dracoqueen22 | Flash Fiction Fills (Take 29) Part 1

a/n: Here are two of the requested flash fics. There are plenty more to come

For dellessa
Prompt: Jazz/Bluestreak, being stealthy

Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: Bondage. Mechslash. NSFW. Also, this is entirely consensual though it may seem like it's not at first.

Getting the drop on Jazz is an art unto itself. Jazz is so fragging paranoid and his sensors are so finely turned that it is nearly impossible to surprise him. He also has an audial in all of the Ark's events so keeping secrets from him just doesn't happen.

But sometimes... sometimes Jazz can be distracted. By a shiny new album or a new Wheeljack invention or a Sideswipe prank or a Decepticon attack. And sometimes, Bluestreak shamelessly takes advantage of such a distraction. Sometimes he even orchestrates them.

Mirage is a great instructor in the art of stealth, even stealth without the aid of an electro-disruptor. And for the past six months, Bluestreak has let Mirage drill all the best pointers into his processors. It helps that he has doorwings capable of highly tuned sensory input. It helps that Sideswipe is more than willing to help him scheme.

It helps that nearly every bot in the Ark wants to see the tables turned on Jazz. For pure fun of course.

Today, Bluestreak is putting his plan into action. The timing is right, there's a little something to celebrate, and Jazz has no idea this is coming.

Blaster has given Jazz an all new mix of some kickin' tunes sure to make Jazz grin from audial to audial.

Sideswipe surprises him out of nowhere with a brand new batch of high grade, due for testing on Jazz's discerning palate.

And Wheeljack distracts with a bright and shiny, nigh undetectable new array of explosives sure to make any Special Ops mech giddy with destructive glee.

Jazz also believes, thanks to a very amused but not showing it Prowl, thinks Bluestreak's just been sent on a long-range patrol. Oh, how lonely he must be.

Bluestreak follows Jazz around, waiting for the perfect moment, a predator trailing his prey. It's hard. He's all but jittery with excitement, plating threatening to rattle noisily. His frame's heating out of anticipation. It ought to be a very good night.

It takes too long for Jazz to bebop his way back to their shared quarters, radiating glee for all his new goodies. Jazz inputs the code, juggling his precious shinies (his subspace must be full again), and beats at the door panel once or twice. It glitches sometimes.

The door opens with a cranky shkthunk and Jazz hops inside, Bluestreak a silent, quick shadow behind him. The door shuts and locks while Jazz hums along with whatever tunes Blaster gave him. Oblivious to Bluestreak watching, lurking.

Jazz is careful as he sets out Sideswipe's volatile energon and Wheeljack's even more volatile explosives.

That is, of course, when Bluestreak strikes. A quick jab to the helm shorts out Jazz's optical feed and an even faster pulse of electromagnetics makes the rest of Jazz's sensory input go on the fritz. Blinded, disorientated, Jazz nevertheless is a formidable opponent.

Bluestreak, however, is prepared. He slaps a pair of stasis cuffs on Jazz's wrists and pins the saboteur between the desk and himself. He presses up against Jazz's back, the vibrations of his engine recognizable, and dips his head to nibble on a sensory horn.

“Gotcha,” Bluestreak both purrs and transmits over a personal comm, knowing that Jazz's systems are still struggling to orient themselves. His glossa flicks over the thin plating of the sensory horn, the vibrations of his vocalizer carrying through the delicate metal.

Jazz stifles a moan, but relaxes into Bluestreak's embrace, helm tipping backward onto Bluestreak's shoulder. “Ya sneaky fragger,” he says with a crackle of static.

“Of course.” Bluestreak chuckles and lets his hands roam, dipping between mostly unreactive plating to the responsive wiring below, caressing them with nimble flicks of his fingers. This time Jazz does moan, arching into Bluestreak's touch. “I learned from the best.”

For jalaperilo
Prompt: Tracks and Sunstreaker, lovers, friends, rivals, snark

Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings for implied mechslash

He must be suicidal. That's the only explanation Tracks has for intercepting Sunstreaker's inevitable punch to the wall. The frontliner is stronger, his fist impacting Tracks' palm with a sharp smack. Sunstreaker's energy field flares with surprise.

It stings. But it's worth it.

“You're going to mess up your finish if you do something like that,” Tracks says, aiming for an easy grin.

Sunstreaker looks at him like he's never seen Tracks before. “What do you care?”

“Would be a waste,” Tracks replies and lets his optics wander over Sunstreaker's frame knowing that the yellow mech would take it as a compliment. “Besides, what did that poor wall ever do to you?”

Sunstreaker drops his hand, shaking his helm. “Not the wall.”

Tracks hazards a guess. “Mirage?”

Sunstreaker's answer lacks words, but the flaring of his energy field is answer enough. He and Mirage had been on-again, off-again since they all woke from stasis and their relationship is nothing short of turbulent.

“What was it this time?” Tracks asks.

There's a pause before Sunstreaker grits out, “Difference of opinion.”

“On what?”

“Doesn't matter.” Sunstreaker turns on a pede, apparently having reached his quota of polite interaction for the day. But he's still tense. Still bothered.

“Does,” Tracks insists, sliding in Sunstreaker's path, stopping him from leaving. “You deserve better. Mirage will never get you.”

Sunstreaker laughs, a noise of bitter static. “Forget who you're talking to, Towers reject?”

It's a defense mechanism. Tracks can take it. He's a big bot.

“Know who I'm looking at,” he replies and gets closer, drops his vocal tones. “I know who's different than public opinion.”

Sunstreaker tilts his chin upward. “What are you saying, Tracks?”

Tracks. His designation. It's a step up.

“Open your optics,” Tracks says and pulls something from his subspace, something he's been saving. “Realize you have options.” He hands it over to Sunstreaker, the expensive tin of wax one of the few he has leftover from Cybertron. “Comm me when you want some help applying that.”

He walks off, leaving Sunstreaker staring after him, knowing that he's set the ball rolling. All that's left is to see if the pretty twin accepts his offer.

a/n: These two fics hit me out of nowhere and ate my brain. They are also longer than the usual flash fic. Hope you enjoyed!