#but it could as well exist. i might make it

[keferon]

Chapter 2 of Blurr storyline >:D

“Actually” says Swerve ”I'm an alien.”

“Heh” giggles Blurr ”sorry, my head is all cloudy, I thought you said you were an alien.”

Part one

Holy shit I actually managed to finish it…..Oh. My god.

Under the cut⤵️

Is it stupid to miss someone who doesn't even exist?

Probably yes, but hey, Swerve already has several degrees, might as well get another one. A degree in Stupidity or something. Who cares?

For the first few days after waking up from his coma, he feels like he's going crazy. Everybody has realistic dreams, right? The ones where you can scrutinize every angle, memorize every face and smell and sound. The ones that make you lie still for a while after waking up, grasping at every thing you can. Trying to memorize everyone you meet, imprint them in your head.

Because apart from your mind, they don't exist anywhere else. So that's your only way to keep them.

It never works. Obviously. Details slip away. Impressions fade. Just a couple days, and you won't be able to recall anything but the main events from memory.

Wait, hell, not days. Cycles.

His life is a weird, pathetic, fantastical circus. Earth term. Heh. There are no circuses on Cybertron, haha!

But Swerve remembers. And the word circus, and the smell of asphalt, and rains that were made of water not acid. Remembers the English language. Can speak it fluently, even if you wake him up in the middle of the night.

Remembers his work schedule and remembers which company makes the best details. And Tailgate with his bright blue uniform and Wheeljack with his endless experiments and Swindle with his expensive coat and of course...yeah, no, don't think of Blurr, don't think of Blurr, don't. Don't.

He'd heard about it. Read about it, too. Mechs waking up from comas and doing wild things. Some forgot how to speak at all, some gained a new skill, some lived a whole life while they slept.

Articles tell Swerve, don't worry, what you've experienced isn't unique. The doctor tells Swerve that the same thing has happened to others before you, it will be okay, it will pass.

Swerve isn't sure he wants it to pass.

He's been in a coma for who knows how long. The medic said it was caused by an internal trauma that decided to suddenly get worse. One minute he's recharging , the next he's gone. Internal injuries are insidious.

So it turns out. One day he just disappeared from the world because he was busy slowly dying in his room and no one noticed until a thief tried to sneak in. The only one who came to him was a Mech who wanted to steal his stuff. Huh.

That feels revolting. Swerve liked to think he had enough friends. Or at least enough good connections. Enough those who should have noticed his absence, right?

Apparently not. His shifts at work were reassigned, his contacts never texted him first, his...

His small persona wasn't important enough for anyone to notice his disappearance.

Would his human coworkers notice? Would Tailgate have noticed? Or Jazz? Swindle?

Jazz would have noticed, he was always surprisingly attentive when it came to his friends. And he was friends with just about everybody.

Swindle would probably get upset about the money he'd lost.

It's amazing how much his brain-- wait, no, his processor. How much his processor could create to entertain him. It's a more elaborate world than the most complex series Swerve has ever known. And that scrap had forty-six seasons and fifteen encyclopedias!

People, Earth, a bunch of new languages and rules and all for the sake of the end being like, OOPS! ...it was all a dream. Hilarious. Worst plot twist ever. Swerve hates it when stories go in this direction even more than when they kill off their characters.

In his humble opinion, death is better than the revelation that none of the experiences made sense or had any value. In terms of writing scripts obviously. Haha.

He's busy roaming haphazardly through his own memory. He's looking, comparing, trying to find inconsistencies or things that don't make sense. All the stuff that usually gives away the fact that what happened was a dream.

Most of his memories are occupied by--No. Frag.

Don't think about Blurr, don't think about Blurr, don't think..

He's thinking about Blurr. A lot.

Blurr occupies a surprisingly important role in his comatose dreams.

In the time he spent just looking at him, you could hand-build an entire Mech. Maybe even three. Swerve remembers picking up every bit of merch he could reach with his paycheck. Watching hundreds of videos and buying every new themed drink even if it was a flavor he didn't like.

Then spent a surprising amount of time resenting Blurr for not living up to his fantasies.

Blurr's behavior hadn't helped either, of course, but now, looking back at the past himself Swerve thinks that.. Oh wow. You weren't just annoyed at him. You blamed him for ruining your beautiful fantasy. You were having so much fun entertaining yourself with thoughts of this marvelous image, and he came along and corrupted it. Poisoned the well you drank joy from.

But that's not quite true, Swerve thinks.

Blurr was more complicated than that. But exactly how, he'll never know. All he has are his memories, and those memories are cut short at the most interesting point.

Swerve knows this plot twist. The asshole character that no one loves at the last second turns out to not be what everyone thought, but it's too late.

Oh no, he's not an evil jerk, he's actually traumatized. Oh no, he wasn't bad, he was actually secretly helping everyone. You thought he was awful? Well now you're going to feel awful reading fanfics.

Serevus Spayne didn't actually betray the main character's dad, no no, he was in love with him! Bam. Drama.

Swerve isn't a big fan of this stuff. He likes his characters developed properly. But he can't deny the appeal of a character leaving behind a bunch of questions you thought you knew the answer to.

Uggh.

The doctor was wrong. These thoughts don't go away. These memories don't dull.

Swerve just boils in them, constantly getting stuck in his own head. Sometimes he puts English words into his speech and everyone looks at him strangely. Sometimes he reflexively says some inside joke and no one gets it and he's left standing there with an awkward smile. Because. Guys, you don't understand, if my coworkers were here they'd think it's hilarious. I promise, in my fantasy world, it's funny.

When he gets a job on one of the Autobot ships, he accepts it thinking it might be a good distraction from his thoughts.

When he happens to see Prowl with a tiny human on his shoulder in the corridor of that ship, he thinks he's lost his mind.

The whole thing. The whole load-bearing structure on which his picture of the world has been held suddenly gives a lurch. Living your life in a super realistic dream is wild, but meeting a character from your dream in real life??

Freaking cursed.

Jazz looks puzzled by his reaction, but all Swerve can think about are two things.

One, if Jazz is here, does that mean everything else was real, too???

Two - holy shit, Jazz is tiny.

It never occurred to him. But he didn't really know what size humans were. Well, sure, he could measure it in numbers. But he was among humans himself. And about the same size. He was generally even shorter than most of them.

If Jazz is so small, he can't imagine how tiny Tailgate would be. Or--

He can feel his spark freeze. In fact, he can almost hear the sound of a string breaking in his processor. Does that mean Blurr is real too? Real and just as tiny and currently dead? Because Swerve was there but was too convinced it was all just a dream to help?

He's going to get sick.

He needs to talk to Jazz right now.

____________

Swerve taps his fingers nervously on the countertop. Come on. You're good at talking. Talking is your greatest skill. All you have to do is tell someone else about your comatose hallucinations and hope they don't think you're crazy.

They're sitting at a table at the bar. More specifically Swerve and Prowl are sitting at the table, and Jazz is sitting right on the table. (God he's so small).

“So uh. I got injured a while back and...uh...well, it got worse, turned out important systems were affected and I kind of. I was in a coma. For a really long time.”

Jazz frowns

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He speaks in a mildly wonky Common, Swerve notes to himself. He waves his servo a little too cheerfully in response.

“'Ay it's no big deal really. I saw a whole other world while I was asleep and like. See, I thought it was just my fantasies, but it seemed very real and...”

Swerve mentally crosses his fingers.

“And it was about this planet called Earth and about people who were building their own inanimate huge robots to fight huge aliens and their boss wanted to launch Mechs into space, so he picked the best of the pilots named Jazz and sent him on this test mission and...”

Jazz looks at him with huge eyes before switching to English in surprise.

“Mech, what the hell?”

“...And we lost him...” finishes Swerve with a sad smile.

Before thinking for a bit, and adding.

“I'm going to show you a trick I can do.”

And then projects his holoform onto the table in front of him.

This. It's weird. Not in a way that would tilt it in the direction of unnatural. More like walking around in his comfy indoor pajamas right in the middle of the street. Being human is familiar to him, but being human amongst huge Cybertronians? Strange. And a little creepy.

Prowl looks confused.

Jazz looks absolutely frantic.

“SWERVE????”

Swerve doesn't even manage to respond, only to smile in relief before Jazz rakes him into his arms. In his holoform, Jazz feels right again. He's taller than Swerve and oh boy, he's alive and unharmed. To think everyone thought he was dead, staying up nights trying to find what was left of him, and he was on the other side of the universe the whole time?

Swerve chuckles into Jazz's shoulder. Then picks him up and spins him around a couple times just because he needs something to get his energy out. Man, it's nice to hug people. Warm and soft, eight out of ten.

Jazz pulls away but still stays standing very close. Swerve can literally see the happy stars in his eyes.

“Dude, I'm not complaining but what...how???? You just kinda..."

Swerve laughs and twitches his eyebrows playfully.

“I still speak English, you don't have to torture yourself with Common.”

“Oh thank fuck.” Jazz throws his hands up dramatically “you're my favorite person right now.”

There is a polite click of the vocalizer resetting above their heads.

“I” Prowl says “very glad you two are happy but I'd like some explanation”

Swerve presses his head into his shoulders guiltily. Prowl has the unique ability to always sound like you've done something wrong in front of him.

Although Jazz doesn't seem to feel the same way?

“Short version - I sleepwalked my holoform to another planet.”

He pauses dramatically.

“The long version is...”

Jazz raises his hand

“What's a holoform?”

Swerve sighs.

“It's a holographic avatar that I can project using a holomatter generator. Sort of like a remote controlled game character.”

Jazz whistles impressed. And then immediately turns back to Prowl

“Have you been able to do that all this time too?“

Prowl hums

“I can create an avatar, but it takes a lot of practice to make it at least believable. And to fully perceive the world through it takes even more. It's a whole new technology. What Swerve does is essentially an art form. Sophisticated and impressively detailed may I add.”

Swerve shrugs shyly. He's still using the holoform to stand on the table next to Jazz. Looking up to speak to Prowl isn't exactly comfortable, but Jazz definitely looks like he's been missing the human presence. Swerve isn't human, but he might as well be.

“Thank you. Yes! Uh. Anyway, it seems while I was in a coma my processor projected my avatar onto Earth and I...let's just say I lived there for a while.”

Jazz laughs

“Dude. So you're telling me you were basically sleepwalking the whole time?”

“ I was.”

Prowl frowns.

“But the range limit of the holomatter generator is only four hundred miles...”

“.... I had a lot of practice...”

Jazz claps his hands.

“You learned a whole other language! Got an ID!. You had a job!!!”

“I got carried away,” Swerve admits.

Jazz scratches the back of his head, still looking very amused

“How many degrees did you get? Haha wait no, I have a better question, did you pass your driver's license?”

“Two. And I failed my driver's exam.”

“Dude you are literally a car without a driver's license!” collapses Jazz on the table with laughter.

Swerve blows the hair out of his face

“Says you who retook the physical several times. You couldn't pass the "being human" exam.”

Jazz just wheezes incoherently in response. Prowl looks alarmed.

“Don't worry, that's him getting excited. So...where have I been...”

Swerve nervously shoves his hands into his pockets

“...Do either of you two know where Earth is?”

Prowl twitches his door wings

“No. Since Jazz was teleported we don't have much clues.”

Swerve grimaces. Scrap. Of course nothing's going to be that easy. He's also been, like,....teleported.

He stands there for a couple minutes and just feels fifteen different emotions rise up in his head at once. A crooked, unsteady smile creeps across his face.

He's thinking.

Oh hell, yeah! I knew it wasn't a dream!

Then he remembers the mess he left behind.

Oh, no, it wasn't a dream.

Jazz puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Swer... Swerve? Dude, are you okay?”

“Ah frag..” Swerve says weakly ”it wasn't a dream.”

Jazz looks...puzzled.

“Is that bad?”

Swerve remembers his friends. Remembers the Mecha program. Remembers fire and smoke and screams and rumbling and crackling flames. Ashes flying through the air and the smell of burnt wires. He remembers blood and debris and...

“It's...complicated.”

This wasn't just a stupid plot twist he'd dreamed up because he'd watched too many shows. This wasn't a hallucination or a disembodied fantasy that just happened to linger in his head. This was real. His friends exist out there somewhere. His work and his collections and his little apartment...

And Blurr. Was real. Or still is? Swerve doesn't know. Blurr wasn't a product of his imagination. He was real and what he did was real and Swerve left him there alone, bleeding and trapped in rubble and tiny and...

Hahahahah oh fUCK.

He doesn't like this plot. It's too much. Too much to handle, too complicated, too ambiguous.

It's also probably too late.

But he can't leave it like this, right? Blurr went into the damn burning building just because of the possibility that there might be someone alive in there.

And Swerve doesn't even have to go through the flames. He has to look. He has to try at least.

Jazz glares at him with a worried look on his face

��� That expression you have...”

Swerve puts the smile back on his face.

“I need to get to Earth.”

___________________

Swerve is not an idiot.

Or maybe more accurately an idiot, but with several degrees.

He's well aware that finding Earth in space with only a description of it is impossible. Which leaves him with two options.

Ask the Quintessons. Or look for it himself.

The first sounds like death. The second like coma. Swerve has exquisite enough taste to know which is better.

He just needs to do some preliminary reserch.....

Jazz, now back inside his Mech looks doubtful.

“You're not going to die suddenly and for no reason, are you?”

Swerve laughs.

“Pfffff what, no of course not, would I kill myself hah. No no, look I'll just put myself in stasis for a bit. Send myself to Earth. And try to figure out where it is from there. Get the coordinates. If I'm lucky, I can see what Space Bridge the local Quintessons use. All you'll have to do is wake me up after a while.”

“It's not harmful?”

Swerve makes an uncertain gesture with his hand...servo.

“If I have enough fuel. And an additional connection to an external generator.”

Jazz tilts his head

“ Why are you so eager to get to Earth? Don't get me wrong, I miss it too and want to go back, but.”

Swerve bites his knuckles.

“ I have some unfinished business?”

“Pshhhh you sound like a ghost.”

Swerve only laughs in response.

_______________

Concentration is tricky.

Swerve tries to think about Earth. And not to think about the fact that he doesn't know where it is. If he's already been there once, he might as well go there again yes? In theory? Perhaps?

Except for the possibility that his sleepwalking just takes him to random planets. That would be very inconvenient. It would be a whole new level of lost

Shit. No. Earth. Think Earth.

What's he even gonna do when he gets there? How far away is it? Swerve is very talented with his holomatter generator, but if it's really far away... maybe he should reset some settings.

He mentally starts going through his options. Does he need tangibility? Probably not. Come to think of it, it would only make him more vulnerable and take a lot of energy. Yeah, the tangibility has to go. What else? Touch, too. Sight and hearing should stay, that's not even a question, but colors and textures are not really necessary.

The amount of detail and picture quality can be reduced as well. His holoform will become colorless and grainy and will probably ripple with static, but he'll survive it.

After he finishes making changes to his holoform he thinks about his old stuff left in his house. Then about the posters. Then reminds himself that he needs to focus on the goal or he'll never find Blurr and...oh FUCK his phone! Where was his phone when he disappeared? Was it found?? There were so many personal things on that phone, he's hoping the phone was burned under the rubble. Either that or the arriving investigators will find his browser history and he'll go into another coma from pure embarrassment.

He blinks dazedly when he realizes he has loads of rocks in front of his eyes. Oh..Did he screw up? Did he end up on the wrong planet? Is it a cave or--

Then he notices the odd shape of the “rocks” and. Oh, no. It's not a cave. It's charred concrete debris.

This is the place where he was last.

He hastily looks around. Anxiety creeps up the back of his neck, makes him feel like something slippery and cold is crawling over his skin. There is nothing but ruins all around.

Blurr is not here. The place where his Mech was lying is empty.

Which means he was at least found and dragged out. Dead or alive.

Swerve's bites his knuckles. Okay.

All right.

He's got things to do.

_______________

He's trying to stay out of sight. Which isn't hard, considering he's just a hologram. At first, he just sneaks around in the quiet areas. Then proceeds to do a facepalm and start teleporting. Think, Swerve. Did you read all those comic books for nothing? Superheroes who couldn't really use their superpowers creatively always annoyed him. And he does, in fact, have a superpower. Gotta get creative, right?

He stops and looks at himself again. His holoform is going static and is a dull white color. He thinks for a bit, and then shrinks himself. Thinks some more, and makes himself almost transparent. There's no way he could pass as a normal human right now, so he'd better just do his best to avoid being seen by anyone.

He looks around thoughtfully. Hmm. Even if he's going to be absolutely tiny, he needs to make sure no one sees him, otherwise the whole base will think the Quintessons are now spying on them through holograms or something.

Breaking the rules feels...it's exciting.

All his ..human life here he hadn't thought about it, but if he threw away the rules he was used to about what people could or couldn't do...

He looks up in a sudden rush of sly genius. All people look under their feet when they walk, but how many look up? And how many of them notice the barely visible tiny holoform hiding just behind the blinding lamps?

The answer is probably none.

Swerve projects himself onto the ceiling and mentally pats himself on the shoulder for his impressive intellectual accomplishments. A creativity degree should definitely be a thing.

A degree in spying on the Quintessons' ships wouldn't hurt him either.

Fortunately sneaking onto their ship turns out not to be that difficult. Swerve makes himself absurdly tiny and hides in the darkest corners that no one would ever think to look into. Why hasn't anyone thought of using holoforms for spying before? Could he be the first to think of it? He doesn't know, but he mentally decides to patent the idea.

Finding the Space Bridge is surprisingly easy. The local Quintesson fleet is clearly used to being the dominant force in space. And that's generally logical. Even if humanity collects a mountain of money from somewhere to throw a dozen Mechs into space - there will be thousands of monsters waiting for them. In such a situation, you don't have to hide, the guards are enough.

Well done, well done, don't hide, Swerve thinks, copying the coordinates and address of the space bridge to himself. You have absolutely nothing to fear here, he thinks, so stay where you are and don't move. Please and thank you.

Once the coordinates are obtained, he... has some freedom to explore. And he uses it for probably the most boring-sounding thing in the world. He returns to his usual workplace.

It’s simple. As damning as the Mecha program was, Swerve loved his job in it. He loved his position in the assembly shop. And he missed his friends.

He quickly teleports through several rooms, continuing to hide close to the lamps. Tailgate is here. Alive and unharmed. Wheeljack is too, though his face has some scars added to it. It's great to see them again, even if he can't talk to them right now. No one will probably react well to a grainy unexplainable hologram. He's just glad to know they're okay and honestly, the last thing he needs is paranoid Onslaught installing extra signal jammers.

It takes time to find Blurr. Partly because Swerve is terrified of what he might find if he started looking. So he goes to check the death lists first, and only after flipping through and re-reading them three times does he finally exhale in relief.

Blurr's name isn't there.

So his smug, shiny ass must be around here somewhere.

He checks the hangar. Flips through the Mech launch logs and feels an uncomfortable knot begin to form in his chest. Blurr's Mech has never been repaired or launched even once since the incident. Its plating has been replaced with new, well polished, and put in a prominent place where anyone who wants to can take a picture of it. But all the internal systems are destroyed. This machine hasn't been used for anything other than being a beautiful exhibit.

That's...something's wrong.

He checks offices and schedules as well as eavesdropping on a few conversations and ends up secretly following Swindle, who is arguing loudly with someone on the phone. He says something about deals and how he doesn't need anyone meddling in his business. Then he talks about how he's got everything under control and the person on the phone is “a dumbass who's making drama out of nothing” and that “he doesn't need anyone's handouts". Then he sighs and says, “you know how celebs are. Dumb and dramatic. You can't take their words literally.”

Then drops the call and for a couple seconds looks like he's just had a large bill taken right out of his hand. Curses again, but in a quieter voice. Leafs through his contacts and stops at the one signed 'free ice'.

“Blurr? Where are you? Wha...ah, no wait. No, the advertising agency called. No, liste...Can you shut up for one second?Where are you?

Uh-huh....... Uh-huh.Okay.

Give me half an hour...okay, yeah.”

This is it, Swerve thinks.

He shrinks himself further and teleports under the collar of Swindle's coat.

He wants to take a look. Just. Just a peek. Make sure everything's all right. Then he can go about his original mission in peace. He watches Swindle get in his car and drive off somewhere. Swerve doesn't recognize this part of town. The houses here are much nicer than where he lived. The streets are cleaner.

He tucks himself further under the coat collar. He's not going to be a stalker or anything, but he's worried and he doesn't have time to wait for Blurr himself to show up for work. Just one little look and that's it.

Swindle's car stops outside a beautiful, shiny hospital. Swerve nervously tries to bite his knuckles, but remembers he's disabled touch in his holoform. Shit? Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi

Blurr looks like a mangled corpse.

Okay, not really. His left side that faces the door to the hospital room looks like a mangled corpse and that's the first thing that catches Swerve's eye when he's inside.

Blurr is pale and thin and his hands are covered in bandages. The left side of his face has been turned into an absolute ugly nightmare. A piece of his ear is missing. In the place of the left eye is a creepy empty hole.

Suddenly Swerve realizes why Blurr didn't show up for work. You can't even show him to his coworkers like that, not just to the public.

Blurr turns his head and the spell breaks. His lips stretch into a cocky smile.

“'Got bored without me Swindle?”

Swindle doesn't show the slightest emotion at the gruesome sight. He casually pulls a chair over to the hospital bed and sits down.

“Shockwave is trying to sneak a new project into the program. And he's slowly swaying investors to his side, using you as an excuse. Tells everyone you're a poor martyr he can save if only he's given the green light from above.”

Blurr wrinkles his nose.

“Not that he's wrong. The doctors say I need to pick a new career because with this...” he jerks his head to the left implying his damaged half, ” neither racing nor piloting is an option for me anymore. I'm out of your project.”

Then he stops talking for a few seconds and raises an eyebrow curiously.

“You wouldn't have come here in person just to say that. Why are you really here?”

Swindle adjusts his glasses

“Have I ever told you why I made the contract with you?”

“Because you like money” Blurr says without hesitation.

Swindle lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Fair point. But money wasn't my only priority.”

He pauses for a second. Gets up. Draws the curtains in the room. Checks to make sure no one is outside the door.

Goes back to his seat.

“You didn't see what the Mecha project was like before. Brutality and absolute disregard for human rights multiplied by a thousand. People were desperate and no one cared to maintain any decency.”

He raises his hand when Blurr rushes to say something.

“No no, listen to me. If you think things are bad now, you're right. But it used to be much. Much, much worse.”

Swindle sighs and adjusts his glasses again

“Vortex was taken as a boy. He wasn't even out of high school when they shoved him into the lab. Me and Onslaught were pulled right out of the college exams. The others were no better, although they were usually a little older. My point is that it was allowed. It's what the superiors could do and no one told them no.”

Blurr tilts his head and gets a little all turned around to see Swindle better with his right eye.

“But you... found a way to change that, didn't you?

Swindle rubs the bridge of his nose

“I have no power over my own superiors. But Onslaught and I have come up with a plan. Look. I'll put it in simple terms for you. Above me is my boss, and above him is another boss, and so on but at the very end of that chain are people from the government. The investors. So we figured out a way to cut through the chain of command and influence them directly. Make them worry about us. It's a kind of social shield. Onslaught is a genius.”

Blurr blinks.

“Why are you telling me all this.”

Swindle takes off his hat and just. Crumples it in his hands. The back of his head shows numerous scars and the glint of tiny metal implants barely visible behind his hair.

“You're that shield right now, Blurr. You can't leave.”

Blurr's eye widens

“Is that why you insisted on ‘befriending’ me with all those bullshitters?”

“I needed to make sure that in their minds we weren't just a military unit. To keep them thinking that we're as human as they are. So I gave Project Mecha a face.” He tugs on the hat again, “Your face.”

Blurr runs his fingers through his hair

“Shockwave can't do whatever he wants cause...because of me his efforts would risk going public and people wouldn't like it and it would ruin the reputation of our investors-and-they'd-cut-off-his-funding.”

Swindle puts his hat back on.

“Exactly.’ That's why he's being so persistent right now. He knows you're vulnerable and he wants to capitalize on the opportunity. Make you part of his new project and tell the world about it. Make publicity his weapon, too.”

The lamp above them flickers faintly. Blurr takes a breath. Long and tired and exhausted and. a bit doomed.

Swindle puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Please. Don't leave. At least not now. And don't let Shockwave get to you. That would open the way for him to get to the rest of the pilots you represent.”

They just. Sit in silence for a while. Blurr quickly taps a finger on his knee. A rapid tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Swindle moves his hand away and gets up from his chair.

“There's a press conference coming up. I need you to be there. I've told everyone who needs to know that the problem is exaggerated and you're fine but they need to see you.”

Blurr smiles sourly.

“My lawyer is going to charge you such a handsome sum for that stunt.”

Swindle laughs, but his cardboard advertising smile doesn't reach his eyes.

“We’ll see about that. Seriously though. I need you there.”

Blurr bites his lip.

“I..don’t know...”

Swerve...doesn't know what to think of that.

Blurr shows up for the press conference. Late, but he makes it. Just as Shockwave is presenting his new project in his amazingly well-pitched voice. Blurr swings the door open and waltzes lazily inside, skillfully pretending not to notice the many cameras and eyes instantly directed at him.

Swerve, whose memory is still fresh thinks for a second that no, no this can't be the same person. Past Blurr looked like a wreck. Past Blurr was tense and tired and hunched over. Present Blurr couldn't look more alive. His shoulders are squared proudly, there's that cheerful springiness and grace in his stride. He moves with ease and confidence. Smoothly.

The left side of his face is neatly covered with fresh white bandages. Carefully, without leaving the even the slightest gap through which his injury could be seen. His hands are hidden under a fancy jacket. He smiles wide and bright and squints playfully toward the table.

The very embodiment of nonchalance. The few pilots sitting in the audience roll their eyes.

Swindle breathes out a barely perceptible sigh of relief. Swerve, once again using Swindle's collar as a tactical cover, can't help but let out a silent triumphant laugh. Maybe slightly more nervous than he is supposed to be.

Blurr sends Swindle a sly, sharp smile and even knowing it wasn't meant for him, Swerve feels his cheeks heat up.

Ah, damn it.

Swerve breaks the rules. He tells himself that peeking is fraught with consequences when it comes to military organizations, but he can't stop himself from being curious. And from worry, too.

And now that he knows where to look, he sees things he'd rather not see.

Blurr ... is crumbling.

Swerve doesn't know all the details and consequences, but that incident did leave a mark.

But every time Swindle calls him and says “I need you at some place in two hours” he gets up and assembles himself into a human being. Like a goddamn puzzle. Tapes and covers the burned half of his face. Covers up the bruises and hides the stitches. Fixes his hair and sets off on shaky legs to pretend he's fine.

He smiles so bright and carefree, laughs so sweet and beautiful that no one would ever think that even standing up sometimes hurts.

And continues to act like a jerk of course.

The only difference is that this time Swerve mentally gives him the presumption of innocence before he starts judging.

Blurr does a lot of things that seem rude. He also does a lot of things that are actually rude and figuring them out without resorting to alien superpowers would be nearly impossible.

When the pilots see Blurr sitting right on the table while negotiating with investors, they roll their eyes and make comments about his terrible manners. Or when he stops showing up for even the most basic, rudimentary training.

Or when he develops that stupid habit of leaning his elbows on people standing next to him.

It's the model behavior of a rich, spoiled brat.

It's also an inconspicuous way to stay upright.

Employees say “that dumbass has never heard of personal space.”

Investors say, “I think he likes me.”

Blurr leans on Swindle's shoulder and through a charming smile says “Don't move or I'm gonna fall.”

Swindle also keeping up the smile discreetly holds him back, pretending it's a friendly half hug.

Swerve feels like yelling at both of them, but he's not sure what for exactly. For one thing, Blurr in his condition is very VERY VERY contraindicated to even get out of bed, let alone participate in social activities.

On the other hand, without Blurr, everything is going down the pit.

Without Blurr, all the government sees are dry reports and spreadsheets. Without him, all the high command has is numbers and a sense of impunity. Swerve is sickened by how easily people tend to forget that numbers represent other people.

Most pilots are able to draw a parallel between deteriorating working conditions and Blurr's sudden fondness for staying home instead of working. But they think the rich jerk got scared and ran away. Considering the way Blurr has always behaved at work - Swerve can't even judge them too much for it. They assume Shockwave getting more freedom is the cause of Blurr's absence, not the result.

Blurr's influence only becomes noticeable when it slowly starts to fade away. It's like switching from expensive tea to a cheaper one. The awful flavor only becomes noticeable in contrast.

Blurr doesn't lead the development of new technologies or go out to fight in the field. He doesn't make plans and reports, he doesn't participate in drills, he doesn't cover anyone's back in battle.

But he's the one who puts his hand on the government's shoulders when they're about to sign the next piece of paper. He's the one they have to look in the eye before they have a pen in their hands and a document authorizing Shockwave to stick more needles in people's brains.

It makes a difference. Small one. But still.

It turns a disembodied imaginary “combat units” into a tangible person.

From “do you want to accelerate the combat training of new soldiers” to “are you willing to tell the living, breathing guy standing in front of you that shoving poison under his skin is an idea you approve of.”

More importantly (And Swerve actually admires Swindle for this) Will you be able to explain anything to your families later on, when this same guy is on TV all over the country saying that's what you did to him?

There have been two fronts here all this time, Swerve realizes.

While the pilots were protecting people from monsters wearing teeth and armor, Blurr was protecting the pilots themselves from monsters wearing ties and lab coats.

After another conference, Shockwave stops Blurr in the hallway.

“Good show.”

Blurr laughs. Soundly and proudly.

“Thanks darling~ Sorry I interrupted you. Your speech sounded like something important, but I don't really know much about nerd stuff.”

Swerve, hiding on the ceiling again, snorts.

Shockwave doesn't move. Doesn't give any indication at all if he's offended or upset or whatever.

“It must have been hard getting here with your injuries.”

Blurr shrugs and lazily turns his head around distracted.

“It's just a few bruises here and there. Not the end of the world.”

Shockwave nods slowly. His voice and posture and all, Swerve thinks, looking very uncomfortable.

“Of course it isn't. But hardly good for your career.”

Blurr freezes.

No, Swerve thinks. Shit. No, don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't

“Your brilliant achievements have always been a source of admiration to me” continues Shockwave “it would be a pity to lose them.”

Blurr makes an indifferent face and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Like I said. Not the end of the world.”

Swerve imagines choking Shockwave. Dropping a lamp on his head. Maybe jumping on top of him himself. Shut up, he thinks. Shut up, shut up, stop fucking talking.

Shockwave with a nice, slow gesture pulls out a notebook from somewhere and flips a couple pages.

“Multiple burns, cracked ribs, poisoning from carbon monoxide and combustion products of toxic chemicals...”

Blurr visibly shivers and looks away.

“...loss of vision on one side...” Shockwave continues reading, ”and partial hearing loss. Finally, the impact of neural link malfunctions. And this, if I'm not mistaken, is on top of the already existing memory problems?”

Shockwave takes a step closer. Not fast enough to make it look threatening, but enough to hover.

“It may not be the end of the world, but it is the end of you.”

He writes a set of numbers on the same page, tears it off, and hands it to Blurr.

“You are broken. I can fix you.”

Blurr frowns, but takes the piece of paper.

“That fixing would involve giving you consent to mess around with my head, wouldn't it? It's brave of you to think I'd go for that.”

Shockwave tucks the notepad into his pocket.

“I can assure you, neither I nor anyone else is interested in your brain. I just want to give you back what you're truly valued for.”

Blurr flinches.

“I don't need your help.”

“ If you say so,” Shockwave agrees easily. Nods, slowly and smoothly. Then starts to walk away “But you do need your fame.”

...

“By the way, you might want to wipe the blood off.”

Blurr waits until Shockwave's back disappears around the corner, then quickly pulls a tissue from his pocket and brings it up to his nose.

____________________________

Swerve wakes up looking up at the ceiling of his room. The high, metal ceiling, of a metal room on a metal spaceship.

Holy shit...

Jazz pokes him gently on the forearm

“Are you alive? You've been gone for like quite a while...Did it work?”

“Hey Jazz” frowns Swerve “what do you know about Blurr?”

Jazz laughs

“What are you fanboying over him again? Still??? Dude's smug and arrogant. Good boss though. I was hired to perform at his parties before I became a pilot.”

Swerve sits up and rubs the back of his head.

“Ah...”

“So it worked?”

“Wha...ah! Yes! Yes, it worked! I managed to get the number and codes from the space bridge the Quints used on you. We just need to find another space bridge and we'll have a pretty much direct route to Earth...well. Or rather, to the Quint ship that's located near Earth. You get the idea.”

Jazz rubs his hands together happily.

“I'll take it.”

Swerve jumps to the floor and heads to grab an energon cube. Man, these holoform exercises are burning energy like crazy.

He stares at his metal hands like an idiot for a couple minutes. Just...Contemplates how non-human they are.

He has eight fingers again instead of the human ten. Huh.

Prowl downloads the information he's gotten and immediately runs off to plan a route to the nearest working space bridge and for a while Swerve is just.

Left to himself.

He tries not to think about Blurr. What would he even say to him? Hey, look, I'm sorry I accidentally set you up, see, I'm actually an alien who was sleepwalking and thought you were fictional, surely this won't affect our non-existent strictly professional working relationship? Nah, screw that. If he's going to sound crazy, he needs to at least come up with a good presentation for his insanity.

....

Is it weird to think humans are beautiful if you're not human? If you're kind of human, but only in your soul and only half human?

He looks at Jazz and Prowl.

“You two get along really well.”

Jazz chuckles, sitting on Prowl's shoulder.

“Right now, yes. But we got on each other's nerves quite a bit when we first met.”

Swerve looks up at Jazz's chattering legs from his height and thinks. This is working somehow.

On the other hand, Jazz is the exception rather than the rule. He's friendly with everyone, he's easy to get along with, he's the soul of any company and most importantly, he was a little too much into robots before he discovered they could be alive. If anyone could find common ground with the Cybertronians, it would definitely be Jazz.

_____________________

”Are you a ghost?”

Swerve shrieks in fear and gets covered in static. He hadn't planned on talking. He hadn't planned on being noticed at all. Blurr was supposed to be asleep! And Swerve just wanted to close the curtains and leave, because there's some noisy party going on outside and bright illuminations are very bad for a patient already suffering from neural connection withdrawal.

He freezes in place like that dude from Jurassic Park. Like if he's still enough, he won't be noticed. Oh, or was that from another movie?

“I'm just uh” he awkwardly reaches up and closes the curtains “Lights. Bad for...you...now.”

Blurr chuckles. It sounds suspiciously joyful. His whole posture and facial expression. He looks very relaxed for someone who had a ghost materialize into the room out of thin air.

Swerve traces the line of the IV with his gaze. Oops, that looks like painkillers.

“Yes I am. Uh. A ghost watching the curtains. And now the curtains are fine, so I guess I'd better go?”

Blurr squints amusedly.

“You can walk through walls?”

“Uh, I can teleport into the next room?”

He backs up his words by making himself disappear and reappear in another corner of the room.

“Cool!” says Blurr cheerfully.

Swerve is involuntarily infected by his mood and makes a couple dramatic bows as if he were some kind of magician.

“ Show me more?”

“Hehehe okay eh” Swerve spreads his arms like he's presenting something and then makes himself the size of a soda bottle and teleports to the edge of Blurr's bed “Ta daaaa~”

“Wooooo look at you, you're like an action figure~”

Blurr immediately makes an attempt to touch him, but fails to reach and drops his hand back on the blanket.

Swerve chuckles and steps closer. It's funny to see the usually incredibly agile Blurr struggling with something so simple and ridiculous.

“They really drugged you huh?”

“It's not the drugs” snorts Blurr ”...it's my eye.”

He raises his hand once more and hesitantly pulls it towards Swerve until it bumps into his hair

“... depths Per…percen.. ah, shit. I can't tell how far away things are.”

Swerve just. Lets Blurr fidget at himself, while starting to feel really bad at the same time.

"If you can't tell how far things are, how are you going to drive?

Race???”

He must have a plan right? Something? Let’s-prove-Shockwave-wrong tactic???

Blurr drops his hands back on the blanket

“I won't.”

He freezes when the all too close fireworks rumble outside the window. Then points to his head.

“With this. I can't drive, I can barely walk at all, and I look like horror movie material. Pathetic heeh.”

Swerve sits down quietly cross-legged on the blanket.

“Well...at least you're alive....”

Blurr shakes his head.

“If I had died, it would have been epic. You know? Dharm...dramatic! It would be big news and everyone would be talking about what a hero I was or...or something...”

“...”

“Swindle would be so angry, but he'd figure out a way to make money out of it. He'd make a commercial about how people should be heroes. I'd be remn..remembered for being cool and brave and stuff.”

Fireworks can be heard from the street again. Swerve notices that there is a thin slit between the closed curtains through which a slim, flickering strip of multicolored light streams into the room.

Blurr frowns and leans back against the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.

“I've turned into a boring wreck. My records will be beaten, my career forgotten , and all the guys from work will remember me as a brat. In a--in a--in a way, it's worse than death. Shockwave's right.”

Swerve isn't sure what exactly would be an acceptable gesture of comfort, so he kind of just. Places his hand on the blanket covering Blurr's lap.

“Hey, don't say that. I think what you're doing is great.”

“Liar” smiles Blurr crookedly ”You hated me. I saw your posters collection.”

Oh shit. The ones he ripped off the walls and destroyed in a fit of fan frustration? He didn't even hide them, just shoved them in the back corner. Aw, man...

Swerve folds his arms awkwardly across his chest.

“I can be mad at you and think you're cool at the same time. I'm a multitasker.”

“You're a very specific kind of ghost.” says Blurr. Then, apparently inspired by the painkillers, decides to drop the conversational equivalent of an atomic bomb on Swerve's head “You died because of me?”

Swerve stiffens.

“I...Wwhat?”

“You know.” he makes a gesture with his hand that's ..unclear what it's supposed to mean. “You were working there with everyone else, and then there was that fire and I was sure I saw you down there under the rubble.”

He's silent for a couple seconds before he hesitantly continues

“And then no one could find you so most assumed you either burned or ran away. And now you're here with all your weird ghost stuff, so you must be dead.”

Swerve has.No idea what to think about it. And what to say? He's been so busy blaming himself for Blurr getting hurt that it hasn't occurred to him to think about what it looks like from Blurr's own perspective.

“Actually” says Swerve ”I'm an alien.”

“Heh” giggles Blurr ”sorry, my head’s all cloudy, I thought you said you were an alien.”

Swerve wants to run around and bang his head against the wall.

Instead, he gets up from the hospital bed. Carefully.

“You're high. I'm not going to explain things to you while you're high, you won't understand or remember them. Go back to sleep. It's the middle of the night.”

“You'll tell me later?”

Swerve hums quietly and pulls the curtains all the way closed.

“If future, sober Blurr would want my company.”

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

Jazz looks at him. Very intensely.

“Are you going to tell me who this mystery person you keep coming back to Earth for?”

Swerve snorts.

“What makes you think it's anyone in particular?”

“You're right, you're right~” raises his hands in surrender Jazz “So are you going to tell your friend the whole thing?”

Swerve crosses his ..metal arms over his metal chest.

“Is it that big of a deal? He thinks I'm a ghost or something.”

Being a ghost...somehow better, he thinks. If you're a ghost, it kind of automatically implies you're human. Or was a human.

“Sooner or later, he'll put the facts together~” says Jazz in a chant.

Swerve laughs.

“That's unlikely. He's got a pretty bad memory.”

_______________

His plans to stay out of anyone's sight combust with a dramatic pop the next time he projects himself to Earth. He doesn't plan to interfere, he doesn't even plan to linger. He just wants to see what's going on.

He actually just quietly sneaks into the hospital to make sure nothing's happened to Blurr since last time, but when he finally finds him then...oh shit, is that Pharma in the same room with him??? This can't be good.

They don't speak, but Pharma has clearly locked his eyes on Blurr and starts making his way towards him with the relentlessness of a industrial metal press.

Swerve does some rough math in his head. If he briefly gives his holoform back its detail and voice, will that be enough to fry his processor? He's not sure.

Pharma gives a believable impression of a shark getting close. The staff, as if sensing something untoward is about to happen, leaves the room in a hurry.

Blurr looks indifferent, but Swerve's attention is drawn to the way he squints tensely. Man, the lamps are too bright in here.

Pharma smiles sweetly and reaches out for a handshake

“Mind some company?”

Swerve's mental processes fly out the window. Oh no no. Not Pharma. Not in his fucking fanfic. He quickly changes his work clothes into a slightly more business-like looking shirt. Thinks for just a moment and adds a cap to his head to blend in more strongly with the attendants and hide his face to an extent. And then projects himself around the nearest unoccupied corner and runs out of behind it looking as anxious as he feels.

“Blurr!!! Sir, there you are!!! I've been looking everywhere for you!”

Pharma wants to say something, but Swerve doesn't even let him start. He stands in front of Blurr separating him and Farma expressively waves his hands trying to keep his head down.

“The guys you were talking about didn't bring the new hydraulics! It's a disaster, we'll have to use the one on the old models!”

Blurr, to his surprise, backs up his act almost instantly

“Really? But I thought there was nothing to take from the old models?”

“That's exactly the point! I got the paperwork this morning and...oh those assholes are going to screw it up if you don't step in as soon as possible!”

Pharma tilts his head

“Can it wait? We were actually talking here!”

Oh no, thinks Swerve I'll show you who's talking.

“Sir, no offense but this is a matter of extreme urgency. Are you implying that the safety of your patients is not important?”

“What do you mea...”

“Old faulty hydraulics, that's what you want?” raises an eyebrow in horror Blurr.

“No I'm just...”

“I had a better opinion of you, to be honest.”

“I...” opens his mouth Pharma “...WHAT...?”

Swerve shakes his head.

“And I thought his profession was to help people, can you imagine?”

“Wh..”

Blurr rolls his eye.

“Any idiot can get an important position these days.”

“Wait..”

“Tell me about it. Especially doctors.”

Pharma looks like he's about to start pulling the hair out of his head.

“Can at least one of you shut up??”

Swerve adjusts his cap in a businesslike manner

“Sir, I understand you're a bit detached from reality spending so much time in your department, but you need to take better care of your reputation.”

He raises his eyebrows knowingly

“Wouldn't want the rumors about you to turn out to be true. You know what I mean?”

Pharma doesn't even answer anymore. Pharma just looks like a discarded fish.

“…..Wha....there's rumors?”

“Of course” shrugs Swerve ”Ask Norman, he usually knows everything about everyone. And about your interesting tricks with safety, too.”

He leans in conspiratorially, effectively pulling all of Farma's attention to himself

“So if I were you, I'd stay out of any more things you don't understand.”

Pharma wants to say something. Swerve can tell by the look in his eyes. Pharma tries to come up with a witty and context-appropriate response, but this whole conversation has no more context than a typical episode of Teletubbies.

“Where does this Norman guy work?” finally finds the ground beneath his feet Pharma

Swerve shrugs.

“Block C, if he hasn't been transferred yet. He's already been fined several times for spreading harmful information you know? The guy can't keep a secret.”

Pharma throws his hands up angrily and storms away. Probably looking for context. Or revenge.

A quiet cough sounds behind Swerve's back.

“So. Should I be worried about Norman's health?”

Swerve feels the hair on the back of his neck shiver and slowly turns to face Blurr while still looking somewhere on the floor.

“Uh...only if you're concerned about the fate of fictional characters. I made up Norman's wife, she'll be upset if he gets fired for gossiping.”

Blurr chuckles. Then goes silent. Then, after a couple seconds, starts laughing again. That's a good look for him, Swerve thinks. It's not like Blurr's usual velvet-smooth laugh that he uses at social events. It's more like a quick, jerky giggle, and in Swerve's subjective opinion, it's pretty damn cute. He can't help but grin.

Blurr snorts one last time, cutting off the laughter.

Then he reaches out his hand to him.

Swerve reaches back, expecting a handshake, but Blurr ignores his hand and instead goes for his cap and lifts it by the brim.

Swerve, not expecting this, freezes with his hand outstretched.

Blurr freezes as well, still holding the cap in his hand and looking...like he's rethinking his life. A little.

Ugh, and how to explain it all to him....

“Uh...you...uh...probably don't remember me. I...it's...”

Blurr shifts his gaze from Swerve to the cap in his hand. Then back to Swerve.

“You're real???”

Swerve awkwardly waves his hands in front of him

“Ah not.., not really. Do you know why Pharma was looking for you in the first place? He doesn't work with patients anymore, he's been reassigned to the research department, right?”

Blurr shrugs.

“Last time I saw him, he said I might have implant rejection in the third ..uh..what? stage? or something? I think he's trying to get me in for a checkup.”

Swerve twitches.

“Third??? How are you still standing???”

He then quickly reaches up with both hands to Blurr's head and tilts it so he can see his face better. Using one thumb, he pulls his lower eyelid slightly and mentally catalogs. Temperature normal, pupil normal, eyes are steady, no darkening or trace of blood on the eyelid. Implants? He puts both palms up and gently feels the places behind Blurr's ears. No signs of rejection or malfunction.

“No no no” sighs Swerve ”You're fine, it's only stage two. I mean, second sucks too, migraines and all, but you just need to rest and no bright lights and...” he finally notices his hands are still on Blurr's head and pulls them back as fast as if he's been burned ”I MEAN I'm uh...sorry, I didn't mean to, I...”

Blurr laughs quietly.

“I'm glad you're back.”

_____________________

He wakes up in his quarters and can feel his face burning.

When he goes out to get the energon, Jazz throws him a look.

“Is something wrong? You're all kinda...shaky.”

“Hhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuu” imitates signs of life Swerve “Say, doesn't it bother you that Prowl isn't human?”

Jazz smiles

“ Oh, I went crazy when I found out. But we figured it out.”

“Like...on a scale from ‘bad grade in school’ to ‘an asteroid is coming to Earth’ how crazy was it?”

“Worried about what your human friends will think?”

Swerve swings back and forth on his heels

“Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff. Whatnooooo, no of course not. I'd be worried if I planned on telling them at all.”

Jazz frowns

“No offense, but keeping secrets isn't your strong suit.”

“Haha” Swerve waves his servo “ Watch me.”

[ha-rinrin]

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

Summary: Jinx and Isha still believe in Santa, and you’re the magic behind, making sure everything goes perfectly.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 2.4k

Authors note: Happy early Christmas everyone!! hope you guys get a lot of presents and love 🤍

It was Christmas Eve in the heart of Zaun, and while the streets outside were cold and busy, the warmth inside your home was a stark contrast. The fire crackled in the fireplace, casting a cozy glow across the room. You were curled up on the couch, attempting to relax, but your attention kept being pulled to the two most excited people in the house.

Isha, though silent, was practically vibrating with anticipation, her eyes wide and hands fluttering with excitement as she signed rapidly to Jinx, who was already animatedly responding in kind. 

"I swear, I can hear him coming!" Jinx grinned, wearing a ridiculously oversized Santa hat and bouncing around as she set up little decorations around the room. She paused dramatically, giving you an exaggerated look. "You do believe in Santa, right? Because if you don't, I might have to have a little chat with you, and it’s gonna be uncomfortable."

Isha signed something to you then, her eyes sparkling, and you read it aloud, "She says Santa will bring the best presents. He’s real, right?"

You smiled, amused by their shared enthusiasm. "Well, of course he’s real," you said dryly, your tone teasing. "I mean, if Santa’s not real, who would’ve been sneaking presents under the tree all these years, hmm?" You raised an eyebrow, playing along, though inside you couldn’t help but smile at the sheer magic of the moment.

Isha giggled and nodded eagerly, signing again, this time to Jinx, who laughed loudly and clapped her hands. "Exactly! You heard it here first, folks!" Jinx was fully in her element now. She turned to you, pulling her Santa hat down even further over her eyes. "Santa’s real. And he’s gonna bring a mountain of candy and maybe a new rocket launcher—no promises on that last one, though."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "Santa doesn’t bring rocket launchers, Jinx."

Isha signed something that made Jinx pause, looking a little more serious for a moment. "Oh, she’s asking if we can leave out carrots for the reindeer!" Jinx beamed. "Yes, we’re doing it! And the cookies, of course. Gotta have cookies. Maybe a little extra for me when Santa isn’t looking."

As you prepared the cookies, you couldn’t help but marvel at the way the two of them seemed to exist in this shared fantasy world. It was pure joy, the kind of innocent belief that could only come from a child and someone who had never quite lost her own sense of wonder, even as chaotic as she could be.

You smiled softly as you watched Isha going to her room to curl up under her blankets, still trying her hardest to keep her eyes open. Her little hands were tucked under her head, her gaze occasionally darting to the window, waiting for a sign of Santa’s arrival. You gently adjusted her covers, brushing a few stray locks of hair away from her face.

"Isha, honey, you have to sleep," you whispered, brushing your hand over her cheek. She shook her head stubbornly, eyes fluttering but not quite closing. Her hands signed something, and you chuckled, reading it aloud. "She says she’ll only sleep if she sees Santa's sleigh."

"Tell her Santa can’t come if she’s awake," Jinx chimed in, appearing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a dramatic sigh. She was still wearing that oversized Santa hat, her face lit up with excitement. "Santa’s not gonna come if she’s spying on him, toots. He needs some quiet so he can sneak in."

Isha shot her a playful glare, but it didn’t last long. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the second, and before you knew it, her little sighs slowed, her breath deepening as sleep finally claimed her.

You smiled as you watched her drift off, and Jinx tiptoed over to the bed, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on Isha's forehead. "Goodnight, kiddo. Sweet dreams, okay? Santa’s on his way."

Jinx stood up, her eyes gleaming with that familiar excitement. "Alright, toots, it's go time!" She grinned at you, clearly eager to keep the Christmas magic alive for the both of you. "We gotta make sure everything’s perfect for Santa! I’m talking cookies, carrots for the reindeer, and maybe some milk, too" 

You laughed softly, as you both made your way to the living room, where the tree sparkled with lights. The soft glow of the fire in the chimney filled the room with a peaceful warmth, and for a moment, you felt a wave of contentment wash over you. It was moments like these that made everything feel magical.

Jinx carefully arranged the cookies, placing them on a plate next to the tree, her movements full of purpose. "Carrots for the reindeer, right?" she asked, holding up a bunch she’d already prepared, before setting them neatly next to the fireplace. "They need their snacks for the ride."

She stepped back to admire her work, hands on her hips, nodding to herself. "Okay, okay, everything’s perfect. Now we just need to sleep, or Santa’s not gonna come. We gotta let him do his thing!"

You looked over at her, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, you found yourself caught up in her joy. There was something about the way Jinx saw the world, so full of wonder and possibility, that made everything feel like it had a little extra magic.

With a sigh, you smiled and took her hand. "Alright, alright. We’ll go to sleep. But I’m warning you, Santa doesn’t like it when you snore too loud."

Jinx laughed, pulling you toward the bedroom with a playful grin. "Hey, I’m quiet! i don’t even snore!, i don’t know what you’re talking about, toots" She joked as you both snuck into bed, the warmth from the blankets wrapping around you both.

You couldn’t help but smile as you turned off the lights, the soft flicker of the fireplace in the other room casting a gentle glow. Jinx snuggled close to you, her face still glowing with excitement. "Merry Christmas, toots," she whispered, squeezing your hand.

"Merry Christmas, love," you whispered back, feeling the magic of the night settle around you like a soft blanket. And as you closed your eyes, you couldn't help but believe that, for Isha and Jinx at least, Santa really was on his way.

The room was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of Jinx's soft breathing beside you. She had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep, her form curled up beside you under the thick blankets. The firelight flickered gently in the corner, casting long shadows on the walls.

You lay there for a while, listening to Jinx’s muffled snores, her face blissfully relaxed in a way that made you smile. Slowly, you slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and padded quietly toward the door. The excitement of the night wasn’t quite over yet.

As you tiptoed down the hall, a mischievous grin tugged at your lips. You had a plan tonight, and Sevika was already waiting for you in the living room. It was the same tradition you two had kept up for years, even though you were both far past the age of believing in Santa. But you couldn’t resist the fun of making it feel real for Isha—and Jinx, of course, who never really grew out of her childlike wonder.

You rounded the corner into the living room, and there she was, leaning casually against the fireplace, half-eaten cookies in one hand and a drink of milk in the other. Sevika’s eyes met yours, and she raised an eyebrow with a grin, clearly enjoying herself.

“Sevika,” you whispered, stepping in the room with a playful smirk. “What are you doing standing there, eating all the cookies and drinking the milk?”

Sevika looked up, unfazed, with a dramatic sigh. “I’m just making sure that Santa keeps his energy up for the big night,” she said, a small chuckle escaping her as she picked up another carrot and took a bite. “Besides, you don’t want Santa running on empty, do you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of her, leaning casually against the fireplace as if she were the one delivering the presents. “Right,” you said, crossing your arms. “You and me both know Santa’s going to be mad at you for raiding his stash. But fine, fine, get your fix, but we have a job to do.”

Sevika wiped her mouth, grinning. “You’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

She followed you toward the pile of gifts hidden in a closet, both of you moving with a practiced ease. You’d been planning this for weeks, carefully choosing the right presents for Isha and Jinx, getting the things from their Christmas list, and now it was time to put them under the tree.

Sevika chuckled as she helped you arrange the gifts, a little smirk playing on her lips. “I can’t believe we’re still doing this for an adult,” she said, shaking her head as she set a large box under the tree.

“Hey,” you said, half-laughing, “we’re not doing it for just Jinx. It’s for Isha too. She’ll love it.”

“I guess that’s true,” Sevika said, her voice softening just a little as she glanced at the sleeping child’s room down the hall. “Can’t help but want to see their faces when they wake up.”

You nodded, your heart light as you finished setting up the last of the gifts. “Exactly. I just love seeing them excited, even if we’re the ones pulling the strings behind the scenes.”

Sevika leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky I’ve got a soft spot for Christmas magic. Next year, though, I’m leaving all the work to you.”

You shot her a playful look. “Deal. I’ll take all the credit”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh before you finally stepped back, admiring the tree, the gifts stacked neatly beneath it. The milk was mostly gone, the cookies nearly finished, and the carrots all but devoured. It was a picture-perfect holiday moment—one that you were both proud of.

“Alright,” you said softly, standing up and brushing your hands together. “Everything’s set. We’d better get out of here before Jinx wakes up and catches us.”

“Agreed.” Sevika winked at you. “Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

“Merry Christmas, Sevika” you replied with a grin. “Now let’s get back to bed before she notices we’re gone.”

As the two of you quietly snuck back to your rooms, the excitement of the night still buzzing through your veins, you knew that tomorrow would be filled with even more joy. The look on Jinx and Isha’s faces when they saw the tree in the morning would be worth every bit of sneaky work you’d done tonight.

The morning sun barely filtered through the thick curtains, casting soft light over the room. You were still nestled under the blankets, trying to cling to those last few moments of sleep when a loud voice jolted you awake.

“MARRRRY CHRIIIISSSSTMAS, EVERYONE!” Jinx’s voice rang out through the space like an explosion of energy. You felt the bed shift as she bounced on it, practically vibrating with excitement. “TIME TO SEE IF SANTA CAME!”

Before you could even rub the sleep from your eyes, she was already off the bed, sprinting toward ishas room, completely disregarding the noise she was making. You heard her knocking on the door, “ISHA! COME SEE IF SANTA CAME!”

You groaned, half-laughing to yourself, knowing full well there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. Slowly, you dragged yourself out of bed and followed the excitement that was spilling out into the living space.

As you reached the room, you found Jinx already knocking on the door with exaggerated flair. Isha, her eyes still heavy with sleep but slowly waking up, crawled out of her bed as soon as she noticed Jinx’s face lit with excitement. She gave you a sleepy smile before following Jinx, who pulled her along, her small hand clasped tightly in Jinx’s.

“Look! Look, Isha!” Jinx practically shouted, her excitement nearly overflowing. You followed them into the living room, still trying to shake off the drowsiness, but a smile tugged at your lips when you saw them both staring in awe at the scene under the tree.

Isha’s eyes widened in silent awe, her hands fluttering with excitement as she pointed toward the empty plates where cookies and milk had been. Jinx kneeled beside the plates, inspecting them with a gleam in her eyes. “See? I told you they needed the snacks to keep going!” she said, lifting the empty milk glass. “Reindeer are like us—super hungry!”

Just then, Sevika emerged from the kitchen, holding a plate with a couple of the leftover cookies and sipping from a mug of coffee. She paused when she noticed the excited scene, an eyebrow raising at the display. "Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Christmas does bring out the kid in everyone,” she commented, then took another sip of her coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Sevika, really? You’re just going to stand there drinking coffee while we’re all here in a Christmas frenzy?”

Sevika shrugged, unfazed. “Someone’s gotta stay sane around here,” she said with a smirk, taking another sip from her mug. "Can’t be all about cookies and milk. A girl’s gotta have her coffee."

Isha signed something quickly, looking between you, Jinx, and Sevika. You translated for her, “She says she’s glad Santa’s real.”

Jinx, ever the bundle of energy, jumped up. “You heard it here first, folks!” she declared with a wide grin. “Santa is real, and he’s got a serious appetite! Look at those empty plates!” She looked at Sevika with mock seriousness. “And I’m gonna need a little more carrot next year. Maybe some cookies, too.”

Sevika rolled her eyes but kept her grin. “Yeah, yeah. More cookies next year.”

“Alright!” Jinx grinned, tugging Isha over to the tree. “Now that we know Santa came, let’s open presents!”

You stood back, watching as the two of them eagerly circled the tree, their faces lit up with pure joy and excitement. You smiled, your heart warm from the moment. It was messy and chaotic, but it was perfect. Christmas in your house with your little family—Jinx, Isha, and even Sevika—was exactly what you’d dreamed of.

“Let’s get started,” you said with a smile, kneeling down beside them.

The three of them eagerly started opening presents, and you couldn’t help but feel like everything was just as it should be. The holiday magic was alive and well, and for a moment, nothing else mattered.

[koalayoo]

Men who talk a certain way.

They carry themselves with elegance, talk with a poised cadence unique to them. They hold themselves upright and have an air of superiority. A cunning look, signature smirk, firm hand; these are staples of their character, they know how to strike a deal. Whether for their people or their own gain, they intimidate those to gain an advantage no matter how many exploits gone through or people exploited.

People either love or fear them.

They’re important.

It’s no surprise that they sit at the centre of the table at a meeting, commanding attention. All eyes are on them, gripping their every word. Prompt nods and murmurs of agreements follow. They’re smart too. Incredible wit and perceptiveness as they continuously glance at everyone, especially you.

Fuck, and they’re hot too.

It makes your blood run hot. Jolts shoot throughout your body and you avert your gaze. It was stupid to you to be losing your cool for a man who felt indifferent about your existence. Maybe that isn’t the right word. 

Sometimes, you would question whether he hated you. Whenever you needed a pen, your hands brushed against one another for a second and he would quickly pull back as if being stung by a bee with a slight scowl forming on his face. If the piles of paper you needed to finish took too long, he would be adamant you finish for the night, which is all fine and dandy if he wasn’t looking for help from others to complete your work. He even reprimanded you, talked to you in that familiar stern tone once for not having your priorities in place when a stranger came up to you in a flirtatious manner as if you could control that. 

He pissed you off. 

Why couldn’t he care about you like a normal person?

However, you were wrong about all of it. He cared too much.

When your fingers grazed him he was ridden with guilt, these were the same hands he would think about at night. Imagine tracing the sharp edges of his skin. He would shut his eyes and throw his head back, replacing his hands with your own. Try to commit the soft feel of yours to his. Would you go slow or fast? He wondered. How would you hold him? Would you let him make a mess? His thoughts would trail on and on questioning your grip, your face, what you would say.

So, it was no surprise when he saw you working yourself to exhaustion that he wanted you to rest. That was his duty after all. Only he could do that. The eyes that he desperately wanted to see glazed over with a lust filled haze needed to be well rested first. That way, he could slowly see them become drunk for him, turning red, bloodshot from just how well he would treat you.

And it was especially no surprise that when another person had the audacity to want you too, he had to stop them. Sure, you didn’t deserve the scolding but he would make you feel so much better later on. He just had to be patient.

Had to keep his tone steady and tame. Pretend to treat you just like everyone else. Even if you thought he hated you. He could fuck you like that too if you wanted. He would give you anything you wanted. However, you didn’t deserve to know how depraved he truly was.

There was a thought that lingered at the forefront of his mind. If you found out just how he imagined you, would you leave? He figured you might feel disgusted, a man of his caliber, his power, wanting to succumb to you. And so he continued to talk. Continued to keep his tone steady. Keep his tone tame. 

He would keep himself in line; refined. Because if you found out how he was imagining you, perhaps then this man would truly feel fear.

fantasising about...

Sylus, NEUVILLETTE, Jing Yuan, Welt, Sunday, DAN HENG, Artem, Zhongli!, Gepard, Alhaitham?, Cyno ...and anyone else you're thinking of

Hope you liked this! Inspired by the song 'Talk' by Hozier. Specifically the line, "So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you." Please give it a listen! It was in my Spotify Top 5 it's so good and captures the vibe I was trying to go for with this. Sorry for the yap. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

[valentine-cafe]

Happy 1 year anniversary! I'm so happy to have been able to witness this blog continue to grow. Keep up the good work!

As for my order, can I get an affogato please?

Inexperienced!reader seeing Vespasiano at a bar and deciding to shoot his shot only to be a nervous wreck the entire time while trying to flirt with him. Vespasiano finding all this adorable and taking him home and teaching reader how to fuck him properly! (with reader just immediately cumming the second he's able to stick his dick into Vesp) 👏

˖⁺. ﹙ vampire lieutenant dilf  x inexperienced top sub male reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . there you go. fuck look at you, doing so good !! 🍒 :  vampiric ˖ lieutenant ˖ dilf character﹙ verse 781 vespsiano. ﹚

you've always wondered what it would be like inside of him, you didn't think he'd be the one to teach you how to fuck him. | cw: blowjob, handjob, anal, inexperienced male reader, lots of humping <3

𖹭. ps : thank you so much !! we hope this is to your liking!

“Yeah?”

Heat warms your face with the low rumble to your ear. When did his hand get on your thigh? The calloused thumb strokes along your skin spark your head into dizzy episodes. It’s the alcohol, you convince yourself. But something tells you the golden hue of bourbon isn’t what you’re drowning in — but emerald eyes lightly creased at the corners.

“Well I . . .” you hope that the throat clear helps. “You know y-you’re. . . one to talk - with that - uhm -” seems not.

Vespasiano, that’s his name. The patron you’d heard all the bartenders giggling about time and time again. He came in, ordered his old fashion or neat whiskey, sat for a bit. Smoked his cigarette, then left. You’d seen him a few times. Today you summoned all your non-existing confidence to shoot your short.

It’s going as well as a virgin with a hooker.

Or is it? His chuckle shoots the heat on your face to your crotch. The stir against your pants spins your head further. When did your pants get so tight?

Tight. You wonder how tight he is. But could you even manage fucking him? He didn’t look like the switch type — let alone the switch. The thrum of your dick against black fabric begged for such. A chance, just one chance.

Your nerves, however, tell another story. “I uh - j-just . . . forget I - said - a-anything haha -” the choppy laugh interrupts halfway. The floor creaks with skidded wood and the hand on your thigh doubles over to the other. The bar counter welcomes your back. As though to wingman you for the towering shadow he casts over you. That grin on his lips that makes you want to buck against him here and now.

Damn everyone else. If you could have him over this counter here and now. . .

The trail of a finger down your throat sends your thoughts derailed. All you can do is gulp. Flit your eyes up to his amused ones that peer at the bobbing of your Adam’s apple. “Don’t chicken out on me now. Don’t think your pants down there would appreciate’t.”

You needn’t glance down. Your tent strains proudly against his inner thigh. The warmth hitches your breath. By some grace, you manage to breathe out a final - “But - aren’t you still drinking?”

Save your poor heart. It wasn’t ready for him to lean over with gazes locked and hand steady. Snatch his glass and gulp the bitter liquid down like honey. Eyes on yours the entire time. Shadowed by dark strands drooped over.

Thud to the wood. The feel of his strong arm round your waist is deadly. So is his whisper. Those small fangs that peek through his grin.

“Now ‘m not.”

—

He’s not a bottom, not a switch either. And yet here is. On his back, shirt gone, pants discarded. To say you were surprised at his understanding was an understatement.

“Thaat’s it. . . keep going,” he groans with his cock finding home in your hand. The perfect sleeve as it pumps slowly, shakily down his length. His face might send you into a spur right now. Blissed out. You’d splatter immediately. But for the life of you, your gaze refuses to release his dick.

To say he’s big is an insult. You’re lucky it’s just his ass you’ll have today. The veiny flesh and twitches with suds of precum salivates your mouth. It takes every fibre to not dive down and choke on his dick all over again. His shaky groans aren’t making it any easier.

“Haven’t done this before either.” He’s so assuring. The large hand strokes along your face and his blissful smile almost has you humping on his leg. Desperate much?

“Been on receivin’, I mean - fuck.”

His words had some magic because your hand acted on fuel. Pumping along steadily to the thrum of his pulses. The rolls of his hips.

Next you catch his wet hole. Your throbbing borders painful as much as pleasurable. To sate the desire you swoop down and kiss around his thick tip. Shudder into his slit and stroke beneath his cockhead. His taste perfectly compliments the bitterness of alcohol. You’d get drunk on him any day.

But a hand to your hair snaps you from your swirl of need. With a gruff - “you gonna keep suckin’ me dry or?” oh, there’s that devilish chuckle again. Your insides flare in competition with your face that he grinds up into shamelessly. “Or are you gonna fuck me, pretty boy? ‘m waiting.”

Your kisses rain down on his muscular highs like apologies crossed with whines. “Nervous. . . I wanna make you feel good.” There you go humping mindlessly into the mattress again. Imagine his hips instead of the scratch of linen.

A warm, tender hand to the back of your neck leads you home to his lips. They overtake yours in a fire, a passion. One that surely is meant to pull more of your pathetic noises out. So you attempt to win back your pride by shoving your hands to his shoulders and forcing him back down.

“That’s it.” If you thought his groan made you dizzy then the squeeze of his hand around your dick as he reached forward crumbled you entirely. Like hot candle wax, you fall onto him with a melt and buck into his thigh.

The slick of previous lube steals your breath. So you return the favour with lathered kisses into his mouth. An exchange of tongue and teeth. All while he guides you steadily.

Excitement shoots through you at the feel of his rim. Straight from your tip and through your dick. Your hands brace on his sides and his squeeze at your hips. The kiss parts again. Strings of saliva the last evidence. Your hips buck. Your gut pleads for you to just push in. But a quick reminder of his own inexperience in this field steers your muscles to a halt.

Inexperienced? You’d never consider him such.

Not with the way he touches you. Certainly not with his words laced with teasing lilts He’d be the death of you. And you would so readily let him bury you. Just how you wish to bury within those warm walls.

“Now. . . easy does it.” He mumbles against kisses to your neck. Small assurances that swell and squeeze your heart. Your body moves on automation. Muscles robotically dancing to his rhythm as your tip glides along his hole. You’re so busy bothering your lower lip with your teeth that you fail to notice him doing the same. “Just. . . there. . . there - hah -”

Surely, this is a trap. The tightness of his heat encasing your cock inch - by agonising inch - is a sabotage in every degree of the word. One for your heart that leaps straight into your throat. You bob it down with gulps of saliva and swallowed gasps. It’d be too humiliating to -

“Let it out. . .”

“F-Fuck . . .”

It’s such a pathetic noise really. In comparison to his deep, rumbled groans and grunts — you feel like a whimpering kitten. How can you be anything but when he’s thrumming around your cock like that? When his heat makes you so dizzy that you have to droop your head to his scarred chest and press kisses all over his skin?

There’s no stopping your hips as they chase pleasure. Bucks meet his thighs and your hands flex around his sides. Searching for a leverage, a comfort, to cling to while he consumes your body whole. For a moment - you forget that you are the one inside of him.

“S-So good -”

“Yeah?”

The ragged breath finally steals your attention. The sight of him beneath you is enough to snap several chords in your tummy. With emerald eyes peered through fluttery half-lids. His brows itch to crease at the centre. There’s no missing the subtle flex of his fingers in the dark sheets. And that light blush scattered across his face? He’s the sight of heaven, splayed out on a bed of all things for crying out loud.

Every fibre in your body begs for you not to be a hero. His heat is not something you can manage. Stubbornly, still, you persist and press in further. Feel the tightness in your gut. The swell in your chest.

It happened so fast. White blinds your vision and takes over your movements. You’re needily bucking into his lube-slathered heat with tiny, pitiful humps. Lips parted, eyes fluttered. The shudder that tears through your body shoves you down onto him again and you moan out against his collarbone.

Heat fizzles into realisation. But before you can so much as apologise, that tender feeling finds the small of your back once more. You feel his smile against your temple; and his hips rolling into yours as though you didn’t just bust already.

“That good huh?” The snicker makes you flush. For the life of you, you cannot bother with embarrassment or pleasantries. All you can do is stutter your cock forward in shallow, aimless thrusst.

“A-Ah - ah - m-m sorry. . . mngh. . . just mngh - s’good.”

“Keep going. Steady. Make a - a - ah - a rhythm.”

Large palms flatten on your thighs. Then squeeze. Vespasiano steers your hips forward until you catch the hang of it. His lips motivate you with showers all over your neck and shoulders. You return it tenfold with bites and marks littered across his throat and chest.

Pleasure swells through your head. Strikes down your spine. The air leaves you in bouts you can barely keep up with. Not that you care. Not that it matters. Who needs air when pleasure flies you to cloud nine?

“D-Does - does it feel - feel good?” Your eyes search his scrunched up face for an answer. Your impatience drops a hand to his cock, and you messily stroke along the trails of wetness leaked from his pulsating tip. An action he clearly was not anticipating with the way his back arched and moans tumbled forth.

Not groans. Not grunts. Moans. You really are in heaven. To have a man of his experience, his age, his occupation and stature. Moan for you.

Your thrusts catch wind of the small ego boost. Fueled with pride you angle, like he’s taught you, and buck ferally into different spots. Searching for that one - just that one -

“A-Ah fuck-!”

There.

“Answer me. . . Please,” the whine borders all sorts of needy and pathetic. Your lips are wet on his throat as you suckle down on his adam’s apple and press your skin together. Consume his heat for your own. “T-Tell me you feel good. That I’m - making - hngh.”

“Feels - good.” he groans. You don’t expect the hand that claps down on your thigh. Only the grin that he shoots up at you.

“But go faster. Yeah - ngh - th-thas’ ittt. . .”

What more can you do but drive yourself to madness with your messy thrusts? You’ll keep humping away at his tight hole. Shower him in kisses, bites, gropes - what have you. Sure you might cum more times as you. But as long as you both get your fill — who cares about inexperience?

Just gives him more time to teach more. More time for you to fuck him.

[doeidawn]

doeidawn's kinkmas day eight ❆ spanking

KINKMAS 2024 | PREVIOUS DAY | NEXT DAY

a little mishap at the company christmas party has you subjected to punishment—directly from the hand of your boss. 2.9k

❆ pairing: boss!price x assistant!fem!reader

❆ tags: MDNI/18+; inappropriate workplace conduct; slight dom/sub dynamic (use of "sir"); spanking (obviously); fingering

Working as the assistant to the head of one of the biggest companies in England invited stress that few could understand. Add in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, and that stress increased tenfold. Then add in a Christmas party that said corporate head expects you to both organize and attend on top of your regular holiday duties, and the stress might give you a heart attack before the week ends.

It was a miracle that the whole thing managed to go as smoothly as it did. The decorations turned out good, everyone was pleasantly surprised by the secret Santa turnout, and the food was nice. Even the most introverted interns stopped by to chat. By all measures, it was a success. Which meant your boss would happily wear the success and (hopefully) give you a nice bonus for all the hard work.

Until the celebration started to wind down and you spilled nearly half of your wine onto him. Onto his very nice and no-doubt-expensive dress shirt—a white one, at that. You could hear the notice of termination being typed up as soon as you realized who you had bumped into. 

Ever the charmer, he took it like a champ in front of the gaggle of people. Not for your own sake, you imagine; the man had to save face in front of his employees whether it was your fault or not. Still, that didn’t stop you from feeling positively mortified. Cursing yourself for even pouring a drink when you should’ve been making sure everything stayed perfect. So much for a little alcohol to alleviate the mountain of stress on your shoulders.

Everyone else seemed to forget about it rather quickly. And as the festivities died down and people started to filter out, there was no unwanted attention brought your way. But, seeing as the party was your responsibility in the first place, you knew you’d have to stay after and clean up. The few moments alone would’ve been nice…if only you truly were alone.

You couldn’t be mad at John for being a good boss. He stayed over nearly every damn day, worked later than most just to make sure things turned out right. He showed up to the office party because he cared about his employees. Surely you couldn’t damn him for that. But when he sidled past you with a quick “can I see you in my office real quick?” in your ear, you wished he were the careless type to leave early and forget that you even existed. 

You wasted as much time as possible just to avoid seeing him. Mingled with every last person who hung around until they had no excuse left to stay. You tidied up counters and swept the floor best you could. You figured maybe you could walk someone to their car and get yourself out of a reprimand that way. Alas, you realized that it wouldn’t be a good look if the assistant didn’t fulfill all of her boss’s requests. 

You stand outside the door to his office for a good minute, just staring at the wood before you. You’re fully prepared to be scolded. To be ridiculed and belittled and insulted. Not that John had ever done that before—he wasn’t the type to act that way—but you felt so worthless that you figured he might as well.  

Mustering the last of your courage and a hint of apathy, you knock on the door. When you hear his voice invite you in, you hesitate before turning the knob and slinking in. It wasn’t a conscious choice to move slow; it was like you wanted to make yourself seem small and meek as if it’d convince him to take pity on you.

There he was at his desk, pushing a paper to the side in favor of looking your way. The blotch of red wine staining his shirt was painfully obvious. You silently prayed for whatever washing machine would get overworked trying to clean it out.

“You look terrified.” John’s voice cuts through the silence and nearly startles you. You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were. “Everythin’ alright?”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. “I…I dunno, sir. Is everything alright?”

“Just fine. The party was nice. Very well done.” He leans back in his chair and you cringe when more of that wine stain comes into view. It almost felt like he was taunting you with it. “Though I shouldn’t expect anythin’ less from you.”

You nod, more out of relief than agreement with his statement. Muttering a small “thank you”, you shift awkwardly on your feet. You expected a scolding, but he was pleasantly warm. There was no anger or upset in his eyes. He didn’t even seem disappointed. 

“What’s wrong?”

The question is surprising, but it’s the tone of sincere curiosity that bewilders you. Not annoyance, or inconvenience. He wanted to know what was wrong, wholeheartedly. It takes you a minute to swallow your pride and give him a half-assed shrug.

“Nothing, sir. Just…stressed, is all.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was probably the mildest way to say you were frustrated and tense and angry and just about every other feasible human emotion.

John makes a sound at that. He shifts in his chair, inching it back from his desk. “‘Course you are. You poor thing…I’ve asked a lot of you lately, haven’t I?” You didn’t know if the smart thing was to agree or deny, but you wanted to sigh with relief that he finally seemed to notice. “That's not very fair of me, huh?”

Did he want you to agree? You decide not to chance it. Instead, you stare at your feet like they’ve become the most interesting thing in the world. Anything felt better than looking him in the eye right now. 

“So, what do you do with all that stress? How d’you manage it, I mean?”

It was a miracle he thought you handled it at all. If you came off well-put together, it certainly didn’t reflect the worry that consumed your private life. “I…don’t, really. I just sort of deal with it, I suppose.”

He snorts, an amused shake of his head. “Well, that’s not very healthy, is it?” Definitely not. But he didn’t know the half of it. “Someone ought to help you manage that stress. I can’t have my assistant on edge all the time.”

Unless he planned on including therapy in your benefits, you didn’t see that working out any time soon. You give him a tight-lipped smile, awkwardly nodding along. Was this what he wanted to talk about..? Scolding you for being stressed was certainly preferable to bringing up your blunder at the party, but that didn’t mean you felt comfortable with it. 

“C’mere,” he beckons you closer with a gesture and a cock of his head. You take a few hesitant steps towards his desk, but he grumbles and gestures again. “Closer. Get over here.”

You freeze for a moment before complying. Why John could possibly want you so close was unknown to you, and your slow steps betrayed your hesitance. You stopped when you stood just before him, mere inches away from his body. It wasn’t unlike him to get close—he seemed to like crowding you—but it felt different this time. 

“Listen,” he starts, reaching out to rest a hand on your waist. “I need you at your best. Your job is very important, and I can’t accept anything less than perfect.” You don’t even notice the slight nod of your head. It was a reflexive response to agree with him, even if it meant agreeing to your own faults. His heavy palm slides down to your hip, squeezing you gently. “And if you don’t give me your best, consequences are in order.”

Your heart sinks. You expect him to dock your pay or pile on ten extra responsibilities to your work load—something that’ll make you feel even worse, no doubt. But when he looks up at you, there’s no sincerity or disappointment in his eyes. Instead, there’s something…eager. Almost like he’s excited when he starts to speak again.

“Seein’ as you’re my assistant, I think a heavy handed approach should suffice.” He squeezes your hip to further his emphasis as he leans forward. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your waist, his lips nearly brushing against you. “Somethin’ a little more personal.”

Oh.

You swallow thickly, your heart beating so hard you fear it might burst out of your chest. Too many emotions conflicted with each other—relief that he wasn’t angry, worried about the implications, excited that he’s propositioned you. It wasn’t rare that you got a little excited thinking about John. He was an attractive man, and the authority only added to the appeal.

HR be damned, you’d think yourself a fool if you never took the offer. “Whatever you think is best, sir.” You didn’t intend for your voice to sound so breathy and coy, but you didn’t fight it. You rest a hand on his shoulder, gripping his shirt tight when his hand suddenly moves to grope your ass. 

“Oh, I know what’s best for my assistant." He leans back, his hands falling away from your body in a movement that almost makes you whine at the loss. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt before patting his thigh invitingly. “She needs bent over and taught about consequences, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The word comes out in a squeak before you can stop yourself. One last look in his eyes and you were ready to give him whatever he wanted.

Taking his implication as your instruction, you bend yourself over his lap, bracing your hands on his thigh once you’re in place. You can hear your own heartbeat, pounding in your head and mingling with every thought telling you this is a bad idea. But then you hear him groan and feel a heavy palm skirt along your back and every doubtful thought is drowned by something much more desperate. 

“This is my favorite skirt of yours, you know that?” John mutters while splaying his thick fingers along your backside. Of course you knew he liked this one—he was never very subtle about it. It’s why you wore it to the party in the first place, only now you wish you’d wore something more flattering than a Christmas sweater to go with it. 

He tugs your skirt up and over your ass without ceremony, scrunching it at your waist until you’re fully exposed. He runs a hand over your soft, pliant skin, squeezing just enough to see the fat spill over his fingers. You gasp at the rough touch but make no effort to move away. If anything, you find yourself arching into the needy movements. 

Then, his hand pulls back and comes down in a sharp smack that takes your breath away. He groans again, watching your body recoil. “Yeah, this’ll do just fine.” He punctuates the thought with another spank. “We’ll see how many you can take before you learn your lesson.”

Another sharp smack of his palm makes you whine. You nod in agreement, but you don’t think he’s much concerned with your input at this point. Two more harsh spanks hit and you hiss when he runs his palm over the spot of impact. The dull sting already throbs under your flushed skin, aching more when he gropes your ass in a tight squeeze. The next spank draws a moan from your lips, the sharp impact sending an unexpected wave of pleasure directly between your legs.

John hooks a finger under the seam of your panties, pulling the fabric to expose more of your flushed skin. “You’re doin’ good, takin’ it well.”

You pause, waiting for a spank that never comes. “Thank you, sir,” you manage to stumble out.

Smack! You jerk at that, biting your lip to stifle a pathetic sound. “You know I’m not mad at you, right?” His movements are as soft as his voice, gently massaging the welt forming on your sensitive skin. “I can buy a hundred more shirts, but I can’t replace you. Certainly not when you’ve shown me how well you can take what I give you.” You whimper at the next sudden spank. “Such a good assistant for me, and I haven’t given you the break you deserve have I?”

You’re not quite sure what the right answer is, but you hesitantly shake your head. The next strike motivates you to verbalize your answer. “No, sir. I haven’t gotten a break.”

“You poor thing…” You barely notice the movement of his hand as it slides off of your battered skin. It’s not until he slides his fingers over the center of your panties that you react, gasping at the sudden (and much needed) pressure. You hadn’t even realized how wet you’d gotten, and judging by his excited groan, neither had he. “You need a break from all that stress, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pulling the sodden fabric to the side, John exposes your wet cunt and hums in satisfaction when he sees the slick glistening on your sensitive flesh. He grabs you on either side, using his fingers to spread you apart. One hand pulls back to spank your ass a final time, and he watches you clench at the impact. Two thick fingers run up and down your slit, gathering your wet arousal, before prodding at your entrance.

He sinks in with a groan and the sudden fullness takes your breath away. You curse and arch your back, rocking your hips onto his fingers. Your nails dig into his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to pay it much attention. He buries his fingers to the knuckle before pumping them in and out in a steady pace that makes your knees weak. 

“Christ, love, you are tense. This cunt’s fuckin’ squeezin’ me.” His fingers press deep on each thrust, curled and angled just right to make you push against his intrusion. “Is this what you needed? Someone to stuff this pussy full?”

You hum a soft “mm-hmm” and nod your head. But John isn’t satisfied with that; his free hand comes down in a sharp spank that forces a surprised yelp from your lips. “Fuck—yes, sir,” you sputter.

“Yeah, you just need a proper fuck to keep you goin’ huh?” His free hand moves to cup your jaw, tilting your head back until he could see your face. “Fuck, I’ll keep you late every day, bend you over my desk and fuck you as much as you need. Is that what you want?”

Hearing him say it was one thing, but seeing those filthy words come from your boss’s mouth made you clench around his fingers. “Yes…yes, sir,” you pant, eyes wide and pleading as you look up at him. “W-want you to fuck me.”

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Your head lolls forward when he releases your jaw. His hand fucks into you rougher, quick and sharp pumps that make you keen, almost like he’s too impatient to keep going slow. He bullies that sensitive spot inside you until you start to tense and quiver on his lap. His heavy palm brushes over your welted skin, kneading your ass just to hear the whimpers it draws from you. 

You hold onto his thigh, nails digging into his pants as you try to hold yourself steady. “J-John, m’gonna…fuck…” It’s near impossible to squeak out the words with the constant pressure filling your cunt. 

“I know, love. You’re gonna cum for your boss, aren’t you?” 

“Mm-hmm—”

“Yeah, gonna soak my fuckin’ lap with it? Make another mess on me?”

It sounded filthy when he put it like that. And while getting reminded of your embarrassing blunder at the Christmas party was the last thing you wanted to think about right now, you couldn’t deny that it certainly motivated you to make another mess. Especially when he was so eager for this one.

You couldn’t even form the words to properly warn him. You were sure he could tell by the tight pull of your slick walls around his fingers that you were toppling over that edge fast. Between his encouragement and the perfect fit of his digits, he was coaxing out all of your pent-up energy. And it hit you hard.

You were a quivering, dripping mess on his lap. Gushing around his fingers, clenching tight like you were trying to suck him in deeper. Your knees were so weak you weren’t sure you could stand back up. John slid his fingers out and delivered one final spank to your flushed skin. You think he mutters a soft ‘good girl’, but you find it hard to hear him properly as you catch your breath.

Raising off of his lap, you adjust your clothes and pull your skirt back into its proper position. Your legs are weak and your ass stings with every movement. You aren’t sure whether to thank him or apologize—so you settle for neither. The silence sits heavy in the room as you trudge to the door to take your leave. You could worry about facing him next week when you were alone, in the comfort of your home, and thinking straight.

Then, you hear him call out your name as soon as your hand touches the doorknob. You turn just enough to see his figure in your peripheral. Still sat with his legs spread and his sleeves rolled up, but now with a rather obvious hand palming himself through his pants. If you had any less restraint, you might’ve walked yourself back over to him. 

“I’ll see you Monday, yeah?” You nod at the sound of his gruff voice. “Do me a favor n’ wear that skirt again, sweetheart.”

You smile, mainly to yourself. “Yes, sir.”

[sunderwight]

Honestly fascinated trying to figure out how both of Ambessa's kids ended up being diametrically opposed to her whole jock spartan might-makes-right mentality.

Tthe obvious answer, of course, is that Ambessa's husband (Kino's dad, and the guy Mel thought was her bio dad until recently) was way more of a diplomat and way less of a fighter, both philosophically as well as in terms of skill. And that he's the one who passed this on to the kids.

This fits well enough as an answer. The guy in the portrait certainly looks more like a talker than a fighter, and we know that Ambessa has a thing for pretty, submissive men thanks to her whole introduction in S1. Also, regardless of Mel's genetics this is presumably the man who raised her and is her father in the "nurture" sense of the equation, so it would be completely reasonable for her to take after him.

However, there are a few issues here.

One is the fact that even when Mel is talking to who she thinks is Kino about the possibility of one of them being a bastard, or of a bastard half-sibling existing, neither of them mention their father at all. While I doubt either of them would hold illusions about Ambessa remaining faithful to a spouse (for all we know the guy's still alive while she's off carousing with twinks), you would think that if both kids were close to their dad or took after him particularly, there'd be at least a passing mention of him in the midst of this discussion.

Maybe Mr. Medarda died a long time ago, though. Perhaps it's a topic so buried that it's an established habit to simply never mention it. Or maybe there is an issue of estrangement between him and his children for other reasons. He doesn't seem to have factored into Ambessa's decision to send Mel away, nor is his potential grief brought up around the subject of Kino. Despite confirmation of his existence, he seems (ironically) to be out of the picture, though it could also just be that the writers wanted to leave their options open for what he might be like in case another Arcane-adjacent series comes into production. I am fairly sure that Mel is the most likely character from Arcane to create continuity into a show about Noxus or Demacia or something, if we get another LoL series, especially since her story feels the most unfinished.

However, there's another possibility, which is that Mr. Medarda up there was such a nonentity in his kids lives that he doesn't come up because there's not much of a relationship to acknowledge. In which case, even if he is more of a diplomat (and he and Ambessa were a political marriage, presumably?) it'd be hard to credit him with influencing the kids so significantly.

One of the interesting things about Mel and Kino is that even though they are at odds with their mother on a lot of topics, topics that even seem to tie into prevailing Noxian cultural ideals (so, things they'd have been overall raised to believe in by the rest of their house and not just their mother too), they are also kind of astonishingly confident in expressing themselves?

So, somebody must have been supporting their alternative viewpoints and validating them as opinions worth expressing, even if they weren't things Ambessa approved of or actually wanted to foster in them as opinions/philosophies.

I think an interesting option is that it was Ambessa herself who did this, actually.

Ambessa's lore mentions that she figured out really early on that Kino did not share her temperament at all. Also, that she started searching about for ways of ensuring not only her house's domination, but the survival of her children specifically. Because the succession in a Noxian noble house doesn't seem to be guaranteed by birthright, which means that Kino and Mel would probably face rivals from their own family if they seemed too weak or vulnerable to lead, and someone else contested it. An easy way to remove a "weak" leader would also be to just kill them off. That's even apart from external rivals (like the ones who actually did kill Kino).

Which means that even if her kids had different values and priorities, Ambessa would probably have wanted them to still present those opinions with ferocity and confidence. If they cower to her, they will cower to others, and that's worse than them just not being aggressive combatants or warlord types. If you're gonna be a peacenik weirdo (by Ambessa's standards) in Noxus then you better damn well still be an assertive one.

I like this idea partly because the image of Ambessa trying to balance her kids having totally alien opinions about things like the value of life and importance of compassion, with trying not to actually beat down their spirits about it. Just spending a lot of their formative years being like, ugh, I have to listen to my nerd ass loser children tell me why they think mercy is a good idea. Such a fucking chore. Anyway great job presenting your arguments kids, lots to think about, let's go get ice cream. Then Mother has to fire one of your military tactics instructors for daring to call you a couple of wieners. Again. Even though she's right.

[ragana62]

This. This is also why (in combination with the whole 12 years in Azkaban thing) I think the characterization of him as “oh, pureblood character who actually knows muggle culture as opposed to Arthur “what is the function of a rubber duck” “how does the money work at the tube station” Weasley who thinks it’s neat but doesn’t fully get it” is also inaccurate.

Sirius didn’t have a chance of much if any exposure until he was at Hogwarts. Then he spent his entire 20’s in prison where he absolutely wouldn’t have time to keep up to date on the latest muggle music/fashion/etc even if he wanted to. Sure, maybe he took to it like a fish in water when he had it, but that’s still 10 years max of exposure, mostly from other 11-17 year olds, many of whom if they knew any muggle music probably did like the poppier end of things at least in part because that’s how the stats on it work.

Not to mention, he didn’t not have cultural exposure before then. Wizarding music seems to reflect muggle music a bit, but something tells me that even if there was a Weird Sister’s equivalent for the 60’s/70’s, it probably wasn’t something getting much play time at Grimmauld, at least not with parental approval. This is a kid who turned up at 11 probably most accustomed to listening to things on the classical/jazz/easy listening end of the spectrum. You don’t immediately go from concertos and Sinatra to hardcore, not without a bridge between them.

That of course doesn’t somehow make him less punk. Billie Joe Armstrong from Green Day has a musical theater/jazz background and that doesn’t mean it wasn’t punk as fuck that at early shows the band made a point of booking queer opening acts and then getting in the pit themselves to beat up the bigots turning up to give them shit. I’m not saying I don’t think he could have gotten into harder genres once he was exposed because I also had a classical background and have played in punk/goth bands. I just think odds are if he did it took a lot of habit breaking, and maybe, just maybe, he never quite took to the full heavy stuff as much as a lot of fandom likes to immediately assume because at the end of the day, while Judas Priest and X-Ray Spex and the like might piss off his parents the most, it’s an easier transition from listening to Celestina Warbeck at the most pop adjacent to liking ABBA/Cher/etc.

Actually, because of this, I think he probably took to goth/new wave/more art rockexperimental stuff better than punk. It’s a much easier adjustment going from Sinatra to Cher to Lene Lovich/Kate Bush/Yazoo, etc. It’s more melodic in a lot of ways as a general rule, there’s more obvious overlap. There was also a pretty solid British Blues scene (I.e. Dr Feelgood) that I feel like would be a logical transition point as well, not to mention I feel like Remus perpetually exists in the Mod side of things where he’d have at least some of it sitting around for it. Of the major British punk bands of his era, I feel like The Clash would be the easiest to adjust to, because again, they lean in on more melodic sounds, less intentional dissonance etc., particularly from London Calling on.

Then he goes to prison, hears nothing, experiences nothing, and gets out in the early to mid 90’s right in time for BritPop, for Pulp and Blur and Oasis and Black Grape, and I think that too would be an easy transition for him, though he’d still not have as much exposure because he’s in hiding and under what amounts to house arrest until he dies. So maybe Tonks brings him records here and there, maybe he steals an issue of NME off a newsstand here and there, but I don’t think he’s going to necessarily be more properly informed than someone like Arthur who actively has to work around muggle things, or for that matter someone like Kingsley who is actively working for the PM undercover at that time and almost certainly does have to be able to at least fake it convincingly enough to keep that up.

one thing that i haven't ever totally agreed with is how some part of the fandom portrays sirius as this character that was born good and who has been against his family from the second he learned how to talk.

the tragedy behind the black brothers is that one of them had a support system who helped him see how his family's beliefs were not the correct way to go and offered him a safe space to run to when it all came crashing down. while the other was stuck not only by his family's duty but everywhere he turned was also filled with the same beliefs.

i don't think sirius was fighting with his parents about muggles and blood purity until maybe a year after coming back from hogwarts. i think he had the same beliefs, actually, because that's all he knew. he might have doubted them a time or two after spending time with andromeda or alphard, but at the end of the day he was a child, and children do follow whatever their parents tell them to, especially when there's not a proper and constant role model teaching them there is another way.

sirius was the proper black heir until getting to hogwarts, but deconstructing himself didn't take a day. i've read how he feels free the second he gets into gryffindor, and how with a single chat with james, he's ready to forget about everything his parents have spent years telling him.

sirius was probably spewing the same pureblood things his parents taught him, he was probably not happy about getting into gryffindor in the first place, it's against everything he had been told his entire life.

that's where the marauders intervene, he is able to have his own beliefs and realize that his family was wrong because he had a whole group of people teaching him and allowing him to make mistakes along the way without fear.

while regulus has been stuck forever, first in his own house, then in slytherin, and then with the death eaters. he also learnt about loyalty and friendship and what was wrong or right, yes. but he didn't have the freedom to even talk out loud about it given the place he was in.

their own personalities doom both of them. when sirius learns that his family is wrong, he turns defiant and outspoken, that's how he is and even if he's aware of it or not, he has the liberty of having a place to go to when things go wrong. regulus is cunning and thinks everything through first, so even if he learns his family is wrong, he knows he can't say anything, his friends are tied in the same world, and his only "protector" is gone.

that's the tragedy between them.

they are both the same, no one wasn't born being "good", one just got lucky enough to be placed with the correct people

[lesbiansforboromir]

Alright, I was holding off for journalistic integrity but now that I've seen the WotR film I can make posts about it without restraint.

Jesus christ the racial politics of this film are atrocious. Some character might as well just tell Wulf 'not to play the race card'. Wulf is a liberal snowflake who blames racism for all his troubles and can't pull himself up by his bootstraps and he is also brown-skinned and obsessively pursues our PORCLAIN white dainty-drawn female protagonist with both romantic and murderous intent. Oppression of dunlendings by the Rohirrim exists only in Wulf's head apparently, though it can be tasted in every spat 'dunlending' perjorative that comes from Helm or Haleth's mouth. But Hera has absolutely no racism within her of course! She refuses Wulf because she doesnt want to marry anyone and Wulf just assumes it's because his dunlending blood disgusts her, so entitled of him!

But also maybe the racism is '''justified'''? If it exists? Which it doesn't! But IF it did, don't worry because ONCE AGAIN all the dunlendings are just greedy, clutching, unwashed, skull wearing, violent barbarians with no unique culture to speak of and no reasons to be making war on Rohan except to sieze what isn't theirs (ignoring the fact that it totally was theirs until Rohan seized it from them and OH BOY are we ignorin' that) And the only dunlending we see not frothing at the mouth for violence or showing any introspective depth at all is General Targg who is the mouthpiece with which we get to hear 'the girl (Hera) is right' whereupon he is promptly killed by Wulf.

Oh but of course, what else could Helm have done? Freca was some greedy FAT man (boy does everyone love calling him fat, happy to lean into THAT aspect of canon) whose lands were too prosperous for his own good (hang on isn't keeping your lands prosperous the platonic ideal of lordship?) And he called a 'Witan' (no he didn't, he came to one of the regular councils of lords that Helm called himself) just to make a scene about how Helm was going to marry Hera to a lord of gondor which is bad because Gondor has some nebulous hold over Rohan so Hera should marry Wulf instead (literally none of that, Freca simply asked Helm to wed his daughter to Wulf, his son, a completely normal and legitimate political strategy to secure a better relationship with the King's family since Helm already mistrusted him for having dunlending blood. Freca is a lord of Rohan, he is rich, he traces his ancestry back to King Freawine, this could not be a more reasonable suggestion in canon.)

SO OBVIOUSLY Helm had to get angry and call Freca fat again (true he did do that) and THEN claim that Freca only wanted his throne (there was never any suggestion of this in the books, it was just the offer of marriage which insulted Helm) to which Freca answered "Old kings that refuse a proffered staff may fall on their knees," and Helm is like okay lets take this outside.

And now THIS change is actually so important in understanding the extreme nature of the Rohir/Helm favouritism that is the main focus of this film. In the film Helm pretty much immediately takes Freca outside, he reassures Frealaf that Freca just needs to be shown his place, this is the only way to settle the matter, if he doesn't embarass him here then Freca will try to take his crown and slay his family apparently, his hunch ig etc etc. Freca punches Helm three times in full view of the whole of Edoras including Freca's two men who came with him, then Helm punches him back and he is knocked out cold and dead by the time he hits the ground. Film!Helm does not realise he has done this and tells Freca to get up, Wulf realises his father is dead and threatens Helm with revenge, swords are draw against him which he tries to calm before Wulf attacks him. Helm incapacitates Wulf, his sons draw THEIR swords and Helm exiles Wulf for drawing his sword on his king. Messy right? Like not a good thing to do, generally brawling with your lords is a bad idea full stop, but if you fear for the lives of your children then idk maybe it's excusable? And then it's just an unfortunate series of events right? And Freca was rude and insulting to a king in his own halls, heat of the moment etc etc

I feel so comfortable in telling you that Helm murders Freca in cold blood in the books, fully intending that to be the outcome.

He does not take him outside initially, Book!Helm tells Freca that this marriage dispute isn't important and they will deal with it later. And then;

When the council was over, Helm stood up and laid his great hand on Freca’s shoulder, saying: "The king does not permit brawls in his house, but men are freer outside"; and he forced Freca to walk before him out from Edoras into the field. To Freca’s men that came up he said: "Be off ! We need no hearers. We are going to speak of a private matter alone. Go and talk to my men!" And they looked and saw that the king’s men and his friends far outnumbered them, and they drew back. "Now, Dunlending," said the king, "you have only Helm to deal with, alone and unarmed. But you have said much already, and it is my turn to speak. Freca, your folly has grown with your belly. You talk of a staff! If Helm dislikes a crooked staff that is thrust on him, he breaks it. So!" With that he smote Freca such a blow with his fist that he fell back stunned, and died soon after. Helm then proclaimed Freca’s son and near kin the king’s enemies; and they fled, for at once Helm sent many men riding to the west marches.

(Appendices, 'The House of Eorl', emphasis mine)

I think we can all agree that forcing someone out of your city, isolating them away from their fellows with threats of violence, telling them you will break them, killing them in one blow and then proclaiming their kin your enemies and forcing them to flee to escape a murderous pursuit, is pretty clearly premeditated murder. There is not much nuance here, Freca tresspassed over a line with Helm that Dunlendings are not allowed to cross and Helm killed him for it.

And listen like, the description of this whole story within the appendices is barely more than three pages. This is not an obscure missable aspect of the tale, nor is it outside of what rights they had to adapt. The choice was made, actively, ONCE AGAIN by the Warner Bros cinematic universe makers, to drastically alter book events in order to sand down any immorality within Rohan's narrative, especially where the Dunlendings are concerned. And in the end the only 'mistake' Helm is allowed to learn and grow from is some nebulous and trite 'not believing enough in his daughter' schpiel, which needs to be the subject of a whole 'nother post actually.

And what's agonising is they COULD have done it like they were so close, there are multiple moments where me and my friend watching were like struck!! With grief! Over how impactful this moment could have been if only the racism actually existed as an acknowledged theme in the story. If only it was something Hera had to come to terms with, if only IT was the true driver of these horrors to the point where it's Avatar, Hera's father, a man who loves her and whom she has loved all her life, turns into a cold icey ghost of brutality, far more vicious and barbaric than the people he so reviles, and reveals to her the terrible truth of his actions and motivations. It's agony I tell you.

Anyway I did not like the film.

[zenless-zideblog-zero]

There's something about the fact that Section 6, the Canonically strongest Faction in game, has a ton of problems and difficulties.

Asaba has a Terminal Illness with no cure that Specifically and actively hinders his ability to do his specific Job. He will straight up turn into an ethereal at some point, if he doesn't succumb to cardiac arrest or asphyxiate first because of it.

Yanagi has Oni blood in her Veins, and if she uses too much of the power available to her she's liable to become incredibly injured or just outright die because it's Hysterical Strength x1000. It also, seemingly has caused her eyes to become messed up, and can make her go blind at random.

Soukaku's older Sister died due to Illness or War (Likely a combination of both.) Her mental trauma causes her to always almost always feel the need to eat, to fill the parts of her heart that feel empty. (Also my Headcanon is that Oni Develop slower than humans - Soukaku, despite being "Older than Yanagi" is at a much lower level of Maturity in terms of lifespan and physical/mental development. So she's basically a child soldier.)

Miyabi Straight up fights demons. In her sword. And With her sword. She killed her own mother to save her from becoming an ethereal. She doesn't always understand what's socially acceptable to say in a given situation (Neurodivergent), when it's appropriate to correct someone (Neurodivergent), can't stand meetings and paperwork (That's Everyone, but Neurodivergent), Believes she only exists to do one thing, that she's only truly capable of doing one thing, or has to add the modifier of "Training" to do certain things (Very Neurodivergent) and will just disassociate in public when she begins focusing on her thoughts too much (INCREDIBLY Neurodivergent).

And we've seen people act 'Normal' and not suffer from diseases in ZZZ! Nicole is incredibly Socially and (Somewhat) Financially adept, Lycaon might struggle somewhat in casual social circumstances, but he's very much capable LITERALLY anywhere else, Anton's a bit of a meathead but he's incredibly kind and well meaning, Corin has Anxiety and Confidence issues but other than that she seems to be a fairly normal (Mentally) Sixteen year old. Ellen is straight up just a Highschooler! I could go to my local high school and find someone who acts pretty much exactly like her!

Yeah, every character has their quirks and opinions, some have traumas and issues, but Section Six is the only group you can point at anyone of them and say "That Person has something wrong with them" and no one can provide a strong counter argument (Because there's a difference between living one's best life, and living the best life they can.)

[writingpromptsworld]

Prompt #83

(Might make a part two if there are enough requests!! Enjoy :)

By @writingpromptsworld

"You've changed." The hero said, carefully. It had been years since they last saw the villain. They had disappeared after their last fight without a trace. The hero, despite themself, had tried to track them down, find out about their whereabouts. But, in the end, they had come up with nothing. It was like the villain never existed.

The villain chuckled. "Yes, I have better ways to annoy you now." The hero's brows knitted together.

"You're no longer causing trouble." The hero continues, ignoring the villain's comment.

The villain glanced away, their expression turning serious.

"Why?" The hero asks, taking a tentative step forward.

"I got bored. Besides, it's not fun anymore. We fight, one of us wins, we fight again. The whole routine." They gesture in the air dismissively.

The hero didn't quite believe them. "You got bored of fighting?" They asked, a little in disbelief. The villain loved to fight, they loved the thrill. Both of them did. So, it didn't make sense when they said it wasn't fun anymore.

"Yes, hero." The villain responded, staring into their eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"It's the truth."

"Then look me in the eyes when you say it."

The villain clenched their jaw, tensing up. The hero knew them so well. But they couldn't just tell them that it was because of the hero, that the hero had somewhere along the way convinced the villain that there was more to life than fighting and empty battles. That they could let go of the hatred and not resist life anymore.

The hero took a step closer, filling the gap between them. "Villain." They whispered.

The villain gulped, their eyes flickering with uncertainty. "What?"

"You can say it." The hero coaxed, their voice quiet, expression gentle.

The villain didn't want to. They wanted to resist, hold on to the last bit of what they were before the hero entered their life. However, it was all in vain. "Fine. It's because of you."

The hero smiled faintly, their fingers intertwining with the villain's. "I'm glad you're back."

[ikkyfics]

Beyond Words

Remus Lupin x fem!reader

Summary: “Tough day?” Remus asked, turning slightly to watch you more closely. You shrugged. “Kind of. Just… a lot of noise. I needed a little peace.” “Well, you came to the right place.”

Warnings: none

Masterlist

The night at Hogwarts was peaceful, except for the distant sound of conversations and laughter coming from the Gryffindor Common Room. After a particularly busy day, all you wanted was a moment of peace, away from the noise and distractions. So, you climbed the stairs toward the Astronomy Tower, where you knew you could find the silence you longed for.

When you opened the heavy door, the first thing you saw was a familiar silhouette sitting on one of the stone benches under the faint light of the stars. Remus Lupin. He was bent over a book, his brown hair falling softly over his forehead as his eyes scanned the pages. You paused for a moment, hesitating.

“If you’re going back to the noise down there, don’t even think about it,” he said without looking up from the book, but there was a playful smile in his voice.

You sighed lightly, crossing your arms. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. I know you,” he replied, carefully closing the book and finally lifting his gaze to you. That warm, curious brown stare made your heart race every time. He smiled, the kind of smile that seemed reserved only for you. “Come here.”

Remus slid over to make room on the stone bench for you to sit. Despite your initial reluctance, you walked over to him, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

“Tough day?” he asked, turning slightly to watch you more closely.

You shrugged. “Kind of. Just… a lot of noise. I needed a little peace.”

“Well, you came to the right place,” he said softly, pulling something from his robe pocket. He held out his hand and, without saying anything, handed you a small piece of chocolate.

You raised an eyebrow, taking the treat. “You carry chocolate everywhere?”

“Of course,” he answered casually. “You never know when someone might need a little comfort.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head, but accepted the chocolate gratefully. The sweet and comforting taste was exactly what you needed. Silence fell over you both again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. On the contrary, it was the kind of silence that only someone like Remus could make possible—a silence where you could simply exist.

He opened the book again, but his attention clearly wasn’t on the pages. He kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if studying you.

“You’re staring at me,” you commented without taking your eyes off the starry sky.

“It’s because you’re beautiful,” he said without hesitation.

You turned your face toward him, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “You never get tired of saying that, do you?”

“To tell the truth? No,” he replied, smiling with that calm way of his that made it impossible to stay mad at him.

You shook your head, trying to hide how fast your heart was beating. He had this way of making even the simplest moments feel special, like they were just for the two of you.

After a while, Remus closed the book again and set it aside. He turned completely toward you, resting his elbow on his knee while propping his chin in his hand.

“Did you know that this is my favorite thing about you?”

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

“This,” he said, pointing slightly at you. “The way you can turn any place into something peaceful. Even if the day was a mess, even if I’m exhausted… you make everything seem easier.”

“Me?” you asked, incredulous.

“You,” he confirmed, his brown eyes shining with sincerity. “Even the silence with you feels special.”

For a moment, you couldn’t say anything. Not because you didn’t know how to respond, but because it seemed impossible to put into words how much he meant to you. He was everything—a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, a constant in a world full of uncertainties.

“I… I like you too,” you finally said, your voice softer than you intended.

He smiled, the kind of smile that made the world seem lighter. “Well, that’s convenient, considering we’re dating.”

You huffed, trying to keep up the air of indignation, but the heat rising in your face and the corner of your mouth betraying a smile didn’t help at all. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I hear that a lot,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, the playful tone softening his expression.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the kind of silence that felt full of unspoken things, but things that didn’t need to be said. Then, before you could censor yourself, you let slip: “It’s just that you make everything seem so… easy.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Easy? Me?”

“Yes, you,” you repeated, feeling your face heat up even more. “You have this… thing. This way of making everything seem like it’s going to be fine. Even when it shouldn’t. It’s annoying.”

He laughed, that low, cozy laugh that seemed to fill the entire space. “I think that was the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It was sincere,” you shot back, looking at the sky to avoid his gaze. “And don’t get used to it. I don’t do this all the time.”

Remus didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned a little closer until you finally turned to face him again. His brown eyes were shining, a mix of affection and something deeper that made your heart stumble.

“You know I adore you, right?” he said softly, the tone so sincere it almost hurt.

You tried to laugh, but the intensity of his words caught you off guard. “Are you sure about that?”

“I am,” he said without hesitation. “And I’ll keep saying it until you truly believe it.”

Without thinking, you leaned in, pressing a light kiss to his lips. It was brief, but sweet, the kind of gesture that said more than any words could. When you pulled back, you saw he was smiling again—that smile that was all his, soft and charming.

“Was that an argument?” he asked, the playful tone returning.

“Maybe,” you replied, trying to hide how nervous you were, but the smile on his face told you he knew.

He extended his hand, his fingers gently brushing against yours before holding them. The scars on his skin were rough, but the touch was gentle, almost reverent. You knew he didn’t like drawing attention to the marks, but to you, they were just another part of him—another thing to admire.

“You’re beautiful, you know?” he said, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Remus,” you murmured, feeling your face heat up again.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, intertwining his fingers with yours. “It’s not just the way you look at me, or how you can understand everything without me having to say anything. It’s how you pay attention to everything, like now. I see the way you look at me, and that… means more than you think.”

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump in your throat. “I… I just… really like you. A lot.”

He tilted his head, curious. “How much?”

You sighed, knowing you couldn’t escape. “Enough to think you deserve more than just this.”

Before he could respond, you moved closer again, holding his face in your hands. You ran your thumbs gently over the scars on his cheeks, looking at him with all the intensity you usually hid. “I really do adore you, Remus Lupin. Even the little, silly details.”

The surprise in his eyes lasted only a moment before it melted into something even softer. He held your hands, lightly kissing the palm of one of them. “Then we’re even.”

You laughed, but before you could say anything, he leaned in, kissing you with a sweetness that seemed to take all the air from your lungs. It wasn’t rushed or intense, but filled with a tenderness that said everything he felt.

When you pulled apart, he was still close, his forehead resting against yours. “You know there’s no turning back now, right? You’re stuck with me.”

“Am I?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, but you couldn’t stop the smile that escaped.

“Completely,” he replied, his smile matching yours.

And as you stayed there, tangled up in each other under the starlight, the world felt quieter, simpler—like nothing else mattered but the two of you.

[genderqueerdykes]

hi so im sorry if this is rude or anything im just kinda confused ab some things. so one of the posts on this blog mentions that if you hate trans men then your transphobic, which i agree with, but does it mean in the sense of if you say you hate all men (including trans men) that makes you transphobic? (typing that out makes me realize how stupid it is 😓) and also a post was speaking ab terfs and it said smthing along the lines of ‘trans men can be lesbian’ and maybe I dont get it but if trans men are men how can they be lesbians if the meaning of being a lesbian is wlw/nblnb (i think thats the right one)?

pls don’t feel like you need to answer or anything, and thanks if you do. have a good day!

hello!

it is still transphobic, yes. this is also antimasculism. saying that you hate all men affects, well... all men. and that includes other queer men, too. men are not a cishet monolith, and it's not good to hate random cishet men, either. the gender of "man" did not hurt you. specific men hurt you. hating and hiding from a gender pathologically will not keep you safe from harm. women can hurt you. non binary people can hurt you. profiling strangers especially gets dangerous because you are assuming things about them. you can't tell if a stranger in public is a cishet man or not just by looking at them. they could be a trans man, a non binary person, a genderfluid person, a closeted/boymoding trans woman, and so on.

manhood is not bad. it's not something dangerous or scary. behaving this way perpetuates the idea that men can never change or improve or try to do better. forcing them into a box of "Disgusting, vile, must be hated" will only make shitty behaviors worse, because this is reinforcing that they can't ever get better, so why bother? might as well keep doing the same shitty things

men can be lesbians, there's no rules. lesbian does not mean woman. anyone of any gender can be a lesbian. many trans men start out in the lesbian community and wish to stay there because we never lose that part of ourselves. many trans men just are lesbians regardless. i honestly highly recommend talking to the butch community and just transmascs in general because i feel like people who assume that it "doesn't make sense" literally just... have not talked to more than a small handful of transmascs

like, my honest suggestion is to just gain exposure to the butch and lesbian communities outside of white cis gender conforming femme lesbians if you're curious about this experience, because it's so common that if you're in a queer space you basically can't throw a rock without hitting a transmasc lesbian somewhere in the process. anyone of any gender can be a lesbian or gay. many trans women start off in the gay community and still identify as gay men ever after realizing they're also trans women. this phenomenon exists in other communities.

people are just needlessly fixated on trans men being lesbians because "oh no! men are so dangerous to the poor defenseless women!!!!!! they can't protect themselves we have to ban everyone and anyone who looks even slightly masc!!!! soft butches ONLY we don't want any masculine people around here they're too scary!!!!!!" that feeling in your brain that tells you that trans men can't be lesbians is a cop, and you're allowed to kill it.

hope that helps! take care!

[bloomeng]

A long overdue update about the Magical Girl Au for those who are interested:

When I originally started this project it wasn’t even a project it was a one off drawing but I love designing themed clothing so it sorta spiraled from there. And it’s been very fun. I approached the au with the idea of basically attaching magical girl elements onto their already existing costumes. I really wanted the deisgns to feel like they could be put into a preexisting episode like a themed episode or for a gag.

As of right now Cass will be the last character to be designed in this aesthetic.

Somewhere along the road I decided since I was already putting so much time and effort into this might as well pick a more focused vision. Since then I’ve spent time laying out a more structured timeline and cast. With that shift also meant a shift in how I wanted to tackle the designs themselves.

A lot of this shift happened when I first started designing Batman. Batman’s design is so simple that it makes it very hard to reinvent the wheel. It wasn’t working out how I wanted—maybe this was just my own expectations getting in the way but regardless— so I started looking for inspiration. Somewhere around this time I started designing my 16th century Robin. I’ve always liked historical clothing and costuming in general. With that in mind I wanted these designs to feel a bit more original and I decided the best way to do that was to add more historical (and lotr type fantasy) elements.

I’ve enjoyed this au and appreciate all the support I’ve gotten. Fear not this is not the end nor am I taking down posts but yeah some of the lore is in fact outdated at this point. I also will say that because they will no longer just be sketches I want to practice pushing my shape language not just in the clothing but in the characters themselves so the style will likely change. Not too much because it’s still me drawing them, but it’s another thing I will be considering way more moving forward.

I want to get more into my ideas but I’m gonna hold back until I have some actual art to show. A lot of it will feel familiar but def new stuff to come.

[pastorfutureletthembe]

"The show is about to start."

One more mention of being a spectator, an observer. The idea of the Manipulator implies that he doesn't get his hands dirty, he sends people in and watches how things unfold. He doesn't even look that involved, emotionally.

The settings on this screenshot makes it look like a guy watching the world through cameras, but the couch isn't facing the TVs, it's facing us. I think there is a recurrent theme in this fandom we easily overlook: the 4th wall. But let's put that aside for now and focus on his role as an active spectator, making his headcanons come true from the darkness of his basement.

On this countdown picture, he's watching the show, LIVE. The bouquet 💐 puts us on his trail: he's not watching a silver screen but an actual representation. If this is a theater, it also implies there is no do over for each scene, the comedians have to do it all in one go and this night will be like no other before and after, each show tragically unique for people only there to witness it.

And tonight, with a flower bouquet in his arms, he intends to meet his favorite performer (Lu Guang)!

Spiderworts symbolize enduring love, just like myosotis, but also immortality and moral authority. Its other names are Widow’s Tears and False Dayflower.

Interesting.

The former, reminds us of the black widow of course. This name is related to the female's bad habit of eating the male after mating. Cannibalism, you say? x) Why does it do it? Nutrition, of course. It enhances reproductive success. So it's only natural behavior, survival instincts. With the spider imagery comes the spiderweb metaphor, which is always efficient to express manipulation and hunter/prey relationship.

The later forces us to ask, what do you mean false? Dayflower is an actual flower, by the way, meaning reliability and trustworthiness. 👀 Coincidence that Liu Xiao's flower basically implies that he isn't reliable and trustworthy? I don't think so 😂 It also is a call back to the Devil tarot card meta I did last week saying he represents the antichrist, the one you choose to put your trust into for salvation but who's actually bringing you closer to your demise.

Apparently, in victorian floriography language, a man gifts spiderworts to another man to express esteem (X). Liu Xiao wants to make his feelings known, finally, and he's using flowers to do it. I feel like he has a very parasocial relationship with Lu Guang, though. He's pining hard, but Lu Guang never appears to be aware of him. Even in "The Eye", he's looking at the window while Liu Xiao is reading the same poem over and over again. This Shakespeare poem which, as mentioned in a previous meta, is about two lovers who must be separated for survival reasons. Waiting patiently for the end of the representation to make his presence/existence known hints on his penchant for theatrics as well.

All of this info is cool and all but what does it mean?

I truly believe that Liu Xiao is in awe of Lu Guang, might it be because of his abilities (and the creative way he might use them to save Cheng Xiaoshi), his achievements (that we barely know about) or his objective/motivation. Think of him as a scientist who bases his own research on his peer's work. Liu Xiao could very much be the mad scientist type, though lmao.

The fact Lu Guang's chess piece is a white Knight but Liu Xiao is kissing the black Knight in his PV? He's either delusional, thinking Lu Guang and he are the same, or he knows all of Lu Guang's dark secrets. As a stalker does, you know.

[sarcasticgaypotato]

The Best Solution

On cold, clear nights that bathed the world in pale blue light, Chell turned her chin up and looked at the sky.

She was not afflicted with the condition known as ‘sentimentality,’ no matter how many scorch-marked, heart-adorned metal cubes got thrown her way and left behind in fields of wheat a hundred miles away. But the ravaged surface world offered her little (save for her own freedom) and the nights were as quiet and lonely as the days, just without an excuse to fill her time by finding something to busy herself with under the light of the sun.

So, she looked upward and let her mind wander.

Every streak of a shooting star she hoped was a certain circular heap of scrap metal finally burning up in the atmosphere.

“Let go! I’m still connected. I can pull myself in.”

Of course he could. If she had given him half a chance, he would’ve pulled himself back in just fine—and let her fly off into space without a second thought if it would save his own steel.

The cold vacuum of space. When she closed her eyes, Chell could still feel it in the wind that tickled the stray hairs on the back of her neck, in the cold that stole the breath from her lungs as she gasped it. That rush of weightlessness, her eyes watering and freezing her eyelashes together, and that pit in her stomach that said, after everything she had survived, this might be it.

She stared up at the moon; a pale white beauty, once near enough for Chell to reach out and touch, now as distant as ever. A sliver in the night sky, it grinned down at her with a smile that knew the taste of her fear. An untouchable queen who would have her head, if she had her way. Chell would have called it as familiar as it was deadly, if not for one thing that nagged at her mind as she stared, lost among stars and memories alike.

This was always the point in her late-night stargazing that Chell started scratching absentmindedly at her wrist, where the phantom burn of cold metal claws still seared into her skin.

Chell never fell for any of GLaDOS’s tricks; she knew her too well. That hate was familiar, expected. Working together in Old Aperture was a surprise only for a moment; it was logical if they wanted to survive. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or “Everybody likes revenge,” as a certain someone had put it. 

She trusted GLaDOS’s intelligence enough to know that she would play nice for as long as they had a shared goal, and for as long as Chell held all the power. Don’t bite the hand that holds your consciousness trapped in a potato battery, or something like that.

Chell had even been fairly confident that after they beat Wheatley (she never had any doubt that they would), as long as she kept her guard up and an eye on her, GLaDOS wouldn’t risk betraying her. The world’s most intelligent lifeform had finally learned that Chell wasn’t worth crossing—it only took two losing battles for the lesson to sink in.

GLaDOS would keep her end of the bargain as long as it was convenient to do so. That was why Chell couldn’t make sense of what happened. No matter how many times she replayed those seconds in her head, watching her own memories in slow motion as GLaDOS knocked Wheatley free of the chassis and sent him spinning into space, robbing Chell of her only anchor to Earth. 

Freefall. 

Could you call it falling without gravity? Spinning, flailing, her body wrenched outward, seconds away from dying in space, embarrassingly outlived by the very same moron who was responsible for this whole mess. In the second that she had to process her impending death, Chell took a small hint of satisfaction in knowing that at least she took him down with her. Sure, the lack of air wouldn’t kill him as quickly as it would her, but he was far from a self-proclaimed king of Aperture out here. He was nothing but a hunk of junk destined to get knocked around by asteroids like a pinball. At least GLaDOS had a death worth bragging about under her non-existent belt; Chell had blown her to bits in what she would humbly call ‘a spectacular fashion.’

GLaDOS. Was her last thought before unconsciousness took her going to be about GLaDOS? How apt. GLaDOS would’ve loved to hear that, not that Chell would’ve ever told her, even if she had the chance.

She wouldn’t have the chance. She wasn’t supposed to.

When Chell felt that familiar metal claw clamp around her wrist, the first thought her fading consciousness could conjure was that GLaDOS wanted to be personally responsible for flinging her out into space, maybe so she could get a good spin on the throw. The realization that GLaDOS was pulling her in, back towards Earth, to safety, was one that proved entirely too much for her oxygen-deprived brain to process. So, she passed out.

GLaDOS could have done nothing at all, and Chell would have died. If she wanted the satisfaction of doing it herself, she could have crushed her under a metal plate or thrown her in the incinerator while she was unconscious. Instead, GLaDOS saved her life, watched over her recovery until she awoke, and then … let her go with only a bit of theatrics and nothing else. 

She pinned the blame on Caroline and made a big show of deleting her, neither of which Chell believed for a second. That golden eye took her in, unflinching, with the same inscrutable expression before and after the automated voice cheerfully announced Caroline’s removal. A long dead secretary Chell had never crossed paths with had nothing to do with this; there was no difference between the GLaDOS that pulled her from space and the GLaDOS who watched the elevator ascend to the surface now.  

This was all her, and she was supposed to give them both a satisfying conclusion to them parting ways with weapons lowered, standing (even if one of them didn’t have legs) on equal ground. GLaDOS was supposed to make this easy by sending her off with an insult or a half-hearted threat of one last murder attempt for old times’ sake.

“Killing you is hard.”

Liar. 

Killing me would have been easy if you wanted to.

Why didn’t you want to?

[kazumikissu]

CRYBABY !

tutor!scaramouche x fem!reader

✧ — making you cry is part of the learning process!

— nsfw, university au, scaramouche has dacryphilia, spanking, sex with an object, humiliation, reader is the stereotypical sorority girl for the plot, not beta read | 1,378 words

no amount of pleading from different subject professors could ever get scaramouche to tutor. with pay or not, the last thing he wanted to eat on his place was a stupid student who can't fend for themselves in a field where mental strength and intellect mattered over beauty and fashion. he cared little to how you even passed the opening exams and got accepted into a high-demanding university like this, the exact same one scaramouche attends, unfortunate for his luck.

if that wasn't enough, you took the same program as scaramouche did, leading you to share a few too many classes together—too much for what he would consider his liking. you're no more than brain-dead during lecrure hours, having evaded from conversing with you one-too-many times. a no-good partygoer in his eyes, with a face caked with layers of make-up and an IQ as little as your personality.

if he could, scaramouche would've gladly ignored your existence for the rest of his years and acted like you never existed first thing. yet he could only bet on his luck for the nth time he's turned down his professor's request in tutoring you. when his phone rung to his mother's number, no longer pleading, but demanding scaramouche just for the extra points he'll get after a hell of a session with you—or at least that's what he'd like to imagine being with you for a few many hours.

after a cacophony of cursing over the line, he ends up in front of your doorstep, fingers ticking by his side as he finds himself to be less and less interested in entertaining your stupidity, all by the passing minute.

yet scaramouche couldn't find too many complaints now that this session brought you draped over his lap, teary eyed and snot down your nostrils. "how many times are you going to get this question wrong, stupid bitch?" a tone as sharp as the slap he drives against the plush of your ass, stinging your reddening flesh a prominent red. a shade addictive, the darker it gets, the better he saw it.

"s…scara, m'sorry!" drool dripped down the corner of your lips as sniffles left your lungs, the tips of your fingers quivering with an electricity that goes through your veins, buzzing with every harsh smack from scaramouche. "I don't know what… what the question means…"

words fumble out your lips as slippery as a rock in a river, tongue smooth on the roof of your mouth as you took in a heavy gulp. there was little to no mercy in scaramouche's piercing gaze, however, yet he was heavily entertained with the stupid little delight he had draped over his lap. "oh, but wouldn't this be the sixth time i'd have to explain it to you? are you that much of an imbecile?" another slap bounced against the walls of your room, cries coming louder than words with the parting of your lips.

"the only thing you're good at is opening your legs. the professor might as well make you the class whore, if he wants you to be so useful. i don't see anything that can nurture you in the brain if not between your legs," scaramouche has mocked you more times you've spoken a coherent sentence over the time he's been with you. but, unfortunately, pain came little from all your crying. rather, a show of pleasure, as it seemed your lower legs were weeping wetter than your eyes were spilling out tears.

scaramouche has never seen anything more pathetic. well, maybe his mother trying to reconcile with him after years off adding pressure to heavy his plate, but this was another category. you were another category, and one he surprisingly enjoys. "stop squirming, shitface," he hissed, brows knitted as one hand held you down, the other finally straying away from your ass, reaching for something.

a something that had your eyes widen looking back, twirling a pencil enticingly between his fingers. "what, cat got your tongue again, dumbo bitch?" that bite never left his tone as scaramouche brought his hand back, now right between your legs as you're left restrained in horror. "move and I'll drive the tip of this until the lead is flush against your thigh bone, okay? i'll make my own hole to fuck with if you don't stop pissing me off."

that threat had you frozen immediately, the air in your lungs thinning within seconds of anticipation. your heartbeat was assaulting your eardrums with every little breath you started to heave, a shudder breaking through as you felt the eraser side of the pencil trace the outer of your labia with deliberance. slowly, mockingly, as if scaramouche is taunting you—and he is.

the blunt surface pressed against the pearl that peeked between your slit, making you suck in a breath before scaramouche does it again, squishing your clit with every toe you curl from the sensation. your back arched an angle you didn't know you could curve at, the moment he pushed the slender wood into you, with the intent to seek out that spot that made your vision start to blur at the edges. well, if they weren't already.

with how turned on you got by a spanking, cloud 9 was closer to your reach with how loose your mind has gotten. and throughout, scaramouche found a sick sense simmer inside his stomach. perhaps, a sense of satisfaction… or a something that wells his ego at the sight of you so stupid. perfectly fucked-out type of stupid, and he's yet to start! "you're getting off to this? fucking disgusting." he swirled the pencil inside of you, purposely rubbing every wall and nudging at every crevice. "had the professor's known you'd be so whorish, you're better off being a prostitute than live out a life where you start business and make money.

"because, unfortunately for you, the main foundation of a company should be the founder's brains. but you? you're only a waste of meat," scaramouche's tone lowers in volume, a taunt underlying each hurtful words, meant to make you sniffle louder than the last time. make you cry more vibrantly, where your voice is bouncing off the walls, moans and cries with the sound of your pussy slick as the cherry on top. "then again, you're not so bad. you're a waste, but certainly a… pleasant looking one."

the backhanded compliment made the lower of your stomach hot, accompanied with the persistent push of the pencil's blunt tip inside you, aiming at your g-stop with impeccable precision. you always loved to flaunt your looks, anyway, what could a superflouos of talent stand for if there's already a pretty face catching everyone's attention?

"scaramouche," his name bubbles at the surface of your tongue, forming words become a much more even difficult feat—had it been earlier when he punished you by spanking and making you read, you would've failed by a landslide. scaramouche's name was the only coherent thing you could manage out your drooling lips, and even then, it was still muffled by the sound of sex in the air. "i'm gonna… scara, 'm gonna cum," the words squeezed out your lungs the same time as your pussy clenched around the intruding object, velvet walls contracting like it's seeking for more. and more did scaramouche give, drilling the pencil fully into you after a click of his tongue.

only then did you finally feel the object kiss your cervix, causing you to immediately sieze across his lap. finger clenched inwards, burning onto the palm of your hand to the point your knuckles go white. back arching further up that scaramouche's internally impressed you haven't broken the curve of your spine yet, and the tense curls of your toes with your knees throwing at the air in pleasure. "holy shit," scaramouche grunts, pausing the movements of his wrist, fingers slipping as they kept their hold on the pencil sheathed fully in you. his whole arm was soaked beyond his bewilderment, but that quickly shifted into something else.

manifesting a smirk on the corner of his lip, scaramouche hummed. "you're really a dirty fucking bitch. but that's only good for me, yeah? let's see how much more times i can make you fucking squirt." certainly more times that you can get a good grade for your subjects on your own—or lack of thereof—but only the loud stretch of the evening will tell.

a/n; um... don't do this at home unless your pencil is clean, i guess? keep your kitty infection-free ❤️😝 i'm not actually sure if i wrote this properly so uh boombayah!!!