Flash Fiction Fills (Take 38) Part Two
Dec. 29th, 2012 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Two more fills with the last three to come tomorrow! (fingers crossed) I'm feeling a bit better now, having an easier time concentrating, but I still feel these fills aren't up to my usual quality. I apologize for that.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Prowl – exhibitionism
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: NSFW, twincest, sticky
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, What do you get for the guy who has everything?
Fandom: Justice League. Warnings: OOC?
a/n: Three more to come. I am bound and determined to finish them for posting tomorrow. I am sitting in front of my computer with determination painted onto my face. :)
I hope you enjoyed!
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Prowl – exhibitionism
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: NSFW, twincest, sticky
This was the only time Sunstreaker allowed Sideswipe to be so rough with him. The attention made it all worth it. The feel of optics on his frame, admiring his finish, listening to him moan...
Sunstreaker relished it all. Their jealousy. Their admiration. Their desire.
Sideswipe's approval was the gloss on his finish, purring warmly across their link, and throbbing excitedly in his spark.
You're so beautiful like this, Sideswipe murmured over a private, narrowband comm. Open and desperate. Eager for me.
Sunstreaker moaned, arching up against his brother's frame, feeling the rasping slide of plating against plating. Though his wrists were pinned quite firmly to the table, he still had some measure of movement. Just enough to make it interesting.
Something crunched beneath Sunstreaker's weight. Probably a cube. They were in the rec room after all.
An unamused sigh filtered through to Sunstreaker's audials. “Was that necessary?”
His optics snapped open, despite the pleasure coursing through his body, the steady thrust-snap of Sideswipe's hips against his, the push-slide of Sideswipe's spike in his valve, the drip-tap of his lubricant as it hit the floor.
“What? Not enjoying the show?” Sideswipe asked, his vocals a teasing purr that both invited and warned away.
Prowl – of course it had to be Prowl, Sideswipe had a thing for annoying the strict officer – shook his helm. “You have private quarters for a reason, Sideswipe.”
Sideswipe laughed. “Or maybe you just need a better view.”
Sunstreaker's world turned upside down.
Or, to be more precise, Sideswipe pulled out, grabbed him by the hips, and flipped him over. Sunstreaker grunted as his chest slammed into the table top, directly on a datapad – which explained the earlier crunch – and he came faceplate to optics with Prowl. A very unamused Prowl who didn't so much as cycle his optics when Sideswipe shoved Sunstreaker's legs apart, thrust into him without ceremony and Sunstreaker howled his pleasure, hands scrabbling at the table's edge, leaving dents behind.
“What do you think now?” Sideswipe asked, one hand landing on Sunstreaker's back, keeping him pinned to the table. “Still uninspired?” He leaned forward, fingers burying in sensitive seams at Sunstreaker's side, forcing a whimper from him.
He looked at Prowl who flicked a glance first at Sideswipe before meeting Sunstreaker's gaze. The barest glint of something sparked in those bright optics as Prowl lifted his hand, cupping Sunstreaker's faceplate with the sort of care reserved for intimate lovers.
“If you ever tire of such juvenile games, come find me,” he said with a resonation in his vocals that sent a tingle down Sunstreaker's backstrut.
Prowl rose to his pedes with a final caress to Sunstreaker's faceplate and promptly quit the room, with nary a twitch in his doorwings to indicate the enormous bombshell he'd just dropped.
Sideswipe's eager rhythm faltered. Sunstreaker's engine revved. His faceplate tingled.
“Did he just...”
Sunstreaker squirmed, valve squeezing his brother's spike. “Stop wondering and start fragging me, slaggit!” he growled, fingers gripping the table tightly.
“Primus you're pushy when you're desperate,” Sideswipe grumbled, but he picked up the pace and the pleasant sensations in Sunstreaker's valve returned.
He would ponder the promise in Prowl's optics later. After Sideswipe gave him the overload he so desperately needed.
Sunstreaker relished it all. Their jealousy. Their admiration. Their desire.
Sideswipe's approval was the gloss on his finish, purring warmly across their link, and throbbing excitedly in his spark.
You're so beautiful like this, Sideswipe murmured over a private, narrowband comm. Open and desperate. Eager for me.
Sunstreaker moaned, arching up against his brother's frame, feeling the rasping slide of plating against plating. Though his wrists were pinned quite firmly to the table, he still had some measure of movement. Just enough to make it interesting.
Something crunched beneath Sunstreaker's weight. Probably a cube. They were in the rec room after all.
An unamused sigh filtered through to Sunstreaker's audials. “Was that necessary?”
His optics snapped open, despite the pleasure coursing through his body, the steady thrust-snap of Sideswipe's hips against his, the push-slide of Sideswipe's spike in his valve, the drip-tap of his lubricant as it hit the floor.
“What? Not enjoying the show?” Sideswipe asked, his vocals a teasing purr that both invited and warned away.
Prowl – of course it had to be Prowl, Sideswipe had a thing for annoying the strict officer – shook his helm. “You have private quarters for a reason, Sideswipe.”
Sideswipe laughed. “Or maybe you just need a better view.”
Sunstreaker's world turned upside down.
Or, to be more precise, Sideswipe pulled out, grabbed him by the hips, and flipped him over. Sunstreaker grunted as his chest slammed into the table top, directly on a datapad – which explained the earlier crunch – and he came faceplate to optics with Prowl. A very unamused Prowl who didn't so much as cycle his optics when Sideswipe shoved Sunstreaker's legs apart, thrust into him without ceremony and Sunstreaker howled his pleasure, hands scrabbling at the table's edge, leaving dents behind.
“What do you think now?” Sideswipe asked, one hand landing on Sunstreaker's back, keeping him pinned to the table. “Still uninspired?” He leaned forward, fingers burying in sensitive seams at Sunstreaker's side, forcing a whimper from him.
He looked at Prowl who flicked a glance first at Sideswipe before meeting Sunstreaker's gaze. The barest glint of something sparked in those bright optics as Prowl lifted his hand, cupping Sunstreaker's faceplate with the sort of care reserved for intimate lovers.
“If you ever tire of such juvenile games, come find me,” he said with a resonation in his vocals that sent a tingle down Sunstreaker's backstrut.
Prowl rose to his pedes with a final caress to Sunstreaker's faceplate and promptly quit the room, with nary a twitch in his doorwings to indicate the enormous bombshell he'd just dropped.
Sideswipe's eager rhythm faltered. Sunstreaker's engine revved. His faceplate tingled.
“Did he just...”
Sunstreaker squirmed, valve squeezing his brother's spike. “Stop wondering and start fragging me, slaggit!” he growled, fingers gripping the table tightly.
“Primus you're pushy when you're desperate,” Sideswipe grumbled, but he picked up the pace and the pleasant sensations in Sunstreaker's valve returned.
He would ponder the promise in Prowl's optics later. After Sideswipe gave him the overload he so desperately needed.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, What do you get for the guy who has everything?
Fandom: Justice League. Warnings: OOC?
What do you get for the man who had everything?
Anything Bruce could possibly need, he could buy for himself. Anything he could want, Clark could not get for him. He was Superman, but even he could not turn back time or bring back Bruce's parents. He could not, with a blink of his eye, completely clear Gotham of crime. Besides, he suspected that a Gotham that didn't need Batman, would result in a not-quite-sane Bruce.
Clark also knew that he couldn't very well ask Bruce what he wanted. Because Bruce would also say that he didn't need or want anything. That the act of gift-giving wasn't particularly important to him but Clark would nevertheless find the perfect present waiting for him under the tree, wrapped in lead-lined paper. Because Bruce was inventive like that and prided himself on always being two steps ahead of everyone, friend and foe.
Neither Bruce nor Batman liked to be taken care of. They did not like to be helped, except by a special few who somehow qualified as being with a certain sphere of affection. Bruce never disdained Alfred's help, but let Clark offer to so much as make the bed and the billionaire got that look in his eyes that spoke of much couch-sleeping later.
Clark was at a loss. His creativity was strapped. He didn't want to give Bruce another piece of Kryptonian technology that made the inner-geek within him squeal for joy (though outwardly Bruce had murmured a quiet thanks and disappeared into the Batcave to dissect said piece of technology for the rest of the week). Interesting gems and metals and elements from other planets were Wally's trademark gifts and Clark wasn't about to start copying him.
Bruce didn't drink and he could buy himself whatever vintage, rare, what-have-you was available anyway.
Bruce didn't like Clark to cook for him. (The whole Alfred and sphere of affection trend that Clark noted earlier.)
And somehow, Clark suspected that a handmade book of sexual coupons was not going to impress his high maintenance lover either.
With an unnecessarily loud (and forceful since it sent half the stack of papers spread on the kitchen table fluttering to the floor) sigh, Clark buried his head in his arms and groaned. Christmas was four days away and he was running out of time.
“You look troubled, Master Kent.”
Clark honestly didn't know how Alfred managed it. He'd accused the butler on more than one occasion of harboring the same kind of ninja training that Bruce had. But Alfred had merely chuckled and waved off the accusation. Still, he always managed to sneak up on Clark. Him. Superman. The alien with supernatural hearing. And yet he found himself startling about two feet in the air at the unexpected sound of Alfred's voice.
His knee slammed into the underside of the table and Clark stifled an impolite word. “Hello, Alfred.”
The butler was carrying two bags of groceries, both of which he set upon the table and began to sort. Clark slid from his stool to assist. Alfred, at least, didn't mind being helped.
“I repeat my statement, Master Kent.”
Clark offered Alfred a lopsided smile. “I am not so much troubled as I am at a loss for ideas.” He placed two cartons of milk in the fridge. “Bruce is impossible to buy for.”
“Ah. The dilemma that attacks everyone in this household at this time of year.” Alfred made a sound of understanding. “I counseled Master Tim on this very matter just last week.”
“And?”
It was Alfred's turn to offer him a half-curved grin. “I doubt that my suggestions to him will be as useful to you.”
Clark spread his hands, propping his hip against a counter. “I'm desperate.”
“I suppose a long-winded and stern lecture about the necessity of such things coming from the heart would be useless as well?”
“My heart's just as desperate as the rest of me.”
Alfred chuffed a laugh. “So I see. Very well then. Let me prepare dinner and we can brainstorm together.”
“Deal.”
Clark grinned. Trust Alfred to have the answer.
Anything Bruce could possibly need, he could buy for himself. Anything he could want, Clark could not get for him. He was Superman, but even he could not turn back time or bring back Bruce's parents. He could not, with a blink of his eye, completely clear Gotham of crime. Besides, he suspected that a Gotham that didn't need Batman, would result in a not-quite-sane Bruce.
Clark also knew that he couldn't very well ask Bruce what he wanted. Because Bruce would also say that he didn't need or want anything. That the act of gift-giving wasn't particularly important to him but Clark would nevertheless find the perfect present waiting for him under the tree, wrapped in lead-lined paper. Because Bruce was inventive like that and prided himself on always being two steps ahead of everyone, friend and foe.
Neither Bruce nor Batman liked to be taken care of. They did not like to be helped, except by a special few who somehow qualified as being with a certain sphere of affection. Bruce never disdained Alfred's help, but let Clark offer to so much as make the bed and the billionaire got that look in his eyes that spoke of much couch-sleeping later.
Clark was at a loss. His creativity was strapped. He didn't want to give Bruce another piece of Kryptonian technology that made the inner-geek within him squeal for joy (though outwardly Bruce had murmured a quiet thanks and disappeared into the Batcave to dissect said piece of technology for the rest of the week). Interesting gems and metals and elements from other planets were Wally's trademark gifts and Clark wasn't about to start copying him.
Bruce didn't drink and he could buy himself whatever vintage, rare, what-have-you was available anyway.
Bruce didn't like Clark to cook for him. (The whole Alfred and sphere of affection trend that Clark noted earlier.)
And somehow, Clark suspected that a handmade book of sexual coupons was not going to impress his high maintenance lover either.
With an unnecessarily loud (and forceful since it sent half the stack of papers spread on the kitchen table fluttering to the floor) sigh, Clark buried his head in his arms and groaned. Christmas was four days away and he was running out of time.
“You look troubled, Master Kent.”
Clark honestly didn't know how Alfred managed it. He'd accused the butler on more than one occasion of harboring the same kind of ninja training that Bruce had. But Alfred had merely chuckled and waved off the accusation. Still, he always managed to sneak up on Clark. Him. Superman. The alien with supernatural hearing. And yet he found himself startling about two feet in the air at the unexpected sound of Alfred's voice.
His knee slammed into the underside of the table and Clark stifled an impolite word. “Hello, Alfred.”
The butler was carrying two bags of groceries, both of which he set upon the table and began to sort. Clark slid from his stool to assist. Alfred, at least, didn't mind being helped.
“I repeat my statement, Master Kent.”
Clark offered Alfred a lopsided smile. “I am not so much troubled as I am at a loss for ideas.” He placed two cartons of milk in the fridge. “Bruce is impossible to buy for.”
“Ah. The dilemma that attacks everyone in this household at this time of year.” Alfred made a sound of understanding. “I counseled Master Tim on this very matter just last week.”
“And?”
It was Alfred's turn to offer him a half-curved grin. “I doubt that my suggestions to him will be as useful to you.”
Clark spread his hands, propping his hip against a counter. “I'm desperate.”
“I suppose a long-winded and stern lecture about the necessity of such things coming from the heart would be useless as well?”
“My heart's just as desperate as the rest of me.”
Alfred chuffed a laugh. “So I see. Very well then. Let me prepare dinner and we can brainstorm together.”
“Deal.”
Clark grinned. Trust Alfred to have the answer.
a/n: Three more to come. I am bound and determined to finish them for posting tomorrow. I am sitting in front of my computer with determination painted onto my face. :)
I hope you enjoyed!
