensely as he can while still speed walking down the hall at a breakneck pace. They make a few quick turns and Connor is forced to break his gaze so he doesn’t head directly into a wall.

When he looks back, Cleaver is facing ahead again, but this time he condescends to explain himself. “You two did look mighty suspicious, but I was helped by this.”

Cleaver tilts his datapad so Connor can see the image on the holoscreen. Immediately, he tenses up. Emblazoned in big, bold letters beneath a picture of him are the words WANTED: CONNOR LASSITER, ESCAPED GROUNDSLESS. TREAT WITH CAUTION. There’s another image right below it, a photo of Risa with a similar caption.

Connor wants to throw up. “When were these released?”

“About twenty-four standard hours ago,” is Cleaver’s guttural reply.

Connor blows out a low breath. So his parents had noticed his absence about the next morning, which makes sense, and the state home would have seen that Risa was gone when they checked the kids in the shuttle.

She’s told him by now of her escape attempt, and he’s got to admire her guts for pulling a stunt like that. Sneaking off the shuttle that was supposed to take her to a harvest colony after everyone on board nearly all died from the meteor shower? Crazy stuff. Connor’s down with crazy, though, so long as it keeps both of them alive. They’re a package deal by now. Can’t split them up, no one without the other. Like the twin braces of Connor’s ribs inside his chest, that’s them; no breaking them up until the end. Till death do us part.

Connor shoves his hands into his pockets to stop them from shaking. “So that’s how you knew it was us? You searched up our wanted posters?”

Cleaver blows out a breath, and Connor swears he almost looks impressed. “Not for you, actually. I’d already heard of you even before Sonia said she’d managed to send you on my way.”

Connor frowns. “How’d you manage that? Do you monitor every AWOL out of Sonia’s star system?”

Cleaver guides them down a narrow hall out of the main thoroughfare. It seems as if they’re headed towards a smaller hangar bay, probably where Cleaver keeps his ship. It would explain why Cleaver feels confident enough to stop lowering his voice when he tells Connor, “I didn’t have to look you up. The two of you are already famous.”

Risa has joined them by now; Cleaver’s relentless pace slowed when they left the central sector of the spaceport. She eyes the man cautiously. “What do you mean, we’re famous?”

Cleaver opens his mouth to answer, but another, younger, brasher voice beats him to it. “He means that you two made quite a name for yourselves when you shot a Juvey-cop and stole his ship.”

Connor looks past Cleaver to see a tall, muscular boy looming out of the darkness of the poorly lit corridor. His grin is sharp, and his teeth flash like fangs when he says, “Or, just Connor, I should say. He’s the one who did it.”

Cleaver huffs out a frustrated breath. “Roland, I told you to stay on the ship.”

The boy– Roland– doesn’t seem to care what Cleaver thinks he should or shouldn’t do. “I got bored. No one’s here, anyway. If they did, I’d shut ‘em up, no worries.”

Ah, Connor thinks. So he’s setting himself up as a threat. Classic move. Whenever new kids impede on your territory, you’ve got to decide whether they’ll be friends or foes. How lucky that Roland has already made that decision for him. Now he knows for certain that the only ones he can trust are Risa and maybe Cleaver. Roland will ‘shut him up’ just like anyone else to cross his path.

Connor’s met boys like Roland before, enough of them to already have a plan of how to handle him. Step one is not to give up or show a sign of hesitation. Step two is to get into a fight, but judging by Roland’s cocky stature and impressive physique, that might not be one he’d win.

Step one’s good for now, though. Connor squares his shoulders and looks Roland dead in the eyes. “I’m glad you’ve heard of me. It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

Roland scoffs. “Don’t take it personally. The story’s better than the real deal anyway. They failed to mention that you’d be this short face to face.”

Connor rolls his eyes, making Roland flash him another saber-toothed grin. Clearly eager to get back to his ship, Cleaver urges them both onwards. Roland stalks back into the dim lighting, giving Connor a good look as what he had thought was just a shadow on the boy’s right arm manifests itself as a tattoo of a shark. Suns, everything about this guy just gets better and better.

Roland leads the way back to Cleaver’s ship with obvious familiarity, making Connor wonder how long he’s been stuck here, waiting to move on. Cleaver checks for unwanted guests around his ship, and unlocks it once he’s sure the coast is clear. This starship is more haphazard even than the Juvey-cop’s shuttle; it looks completely patched together and it’s even missing an entry ramp, so they have to awkwardly climb up into the thing.

Roland acts the proper gentleman by offering Risa his hand so she has an easier time getting up, but judging by the way he doesn’t let go of her immediately afterwards, he’s not just doing it out of the pure kindness of his heart. Connor approaches the ship next, leading Roland to sneer in his face that he won’t be helping him up. Connor says something snappy and stupid in return, then climbs up, Roland right after him. Cleaver goes last, and walls them up inside after checking around one last time.

After that, they’re all left standing uncomfortably in the belly of the ship. Cleaver claps his hands together suddenly, making Connor and Risa jump. “Alright, then,” he says, “We’ll take off tonight, and probably make it over bright and early next morning. Give me a few hours to get everything in order and we can leave this junkyard behind.”

Roland’s face twists. “We’re not waiting for anyone else? I’ve been here for a fuckin’ week and the second these two show up, we drop everything and go?”

Cleaver, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye at Roland’s protests. “As you so helpfully pointed out earlier, Connor and Risa are far more recognizable than you are. I can’t take the risk of someone stumbling across the ship and finding the Akron AWOL.”

Connor has no idea what that nickname means, but he can only assume it refers to him. Roland looks like he wants to argue, but Connor interjects so Cleaver can head to the cockpit and get travel preparations started. “It’s the fame, Roland. You have to understand. It’s exhausting having this sort of legacy, but–”

Roland cuts him off with a sound bordering on a snarl. “Watch it, starspawn. I don’t take kindly to upstarts running their mouths. That’s not how it goes around here.”

Connor wants to argue with this, but Risa lays a hand on his shoulder and says, “I think we’d all like to minimize fights, if possible.”

Roland folds his arms across his chest, daring Connor to contradict this. Risa looks at Connor accusingly, and– sunfire– they are on the same side, so he’s not going to undermine her by starting something, even if he really, really wants to. “I agree,” he says simply, and walks past Roland to the dingy common area in the center of the ship. There are maybe four chairs, one of them broken, but it’s good enough for now.

Risa follows him. “Excellent temper control,” she says, one eyebrow quirked up.

Connor sighs. “Don’t you start, too.”

“I’m not,” she replies, hands raised in mock surrender. “I just want you to remember that Roland is not the biggest of our worries right now.”

Connor looks past her to where Roland still lingers near the starship’s entrance. They’re far enough away that Roland can’t hear them, but the older boy still glances towards Connor as if he can sense the topic of conversation. Roland grins predatorily, and Connor’s eyes are again dragged towards the shark tattoo on his right arm.

Getting tattoos is rebellious, especially in the age of distribution. Either you’re confident enough that you won’t get distributed that you don’t mind damaging the goods, i.e. your own skin, or you know for a fact that you will be so you want to make sure that whoever gets your bits and pieces will be unable to ignore the source. No matter where they go, they’ll see your ink and they’ll be reminded of what they did to you. It’s like taking a stand, you refuse to protect your body such that someone else could use it. The way Roland acts, though, makes Connor think that it’s not just a promise that he’ll destroy himself, but anyone around him as well. He would drag them all down with him if he got the chance.

“No,” Connor muses, “but he’s certainly not something to forget about.”

They end up sitting around for what must be a couple of standard hours before Cleaver remembers that he was supposed to be leaving and they finally take off. In that time, Connor sits down for a while, stands up, sits again, walks around the ship a few times, peers at the cockpit instrument panel before Cleaver chases him out, and pokes around in a few crates. Risa stares at the wall. Roland stands with his hands on his hips, looking out the window as if daring anyone to come near. Every now and then, he cracks his knuckles menacingly, but only when he’s certain that Connor is nearby.

At last, when Cleaver comes out of the cockpit and announces that they’re on the move, Connor thinks they’ll finally have something to do. Maybe he can ask him for some flying lessons, or better yet, learn something about their mysterious destination.

Cleaver immediately shuts down the flying tutorial idea, not that Connor was really expecting that to go anywhere, but he is a little more forthcoming about where they’re headed. Apparently, one of the Collective’s higher-level officers recently developed a conscience and couldn’t live with his guilt about all of the kids getting distributed. He borrowed a massive cruiser and has been using it to house any groundsless he or his associates come across.

It sounds like a fairytale to Connor. Can’t be real. Of course there’s just, like, a massive star cruiser full of Unwinds orbiting some moon somewhere, because that’s the most realistic option here. When Connor looks at Cleaver to wait for him to start laughing at how gullible they are, though, the release never comes. Cleaver stays cold and stalwart, and at last Connor realizes that stars above, it’s real. It’s real, and they’re going directly to it.

Connor leans back on his heels, shaking his head slowly. “That’s crazy.”

“It is,” Cleaver says impassively, “And crazier still is how protective we have to be. No one can know about it. No one can leave unless they turn eighteen. It’s our best kept secret. That’s why you three are going to be traveling a little less comfortably than you’d like.”

Connor freezes. Even Roland looks uneasy. “What does that mean?” Risa asks slowly.

Cleaver meets all of their eyes in turn. “We can’t afford for any of you to get picked up on scanners while we travel between star systems, nor are any of you allowed to see where we’re going. This ship was jerry-rigged as an illegal transport vessel a long time ago. There are storage compartments in the walls that don’t let scanner beams through. You’ll be hiding in those until we dock.”

Connor stares at the walls around them. They don’t seem all that thick, even by junker starship standards. There must be hardly any space for them at all.

“It won’t be pleasant,” Cleaver says in agreement with Connor’s unspoken thoughts, “But I think you’ll find distribution far less appetizing. Unless you’d like me to let you off at the nearest harvest colony, of course. That would save us time and trouble.”

It’s an unnecessary threat, but it gets the point across. Cleaver walks over to the wall and begins to methodically unlock and pull away sections of the metal surface. Sure enough, he reveals storage compartments curving down the hall. They’re extremely shallow and not too tall, either. It’ll be like a coffin in there. In escaping death, Connor has seemingly sentenced himself to an early grave.

Cleaver extends a hand towards the hollows. “Well, take your pick. Time’s a wastin’.”

They all stand there for a moment, unable to move, and then Roland goes first, making an exaggerated show of scoffing like he couldn’t care less about how he makes the trip. Connor sees his eyes just before Cleaver closes the wall back over him, though. He knows Roland is just as terrified as they all are.

Two empty areas await, looming like eye sockets in the smooth metal wall. Risa climbs into one cavity, but when Connor moves to get into the next one over, she reaches out and grabs his hand. He looks over at her, and sees Roland’s horror reflected in her gaze. Which is worse, to have even less space than before or to go through this trial alone?

He climbs in after her. There’s just enough room for them to stand side by side, backs pressed up against the metal wall. Cleaver looms up before them, silhouetted by the light of the corridor outside. Strangely, Connor feels as if he’s on the other side of an airlock, about to be shut out into space, and then the metal casing slams down and they’re locked inside.

Immediately, Connor feels as if he cannot breathe. He’s never counted himself as claustrophobic before, but he’s never been locked inside a narrow storage compartment before, either. The darkness is overwhelming; Connor swears it presses against his skin like water. He thinks he might drown in it, and takes deep breaths to compensate. He never gets enough air, though. His lungs are never full.

He tries again, gasping for more, but it’s not enough. The blackness around him seems to get closer, and Connor is a few seconds from fully freaking out until he feels a tapping on his right arm. It comes again, a moment later– tap tap, two motions against his forearm. It’s Risa, reminding him that he’s not alone in this endless darkness. She’s here with him. They’re going to be alright, because they have each other, that’s all they’ve ever had, and if they managed to survive everything else, surely they can live through this, too.

Connor feels his heart rate start to slow down. He reaches his right hand to tap twice against her left arm, returning the message. A couple of minutes later, when Connor can feel her starting to shuffle around too much, she taps twice, and he does the same, like a prolonged heartbeat stretching between the both of them. Eventually, they both calm down enough that the beats have more and more time between repetitions, and then they stop entirely.

Connor focuses on his breathing, on not thinking about anything. He closes his eyes, even though it doesn’t entirely matter, just because having his eyes open to the stuffy blackness makes him feel even more uncomfortable than before. His knees start to cramp, but he can’t straighten them, so he just tries to think about something, anything else.

He moves the fingers of his left hand one by one. He curls his toes inside his shoes. He listens to the soft rise and fall of Risa’s breathing somewhere to his right. Connor leans a little closer to her, just to be sure that she’s still there and hasn’t somehow been ripped apart from him. He’d never known unless she shouted; it’s too dark in here, and his eyes refuse to adjust. He would have no idea at all that she was gone if he ever let go, and so he won’t.

There’s a scratching sound on the metal somewhere above and to the side. Connor wonders if it’s Roland, trying to carve his way through the barriers of his storage compartment into theirs. He shivers, and Risa, evidently having heard the same thing, presses closer to him. The sound carries on for some time before falling off in disappointment. They won’t be reached by anyone, shark or boy or Juvey-cop. Nothing can touch them.

Neither of them pull away, though, and Connor doesn’t want to. He’s only aware of one sensation anymore, and that is the crescents of his skin pressed against her. They are here in this unmarked grave, somewhere in the vast expanses of space, and when they come out of this, they will be safe. They will be whole. Someone out there is looking for them, waiting for them to arrive, and then none of this will ever happen again.

And if they die here, let the worlds find their brittle bones together, hand in hand, spine against spine. Let them never be separated again, even in death. When their blood congeals, when their muscles atrophy, let all that dust of what was once flesh and bone intermix until no one can tell the difference between the two. Let Connor and Risa, Risa and Connor, never, ever end.

Connor learns to sense the passage of time by the alternating rumbles of the starship’s engines. Twice, Connor thinks Cleaver docks the ship, and twice he gets his hopes up only for the ship to start up again without ever letting them go. Cleaver had passed out food and drink rations before forcing them into the storage compartments along the walls, so he’s not immediately hungry or thirsty, but he has no idea how long they can keep this up. When he starts thinking too much about it, he taps his right hand twice, and waits until Risa taps twice back. Only then can he force himself to relax and move on to other, braver topics.

He compels his mind to stay busy. Mentally, Connor runs through every flight tip he’s ever heard. He thinks through the routes he would walk or bike to school, how he’d return from his destination. He used to sneak over to his friend’s houses all the time, and in his mind Connor imagines that he’s back there again, hopping fences or running low down the road so cars couldn’t spot him. He goes to his friends’ houses and he completes the trip back, but he always stops his mental picture just before he turns down his driveway. Home is not a place Connor can return to, even in the illusion of his own head.

More, a desperate need for more; Connor thinks of homework assignments he procrastinated, TV shows he’d binged. Every girl he’d ever met. Every boy he’d ever fought. There was this one field trip when he was a kid where everyone in his class got to go to a science museum across town; they’d shown up in one big, writhing mass and immediately been shepherded from exhibit to exhibit by exasperated teachers. He had been small then, barely able to tie his shoes, and when they passed dioramas of monstrous animals with huge jaws, Connor had hidden his face in his hands. One had been a tiger shark.

There’s a clamor outside the metal wall of their storage compartment. Lost in memories, Connor thinks it’s his dad working on the junker of a car they’d found abandoned on the side of the road one day. The engine had needed some work, it hardly even ran on substellar batteries, let alone a normal fuel like power cells.

Still, they’d worked on that thing day and night. He can still remember his dad looking at him proudly the first time they took it on a trip across the neighborhood; Connor can’t imagine why his dad would let him die when he was so happy that day, they both were, but maybe he just hadn’t done a good enough job on it, maybe that was why his dad had been okay letting him go.

The clanging persists. Connor opens his mouth to tell his dad to stop it, he’ll be out in a minute, but then the door of the storage compartment rips open, letting in blinding waves of light, and Connor remembers. He remembers where he is– not at home, not heading out to the garage, but on a run down starship somewhere in the vast expanse of the galaxy.

Cleaver is peering down at him. “You two haven’t died in there yet, have you?”

“No, unfortunately,” Connor grumbles out through chapped lips and a dry tongue.

Cleaver grunts in sympathy. “You look it, though.”

He helps both of them out, then hands them each a water ration. Roland is already idling somewhere in the back, and although his back is tall and straight, he’s got this look in his eyes that even the best of his bravado can’t hide. None of them will forget what it took to get here. In a way, Connor thinks that was done on purpose. You can’t run a secret safe haven if the kids inside believe they can just leave without a care. This sort of terrible journey teaches them the price of their safety.

Cleaver nods, as if sensing that Connor finally gets it. “Well, you survived,” he says matter-of-factly. “Welcome to the Graveyard.”

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