dracoqueen22 | Flash Fiction Fills (Take 34) Final Part

a/n: And the last of the flash fiction in a timely manner. Huzzah!

Both of these took a turn for the angsty. Hope you enjoy! And please excuse any possible grammatical errors.

For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Lady Crysan/Sleet, We all have our demons

Universe: War of the Animum. Warnings: None.

The dream hits as it always does, in the dead of night when she is most vulnerable. Usually, Crysan has no clients and she rarely shares her bed, so no one is present to bear witness to her moment of weakness.

Tonight, however, is not the usual.

She bursts out of sleep with her body bathed in sweat, her heart racing a mile a minute, and her breathing erratic. By her side, Sleet doesn't stir, his breathing even and face slack with sleep.

Crysan eases out of the bed, a bit amused to find Sleet's hand clutching at her. She gently disentangles his fingers, leaving him curled around a pillow, and grabs a silk robe, throwing it over her shoulders. It's a chilly night, too damp to wander around unclothed.

Moonlight seeps in through the window, casting her room in shadows, and Crysan approaches the single door to her balcony. It's a small, narrow platform just large enough for her to stand on and the only luxury she allows herself.

The night smells of snow. The sky is thick with heavy clouds, scattered just enough to let peeks of moonlight through. It's a nice night. Calming. It helps to chase away the lingering shadows of terror and helplessness.

Never again.

“You're gonna get sick.”

Crysan's hands clench into fists. Damn thieves and their ability to move silently. “Weren't you sleeping?”

She hears Sleet yawn. “Was. Got cold.”

Crysan turns toward one of her favorite patrons, arching a brow. “Aren't thieves supposed to have been born in the gutters, thrust into a lifetime of crime, and therefore, able to withstand all uncomfortable situations?”

Sleet's lips curve with amusement. “Do you honestly think I was raised in the gutters? Aren't madames supposed to be able to read their clients?”

Touche.

He is right, after all. Sleet has always confused Crysan. He doesn't steal because he has to. The fact that he is educated to a certain degree proves that he was raised by someone who cared. Sleet doesn't carry the black aura of a man who's had to struggle for anything. There's no darkness in his heart, nothing to turn him bitter and angry. And no matter what Sleet says, the matter of his sexuality is not the end of his world. He seems to embrace it well enough.

So why then does he steal?

The thrill? No. Sleet does not seem the type.

A lack of ambition? Now that Crysan could believe. There's not an ounce of ambition in the man's body. He has no real desires, no real wants. Nothing to drive him to do what is necessary.

We all have our demons, Crysan's mentor used to say. And it is true, even for herself.

Sleet, however, is different. He hasn't met his demons yet. And Crysan can't help but wonder what he will do when he finally does.

“I read you like an open book,” Crysan replies, turning the full force of her focus on Sleet, making him squirm. “I choose not to share my observations. There is a difference.”

Sleet folds his arms over his chest, tearing his gaze away. “So why're you out here anyway?”

Crysan is not surprised by the subject change. “I needed some air.” She gestures him back inside and follows him, closing the door to the balcony behind herself.

Sleet all too eagerly pulls himself back onto the bed with a lazy sprawl. “Why?”

She drops the robe, noticing with some amusement that he still holds her gaze, eyes never once dipping to admire her nude form. A lesser woman would find herself self-conscious. Crysan hardly considers it an insult. Sleet enjoys her company for the mentality she can give him, not the soft curves of a woman.

She swears she has never met a man so firmly rooted in his sexuality. The majority of people she has ever met have been bisexual, with a heavy leaning toward one side or the other. But not Sleet.

“Because you, dear Sleet, are a bed hog of the worst kind,” Crysan replies, crawling onto the bed with a predatory curve to her lips. “And a cuddler to boot.”

“I am not!”

Crysan chuckles. She has to give Sleet some credit. He's paying for her company, but as it turns out, he's done her a favor as well.

For: azardarkstar
Prompt: fairy tales are full of shit

Fandom: Transformers G1. Extra Notes: this is a piece of a larger fic I eventually intend to write.

Prowl dragged himself back to his quarters, feeling the strain of a week spent not recharging and not energizing himself properly either. His processor was sluggish, minor systems were starting to glitch, and he'd caught himself misspelling his name on a routine report.

Ratchet had locked him out of his office. Prime had added his own, making it impossible for Prowl to override it. He had no choice but to retire to his quarters.

For once, they hadn't needed to take such strong measures. Prowl was willing to obey. He didn't waste a single cycle on arguing.

Prowl keyed open his door and stepped into his quarters, pedes catching on an invisible obstacle and making him trip. Lucky there was no one to witness his clumsiness.

Wait.

No one?

Prowl drew himself up straight. “Lights at seventy percent.”

The room brightened. Prowl's optics and sensors completed a full sweep, telling him in less than a breem what his spark already knew.

Mirage was gone.

Prowl slumped onto the nearest piece of furniture, a stool in front the Teletraan access. Prowl's work away from work as Mirage had dubbed it in dry, amused tones.

One hand lifted, rubbing at the seam of his chestplate. His spark was a dull thump inside his chassis. The grief should be excruciating, resonating across his circuits and fritzing his processor.

Instead, Prowl felt a strange numbness.

All of Mirage's belongings were gone. He'd even left behind the gifts Prowl had given him over the vorns. Special novelties. Irreplaceable. Priceless. Gifts given out of love and devotion and affection.

All of them. Abandoned.

As if Mirage had wanted to prove how truly over they were. No reconciliation. No hope of rekindling old passions. No battles left to fight.

Just... nothing.

The silence made his room feel small. The emptiness made it far too large.

Prowl hung his helm. He'd known this was coming. It had been building for years, from the moment they onlined on Earth and probably long before that, too.

Alone.

He hadn't been alone in vorns. He didn't relish the thought of recharging alone on his berth. Or coming back to empty quarters at the end of his shift. Or waking up in the medbay without Mirage beside him, holding his hand.

A sharp ache whipped through Prowl's spark. His intakes hitched.

Mirage's end of the bond was sealed tight. Prowl could sense nothing from his sparkmate. They had always both been exceptionally good at blocking themselves. This time was no different.

Nothing was going to be the same.

Prowl buried his face in his hands. Numb. He was numb. He clung to the sensation as the only thing to keep him sane.

Primus, don't let him feel again.

a/n: And that's the last of the flash fiction.

I do so hope you enjoyed. Comments are very welcome!

And remember, next Flash Fiction Friday will be on August 17th~