this is for @9arco95 in thanks for all the fantastic otp art they do and bc they’re so nice and cool c:
(the idea of swindle experiencing effects of the enigma is 100% theirs)
personal characterisations blah blah
___________
"C'mon, we gotta go. Customers are gonna start trickling in a few hours."
Swindle smiled bleakly, and it was so familiar, so like-the-times-before that Blurr had to look away for a moment. "Yeah, I'm coming."
He stood up, without wobbling even a little - the bartender was watching him closely, maybe even too close. No wrong movement went unnoticed.
Blurr tried to keep Swindle away from the main bar area as much as he could. He couldn't afford for Swindle to be seen by anyone - who knew how chatty this or that customer was. Even if it were Slug, or one of the Tankors, or Windblade-- no, nonono. Nobody should know.
It was not that Swindle was particularly insistent on spending time in here, and yet - just one look at his roughly patched-up frame made energon curdle in Blurr's tanks. It was wrong - the whole thing was so wrong and so irreversibly damaged, but... Swindle was here. What could he even do, turn away?
He wished he could-- he wished he could go and ask for qualified help. He wished he could straight-out yell at Swindle, the way he thought he'd yell at him when he first saw him with a giant hole in his chestplate. He wished he could somehow fix this, but he couldn't trust him, and he couldn't leave him, and Swindle just... smiled.
Blurr felt nauseous.
This was actually often why they ended up here more often than not; it was a desperate attempt to make this feel right. At least, in the bar, with Swindle, he could pretend... not at home, though, never at home. His recharge slab seemed cold and empty, even though the ex-con spent only like one or two nights there. But Blurr knew now that he could have invited Swindle over any time. The fact that he didn't was not important.
Blurr could have done it now. But it wasn't easy - Primus, nothing was easy here - ever since Blurr returned home as a winner, almost exhilarated for the first time in thousands, millions of years and trying to quench the nagging sense of worry-- and deciding to stay at the bar for the night, found Swindle sitting on the floor inside.
"How did you get in?" Blurr had asked after a moment of silence. There was a small pool of energon under Swindle. Blurr had not heard of him ever since he went off one night and everything went to Pit.
"I know your code," Swindle had said. He hadn't seemed remorseful. Just... thoughtful.
He-- of course he did. Blurr might as well had given him the code himself. How many times had Swindle leaned against the walls of Maccadam's while Blurr fiddled with the door? How many times after had Blurr reached out and--
He strode towards the storage room, didn't glance back to check if Swindle was following. He would. He didn't have anywhere to go.
Apparently. It still struck Blurr as odd that Swindle came to him of all people. He was already somewhat patched-up, energon leaking out only occasionally. Someone took care of him.
And then Swindle came here - not to explain himself (because he didn't) or to apologise (pff, right) or just in case Blurr wanted to know he was okay. There was nothing of that kind. Swindle didn't look like he knew the reason he came here either, and that was a small consolation.
So Blurr took him in; offered him a place, gave him energon once in a while. Never asked questions.
There wasn't much to say now. But every evening before the bartender left, Swindle thanked him. It kind of stung. Maybe that was the point.
The merchant paused at the bottom of the steps.
"Swindle?" Blurr called out, unsure.
"Th-there's somethhhh--" a shiver passed through him, he convulsed a couple times, and then suddenly - violently - changed shape, sending cans and barrels flying in all directions.
"I'm-m... I'm not sure what's-- whhhhhhhhhhh-- khhhh--"
Blurr rushed over in a whirl of motion, catching Swindle right as he transformed back and almost fell over.
Swindle gave him a faint smile. Blurr could see a hole in his chest. Lying on his floor, bleeding out. No.
No, he would not let it happen.
"What the heck?" Blurr inquired.
"I-I dunno," Swindle was still trembling, excessive energy flying off him in waves. Blurr gripped him closer. "I-it was like my t-cog just... gained control over my whole frame." He rubbed his fingers over his side. Blurr put his hand there as well.
Swindle stared at him in slight confusion, and Blurr realised that he just gripped his splayed fingers as tight as he could.
"Sorry," he muttered, slowly letting Swindle go. "You really should go see Flatline."
"Mmhm, not sure anybody would be glad to see me right now," the merchant chuckled darkly.
"I'm," Blurr said. He wasn't glad. It was exhausting. But Swindle was here. "We'll figure it out," he added helplessly.
There was something soft, terribly familiar in the other's expession. Blurr remembered being so comfortable in Swindle's presence. Wishing to just stay here.
"You shouldn't be here now,” he blurted out. “I mean, it's, what if you start transforming again, what if I come back and all my stock is just— gone?”
Swindle’s expression slowly gave way to a blank, closed-off look.
“Yeah. You’re right, of course. Hate to be the one to ruin all your business.”
His smirk looked horrifying. Blurr imagined himself (выгоняющим Свиндла) to the street. It was even more horrifying.
“No, I mean, that’s not—“ Blurr cringed. “Let’s go home. I mean. Let’s go to my place.”
Purple rectangles flared.
“Are you… sure?”
“I’m sure,” the bartender replied instantly. He reached out, and Swindle smiled.
It’s been a year since I wrote the melody & recorded it, and I wanted to make a new recording (because frankly, the old one suckssss). For anyone who hasn’t heard it - this is my take on the bar song!
I hope one day we have full lyrics (there definitely needs to be, like, twenty verses) and I can record that!
When he saw Bumblebee’s frame, he let out a vent of relief.
It was a blessing. A huge gaping hole in a fragile frame, slightly greyed - it was perfect.
It was not even his fault. Though, really, a small part of him wanted it to be his fault - wanted Bumblebee to become what Metalhawk had been before the latter went and screwed everything up.
Dead. Dead, and a constant presence. Dead, and a permanent reminder. Dead, and silent, and obedient, and always, always understanding.
Oh, he did have a fair share of living beings to talk to. All of these ‘bots, old and new, experienced and naive, ones that believed in him and ones that didn’t.
All could be manipulated. They never trusted him, not for more than a day— and yet. It was just a matter of time; a matter of finding the right way.
He couldn’t do that to the dead. He didn’t have to - they listened to him, always. They never snapped back, they never accused him of ulterior motives, they never ignored him, never failed him, never left. Talking to Metalhawk’s dead frame was always pleasant: he would never speak again, he would never be disappointed again, and that was just fine.
It would be just like this, this time, just like it. Oh, Bumblebee and Metalhawk were different - but not too different. In death, they became even more alike.
He knew, deep inside, that there could be others like them - sometimes, he saw the possibility, but these ones were way too valuable. They were better alive; better away from him.
So he let his gaze slide easily over the living - they talked too much, they had so many opinions, they never wanted to just accept it. Accept him as the rightful leader of Cybertron.
Bumblebee accepted him once, and he would never change his mind again. He wouldn’t be here to bring forth the accusations, the failings, but he would be here to listen.
He just wouldn’t talk.
Everyone who ever trusted him was dead and silent, which proved a simple point. A very simple point.
And it was fine like this, he declared to the emptiness. More than fine.
Emptiness gave him a smug smirk.
Starscream let his gaze slide over the yellow frame and pretended not to hear.
trying to make myself feel better about writing, here’s a passage from a wip that I really really like for some reason. this is something that I’m writing in Russian, actually, so it’s translated (and may not work as well, sigh)
no idea when i’ll finish this wip, i’m working on it when i just feel like blurr/swindle and there’s no fics and i have no ideas in my slow stupid head
Blurr took his hand so often that it should have become completely mundane, but he felt it acutely every time. Swindle tried to remember when was the first time it happened, and couldn’t. But he did remember than he was watching Blurr then, waiting to see if he did that with anybody else. He started noticing how tactile the bartender was: he would drape himself all over Slug, he would put an arm on Windblade’s shoulders (not the wings, never the wings - very diplomatic of him: who knew what cultural norms were on Caminus), he’d let his field expand all over the place. But he didn’t take anyone else’s hand.
Then - supposedly, when the ex-con got a bit used to it, - he began embracing Swindle. It nearly always happened when he didn’t expect it, always from the back. He got it, after a while: the point was that Swindle wouldn’t be able to react. That he wouldn’t have a choice of hugging back or not.
Swindle remembered the first time clearly, even though he was quite smashed at the time; he was so thrown aback that he didn’t move or try to push Blurr away. After a klik, he concluded that it felt nice, strange, yet nice. That was the time they all escaped from Starscream’s prison and drank like the world was ending (again) - all of them, Blurr included. It was all quite pathetic, and then Slug started telling jokes, and it got even worse. But Blurr had laughed. Swindle thought, at the time, that he had such a ridiculous laugh. All about him was ridiculous. All about this bot who thought too much of himself and of his bar, as well.
look what i found. an unfinished disregarded blurr/swindle ficbit!! with kisses. from like, april.
Something must be bothering Swindle. He is barely drinking, he is full of laughs and possibly illegally acquired stories one moment and subdued another, and he actually flinches when Blurr throws one hand around him.
But Blurr can't stop himself - the night is in full swing, customers are happy and there's a lot of them, and the latest bills Swindle reviewed proved that the business was going very well.
"Hey," he greets him, for the fourth of fifth time this evening, as has become a custom, a small, stupid inside joke.
Swindle grunts something indescribable, someing unpleasant and possibly nasty, and Blurr just... doesn't care. So, okay, Swindle is grump- but he is still here, he still came here. Maybe, to deliver the datapad. Maybe - maybe, not just that.
"What's gotten up your tailpipe?" Blurr asks, teasingly, bringing another tray from a table in the corner. Right, a brief respite: he needs one.
Swindle shakes his helm, more times than necessary.
"Are you sure you won't be drinking anything? You know, there's an excellent concoction that I'm rather proud to present - of course, you can always go to the safe choice of--"
"You really should shut up," Swindle replies, finally.
And Blurr just grins at him, field full of poorly disguised affection. "So you do talk, oh the mysterious silent customer. May I tempt you with something?" He leans in, as if letting Swindle in for a joke.
Swindle makes an abrupt whining sound, so different from his usual low humming.
And comes closer.
Blurr feels how his hand is grabbed, sure and desperate, how the purple optics are getting bigger, Swindle's mouth twists into something ugly, as if ready to spout something--
Everything is happening so quickly, and he can't be sure, he won't swear upon it, because maybe, maybe he did close the final distance.
Swindle immediately gasps in his mouth, as if surprised, as if this was not the whole precipitated outcome, and almost takes his hand off - but not his lips, - but Blurr grabs it, and the merchant just melts into him, lips trying to move, very uncertain, very slow, but the bartender can finally feel his field, bursts of longing and need and anger and, and-- affection. Suddenly coaxing Swindle's lips open seems to be the most important thing in the whole world, much more than running a bar or attending to customers, or anything. It does not take long.
Blurr does not think - he just reaches over, hands closing over Swindle's back, and he does not flinch this time, and the plating is warm and scrubbed under his right hand. His left one is kneading Swindle's fingers, and the sounds the merchant is making block out the music in the bar, as always. Blurr just hopes nobody else hears them, nobody else is privy to this, nobody should be. It dawns on him, suddenly, how unwilling he is to share this with others - when before (long before), he never minded; on the contrary. Swindle trembles in his hands, barely noticeable, and Blurr presses closer, blocking the sounds with his mouth.
Neither of them is drunk, and Swindle looks absolutely horrified when he moves away, so much that for a klik Blurr thinks that he must have imagined Swindle leaning in, hand securing his own, that it must have been him, his doing.
"Uhhhhh,” the ex-con says. "Uh. Uh.” He leans away and immediately falls off the stool. Blurr tries to grab his hand, elbow, anything, but he’s not fast enough - his fingers only scratch one of the shoulder wheels. A crash, some customers turn their helms and Blurr smiles pleasantly at all them. Nothing to see, completely normal occurrence.
Nobody has to know that Swindle hasn’t drunk more than two glasses during the whole evening.
Blurr leans over the bar and watches Swindle sit up. “You okay? Uh, here, let me—" he reaches forward and hauls him up, checking for damage quickly. “Looks fine.” His hand stops at Swindle’s elbow, hovers there, as if uncertain, but deep inside, Blurr has never been this sure, not since racing against time so very long ago.
Swindle isn’t looking at him. If he were a different type of mech, he would be hugging himself. (Blurr takes his elbow.) If he were a different sort of mech, Blurr would smile easily and offer a drink. (Blurr tugs him over, places his other hand on the other side.) If, if, if Swindle hadn’t been so— so—
"You're so—" Swindle fumbles in frustration, trying to disentangle himself half-heartedly, "ugh, so free with your affections, I can't--"
Blurr goes for it - grabs him, tugs him closer. Swindle flails a little, grabbing his back thrusters, and Blurr lays his helm down beside the smaller one, completing the embrace. Swindle freezes, but he doesn’t let go.
I’ve said for quite a while that the main theme/subject of my fics is растерянность. It’s... the word is a bit hard to render in English, but the main analogue would be “confusion”. It’s not even a favourite, it’s just that it so happens that most often I write fics about situations when characters don’t know where to go, or how to live, go on, deal with something.
I love writing about how some things just happen this way, and we can’t do much about it. About living on after experiencing very hard things. I love writing about non-absolutes, about subjective experiences, about finding your own place in life, or, on the other hand, never finding it, and losing the sight of what you’re after. I love writing about things being not-easy in a way life’s not easy, I guess.
6. thoughts on critique
I’m a child of Russian fandom, which means a very different set of mind in regards to critique than what is common in English fandom. however, my own view rests somewhere in-between. I think critique is a good tool to help; but if the author does not welcome it, it is not welcome.
on the other hand, I love critique in the sense of “critically laying down a work” - not for the author, but for the readers. you know, like critique in publish literature? not that it can’t be bad or toxic or stupid, but still.
I’m not a very critical person at all, but for some reason literally one of the only things I actually can write long paragraphs about, describing stuff that works and that doesn’t, is fanfiction. With movies, published books and other stuff I usually think “okay, not my cup of tea” and forget it and rarely wail about how I hated something (because I mostly want to love things. which is actually a rare thing, I’ve discovered, as many people love to criticise. I... don’t). But with fanfiction, I’m kinda more used to there being all sorts of quality present, and I can judge it accordingly, and according to my 10-year-long long experience? I could easily write a column with fic reviews, or something. (and everything in it would be subjective! because the world is.)
9. a passage from a WIP
When he onlines his optics, he finds no one there.
For a moment, he entertains himself with the thought of how he even in death is forgotten, but quickly pushes it aside; he is no longer that bot. He was over it. Megatron smiled at him. It was over.
It was over. Wasn't it? He checks the sensitivity of his sensors - they sure are detecting something, but what? - tries to clench his hand to feel the reassuring circle of the forcefield. His fingers clutch weakly at something. He traces the outlines of the object and drops his helm back to the berth in bliss.
Later, there's First Aid, scrambling to his side, all senseless mumbling and soft panting, while Ratchet stands a bit to the side, shaking his helm, and Rodimus, grinning so hard his plates might crack, and Nautica, sending him a helpless smile while she twists her wrench endlessly in her hands, turning it over and over again. There's Getaway who just now shows his worry and sorrow, and Skids who can't, a stoic mask in the place of the usually expressive face. There's Hoist, telling him stories, and Swerve, bringing him energon, and Ultra Magnus, who smiles just one time, he is sure of it.
scraplette replied to your post: “i was doing fine with my thesis buut then anxiety hit me so. uh. need…”:
If it isn’t too much bother. Maybe Rung trying to teach Skids to dance? Could be friendship or romance.
i lied here's another one!!
"You can do it."
"All the evidence points to the contrary."
"Skids. You are able to master difficult battle skills in the span of nanokliks. Surely you can learn a couple dancing steps."
"It's not about the steps!" Skids threw his hands up. "It's the... you know, the grace or something."
"You are pretty gracious in battle," Rung noticed.
Skids stared at him for a while. "Wow. Well, thanks, Eyebrows."
Rung coughed. "You're welcome."
"I didn't know you liked looking," Skids continued, grinning all the more.
"I didn't... don't change the subject! We are doing it. It was you who asked," Rung reminded him sternly.
"I regret that profusely and would like to retract that."
"No. Come on. Give me your hand."
"I still think that our drastic height difference--"
"You're not getting out of this." And there it was: a small smile, barely visible. Skids loved drawing these out.
"Oh, okay. Go on. Work your magic."
Rung shook his helm, then tugged Skids closer.
"Come closer, you won't crush me. Our frames need to be touching for this. Next thing, you need to loosen your limbs, otherwise you simply won't be able to move the right way. Okay. You know how to shift weight in battle?"
"Yes?"
"Well, it's the same here. Pay attention to your legs below the kneepads - feel them. The most movement is concentrated in there. There are variations where there is more freedom of movement - the ones where you could turn me around, for instance, - but we'll stick to the basic style for now. Okay, now, twist your feet, yes, like this. Three times, then we turn around..."
Skids ex-vented heavily. "I'm afraid I'm just not built for this."
"Nonsense. Everyone can dance. It's very similiar to fighting, you know."
"Not everyone can fight," Skids said pointedly.
"No, well." Rung paused in his motions. "Not everyone needs to. Nowadays, at least."
"And that's good." The blue mech smiled easily. "Look at us, we even have time for this! That's fragging unbelievable. Which reminds me - where did you even learn how to dance?"
"Oh, well." Rung looked to the side, round optics dimming for a nanoklik. "I... enjoyed this as a sort of escape from work, before the Clampdown. There... there was a friend who invited me to their gatherings. It was a nice enough refuge. It's hard without a partner, though, and due to my height, I always had to follow, almost never lead."
"Oh." It only now dawned on Skids that this had to have some emotional impact on Rung himself. "Well, go on then. What's the next move?"
Rung showed him.
"Whoa there. I'm not sure it's even possible for me to cross my legs like this.
"Skids." Rung measured him witn a glare. "I've seen miner-builds do this."
"Alright, okay. Let me try." He ex-vented, put one leg in front of the other. "What is this one called again?"
Rung was looking at his legs and smiling. "Balboa."
mincedsandwich replied to your post: “i was doing fine with my thesis buut then anxiety hit me so. uh. need…”:
blurr/swindle, on a date/hanging out at a place OTHER than the bar
"Have you been here before much?"
"Not really. I mean, after the... Shocalypse. After the time we found the Titan, really. Kinda gives me creeps."
Swindle stared at him. "Do you really call it-- nevermind. Come on, I know a good way out."
When they finally came out of Metroplex - for some reason, it was no easy task, - it was, miraculously, still dark. Blurr gasped a little at the sight of... nothing.
"Like it?" Swindle inquired with a little smirk. "We can go out a little further. I promise you, we won't start killing each other. Unless I decide it's easier than settling my tab."
They went for a while in silence, neither breaking the suddenly overwhelming air of nothing around them, nothing for miles - except for the city left behind, drastically quiet.
Suddenly, Blurr ex-vented and plomped down on the ground. Swindle had no idea how he managed to do it so gracefully.
"I kinda wish this planet still had the old roads. That was one definitely good thing about Earth - so many highways. And yet, compared to ours... Primus, I miss them. That one Protihex track... it was amazing, going for miles and miles, with no obstacles and no end in sight. Lots of mechs enjoy the trim trails, but really, I would pick a simple open road any day. Just driving and driving, for eternity. The ultimate challenge. Darkness all around you, just the lights by the road pointing your way. I loved races, but in the end, what I think of now is just going out there, in the night, and driving..." He snorted. "I guess if I died and my frame assumed my preferred shape, it would probably be the altmode."
Blurr vented a sigh once again, throwing his helm back slightly, supporting himself with the arms behind him. Was Swindle still there? He was suspiciously quiet.
The ex-racer turned his helm only to see bright purple optics right in front of him, and in the next moment he felt lipplates on his own. Swindle didn't say anything, he just kissed him - Blurr felt small hands, one on his left headfin, the other stroking his grillets. He didn't try to ask - Swindle rarely initiated anything as it was. He could only cherish it, not even try to coax the mouth under his to open - nothing as intricate as that. It was simple, simpler than it ever was there, inside Metroplex, inside Maccadam's: he prided himself so often on being insignia-blind, but the thing was, everyone felt it, back there. Cons, bots, NAILs. Even him, the bartender, supposedly above it all. Here, he was just... a former racer.
Swindle was simply Swindle.
When they parted, it seemed as if Swindle's optics were blazing even brighter.
"I... I..." his face was doing something weird. "I-- guess I wouldn't mind seeing you race one day," he finished clumsily.
Blurr stroked his neck cables, then grinned.
"You bet you would. Do you know just how good I was there? No one could even try to compare."
"Mmm. We could make fortunes," Swindle said dreamily, drawing back and propping himself on his hands as well.
"So you still don't believe I can make a fortune with the bar."
"It's not a bar. It's a fragging charity establishment for the poor."
