Flash Fiction Fills (Take 25) Final Part
Jan. 4th, 2012 08:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Last of the flash fiction! Please enjoy. :)
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Jazz/Ratchet, "Love is a Battlefield"
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings for implied slash, language
For animelover1993
Prompt: Jazz/Prime
Fandom: AU Bayverse, post-RoTF. Warnings for implied character death
For firegirl0
Prompt: Kyouya/Twins, "sit down and shut up"
Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club. Warnings for implied slash
a/n: That first one... I couldn't get it to stop. It kept building plot. As did the second. *laughs* Ah, so much fun.
Tomorrow brings more fiction! A Transformers fic! A Bleach fic! An original chapter! Lots ta read!
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Jazz/Ratchet, "Love is a Battlefield"
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings for implied slash, language
His anger is like a thundercloud over his helm, lightning sparking in all directions and air rumbling ominously. Wiser mechs have already fled the Bay. Only a couple brave sparks have remained behind, electing to watch the fireworks with glee in their optics. That the twins are these brave sparks are no surprise to Jazz.
Jazz, himself, has no choice in the matter. Ratchet's cut the mobility to his legs so he couldn't get up even if he wanted to. (Though he can hack through Ratchet's medical overrides and restore function, Jazz prefers the rest of his limbs intact. He wouldn't put it past the Hatchet to simply remove his legs.)
Still, despite the stormy anger, Ratchet's hands are unfailingly gentle as they delve into Jazz's internals, dutifully removing scrap after scrap of shrapnel that had managed to pierce his armor.
“You'd think a member of Spec Ops would have learned to duck by now,” Ratchet hisses, outwardly seething, his fury outmatched only by the fear-worry-relief mixture that vibrates in his energy field.
“Ah, come on, Ratch,” Jazz replies cheerfully, ignoring the fact that they have an audience. “I did duck. It jes didn't do any good.”
A rumble echoes in Ratchet's engine. In the background, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker make simultaneous noises of shocked glee. Previous attempts to get them to leave had done no good, especially since Ratchet's attention had been completely purloined by Jazz's incapacitating injury.
“You and your pit-slagged confidence,” the medic all but snarls, though his vocalizer is low, the sort of soft tone that would make even Megatron have a second thought. “Only the twins are worse than you, Jazz, and you know better.”
“Hey! We resemble that remark!” Sideswipe comments, not at all offended. Sunstreaker then elbows him in the side with an echoing clang of metal on metal.
Ratchet swings toward them, death in his optics. “Get. Out.”
They get. Rather quickly for that matter. Scurrying out as though Slag had breathed fire on their afts.
Huffing, Ratchet returns his attention to Jazz and nearly startles when Jazz reaches up, curling fingers around Ratchet's arm. “I cut access to your motor functions,” Ratchet says bluntly, but he doesn't return to work.
Jazz grins cheekily. “Sparkling play and you know it.” He gently strokes a finger over white plating. “Forgive me?”
Ratchet lowers his head, optics everywhere but on Jazz. “I can't keep doing this.”
He says that everytime. And yet, days later, Jazz crawls back into Ratchet's berth and the medic welcomes him. Each and every time.
Jazz sighs. “Ya really want ta play this game again?”
“It's not a game!” Ratchet all but roars, and then hurriedly dials down his vocalizer again, before too-curious audials try to learn more gossip. “I'm serious, Jazz.”
“Ya always are.” At least Ratchet is looking at him now, and Jazz meets his gaze evenly. “Say what ya mean, Ratch. Cause this time, I ain't fighting. I'm already locked in one never-ending war, I ain't keepin' up another.”
Ratchet's answer is to bend his focus back to Jazz's repairs. The silence that drifts through the Medbay is as unsettling as it is heavy. Jazz, having not released his hold on Ratchet's arm, strokes the white plating softly.
“Is it that much of a bother?” he asks, his spark twisting inwardly.
Ratchet pauses as though considering. “No,” he answers finally, vocalizer a bit staticky. “No, it's always been worth it.”
He says nothing more. Jazz lets him work in silence, mulling over their conversation. And when his repairs are complete, Ratchet doesn't ask him to leave. There is, instead, a soft request to stay.
Jazz, himself, has no choice in the matter. Ratchet's cut the mobility to his legs so he couldn't get up even if he wanted to. (Though he can hack through Ratchet's medical overrides and restore function, Jazz prefers the rest of his limbs intact. He wouldn't put it past the Hatchet to simply remove his legs.)
Still, despite the stormy anger, Ratchet's hands are unfailingly gentle as they delve into Jazz's internals, dutifully removing scrap after scrap of shrapnel that had managed to pierce his armor.
“You'd think a member of Spec Ops would have learned to duck by now,” Ratchet hisses, outwardly seething, his fury outmatched only by the fear-worry-relief mixture that vibrates in his energy field.
“Ah, come on, Ratch,” Jazz replies cheerfully, ignoring the fact that they have an audience. “I did duck. It jes didn't do any good.”
A rumble echoes in Ratchet's engine. In the background, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker make simultaneous noises of shocked glee. Previous attempts to get them to leave had done no good, especially since Ratchet's attention had been completely purloined by Jazz's incapacitating injury.
“You and your pit-slagged confidence,” the medic all but snarls, though his vocalizer is low, the sort of soft tone that would make even Megatron have a second thought. “Only the twins are worse than you, Jazz, and you know better.”
“Hey! We resemble that remark!” Sideswipe comments, not at all offended. Sunstreaker then elbows him in the side with an echoing clang of metal on metal.
Ratchet swings toward them, death in his optics. “Get. Out.”
They get. Rather quickly for that matter. Scurrying out as though Slag had breathed fire on their afts.
Huffing, Ratchet returns his attention to Jazz and nearly startles when Jazz reaches up, curling fingers around Ratchet's arm. “I cut access to your motor functions,” Ratchet says bluntly, but he doesn't return to work.
Jazz grins cheekily. “Sparkling play and you know it.” He gently strokes a finger over white plating. “Forgive me?”
Ratchet lowers his head, optics everywhere but on Jazz. “I can't keep doing this.”
He says that everytime. And yet, days later, Jazz crawls back into Ratchet's berth and the medic welcomes him. Each and every time.
Jazz sighs. “Ya really want ta play this game again?”
“It's not a game!” Ratchet all but roars, and then hurriedly dials down his vocalizer again, before too-curious audials try to learn more gossip. “I'm serious, Jazz.”
“Ya always are.” At least Ratchet is looking at him now, and Jazz meets his gaze evenly. “Say what ya mean, Ratch. Cause this time, I ain't fighting. I'm already locked in one never-ending war, I ain't keepin' up another.”
Ratchet's answer is to bend his focus back to Jazz's repairs. The silence that drifts through the Medbay is as unsettling as it is heavy. Jazz, having not released his hold on Ratchet's arm, strokes the white plating softly.
“Is it that much of a bother?” he asks, his spark twisting inwardly.
Ratchet pauses as though considering. “No,” he answers finally, vocalizer a bit staticky. “No, it's always been worth it.”
He says nothing more. Jazz lets him work in silence, mulling over their conversation. And when his repairs are complete, Ratchet doesn't ask him to leave. There is, instead, a soft request to stay.
For animelover1993
Prompt: Jazz/Prime
Fandom: AU Bayverse, post-RoTF. Warnings for implied character death
Earth is beautiful in its own evanescent and organic way. It can never compare to Cybertron and will never be enough, but it is adequate.
For now, it will suffice. For now, it is home. A home made more welcome by the arrival of stray Autobots and the return of one thought lost.
He is lucky to have been granted one miracle during his lifespan. Primus is gracious enough to allow Optimus two, though he must wonder if his own resurrection is a curse.
He is so very tired of this war. And it feels like a betrayal of his Autobots and his Prime standing to admit so much. Admit that he longs for peace, that he can't bear to see any more Cybertronians offline – Decepticons included. That it's shattering his very spark far worse than Megatron's blade had.
He longs so very much for the serenity of the Well once again. To have been snatched from it feels like a punishment and that... that is Optimus' personal betrayal. To his Autobots and the Matrix.
“Yer thinkin' heavy thoughts, boss bot,” Jazz says from where he's perched on Optimus' chestplate, idly flicking the Prime's windshield wipers.
Optimus reaches up, drags a hand down Jazz's dorsal plating, fingers tracing a thick weld, physically obvious with it's inferior Earth-based forging.
“Do you regret it?”
Jazz tilts his helm. “Do I ever regret?”
Ah. Foolish question. Optimus corrects himself. “Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.” Clawed hands lazily slip between armor plating, toying at sensory lines beneath. “That kind of peace 'n quiet is very enticin'.”
He can't conceal a wince. “I apologize. I shouldn't have--”
Jazz tweaks a line, making Optimus' vents stutter. “Shush. I wanna be here. The Well's good and all but... a bot gets lonely.” His visor flashes, a tweak with his claws making Optimus shudder. “Sides, ya needed me here.”
Optimus' spark thrums. “That I do.” He shutters his optics. “You were missed.”
Jazz chuckles. “Oh, I know that. Now come on. We don't wanna waste the night off Prowler gave us, do we?”
For now, it will suffice. For now, it is home. A home made more welcome by the arrival of stray Autobots and the return of one thought lost.
He is lucky to have been granted one miracle during his lifespan. Primus is gracious enough to allow Optimus two, though he must wonder if his own resurrection is a curse.
He is so very tired of this war. And it feels like a betrayal of his Autobots and his Prime standing to admit so much. Admit that he longs for peace, that he can't bear to see any more Cybertronians offline – Decepticons included. That it's shattering his very spark far worse than Megatron's blade had.
He longs so very much for the serenity of the Well once again. To have been snatched from it feels like a punishment and that... that is Optimus' personal betrayal. To his Autobots and the Matrix.
“Yer thinkin' heavy thoughts, boss bot,” Jazz says from where he's perched on Optimus' chestplate, idly flicking the Prime's windshield wipers.
Optimus reaches up, drags a hand down Jazz's dorsal plating, fingers tracing a thick weld, physically obvious with it's inferior Earth-based forging.
“Do you regret it?”
Jazz tilts his helm. “Do I ever regret?”
Ah. Foolish question. Optimus corrects himself. “Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.” Clawed hands lazily slip between armor plating, toying at sensory lines beneath. “That kind of peace 'n quiet is very enticin'.”
He can't conceal a wince. “I apologize. I shouldn't have--”
Jazz tweaks a line, making Optimus' vents stutter. “Shush. I wanna be here. The Well's good and all but... a bot gets lonely.” His visor flashes, a tweak with his claws making Optimus shudder. “Sides, ya needed me here.”
Optimus' spark thrums. “That I do.” He shutters his optics. “You were missed.”
Jazz chuckles. “Oh, I know that. Now come on. We don't wanna waste the night off Prowler gave us, do we?”
For firegirl0
Prompt: Kyouya/Twins, "sit down and shut up"
Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club. Warnings for implied slash
It is not unlike being circled by a couple of sharks, Kyouya thinks, as he watches Kaoru and Hikaru circle around him.
By all rights he should be wary. Concerned even. Notable pranksters such as the Hitachiin twins are cause for... uncertainty. And Kyouya is no fool.
Yet, that is not how this game is played. So Kyouya meets their predatory gazes head on.
“It was fun, we admit,” Kaoru says. “You are a challenging opponent.”
“For awhile, raising the stakes kept things entertaining,” Hikarku adds.
“But we're getting bored,” Kaoru continues. “It seems to us that there's no end to this and that, senpai, is not fun.”
Kyouya adjusts his glasses. “You wish to concede defeat then?”
Hikaru laughs and the twins trade a pointed glance, wordless communication dancing between them. “We never set terms for victory.”
“Ah.” Kyouya watches them curiously. “But you do wish to end the game?”
Hands settle on Kyouya's shoulders, Kaoru's hands because he is the one currently behind Kyouya. And a voice settles by Kyouya's right ear, with a puff of warm, moist breath.
“Only if it leads to your submission,” Kaoru all but purrs and Hikaru approaches Kyouya from the front, one hand settling on Kyouya's chest purposefully.
“You see, senpai,” Hikaru says with a wicked smirk that would send chills racing down the spine of a lesser man. “Games are only fun when we're winning.”
“And it's time to call this a match,” Kaoru adds with a squeeze of his fingers.
The shudder that courses through Kyouya is nothing like fear. “You think it's that easy?”
“We think,” Hikaru says with sharp emphasis. “That you should sit down, shut up, and let us show you what this has all been about.”
Kyouya feels the heat trickle through him, daring to pool in his belly, daring to react to the sensation of being surrounded by Hitachiin twins. “Very well,” he says, tilting his chin upward. “Convince me.”
They purr at him in stereo. “With pleasure.”
By all rights he should be wary. Concerned even. Notable pranksters such as the Hitachiin twins are cause for... uncertainty. And Kyouya is no fool.
Yet, that is not how this game is played. So Kyouya meets their predatory gazes head on.
“It was fun, we admit,” Kaoru says. “You are a challenging opponent.”
“For awhile, raising the stakes kept things entertaining,” Hikarku adds.
“But we're getting bored,” Kaoru continues. “It seems to us that there's no end to this and that, senpai, is not fun.”
Kyouya adjusts his glasses. “You wish to concede defeat then?”
Hikaru laughs and the twins trade a pointed glance, wordless communication dancing between them. “We never set terms for victory.”
“Ah.” Kyouya watches them curiously. “But you do wish to end the game?”
Hands settle on Kyouya's shoulders, Kaoru's hands because he is the one currently behind Kyouya. And a voice settles by Kyouya's right ear, with a puff of warm, moist breath.
“Only if it leads to your submission,” Kaoru all but purrs and Hikaru approaches Kyouya from the front, one hand settling on Kyouya's chest purposefully.
“You see, senpai,” Hikaru says with a wicked smirk that would send chills racing down the spine of a lesser man. “Games are only fun when we're winning.”
“And it's time to call this a match,” Kaoru adds with a squeeze of his fingers.
The shudder that courses through Kyouya is nothing like fear. “You think it's that easy?”
“We think,” Hikaru says with sharp emphasis. “That you should sit down, shut up, and let us show you what this has all been about.”
Kyouya feels the heat trickle through him, daring to pool in his belly, daring to react to the sensation of being surrounded by Hitachiin twins. “Very well,” he says, tilting his chin upward. “Convince me.”
They purr at him in stereo. “With pleasure.”
a/n: That first one... I couldn't get it to stop. It kept building plot. As did the second. *laughs* Ah, so much fun.
Tomorrow brings more fiction! A Transformers fic! A Bleach fic! An original chapter! Lots ta read!
