Are We There Yet?
folder
+M through R › Red vs. Blue
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
6,294
Reviews:
29
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M through R › Red vs. Blue
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
6,294
Reviews:
29
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Red vs. Blue, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Key
Title: Are We There Yet?
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T, soon to be S/G
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warning: WIP, AU. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine!
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue!
Chapter Summary: Do what you have to, soldier. ~1,900 words
Chapter Nine: The Key
Church couldn’t let this happen.
He rode quietly in the Red Warthog until it came to a smooth stop in front of his base. His eyes flickered wildly over the gaping opening. Caboose hadn’t even closed the door when he left! The cobalt Spartan resisted the urge to run his hands over his face and settled on a nice cringe. There. An expression of emotion felt good after a solid three minutes of staring blankly at those godforsaken canyon walls.
Sarge hauled him out of the passenger’s seat and into the rust-red dirt that was still settling from the ‘Hog’s arrival. His bare feet screamed when they met hot earth, making him stiffly (and MOST inadvertently) dance to the shadowed entrance of Blue base.
“Alrighty, what’ve we got, what’ve we got,” The commanding Red rubbed his hands together and took a good look around the identical inner workings of the base. “Kitchen and basement this way I assume.” He grunted when he found he was correct, his gauntleted and tight around Church’s neck. The pale Marine was really, really over manhandling at this point, but by GOD if he could think of something to get them out of this while the stocky Red yanked him around, then by all means, the Sergeant could toss him repeatedly out the window for all he cared.
If only he wasn’t so fucking sore. It made his attempts to scramble together some sort of plan almost impossible. He was aching, armorless, and had a pea-brained hulk for a teammate. If only he could somehow harness Caboose’s strength and unleash it in some terrible display of power-
No, Church. Saturday morning cartoons will NOT help you here.
He abandoned silly notions of a grand escape and tried to focus on the now. Sarge tossed open the door that lead to the basement and went quiet. Church looked down into the lower room and felt a grin tug at his face.
It was an absolute mess. Boxes and crates were strewn haphazardly over each other in a great avalanche of metal and other hard, synthetic material.
“What in sam hell-” Sarge began.
Caboose cut him off with a helpful chirp. “Oh! I got the kit for Church and Tucker’s trip a few days ago! But, ah…there was…an accident.” he looked down sheepishly and smiled, embarrassed, when Donut giggled at him.
“Ooooof course there was,” Sarge mumbled. The broad man gave a short sigh. “Well, get down and start heftin’, Bluetard.” he pushed between Church’s shoulder blades, causing him to reel and slip to the first step.
Church clung to the rail before he toppled over. “Or, I’ve got a better idea,” he sneered and shakily pulled himself back up, realizing his plan to put Caboose into action could actually work. Maybe. Possibly. In some obscure way. Fuck it, he tried it anyway. “How about the guy who can actually lift shit goes down there and lifts said shit. I can barely stand thanks to that orange prick.” He didn’t have to lie for that one. His legs were like…bags of sand half-stuffed with jelly, maybe? With toothpicks propping them up? Whatever, he was over the poetry of how fucked up his body felt.
Sarge chuckled deep in his chest and slapped Church on the back. “Aw, a little work does the weakling in, eh? Donut, think you can handle sissy Sally while I take the behemoth downstairs?”
Donut gave a swift nod. “Yes, sir.”
Church gave the pink soldier a long look. Oh no. OH nooooo. Faaack, Caboose was doing his part of the plan, now Church just had to do his. The rookie would be able to move those crates to the side, but it would probably….hopefully…take the Red leader a good while to find that ventilator (if they even had one). So, during that time Church had to think of a way to distract, intoxicate, or otherwise immobilize the pink one.
Church was the king of making shit up as he went along. How else, do you wonder, did he get through high school?
“Get him to pack up the food. I’ll radio in when I find the vent.”
“Will do, sir.”
Sarge descended, Caboose close behind, and the two were left alone.
Church didn’t want to pack the food. He had a limited window to work with, here. There was the possibility that the Sergeant would find the little machine almost instantly. But at the moment he couldn’t think of anything to put the girly enemy off-track, so he sulkily lead the way to the small pantry. He went immediately to the back wall and stood on tiptoe to reach the boxes folded at the top shelf.
A tiny, muffled squeak echoed in the scantily stocked closet. Church looked down at his exposed stomach, squinted at the cool draft on his lower back, clenched his thighs as his jelly-sandbag legs threatened to give in, and heard the squeak again…
…and that’s when he remembered.
“Your asses are about the same size – though yours is just fat. His is a cute little bubble-butt.”
It was he who would weald The Ultimate Weapon. Not Caboose and his epic strength, but Church, with his globes of power. The cobalt Spartan kind of wanted to cry a little when he realized what he’d have to do to get pinky to drop his guard, but it was all he had right now. He thought back to the shower he’d taken yesterday. The slim Marine had tossed him into a stall, clothes and all, and Church had stayed in them, wet and angry, until he managed to lock the little perv out of the bathroom and slip into those horrible, horrible underwear…which he was still wearing.
But still, it was the best thing he had to go on. He’d have to make it work. And when he bent down slowly (again, inadvertently. He hurt, dammit) to set the box on the ground, he suffered another soft noise of appreciation before swiping his arms over the shelves and shoving off as many cans as he could.
The cacophony of metal on metal seemed to shake Donut out of his transfixed gaze and he moved to help. Church held his breath and timed it so that he turned when the Red tried to slip by, which ended up with his ass nestled tightly against the younger man’s codpiece.
“Sorry,” Church mumbled, as if he’d barely noticed their compromising position. He heard Donut release a tremulous sigh behind him.
Cake, right? The Blue gave himself a pat on the back and resumed stuffing as much food into as little space as possible. He was determined to-
Church stopped himself and winced, facing the dusty shelves, examining the sentence he was about to emphatically inwardly express.
He was determined to stay in Blood Gulch. He made a face, licking his lips distastefully as if he’d actually said the words instead of just thinking them, attempting to physically expel the thought from his head.
But you know what? Better to be stuck in Blood Gulch than a Red Army prison, as a P.O.W, separated from his loveable, dipshit teammates and-
Oh. My god. Church was actually going insane.
Ah, well. It made it easier to handle this Donut/escape situation. The less he was in his right mind, the easier it would be to seduce the little shit. Not that he seemed to be giving him any trouble. He packed up a second crate with the same finesse as the last one and waited for Donut to carefully finish off his boxes. They took the cases out to the car in two trips, Church desperately thinking of something to add to his plan and those damn underwear rubbing up against him in all the wrong ways. He stopped dead in his tracks as the idea hit him, then yipped and hobbled inside as his feet burned in red dirt.
The underpants. They were the key.
When they were safely inside the base, Church sighed and stretched and scratched lazily at his stomach.
“Y’know,” he started, casually, “while we’re here, I’d really like a change of clothes. Maybe pick up something for Tucker, too. For when he wakes up.”
Donut was quiet for a few moments, making Church writhe with nervousness all the while. Was he too nonchalant? Could the pink one see right through him? Church sweat it out until the armored man nodded.
“I don’t see why not. I’m sure you don’t want to be wearing Grif’s clothes, and yours are right here…yeah, let’s go get some.”
Perfect.
Donut trailed dutifully behind him. Church tried to walk with his back as straight as possible, tried to add the swagger he’d had when he was younger, but it was kind of difficult to do with his body trying to curl up and die from the pain.
He thought he heard the Private’s shoulder clip the wall and shot a glance back at him to make sure. Church saw the man right himself and flashed him a sweet smile, gritting his teeth in triumph as he opened the door to his room.
His room was, well, Spartan in its furnishings. His mattress was well worn from falling asleep armor-bound. There were a few pieces of clothing on the carpet from when he lazed around last Sunday, away from the other soldiers. A dresser was shoved in the closet, an indiscernible jumble of fabric piled on the floor next to it. Only a few items were actually hung up on the bar, and above the bar was a shelf piled with random books and boxes. A small desk with a closed laptop was shoved in the corner.
Church went about collecting the things he wanted and made a small pile on the bed. He looked around the room frantically as he gathered, trying to keep his movements sultry. He needed more time.
“You mind if I-?” he didn’t wait for the pink Private’s response, simply took off his shirt and grinned innocently at the (salivating, he hoped) enemy Spartan. “I hate wearing clothes I’ve slept in.”
Especially underwear, he added mentally and almost gasped at the idea that came with it. Again, the garment gave him inspiration. He strode to the closet and looked up at a box he knew would be just out of his reach because of his soreness. Church lifted himself up on tiptoe, stretching out exposed muscle as he strained to reach the unreachable package.
He sighed and his heels hit the carpet. He tried standing on one foot, the other lifting behind him as he flailed to reach the elusive cardboard. Again, he failed.
“Damn,” he growled and turned his shirtless body to face Donut. He shrugged helplessly. “Can’t reach, muscles are too fucked. I need to get out of these stupid silk underwear. Your fault, if I recall,” he teased, grinning lopsidedly at the dumbstruck Red. “I usually go commando, so…all I’ve got is up there. D’you mind?”
Donut took quick, unsteady steps until he stood between the Blue and the closet. Church swore he could almost feel the low exhalation that poured from the armored man as he gazed quite obviously at Church’s chest. Donut shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and turned to reach up into the closet. He stretched, wiggled his gloved fingers, caught the edge of the box…
“So close,” Church murmered near the younger man’s ear. Before the shiver could complete its trek up and down Donut’s spine, the hard barrel of his own pistol was pressed against the back of his neck.
Cake, right?
Right. Now what the fuck was Church going to do?
* * * * *
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T, soon to be S/G
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warning: WIP, AU. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine!
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue!
Chapter Summary: Do what you have to, soldier. ~1,900 words
Chapter Nine: The Key
Church couldn’t let this happen.
He rode quietly in the Red Warthog until it came to a smooth stop in front of his base. His eyes flickered wildly over the gaping opening. Caboose hadn’t even closed the door when he left! The cobalt Spartan resisted the urge to run his hands over his face and settled on a nice cringe. There. An expression of emotion felt good after a solid three minutes of staring blankly at those godforsaken canyon walls.
Sarge hauled him out of the passenger’s seat and into the rust-red dirt that was still settling from the ‘Hog’s arrival. His bare feet screamed when they met hot earth, making him stiffly (and MOST inadvertently) dance to the shadowed entrance of Blue base.
“Alrighty, what’ve we got, what’ve we got,” The commanding Red rubbed his hands together and took a good look around the identical inner workings of the base. “Kitchen and basement this way I assume.” He grunted when he found he was correct, his gauntleted and tight around Church’s neck. The pale Marine was really, really over manhandling at this point, but by GOD if he could think of something to get them out of this while the stocky Red yanked him around, then by all means, the Sergeant could toss him repeatedly out the window for all he cared.
If only he wasn’t so fucking sore. It made his attempts to scramble together some sort of plan almost impossible. He was aching, armorless, and had a pea-brained hulk for a teammate. If only he could somehow harness Caboose’s strength and unleash it in some terrible display of power-
No, Church. Saturday morning cartoons will NOT help you here.
He abandoned silly notions of a grand escape and tried to focus on the now. Sarge tossed open the door that lead to the basement and went quiet. Church looked down into the lower room and felt a grin tug at his face.
It was an absolute mess. Boxes and crates were strewn haphazardly over each other in a great avalanche of metal and other hard, synthetic material.
“What in sam hell-” Sarge began.
Caboose cut him off with a helpful chirp. “Oh! I got the kit for Church and Tucker’s trip a few days ago! But, ah…there was…an accident.” he looked down sheepishly and smiled, embarrassed, when Donut giggled at him.
“Ooooof course there was,” Sarge mumbled. The broad man gave a short sigh. “Well, get down and start heftin’, Bluetard.” he pushed between Church’s shoulder blades, causing him to reel and slip to the first step.
Church clung to the rail before he toppled over. “Or, I’ve got a better idea,” he sneered and shakily pulled himself back up, realizing his plan to put Caboose into action could actually work. Maybe. Possibly. In some obscure way. Fuck it, he tried it anyway. “How about the guy who can actually lift shit goes down there and lifts said shit. I can barely stand thanks to that orange prick.” He didn’t have to lie for that one. His legs were like…bags of sand half-stuffed with jelly, maybe? With toothpicks propping them up? Whatever, he was over the poetry of how fucked up his body felt.
Sarge chuckled deep in his chest and slapped Church on the back. “Aw, a little work does the weakling in, eh? Donut, think you can handle sissy Sally while I take the behemoth downstairs?”
Donut gave a swift nod. “Yes, sir.”
Church gave the pink soldier a long look. Oh no. OH nooooo. Faaack, Caboose was doing his part of the plan, now Church just had to do his. The rookie would be able to move those crates to the side, but it would probably….hopefully…take the Red leader a good while to find that ventilator (if they even had one). So, during that time Church had to think of a way to distract, intoxicate, or otherwise immobilize the pink one.
Church was the king of making shit up as he went along. How else, do you wonder, did he get through high school?
“Get him to pack up the food. I’ll radio in when I find the vent.”
“Will do, sir.”
Sarge descended, Caboose close behind, and the two were left alone.
Church didn’t want to pack the food. He had a limited window to work with, here. There was the possibility that the Sergeant would find the little machine almost instantly. But at the moment he couldn’t think of anything to put the girly enemy off-track, so he sulkily lead the way to the small pantry. He went immediately to the back wall and stood on tiptoe to reach the boxes folded at the top shelf.
A tiny, muffled squeak echoed in the scantily stocked closet. Church looked down at his exposed stomach, squinted at the cool draft on his lower back, clenched his thighs as his jelly-sandbag legs threatened to give in, and heard the squeak again…
…and that’s when he remembered.
“Your asses are about the same size – though yours is just fat. His is a cute little bubble-butt.”
It was he who would weald The Ultimate Weapon. Not Caboose and his epic strength, but Church, with his globes of power. The cobalt Spartan kind of wanted to cry a little when he realized what he’d have to do to get pinky to drop his guard, but it was all he had right now. He thought back to the shower he’d taken yesterday. The slim Marine had tossed him into a stall, clothes and all, and Church had stayed in them, wet and angry, until he managed to lock the little perv out of the bathroom and slip into those horrible, horrible underwear…which he was still wearing.
But still, it was the best thing he had to go on. He’d have to make it work. And when he bent down slowly (again, inadvertently. He hurt, dammit) to set the box on the ground, he suffered another soft noise of appreciation before swiping his arms over the shelves and shoving off as many cans as he could.
The cacophony of metal on metal seemed to shake Donut out of his transfixed gaze and he moved to help. Church held his breath and timed it so that he turned when the Red tried to slip by, which ended up with his ass nestled tightly against the younger man’s codpiece.
“Sorry,” Church mumbled, as if he’d barely noticed their compromising position. He heard Donut release a tremulous sigh behind him.
Cake, right? The Blue gave himself a pat on the back and resumed stuffing as much food into as little space as possible. He was determined to-
Church stopped himself and winced, facing the dusty shelves, examining the sentence he was about to emphatically inwardly express.
He was determined to stay in Blood Gulch. He made a face, licking his lips distastefully as if he’d actually said the words instead of just thinking them, attempting to physically expel the thought from his head.
But you know what? Better to be stuck in Blood Gulch than a Red Army prison, as a P.O.W, separated from his loveable, dipshit teammates and-
Oh. My god. Church was actually going insane.
Ah, well. It made it easier to handle this Donut/escape situation. The less he was in his right mind, the easier it would be to seduce the little shit. Not that he seemed to be giving him any trouble. He packed up a second crate with the same finesse as the last one and waited for Donut to carefully finish off his boxes. They took the cases out to the car in two trips, Church desperately thinking of something to add to his plan and those damn underwear rubbing up against him in all the wrong ways. He stopped dead in his tracks as the idea hit him, then yipped and hobbled inside as his feet burned in red dirt.
The underpants. They were the key.
When they were safely inside the base, Church sighed and stretched and scratched lazily at his stomach.
“Y’know,” he started, casually, “while we’re here, I’d really like a change of clothes. Maybe pick up something for Tucker, too. For when he wakes up.”
Donut was quiet for a few moments, making Church writhe with nervousness all the while. Was he too nonchalant? Could the pink one see right through him? Church sweat it out until the armored man nodded.
“I don’t see why not. I’m sure you don’t want to be wearing Grif’s clothes, and yours are right here…yeah, let’s go get some.”
Perfect.
Donut trailed dutifully behind him. Church tried to walk with his back as straight as possible, tried to add the swagger he’d had when he was younger, but it was kind of difficult to do with his body trying to curl up and die from the pain.
He thought he heard the Private’s shoulder clip the wall and shot a glance back at him to make sure. Church saw the man right himself and flashed him a sweet smile, gritting his teeth in triumph as he opened the door to his room.
His room was, well, Spartan in its furnishings. His mattress was well worn from falling asleep armor-bound. There were a few pieces of clothing on the carpet from when he lazed around last Sunday, away from the other soldiers. A dresser was shoved in the closet, an indiscernible jumble of fabric piled on the floor next to it. Only a few items were actually hung up on the bar, and above the bar was a shelf piled with random books and boxes. A small desk with a closed laptop was shoved in the corner.
Church went about collecting the things he wanted and made a small pile on the bed. He looked around the room frantically as he gathered, trying to keep his movements sultry. He needed more time.
“You mind if I-?” he didn’t wait for the pink Private’s response, simply took off his shirt and grinned innocently at the (salivating, he hoped) enemy Spartan. “I hate wearing clothes I’ve slept in.”
Especially underwear, he added mentally and almost gasped at the idea that came with it. Again, the garment gave him inspiration. He strode to the closet and looked up at a box he knew would be just out of his reach because of his soreness. Church lifted himself up on tiptoe, stretching out exposed muscle as he strained to reach the unreachable package.
He sighed and his heels hit the carpet. He tried standing on one foot, the other lifting behind him as he flailed to reach the elusive cardboard. Again, he failed.
“Damn,” he growled and turned his shirtless body to face Donut. He shrugged helplessly. “Can’t reach, muscles are too fucked. I need to get out of these stupid silk underwear. Your fault, if I recall,” he teased, grinning lopsidedly at the dumbstruck Red. “I usually go commando, so…all I’ve got is up there. D’you mind?”
Donut took quick, unsteady steps until he stood between the Blue and the closet. Church swore he could almost feel the low exhalation that poured from the armored man as he gazed quite obviously at Church’s chest. Donut shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and turned to reach up into the closet. He stretched, wiggled his gloved fingers, caught the edge of the box…
“So close,” Church murmered near the younger man’s ear. Before the shiver could complete its trek up and down Donut’s spine, the hard barrel of his own pistol was pressed against the back of his neck.
Cake, right?
Right. Now what the fuck was Church going to do?
* * * * *