Flash Fiction Fills (Take 38) Part Final
Dec. 31st, 2012 11:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: The last three flash fics to round out the end of the year! Feeling much better now, so my writing groove has returned. Huzzah! Still, the effects of my illness have resulted in three flash fics that could have been much better. For that, I apologize. Still, I hope they entertain!
For jalaperilo
Prompt: Tracks being fabulous
Fandom: G1-ish. Warnings: None.
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Prowl/Thundercracker/Dreadwing, “Heaven is a Lie,” Lacuna Coil
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse, War Without End 'verse. Warnings: SPOILERS for upcoming installments of WWE.
For hockeyiris
Prompt: “It's a tradition” RoyxEd and RoyxMaes
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (first anime series). Warnings: None really.
a/n: See you all next year! :)
For jalaperilo
Prompt: Tracks being fabulous
Fandom: G1-ish. Warnings: None.
“What we need, gentlemechs, is a bot with a sense of style and aesthetics. One who understands both form and function while still imbibing an appreciation of beauty. This cannot be a simple rebuild. It must be perfect. He is our Prime, the one who will end this war. We need, gentlemechs, the best.”
A smile curved the lipplates of one council member, who tapped his chin with elegantly tapered digits. “I think I know just the bot.”
The request was waiting in his inbox when Tracks returned from a supply run. Arching an orbital ridge, Tracks queued up the message for replay as he bustled about his storage, putting his carefully acquired necessities in their proper place. It was getting harder and harder to find what he needed as of late. This blasted war... frag the Decepticons to the Pit and back!
He ex-vented and shook his helm. Peace, he told himself. Getting outrageously angry would do nothing for either his own state or for Cybertron itself. It was pointless.
He only half-listened as the message droned in the background, some mech blathering on about duty and honor and a great opportunity. Tracks revved his engine. Like he hadn't heard that before.
He rolled his optics, moving into the tiny confines of his energon storage, selecting from his rapidly diminishing stock of high quality cubes.
The mech continued to chatter. Tracks heard something about designing a rebuild, prompting another roll of his optics. After that last public dismissal? Frag, no. He was done, absolutely done with designing frames.
Tracks cracked open a cube and dropped down into a chair, which creaked ominously beneath him. He scowled. Once upon a time, he'd had only the finest to his designation. Such was a thing of the past, before the scandal, and the public dismissal of his services by that pompous, overbearing, wouldn't know a good paintjob if it reached out and slapped him across the--
Wait. What?
Tracks tilted his helm, dialing up his audials.
“--opportunity of a lifetime,” the mech was droning, sounding bored even to himself. “Your designation will be recorded in the annals.”
Jerking back to his pedes, Tracks stormed into the other room and slapped the console, prompting it to rewind a few kliks back in the message.
Yes. He'd heard it right. They were offering more creds than Tracks could ever dream of. More than enough to get him out of this slum, back into the public optic, and quite possibly, back into the upper echelon where he belonged.
But was it worth it?
He leaned a hip against the counter, letting the recording play on.
War was rapidly overtaking Cybertron so much so that Tracks had considered more than once upgrading his exquisite design to include weapons and better armor. Did his reputation really matter?
The recording ended with a final plea and a callback number. There was a designation attached to the request. A designation Tracks knew all too well. Trust Trion to be the one to suggest his services to the other council members.
But to design the new Prime? He was potentially setting himself up for either the worst kind of failure, or the best kind of praise. He did not like the knowledge that there was no certainty for either.
Tracks ex-vented softly, glancing around the pitiful shelter he called home. It was under-stocked, under-designed, and barely adequate to his needs.
He would never get another opportunity like the one Alpha Trion offered. Not with the way Cybertron was devolving. And honestly, what did he have left to lose?
Pushing himself off the counter, Tracks reached for his tiny comm console. It was time to make a call.
A smile curved the lipplates of one council member, who tapped his chin with elegantly tapered digits. “I think I know just the bot.”
The request was waiting in his inbox when Tracks returned from a supply run. Arching an orbital ridge, Tracks queued up the message for replay as he bustled about his storage, putting his carefully acquired necessities in their proper place. It was getting harder and harder to find what he needed as of late. This blasted war... frag the Decepticons to the Pit and back!
He ex-vented and shook his helm. Peace, he told himself. Getting outrageously angry would do nothing for either his own state or for Cybertron itself. It was pointless.
He only half-listened as the message droned in the background, some mech blathering on about duty and honor and a great opportunity. Tracks revved his engine. Like he hadn't heard that before.
He rolled his optics, moving into the tiny confines of his energon storage, selecting from his rapidly diminishing stock of high quality cubes.
The mech continued to chatter. Tracks heard something about designing a rebuild, prompting another roll of his optics. After that last public dismissal? Frag, no. He was done, absolutely done with designing frames.
Tracks cracked open a cube and dropped down into a chair, which creaked ominously beneath him. He scowled. Once upon a time, he'd had only the finest to his designation. Such was a thing of the past, before the scandal, and the public dismissal of his services by that pompous, overbearing, wouldn't know a good paintjob if it reached out and slapped him across the--
Wait. What?
Tracks tilted his helm, dialing up his audials.
“--opportunity of a lifetime,” the mech was droning, sounding bored even to himself. “Your designation will be recorded in the annals.”
Jerking back to his pedes, Tracks stormed into the other room and slapped the console, prompting it to rewind a few kliks back in the message.
Yes. He'd heard it right. They were offering more creds than Tracks could ever dream of. More than enough to get him out of this slum, back into the public optic, and quite possibly, back into the upper echelon where he belonged.
But was it worth it?
He leaned a hip against the counter, letting the recording play on.
War was rapidly overtaking Cybertron so much so that Tracks had considered more than once upgrading his exquisite design to include weapons and better armor. Did his reputation really matter?
The recording ended with a final plea and a callback number. There was a designation attached to the request. A designation Tracks knew all too well. Trust Trion to be the one to suggest his services to the other council members.
But to design the new Prime? He was potentially setting himself up for either the worst kind of failure, or the best kind of praise. He did not like the knowledge that there was no certainty for either.
Tracks ex-vented softly, glancing around the pitiful shelter he called home. It was under-stocked, under-designed, and barely adequate to his needs.
He would never get another opportunity like the one Alpha Trion offered. Not with the way Cybertron was devolving. And honestly, what did he have left to lose?
Pushing himself off the counter, Tracks reached for his tiny comm console. It was time to make a call.
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Prowl/Thundercracker/Dreadwing, “Heaven is a Lie,” Lacuna Coil
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse, War Without End 'verse. Warnings: SPOILERS for upcoming installments of WWE.
Once upon a time, Prowl would have attributed his present position to copious amounts of high grade, a malfunction in his logic processor, or a mix of both.
Even before the war, this would have been improbable. He supposes that when viewed in that aspect, some of Megatron's original intentions did bear fruit.
Prowl never, in all his eons, would have expected this.
This being the dark-blue Seeker more or less beneath him, Prowl's helm resting on the curve of Dreadwing's cockpit. A taloned servo cups his shoulder, both protective and possessive. Perhaps affectionate even.
Halfway draped across Prowl's pelvic array and blanketing his legs lies a second Seeker, paler blue plating a pretty contrast to Dreadwing's. Thundercracker's helm lays against a hip greave, wings fluttering in his recharge.
Both Seekers are recharging, truth be told, and Thundercracker has his arms wrapped around one of Prowl's thighs as though keeping him in place.
Prowl should not feel so comfortable between two Seekers. Two enemies. Two Decepticons.
But he is.
His systems are still fairly humming with faint overcharge. His energy field is delicately entangled with theirs. He could easily fall into recharge, content and secure.
It is unthinkable. It is precisely what the Autobots once stood for. It is what Megatron claimed he so desired.
Yet, here they are. In self-imposed exile.
Prowl's logic circuits nearly fritz at the dichotomy of it.
Proof positive, here in his position, that he had made the right choice in leaving Prime. Still, he could have never expected this outcome. He is not certain how it occurred either. There were long nights and extended conversations and energon shared and heavy discussions, and somehow Prowl found himself here, between two Decepticons, and happier for it.
“You think too much.”
He hadn't even heard Thundercracker stir.
Prowl shifts his gaze, looking down at the sleepy Seeker, who's half-slitted optics are an indication of a mech eager to return to recharge. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can hear you thinking from here. It's keeping me from recharge,” Thundercracker adds, his servo sliding up Prowl's hip, elegant talons dipping beneath overlapped plating to play with the sensitive nodes beneath.
“It is in a tactician's nature to think on a regular basis,” Dreadwing comments, the rumble of his vocalizer vibrating through Prowl's audials.
Faking. They had both been faking their recharge. He should have guessed.
“He should not be thinking so hard considering his current position,” Thundercracker counters, talons drawing a surge of charge from Prowl's circuits.
He stifles a sound of pleasure, if only to prove himself stoic in the face of Thundercracker's obvious seduction. Yet, he cannot stop the twitch in his frame, the unconscious lifting of his armor to invite more of Thundercracker's teasing.
Dreadwing laughs, a rumble that echoes in the cramped quarters of their makeshift berth. “This is why we are obligated to provide a distraction.”
Prowl's efforts to restrain himself shatter as Dreadwing dips a talented servo to the small of his dorsal plating, where the hinges of his sensory panel are located. A rattling moan escapes Prowl's vocalizer, an undulation of movement quick to follow.
“Incorrigible,” Prowl mutters, energy field rising up, all too eager to pulse in tandem with his two Seekers.
Thundercracker chuckles; Dreadwing rumbles a laugh.
“We are, after all, Decepticons,” Thundercracker reminds him.
“It's in our nature,” Dreadwing adds.
Any retort Prowl might have readied is lost in a sparkfelt moan, charge dancing eagerly over his plating.
Even before the war, this would have been improbable. He supposes that when viewed in that aspect, some of Megatron's original intentions did bear fruit.
Prowl never, in all his eons, would have expected this.
This being the dark-blue Seeker more or less beneath him, Prowl's helm resting on the curve of Dreadwing's cockpit. A taloned servo cups his shoulder, both protective and possessive. Perhaps affectionate even.
Halfway draped across Prowl's pelvic array and blanketing his legs lies a second Seeker, paler blue plating a pretty contrast to Dreadwing's. Thundercracker's helm lays against a hip greave, wings fluttering in his recharge.
Both Seekers are recharging, truth be told, and Thundercracker has his arms wrapped around one of Prowl's thighs as though keeping him in place.
Prowl should not feel so comfortable between two Seekers. Two enemies. Two Decepticons.
But he is.
His systems are still fairly humming with faint overcharge. His energy field is delicately entangled with theirs. He could easily fall into recharge, content and secure.
It is unthinkable. It is precisely what the Autobots once stood for. It is what Megatron claimed he so desired.
Yet, here they are. In self-imposed exile.
Prowl's logic circuits nearly fritz at the dichotomy of it.
Proof positive, here in his position, that he had made the right choice in leaving Prime. Still, he could have never expected this outcome. He is not certain how it occurred either. There were long nights and extended conversations and energon shared and heavy discussions, and somehow Prowl found himself here, between two Decepticons, and happier for it.
“You think too much.”
He hadn't even heard Thundercracker stir.
Prowl shifts his gaze, looking down at the sleepy Seeker, who's half-slitted optics are an indication of a mech eager to return to recharge. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can hear you thinking from here. It's keeping me from recharge,” Thundercracker adds, his servo sliding up Prowl's hip, elegant talons dipping beneath overlapped plating to play with the sensitive nodes beneath.
“It is in a tactician's nature to think on a regular basis,” Dreadwing comments, the rumble of his vocalizer vibrating through Prowl's audials.
Faking. They had both been faking their recharge. He should have guessed.
“He should not be thinking so hard considering his current position,” Thundercracker counters, talons drawing a surge of charge from Prowl's circuits.
He stifles a sound of pleasure, if only to prove himself stoic in the face of Thundercracker's obvious seduction. Yet, he cannot stop the twitch in his frame, the unconscious lifting of his armor to invite more of Thundercracker's teasing.
Dreadwing laughs, a rumble that echoes in the cramped quarters of their makeshift berth. “This is why we are obligated to provide a distraction.”
Prowl's efforts to restrain himself shatter as Dreadwing dips a talented servo to the small of his dorsal plating, where the hinges of his sensory panel are located. A rattling moan escapes Prowl's vocalizer, an undulation of movement quick to follow.
“Incorrigible,” Prowl mutters, energy field rising up, all too eager to pulse in tandem with his two Seekers.
Thundercracker chuckles; Dreadwing rumbles a laugh.
“We are, after all, Decepticons,” Thundercracker reminds him.
“It's in our nature,” Dreadwing adds.
Any retort Prowl might have readied is lost in a sparkfelt moan, charge dancing eagerly over his plating.
For hockeyiris
Prompt: “It's a tradition” RoyxEd and RoyxMaes
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (first anime series). Warnings: None really.
That frown is the sole reason Maes is being stubborn about this. That frown and the excuse to kiss Roy. Not that he needs one.
“Come on, Roy,” he purrs, swinging the alchemist into his arms and blatantly ignoring all of the squirming that said alchemist immediately employs. “It's a tradition.”
“I fail to see the point of your argument,” Roy grumbles with his usual lack of enthusiasm, giving up on his token struggles with no small measure of sullen resignation.
So. Adorable.
“The point, Roy,” Maes says with infinite patience, stroking a hand down his lover's back, “is that you should never shirk your origins.”
Roy rolls his eyes, glaring up at the cluster of greenery above them as though his eyes could start fires and not just his gloves. “Is that your excuse?”
“Pfft. You really don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you?” Maes nuzzled into Roy's throat, even as the alchemist strained back to avoid him, just to be a pill.
“This isn't romance. It's... it's...”
Maes cuts off Roy's struggle to define the tradition with a kiss, one that Roy returns with all enthusiasm, despite his previous protests. Heh.
Maes: 352. Roy: 0.
---
They get entangled in the doorway. Literally.
Roy is trying to leave. Ed is trying to enter. The frame isn't big enough for the both of them, whether it be Roy's ego, Ed's pride, Roy's sweater, and Ed's automail.
“My great-grandmother knitted me this sweater,” Roy states, deadpan, as he tries to unravel the loose strand of yarn from where it has wound around a hooked edge of Ed's automail.
The Elric rolls his eyes, making no efforts to help Roy's entanglement. “Liar. It's an ugly sweater anyway.”
“Is this your grand, evil plan to make me get rid of it?”
“Since when do I plan anything?”
Roy grins. Wolfish. “Good point.” He pauses, tilts his head, and looks up. “Oh. What do we have here?”
Ed scowls. “Al's idea of tradition.”
It's a sprig of mistletoe, bright green, berries red as blood. It's been tied with a sparkling silver ribbon and Roy's pretty damn certain it wasn't there this morning.
Roy smirks. Ed's still captured by the loose thread and Roy takes advantage of that, gripping his lover's chin with his fingers.
“Well,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “I would hate to disappoint your brother. Wouldn't you?”
And Ed turns to putty in his hands. As well things should be.
“Come on, Roy,” he purrs, swinging the alchemist into his arms and blatantly ignoring all of the squirming that said alchemist immediately employs. “It's a tradition.”
“I fail to see the point of your argument,” Roy grumbles with his usual lack of enthusiasm, giving up on his token struggles with no small measure of sullen resignation.
So. Adorable.
“The point, Roy,” Maes says with infinite patience, stroking a hand down his lover's back, “is that you should never shirk your origins.”
Roy rolls his eyes, glaring up at the cluster of greenery above them as though his eyes could start fires and not just his gloves. “Is that your excuse?”
“Pfft. You really don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you?” Maes nuzzled into Roy's throat, even as the alchemist strained back to avoid him, just to be a pill.
“This isn't romance. It's... it's...”
Maes cuts off Roy's struggle to define the tradition with a kiss, one that Roy returns with all enthusiasm, despite his previous protests. Heh.
Maes: 352. Roy: 0.
---
They get entangled in the doorway. Literally.
Roy is trying to leave. Ed is trying to enter. The frame isn't big enough for the both of them, whether it be Roy's ego, Ed's pride, Roy's sweater, and Ed's automail.
“My great-grandmother knitted me this sweater,” Roy states, deadpan, as he tries to unravel the loose strand of yarn from where it has wound around a hooked edge of Ed's automail.
The Elric rolls his eyes, making no efforts to help Roy's entanglement. “Liar. It's an ugly sweater anyway.”
“Is this your grand, evil plan to make me get rid of it?”
“Since when do I plan anything?”
Roy grins. Wolfish. “Good point.” He pauses, tilts his head, and looks up. “Oh. What do we have here?”
Ed scowls. “Al's idea of tradition.”
It's a sprig of mistletoe, bright green, berries red as blood. It's been tied with a sparkling silver ribbon and Roy's pretty damn certain it wasn't there this morning.
Roy smirks. Ed's still captured by the loose thread and Roy takes advantage of that, gripping his lover's chin with his fingers.
“Well,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “I would hate to disappoint your brother. Wouldn't you?”
And Ed turns to putty in his hands. As well things should be.
a/n: See you all next year! :)
