Flash Fiction Fills Take 39 Final Part
Jan. 28th, 2013 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: And here are the last two flash fiction, in record time no less. The first one's safe, the second one, decidedly NSFW. Enjoy!
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, “sometimes Clark just wants a little romance, is that so much to ask?”
Fandom: Justice League. Warnings: crack, elements of ooc
For jalaperilo
Prompt: Sunstreaker/Trailbreaker, unconventional
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: smut, sticky, fluff
a/n: What I intended with the SuperBat, and what the muses gave me, are two entirely different things. Sometimes, writing is a fascinating adventure into the unknown. lol
I set out to write rough smut with a touch of size-kink for Sunny/Trailbreaker and instead, Sunstreaker demanded schmoop. And whatever Sunny demands, I am obliged to give. He hits pretty hard.
Next Flash Fic Friday is February 8th (also coincidentally the weekend of my birthday. Yay!).
Fics coming up: RatchxTwins quick'n dirty smut. JazzxBluestreak dirty smut. Hot RodxTracks porn with annnngsty plot, and a War Without End ficlet with some angsty fluff.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, “sometimes Clark just wants a little romance, is that so much to ask?”
Fandom: Justice League. Warnings: crack, elements of ooc
Planning anything in advance has always been an exercise in futility. There's always some major disaster or planet-wide threat or crazy psycho bent on world domination. Clark has gotten used to being spontaneous, at taking what chances he can get to corner Bruce in a supply closet, or a shower stall, or sneaking into his massive bedroom at the manor for a little cuddle-time.
Bruce, of course, abhors cuddle time. Sometimes, he'll relent if Clark looks pitiful enough, but the fact of the matter remains. Their relationship requires spontaneity to survive.
But every once in a while Clark wants a little romance.
The problem with that is his and Bruce's definition of romance varies greatly. Clark, raised in Smallville with good old-fashioned farm boy thinking, likes the ideas of candles and private dinners and soft music and wooing from the heart. Bruce, who has to use these tactics on many a fair, shallow lady, pretty much abhors said definition of romance.
It's tacky, in his opinion, and pointless.
Then again, Bruce wouldn't know real romance if it came up and clocked him across the face.
He has all the pretty words when it comes to women, but what does Clark get? Gruff, one syllable statements. A glare if he's lucky. Sometimes, he even gets to sleep on the couch. Fun times really.
Bruce can remember, to the thirtieth digit and beyond, the numbers of pi. He has the formulas for numerous poisons and antidotes and anything in-between all memorized. There are sheets and books worth of data stored in that amazing brain of his.
Anniversary dates, on the other hand, are filed somewhere that ensure they are never remembered. Birthdays are a shot in the dark. It's enough to drive a man to do drastic things!
Not that Clark would ever turn to committing an act of evil. But an act of pure deviousness? That's not entirely beyond him.
So if he has to fake a distress call in Gotham City just to get his lover's attention, he knows Bruce will be too angry and mortified to tell anyone else. And Clark's certainly not going to spread the news.
That ought to satisfy Bruce's warped idea of romance. Saving the err, damsel, in distress. Though Clark's hardly a damsel, he's rarely in distress, and he's going to have to endure several days worth of ranting in the aftermath. The prelude, however, is going to be more than worth the consequences.
Now Clark sits in a dark alley and waits for his heroic Dark Knight in Kevlar armor to arrive and sweep him off his feet.
At least there wasn't any Kryptonite this time. Bruce really hates that.
Bruce, of course, abhors cuddle time. Sometimes, he'll relent if Clark looks pitiful enough, but the fact of the matter remains. Their relationship requires spontaneity to survive.
But every once in a while Clark wants a little romance.
The problem with that is his and Bruce's definition of romance varies greatly. Clark, raised in Smallville with good old-fashioned farm boy thinking, likes the ideas of candles and private dinners and soft music and wooing from the heart. Bruce, who has to use these tactics on many a fair, shallow lady, pretty much abhors said definition of romance.
It's tacky, in his opinion, and pointless.
Then again, Bruce wouldn't know real romance if it came up and clocked him across the face.
He has all the pretty words when it comes to women, but what does Clark get? Gruff, one syllable statements. A glare if he's lucky. Sometimes, he even gets to sleep on the couch. Fun times really.
Bruce can remember, to the thirtieth digit and beyond, the numbers of pi. He has the formulas for numerous poisons and antidotes and anything in-between all memorized. There are sheets and books worth of data stored in that amazing brain of his.
Anniversary dates, on the other hand, are filed somewhere that ensure they are never remembered. Birthdays are a shot in the dark. It's enough to drive a man to do drastic things!
Not that Clark would ever turn to committing an act of evil. But an act of pure deviousness? That's not entirely beyond him.
So if he has to fake a distress call in Gotham City just to get his lover's attention, he knows Bruce will be too angry and mortified to tell anyone else. And Clark's certainly not going to spread the news.
That ought to satisfy Bruce's warped idea of romance. Saving the err, damsel, in distress. Though Clark's hardly a damsel, he's rarely in distress, and he's going to have to endure several days worth of ranting in the aftermath. The prelude, however, is going to be more than worth the consequences.
Now Clark sits in a dark alley and waits for his heroic Dark Knight in Kevlar armor to arrive and sweep him off his feet.
At least there wasn't any Kryptonite this time. Bruce really hates that.
For jalaperilo
Prompt: Sunstreaker/Trailbreaker, unconventional
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: smut, sticky, fluff
It was an attraction that defied explanation.
Sunstreaker couldn't put it into words himself. Trailbreaker was the complete opposite of everything Sunstreaker found appealing. He was kind and considerate where Sunstreaker was borderline psychopathic. He was logical where Sunstreaker could be and more often was reckless and Trailbreaker preferred to defend where Sunstreaker would rather charge helm first with an offensive strike.
Trailbreaker was large and slow and bulky. He maintained his armor to the recommended minimum. He was quiet and unassuming and often blended into the background. He liked Earth and the humans and never made much of a fuss about anything.
In short, he was not a partner Sunstreaker would have ever selected out of a line up.
But the feel of those large servos on his frame, the regard in Trailbreaker's warm visor as his gaze flicked over Sunstreaker from top to bottom, it was addicting. It didn't make any sense, but addictions rarely did.
Sunstreaker offlined his optics, giving himself over to sensation because it was just that easy. His engine whined, but Trailbreaker's more powerful motor rumbled, sending vibrations cascading through Sunstreaker.
He moaned, his servos grasping for a hold against black, pitted armor, strong and tough. Durable. The steady push of Trailbreaker's spike roused pleasure in growing pulses through his valve.
Sunstreaker's existence was a thing of violence. On the battlefield and off it, from the moment he was sparked, and for the entirety of his functioning. Violence was what Sunstreaker knew. It was where he excelled. It was what he wanted.
It was what Trailbreaker never gave him.
His touches were always infinitely gentle, as though Sunstreaker were a precious item. Delicate. Too easily shattered. And maybe he was right.
Sunstreaker often thought he should feel insulted, indignant even. He didn't. It was... nice to be treasured. Nice to feel like he was worth more than his body count. And Trailbreaker made him feel that way.
“Hey.”
A servo cupped Sunstreaker's faceplate, pulling him from his musings, the vocals rumbling through him and resonating in his spark chamber. “You still with me?”
Sunstreaker unshuttered his optics, looking up into Trailbreaker's visor. He turned toward his partner's palm, ex-venting warmly upon it. He could smell the wax Trailbreaker used, cheap but effective, and the faint evidence of gun oil.
“Always,” Sunstreaker said before he could censor himself. Trailbreaker seemed to do that to him, make him speak without thinking, make him react.
He cut a gaze at the larger mech. “But if you ever tell anyone I was that sappy, I'll rip off your arm.”
Trailbreaker chuckled, no trace of fear in his energy field. “I know better than to make that kind of mistake.” His other hand tapped a rhythm on Sunstreaker's hip.
“Good.” Sunstreaker clenched down on Trailbreaker's spike, providing a shudder form his larger partner. “Frag me. Please.”
A thumb swept across his cheek plating. “Whatever you say,” Trailbreaker murmured, and a slow, deep thrust made Sunstreaker moan.
No. It didn't make any sense at all. But sometimes, Sunstreaker supposed, it didn't have to.
Sunstreaker couldn't put it into words himself. Trailbreaker was the complete opposite of everything Sunstreaker found appealing. He was kind and considerate where Sunstreaker was borderline psychopathic. He was logical where Sunstreaker could be and more often was reckless and Trailbreaker preferred to defend where Sunstreaker would rather charge helm first with an offensive strike.
Trailbreaker was large and slow and bulky. He maintained his armor to the recommended minimum. He was quiet and unassuming and often blended into the background. He liked Earth and the humans and never made much of a fuss about anything.
In short, he was not a partner Sunstreaker would have ever selected out of a line up.
But the feel of those large servos on his frame, the regard in Trailbreaker's warm visor as his gaze flicked over Sunstreaker from top to bottom, it was addicting. It didn't make any sense, but addictions rarely did.
Sunstreaker offlined his optics, giving himself over to sensation because it was just that easy. His engine whined, but Trailbreaker's more powerful motor rumbled, sending vibrations cascading through Sunstreaker.
He moaned, his servos grasping for a hold against black, pitted armor, strong and tough. Durable. The steady push of Trailbreaker's spike roused pleasure in growing pulses through his valve.
Sunstreaker's existence was a thing of violence. On the battlefield and off it, from the moment he was sparked, and for the entirety of his functioning. Violence was what Sunstreaker knew. It was where he excelled. It was what he wanted.
It was what Trailbreaker never gave him.
His touches were always infinitely gentle, as though Sunstreaker were a precious item. Delicate. Too easily shattered. And maybe he was right.
Sunstreaker often thought he should feel insulted, indignant even. He didn't. It was... nice to be treasured. Nice to feel like he was worth more than his body count. And Trailbreaker made him feel that way.
“Hey.”
A servo cupped Sunstreaker's faceplate, pulling him from his musings, the vocals rumbling through him and resonating in his spark chamber. “You still with me?”
Sunstreaker unshuttered his optics, looking up into Trailbreaker's visor. He turned toward his partner's palm, ex-venting warmly upon it. He could smell the wax Trailbreaker used, cheap but effective, and the faint evidence of gun oil.
“Always,” Sunstreaker said before he could censor himself. Trailbreaker seemed to do that to him, make him speak without thinking, make him react.
He cut a gaze at the larger mech. “But if you ever tell anyone I was that sappy, I'll rip off your arm.”
Trailbreaker chuckled, no trace of fear in his energy field. “I know better than to make that kind of mistake.” His other hand tapped a rhythm on Sunstreaker's hip.
“Good.” Sunstreaker clenched down on Trailbreaker's spike, providing a shudder form his larger partner. “Frag me. Please.”
A thumb swept across his cheek plating. “Whatever you say,” Trailbreaker murmured, and a slow, deep thrust made Sunstreaker moan.
No. It didn't make any sense at all. But sometimes, Sunstreaker supposed, it didn't have to.
a/n: What I intended with the SuperBat, and what the muses gave me, are two entirely different things. Sometimes, writing is a fascinating adventure into the unknown. lol
I set out to write rough smut with a touch of size-kink for Sunny/Trailbreaker and instead, Sunstreaker demanded schmoop. And whatever Sunny demands, I am obliged to give. He hits pretty hard.
Next Flash Fic Friday is February 8th (also coincidentally the weekend of my birthday. Yay!).
Fics coming up: RatchxTwins quick'n dirty smut. JazzxBluestreak dirty smut. Hot RodxTracks porn with annnngsty plot, and a War Without End ficlet with some angsty fluff.
