Flash Fiction Fills (Take 29) Part V
Mar. 16th, 2012 06:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Two more flash fics here. I'm almost done! Beware the grammatical errors. :)
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: SideswipexSunstreaker, “Inertia Creeps”
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings for mechslash, "twincest", dark themes, hints of pnp, tactile
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SupermanxBatman, Superman asking Alfred for some advice
Fandom: DCAU. Warnings: None
a/n: Got one more flash fic to write, which keeps growing longer and longer the more I try to finish it. I do hope you enjoyed!
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: SideswipexSunstreaker, “Inertia Creeps”
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings for mechslash, "twincest", dark themes, hints of pnp, tactile
It's like trying to put a puzzle piece into a spot where it obviously doesn't belong. The edges don't match. The ridges and grooves conflict. The picture might seem to fit, if one squints and pretends, but overall, the image just isn't right.
Merging with anyone other than Sideswipe is a lot like a puzzle with the wrong piece. They are half of the same spark, somehow two separate beings, powered by half of a spark. It's illogical. It's rare.
The rules don't apply to them. It's something few Cybertronians can understand. Sunstreaker himself can't even put it into words.
He's tried. He's berthed as many bots as would take him, those enticed by his appearance or emboldened by the act of touching the untouchable. None of them ever fit. Some of them were downright uncomfortable to the point of pain. Like trying to force two opposing magnets together.
In the end, Sunstreaker comes back to Sideswipe and their shared quarters and their shared berth, recharging so that they face each other, sparks thrumming and pulsing, eager to merge again. But they have to be careful. Too deep and they won't be able to separate.
Every one assumes they are automatically bonded due to the nature of their sparks. It's true and it's not true. If they were truly bonded, they wouldn't be separate anymore. They wouldn't be Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They'd be some amalgam of the two that somehow inhabits two separate frames. Or maybe in the end one of the frames would turn to grey husks, leaving both of them trapped in the other.
Sunstreaker doesn't care to find out what the end result would be. It's not the sort of thing a medic could fix, not even Ratchet.
And there's nothing – absolutely nothing – like those shallow merges with Sideswipe. The pleasure that electrifies Sunstreaker's systems, that can knock him offline for joors. That makes him tingle for orns afterward.
There's nothing like seeing Sideswipe writhe beneath him, optics practically white, sparks leaping over his plating. Or feeling Sideswipe above him, mercilessly driving him to a sharper overload, the sound of their overworked fans echoing in the dark of their quarters. Or the counter-balancing pulse of their sparks, synchronizing, harmonizing in such a way that the pleasure exchange is seamless. Perfect. Processor-shattering.
Not even a near-core merge with the mechs most tolerable to their half-sparks comes close.
There's no greater ecstasy, no greater peace, than when they are together. Merging. Fighting. Killing. Playing around with other bots for a little fun and games.
It's probably a bit twisted, even for Cybertronians, but Sunstreaker doesn't care. Sideswipe is the other half of his spark in more ways than science can describe. Nothing can change that fact. They're meant to be together as much as they are meant to be apart. Forever bound, forever divided.
Merging with anyone other than Sideswipe is a lot like a puzzle with the wrong piece. They are half of the same spark, somehow two separate beings, powered by half of a spark. It's illogical. It's rare.
The rules don't apply to them. It's something few Cybertronians can understand. Sunstreaker himself can't even put it into words.
He's tried. He's berthed as many bots as would take him, those enticed by his appearance or emboldened by the act of touching the untouchable. None of them ever fit. Some of them were downright uncomfortable to the point of pain. Like trying to force two opposing magnets together.
In the end, Sunstreaker comes back to Sideswipe and their shared quarters and their shared berth, recharging so that they face each other, sparks thrumming and pulsing, eager to merge again. But they have to be careful. Too deep and they won't be able to separate.
Every one assumes they are automatically bonded due to the nature of their sparks. It's true and it's not true. If they were truly bonded, they wouldn't be separate anymore. They wouldn't be Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They'd be some amalgam of the two that somehow inhabits two separate frames. Or maybe in the end one of the frames would turn to grey husks, leaving both of them trapped in the other.
Sunstreaker doesn't care to find out what the end result would be. It's not the sort of thing a medic could fix, not even Ratchet.
And there's nothing – absolutely nothing – like those shallow merges with Sideswipe. The pleasure that electrifies Sunstreaker's systems, that can knock him offline for joors. That makes him tingle for orns afterward.
There's nothing like seeing Sideswipe writhe beneath him, optics practically white, sparks leaping over his plating. Or feeling Sideswipe above him, mercilessly driving him to a sharper overload, the sound of their overworked fans echoing in the dark of their quarters. Or the counter-balancing pulse of their sparks, synchronizing, harmonizing in such a way that the pleasure exchange is seamless. Perfect. Processor-shattering.
Not even a near-core merge with the mechs most tolerable to their half-sparks comes close.
There's no greater ecstasy, no greater peace, than when they are together. Merging. Fighting. Killing. Playing around with other bots for a little fun and games.
It's probably a bit twisted, even for Cybertronians, but Sunstreaker doesn't care. Sideswipe is the other half of his spark in more ways than science can describe. Nothing can change that fact. They're meant to be together as much as they are meant to be apart. Forever bound, forever divided.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SupermanxBatman, Superman asking Alfred for some advice
Fandom: DCAU. Warnings: None
A great clatter of noise from the kitchen stirs Alfred from his bed, setting aside the age-old classic that has served as his bedside reading for many a year. In Wayne Manor, noise from the kitchen could mean any sort of thing, Alfred has ceased to be surprised. He approaches with a cautious aware, reminding himself of the nearest available weapon, and pushes open the swinging door.
There, staring back sheepishly amid a pile of fallen pots, is Clark Kent. Sauce pan in one hand and the lid of another still rolling noisily across the floor.
“Oops.” Mr. Kent rolls those massive shoulders of his. “Did I wake you?”
Biting back a chuckle, Alfred moves further into the kitchen, stopping the lid before it can make an exit out the door. “In this household, Mr. Kent, there are few who sleep at what might be considered a normal time.”
“I should have guessed.” Mr. Kent laughs softly, sets the sauce pan on a burner, and crouches to gather up the dropped cookware.
“Dare I ask why you are rummaging about the kitchen?” Alfred says as he puts all of the cookware back where it belongs. “Not to cook for Master Bruce I hope. He can be particular.”
Mr. Kent shakes his head. “No. I've learned my lesson on that front.” He leans against the counter, one hand toying with the handle of the sauce pan. He looks, for lack of a better word, embarrassed. “I was going to make hot chocolate.” A subtle pink tints his cheeks.
Ah. Alfred understands. “Allow me,” he says, sliding past Mr. Kent to take hold of the sauce pan and pull necessary ingredients out of the cupboard.
How many times, he muses to himself, has he comforted Master Dick or Master Tim in the same way? Master Bruce can be stubborn as a mule, there's no winning any arguments with him. In the end, anyone who dares try ends up right in the kitchen, Alfred's territory, neutral ground.
Master Dick could usually be counted on to sulk in a corner, occasionally casting evil glances in the direction of wherever Master Bruce was at the moment. Master Tim preferred the less subtle snarling of uncharitable commentary that normally Alfred would chastise him for.
“Thanks,” Mr. Kent says, still sounding sheepish, and he takes a seat at the table, strong shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.
It is not Alfred's place to question the state of affairs between Master Bruce and his lover, even though any man with eyes could see that all is not well in a relationship that is by it's very nature tumultuous. If Mr. Kent wishes to speak, then Alfred will listen. But he won't pry.
“Alfred, am I wasting my time?”
Ah, there it is. Alfred gives the question serious thought. “I think, Mr. Kent, that such is only a question you can answer. Is the end result worth the effort?”
“That depends on if there actually is a prize at the bottom of the box,” Mr. Kent mutters with a touch of exasperated disappointment. “Though I can't say that I was given false advertising. It says so right on the box. Sharp. Quarrelsome. Ornery.”
Alfred inclines his head, slowly stirring the chocolate mixture. “One might also add stubborn to the list of additives.”
Mr. Kent chuckles softly. “Yes, one might.” He pauses, fingers drumming across the table with a sharp staccato. “I'm not looking for a confession. Or a commitment. But a sign, anything really, that I'm not a busybody nuisance would be nice. More than nice. It would pretty much be the prize.”
Alfred pulls down two cups – if he's awake, he might as well indulge also – and pours the homemade cocoa into the mugs. “If you're asking me my opinion on Master Bruce's affections for you, I can't answer with any certainty,” Alfred says, turning to place the cups on the table, sliding one to Mr. Kent and taking the other for himself. He takes a seat, inhaling the thick, chocolate aroma. “But I do know that Master Bruce would not waste his own time with someone he despised.”
Curling his large hand around the small cup, Mr. Kent sips at his drink. “I see.” A small smile curls his lips. “So if he hasn't thrown me out yet then I must be making some sort of progress.”
“Small steps, Mr. Kent. Small steps,” Alfred replies, inclining his head. He leans forward, lowering his voice. “And if I may be so bold, sir, I'm rooting for you.”
“Thanks, Alfred.”
“Anytime, Mr. Kent. Enjoy your drink.”
There, staring back sheepishly amid a pile of fallen pots, is Clark Kent. Sauce pan in one hand and the lid of another still rolling noisily across the floor.
“Oops.” Mr. Kent rolls those massive shoulders of his. “Did I wake you?”
Biting back a chuckle, Alfred moves further into the kitchen, stopping the lid before it can make an exit out the door. “In this household, Mr. Kent, there are few who sleep at what might be considered a normal time.”
“I should have guessed.” Mr. Kent laughs softly, sets the sauce pan on a burner, and crouches to gather up the dropped cookware.
“Dare I ask why you are rummaging about the kitchen?” Alfred says as he puts all of the cookware back where it belongs. “Not to cook for Master Bruce I hope. He can be particular.”
Mr. Kent shakes his head. “No. I've learned my lesson on that front.” He leans against the counter, one hand toying with the handle of the sauce pan. He looks, for lack of a better word, embarrassed. “I was going to make hot chocolate.” A subtle pink tints his cheeks.
Ah. Alfred understands. “Allow me,” he says, sliding past Mr. Kent to take hold of the sauce pan and pull necessary ingredients out of the cupboard.
How many times, he muses to himself, has he comforted Master Dick or Master Tim in the same way? Master Bruce can be stubborn as a mule, there's no winning any arguments with him. In the end, anyone who dares try ends up right in the kitchen, Alfred's territory, neutral ground.
Master Dick could usually be counted on to sulk in a corner, occasionally casting evil glances in the direction of wherever Master Bruce was at the moment. Master Tim preferred the less subtle snarling of uncharitable commentary that normally Alfred would chastise him for.
“Thanks,” Mr. Kent says, still sounding sheepish, and he takes a seat at the table, strong shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.
It is not Alfred's place to question the state of affairs between Master Bruce and his lover, even though any man with eyes could see that all is not well in a relationship that is by it's very nature tumultuous. If Mr. Kent wishes to speak, then Alfred will listen. But he won't pry.
“Alfred, am I wasting my time?”
Ah, there it is. Alfred gives the question serious thought. “I think, Mr. Kent, that such is only a question you can answer. Is the end result worth the effort?”
“That depends on if there actually is a prize at the bottom of the box,” Mr. Kent mutters with a touch of exasperated disappointment. “Though I can't say that I was given false advertising. It says so right on the box. Sharp. Quarrelsome. Ornery.”
Alfred inclines his head, slowly stirring the chocolate mixture. “One might also add stubborn to the list of additives.”
Mr. Kent chuckles softly. “Yes, one might.” He pauses, fingers drumming across the table with a sharp staccato. “I'm not looking for a confession. Or a commitment. But a sign, anything really, that I'm not a busybody nuisance would be nice. More than nice. It would pretty much be the prize.”
Alfred pulls down two cups – if he's awake, he might as well indulge also – and pours the homemade cocoa into the mugs. “If you're asking me my opinion on Master Bruce's affections for you, I can't answer with any certainty,” Alfred says, turning to place the cups on the table, sliding one to Mr. Kent and taking the other for himself. He takes a seat, inhaling the thick, chocolate aroma. “But I do know that Master Bruce would not waste his own time with someone he despised.”
Curling his large hand around the small cup, Mr. Kent sips at his drink. “I see.” A small smile curls his lips. “So if he hasn't thrown me out yet then I must be making some sort of progress.”
“Small steps, Mr. Kent. Small steps,” Alfred replies, inclining his head. He leans forward, lowering his voice. “And if I may be so bold, sir, I'm rooting for you.”
“Thanks, Alfred.”
“Anytime, Mr. Kent. Enjoy your drink.”
a/n: Got one more flash fic to write, which keeps growing longer and longer the more I try to finish it. I do hope you enjoyed!
