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shivunin · 1 day ago

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Filed Under 398.2

In which Lucanis and Rook don't quite manage to have a post-game interlude in the Necropolis library. (Inspired by this post) *The beginning of this is a bit risqué, but not explicit

(Rook Ingellvar/Lucanis Dellamorte | 2,470 Words | AO3 Link)

“We only have—mph—half an hour, maybe forty-five—why do you have so many belts?”

“Poisons,” Lucanis murmured against Rook’s mouth, hands already working deftly at the buckles. “Throwing knives. Other things that I—ah!”

Lenore caught his lower lip between her teeth, thumbs already hooked into her underthings to push them down and out of the way. The library shelves, carved sturdily from stone, absorbed his weight admirably when she pushed Lucanis back into it. Sometimes, she wished she was just a little taller, or that she owned any shoes with a heel. It was hard to reach his mouth for kissing without a little assistance.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, shedding three belts in quick succession and starting on the last.

“Symposium,” she told him. “Compulsory. I waited until they swept for apprentices or we would’ve had company. That’s why we only have half an hour.”

And she was infinitely grateful she’d worn a dress for once. Lucanis was coming straight from a contract, and thus his clothing would take significantly more work to get off. She couldn’t complain, though; it’d been nearly a month since she’d seen him and he’d have to go straight back to Antiva from here. She was fortunate they had even this long.

Climbing to her own quarters would have taken too long, and she’d been content with catching up in a crypt while they’d waited for the library to clear out. He’d given her the wide bracelet she wore on her left wrist now, malachite beetles inlaid with gold. She’d given him wyvern venom enchanted with a potent paralysis spell, just in case his target had built up a resistance. It was tucked into the bandolier on his belt now, discarded amongst the others on the library floor. It was gratifying that he’d seemed to appreciate it—his thanks had been enthusiastic enough that they’d wound up, well, here.

It was unfortunate that she held the Necropolis too sacred to do this in the crypt because they probably would’ve had a little more privacy. Ah, well; she’d have to thank Emmrich later for holding a symposium at such a convenient hour. Sex in the library was so much better than no sex at all.

As she thought so, Lucanis’s sword belt fell to the floor. In an instant, he’d gathered her up into his arms and reversed their positions. His mouth was—she’d missed kissing him so much. She’d gone much of her life not doing it or thinking about it at all; it seemed ridiculous that she would feel the absence of it so keenly now. It was not something she could understand through logic, so she’d stopped trying.

There was something disarming about the way he sometimes curled his hand around the back of her neck, as if she was something precious, something that must be held carefully. Nothing else in the world—no accomplishment, no heady wine or hard-won victory—ever made her feel the way she did when he touched her. It wasn’t even the sex she needed, it was just—being near him, feeling his hands on her skin. The need was as urgent as breathing.

His hands slid up her thighs now, pushing the dark fabric out of his way with agonizing care. Lenore had wrapped her legs around his back for stability, but she shifted them enough for him to move the skirt out of the way. All that remained between them was a thin, unfastened layer of leather. So very little was left to separate them.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and tipped his head so his kisses fell over her exposed collarbones. Lenore squirmed against him, half-laughing.

“Ready? I’m melting,” she told him, and made a soft, wanting sound when his hand slid between them to trace the length of her. She loved the quiet Antivan curse he mouthed against her skin, the devastating care present in every touch, the heat of his skin, the—

She loved him. She loved all of him.

Lucanis removed his hand from her waist and looked up—presumably to find a spot to brace against. Slowly, his eyes focused on something to the left of her head. Oh, dear. There were spiders and wisps and things in here sometimes. Had one of them crept closer? She turned her head to look where he did and smiled.

Ah. No, not a wisp or a spider at all.

“The Ways of Wyverns: Provincial Folklore and Mythology,” Lenore read aloud.

Lucanis cleared his throat, glancing at her and then up again.

“I don’t suppose I could…borrow that? Return it to you later?” he asked.

“Enchanted, I’m afraid,” she told him sympathetically. “Whole section is. We’ve the best research collection on monster hunting here, all donated by a foremost Nevarran scholar on the subject. There’s a standing bounty for any copies of a lot of them and they’re only lent out on special occasions. After the third or fourth theft, they took measures. Nothing from the collection leaves the Necropolis.”

Absently, she reached over her head and slid the volume free, propping it on her exposed thigh.

“Oh, I’ve read this one,” she told him. “It’s actually rather interesting. The folk in rural Orlais have all these elaborate traditions around wyvern hunts. There are altars and rituals associated with them, even given how dangerous wyverns can get when fully grown. One of the families even…”

She trailed off, abruptly aware of the position they were in. Half-naked in the arms of the man she loved and hadn’t seen for a month and she was telling him about wyvern hunting traditions in Orlais. How were things like this always happening to her? It was nearly as bad as the time she’d had to stop touching him so she could coax a freshly animated skeleton to leave her quarters.

“Go on,” Lucanis said, angling his head to look at the book. “What do they do? I have heard about the hunts, but I have never seen this—”

Lenore snorted, then laughed, moving the book out of the way so she could press her face into his half-exposed shoulder. For a moment, laughter overtook her and she was helpless to explain herself.

When she gathered herself at last, she lifted her head to look at him. Already, she could see the shift in his expression. It was the same one she felt herself. It hardly mattered that they’d been waiting to see each other for a month or that they had very little time before he would leave again. The idea of sitting propped in his arms while they read together was every bit as attractive as making love against the cold bookshelves of the Grand Necropolis.

Actually, it sounded more attractive than what they were doing. Her hip was starting to hurt and the shelves really were frigid. This had seemed a lot more spontaneous and romantic than it actually felt. Ah, well. One fantasy punctured by reality, one likely realized—if he felt as she did.

“You are perfect,” she said, and unwound her legs from his back. “Why don’t we read this together instead?”

“You’re certain?” he asked, setting both hands on her hips. He was frowning, as if trying to work something out. “You don’t want to…?”

“I’m certain if you are,” she said, still half-laughing. “But only if you stay close to me. I’ve missed having you close enough to touch.”

“I was going to say the same to you,” he told her, dipping his head to kiss her again.

He really did feel perfect, she decided happily, sliding down his body. She could see her underthings just behind him. If she hurried to get them back on, they might make it through two or three chapters before their time was up. Last week, she’d even found an inordinately large chair near this section, one big enough for two if the two were comfortable with each other.

They passed nearly an hour together in the quiet library, Lenore snuggled back against his chest while he paged through the volume on wyverns. At intervals, Lucanis would set the book down to exclaim over some piece of trivia and Lenore would respond with other things she’d gleaned from the library.

“Why do you know so much about wyverns?” he asked her after one such moment.

Lenore, now fully clothed and comfortably ensconced between his chest and the arm of the chair, grinned at him.

“Why do you think?” she asked him.

Lucanis set the book face-down on her lap, which covered his.

“You read this for me?” he asked, reaching for her face. Rook pressed her cheek against his palm, closing her eyes.

“When I miss you, sometimes I come down here and read about them. I think about which things you’d like, what I ought to tell you later. I have a list somewhere. Under a book in my rooms, probably.”

“You—”

Lucanis cut himself off, surging forward to kiss Rook. Carefully, he lifted both hands and cradled the base of her skull, holding her exquisitely still. His lips moved against hers, delicate at first, as if conveying some unspeakable emotion. Slowly, he leaned into her, pressing his cheek to hers. Lenore’s hands slid down his shoulders, touching the leather below, the criss-crossing belts, the vee of bare skin below his throat and above his heart. She’d grown accustomed to the soft brush of his beard, the way he angled his lips against hers, and she cherished it all.

How horribly she’d missed this while he’d been away. She’d never truly understood how lucky she was to always have him near the Lighthouse. Being with him, especially like this, felt right in a way she had no means to articulate.

For long, sweet moments, he simply rested against her, their lips pressed softly together. When he pulled away at last, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“You think of me,” he said at last.

“Of course I think of you. Both of you. I’ve boxes of things for Spite to smell and touch too, if we have time. When we have time.”

He touched her face, tracing the angle of her jaw and the curve of her cheek. He didn’t move away from her.

“I want to stay,” he said. “For tonight, at least.”

“Don’t you have to go back to Treviso?” she asked him. The lines beside his eyes deepened.

“I can send word that I’ve been delayed. It will give us until dawn at the earliest.”

Lenore leaned back, studying his face. They both knew who’d demanded he return as soon as this contract was completed. It was the same person who’d chosen contracts increasingly far afield. Any contract would do, so long as the fee was paid and the target was far away from Nevarra.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” she said at last.

The book still rested on her lap. She flipped it closed to protect the pages, leaving a finger tucked into the edge to save their place.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

“Lucanis, I don’t…”

Didn’t what? She wanted him to rest in her bed, to read with her, to be there when she tracked down that list of things she’d wanted to tell him. How could she say no to any of that, especially when she’d rather his grandmother trip into a canal than get to have him back?

And it was precisely that—the animosity between her and Caterina Dellamorte—that meant she was reluctant to be the one who asked him to stay. His family was everything to him; it was not a bond she would test for her own gratification.

“Do you want me here, Rook?” he asked, resting his hand over hers on the book.

“Of course I do.”

“Then I will stay,” he said. “We can take this book to your rooms. Finish what we started.”

Yes. Oh, she wanted that so badly that it almost hurt to imagine. She’d resigned herself to sleeping alone already, had braced herself for the pain of curling up alone in her bed after having him for so brief a time.

Solitude still came more easily to her than company. That was what she told herself when he was gone, anyway. It was easier to tell herself so than it was to admit that it cost her something vital every time she left him at the eluvian to Treviso.

Endearments did not trip easily from his tongue, and she would have accepted them with just as little grace if they had. Long experience had taught her that there were other words that amounted to the same thing.

“Lenore,” he said quietly, and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Lenore. I would always wake with you if I could.”

“I know,” she told him, and slid from his lap so he couldn’t watch her gather herself. “Come on. If we stay up late, we can finish this in my rooms.”

Already, there were voices at the doors to the library. The symposium must be done, later than expected. No doubt, she would hear the broad strokes of it tomorrow. If not, she’d get the tale from the one who’d led it. Catching up would keep her busy, and that would be good.

But—none of that had to matter right now. Corpses and spirits and necromancy could wait for tomorrow. Right now, she had a book to read and an assassin to hold.

The voices drew closer. As if he did not care whether or not they saw, Lucanis took her hand and kissed it slowly, one knuckle at a time. It had been the first place he had kissed her and the gesture, no matter how briefly it was performed, always did something funny to her knees. When he was done, he did not let her go. His thumb ran over her knuckles instead, back and forth, as if reminding himself where they were.

Lenore swallowed around the tightness in her throat and hurried toward the exit. Every moment of happiness they’d ever had together had been carved from a universe that didn’t want to share. This would be no different than any of those other moments. They had a whole night ahead of them—eons and eons of time stretching out before her, so much more than she’d thought she would have. She didn’t want to waste a second thinking about his inevitable departure, how he would turn to look at her one last time before he stepped through the mirror to the Diamond.

No. Instead, she would think about…about wyverns.

As long as he was with her, as long as she could feel him near, she was satisfied.

#lucanis dellamorte #rookanis #rook x lucanis #rook ingellvar #lenore ingellvar #shivunin scrivening #da fanfic #and ty mer for enabling me!!#dav #dav spoilers #veilguard #datv

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gorbo-longstocking · 11 hours ago

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Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter 4

Pairings: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: The emperors’ call upon you to humiliate yourself for their entertainment, and in your anger, you let your tongue loose. The consequences of such an action are not very fun.

Tags: Mentions of period-typical slavery, spit drinking, it’s gross and Caracalla is horny about it for a second, threats of eye trauma, both Geta’s and Caracalla’s anger, medical innaccuracies, very very small implications of past suicidal thoughts and diabolical levels of the ‘I can fix them’ mindset

Word Count: 6.7k Words

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Caracalla did not come to the clinic at the time you had specified. He didn’t come the next day, nor the day after that. You were starting to believe that either he had forgotten, or that he had never intended on returning in the first place. With a sigh, you scooted back your chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor. The noise grated on your ears. A headache from a lack of sleep had begun to pound behind your eyes a day ago, with no sign of letting up. Most people would take that as a sign to rest. You were far too stubborn to be considered ‘most people.’

After the emperors’ physical, you were led to the room where you would be sleeping. It was located not far from the emperors’ own personal chambers in case a medical emergency arose in the night. The room was far too lavish for your tastes, not large by any means, but more than enough room for yourself. With tall ceilings and a balcony overlooking the gardens — an addition that felt wholly unnecessary — you found the bed was a horrid mix of both too firm and too soft. Worst of all, the room was filled with slaves ready to tend to your every need. You quickly, and kindly, informed them you preferred to attend to personal matters on your own. The idea of telling a slave what to do made you viscerally uncomfortable, so you intended to avoid doing it at whatever cost you could manage. As unrealistic as you knew that goal was considering how many slaves were within the palace walls and how commonplace it was in this time period, you intended to stick with it. A part of you wished that your brain would have skipped this part of living in the Roman Empire, but, of course, that would be too much to ask.

While it made sense for your personal quarters to be near both the emperors and the clinic, you wished to be closer to Aelius and Marianus, both of which were stuck bunking with the ever stringent praetorian guard. A part of you felt a bit guilty. Here you were with a room, all to yourself, while they were stuck sleeping with ten men at a time. At least, that was what Aelius had told you. Marianus was still somewhat miffed about you lying to him when you first met, so he wasn’t talking to you. Even after you apologized and tried to explain yourself, all you got was a grunt in response. It was kind of annoying and far too childish for a man you assumed was in his late thirties, early forties, but you digressed.

Right now, it was about ten o'clock in the morning, judging by the position the sun was in outside the grand windows of the — your? — clinic. You had pulled yet another all-nighter. It took time to refresh your memory on ancient medicine and techniques, and it took even more time pouring over texts that were written in a language different from your mother tongue. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it right, even if that meant hunting down the emperors in their own palace to give them some of your, very high quality, if you said so yourself, advice.

Maybe you were looking a gift horse in the mouth here. With the emperors nowhere near you, whether they were uninterested or simply forgotten that you existed, you were free to do as you pleased without fear of retaliation. That would be true if your ever observant self hadn’t noticed that you were being trailed by no less than two praetorians wherever you went. You didn’t know which emperor set them upon you — though, you figured it was Geta — but it meant that you couldn’t look like you were goofing off. Not that you would if you weren’t being trailed, anyway. Perhaps this was a test of sorts. To quantify your work ethic through the eyes of the emperors’ personal guard. You intended to prove your worth the best you could, even if you were sure it didn’t cast a flattering image of your skills as a physician to be carrying armfuls of scrolls and wax tablets on medicine from the archives to pour over the entire night.

First and foremost, you had to find Caracalla and determine his symptoms. Much to what you were sure to be his annoyance, you also had to perform an examination to see if they had worsened as well. If he had come to you when you asked, this wouldn’t have to happen, but he hadn’t. That meant that he did it to himself and you would feel no pity for him, no matter how he whined or threatened.

Then, you would find Geta to check his blood pressure once more. If it was still high, you would prescribe him an hour of relaxation and a half-hour of exercise per day. Along with that, you would like to tell him to limit his consumption of alcohol, however, you feared even uttering the idea he should drink less wine was an executable offense.

Another miserable sigh puffed from your nose as you stood. Your body protested the movement, your bones aching and cracking as you performed a few cursory stretches. There was little you wouldn’t give to shotgun a RedBull right about now. As much as you hated the taste of most energy drinks, they were an age old friend of yours. Until now, in your own dream, where you were denied even the simplest of luxuries. With the heels of your palms, you scrubbed the crust from your eyes before massaging your temples to regain some semblance of awareness. You were thankful it seemed to be spring — when you asked for the date, all you received was a babble of Latin that sounded more like nonsense to you than anything substantial. Thankfully, the word Aprilis was familiar enough for you to understand, at the very least, what season you were in. The idea that it would only get hotter made your skin crawl. It was already sweltering in the afternoon, you didn’t need it to get any worse.

You stared at your cluttered desk. Before you left to search for the emperors, you really should organize yourself a little better. Staring at the pile of scrolls and wax tablets, some in Latin and some containing your own English notes, you shrugged. Whatever. There would be time to clean later. If you delved head first into your own clutter, you would use it as an excuse to avoid your actual duties. As much as the emperors intimidated you, their health was in your hands, and that was something you took very seriously.

Slipping on your anachronistic shoes, you marched out of the clinic with as much energy as your exhausted body could muster. With dark bags under your eyes, a prominent slouch, and dragging feet, you must have looked a sad sight. Definitely not anywhere near how a physician, let alone an imperial one, should carry himself, though you couldn’t bring yourself to care. After today, you would sleep. You had updated your knowledge on herbal remedies enough for you to feel comfortable treating Caracalla’s symptoms, and anything else that arose in the near future.

You let out another yawn as you trekked down the halls. They were both oddly barren and lavish in a strange contrasting way that made your head spin. What little furniture and decorations a room had were all worth more than what you made in a year, which was nothing to sneeze at considering you were a surgical resident. It was strange to see such extravagant busts and tapestries doing little else aside from collecting dust.

Once you finished your necessary tasks for the day — the only one’s being your care for the emperors — you could go to bed.

Surely, they couldn’t be too hard to find.

It wasn’t until three hours passed and you were both drenched in sweat and frustration did you realize how big this stupid palace was. You took a few steadying breaths as you fanned yourself with the collar of your tunic. It was a good thing that you had been provided a few other articles of Roman garb — though your favorite, for sentimental reasons, was the one Aelius gave you — so you could change rather than mildew in the same linen for however long.

You had been through almost the entire palace. Passed the emperors’ chambers, through the slaves quarters, down each and every hall, to the gardens, then the kitchens, there was not a stone you left unturned. Yet, you could not find the emperors. You were miserable and hot, the midday sun shining through almost every window in an attempt to cook you even further. If you found out this was all a game and that the emperors were hiding from you, well, apologies to Aelius and Marianus, but you were going to kill those God forsaken twins yourself.

“Medicus,” A soft voice called out from behind you.

Your frustration made you turn around harsher than you intended, and the woman who had called your name took a nervous step back. In an instant, you schooled your expression into something more pleasant. “I apologize, you startled me, and I find myself in a foul mood. What did you need?”

The woman gave you a small smile, though she kept her eyes cast downwards. “The Caesarēs request your presence.”

Of course, they did. You spend all morning looking for them, only for them to send another to fetch you when it struck their fancy. A part of you recognized that if you had simply asked one of the many people who littered the palace halls where the emperors were, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. The bigger part of you squashed that thought like a bug.

“Lead the way,” You responded.

She returned your smile, meeting your eyes for a mere moment, before turning and leading you away. Much to your unending dismay, it didn’t take long for you to reach the room that the emperors were lounging in. Geta was reclined on a lectus, settled on his side with his back to you as he popped a grape in his mouth. Caracalla, on the other hand, was on his back, facing the door. His smile grew cruel when he laid eyes on you. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he gestured to you, causing Geta to sit up. For once, he seemed pleased to see you.

It put you on edge.

“Alga,” Geta began. There was a flush to his cheeks, visible under his makeup. Next to him was a pitcher of wine, and judging by the glassiness in both emperor’s eyes, it was sure to be half empty. “I see you come when called.”

“Like a dog,” Caracalla piped up with a cackle.

You pursed your lips into a thin line to keep your irritation from showing. After a few nights of very little sleep and half a morning in search of the very two who laid before you, it was hard to keep your annoyance to yourself. It was a good thing that you were good at holding your tongue.

For the most part. “Woof.”

Caracalla found your response to be hilarious, clutching his stomach as he laughed, while Geta took the sarcasm for what it was. His dark eyes narrowed, though his smile was still firmly in place. He looked like he knew something you didn’t. It was frightening enough to make you want to run.

“Come here, doggy, there is a task that we require of you.” Geta held out his hand, motioning with his index and middle finger for you to come closer. Against your better judgement, you obeyed. Caracalla was watching you, expectation and barely contained mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

From a nearby table, Geta grabbed a jewel encrusted cup and held it out for you to take. You wrapped your fingers around the stem, but didn’t look inside. Instead, your gaze flickered between both emperors. A bit of laughter squeaked from between Caracalla’s lips, while in his inebriation, Geta’s own lips quirked upwards as you held the cup in your hand.

“Drink,” Geta ordered.

Any other day, any other moment, you would have been intimidated into obeying without hesitation. This was not one of those days, however. On principle, you refused to look into the cup as you ground out your response through clenched teeth, “Why, Caesar?”

Caracalla snickered, his expression triumphant despite your questioning. It looked like he believed that he had already won. He may very well have. “Because my brother asked you to, Alga. Would you truly deny an emperor such a small request?”

Your own response, that, yes, you would, died on your tongue when Geta smiled. “Our praegustator is currently occupied. We need you to taste what is in that cup for our consumption. You wouldn’t want your emperors poisoned, would you?”

As Geta spoke, Caracalla was trying to hide his laughter behind his hand, his eyes focused on the chalice that you held. Even Geta seemed to have a hard time keeping the mean grin from his face. Horror bubbled in your gut when you realized what exactly this meant. These two drunken schoolchildren had tampered with your drink. It wasn’t as if you could say no. Whatever was in this cup, you would have to swallow. With growing disgust and exasperation, you finally looked down at the cup to see what was inside.

Not even a beat passed before you choked on a gag. It was spit. The cup that Geta gave you, expecting you to drink from, was nearly halfway full of clear, frothy saliva. Unable to stop yourself, you jiggled the cup and watched the liquid wiggle and slosh, far too thick for your liking. Caracalla — and this was Caracalla’s spit, you doubted Geta, for as funny as he seemed to think this was, would debase himself enough to spit into a cup simply to humiliate you — was dehydrated, and you hated your doctorly mind for filing that information for later. Watching you with rapt attention, he was grinning so wide, his teeth were showing.

In the wake of your silence, Geta decided to remind you that he was there. “Our last praegustator did not last long, given his occupation.” He turned to his brother. “What was his name again?”

Caracalla shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t care to learn it.”

“You want me… to drink this?” You finally asked, voice distant.

“Of course we do, medicus, why else would we ask you?” Geta said, far more pleasant than you expected, given your hesitation. When you glanced at him, he smirked at you, his eyes shining with victory.

Caracalla circled his wrist. “Go on then, Alga. I promise you that is our finest spirit. You will enjoy it immensely.”

There was nothing to be done about it. You were trapped between a rock and a hard place. Squeezing your eyes shut, you raised the cup to your mouth, and took a sip. Caracalla’s spit was still warm, whether it was from sitting in the sun or because it was fresh from the well, so to speak, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. All that mattered was that it was thick, and warm, and tasted like salt and wine. It was, quite possibly, the most vile thing you had ever put into your mouth. To say it took everything in your power to swallow wouldn’t be an understatement.

A small ‘eugh’ escaped you as you pulled the cup away from your lips. While Geta had the decorum not to laugh in your face — however, not enough to keep the grin from worming onto his features at your obvious disgust — Caracalla did not. He cackled, kicking his legs childishly, all while you forced a smile so as not to glare.

“How did it taste, medicus?” Caracalla managed to ask once he had calmed down.

You set the cup on a nearby table. Not so subtly, Geta picked it up and dumped it out in a nearby plant. With a small smile and an eyebrow twitch, you replied, “Divine, Caesar.”

Whatever reaction you expected from Caracalla given your sarcastic response, it wasn’t what you got. Where you thought he would laugh again, or perhaps snap at you, you watched his flush darken and his pupils dilate, his smile becoming a bit too perverse for your liking.

“Do not fret, Alga, there is always more where that came from.”

The skill at which you ignored Caracalla’s blatant arousal should have been lauded. “Is that all, Caesarēs?”

Geta gave you a small sneer and flicked his wrist to the exit. “Yes, medicus, you have entertained us enough for now. You may go.”

You turned to leave, when you paused, your fists clenched at your sides. They would not win. You would get what you came for, whether they liked it or not. The emperors had just made you drink spit, you refused to let that go unpunished.

“I would like to see you both at the clinic. Tonight,” You said. Your tone was firmer than you intended, but you couldn’t care less at the moment.

Geta blinked in surprise before his features slipped into irritation. “And what is it that makes you believe you can demand anything of us?”

“I am your physician, and it is not a demand, it is a strongly encouraged request,” As you spoke, you kept your gaze on the far wall so as not to be open with your blatant disdain. “Come together or separate, but I expect you both by midnight.”

Geta slowly sat up, his eyes narrowed. “And if we don’t.”

“Nothing will happen,” You replied with what was intended to be a casual shrug. “You will simply have a very angry physician, Caesar. A physician whose duty it is to hold your life in his hands when you are at your most vulnerable, ravaged by sickness or injury.”

“Is that a threat, medicus? It is not wise to threaten your emperors.”

“Of course not.” You turned to Caracalla who was watching the exchange with foggy eyes. “And, if it is of any motivation to you, if you do not come to my clinic tonight, perhaps I will have a conversation with your brother in regards to what we discussed previously. My promise is rendered null in the wake of your health and safety, Emperor Caracalla.” It was a lie, you would tell Geta nothing, but Caracalla didn’t know that. Unable to stand the weight of his glare, you flicked your gaze back to Geta. “That is my number one priority. I cannot perform my duties if neither of you will allow me. Cooperation is all I ask for.”

“It seems our dog has a bit of a bite, brother.” Despite laying, Caracalla tilted his chin to glower at you.

Geta didn’t look amused, though his lips twitched. “Alga Catulus. What a fitting name for a fitting puppy.”

Straightening your back, you refused to back down this time, even as your palms shook. To hide the display of your nerves, you curled your hands behind your back. “I will see you tonight, Caesarēs.”

Before either could respond, you stomped out of the room, the inside of your mouth burning. Neither called for you to stop, merely watched. Their glares burned into the back of your skull.

It wasn’t until the door shut behind you did you clutch your chest, your breathing ragged. Behind your breast, your heart hammered a frantic beat. What the hell had you done? You knew what you did, you challenged the emperors who held your and your friend’s lives in the palms of their hands. Stupidity seemed to be your strong point in comparison to everything else. Not your intelligence or your stubborn generosity, all of that paled when it came to your stupid, traitorous tongue. This was what you got when you didn’t sleep, if you ever got to sleep again.

In an effort to hide, you kept your pace brisk on your way back to your clinic. Once inside, you pressed your back to the wall and covered your face in your hands. A low groan rumbled in your throat as you slid to the floor. This was where you died. Dream or not, surely there would be some terrible consequences in accordance to your demise.

A few tears leaked from behind your eyelids.

You hoped Aelius and Marianus could forgive you.

It wasn’t until the sound of the clinic doors slamming open startled you awake did you realize you had fallen asleep. It was dark now, almost pitch black in your clinic as you had been far too preoccupied sleeping to have any torches lit. You were alone, for once. That, or the praetorians tasked with following you didn't care enough to put on a light. Almost on cue, there was a snap, and, at the hands of another man, the room began to light up. With bleary eyes, you blinked up at the red-haired emperor who had entered your clinic.

Standing in the doorway, was an irate Caracalla. There was something clenched in his fist, his jaw set as he stared down at you.

“I am here now, medicus,” He said, his voice low and raspy. “Are you ready for your examination, or do you intend to continue to sleep on the floor like a dog?”

That was all it took for you to heave yourself to your feet. Playing with your fingers, you tried to look Caracalla in the eyes. You quickly found that you were not above simpering. “Caesar, I want to apologize for how I spoke to you and your brother today. It is not excuse, but I have not been sleeping—”

“You are right.” Caracalla cut you off, his fist clenching even tighter. “It is no excuse.” He moved closer, almost gliding in his long robes. “You promised me you would say nothing to my brother, and yet you threaten me with his knowledge.”

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. It was impossible to stop your hand from shaking. He eyed the offending appendage, a pleased sparkle in his blue eyes, hidden just under his fury. “It was an empty threat. Everything I said was empty. I would never break my promise to you, Caesar.”

“How am I to believe that when you are capable of tossing your word away on a whim?” Caracalla countered. He bared his teeth at you. “My brother was right about you, you are a liar and a snake.”

You took a step back, determined to put some distance between you and Caracalla, only for him to follow with a step of his own. “What is in your hand?”

“You will soon find out,” He said, a small grin twitching onto his face. “On your knees, medicus.”

Unsure if you should obey or not, you remained standing. For far too long, your jaw worked, no sound coming out of your mouth as you fought for what to say. “I— If you had come when I had asked, we would not be here. I thought you would not come to the clinic without incentive, so I lied. Caesar, I apologize.”

Caracalla was not so easily swayed. His voice raised in both pitch and volume, bouncing against the cavernous walls of the clinic. “Kneel before me, medicus! I will make you, if I must!”

“I— I have not broken the promise I made to you. I have not told Emperor Geta a word and I have no intention to,” You said, while slowly lowering yourself onto your knees. “He has not approached you, has he? He is not here, angry with us for hiding information from him, is he?”

Caracalla paused, his closed fist shaking. “No, but he asked me what you were being so vague about, medicus. For hours, he prattled! Your idle threats have piqued my brother’s curiosity.”

“So, he does not know. That is exactly what I am telling you.” By now, your breathing was harsh, coming out in sharp pants. “I have told him nothing, like I swore to you. Even if he threatens my life, I will tell him nothing.”

“What of now? Will you tell Geta that I frightened you tonight?”

“Everything that happens in this clinic is between us, Caesar.”

That answer seemed to calm him. A flicker of disappointment crossed over his face as he took a few steps back and motioned for you to stand. “Never lie to me again, medicus.”

“Never, I— Never again will I lie to you, Emperor Caracalla.” On shaking knees, you forced yourself to stand. The terror coming off of you in waves made him smirk and tilt his head back so he could get a better look at your trembling body. “Caesar, I… Do you know what it means to be a physician?”

“Why would I know what it means to be a physician?” He meandered towards your desk, and glanced at the contents before he set whatever he held in his hand flat on the wood. You didn’t get a chance to see what it was. His attention was back on you within moments. “Stupid questions do not entertain me.”

“It means doing what I can for my patients, no matter the cost. No matter the lie, or the price, or the suffering I endure, none of it matters so long as my patients are healthy and taken care of,” You said. Every few words, your voice would crack, but you kept talking in spite of that. “You and your brother are my patients now. I will never harm you, not only because you are emperors, but because your life is in my hands. E—Everything I do, it is for the people in my care. I cannot help you if you do not allow me to. That is— That is why I lied. That is why I said what I said. All I want is to help you.”

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Caracalla stared at you from beside your desk, his fingers playing idly with the item that he had placed there. It didn’t seem like he believed you, his doubt almost palpable, even when he left behind whatever it was he was toying with to take your chin between his fingers. His grip was firm, almost painful.

“I want you to prove it to me.”

Unable to meet his gaze, you focused on his nose. He pinched you, harder and harder, until your eyes were on his. “I will, Caesar. I will.”

Finally, he let go, pleased with your deference. “Good. Good.”

You were nervous to turn your back to him, though you knew you had little choice. With the way he was positioned, your desk behind him, you would have to in order to get to your notes. Your legs felt like they were made of jelly as you circled around Caracalla, his predatory stare following you all the while, to grab your wax tablet with the emperors’ information.

When you looked to see what he had placed on your desk, what he had in his hand while you kneeled before him, you swallowed a gasp.

It was a needle.

He had truly intended to make good on your promise.

“I- I, uh—” You stammered as you grabbed your stethoscope. Its familiar weight helped ground you. “Tell me your symptoms, please.”

Caracalla sighed and flopped onto a nearby lectus, the same one where he ate his figs a few days before. “My nose has stopped up and I have a slight cough, along with soreness on the inside of my throat. Whenever I go outside, I am beset by fits of sneezing.”

When you motioned to the collar of your tunic, it took Caracalla a few slow blinks for him to understand what you were asking. Just as clumsy as before, he struggled out of the top half of his clothes, revealing his chest to you again. This time, you noticed a few pimples dotting his skin, almost hidden by the red hair on his pectorals.

“Breathe for me. In and out, as deeply as you can.” As Caracalla obeyed, you listened for the telltale rattle of mucus. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for it to be uncomfortable. “And these symptoms, are they recurrent? Perhaps during the changing of seasons, particularly spring?”

Surprise made Caracalla’s eyebrows furrow. “How did you know?”

It was just as you expected: seasonal allergies.

“You have…” Pausing, you removed the stethoscope from your ears, letting it hang around your neck, as you fought for a way to explain this. “When the seasons change, flowers bloom, and they release a yellow powder. For some people, when they breathe this powder, it makes them sick.” A bit of anxiety crept into your tone as you reached to press your wrist to Caracalla’s forehead. You waited for him to nod before you pressed your skin against his. He was cool to the touch. You breathed a sigh of relief. “There is no cure. In spite of this, there are ways to manage the symptoms to make it more tolerable. Has your brother not noticed you get sick with the seasons?”

Caracalla groaned and rolled his eyes. “Notice? My brother hardly leaves my side when he believes I have fallen ill. He has this delusion that I will die. We are always together, yet, somehow, he manages to supersede even that with his worry.”

“That sounds very frustrating, Caesar.” A truth. It sounded very annoying to hardly get alone time simply because of allergies.

He grinned down at you, less cruel than you’d seen it, though still at your expense. You were crouching at his feet so you could meet his eyes more comfortably. “See-zer. Even when corrected, you still speak funny.”

“It is hard to remember…” You muttered with a flush. Coughing into your fist, you changed the subject back to what you were most comfortable with: medicine. “Take a hot bath to help clear your sinuses and thin the mucus in your lungs. The more steam, the better. To help with your sore throat, I will make you a drink of chamomile and honey—“

Caracalla cut you off with a beleaguered whine. “And it is sure to taste awful, like all physicians' remedies.”

“No, no, the honey makes it sweet,” You said with a laugh. “I like chamomile, it tastes flowery and gentle. It will help you sleep as well, so be sure to take it at night.” Perhaps some thyme as well, if only to help him cough up some phlegm. It was a natural expectorant and thankfully available in Rome. “If the hot bath does not work, I will use thyme to help clear your lungs.”

Caracalla nodded, finding your explanation acceptable. “That is all?”

“Come to me if your fever worsens, and I am trusting you to do so. If you break this trust, I will find you everyday, multiple times a day, until your symptoms stop.”

There was an odd look in his eyes when he nodded. “Are you done?”

“I am done.” Your joints cracked as you stood, a small smile adorning your face. While Caracalla still frightened you, especially knowing what he intended to do to you when he first arrived, he was still yours to care for. Yours to heal. “That was not so bad?”

“No, I suppose not,” Caracalla relented. He started for the door before he froze, as if remembering something. With hurried steps, he made his way over to your desk, and took the needle back into his closed fist. You fought a shiver.

“See you next time, Caesar.” Somehow, you managed to keep your tone pleasant.

Caracalla looked at you over his shoulder, that strange, unreadable expression on his face once again. “Yes. Yes, next time, medicus. Next time.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts. You swallowed hard as you stared at the place the needle had been. On instinct, you pressed the tips of your fingers gently against the rim of your eyelid. They were still there. Somehow, you had managed to calm Caracalla’s anger, and, to your horror, you doubted you would be able to do it again.

A sob bubbled from between your lips and you felt white hot shame build in your gut at the weakness. Caracalla didn’t hurt you. He wanted to, but he didn’t, that had to count for something. You dug your nails into your palm. The pain helped ground you as you stuffed your emotions into a box deep inside your chest. All you had to do was never betray Caracalla’s trust and you would keep your eyes. You couldn’t stop the whimper that pulled from your throat. Geta was sure to demand an answer for what you had implied earlier, and once again, you would be trapped. Either Geta’s wrath or Caracalla’s, it was yours to pick.

The answer came to you easier than expected.

Furiously, you scrubbed your face dry and began to organize your desk. Despite the clutter, it was an easy task. Everything had a place, everything had a purpose, and you would see to it that each tablet and scroll would be of use. It was evident now, more than ever, that you had to be at your best. No faltering, no letting your tongue loose, you had to be perfect unless you wanted to suffer dire consequences. It was almost how it was when you lived with your parents and you had managed that for two decades. They expected more from you than these emperors, yet you survived, even when you thought you wouldn’t. You could do it again, for however long this dream lasted.

It wasn’t until you had put away your notes did Geta enter the clinic. Unlike his brother, he didn’t throw open the doors hard enough for them to crack against the walls, but he did enter in a way that was befitting of his status. He swept into your clinic, his gaze hard, growing even harsher when he saw the exhaustion radiating off of you in waves. His jaw set, lips pressed into a firm line.

“Medicus, I demand you tell me what my brother is hiding from me. Now!”

No beating around the bush with either emperor, you realized. You almost wished they weren’t so blunt with their displeasure, it would make navigating this game of emotional chess easier.

Instead of wincing, you managed to confine your anxiety to a minute twitch of your fingers. “I apologize, but I cannot do that, Caesar.”

Geta drew himself up, managing to become even bigger than his elegant robes would allow. The fire in his dark eyes would have frightened you if you hadn’t been threatened with blindness not even ten minutes before.

“And why is that, Alga?” He spit your nickname out like it was a vile poison.

“I promised him that anything I learn about him inside this clinic will stay between us. It is the same promise I offer you,” You kept your voice steady even as your hands trembled by your sides.

“Your promises mean nothing to me.” Geta’s nostrils flared. It was obvious that he didn’t get denied often, and for a foreigner to do so, it was enough to stoke his flaring temper. “I want to know about my brother’s health, and if you deny me again, may the gods have mercy upon you because I will not.”

You wanted to curl up into a ball and die. At least then it would be on your own terms. Letting out a sharp sigh, you ran a hand down your face and hoped being vague wasn’t enough to earn Caracalla’s wrath. “Your brother is fine, Caesar. I have already worked out a regimen for both you and him that will bolster your health. I am too tired for threats from both Caesarēs in one night.”

“Caracalla was upset with you?” Judging from the upwards twitch of his lips, that pleased him. “Considering how long I hounded him for answers, I am not surprised the second I let him go, he came to you. Shall I leave you to lick your wounds, medicus?”

You waved him off and grabbed your sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. “No need, I calmed him down.” Gesturing to the lectus Caracalla was seated on earlier, you herded Geta in its general direction. “Sit, Caesar There is something I must check.”

To your surprise, Geta looked almost impressed as he obliged. “You managed to calm my brother from one of his rages?”

Great. That implied that Caracalla was prone to outbursts. You felt more tired already.

“It was no easy feat,” You muttered. When you held out the sphygmomanometer, Geta eyed the tool with a look of disdain. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”

“Ah, the vice.” He narrowed his eyes at you, but presented his upper arm to you all the same. “I am well aware how difficult Caracalla can be. I have known him my entire life.”

After wrapping the cuff around him, you began to pump, allowing it to tighten around his upper arm. Geta’s eyes bored into you the entire time, almost waiting for you to lash out so he can call for the praetorians nearby to take your head. Of course, that never happened. You placed the end of your stethoscope to his brachial artery and listened.

Once you were done, you let out a small puff of air from your nose. “Still very high, Caesar. That is not good.”

“What exactly are you measuring,” He asked, a single suspicious eyebrow raised.

“How effectively your heart is beating.” Gently, so as not to startle him, you removed the cuff and slid it around your wrist. “You are very stressed, Emperor Geta, and that amount of stress can affect your health. I want you to take one hour a day to relax, without the aid of wine. No thinking about the empire or your brother, this is time I want you to take for yourself and solely for yourself. Along with that, I prescribe you thirty minutes of exercise per day.”

Geta blinked, as if he had been expecting anything but what you said. “No elixirs or remedies?”

“That may come later if this does not help,” You replied. Like before with Caracalla, you were crouched by his side to remain eye level with Geta. “I want you to return once every three days so I may measure your heart. If this regimen does not work, then I will come up with another option.”

Geta covered his arm up with his robes once more. “And if I do not come?”

“Caesar, please help me, help you,” You said with a tired sigh. “Nothing will happen if you do not come. There will be no retaliation or spite in my care, I simply wish to prevent any issues from arising in the future. I take my job very seriously.”

After what felt like hours, he relented. “If I find the time, I will come.”

“Thank you.” You stood to allow him to leave, when you remembered his other issue. “The sore in your mouth, how is it?”

Geta did not turn around as he spoke, “I did as you instructed and it is gone.”

A bit of pride welled in your chest. It wasn’t praise, but it was as close as you would get. Once Geta was gone — and with a flick of his wrist, he left only one praetorian behind — you recorded your notes on his health before tossing the wax tablet haphazardly on your desk. The text was in English, so there was no worry that anyone unsavory would be able to read it.

It was finally time for bed.

A/N: Okay so, funny story. The Caracalla needle scene wasn’t originally planned, it just sort of happened. My fingers took a mind of their own in the Google Docs app and when I awoke from my writing trance, he was ready to make good on sticking a needle in Alga’s eye. And, somehow, it turned out to be one of my favorite scenes. Aside from the spit cup scene, which is actually the first scene I thought of for this fic. Originally, it was going to be wine Caracalla hocked a loogie in, but I needed them to be meaner and grosser. Will there be more spit in the future, in a more blatantly sexual context? Yeah. Just a heads up.

I think this is probably my favorite chapter I’ve written! I’m starting to get into the groove of writing Geta and Caracalla and how I want to characterize them, though I will still have a slight worry they’re OOC. We march on, however! I am having soooooo much fun writing this fic, y’all don’t even know.

Also, sorry Geta lovers, my bias is showing, but the next two chapters will be Caracalla centric. At least according to my plans, who knows, I might get visions of a Geta scene that must come to fruition. We shall see.

As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated!!! They mean so much to me, and I’m going to be so real, they help motivate me to write more. But, ultimately, just reading means the world to me. Thank you so much for sticking around!! <33

Taglist: @snazzynacho @t6gse370 @cherrysweets-world @justlibra

#emperor geta x reader #emperor caracalla x reader #emperor geta x you #emperor caracalla x you #gladiator ii fanfiction #gladiator x reader #I WAS ON DEMON TIME WRITING THIS ONE #almost 7k words in a little less than two days is crazy for me #this is my fav chapter yet omfggg so hype to post

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salty-autistic-writer · 2 days ago

Note

🧑🏻‍⚕️ please

Buck has been lost in his thoughts and staring at his phone. So it catches him completely by surprise when he exits the elevator and walks straight into a brick wall of a man.

"Oh! I - I'm sorry, I ... Tommy?!"

Buck stares, dumbfounded. Tommy stares back, eyes wide and flickering from side to side as if he's thinking about how he might be able to escape the situation.

Silence stretches between them. Buck swallows, his throat feeling uncomfortably tight. Well. This is awkward. It's been a while since they last saw each other. Four weeks, to be specific.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, scratching the back of his head.

Tommy clears his throat, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I had an appointment with my therapist."

"Oh. I'm here for that too. I mean. I'm going to see my therapist," Buck says, surprised but also happy Tommy is talking to someone. Now that he has calmed down a little, he is able to take Tommy in properly. And what he sees is ... alarming him.

Redrimmed tired eyes telling a story of restless nights, more stubble than usual, pale skin, slumped posture. "Tough session?" Buck asks carefully. "You could say that," Tommy says quietly after a moment of hesitance, looking down at his shoes. "Tough weeks would be more precise. But ... I'll be fine," he adds and shrugs.

Buck chews on his lip. He thinks about all the bubbling that's been going on lately and makes a split decision. Fuck it. I'm an adult. "Listen, uh, if you're free, my appointment will be over in forty minutes. There's a nice little café opposite this building. We could just ... talk."

Tommy looks up, brows rising with surprise. "Really? You ... You'd want that?"

"Yeah." Buck nods, smiling weakly. "I know therapy can be draining. And ... I'd like to catch up with you. As a friend? So. Are you free?"

"I'm free," Tommy blurts, exhaling shakily. "See you in forty?"

"In forty," Buck agrees. Tommy sits on a chair in the hallway and pulls out his phone. Buck goes to his appointment and really hopes Tommy will still be there when he's done with his session.

Thanks for asking! <3

(AO3 Link)

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #ficlet friday

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xdantegallo · 18 hours ago

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"Well. Thanks for not judging me too much, I guess." Though Dante had to wonder if he was really the usual type for these masters. Most of the other slaves that he'd seen around had fallen into the category of pretty boy twink, something Dante absolutely was not. So either it was just a recent theme going on for the Undercroft or Dante would only appeal to a handful of the masters. The second option was the better one, of course, though the omega still felt nerves at the thought of being rented by anyone.

His eyebrows raised, Dante's head cocking slightly while he considered Danny. "Forty-five years and all of a sudden they decide to snatch you up and bring you here? You must have been causing some kind of trouble to get their attention now." Or maybe they'd just been on the market for ghost slaves. Who knew how this place worked. "I think you have to be a certain kind of bastard to bring people to this castle. Hunter was good at pretending to be the exact opposite of that." His face flushed somewhat at the thought of the vampire and the omega huffed quietly.

"Yeah, just a little bit overly optimistic," he admitted, holding up his thumb and forefinger and pinching them together for emphasis. "But I won't judge you for whatever helps you sleep at night. Or daytime. Whenever you close your pretty little eyes."

Danny tilted his head and smiled, maybe a twinge more genuinely, when asked about his ghostliness. He didn't mind talking about his death or his after life. He supposed not many people who weren't capable of being mediums had the chance to speak to a spirit. It wasn't that ghosts were rare. It was that they had a hell of a time staying in the physical plane unless they were older. Danny hadn't been more than a wisp for years.

"Nah, not insensitive. I've been dead for forty-five years." He paused, trying not to let his anger seep through to an otherwise pleasant expression. "Hm. I think mine was called Magnai. At least, that's what I thought I heard someone call him. Fucking bastard. They all are, yours included probably."

#chat:#chat: danny

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lokisprettygirl · 2 days ago

Text

Come As You Are (Eric Draven! Bill Skarsgard's Version x Female Reader) (18+) (Slight Au)

Chapter 1

Summary : You meet the meanest, the rudest, the sexiest man of your life who seems to hate your guts.

Warning: 18+, smut later, Eric is a past drug addict with suicidal tendencies, use of cuss words, description of claustrophobia, reader is in her early thirties.

Note: Watch the movie if you haven't for his origin story to get a better idea. Shelly doesn't exist in this Au but someone does, i changed the name because people take fanfiction seriously sometimes and crap on your parade. This is going to be an angsty, smutty ride

“Be careful” you heard Laura’s sweet voice in your direction while you were putting on your jacket before stepping out of the restaurant. She was an amazingly beautiful woman in her early forties, almost motherly to you, even though she wasn't that older to you.

You liked the care and concern she offered you because it was something you never really had from your own mother, she didn't have time for you, she was too busy with her own life. Your shift had just ended and all you wanted to do was go to your apartment in downtown Chicago and lie down on your bed.

It wasn't exactly a posh neighbourhood that you lived in, if you could afford something better with your waitress job you'd have but you couldn't, you had debts and bills to pay. An unfortunate incident occurred a few nights ago, that's why you had changed your 8 hours shift from afternoons that ended around 10 at night to the morning one, now you were able to get back home by 6 when it was still bright outside.

You put your headphones in as you began to walk to your building, it was just twenty minutes from the diner so you didn't really feel the need to waste money on public transport everyday.

Besides it helped you keep in shape, well you deluded yourself into believing that it was enough of an exercise for an adult woman.

It was starting to rain so you quickly ran inside the building, some gentleman had just closed the metal grill of the elevator so you yelled at him.

“Wait for me”

Well it wasn't some Gentleman, It was your neighbour Eric Draven, he lived in the apartment right in front of you. He had moved in like a few days ago and you never really had a proper conversation with him as he kept to himself, often rolling his eyes at people around him, chewing gum all the time.

Mrs. Bonnie on the third floor, a sweet old lady has warned you to keep your door locked all the time as he was supposedly dangerous, that he was involved in violent shit and had been a drug addict in the past. You didn't know where she was getting her information from but then she knew a lot about a lot of residents in this building. She was the gossip girl of the building.

“Getting in or what?” His rude snappy voice made you run into the elevator. Clutching onto your bag you turned your head to the side to look at him but the intense glare he threw your way made you look away immediately. His green eyes were often covered in black smudge. You would never find out whether he used eyeliner, kohl or just plain old black eyeshadow. Maybe Mrs Bonnie knew.

Now you weren't the type to get obsessed with men often, you really wanted to put that thought out in the universe before anyone would judge you, perhaps you had a problem of sorts but you never really liked men around you or men who often bumped into you, it was always someone unreachable that you wanted and desired. Like Hugh Jackman, yeah, very realistic and very approachable to find and fall in love with.

But the man next to you was..ahhhh well to put it plainly and modestly, he was sexy. He looked like those edgy supermodel from those high end magazines. He was 6’4, you had never met anyone so tall before, he was built well, you could just tell by the way his trench coat hung around his broad shoulders, pale smooth skin, perfectly pointed nose, full plump lips, you couldn't find a flaw in his features and that pissed you off.

Well except that haircut, at first you found it ridiculous, not understanding why he'd do that to his raven hair, you couldn't really tell what it was, the shaved sides and the mullet seemed very punk but the more you looked at him, you found yourself thinking that it did suit his aesthetic.

He had several small tattoos on the side of his face, not enough to make him look like a creep but enough to attract attention, you'd never find out what that question mark on the side of his temple meant to him or the number 99 behind his ear, or the word lullaby tatted over his brow. He also smelled like bergamot and tonka beans so he was attacking all your senses at once.

You both lived on the last floor, and you were the only ones on that floor, the rest of the apartments were still vacant, one of them was haunted or shit, you didn't care to learn more, you were content in the information that it wasn't the one you had rented.

Your floor was about to arrive when the power went out. Again, that was one of the disadvantages of living in a rundown building. It often took five minutes for the backup generator to turn on so you knew you were in for a long awkward ride filled with silence and -

“Fucking fucktards” he mumbled under his breath as he pressed the buttons on the elevator, that didn't work obviously. Power was gone.

“It comes back in five minutes”

He turned to you as he heard your voice, his jaw clenched, nose flaring as he took deep breaths. Was he panicking? You couldn't tell. He often seemed agitated for no reason so this seemed like a perfectly valid reason for his sudden anger, however he also seemed as if he was going to freak out.

You didn't know how much he despised being stuck in compact spaces, he felt his lungs closing up immediately, his knees felt weak, head became dizzier. That's how he was murdered, with a plastic bag wrapped around his head until his lungs gave out on him. That's how they were both killed. Him and Melody. The love of his life, the girl he had gone to hell and back for literally, he fought to bring her back only for her to leave him when he got hard to deal with.

As his breathing became heavier you finally brought your hand up to place it on his shoulder.

“Hey are you okay?” you asked him but he stepped away immediately.

“Don't fucking touch me..keep your hands off lady” You immediately did that as he glared at you. You were going to say something but you decided against it. Why was he so fucking rude?

He leaned against the wall of the elevator and placed his head under his palms to calm down. Five minutes had never felt so long before.

You didn't realise you were holding your own breath too so when you finally inhaled you were able to hear the sound of your own shuddering breaths in the dark silent elevator.

As the generator finally turned on the elevator began moving up and you couldn't have been more thankful, you never wanted to get stuck in an elevator with him again or anywhere else for that matter, sure you were attracted to him in a weird way but that was because you knew you weren't supposed to be attracted to him, he seemed dangerous and unstable, that's what made him so desirable, he was unrealistic and unreachable. Just like Hugh Jackman.

You quickly opened the metal door as you stepped out, he followed after you and closed the grill behind him before he reached into his pocket to take out his key. He turned around to look at you, you were struggling to find your keys in that mess of a purse you had on your shoulder.

“You shouldn't touch people without asking” you heard his gruff voice so you huffed and turned around,the urge to smack him was real.

“I was just making sure you weren't having a panic attack.. okay? I have no interest in touching you or being touched by you”

Lies. Lies. Such lies.

He puckered his lips for a moment before he turned around and faced you.

“Whatever your excuse is sweetheart, don't fucking touch me again alright?” He said as he walked closer to you, he was almost in your personal space, towering over you with his skyscraper stature.

“Fuck you.. really” you said to him as you turned around to end the conversation. Why couldn't you find your keys when you needed it the most in this moment. He sniffed once at the curt response before he chuckled.

“Is that what you want? Hmm? Want to get fucked? Is that why you're being so touchy with me?” He said to you, his voice was low and husky, any other man would have been slapped by now but truth to be told he terrified you, and that turned you on in ways you had never been turned on before.

“Oh my god you're insufferable..how does that feel? Being so insufferable?” you said to assert dominance over this conversation that you were losing miserably.

Keys, you finally found them so before he could say something else you quickly opened your door and got in.

You had never met someone so brazenly rude to your face like this before, not a man at least, they often were nice to you because they wanted to get in your pants.

From that moment forward whenever you saw him you ignored him, didn't even look at his stupid gorgeous face, no matter how good he looked and smelled. He wasn't surprised, he didn't think you'd share pleasantries with him again after how he had behaved that night and that's exactly how he wanted to keep it.

He knew your type, he knew what kind of woman you were.

A few days later as you returned from your shift you sighed as you saw him enter the elevator, as he glanced in your direction he kept the door open but you stood outside the door with your arms crossed and nose pointed towards the ceiling.

“Getting in or what?” He asked you in his usual no nonsense tone so you looked at him.

“Feel free to go up, I can wait here for it to come back down” you said as you gave him a tight lipped fake smile.

“Suit yourself” he said before he closed the grill, as the elevator began to go up he pursed his lips and threw a mock kiss your way as if he was speaking to a dog.

Your jaw clenched in anger and something else you were trying hard to deny but you kept your mouth shut instead of engaging with him further. What was his actual problem with you?

As the elevator came down again you stepped in and pressed the button to the eleventh floor. You could hear his voice speaking to someone, perhaps the woman you had seen in his apartment this morning before you left for work.

“I told you to leave before I'd be back..didn't i? I was very clear about it” he said to her, she was standing against his door, wearing what seemed like his shirt. You stared at them for a moment before you walked towards your door and looked for your keys in your purse.

“Well I'm still here so how about we go out again?” the nameless woman said to him as she dragged her finger nails over his face, she was pretty and hot and she was using an overly seductive voice. Eric chuckled once before his expression turned serious, eyes blazing with fire. He hated doing this but it was a necessary evil.

“Awn really? That's so sweet. Well It's such a shame I don't fuck with whores like you twice in a row”

Your eyes widened as he said that to her, she didn't seem like someone he paid to have in his bed so that was clearly an insult thrown just to hurt her. What the hell was wrong with this man? Who hurt him?

You couldn't help but turn around and watch as the woman spat right in his face before cursing the hell out of him, she then walked into his apartment to grab her stuff and get out of his clothes.

He stood next to his door, leaning against the wall as he waited for her to leave, his palm came to wipe the violent drool she had left on his face.

“Enjoying the show?” He asked you so you smiled in a mocking manner.

“Very much so, best entertainment i have had in a while” He smiled back but then his expression turned serious before he mouthed a slow and silent fuck you.

“Awn, is that what you want honey? Is that what this is about?”

You said to him what he had said to you the last time but before he could retort the woman came out of his apartment.

“Rot in hell you deranged jerk”

She cursed before she walked the narrow hallway to take the elevator.

You quickly opened the door and got inside as well to not engage with him further, the ball was in your court now, you were the last one to insult him in that conversation. Right?

Later that night he got in his bed to get a few hours of sleep, he was given an assignment by Kronos that he had to finish tomorrow, it was going to be a long, violent and exhausting day. Sleep never really came easy to him, especially now, even when he did he often had nightmares that left him soaking drenched in sweat and fear but he was about to drift away when he heard the loud music coming from the apartment in front of him. He lifted his head up in annoyance as he heard..what the hell was that? Why did women have such awful taste in music?

When he couldn't take it anymore he got up and put on his sweatpants to go give you a piece of his mind.

“Goddamn this fucking woman is out here to ruin my life” he murmured under his mouth as he banged his fist on her door so hard that he could hear it cracking slightly.

You quickly opened the door and sighed as you put your hand on your waist. He was taken aback by your appearance, you had a floral dress on with your hair done and light makeup. He had never seen you so dolled up before, It caught him off guard for a moment, he was used to seeing you in old ragged clothes, not that it changed how he looked at you.

“Guys turn it down” you turned around to tell your friends to lower the volume. “Sorry i almost forgot you were living here now, I had gotten so used to being alone on this floor”

“You forgot? You forgot to be a decent human being who shouldn't be playing loud music at night? Especially when you have such a bad taste in music” he said to you, you weren't even looking at his face, he was too tall and you were in no mood to crane your neck up, he was shirtless, that's where your eyes were. On his chest and those eight packs and that huge eye tattoo right in the middle of his sternum.

“Hey no need to go there, my music in taste is very tasteful”

Taste in music. It was so easy to not mess up but you had to make a fool of yourself.

Before you'd hear a mocking remark you decided to cut him off.

“Look it's my birthday and I'm trying to have fun ..I'm only getting older and grainier every day so might as well enjoy it..you won't hear the music anymore okay?” You said to him as you finally looked up, making him purse his lips together.

It was your birthday and he was being a complete jackass to you. He remembered not being like this, with Melody he was gentle, he never spoke rudely with her or any woman for that matter, he was reserved, an introvert but he wasn't an asshole for no reason, though he definitely had his reasons with you. It was the way you used to look at him before he ruined it by being rude, with such warmth and acceptance in your eyes, he had to ruin it because he wasn't able to digest it.

He ran his hand through his hair, his bicep flexing at the gesture.

“Happy birthday I guess” he said to you so you stared at him because you couldn't believe he wasn't hurling insults your way and was actually saying something normal for once.

“Well ummm thanks ..I guess”

He nodded as you said that. He felt like an idiot standing on your doorway, not knowing what to say.

“Have fun” he said as he turned around to leave but your voice stopped him in his track.

“Hey..listen!! Umm Do you want to come inside? There's beer and cake” You asked him, as opposed to your better judgement and his as well. He turned to look at you, his eyes flickering constantly with emotions you couldn't really figure out, he wasn't exactly an easy person to read.

It would have been so easy to say no, to reject the invitation, turn around and get back to having a restless sleep like he always did, in a perfect world that's what he would have done, he should have kept his distance like he had been doing all this time. That's what he should have done for his own sake but instead of all that he dug a hole for himself and jumped in it knowing too well he won't survive this again.

“Sure..I'll come inside and eat your cake if you want me to”

😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏

Taglist: @m-riaa @erebus-et-eigengrau

#eric draven x female reader #Bill skarsgard version #eric draven x reader #eric draven x reader fluff #eric draven x reader smut #eric draven x reader angst #slight au

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redux-iterum · 2 days ago

Text

Charred Legacy: Chapter Forty-Four

(AO3 counterpart here.)

“Cloudpaw?”

Of course Fireheart had to wake up to that.

“Cloudpaw!” Aspenpaw’s increasingly frightened voice, pitching further up with every word. “Cloudpaw, where are you?”

Fireheart started getting to his feet before his eyes opened. Half of him wanted to keep them squeezed shut forever, as if that would help avoid this situation.

Goldenflower’s voice came now. “What’s going on, dove?”

“Cloudpaw’s not in his nest!” Aspenpaw didn’t sound like she cared if she woke up the rest of camp. “An– and I checked the dirtplace, and he’s not there!”

Fireheart fought back uttering a curse as the cats deeper into the warrior’s den started mumbling and shifting, waking up at the terrified apprentice’s cries. Before anyone else could pass him, he stepped out of the den, shaking his fur of stray dead moss. His eyes opened just as Aspenpaw skidded to a stop in front of him, her own bulging with panic.

“Did you know where Cloudpaw is?” she asked desperately.

Fireheart barely kept his tone in check when he said quietly, “I have an inkling.”

“He didn’t go after the dogs, did he?” Aspenpaw twisted around, pacing between Fireheart and Goldenflower. “Oh, stars, what if he did, an– and they found him, and—”

“They didn’t.” Fireheart felt curious eyes on him as more cats came out of their dens at the noise. “He’s fine.”

“Then where is he?!” Aspenpaw cried. Her legs splayed out as she turned to face Fireheart again, her claws sinking into the moist sand.

“Fireheart?” Whitecloud’s soft voice came up beside him. Fireheart only turned with his eyes to see the concern on the deputy’s face. “Is something wrong?”

You’ve got to tell them, his logical side said, gentle but firm. He’s pushed his luck too many times now. And you made it clear that he’d get in trouble if he ran off again. Don’t hide this anymore. Now is the time to be an adult and tell the truth.

How he hated that this side was right. With a deep inhale that came back out as a much heavier sigh than he intended, Fireheart looked properly over at Whitecloud and asked, “Is it okay if I call a meeting?”

Whitecloud blinked, his yellow eyes pale with confusion. “Is it important?”

Fireheart nodded. “It’s something I think everyone should have a voice in.”

More confusion, and a bit of disturbance, but Whitecloud flicked a paw at the stump. “Go ahead.”

By this time, the entire Clan was awake, all either leaving their dens or poking their heads out and speaking to each other. The general tone wavered with worry, not helped by Aspenpaw’s fur sticking out in all directions as she looked around desperately for her brother. Fireheart wasted no time, striding for the stump just as Yellowfang and Cinderpaw came to its base out of the remains of ferns behind it. As he passed them, Yellowfang grunted knowingly.

He stopped right below the stump, exposed roots beneath his feet. He wondered why it was only now that he hesitated to stand above his Clanmates, when he was to command their attention all on his own. He hadn’t felt this apprehension the last two times he had jumped onto it, and the most recent time was far worse than the topic he had to broach now.

“What’s he doing?” someone whispered close by.

Fireheart clenched his jaw as tight as he could, releasing some of his tension when he relaxed. He didn’t give himself any more time to hesitate—he simply bunched up and leaped, landing on the top with ease (shorter than a fence, he thought, but still harder) and turning to face his Clanmates. Most of them stared at him in bafflement, but they slowly clustered in as Whitecloud came to stand on one side of the stump.

Fireheart gathered his courage, sent a quick prayer to the Three for help, and spoke, attempting to speak as loudly and clearly as his leader and deputies always had.

“I know where Cloudpaw is,” he started. “I know where he’s been going. I wanted to handle this privately, and keep it between me and him, but he’s disobeyed too many times now, and put himself in too much danger. It’s time for me to tell you all so, hopefully, we can find a solution together.”

The cats on the ground exchanged puzzled faces, but a few of them seemed to have an idea of where this was going, judging by their narrowed eyes and turned-back ears.

With a faint flame of boldness in his chest, Fireheart continued. “He’s been sneaking off to see his birth-mother in the Houses.”

The air burst with shouts of shock and anger—even the apprentices looked outraged, Thornpaw especially. Ravenwing sat by Snowpaw, signing to him with a troubled face. Greystripe, Fireheart noticed, had an expression of something like sympathy; he was the only cat that didn’t look scandalized.

“You never told any of us about this?” Willowpelt asked sharply.

“Only Yellowfang,” Fireheart replied.

“And why didn’t you say anything, then?” Sandstorm growled at the old seer.

Yellowfang stuck her jaw out. “Would that it were my business. The boy’s the one to handle it.”

“Then he should have handled it sooner!” Darkstripe shouted. “He’s been betraying us all, letting his stupid apprentice break the law! I bet he’s been eating kittypet food and letting those humans touch him!”

Fireheart was not ruffled by this; really, he’d been expecting someone to say it. It might as well be the cat he could disregard entirely. He instead kept his attention on the rest of the Clan, who were slowly quieting down so he could speak.

“I brought him to meet her once myself, once we returned home from the Barn,” he said, and waited for another round of outrage to pass before continuing. “Since then, he’s been seeing her for the comfort of having a mother who lives in a safe place that he doesn’t have to look around in to avoid being eaten by dogs.”

Dustpelt glared up at him. “And you let—”

“I am not finished talking,” Fireheart said coolly.

To his surprise, the last of the mutters and growls cut themselves off, everyone’s eyes back on him. He took the opportunity presented while he had it.

“I can understand his reasoning, but I don’t agree with it.” Fireheart’s ears folded back of their own accord. “I’ve told him repeatedly that he was only going to see her if I went with him—yes, I’m aware that’d be me breaking the law too, but family is family, as you all know better than anyone else.” By the uncomfortable shifting of paws and twitching of mouths, he had them pinned for that, at least. “The last time he went, I warned him that I would properly punish him if he did it again. And, well, he’s done it again. He doesn’t have any other reason to have completely disappeared this early in the night.” He looked down at Cloudpaw’s anxious sister. “When you looked for him outside, you didn’t smell any dogs nearby, did you?”

Aspenpaw shook her head, but she didn’t look any more relieved.

“He’s got a knack for getting through the territory without facing any trouble,” Fireheart said to the rest. “I could probably head to the Houses right now and bring him back.” He paused, a gnarled little root of negativity coiling around the flame of boldness. “Truthfully, though, I’m probably just going to let him come home on his own and face all of us as a Clan.” He drew in another breath, hoping for the ideal answer to his question. “So, I’m up here because I want to ask you all: what should be done to ensure he doesn’t do this again?”

“Exile, I say,” Darkstripe snapped. “He was a mistake to bring in from the beginning. He should’ve stayed a kittypet, like—”

“Oh, shut up,” Greystripe said casually, then raised his voice to be heard by everyone. “I get where Cloudpaw is coming from—I mean, he shouldn’t be doing this, but I get it. I think he should be properly punished once he gets home, just not too hard.”

“Has he been eating kittypet food?” Frostfur asked, her tone icy. Fireheart nodded and she spat. “Then maybe he could eat it for the rest of his life. We don’t need a traitor in our Clan.”

“He’s an apprentice!” Ravenwing said to her, surprisingly angry. “And a very young one at that! This is a stressful time for us adults, let alone a young cat who was made an apprentice too early and lost half of his family out here. I don’t blame him at all for wanting comfort, even when he knows he shouldn’t be doing it. He doesn’t need to be kicked out like he killed one of us.”

A lump formed in Fireheart’s throat. He swallowed it, noting that the aura radiating from Ravenwing outward cooled down the surrounding cats significantly.

“I mean…” Mousefur grimaced. “He’s definitely in trouble, but… maybe punishing him too hard would cause him to leave anyway.”

“It’s easier to run to safety than face an entire Clan,” Goldenflower agreed. She spoke to Fireheart now. “He’s just an apprentice. He still has the capacity to learn and grow. You were barely his age when you came to us.”

“He needs to stop regardless,” Halftail retorted curtly. “He’s betraying the code, no matter how old he is.”

Mutters of agreement followed this. Dustpelt and Whitecloud whispered something to each other before Whitecloud looked back up at Fireheart.

“He’s already restricted to camp when he’s alone,” he said. “And he enjoys his apprentice duties. What can you offer that will ensure he understands?”

Fireheart’s eyes unfocused as he thought. An idea he really didn’t like was forming in his head.

“He’ll already have to face all of us,” he said slowly. “It’d be as close to isolation as he could get without actually living outside. But…”

“He needs something stronger to set it in stone,” Willowpelt said, more contemplative than angry.

“He’ll have it.” Fireheart breathed in again, bracing himself for his own ruling. “He won’t be allowed to visit her again, whether or not I’m with him.”

“And if he does anyway?” Lizardtail asked.

Fireheart’s claws unconsciously dug into the stump. Even when forcing it out, his voice was soft. “Then I’ll personally ensure he stays there for the rest of his life.”

This was met with complete, stunned silence. Even Darkstripe stared at him in surprise.

Ravenwing hesitantly broke the quiet. “Are you positive you can do that?”

“More than I’d like to be,” Fireheart sighed out, grateful that the breath wasn’t as shaky as his innards were feeling. He looked down. “Whitecloud, Dustpelt, does that sound fair?”

Dustpelt blinked at the sudden attention, but recovered quickly. “It does to me.”

“That will solve the issue either way,” Whitecloud concurred. He gestured for Fireheart to move, then jumped onto the stump, standing by the young tom’s side as he spoke to the Clan. “We need to remember that Cloudpaw is very young and very misguided. Fireheart has done his best for him, and he has the chance to change, like Goldenflower said.” His eyes went to Fireheart. “But we can’t afford to have a cat with us who proves himself disloyal and selfish. If his uncle and mentor decrees it, he’ll be sent to live as a kittypet. Our task is to encourage him to stay with us, not give him more reason to run away. Speak sternly, but don’t scream and threaten. Let him know this is his home for as long as he’s loyal to it.”

The Clan gave spotted nods and murmurs of agreement. Whitecloud turned to Fireheart fully.

“We’ll wait for him to come home on his own tonight,” he said. “If he’s late by morning, you can go get him yourself. He can have this last meeting with his mother.”

“She didn’t even raise him,” someone grumbled. “Why should she be rewarded for giving him up?”

“This will be as much a loss for her as it is for him,” Whitecloud said calmly. “She will suffer the consequences of never seeing him again.” He added to Fireheart, “And you need to stay away from there, too. Let her understand how Clan society works.”

Fireheart said nothing. He simply nodded, a slithering unhappiness in his gut.

---

Cloudpaw did not come back in the morning.

Fireheart was allowed to go out and search for a bit, just to make sure there were no dead ginger-pointed apprentices sprawled out in the fading snow. He found nothing—no scent of dog, no scent of Cloudpaw, not even a piece of prey making itself known. Despite his protests, Whitecloud had him come back to camp and wait with the rest.

Cloudpaw did not return by the next evening.

Two patrols were sent out to try and find his trail, or him himself. The damp and cold smothered what little was on the way to the Houses. Fireheart led one of the patrols into the northern forest, just in case his nephew was hiding. He was not.

The morning came. Cloudpaw still wasn’t home.

Even the cats angry with the little apprentice began peering out of the camp entrance, coming back in with concerned headshakes. Another patrol, this time in the south, produced nothing of note besides the scent of dog.

Aspenpaw, by this point, hadn’t stopped shaking since she woke up, muttering about Cloudpaw’s disappearance as Goldenflower tried to soothe her. Brightpaw wasn’t much better, staring down at the ground with trembling whiskers, like she was imagining what state Cloudpaw’s body was in.

When the night finally arrived, Fireheart went to Whitecloud, very aware of all the anxious eyes on him.

“I’d like permission to search for him in the Houses,” he said. “With a patrol.”

Whitecloud simply nodded. “Take who you want.”

Fireheart only had to glance behind himself to see Greystripe and Ravenwing trotting up to him, eyes determined, if worried. “I’ll take them.”

“You’ve got us,” Greystripe said.

Ravenwing turned to Snowpaw, who had started following him, and signed for him to stay home. Snowpaw looked downcast, but he agreeably blinked and returned to his sister’s side. Aspenpaw hurried up to Fireheart just as he was about to leave and pawed at his leg to get his attention.

“Please,” she whispered, “please bring him home.”

Fireheart met her eyes with a kind, reassuring gaze. “I’ll do my best. I know I’ll find him alive.”

Aspenpaw moved her mouth, but she said nothing in return and stepped back, watching the trio trot out of camp in silence. Fireheart could feel her eyes on him even outside in the woods.

He paused for a moment, just to look at his friends. They caught up to him, both resting their tails on his sides in silent companionship. Fireheart managed a purr, turned for the Houses, and started running.

#warrior cats #redux iterum #iterum #chapter #chapter forty four #charred legacy #book three #arc one

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iwasnotaslasher · 12 hours ago

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Not my rugby mom ass plotting a SuperBat Rugby Coach AU.

I would stick with some background canon facts, like Bruce as the heir of a rich Gotham family and Clark as a Kansas country boy adopted by farmers, but no alien powers or masked vigilante stuff. The two of them are just former professional players from different rugby teams: Gotham's Knights and Metropolis Meteors (yes, I lazily copy-pasted the canonical football teams' names, sorry not sorry).

As both closeted bi and madly attracted to each other, they developed a secret fling which lasted almost throughout their careers. They used to sneak away from the after-match party to fuck senseless, and of course they were in love but never confessed to each other. The relationship never got past the fling stage, mostly because they thought they could not have a real future, since they were both too scared to be ostracized by their teams if they would come out.

Eventually everything was put to an end when Lois came into the picture. Clark settled with her, they married, and later they had Jon, as well as becoming foster parents for Connor. After a good career, Clark retired from playing in his late thirties to become a match reporter and since then he carried a fairly normal mid-class life in Metropolis.

Meanwhile, Bruce quitted rugby in his early thirties, after a serious injury that almost left him paralyzed, and became fully invested in running the Wayne Enterprises. As for his love life, he kept jumping from one relationship to another, none lasting more than a few weeks. Only notable exceptions were his two and a half divorces: first marriage with Selina, his everlasting on-going-off-going affair, ended just after months; second marriage with Talia, lasted a little more, and from whom he had Damian; and then again he tried with Selina, but only to be left at the altar. Gossip magazine going wild every single time he's spotted with a new flame, also because he was known to have a weird habit of adopting a new kid whenever he divorced (or almost got married).

Alfred still jokes about the fact that they can't afford another marriage, since surely Bruce would end up adopting another kid when he eventually divorce. But he's secretly very pleased to have so many kids around the Manor.

Fast forward to the present day: they are both in their mid forties and single, since Clark is now divorced and Bruce has resolved to never commit again and just have fun.

And they are both involved in rugby again, but as coaches.

Every year Clark holds a rugby summer camp for troubled teens at Kent farm, with Ma's enthusiastical hospitality and the help of his long time friend Diana Prince, also a former rugby player.

As for Bruce, of course he founded a teen league, called it The Robins, and enrolled all his kids into it.

Now picture this: Bruce and Clark casually meeting after all those years and oh boy the mutual attraction is still there as if not even a day had passed. Clark ends up inviting him and his Robins at the summer camp for a weekend of training and matches, and Bruce, as a big city guy, can’t catch how much the offer from a mid-western country man is intended to be real, so he accepts just out of politeness. But after some weeks the league recieve an actual invitation, so now they are forced to go.

You can guess where 20 years of sexual and romantic tension between them can lead them when they find themself again on the field. But oh well, it's just for the sake of honoring the old times, not because they are actually in love. Two divorced dads coming out as bi in their forties and just living their love openly? Come on, it's not viale! Also, what would their kids say?

(spoiler: It's all so obvious that they got it since the beginning and they are already scheming some shenanigans to finally see their dads/coaches happily ever after)

Except after the summer camp they can't stop thinking about each other.

After months of ruminations, Bruce feels compelled to reciprocate the experience by inviting Clark and the kids to an improvised winter camp hosted at the Manor. Closing with a New Year’s Eve costume party à la ‘Romeo + Juliet’ (yes, I want to write about Bruce brooding around with an eye cowl).

The kids are thrilled, Alfred and Martha are already exchanging ideas about the wedding venue, Diana can't wait to be maid of honor, everyone is betting on when the proposal will be done.

The only two completely oblivious are Bruce and Clark, sneaking around the Manor at any given moment to indulge in heated making out sessions, trying their best to not get caught red-handed.

Much for Alfred's amusement but less from anyone else, they will end up not marrying right away and secretly enjoying for a bit the intimacy of not sharing their relationship with the whole world. They will eventually do it, years later, in a small (for Bruce’s standards) ceremony at Kent farm, with all their now grown up kids and grandkids. The rugby match and after-match party will be memorable.

Coincidentally, at some point during the party the happy newlyweds will sneak away for a while…

#batman #bruce wayne #clark kent #superbat #superman

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takeshitakyuuto · 4 months ago

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#Sherlock Holmes #acd sherlock holmes #going in I thought he would be in his forties #but it seemed like ACD was describing him as if he were in his twenties??#what is the truth #obviously this varies based on adaptation but just answer generally

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july-19th-club · 1 year ago

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there's a guy who i dont work with but who works from my building as a consultant for a job-center type organization, and whenever he comes in he like. sets such a good example of patience, compassion, good manners, and...i dont know, gentleness that it makes me try harder not to be irritable or impatient with patrons. two totally different jobs, we never even speak unless he's asking for the stapler or we're saying hi and bye on his way in and out of the building, but every thursday good old boring average chris shows up to set up his laptop at one of our public tables and meet clients, and he's so goddamn nice i'm like okay i have to be nice too . so thanks chris

#im usually so short-tempered at work these days i just get so huffy when i have to interact and guide ppl through shit . but it's . idk #i think he gets his frustrations out in a more productive way bc i overheard him on the phone the other day #organizing a wheelchair rugby game . apparently he's on a team. i would never have taken him for a rugby guy. so mild mannered #he really is the most average looking man on the planet but there is a slight slyness to his resting expression bc he has one lazy eye #i think i have a little bit of a crush on him #the circ desk is very tall because patrons will loom over us otherwise so unless im standing up i do not even see him come in #you just hear a rattling noise and you're like oh chris is here whats up as he rolls by #from opposite sides of the particle board. sometimes make eye contact thru the book drop slot #its the most consistent part of my thursdays. out of touch. when your not around. i may have a crush on job center chris #it would never go anywhere. he's like in his forties i think and guy like him. probably married . but i can think my thoughts

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vampiredungeon · 8 months ago

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I started watching logh and. I’m literally crying right now… kircheis… I was expecting him to die but not this soon jfc

#fucking blindsided I had a completely different idea of how his death would play out #I loved him and he didn’t even make it halfway through the show?! 😭#and tbh I thought the sister was going to die first #not spoiler tagging sorry but the shows like almost forty years old #logh #j.txt

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gutsby · 2 months ago

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Stiff

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: At fifty-nine, Joel isn’t sure his dick can keep up with every day it’s going to take to get you pregnant. He seeks help from Jackson’s local apothecary and gets more than bargained for when that little blue pill kicks in.

Or, your old man wants to knock you up. Viagra helps.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (obviously 😵‍💫🤙🏼). Breeding kink. Age gap. Peepaw Joel. Blue Pill Joel. Post-apocalyptic-Viagra-dosage-gone-horribly-wrong-and-now-his-dick-won’t-deflate-for-a-day…but it’s OK!

Note: This is the crackfic counterpart/sequel to ‘Make It Stick’

Word count: 2.9k

Forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes until his fate was sealed for the night. His pulse would quicken. His head would start to swim, and any last sliver of rational thought would be lost to the ether or the cold, snowy air around him. Joel Miller had to hurry now, because that bite-sized blue pill he’d just taken was in his belly, and if his dick didn’t find its way in you, he was fucked. Or at least huge and swollen and leaking out beads of hot desire the size of golf balls.

Well, maybe that was just his cock.

Joel looked down, scanning his pants.

Yeah…definitely just cock. He walked faster.

At home, he knew he’d find you curled up on the couch, nose in a book. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, if he had to guess. Then, sure enough, you’d lift your eyes and smile—‘Thank goodness you’re back, daddy’—and lift the hem of your night dress just slightly. Spread your legs and beckon him in. It was a nightly routine by now.

You wanted to be knocked up as fast as possible, after all

At almost sixty years old, Joel couldn’t believe he was actually saying these words aloud. But here he was—crawling overtop you on the couch, situating himself between your legs, and pulling his cock out, mumbling:

“Gonna let me put a baby in you tonight?”

You nodded sweetly—eagerly—every time.

Joel knew he could never resist that look. He was as good as finished the first second you let him sink inside your tight, weeping hole, and when he stretched it, he could already tell this was all he would ever want to do. Make you happy, fill you up, give you lots and lots of him.

It was why he’d stopped by the apothecary tonight. Why he’d hesitated only a moment before clearing his throat and asking for a pill like Viagra—Joel knew that the man behind the counter would flash him a wry, knowing grin.

Trouble keepin’ up with that sweet young thing’a yours?

David was a dick.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Ever since agreeing to start trying for a baby, Joel had become acutely aware of his own physical limitations in that department, and one of them was stamina. He could scarcely fuck twice in the same night without needing a long and rest-intensive breather. You were young and could roll over ready to go in five minutes.

It wasn’t fair to deprive you now on account of his age.

If you wanted his cum, you were getting it, no question.

Not just once, but multiple times. Again and again and—

“Again,” Joel grunted once he’d shot off his last spurt.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed since he’d taken that pill. It had fully kicked in, and his dick was still hard, even after finishing inside you with a sticky, white-hot flood.

You blinked dreamily up at him.

“You mean it, old man?” you teased him lightly.

I’ll show you what I mean, Joel thought to himself before flipping you over on the sofa. He had your hips tilted up and his cock driving back inside your freshly-fucked cunt in no time at all. He felt his spend coating your walls; it let him glide right in. Joel groaned and jerked himself back out, then fucked back in again and again and again.

“Again?”

Your word was exhaled in a laugh.

You stood in front of the bathroom sink, trying to tidy up the insides of your legs and push some more of Joel’s load back in, when you felt a presence at your back.

Stabbing your ass.

You started to turn then, puzzled.

“Bend over,” Joel commanded before you could.

You did as you were told because, frankly, you loved getting fucked wherever your old man wanted it—even if he had broken the sink one time he’d pounded you here.

But there was palpable confusion, too. How in the hell had Joel Miller, certified silver fox and owner of a dick old enough to remember Woodstock and the moon landing, managed to get his dick hard in the five minutes since he’d had you face-down, ass-up on the couch?

Or had his dick gotten soft at all?

You wanted to question him about it, or else give a long, hard look at his uncharacteristically long, hard friend, when the next moment had you gripping the counter. Stretching between the legs as Joel pushed back in.

“There she is,” he murmured affectionately.

Really, you’d never been wetter. Or warmer. Or filled to the brim with more sticky-white spend than you could ever hope to hold inside, it felt like. You bent at the waist and let him have his fill. You closed your eyes and rested your head on your forearms while Joel’s hot, bulbous tip grazed your cervix with dizzying alacrity. A smile crept in.

Whatever this was, you wanted more of it.

His dick was still hard.

Four mind-numbing fucks and another forty-five minutes later, Joel’s cock hadn’t deflated the tiniest bit.

The thing had hammered you so thoroughly he’d nearly destroyed the sink again. You’d whimpered, and whined, and warned him quietly, ‘We just fixed the porcelain, baby,’ and right before he’d painted your walls with his seed, you’d cum for him practically shrieking. Shaking.

Letting him turn you around for a kiss, only to mumble against his mouth with a sleepy, cockdrunk sort of lilt:

“I think you gave me twins.”

Then he’d fucked you in the shower to make it triplets.

Now you were laying out on the bed, truly spent, eyes following him in the semi-darkness of your bedroom after you’d toweled off and collapsed among the pillows.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, Miller?” you breathed.

Joel made it over to the dresser, back turned to you. He rifled through a drawer looking for something extra tight.

“Just missed you is all,” he said, shrugging.

What he needed right now was fabric that was very thick to hide the boner he was sporting. Joel could tell from the way you spoke that you were too tired for round five, and he didn’t want you feeling like you had to go again.

He would be fine.

His dick might not deflate until dawn, but that was okay.

“Wish you missed me like this every day,” you giggled.

When Joel turned around, he was shocked to find you sprawled out on the bed—hands between your legs.

There was a shy smile on your face.

“Baby…” he trailed off, watching your fingers flit through that sticky mess where he’d left it. Where you glistened.

Where you slid your index and middle fingers up and down your slit and drew circles on your clit, eyes shining.

“What? I missed you too,” you said, tone all faux protest.

You had no idea what you did to him when you talked like that. Especially when he was drowning in a state like this.

Hard as a rock.

Throbbing.

Needy.

Scarcely even knowing what he was doing, Joel found himself over by the foot of the bed in a second. Watching your every move with a wild, wipe-open stare he still couldn’t believe you found appealing. He swallowed.

He not only looked perverted, but he felt it, too. It rarely ever left his mind, save for the four or five seconds he spent in ecstasy emptying the contents of his balls inside your cunt, that he was his age, and you were yours. That perhaps the rest of Jackson was right, and he was wrong: he had no business being around a girl like you, much less getting off inside you every night. Was this really what you wanted? A bewildering mixture of guilt, lust, and love all circulated through his skull at that moment, and the longer he spent looking at your fingers, ogling the way you teased them through his cum between your legs, the more he felt certain he was bad.

No one corrupted a thing this sweet and got to call themselves good, anyway, he thought to himself idly.

“I keep gettin’ that…feelin’,” you said under your breath.

Joel’s hand tightened in a fist, and it was then that he realized it was wrapped around his cock. Still watching.

“Yeah, baby? What feelin’?” he returned, almost as quiet.

Still stroking himself up and down, up and down, softly.

You had your legs spread open—knees splayed wider than they’d been before. And your eyes had a tender, placid sheen to them, like they just might cry if they didn’t get release of some kind soon. Then you slowed.

Your touch slipped from your clit to the opaque, sticky globs between your thighs, and that look got even softer.

More desperate.

“Can’t…explain it.” You shook your head, as if pained, and then you sank two fingers inside. Joel could hear the tiny schlick from where he stood, and it almost did him in.

You sucked in a breath and added, “It’s a special feelin’.”

Joel’s fist had already worked its way up to a ridiculous speed. Again, he sensed this might be the worst and most pathetic he’d ever looked, but by the glint in your eyes and the way you kept holding him there, he also knew you weren’t asking him to stop, either. You were needing something else—something he could provide.

Thanks to that one stupid pill.

Joel’s smile was strained as he gripped the edge of the bed, like he was trying to assuage you and him at once.

“Try me, baby. Tell me ‘bout that special feelin’.”

Your middle and ring fingers disappeared inside you.

You whined, “Ain’t fair to say it now. You’re tired, daddy.”

Like hell he was. Joel crawled over the footboard and made his way straight to you, where your body was limp.

His breaths were coming in so fast and his pulse was thrumming so hard that he almost couldn’t hear himself talking. But he ventured to speak as gently as he could.

“I’m wide awake, sweet pea. I’m all ears. Talk to me.”

And if his words didn’t communicate as much, surely the look in his eyes would’ve told you all the rest. Quietly, he slipped his torso between your legs, where you’d inserted a third finger and were moving your hips again. You were fingering yourself, breathing shallow and quick.

“It’s a feelin’ like I wanna be…stuffed…a-and full’a you.”

Joel’s whole body could’ve liquified on the spot. His brain, presently, had all the consistency of a plate of scrambled eggs if he’d had to guess. Feeling his cock swell even bigger and his hips sink lower to yours of their own accord, he had only to grit his teeth and nod his head. He felt the tip of him bump your fingers, and the sensation and the expectation nearly drove him insane.

He mumbled quietly, “Then move your hand.”

You did. You winced again. You looked as though you might be ashamed for wanting him to fill you with his spend, and Joel simply wouldn’t allow that any longer.

Without saying another word, he slid back in.

Your cum and his facilitated the slide, and you opened right up for him. You whimpered, while Joel grunted like an animal. He couldn’t help it; it all felt so fucking primal.

How you could ever feel the need to apologize for wanting more of this was more than he could take.

“Every inch of me,” Joel said, rutting deeper, “is yours.”

He withdrew to the tip, and he could feel strings of arousal linking him to you in a sickeningly sweet way.

You could scarcely even nod, just waiting for him again.

When Joel plunged back in, he heard a feral little cry, and he felt your legs wrap around his waist. He went faster. You fisted the pillow behind your head in one hand, while the other laid flat on his chest, like you were checking for a heartbeat. You could probably hear it thudding a million miles per minute right now. Your hips collided in tandem.

“D— Daddy,” you whimpered.

“That’s it, open up for daddy. Good girl. It’s all yours.”

The sounds his thrusts were making were obscene.

“Every inch?” you breathed, “E-Every drop, too?”

“Every fiber of my fucking being, sweet girl.”

That made you smile, at length. Your hand slid from his chest, down his round belly, straight to a groin that was pounding hard and fast against your own. Joel groaned when he felt your touch sweep inside your legs—right in the space where his cum had come trickling out. You slid your fingers through that mess, then whimpered again.

Then you brought your hand up to your mouth.

You wrapped your lips around your cum-soaked fingers like they were the single sweetest thing, and you sucked.

Joel had no say after seeing that: he had to cum again.

It likely stunned you both—you more than him, by the look that crossed your eyes the second you felt him throb and pulse inside your cunt—but then it kept going.

Rather than stop, or slow down in the slightest, Joel found his hips pistoning faster than they had before. The whole bed frame shook, and your body trembled with every thrust, and the noises between your legs grew even louder; the sound of skin slapping skin was only amplified by the addition of Joel’s hot load in the mix.

The man was operating on impulse. You, through sheer awe and an animalistic need to have every crevice filled. You held him and you grit your teeth, and you let him keep using your body, while you used his. You kissed him.

“Go on, then—make me a daddy. Take my cum, baby,” Joel babbled, brainless, “Make your old man a daddy.”

He couldn’t tell if it were the words or the rhythm or the pleasure that had already been blossoming deep in your gut this whole time, but he felt you fall apart. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist than you had all night, and you screamed his name. Begged for more.

“Cum in me, daddy—pleasepleaseplease just cum, ju—”

And there he went. Again. Flooding your insides with his warmth and letting his cock carve a wild, relentless path through your cunt like it was all the man knew how to do. He filled you up. He felt it leaking down his length with every stab of his hips, and frankly, he didn’t care what he looked like now. You were smiling big, drawing him in for more kisses as he panted and grunted and whimpered like he never had before. He kissed back. Slowed down.

Found himself lost in your mouth as your tongue wove delectably through his own and your hands made their way to his wild, greying hair. You tugged, and he moaned.

He fucked his spend deeper without even meaning to.

All instinct again, it seemed he couldn’t get enough.

Suddenly, he felt a new, strange urge bubble up.

“I-I-I took a pill tonight,” he blurted out, “Know how badly you want this baby, and I wanna give you one.”

Or two. Or twenty. He was barely capable of speech, let alone rational cognition, so he just spoke whatever came to his mind then, still snug inside your legs and panting.

“A pill?” you whispered back.

Joel’s gaze locked with yours.

He felt stupid for it all at once.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just— I know I’m gettin’ on in years, and I probably can’t fuck the way I used to. And you deserve someone who can…Maybe a guy your age, but that—”

“—is the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me,” you finished for him, eyes narrowing swiftly in a scowl.

When Joel tried talking again, you cut him off.

“I don’t care what any guy my age is doing, or could do. I want babies with you, and that includes every part, OK?”

Your look softened momentarily, seeing his lips twitch down—you could probably see he wasn’t believing you.

Then you cradled his face in your palms. You smiled. You brushed his nose with yours, and you kissed him again, and with what little strength you likely had left in your body, you dug your heels in his ass and pulled him deeper. Both of you let out soft, low grunts at the effort.

“If you fucked like this at twenty-five, my body wouldn’t have survived anyway,” you whispered in reassurance. Biting back a laugh as Joel smiled, too, “I like things just the way they are. Just like how I hope you like me, too.”

“No—I love you.” Joel shook his head, almost plaintive.

And for the first time that night, he felt himself soften.

Whether it was the pill wearing off or that first thread of vulnerability stretching out between your body and his, he didn’t really care. He kissed the tip of your nose and was about to say something more, when you cut back in.

“I love you more. And since we’re being honest tonight,” you started quietly, nipping at your bottom lip a second, “I might…need you back at the apothecary tomorrow.”

Joel’s face fell.

“Wh— is something wrong, baby?” His voice was tight.

He hated seeing David, but, of course, he’d go back there in a heartbeat if it meant getting you the medication you needed. His stomach was starting to churn, when you reached up to hold his face again. You shook your head.

“No, no, Joel, I’m fine. But I may need prenatal vitamins.”

Now his eyes were going wide. His cheeks heated under your palms, and his cock twitched inside you, reflexively.

“You mean…” he murmured, unable to finish. Swallowing.

Beneath him, he saw you smile and nod.

He nearly choked hearing what followed:

“I meant to tell you earlier, but…my period’s a little late.”

#EVEN IN THE MOODBOARD JOEL’S GOT HIS EYES ON THOSE PILLS LIKE MMMMMMMMMM #‘chat should i try this sweet treat?’#and the sweet treat in question is CIALIS #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic

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nereidprinc3ss · 3 months ago

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diva

in which flirty!reader shows up to work in a bad mood and it’s spencer’s job to deal with her attitude. not that he minds. (bandages universe)

fluff warnings/tags: fem!reader, mentions of reader coming to work from a casual hookup, flirting, lots of teasing, the BAU being silly geese bc this is before all the trauma, insecurities about reader's job performance, spencer wants to be a cyborg, borderline cuddling hehehe a/n: nanana diva is a female version of a hustler (bandages!reader theme song) no but really i just missed them so much lowkey always accepting requests for these two!! I hope you guys likeeee bc i loveee them and also this was based on a request so i hope u see this LOL

As soon as Hotch calls wheels up in thirty you’re slumping forward, resting your head on folded arms. The to-go cup on the round table in front of you has long been emptied but you look at it longingly anyway.

Morgan chuckles, slapping his folder down on the table next to you. “Aw, look at that. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“It’s Sunday,” you groan. “It’s seven in the morning. Excuse me for not being ready to carpe the diem.”

“It’s just carpe diem,” Spencer interjects, standing and slipping his file into his bag. You sit up and give him the most indignant look you can manage, though it’s hard when you’re this tired and he’s that cute. Slacks. Sweater vest. Button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. An enviable waist.

“Whose side are you on?”

He frowns, brushing a tuft of shining-clean brown hair out of his eyes.

“If I was on anyone’s side other than my own it would cease to be their side. We’re all always on our own sides.”

“No, you’re on my side. Defend me.”

His brows only dart up and he looks back down to his bag. It’s a look you know well. Don’t get me involved.

Morgan spins in his chair to face you, one elbow resting on the table.

“I’m just saying, if this is your Sunday morning, I’d love to see your Saturday night, little miss forty five minutes late.”

“You heard Hotch say he called me half an hour earlier than everyone else. It was technically fifteen,” you frown. “And I… was at church.”

Rossi gestures at you with his coffee cup. “You step foot in a church, your shoes are going to start smoking.”

Your jaw drops.

“Wow. I thought old people were supposed to be sweet. Come on, Spencer.”

Spencer knows better than to put up a fight as you get up and grab him by the hand not holding onto your cup and folder, dragging him to the bullpen to sit at your desk until the team is ready to go.

He stands in front of you, hands in pockets, as you plop into your own chair. “I… can’t tell if you’re actually mad.”

“I am. At you. For not being on my side.”

Spencer sets his bag down and leans against the adjacent desk, arms folded. You stopped caring a long time ago if he’d notice you ogling the long, lithe lines of him. Maybe you never really cared, if you’re being honest with yourself. He’s a little harder to scandalize these days, anyway. But you’ll never stop trying.

He bites his lip thoughtfully.

“If you’re mad at me, why am I the one you dragged down here?”

“I’m not taking questions, Reid.”

He hisses. “Ouch. Reid.”

“Mhm. That’s how mad I am.”

“Okay, grouchy. Do you want a refill?”

You borderline pout, continuously perplexed by his kindness in the face of your insolence, but holding out your hollow cup for him anyway as you slouch lower in your seat.

“Don’t call me grouchy.”

“Then don’t call me Reid,” he says, taking your cup as he passes, and you think you sense the faintest wash of amusement coloring his tone.

The jet doesn’t do much to put pep in your step.

“Aberdeen,” Morgan muses, letting his file closed on his lap. “Isn’t that where, uh, Kurt Cobain grew up?”

Spencer sits down in the chair next to you, setting the day’s third cup of coffee in front of you on the small table. “It is. It’s also where Washington’s first suspected serial killer William Gohl resided.”

“First of many,” Rossi amends. Reid nods.

“In the US, Washington State comes in fifth place in terms of serial killers per capita. Some blame a widespread vitamin D deficiency. Just under eight hours of sunlight in the winter, the least in the contiguous United States.”

Emily gives an abhorrent rendition of a famous Nirvana riff, imitating a twangy electric guitar, before gesturing to your boss. “Hotch, you’re from Seattle. Did you ever get into Nirvana? The whole grunge scene?”

Hotch lowers his folder, giving her an unimpressed look. “Did you?”

While the exchange is amusing, the coffee is not perking you up and you’d like to be slightly less upright, if possible. You bump Spencer’s knee with your own, and he looks over at you obediently.

“What’s up?”

“I wanna move to the couch.”

He nods and gets right back up. When you pass, and he doesn’t immediately follow, you turn around. Maybe the lack of sleep has rendered you unable to hide your look of contempt as he tries to sit back down.

“What are you doing?”

Morgan snorts. “Uh oh. Lapdog almost forgot his training.”

“I am not a lapdog,” Spencer defends, giving Morgan a harsh look of his own, before following you, much to the amusement of the rest of the BAU.

“Don’t listen to them,” you mutter as you step aside to let him pass.

He settles into the corner of the couch. “I almost never do.” When you cozy up next to him, he seems surprised. “Um, hi?”

“I’m cold. You’re warm.”

“This is… unprofessional.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh my god. They don’t care.”

That’s enough to shut him up. Eventually he relaxes, and though he doesn’t put his arm around you (they remain crossed in front of him) he doesn’t seem too distraught over the way you’re leaning against him, head on his shoulder. The sky is a soft grey where you can see it through the little rectangles lining the far wall, like a pale tea with plenty of milk.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” He asks eventually, gingerly, and though he’s bold to ask it you know the last thing he means to do is offend. Luckily for him, he’s your soft spot. You let your eyes flutter shut against the boxes of diffuse light.

“Tired.”

“I know that. You’ve had three cups of coffee and you’re still about to fall asleep.”

“Well… that’s all it was.”

“Mhm.”

“God, you’re—” you lift your head, about to give him a good old fashioned verbal lashing, but he’s so sweet looking, and he’s so kind to you even when he’s not, that you deflate—all your air coming out on a sigh as you settle back against him. “I… was… not home, when Hotch called me.”

“Yeah, you said you were at church?” He sounds utterly bewildered. Your heart melts, and you can’t hide the fondness seeping from every pore as you look up at him through your lashes. He really is so beautiful.

“That was a joke, Spence. I was with a friend.”

His brows knit and a faint blush tinges his cheeks.

“Oh. I knew that.”

And he really is getting better at detecting your brand of sarcasm. One day you doubt you’ll be able to pull any over on him, and he’ll stop being so adorable and bashful and embarrassed and sweet all the time. You don't relish the thought.

“What were you doing this morning?” You ask, in a bid to quell the very embarrassment you covet, because you’re not actually a demon, despite what Rossi had implied earlier.

“Sleeping.”

You hum. Imagine taking his hand. Don’t really take it.

“Me ’nd you should hang out outside of work more often.”

“Like… in the mornings?”

“Uh, probably not,” you laugh, your own face heating at the implication he’s only sort of and undoubtedly accidentally making. “I mean—we could. We could have breakfast sometimes.”

“I like breakfast,” he muses. “I know a couple of good spots. I can show you when we get back. There are these ube pancakes that are like bright purple on the inside. Have you had ube? I think you’d like them. The pancakes and the tuber. They’re the same color as your laptop case.”

You giggle, too tired for anything more dignified and too charmed for anything less authentic. Spencer has a moment of apparent self-awareness and after a second chuckles along with you, and like 99% of your moments with him, it’s a nice one.

It slowly fades, and you sigh.

“We’d probably get called in right in the middle of breakfast.”

“It’s always a possibility,” Spencer agrees, and you feel him nod. He smells really nice—clean and sort of cedar-y. Warm.

“You ever think about how we’re just… robot arms to do the bidding of the federal government? We’re not even people. We’re cyborgs.”

“I’d love to be a cyborg.”

“But then you wouldn’t be so warm and comfy.”

“If I were a cyborg I could install a heating element. I’d still be warm. I don’t know about comfy. Maybe if I kept the biomechatronics to one side of my torso.”

“You’d install a heating element just for me? So we could keep cuddling?”

He clears his throat. You smile to yourself.

“Why are we cyborgs, exactly?”

“Because we don’t get personal lives. The job comes first. I could be doing anything. I could be in the middle of eating bright purple pancakes with my good friend and colleague Spencer Reid and it doesn’t matter. If we get called in we have to leave.”

“If we were in the middle of breakfast, we could just… take our food to go and finish it at our desks.”

“Well—I guess it would be different if it was us, but with my other friends… it’s kind of a bummer, sometimes.”

You’re thinking about the friend you left this morning. Nobody you’re particularly invested in, but you wonder if that friend is still asleep in bed—and you realize you don’t much care. You’re glad to be here, and not there.

“I think if the job didn’t feel worth it to you, you would’ve left by now. But you haven’t. You can complain all you want, but you show up every day.”

You scoff.

“Fifteen to 45 minutes late, depending on how you look at it.”

“That is… atypical. You’re usually on time.”

“Usually…” you repeat darkly. A moment passes. An uncomfortable insecurity begins to bloom and ache like a rotting tooth. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“Do you think…” you falter, unused to this kind of vulnerability. A cloud swallows the jet and the cabin darkens into a place for secrets. “Do you think I’m worth the trouble?”

You know Spencer senses the unease like a sheepdog can sense a storm from the way he perks up next to you. He’s always been like that—incredibly attuned to the moods of others. You hope he doesn’t think profiling is just another of many learned skills. It’s a genuine talent, a sort of savantism in its own right. You can’t imagine him doing anything else as passionately as he does his job. Sometimes it almost makes you insecure.

“What trouble?”

“Like… Hotch having to call me half an hour earlier than he calls the rest of the team. Or you, accepting my constant teasing. I know I’m—I can be kind of a diva. I don’t always really feel as professional as you guys. Or… qualified, maybe.”

You can imagine the way he’d narrow his eyes as he thinks this over, though you’d still like to see it for yourself—but you keep your head on his shoulder. In a way, he’s already getting a closer look at you than you usually grant to anyone.

“I think… you’re good at your job. And you care more than you’d like to admit. That thing you do—where you sometimes show up a few minutes late, or you piss Rossi off on purpose, or you flirt with Hotch—I think… we all have things like that. We all self-sabotage, because it’s a really hard job, and I think we all wonder if we’re really qualified for it, or deserve to be in these positions, or if we even want the responsibility of trying to save people’s lives. But you’re a genuinely good person and a gifted profiler. And everyone else knows it, too.”

The deep thrum of the jet’s engine blurs the rest of the team’s incomprehensible chatting and the pounding of your heart into one big muddied streak of paint. Hopefully Spencer can’t feel the heat of your cheek through his shirtsleeve.

“Oh,” you murmur.

A moment passes.

It’s a relief when Spencer’s anxiety comes bubbling up before your own can. “Sorry, was that too much?”

“No,” you hurry, “no, it was—no. That was really really nice of you to say. Thank you, Spencer.”

He relaxes. “Well… it’s all true.”

How could anyone ever deserve him? How does anyone get lucky enough to know a man like Spencer Reid?

When you burst through the other side of the cloud, the sun has come out. It burns away the milky early morning fog and makes your eyes ache just enough to finally wake you up. You blink and stretch against him like a cat.

“Spence?”

“Hm?”

“I just want to clarify… I don’t flirt with Hotch. I flirt with you.”

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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sleep-0-deprived · 4 months ago

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Dom! Yan professor x himbo reader imagines~! ໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა

Just imagining your biology professor being a total hard ass, rude and unkind to every student he’s ever had and giving out the most excessive amounts of homework daily, as soon as he met you something sinister had awoken inside him. The way you’d smile at him all stupid wearing shorts that showed to much and jogging pants that let him see the side profile of your cock during the first day of meeting you had this man losing it.

Just imagining you staying back after your college classes, you being freshly twenty three and scraping by if not failing every class you took, only making it to college on a sports scholarship with you staring and blinking at your professor all class. Yandere professor, just imagining him watching you from the corner of his eye the whole class, his hands moving on auto pilot only able to think about you and how you blink dumbly at him while he teaches making him speak up “is something wrong Mr L/n?”

Just imagining you getting stuck after class in tutoring sessions all hours of the day because he claims “I’m just trying to help you achieve better [name]” he’d utter those words so sincerely it would keep you oblivious while he stares at your ass and your pecs, bitting his lips when you lean in your chair showing him the perfect peak of your body having this man insane having to excuse himself for a moment during your sessions while he goes and “fixes” the situation between his legs.

Just imagining Yandere professor who rubs up against you grabbing and touching your body all over at any chance he gets with close proximity, slowly over time building trust off of his age and status, him pushing mid forties and freshly divorced. Just imagining him bringing up chats about his golden retriever just to twist your oblivious trust into something else, making you feel special whilst he gives you all the attention you could ever dream of with the intent of getting you all to himself wanting to possess and keep you like a boy toy.

Just imagining Yandere professor who asks you for “favors” claiming he’d make sure you passed all your classes, that you’d never have to worry about losing your scholar ship. He’d have your face in his crotch with your mouth wide open engulfing his cock all flushed in the face with teary eyes holding his thighs. Oh how he almost felt sorry for those poor girls that drooled after you during your games….almost, but having your mouth stuffed full of cock asking “am I doin good E’nough f’you sherr” while you soured your words with spit making slurping sounds just trying to please a good grade out of him.

Just imagining Yandere professor who does random dorm checkups on you, making you stay over at his apartment the nights your frat bros throw parties, not standing for the thought of some sorority girl getting her manicured hands on you, you were His and he’d fuck you so good that you knew it. Two glasses of wine later sitting in his apartment with your hand gripping the counters in shambles “s-ir!” All you can repeat over and over is his name speaking it like a prayer to your messiah feeling a drunken man going at it fucking you so hard the sounds start buzzing together and the over head light in his kitchen blurs under your pupils.

Just imagining Yandere professor who had your legs spread wide open sitting leaned back on his desk eating your ass out like a starving man. Gripping your skin and kissing your pucker, practically making out with your rim and letting you ramble on cluelessly about your plays and strategies, whining about how “the coach is placing me as Qb this year!” While you grip the back of your professors head looking down at him just blinking and getting comfy when you see him having no intentions of letting you go since him being able to work your body and play with you however he liked was part of the “conditions”

Just imagining your grades going from a fifties and forties across the boards to becoming a straight A+ student having all of your friends asking how you managed to swindle that, having your fiends wanting to know your secret while one of them asks “all those time you’ve been ditching, you must be going off to secretly study huh!” Your closest buddy just laughs and nudges you during practice unable to tell him that you’ve been whoring yourself out to the most hated teacher on campus.

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jlheon · 7 months ago

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𝓜𝐒. & 𝐌𝐑. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 ୨୧ 𝐏𝐒𝐇

(𝓹airing) — psh x fmr ꣑୧ 𝓯renemies to lovers ; fluff, profanity, & lots of kissing (𝔀ordcount) one-thousand five-hundred forty 𝓹eng's note. these pics. #iWantThat 𝓫ookshelf

𝓼ynopsis. seeing your ex in public leads to hiding in a small photobooth with your annoying student council vice president park sunghoon

“you’re late,” sunghoon says in the most agitating voice possible as you walk through the classroom door.

“i wouldn’t be late if you did your job,” you huff, walking right up to the desk he sat at and dropping the bags of decorations you had picked up from the party supplies store.

“hey! i said i would pick those up!” he says annoyed, sifting through everything you brought.

“mrs. kim said we needed them by today! why the fuck were you just sitting around?”

“geez, loosen up,” the boy gets up from his seat, his tall body looming over yours. “let’s just go decorate the gym.”

the two of you split up the bags of party supplies and headed towards the gym where the rest of the council and student volunteers were waiting.

setting up for the fundraiser was easy until you and sunghoon started yelling at each other over which color streamers should be used over the doorway.

jake had to drag you away by the shoulders to come to help him with the balloons. sunghoon felt a bitter taste when he saw jake with his arm around your shoulder but decided to ignore it.

“hoon,” jungwon calls out. “we’re out of balloons!”

“that’s why i should have bought the decorations…” sunghoon mutters under his breath before walking up to where you and jake were giggling.

sunghoon walks up behind you and places a hand on your shoulder. “we have to go back to the store.” he whispers in your ear.

you freeze at his touch but nod and say goodbye to jake. he lets go of you and the two of you walk out the exit leading to the parking lot.

the two of you get into sunghoon’s car and he drives off to the mall.

there’s an awkward silence between the both of you, which you can’t decide if you like bantering with him over it. there’s so much tension due to sunghoon’s lingering touch from earlier.

once inside the mall, you quietly walked side by side into the automatic doors.

only a few feet from the party supplies stores you halt. spotting your ex-boyfriend and old friend seemingly on a date.

“sunghoon,” you whisper, tapping on his shoulder. “do you see what i see?”

he rolls his eyes at you finally breaking the silence but then looks up to see for himself. once he does that the two seem to have had the same idea, making eye contact with the other.

“oh shit they saw us,” he panics, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the photo booth you were conveniently standing next to.

the photo booth is small. way too small. sunghoon is already sitting as you uncomfortably sit on the ledge with your legs peeking out from the curtain.

“get up,” he instructs.

“what?” you raise an eyebrow. “i’m not letting them see me again! especially not with you!��

“i meant like come here,” sunghoon grabs you and settles you on his lap, so the both of you fit into the small space.

“oh my god, what if they come over here!” you panic resting your hands on his shoulders. “this is bad! especially since i’m with you of all people-”

“with me?” sunghoon questions.

“well, like when we were dating, he always thought you had a crush on me, which isn’t impossible! i had to keep reassuring him but he never believed me! like me and you are barely even friends-” you ramble, balling sunghoon’s shirt in your fists as you freak out.

“woah, calm down,” he tells you, prying your hands from his uniform so you don’t wrinkle it. “it’s not like they’ll come to talk to us.”

just as the words left his mouth the sound of two sets of footsteps were picked up by your ears. you started to become overwhelmingly nervous. it was the first time seeing your ex-boyfriend since the split and the fact your childhood best friend was on a date with him.

even if you drifted, shouldn’t she have some sense of girl code?

“you’re shaking,” sunghoon stares at you.

“no i’m not!” you shake your head, your heartbeat being undeniably fast. “but like i haven’t had a date since him and that’s kind of sad for me-”

“i swear i saw her,” the familiar voice of your old friend says, sounding so close. “it could have been anyone though.”

“no, i saw her and that motherfucker,” your ex hisses.

“wow, i’m ‘motherfucker’,” sunghoon whispers, rolling his eyes.

“if he made a move on her i swear.”

“hey, i have an idea,” he says in your ear.

sunghoon reaches for his phone out of his pocket, holding you close as he leans over slightly to pay the machine for a photo. the screen activates after processing his card and he selects a random frame.

the camera starts going and you sit confused as sunghoon starts posing. you can’t help but watch him. he always looks pretty but you must admit he knows how to pose.

you peek over to the curtain to see two pairs of legs standing outside the photo booth. you can only assume it’s them.

“you weren’t looking in any of them,” sunghoon recalls, pressing print on the screen.

“oh, sorry,” you turn your attention back to him.

“it’s fine, let's do another one,” he says nonchalantly as he pays for another photo strip.

this time sunghoon shifts in his spot, making it so that your face can be seen on the screen without having to turn you around in his lap.

you awkwardly copy sunghoon’s poses until by the second to last picture you hear him again.

“that fucker is in the photo booth,” the male voice outside says, seeing as he drops the photo strip back into where it fell from.

“come closer,” he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“fine,” you lean onto him. “but don’t show my face too much. i’m not wearing concealer today.”

“you look just as pretty,” sunghoon leans closer so your lips barely brush the others. “maybe even prettier than usual.”

he brings his thumb to your bottom lip, gently stroking it before closing the gap.

you hate to admit it but kissing sunghoon was everything you expected and more. you’ve caught yourself daydreaming about his lips on yours during one-on-one meetings in the conference room. when his hair is still damp from his after-shower practice and his face is still slightly flushed.

park sunghoon can make you mad, especially when he got secretary over you in freshman year. but you cannot deny that even when bitter about the council's choice you wanted to kiss that proud smile on his face.

he made you mad when he stole your posters when you were running for secretary again the next year. but after he found you crying in the far stairwell he explained he only did that because he thinks you should run for president instead. sunghoon even pulled out another stack of flyers he made for you that he spent the whole night doing.

the sunghoon that got you both kicked out of a council meeting for arguing with each other is the same sunghoon with his lips molded perfectly against yours.

the same boy that had you studying your ass off when class ranks came out, since he’s your only competition, is the same boy in front of you now with his lips locked on yours.

you start to feel dizzy by the decreased amount of air in your lungs by the minute but you can’t bring yourself to let go just yet. when you start seeing black specs dotting your vision you finally pull away to see a heavily panting sunghoon with a flushed face.

“sorry,” sunghoon apologizes as he catches his breath.

your heart sinks. he only kissed you to distract you and probably so your ex will see the photos when they print.

“oh,” you fight the frown threatening to appear on your face. “it’s okay. he’s probably gone now.”

“i would have asked for your permission but you looked really stressed and i thought it would help you get your mind off your asshole ex.”

“thanks,” you say with a pout sunghoon finds adorable.

“you still seem sad,” he pokes at your sides, making you squirm in his hold. “maybe another kiss?”

“maybe,” you say shyly.

sunghoon is out forty dollars by the time you and he are done kissing in the photo booth. he kept mindlessly swiping his card as his lips stayed on yours to prevent anyone from kicking you two out since you were there for a considerable amount of time.

you’re interrupted by sunghoon’s phone ringing profusely.

“where are you two?” jungwon asks in a panic. “we need those balloons.”

“traffic,” sunghoon says as you plant a line of kisses down his neck, hands tangled in the hair at his nape.

“hurry up,” jungwon advises him.

you and sunghoon return to school an hour and a half after you originally left. with a bag of balloons and a stack of photo strips. most of them capturing purely just of you two making out.

when stepping foot in the gym and you go over to hand jungwon the balloons he so desperately needed. he quickly notices the matching hickeys forming on both your necks and how disheveled your uniforms and hair appear.

“traffic huh?” jungwon asks as his eyes flicker between both of you.

"lots," you nod as you walk away to help minjeong tie balloons.

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keferon · 1 month ago

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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.”

#maccadam #tf mecha universe #blurr #Swerve #mecha writing #mecha kef writing #mecha bs writing #if you saw any mistakes - no you didn’t #it’s six am I need to go to bed but I wanted to post it before my brain shuts down completely #mecha pilot jazz au #jazzprowl #jazzprowl happens on the background lol #Swindle #two nano seconds of Vortex #Shockwave #Pharma

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