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dragonoffantasyandreality · 2 months

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⛈️Boys of the Storm⛈️

Thought about the Elderly Trio again and ended up conjuring up a cute fluff fic about them <3

Enjoy the fluff! 😁

@uniwolfcorn @teapotteringabout @skymaiden32 @knyee @janetm74 @the-original-sineater @thundergeek59 @riallasheng @katblu42 @mariashades @room-on-broom @yarol2075 @llamawrites @etrnlvoid

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The heavy rain crashed on the roof of their holiday cabin, wind howled loudly by their window and thunder boomed in the sky. They watched the trees sway and bend by the force of nature. Showing its terrible power.

"I hate storms!" The young Samuel Shore growled in dismay, thumping his foot near the well shut door with a big window, "They has always been a bad sign!"

Jeff Tracy, well off in his early 20's, smiled sympathetically and pointed at the said storm at the window.

"I'm sure it'll pass! Its not the first time we've gone through this," he said as he took a bite of the cooked fish cake on a stick.

The 15-year-old turned around with puffed up chest and a serious expression on his face in front of his older friend.

"My Uncle once said, 'Be wary of storms! They are a death sentence if yer don't gosh darn know how to navigate yer ship through them', " he jabbed his thumb towards his heart, "And I take his advice like its my precious memory!"

Jeff let out a heart-felt chuckle when he spotted the 12-year-old Charles Gray by the glass sliding doors. Sitting with his legs crossed, staring pensively at the chaos outside. Showing no reaction to the bright flash of lightning or the scary boom of thunder.

The young adult got up from his spot by the fireplace, gently asking Sammie to watch the fire and the food as he walked towards the doors, taking some of the fishcake sticks with him.

He sat down next to the young British boy, handing him one of the sticks to him.

Charles, without looking, took it wordlessly. Eyes kept on the dark skies as he began munching on his food.

"What were you thinking about, Charlie Boy?" Jeff asked, taking another bite of his fishcake.

"Aman..." the boy answered, his pronounced English accent combined with his quiet voice made it almost impossible to understand at first hearing.

"Pardon, could you repeat that again?" The young man raised a brow.

"I said, 'a man'."

With a sound of understanding, Jeff leaned in a little closer with curiousity.

"What man?" he gently asked.

After a small moment of silence, the dark-haired little boy replied.

"I was thinking about that man who gave me the most delicious sandwich."

"Oooh. Who was that man? A friend of yours?" his older friend perked up.

"No. A complete stranger. He's Japanese, that I remember... I wonder where he is now?" Charles spoke to himself and answering to Jeff at the same time.

Which it wasn't uncommon for his youngest friend to do. His head had always seemed to be in the clouds... and in reality, all at once.

He could be one scary decisive strategist, if he grows up to be one, Jefferson thought. Granted, he has yet to join the Air Force to know fully what a strategist does.

"So... Why did he gave you a sandwich?" he continued his questioning.

"Because I was sad. Remember, how I lost my grandfather?"

He remembered. His mother was friends with the Grays. And how the death of one their oldest family members devastated their son, as he used look up to the old Navy veteran.

And it was Jeff's idea for him and Samuel to befriend with the lonely at the time 6-year old Charlie.

However, when they got to met him, he had mysteriously perked up.

As if Charles had just met with a dawning sun in the horizon.

"So he was the guy who cheered you up then, huh?" was Sammie's huffed quip as the grumpy sea pup arrived at their spot, leaning above both of them.

"Shouldn't you be watching the fire?" Jeff smirked up at him.

"Aren't ya getting cold over here?" Samuel retorted, "Y'all becoming icebergs, by the way you're shaking..."

Charles immediately got up and walked directly to the fireplace. Chuckling, Sammie followed along with Jeff.

The oldest took his seat and threw another few logs into the still burning fire.

From the corner of his eye, he watched the two sea pups snuggled together under the blanket, Sammie taking two sticks of boiled prawns from the soup and passed one to Charles.

"So... About that man? You're thinking of finding him?" Jefferson began, taking his own stick of food.

"I want find him!" the English boy proclaimed through his mouthful of food.

Sammie, with an enormous grin, clapped his friend by the shoulder.

"We're with ya, buddy! We always do things together!" He then turned towards their older friend with bright glimmer in his eyes, "Right, Jeff?"

"Sure..." Jeff slowly nodded with a warm smile, "We will."

#my fanfics #thunderfam #ga fanfiction #anderverse crossover #thunderbirds #thunderbirds 1965 #stingray #stingray 1964 #captain scarlet #captain scarlet and the mysterons #jeff tracy #samuel arthur shore #charles gray #colonel white #fluff #gerry anderson #Supermarionation

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dxppercxdxver · 1 year

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more! more for that collaboration with @chiropteracupola!!

lightning in my heels

Samuel knew he had to leave the night General Mann raised a toast in his honor, sloshing ale over the grimy tables of an inn just outside New York Island that had once belonged to a rebel couple; the patriarch of which Samuel had shot dead with calculated efficiency not three hours prior.

“I really must congratulate you, dear boy.” General Mann had taken Samuel aside, not long after their troops had overtaken the room and board of the inn, the smile playing over his thin lips walking the razor’s edge of pride and contempt. “You have secured us a rather valuable resource, and with so little trouble. I have to admit, I am impressed.”

Samuel shrugged, subtly pushing off the hand the general had rested upon his shoulder. It was almost certainly meant to be a show of camaraderie, but there was little comfort to be found in such a gesture, as General Mann reminded Samuel far more of a skeleton than of a man still at peace with the mortal plane. His sympathy for the living followed suit. The number of men slaughtered by his many subordinates’ blades rather made Samuel’s stomach turn.

“Just doing my job, Sir,” he said stiffly, pushing into the inn.

Now, with the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the clinking of innumerable glasses, Samuel was struck with the absolute certainty he could no longer remain in General Mann’s employ. Of course, there were logistical reasons aplenty—the pay was miserable for the amount of work he provided, for one—but truly, Samuel simply knew he could not live with himself if he continued on this path.

That, and…

Casting a furtive glance downward, Samuel retrieved a letter from an inside pocket, eyeing the unmistakable wax seal of General Saxton Hale, the premier Australian soldier who had recently thrown in his lot with the rebels. The missive had appeared outside the door of the bedroom Samuel had found himself quartered in for only a night, plain and unassuming if not for the crest splattered across the page in thick red droplets.

He frowned, then reached for a pocket knife, popping the seal with ease and unfurling the paper. It was but one sheet, and was as brief as it was damning.

In thin, looping script, the message read Mr. Mundy. Have need of your service. Rewards aplenty. Mann no trouble. Waiting at Teufort.

And, at once, the reverie was broken by the splash of ale across the page, smearing every last word into oblivion with a raucous cheer.

“Ah shit,” Samuel cursed, scrabbling to towel off the paper with the edge of his coat. It was, of course, too late, the letter was already dissolving into vaguely sticky sludge, but still, he felt compelled to try to salvage its remains, as if there was something more to be gleaned from the act of thoroughly soiling his clothing for the sake of having said he tried. Beside him, a bearded gentleman Samuel could never recall the name of elbowed him roughly.

“Stroke o’ luck, there, eh?” he laughed, much too loud and far too mean. “Who was that from? Has the Australian got himself a lady?”

“No.” Snatching the letter off the table, Samuel found himself concentrating on the wood grain in the table, stained darker by the spilled alcohol dripping onto his breeches. He could not say with any honesty that he much cared for his fellow soldiers, much less socializing with them, and he recoiled slightly, pulling his arms into his chest. “‘S nothing.”

The bearded man clapped him on the back, cackling uproariously. “Come on then, give us a look!”

“I would really rather not,” Samuel said, injecting as much force into his demeanor as he could manage. His skin seemed to prickle, the light from the room was beginning to wear on his eyes, and everything was too noisy, and the man’s hand was still touching him, and—

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, leave the poor fellow alone!”

General Mann’s words cut through the din with a quiet sort of violence. Joviality and mirth were at once snuffed out, replaced with a fervent attention, laced with a sinister fear lurking just under the surface. No one dared move against him, and while Samuel was grateful that the contact and the noise were gone, all of the room’s attention was on him now, and he wanted nothing more than to leave this wretched inn behind and never look back.

Alas, his options in that regard were far more limited.

The way General Mann conducted himself was of some note to any who had come to know him for their own. He was a slight man, with thinning silver hair and a shrewd face whose skin never seemed to sit quite right on the bone, but his posture, rasping voice, and air of cool menace belied something far more malevolent than one might have originally assumed. Samuel towered over him, boasting several more pounds of muscle and twenty fewer years to his name, and still, the General terrified him.

And now he was just… staring. Like he was waiting for something, although Samuel could not for the life of him figure out what that could be.

“Um… Thanks?”

“Oh, no need to thank me, Mr. Mundy,” General Mann sneered, placing a shining-booted foot atop the table until he was leaning over Samuel’s body, ale in hand. “I am simply… doing my job.”

The pointed echo of Samuel’s words plucked at his spine, sending a reverberating chill down his back. All eyes were on the two of them now, locked in this amorphous stalemate where the stakes were decidedly unknown but still high and sheer as any cliff face.

With a contemplative expression, the General reached down and swiped a mostly empty glass of ale from some wildly drunk Lieutenant or another, raising it triumphantly. Samuel rather felt as though the guillotine was being drawn to tension.

“A toast, I think.” Samuel’s heart hammered in his chest as the rest of the company raised their cups aloft, like the readying of so many rifles. His execution was drawing nearer, somehow he knew that, and although he had no earthly idea where he was going to go once he did so, Samuel was certain he had to leave this place.

But first, he had to survive his General’s congratulations.

“A toast!” Mann continued, offering a gloved hand for Samuel to take. When he did so, he found himself hoisted onto the table, Mann’s arm wrapped tightly around his lower back and sitting vice-like against his ribs. “A toast for Mr. Mundy, for securing our victory today, and for his fine marksmanship in service to our glorious king.” A cheer sounded round the inn, a gunshot roar, and Samuel grimaced, wincing as General Mann pulled him in closer; in a way, Samuel was reminded of a python, squeezing its prey until it suffocated. “Without him, well… We would surely still be crushing the rebels beneath our feet, but his unique talents have afforded us quite an advantage on that front, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hear, hear!”

The firelight was much too bright to Samuel’s eyes, facets of light lancing off the tankards in every hand, knives to his skin. General Mann’s hand held him ever tighter.

“And to that, dear boy, we offer our humble thanks,” General Mann said, sporting the air of a man who had never sincerely given his gratitude to anyone in his life, “and raise our cups to the bright future you will surely bring us and our cause. A toast, lads! A toast!”

Beyond this point, everything was suddenly happening to Samuel, as though he were no longer an active participant in his own body. Clumsily thrown liquids sloshed over his shoes, and the General was pressing a skeletal kiss to his cheek, and the chorus of praises battered at Samuel’s ears with a vengeance, driving deeper into his skull with every renewed whoop and holler. His mind was whirling, traversing the inn upstairs to his room, where his rifle and pack lay, as yet untouched, and then down again to the hitching post outside, to the quick loop of rope that would need undoing before he could saddle up and disappear. Inelegant, clumsy, but the only plan he had.

At last, General Mann seemed content to release him, and stepped down to the floor again, leaving Samuel trussed up like a Sunday roast for all to see. He nodded stiffly, unable to make eye contact with anyone in the room, before following the General’s lead and returning to his place on ground level. The festivities were already in the process of recovering from such a painful interruption. Samuel knew this would be his time.

With a swift tip of his hat to the only man who afforded him a second glance, Samuel stole up to the second story, slipping into his room with a pained sigh. His breaths came jagged and strained, and he fought the sensation of choking as he slung his rifle over his back, securing his ammo box at his side and pulling the breech open. Just in case.

Pack and equipment secured—though it provided precious little comfort—Samuel then turned to the bed, stuffing a pillow under the blankets. If anyone bothered to check, it would certainly not fool them for long, but he was hoping, perhaps foolishly, for the best, and thought it wise to cover his tracks all the same.

The steps creaked traitorously under his sodden shoes, though the roar of the celebration was more than enough to muffle his escape attempt. One of the colonels gave him some sort of look as he rushed for the back door, but Samuel surmised he was far too drunk to realize the import of whatever it was he was seeing. Or, at the very least, he hoped that was the case.

Late summer air, damp and unyielding, enveloped Samuel like a shroud. Flies buzzed in his ears, hovering over the troughs of stagnant water kept for the horses, and he followed the sound to the hitching posts, cloaked in relative darkness. Save the distant yellow glow through the grimy windows, the night was blessedly heavy, and afforded a great deal of cover.

Samuel’s horse was easy to pick out amongst the many boarded; a great tawny beast by the name of Gunpowder, her form was unmistakable, looming several hands higher than any of the others. She was a powerful, dexterous animal, light on her hooves, and carried Samuel through many a gauntlet in her time. He just hoped she had one more run in her.

“There’s a girl,” Samuel murmured, tying his pack to her saddle and hoisting himself up with a groan. Gunpowder shook her head, chuffing slightly, and Samuel idly patted her neck as he swung his rifle around to his front. It was better to be prepared, when one was in the process of commiting treason.

“Well, if you get arrested for horse thievery…” He reached for the bit of rope tying his horse to the post, and more philosophically, to that damnable redcoat army, and loosed her with a slash of his machete.

Gunpowder needed no instruction. The instant she was free, she turned toward the road, speeding to a gallop within moments. For one beautiful, fleeting instant, it seemed as though they would escape entirely unscathed.

And then the shots came.

The rat-a-tat crack of a line of muskets firing at once sounded from the inn, with the ensuing explosions of wood and bark sending splinters raining down over Samuel’s head. Behind him, hooves beat against the arid dirt. Samuel had company, and snapped Gunpowder’s reins, driving her into the forest.

Brawny as she was, Gunpowder was nimble, and Samuel had learned to work with her sharp turns and glorious leaps. He trusted her to guide them, leaving him time to ready his rifle, turn around, and pull the trigger.

A man he vaguely recognized fell from his own horse, limp as a ragdoll, before Samuel reloaded and aimed again. All the while, Gunpowder tore though the trees, hooves finding gaps in the gnarled roots as fast as they came. Her footing was sure, Samuel’s aim was straight, and they fled as they fought, felling their newfound enemies with ease. Despite the danger, Samuel’s blood sang, and he fought the urge to cry victory to the sky.

“Come and get me!” he yelled, a savage euphoria twisting his voice to a growl. “Come and fucking get me, you bastards!”

Samuel had no idea where he was headed. Once the morning light came again, he would certainly need to reorient, to figure out his game plan, but for now, the furious shrieks were dwindling behind him, and Gunpowder’s chest was sure against his legs, and he knew in his heart they were never going to catch him again.

#LESGO #samuel character study mr mundy i adore you so #get out of there!! go!! go!!#get on your horse and go!!!#they'll never catch you again!!!#ough what a guy #i think i need to give general mann a tag actually #so fun for me #he Is a recurring antagonist so #ANYWAY title is from chasing twisters by delta rae <3 #radio free junebug #flintlock fortress #team fortress 2 #the sniper: samuel mundy #the general: gray mann #the spitfire: gunpowder #my writing

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