Flash Fiction Fills (Take 45 and 46)
Dec. 12th, 2013 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Woot. Finally got these done. I hope they are up to my usual quality. If not, I do apologize. I'll do better next time.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperWonderBat, lying to Diana is a bad idea, they should've known better
Fandom: Justice League Amalgamated. Warnings: None
For camfield
Prompt: Sora/Riku, “Fishin' Hole,” Stephen Lynch
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts, post-II. Warnings:
His fists sank into sand-filled leather, over and over, the steady strikes punctuating the beat of the song blasting around him. Sweat slicked down the sides of his face, trickled down his back. His calves burned with exertion as he bounced around the gym.
Somehow, punching the crap out of a sandbag wasn't quite the same as cutting down Heartless with his keyblade. But it would have to do for now. It's not like there were any enemies around and attacking Sora would be rather counter-productive.
The fact that Sora could and would kick his ass might have something to do with it, too.
Besides, Sora wasn't the one he was angry with. Sora wasn't the one who fucked up. It had been Riku who'd been the idiot.
It was always Riku.
His frown deepened and Riku's fists flew harder at the punching bag. He felt the seams strain under the pressure but they held. A few grains of sand spilled on the floor. He'd have to sweep those up later, damn it.
Sora probably wasn't going to forgive him this time. Sora had a heart bigger than anyone Riku had ever met, but even his mercy had its limits. Riku was always fucking up. Even the nicest of people would get tired of that after a while. Tired of Riku.
His chest heaved, breath coming in sharp bursts, sweat dripping to the ground. His face was hot, his clothes soaked, and all he wanted to do was punch something. He wanted to punch himself but that wouldn't really work.
It was a stupid song, Riku realized, though he wasn't listening to it so much as it was playing around him. It reflected his mood though. It just wasn't loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
A simple blast of Fire would put this sand bag out of commission for good, but then what would he pummel?
Riku exhaled sharply, whirled around the bag, and landed another barrage of blows.
The music cut off in the middle of the final chorus and Riku startled, whirling toward the door at the sudden absence of sound.
Sora was standing there, remote in hand, giving him a look with both eyebrows raised. “I knew you had terrible taste, but really, Riku? Stephen Lynch?”
He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “It seemed appropriate.”
“Mm.” Sora made a non-committal noise, leaning against the frame of the doorway. “I think you could do better.”
Riku fiddled with his boxing gloves, for lack of words. “There's probably a lot I could do better since I'm terminally a fuck up.”
“Wow, when you go emo, you really commit to it, don't you?”
Riku's gaze jerked up, his jaw dropping. “What?”
Sora pushed off the frame, stepping into the room, his gaze darting between the sad punching bag and Riku's sweaty frame. “When are you going to realize that I love you?”
His breath caught in his throat as it always did whenever Sora said the L word. He felt like a deer in headlights as Sora moved closer to him.
“I thought we'd gotten past this 'fight and flight' instinct of yours,” Sora continued with his frown that was more cute than angry. “Yeah, you pissed me off. But that kind of happens from time to time.” He reached up, patting Riku's cheek. “Eventually, I forgive you.”
“You don't play fair,” Riku mumbled, feeling all the anger at himself drain away. If Sora wasn't pissed, how could he be?
Sora laughs. “When it comes to you, I can't afford to.” He pulled Riku in for a kiss, which in their book, was all the sign that an apology had been given that Riku needed.
For: dellessa
Prompt: Bluestreak/Vortex, all kinds of trouble
Fandom: Transformers G1, post-series AU. Warnings: None.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Twins/Optimus, Any, “Sinister Kid,” by the Black Keyes
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: references sticky and threesomes and twincest.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Numerology'verse, “Alfred, he gave me... pie.”
Fandom: Justice League Amalgamated AU, Numerology. Warnings: None.
a/n: It feels good to get something accomplished. I'm poking and prodding at other fic. I'll try to get a chapter of Critical Mass up and I have a Bluestreak/Jazz oneshot that's nearly finished. Hopefully, I can get those up before the first of the year.
I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is welcome and appreciated.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperWonderBat, lying to Diana is a bad idea, they should've known better
Fandom: Justice League Amalgamated. Warnings: None
Clark always thought that Bruce had the monopoly on cold shoulders. No one could do chilly receptions like Bruce Wayne. No one had perfected that air of dismissal. No one could sulk like Bruce could sulk.
He was wrong.
When it came to affront, Diana was the cream of the crop. Apparently, no one gave off a glacial vibe better than an Amazon princess. Even Bruce was a little ruffled, which was a testament to itself. Nothing ruffled Batman. Except, apparently, their lover in a fit of disdained pique.
Now would be the perfect time for an 'I told you so' except then Clark would be faced with two furious lovers rather than one. It would be better to present a unified front. Besides, Diana might have the best disregarding air, but she was easier to placate. Anger the Bruce and hell hath no fury like a Bat scorned.
Especially since Bruce, being Bruce, was completely flummoxed.
“Flowers?” he suggested, pacing back and forth across the floor. They were in the master bedroom at Wayne Manor, a room larger than Clark's entire apartment though he tried not to think about that too much.
Bruce was business casual, suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He paced back and forth, arms folded behind his back, mouth drawn in a tight furrow.
“Chocolates?” Bruce debated aloud. “Surprise trip to the Carribean? Fur jacket? Jewelry?”
Smartest man in the world, except perhaps for Mr. Terrific, and Bruce was still a moron sometimes. He could analyze until the day turned blue. He could outthink any criminal and outsmart Lex Luthor in every encounter, and Lex wasn't exactly a moron. But when ti came to common sense, to daily and real human interaction, Bruce could be an idiot.
Clark leaned back, crossing his ankles and bracing his weight on the mattress behind him. “We could start with an apology,” he suggested.
The look Bruce gave him could have rivaled Clark's heat vision. “An apology,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes.” It took all of Clark's will not to grin. “Start with 'I'm sorry' and then follow that up with 'I won't do it again'. Works wonders. It helps if you're sincere about it.”
“Why wouldn't I be sincere?” Bruce demanded.
“It was your idea in the first place,” Clark pointed out. “Don't yell at me because it backfired.”
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
Clark's insides twisted. Hmm. In some worlds, that could be called an 'I told you so,' wouldn't it?
Judging by the way Bruce's hackles were rising, Clark had just screwed up. Damn.
He sighed and sagged on the bed, watching Bruce bristle. Now he had two lovers to placate. Just the situation he was trying to avoid.
Sometimes, not even being Superman could save him.
He was wrong.
When it came to affront, Diana was the cream of the crop. Apparently, no one gave off a glacial vibe better than an Amazon princess. Even Bruce was a little ruffled, which was a testament to itself. Nothing ruffled Batman. Except, apparently, their lover in a fit of disdained pique.
Now would be the perfect time for an 'I told you so' except then Clark would be faced with two furious lovers rather than one. It would be better to present a unified front. Besides, Diana might have the best disregarding air, but she was easier to placate. Anger the Bruce and hell hath no fury like a Bat scorned.
Especially since Bruce, being Bruce, was completely flummoxed.
“Flowers?” he suggested, pacing back and forth across the floor. They were in the master bedroom at Wayne Manor, a room larger than Clark's entire apartment though he tried not to think about that too much.
Bruce was business casual, suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He paced back and forth, arms folded behind his back, mouth drawn in a tight furrow.
“Chocolates?” Bruce debated aloud. “Surprise trip to the Carribean? Fur jacket? Jewelry?”
Smartest man in the world, except perhaps for Mr. Terrific, and Bruce was still a moron sometimes. He could analyze until the day turned blue. He could outthink any criminal and outsmart Lex Luthor in every encounter, and Lex wasn't exactly a moron. But when ti came to common sense, to daily and real human interaction, Bruce could be an idiot.
Clark leaned back, crossing his ankles and bracing his weight on the mattress behind him. “We could start with an apology,” he suggested.
The look Bruce gave him could have rivaled Clark's heat vision. “An apology,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes.” It took all of Clark's will not to grin. “Start with 'I'm sorry' and then follow that up with 'I won't do it again'. Works wonders. It helps if you're sincere about it.”
“Why wouldn't I be sincere?” Bruce demanded.
“It was your idea in the first place,” Clark pointed out. “Don't yell at me because it backfired.”
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
Clark's insides twisted. Hmm. In some worlds, that could be called an 'I told you so,' wouldn't it?
Judging by the way Bruce's hackles were rising, Clark had just screwed up. Damn.
He sighed and sagged on the bed, watching Bruce bristle. Now he had two lovers to placate. Just the situation he was trying to avoid.
Sometimes, not even being Superman could save him.
For camfield
Prompt: Sora/Riku, “Fishin' Hole,” Stephen Lynch
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts, post-II. Warnings:
His fists sank into sand-filled leather, over and over, the steady strikes punctuating the beat of the song blasting around him. Sweat slicked down the sides of his face, trickled down his back. His calves burned with exertion as he bounced around the gym.
Somehow, punching the crap out of a sandbag wasn't quite the same as cutting down Heartless with his keyblade. But it would have to do for now. It's not like there were any enemies around and attacking Sora would be rather counter-productive.
The fact that Sora could and would kick his ass might have something to do with it, too.
Besides, Sora wasn't the one he was angry with. Sora wasn't the one who fucked up. It had been Riku who'd been the idiot.
It was always Riku.
His frown deepened and Riku's fists flew harder at the punching bag. He felt the seams strain under the pressure but they held. A few grains of sand spilled on the floor. He'd have to sweep those up later, damn it.
Sora probably wasn't going to forgive him this time. Sora had a heart bigger than anyone Riku had ever met, but even his mercy had its limits. Riku was always fucking up. Even the nicest of people would get tired of that after a while. Tired of Riku.
His chest heaved, breath coming in sharp bursts, sweat dripping to the ground. His face was hot, his clothes soaked, and all he wanted to do was punch something. He wanted to punch himself but that wouldn't really work.
It was a stupid song, Riku realized, though he wasn't listening to it so much as it was playing around him. It reflected his mood though. It just wasn't loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
A simple blast of Fire would put this sand bag out of commission for good, but then what would he pummel?
Riku exhaled sharply, whirled around the bag, and landed another barrage of blows.
The music cut off in the middle of the final chorus and Riku startled, whirling toward the door at the sudden absence of sound.
Sora was standing there, remote in hand, giving him a look with both eyebrows raised. “I knew you had terrible taste, but really, Riku? Stephen Lynch?”
He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “It seemed appropriate.”
“Mm.” Sora made a non-committal noise, leaning against the frame of the doorway. “I think you could do better.”
Riku fiddled with his boxing gloves, for lack of words. “There's probably a lot I could do better since I'm terminally a fuck up.”
“Wow, when you go emo, you really commit to it, don't you?”
Riku's gaze jerked up, his jaw dropping. “What?”
Sora pushed off the frame, stepping into the room, his gaze darting between the sad punching bag and Riku's sweaty frame. “When are you going to realize that I love you?”
His breath caught in his throat as it always did whenever Sora said the L word. He felt like a deer in headlights as Sora moved closer to him.
“I thought we'd gotten past this 'fight and flight' instinct of yours,” Sora continued with his frown that was more cute than angry. “Yeah, you pissed me off. But that kind of happens from time to time.” He reached up, patting Riku's cheek. “Eventually, I forgive you.”
“You don't play fair,” Riku mumbled, feeling all the anger at himself drain away. If Sora wasn't pissed, how could he be?
Sora laughs. “When it comes to you, I can't afford to.” He pulled Riku in for a kiss, which in their book, was all the sign that an apology had been given that Riku needed.
For: dellessa
Prompt: Bluestreak/Vortex, all kinds of trouble
Fandom: Transformers G1, post-series AU. Warnings: None.
“Well,” Vortex drawls as he slides into the empty stool beside the grey Praxian. “What's a cute little 'Bot like you doing in a place like this?”
Doorwings twitch as the mech turns to face him, lips curling upward in a smirk. “Last time I checked, factions didn't matter here.”
Vortex laughs and signals the bartender for a cube of his most violent grade. Which, apparently, is the same thing the Autobot is drinking. The Praxian's got bearings of duryibllium, doesn't he?
“It's more a factor that you look a little out of place than the brand you carry,” Vortex points out, finger jabbing at the happy little Autobot face on the mech's shoulder. “The name's Vortex.”
“I know.” Blue optics rake him from helm to pede. “You've got a reputation around the universe. And not a good one.”
High grade sloshes as a cube is plunked down in front of Vortex. He tosses it back. “Gimme another,” he orders, and wriggles his rotors. “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to give you one?”
“How about 'not a chance on Cybertron'?” the Autobot offers, swiveling around in his stool, one hand curled around a cube. “Or 'you couldn't handle this, 'Con'.”
Vortex's laugh echoes throughout the bar, attracting more than their share of attention. Including that group of Autobots at the back, all glowering Vortex's direction like he was going to defile their little Praxian here in plain sight or something.
“You've got some fire in you, don't you?” Vortex asks and leans against the bar, openly admiring the Autobot. He feels he should know this one, but his databanks keep coming up with a big question mark. “Let me buy you a cube.”
“Oh, I think I can buy my own.” The cute Autobot slides off his stool, doorwings flickering at Vortex as though taunting him for wanting what he can't have. “But maybe if you're lucky, you'll walk out of here alive.” His helm tilts pointedly toward the table of Autobots, all of whom are bristling with menace.
Vortex isn't worried. Sure he's outnumbered. Sure Ons told him that the next time he got jailed he wouldn't get bailed out. Sure this is just the sort of thing that Megatron frowns upon in their current state of uneasy truce.
But this cheeky little Praxian might just be worth the risk.
Vortex watches the doorwinged mech all but saunter out of the bar, high-fiving his fellow Autobots on the way out.
He'll call round one to the Autobot. This time. But he better watch out. Because the cute Praxian is in Vortex's sights, and he hasn't lost a single mark yet.
The game is on.
Doorwings twitch as the mech turns to face him, lips curling upward in a smirk. “Last time I checked, factions didn't matter here.”
Vortex laughs and signals the bartender for a cube of his most violent grade. Which, apparently, is the same thing the Autobot is drinking. The Praxian's got bearings of duryibllium, doesn't he?
“It's more a factor that you look a little out of place than the brand you carry,” Vortex points out, finger jabbing at the happy little Autobot face on the mech's shoulder. “The name's Vortex.”
“I know.” Blue optics rake him from helm to pede. “You've got a reputation around the universe. And not a good one.”
High grade sloshes as a cube is plunked down in front of Vortex. He tosses it back. “Gimme another,” he orders, and wriggles his rotors. “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to give you one?”
“How about 'not a chance on Cybertron'?” the Autobot offers, swiveling around in his stool, one hand curled around a cube. “Or 'you couldn't handle this, 'Con'.”
Vortex's laugh echoes throughout the bar, attracting more than their share of attention. Including that group of Autobots at the back, all glowering Vortex's direction like he was going to defile their little Praxian here in plain sight or something.
“You've got some fire in you, don't you?” Vortex asks and leans against the bar, openly admiring the Autobot. He feels he should know this one, but his databanks keep coming up with a big question mark. “Let me buy you a cube.”
“Oh, I think I can buy my own.” The cute Autobot slides off his stool, doorwings flickering at Vortex as though taunting him for wanting what he can't have. “But maybe if you're lucky, you'll walk out of here alive.” His helm tilts pointedly toward the table of Autobots, all of whom are bristling with menace.
Vortex isn't worried. Sure he's outnumbered. Sure Ons told him that the next time he got jailed he wouldn't get bailed out. Sure this is just the sort of thing that Megatron frowns upon in their current state of uneasy truce.
But this cheeky little Praxian might just be worth the risk.
Vortex watches the doorwinged mech all but saunter out of the bar, high-fiving his fellow Autobots on the way out.
He'll call round one to the Autobot. This time. But he better watch out. Because the cute Praxian is in Vortex's sights, and he hasn't lost a single mark yet.
The game is on.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Twins/Optimus, Any, “Sinister Kid,” by the Black Keyes
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: references sticky and threesomes and twincest.
“I can't decide who's more reckless!” Ratchet snarls as he slams a handful of tools onto the tray between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's medberths. On Sideswipe's other side is Optimus Prime, immobile from the waist down but otherwise, unharmed.
They are, all three of them, scrapped to the Pit and back. But it's nothing Ratchet can't fix. Nothing they won't survive. All in all, it's another day in the Ark's medbay.
“Do you know that I spend more than seventy percent of my supplies on you three!” Ratchet shouts, hands waving in the air wildly, but gentle as they attack the seeping gash on Sunstreaker's mid-section.
Sideswipe, more than a little amused, tries and fails to hide his laugh. “Only seventy? We must be doing something wrong. Ow!” Head ringing from the blow, Sideswipe tosses Ratchet a wounded look, which fails to garner some sympathy.
“Why I even bother I don't know!” Ratchet continues without a moment's pause, providing entertainment to everyone else in the medbay, whose minor injuries are being tended by Hoist and Wheeljack, the latter of which always acquires some hesitation from the patients involved.
“I fix you, you run out there and get scrapped on purpose!” the medic snarls, punctuating his anger with bangs and hand-waves and welding.
Sideswipe's so used to it by now that he can recite Ratchet's diatribe by spark.
He turns his helm toward his twin, whose optics are dim from the sedatives. It's a good thing, since he's the worst off considering Menasor had stepped on him. And that was after he'd gotten between Starscream and Bluestreak.
Sideswipe reaches out, brushing his fingers over Sunstreaker's hand, and feels the warm surge of affection and relief across their bond. Sunstreaker's lips twitch in that half-smile, half-sneer he's managed to perfect and then he slips off into recharge, at ease in Ratchet's care like no one else's.
Ratchet's background ranting is music to Sideswipe's audials. He turns his helm to the other side, where a dim-opticked Optimus Prime is giving his Chief Medic a most indulgent look. It's that mushy look he always gives those in his chain of command, that speaks volumes of his pride and faith in his Autobots.
But then he turns his attention to Sideswipe, looking briefly past him to check on Sunstreaker before focusing on Sideswipe again. There's more than just indulgence in his optics now. There's affection and relief, too. A bit of commiseration, also, as Ratchet's ranting gains volume and amusement from the other Autobots.
Optimus' much longer arm stretches across the space between their berths, tapping against Sideswipe's hip in question. It's easy enough for Sideswipe to slide his hand down – both of them escaped uninjured – and curl his fingers with Optimus'. He squeezes once or twice, just to reassure their Prime, and then lets go.
Their relationship is one of those well-known secrets. No one acknowledges it aloud, but Ironhide gives Prime all these knowing looks and Ratchet mutters subvocally and Prowl knows better than to give them too many opposing schedules and Red Alert grumbles about security risks and Elita One keeps sending Sideswipe tips and tricks that kind of frighten him.
So everyone knows but still, they try to be circumspect. As circumspect as Sideswipe is capable of anyway. Sunstreaker has no problems keeping his mouth shut but Sideswipe wants to shout the truth to the world sometimes. If only to remind Megatron to keep his grubby paws off.
Yeah, Prime waves it off, but Sideswipe's seen it. Megatron takes every chance he can get to sneak in a grope or two, pervy 'Con. It frags Sunstreaker off something serious, which explains a good portion of their prior residences in the medbay. Because if Sunstreaker's going after old Buckethead, Sideswipe's right beside him.
Optimus' lectures about getting in over their helms are about as well-received as Ratchet's.
“Gotta stake our claim, Boss,” Sideswipe likes to tell him with a smirk.
Sunstreaker doesn't bother with words. He just tackles Optimus as soon as they are released and proceeds to frag him into the berth. Sideswipe's content to watch through the first overload, happily stroking his own spike until they give him an opening to join in the fun.
Ratchet usually has to fix those dings and scrapes and dents afterward, too. Though instead of yelling, he smirks and gives them all knowing looks while telling Optimus he's glad their Prime is taking the time to relax.
There isn't anything as adorable as the sight of Optimus snapping his mask closed to conceal the embarrassment on his face.
Speaking of...
Sideswipe turns a blinding grin on Optimus. “Later,” he says with a cheeky wink and the rumble of interest from their Prime is audible to pretty much everyone.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Ratchet plants himself between their berths, blocking their view, waving a handful of static bandages at the both of them. He's giving them the stink optic in alternating intervals, now that Sunstreaker's down for the count and unreceptive to his ire. “No interfacing shenanigans tonight!”
Sideswipe chuckles, letting the medic's ranting wash over and through him. Optimus is offering that stupid indulgent expression again while Sideswipe gets comfortable. It's going to be a long afternoon, crammed in this medbay with his lover and his brother and his Autobot family so he ought to get some recharge while he can.
After all, he won't be getting any tonight.
They are, all three of them, scrapped to the Pit and back. But it's nothing Ratchet can't fix. Nothing they won't survive. All in all, it's another day in the Ark's medbay.
“Do you know that I spend more than seventy percent of my supplies on you three!” Ratchet shouts, hands waving in the air wildly, but gentle as they attack the seeping gash on Sunstreaker's mid-section.
Sideswipe, more than a little amused, tries and fails to hide his laugh. “Only seventy? We must be doing something wrong. Ow!” Head ringing from the blow, Sideswipe tosses Ratchet a wounded look, which fails to garner some sympathy.
“Why I even bother I don't know!” Ratchet continues without a moment's pause, providing entertainment to everyone else in the medbay, whose minor injuries are being tended by Hoist and Wheeljack, the latter of which always acquires some hesitation from the patients involved.
“I fix you, you run out there and get scrapped on purpose!” the medic snarls, punctuating his anger with bangs and hand-waves and welding.
Sideswipe's so used to it by now that he can recite Ratchet's diatribe by spark.
He turns his helm toward his twin, whose optics are dim from the sedatives. It's a good thing, since he's the worst off considering Menasor had stepped on him. And that was after he'd gotten between Starscream and Bluestreak.
Sideswipe reaches out, brushing his fingers over Sunstreaker's hand, and feels the warm surge of affection and relief across their bond. Sunstreaker's lips twitch in that half-smile, half-sneer he's managed to perfect and then he slips off into recharge, at ease in Ratchet's care like no one else's.
Ratchet's background ranting is music to Sideswipe's audials. He turns his helm to the other side, where a dim-opticked Optimus Prime is giving his Chief Medic a most indulgent look. It's that mushy look he always gives those in his chain of command, that speaks volumes of his pride and faith in his Autobots.
But then he turns his attention to Sideswipe, looking briefly past him to check on Sunstreaker before focusing on Sideswipe again. There's more than just indulgence in his optics now. There's affection and relief, too. A bit of commiseration, also, as Ratchet's ranting gains volume and amusement from the other Autobots.
Optimus' much longer arm stretches across the space between their berths, tapping against Sideswipe's hip in question. It's easy enough for Sideswipe to slide his hand down – both of them escaped uninjured – and curl his fingers with Optimus'. He squeezes once or twice, just to reassure their Prime, and then lets go.
Their relationship is one of those well-known secrets. No one acknowledges it aloud, but Ironhide gives Prime all these knowing looks and Ratchet mutters subvocally and Prowl knows better than to give them too many opposing schedules and Red Alert grumbles about security risks and Elita One keeps sending Sideswipe tips and tricks that kind of frighten him.
So everyone knows but still, they try to be circumspect. As circumspect as Sideswipe is capable of anyway. Sunstreaker has no problems keeping his mouth shut but Sideswipe wants to shout the truth to the world sometimes. If only to remind Megatron to keep his grubby paws off.
Yeah, Prime waves it off, but Sideswipe's seen it. Megatron takes every chance he can get to sneak in a grope or two, pervy 'Con. It frags Sunstreaker off something serious, which explains a good portion of their prior residences in the medbay. Because if Sunstreaker's going after old Buckethead, Sideswipe's right beside him.
Optimus' lectures about getting in over their helms are about as well-received as Ratchet's.
“Gotta stake our claim, Boss,” Sideswipe likes to tell him with a smirk.
Sunstreaker doesn't bother with words. He just tackles Optimus as soon as they are released and proceeds to frag him into the berth. Sideswipe's content to watch through the first overload, happily stroking his own spike until they give him an opening to join in the fun.
Ratchet usually has to fix those dings and scrapes and dents afterward, too. Though instead of yelling, he smirks and gives them all knowing looks while telling Optimus he's glad their Prime is taking the time to relax.
There isn't anything as adorable as the sight of Optimus snapping his mask closed to conceal the embarrassment on his face.
Speaking of...
Sideswipe turns a blinding grin on Optimus. “Later,” he says with a cheeky wink and the rumble of interest from their Prime is audible to pretty much everyone.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Ratchet plants himself between their berths, blocking their view, waving a handful of static bandages at the both of them. He's giving them the stink optic in alternating intervals, now that Sunstreaker's down for the count and unreceptive to his ire. “No interfacing shenanigans tonight!”
Sideswipe chuckles, letting the medic's ranting wash over and through him. Optimus is offering that stupid indulgent expression again while Sideswipe gets comfortable. It's going to be a long afternoon, crammed in this medbay with his lover and his brother and his Autobot family so he ought to get some recharge while he can.
After all, he won't be getting any tonight.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Numerology'verse, “Alfred, he gave me... pie.”
Fandom: Justice League Amalgamated AU, Numerology. Warnings: None.
Bruce is confused.
He analyzes. He theorizes. He collects data on all manner of subjects and people. He defeats his villains not by sheer strength or magic or special ability, but by guile and intelligence. He outsmarts and outwits them. He wins by thinking ten steps ahead.
When it comes to Superman, however, Bruce finds himself flabbergasted.
What, he wonders, is the purpose of this pie?
The batcave carries a chill as always. His chair is straight-backed, nigh uncomfortable to remind him that this isn't a game, this isn't supposed to be fun and relaxing. His cowl is pushed back, though he is still clad in the batsuit with the night's accumulation of rips, tears, and a bite mark on his shoulder that Alfred is currently stitching. He'll have to find a better fabric.
The pie is sitting on the console in front of him. It is still carefully wrapped in the aluminum foil, though Bruce had peeled back one small corner earlier just to confirm his suspicions. It is indeed filled with apples.
Bruce glowers at the pie, chin braced on his knuckles, elbow braced on the arm of his chair. He stares at the pie, contemplating its meaning. What is that big blue idiot planning? What purpose could a gift of pastry possibly serve? As if Batman could be swayed by flaky crust and a sweet glaze.
“Master Bruce?”
“He gave me a pie, Alfred,” Bruce replies, barely wincing as Alfred stitches him up and spritzes him with an antibacterial spray.
“I noticed.” Humor is rich in Alfred's voice, but Bruce knows that if he were to turn around, his guardian would be giving him the same bland expression as always. He's a master at concealing his emotions. “Shall I get a plate for you?”
“It's probably poisoned.”
“I highly doubt that, Master Bruce.”
“Then it contains a tracking device.”
“You have scanned it three times. It is nothing more than an apple pie.” Alfred pauses, taping a bandage over the bite bark. “And judging from the scent of it, home made.”
Bruce's eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I suspect, Master Bruce, that he was trying to be nice.” Alfred pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his hands before gathering up his medical supplies. “Though given your current occupation, I am not surprised that you are incapable of recognizing such a gesture.”
Bruce swivels his chair around, staring at his guardian. “Nice,” he repeats, careful to keep his tone flat. “It looks more like a bribe to me.”
“Only you would think that,” says Alfred with a barely restrained sigh. “Shall I bring a plate and fork for you, sir?”
Bruce returns his chair to its usual position, one hand plucking at the keyboard. “Yes.”
“Very good, sir.”
He hears, more than sees, Alfred turn toward the stairs.
“And stop smirking,” Bruce orders.
Amusement enriches the older man's voice. "As you wish.”
He analyzes. He theorizes. He collects data on all manner of subjects and people. He defeats his villains not by sheer strength or magic or special ability, but by guile and intelligence. He outsmarts and outwits them. He wins by thinking ten steps ahead.
When it comes to Superman, however, Bruce finds himself flabbergasted.
What, he wonders, is the purpose of this pie?
The batcave carries a chill as always. His chair is straight-backed, nigh uncomfortable to remind him that this isn't a game, this isn't supposed to be fun and relaxing. His cowl is pushed back, though he is still clad in the batsuit with the night's accumulation of rips, tears, and a bite mark on his shoulder that Alfred is currently stitching. He'll have to find a better fabric.
The pie is sitting on the console in front of him. It is still carefully wrapped in the aluminum foil, though Bruce had peeled back one small corner earlier just to confirm his suspicions. It is indeed filled with apples.
Bruce glowers at the pie, chin braced on his knuckles, elbow braced on the arm of his chair. He stares at the pie, contemplating its meaning. What is that big blue idiot planning? What purpose could a gift of pastry possibly serve? As if Batman could be swayed by flaky crust and a sweet glaze.
“Master Bruce?”
“He gave me a pie, Alfred,” Bruce replies, barely wincing as Alfred stitches him up and spritzes him with an antibacterial spray.
“I noticed.” Humor is rich in Alfred's voice, but Bruce knows that if he were to turn around, his guardian would be giving him the same bland expression as always. He's a master at concealing his emotions. “Shall I get a plate for you?”
“It's probably poisoned.”
“I highly doubt that, Master Bruce.”
“Then it contains a tracking device.”
“You have scanned it three times. It is nothing more than an apple pie.” Alfred pauses, taping a bandage over the bite bark. “And judging from the scent of it, home made.”
Bruce's eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I suspect, Master Bruce, that he was trying to be nice.” Alfred pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his hands before gathering up his medical supplies. “Though given your current occupation, I am not surprised that you are incapable of recognizing such a gesture.”
Bruce swivels his chair around, staring at his guardian. “Nice,” he repeats, careful to keep his tone flat. “It looks more like a bribe to me.”
“Only you would think that,” says Alfred with a barely restrained sigh. “Shall I bring a plate and fork for you, sir?”
Bruce returns his chair to its usual position, one hand plucking at the keyboard. “Yes.”
“Very good, sir.”
He hears, more than sees, Alfred turn toward the stairs.
“And stop smirking,” Bruce orders.
Amusement enriches the older man's voice. "As you wish.”
a/n: It feels good to get something accomplished. I'm poking and prodding at other fic. I'll try to get a chapter of Critical Mass up and I have a Bluestreak/Jazz oneshot that's nearly finished. Hopefully, I can get those up before the first of the year.
I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is welcome and appreciated.
