[Transformers] Song Fics Take 1
Nov. 29th, 2011 09:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22These are a few short fics I wrote after setting my song archive on shuffle. I let the muses go where they will and ended up with two surprising fics and one not so surprising. These aren't beta'ed, bewarned.
Song: "Price Tag," Jessie J feat B.O.B
Verse : G1, pre-series
Characters: Mirage, unnamed OC
“The Autobots are going to lose, you fool.” His caretaker snarls at him, gold optics flashing, faceplates twisted into a haughty sneer. It's intimidation at its finest, but Mirage is not cowed.
He tilts his chin upward, drawing on every composure lesson drilled into his processor from the nano-klik he onlined. “You are a greater fool for thinking Megatron will allow any of us to live. We are the reason for his war.”
Mirage slides a step to the right, motions fluid, agile, graceful, everything his caretaker paid good credit for in a frame. Everything worthy of a Towers mech.
His caretaker's frame trembles with rage, though he's far too controlled to actually strike, and all that his energy field reveals is bristling irritation. “I would disown you, Mirage, for thinking such ridiculous things.”
A pang grips Mirage's spark, but he soldiers on. There is much more at stake than his supposed heritage. “Do it then,” Mirage says, ignoring how every part of him keens with fear over such a loss, how his very coding shrieks in protest, tries to purr at him, sway him back to his caretaker's way of thought. “I'll not change my position on this. I won't ever side with the Decepticons.”
Gold optics flash at him. “There will be a vorn you'll come to regret your choice.” Mirage's caretaker turns his back on Mirage with a firm clip of his heel strut over polished tungsten, one servo flicking out in disdained dismissal. “Begone, if you desire it so.”
Mirage hesitates for the fraction of a breem he'll be allowed before his caretaker calls their personal guard to escort him out. For he knows he'll caretaker will do it. There is obviously nothing left for him here.
He stares at his caretaker's dorsal plating and executes a sharp, shallow bow. He says nothing, has no more words to say, and whirls to leave. The sound of his footsteps in the wide, opulent hall echo too loudly for his comfort.
He must leave this behind, though the Towers is all he knows; this is his home.
And soon, it will belong to Megatron.
Song: "Something Beautiful," Needtobreathe
Verse: Bayverse, post-DotM
Characters: BumblebeexSpringer, background Hotrod, Wreckers
He's barely off the ramp before a yellow-plated mech launches himself through the air, happiness bleeding through their fledgling bond.
Springer's arms open to catch the smaller bot, instantly enfolding Bumblebee in his embrace. Bee squirms in his arms, one hand reaching up and locking around the back of Springer's head. He drags their forehelms together with a resounding click of metal on metal, his optics blazing blue and bright.
“You made it,” Bee transmits over the telepathic link now formed between them.
Joy makes Springer's spark flip on its axis, and he easily ignores the catcalls of his fellow Wreckers, Hot Rod's teasing, and Bumblebee's team's goodnatured ribbing.
“Vocalizer still shorting out, I see,” Springer says, one hand clamping down on Bee's aft to support his bonded as the other settles just below those adorable, perky wings of his.
“It comes and goes,” Bumblebee replies, pressing their helms together with more force, as though trying to meld them together through pressure alone. “We didn't think there were any more survivors.”
Springer chuckles. “We're Wreckers. Of course we made it.”
Bee's grip on his head tightens, enough to dent had Springer not retained his battle armor. The war might be over but he's no fool. “Missed you.”
Some of the humor fades, replaced by a wave of loneliness that speaks of the vorns of separation between them, and the last time Springer saw his bonded, right before Megatron nearly offlined him.
His optics dim at the painful memory and Springer understands why Bee is clinging so tightly. “I know,” Springer says, shifting to the internal transmission.
“Don't leave again.”
“Never.” And this time, it doesn't have to sound like a lie.
Song: "Get Around This," Safety Suit
Verse: Bayverse, post-RotF
Characters: SideswipexRatchet, mentioned Sunstreaker
Additional Commentary: mechporn of the p'n'p variety
Red fingers are similar but not enough.
Together they are two, but the balance is off.
Something is missing, something irreplaceable. It's not the same, won't ever be, just a patch over the wound, just WD-40 on a rust stain.
“He's still alive,” Sideswipe says fiercely, shuddering on the edge of overload, his vocalizer emitting static.
Fingers scramble over a chartreuse frame, dipping into seams, tugging on cables, pressing hard, the edge of pain, and it's everything Ratchet needs.
He wants to keen in agony, his energy field a flaring mixture of want and grief and need and pain, all collapsing inward, extending outward, twining with Sideswipe's own misery and loneliness and longing.
Together, they aren't enough. He's not here but they're trying to hold themselves together regardless, even as their energies strain for a third that's not present, looping back toward them without the other to balance out the ecstasy-agony.
Sideswipe's going to get himself offlined, pelting into battle the way he does, blades afire and with little regard for his own safety. Anything to outpace, outrun, outfight the pain in his spark.
Ratchet's going to work himself until he offlines, fixing every last dent and ding and scratch. Worrying and worrying over the fate of their kind, over Cybertron and their dwindling population. Over a Prime who's spark was extinguished, only to rekindle. Over their dead second (third) in command.
And all the while reaching, spark calling out for the last resonating beat that could make him feel whole again. Could make Sideswipe more than a half.
Sideswipe ventilates, hotter, harsher, cooling fans kicking into overdrive. Ratchet's fingers scrabble over silver armor, one hand wedging itself under loose plating and gripping, pulling, adding an edge of pain. Sideswipe roars, staticky, their bond pulsing so unevenly Ratchet can't tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore.
Alone, alone, missing, gone.
His free hand hooks around Sideswipe's helm. “Connect with me,” Ratchet half-snarls, half-gasps. Anything to feel less broken.
Sideswipe moans, slamming Ratchet harder against the wall of their makeshift home. “Shouldn't,” he says, mostly incapable of coherent speech. But his half-hearted denial is undercut by his fingers struggling to withdraw data cables.
Ratchet irises open the ports on either side of his abdominal armor in welcome, letting go of Sideswipe's helm to direct quaking fingers where they should rightfully be. The soft click of cables sliding home into ports seems to echo loudly in the hangar that serves as Ratchet's medbay. And Ratchet's entire frame jolts as Sideswipe's desire and loneliness intermingle with his own.
Electricity crackles over his plating, and then crawls onto Sideswipe's, stirring them both into a higher frenzy. The air reeks of overcharge and ozone, and old energon.
It's more than Ratchet can take and still not enough. He yearns, a cry rising in his vocalizer, craving Sunstreaker's presence, his charge to balance it out. The desperation within him is strong enough to startle, but also echoed by Sideswipe, who arguably misses his twin more than Ratchet could ever match.
Together they are two. And it will never be enough.
Sideswipe pulses through the hardline connection, fast, abrasive throbs of pleasure and need and want, want, want. Ratchet can't keep up, doesn't want to, and drags Sideswipe closer to him, as physically as possible, their plating overheated and crawling with electricity.
Overload comes without warning, slamming through Ratchet's circuits and making him writhe, trapped between Sideswipe and the concrete wall of the hanger. He can feel the stone scratching into his dorsal plating, can feel the creak and groan of strained gears, but it's all a white noise to the consuming pleasure that still isn't enough to chase away the agony of a fractured bond.
Sideswipe's grip on his hip spurs is hard enough to dent as he buries his face against Ratchet's chestplate, fans whirring. Ratchet's overload pours into Sideswipe's systems, aided by the hardline connection, and Sideswipe shudders as his own crests over him.
And for a single, blissful, aching moment, Ratchet can feel Sunstreaker, wherever their golden twin is, lightyears away and too far to be heard or touched. Sideswipe all but cries out in longing, and Ratchet feels the urge crowding on his own vocalizer.
But then, the moment's gone, their overloads waning as the electricity dissipates, leaving behind frames frantically trying to cool themselves with overworked fans, and the sluggish exchange of data across the hardline.
Ratchet sags against the wall, grateful for the chill of the stone. The tremors begin in his feet, but he locks his joints, keeps himself in place.
“He's still alive,” Sideswipe says in the ensuing silence, his vocalizer crackling into static on the last word.
“Yes, he is,” Ratchet replies, confirmation given in that single moment.
But it's not enough, won't ever be. Together they are two, but they were always, always meant to be trine.
------------------------------------------------------
a/n: Yeah, I cheated on the last one. The other two kinda petered out on me, but the last one wouldn't STOP. It kept trying to grow plot.
Well, hope you enjoyed nonetheless. More ficcage to come tomorrow and Thursday, with Flash Fiction Friday returning on December 2nd!.
Song: "Price Tag," Jessie J feat B.O.B
Verse : G1, pre-series
Characters: Mirage, unnamed OC
“The Autobots are going to lose, you fool.” His caretaker snarls at him, gold optics flashing, faceplates twisted into a haughty sneer. It's intimidation at its finest, but Mirage is not cowed.
He tilts his chin upward, drawing on every composure lesson drilled into his processor from the nano-klik he onlined. “You are a greater fool for thinking Megatron will allow any of us to live. We are the reason for his war.”
Mirage slides a step to the right, motions fluid, agile, graceful, everything his caretaker paid good credit for in a frame. Everything worthy of a Towers mech.
His caretaker's frame trembles with rage, though he's far too controlled to actually strike, and all that his energy field reveals is bristling irritation. “I would disown you, Mirage, for thinking such ridiculous things.”
A pang grips Mirage's spark, but he soldiers on. There is much more at stake than his supposed heritage. “Do it then,” Mirage says, ignoring how every part of him keens with fear over such a loss, how his very coding shrieks in protest, tries to purr at him, sway him back to his caretaker's way of thought. “I'll not change my position on this. I won't ever side with the Decepticons.”
Gold optics flash at him. “There will be a vorn you'll come to regret your choice.” Mirage's caretaker turns his back on Mirage with a firm clip of his heel strut over polished tungsten, one servo flicking out in disdained dismissal. “Begone, if you desire it so.”
Mirage hesitates for the fraction of a breem he'll be allowed before his caretaker calls their personal guard to escort him out. For he knows he'll caretaker will do it. There is obviously nothing left for him here.
He stares at his caretaker's dorsal plating and executes a sharp, shallow bow. He says nothing, has no more words to say, and whirls to leave. The sound of his footsteps in the wide, opulent hall echo too loudly for his comfort.
He must leave this behind, though the Towers is all he knows; this is his home.
And soon, it will belong to Megatron.
Song: "Something Beautiful," Needtobreathe
Verse: Bayverse, post-DotM
Characters: BumblebeexSpringer, background Hotrod, Wreckers
He's barely off the ramp before a yellow-plated mech launches himself through the air, happiness bleeding through their fledgling bond.
Springer's arms open to catch the smaller bot, instantly enfolding Bumblebee in his embrace. Bee squirms in his arms, one hand reaching up and locking around the back of Springer's head. He drags their forehelms together with a resounding click of metal on metal, his optics blazing blue and bright.
“You made it,” Bee transmits over the telepathic link now formed between them.
Joy makes Springer's spark flip on its axis, and he easily ignores the catcalls of his fellow Wreckers, Hot Rod's teasing, and Bumblebee's team's goodnatured ribbing.
“Vocalizer still shorting out, I see,” Springer says, one hand clamping down on Bee's aft to support his bonded as the other settles just below those adorable, perky wings of his.
“It comes and goes,” Bumblebee replies, pressing their helms together with more force, as though trying to meld them together through pressure alone. “We didn't think there were any more survivors.”
Springer chuckles. “We're Wreckers. Of course we made it.”
Bee's grip on his head tightens, enough to dent had Springer not retained his battle armor. The war might be over but he's no fool. “Missed you.”
Some of the humor fades, replaced by a wave of loneliness that speaks of the vorns of separation between them, and the last time Springer saw his bonded, right before Megatron nearly offlined him.
His optics dim at the painful memory and Springer understands why Bee is clinging so tightly. “I know,” Springer says, shifting to the internal transmission.
“Don't leave again.”
“Never.” And this time, it doesn't have to sound like a lie.
Song: "Get Around This," Safety Suit
Verse: Bayverse, post-RotF
Characters: SideswipexRatchet, mentioned Sunstreaker
Additional Commentary: mechporn of the p'n'p variety
Red fingers are similar but not enough.
Together they are two, but the balance is off.
Something is missing, something irreplaceable. It's not the same, won't ever be, just a patch over the wound, just WD-40 on a rust stain.
“He's still alive,” Sideswipe says fiercely, shuddering on the edge of overload, his vocalizer emitting static.
Fingers scramble over a chartreuse frame, dipping into seams, tugging on cables, pressing hard, the edge of pain, and it's everything Ratchet needs.
He wants to keen in agony, his energy field a flaring mixture of want and grief and need and pain, all collapsing inward, extending outward, twining with Sideswipe's own misery and loneliness and longing.
Together, they aren't enough. He's not here but they're trying to hold themselves together regardless, even as their energies strain for a third that's not present, looping back toward them without the other to balance out the ecstasy-agony.
Sideswipe's going to get himself offlined, pelting into battle the way he does, blades afire and with little regard for his own safety. Anything to outpace, outrun, outfight the pain in his spark.
Ratchet's going to work himself until he offlines, fixing every last dent and ding and scratch. Worrying and worrying over the fate of their kind, over Cybertron and their dwindling population. Over a Prime who's spark was extinguished, only to rekindle. Over their dead second (third) in command.
And all the while reaching, spark calling out for the last resonating beat that could make him feel whole again. Could make Sideswipe more than a half.
Sideswipe ventilates, hotter, harsher, cooling fans kicking into overdrive. Ratchet's fingers scrabble over silver armor, one hand wedging itself under loose plating and gripping, pulling, adding an edge of pain. Sideswipe roars, staticky, their bond pulsing so unevenly Ratchet can't tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore.
Alone, alone, missing, gone.
His free hand hooks around Sideswipe's helm. “Connect with me,” Ratchet half-snarls, half-gasps. Anything to feel less broken.
Sideswipe moans, slamming Ratchet harder against the wall of their makeshift home. “Shouldn't,” he says, mostly incapable of coherent speech. But his half-hearted denial is undercut by his fingers struggling to withdraw data cables.
Ratchet irises open the ports on either side of his abdominal armor in welcome, letting go of Sideswipe's helm to direct quaking fingers where they should rightfully be. The soft click of cables sliding home into ports seems to echo loudly in the hangar that serves as Ratchet's medbay. And Ratchet's entire frame jolts as Sideswipe's desire and loneliness intermingle with his own.
Electricity crackles over his plating, and then crawls onto Sideswipe's, stirring them both into a higher frenzy. The air reeks of overcharge and ozone, and old energon.
It's more than Ratchet can take and still not enough. He yearns, a cry rising in his vocalizer, craving Sunstreaker's presence, his charge to balance it out. The desperation within him is strong enough to startle, but also echoed by Sideswipe, who arguably misses his twin more than Ratchet could ever match.
Together they are two. And it will never be enough.
Sideswipe pulses through the hardline connection, fast, abrasive throbs of pleasure and need and want, want, want. Ratchet can't keep up, doesn't want to, and drags Sideswipe closer to him, as physically as possible, their plating overheated and crawling with electricity.
Overload comes without warning, slamming through Ratchet's circuits and making him writhe, trapped between Sideswipe and the concrete wall of the hanger. He can feel the stone scratching into his dorsal plating, can feel the creak and groan of strained gears, but it's all a white noise to the consuming pleasure that still isn't enough to chase away the agony of a fractured bond.
Sideswipe's grip on his hip spurs is hard enough to dent as he buries his face against Ratchet's chestplate, fans whirring. Ratchet's overload pours into Sideswipe's systems, aided by the hardline connection, and Sideswipe shudders as his own crests over him.
And for a single, blissful, aching moment, Ratchet can feel Sunstreaker, wherever their golden twin is, lightyears away and too far to be heard or touched. Sideswipe all but cries out in longing, and Ratchet feels the urge crowding on his own vocalizer.
But then, the moment's gone, their overloads waning as the electricity dissipates, leaving behind frames frantically trying to cool themselves with overworked fans, and the sluggish exchange of data across the hardline.
Ratchet sags against the wall, grateful for the chill of the stone. The tremors begin in his feet, but he locks his joints, keeps himself in place.
“He's still alive,” Sideswipe says in the ensuing silence, his vocalizer crackling into static on the last word.
“Yes, he is,” Ratchet replies, confirmation given in that single moment.
But it's not enough, won't ever be. Together they are two, but they were always, always meant to be trine.
------------------------------------------------------
a/n: Yeah, I cheated on the last one. The other two kinda petered out on me, but the last one wouldn't STOP. It kept trying to grow plot.
Well, hope you enjoyed nonetheless. More ficcage to come tomorrow and Thursday, with Flash Fiction Friday returning on December 2nd!.
