Prompt Palooza Fills Take One
Apr. 12th, 2014 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: First three fills that did not become a standalone fic. More fills to come, I promise.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: IDW, BlurrxJazz, this bar is home
Fandom: Transformers, IDW, RiD. Warnings: may contain spoilers
For dellessa
Prompt: TFA, MegatronxOptimus, escape
Fandom: Transformers TFA, sequel to this flash fiction. Warnings: Optimus is a prisoner but no smut. Yet. Nuff said.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Kitara/Azula, why did it have to be her?
Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender. Warnings: Azula is kinda fragged in the head. Surprise, surprise.
a/n: More prompt fills to come, I hope. At least two are written and I'm attempting to write even more.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: IDW, BlurrxJazz, this bar is home
Fandom: Transformers, IDW, RiD. Warnings: may contain spoilers
There's a certain weight to the disappointment that bears down on his spark. Blurr looks at the ruined remains of his bar and thinks 'this is why we can't have nice things.'
It doesn't stop him from grabbing a bin and starting the arduous task of collecting debris. He will rebuild. It will be better than it was before. Blurr can't think of anything else to do.
He starts a list, cataloging all that needs to be done. Repairs and replacements must be acquired.
How many of his clientale perished? How many clung to their brands and walked out of the city? How many will blame him for not joining the Autobots?
So much to do, Blurr reflects, his feet crunching over broken glass. His optics take in the sight of scorched paneling. The stench of ash and spilled mechfluid clings to the air.
His home, tainted by war once again. It's almost too demoralizing to fathom. What is the point?
Primus, he could use a drink. But what hadn't been destroyed had been liberated by looters. He was fragging lucky the whole place hadn't burned to the ground.
Footsteps announce the arrival of another mech. The field registers as familiar, friendly, and dare he say it, something more.
“I'm still surprised you're here,” Blurr says, taking a piece of shattered chair and tossing it into his box.
“I don't have to like Starscream to think he's right.”
Blurr half-turns, sweeping his gaze over Jazz, noting for himself the absence of something that has defined Jazz for as long as they have known each other. “Some might call you a traitor.”
Jazz rolls his shoulders and gestures to Blurr with a broom. “Nothing has ever been black and white. Just ask Prowl.”
“Yeah. I'll keep that in mind.” Blurr's vents hitch in amusement and he turns back to his cleaning.
A beat passes before the sound of the broom sweeping up shattered glass joins the quiet.
“You don't have to help, you know,” Blurr says.
“Yeah. I do.” Jazz crouches, picking up a small decoration that had survived the chaos, tucking it away into an arm compartment. “It's a side-effect, you know, of being in the Autobots for so long. I gotta have somewhere to belong. I figure here is as good as anywhere.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Blurr, amused, stares at the once temporary leader of the Autobots, who had kept them going through some of their darkest hours. “Was I at least your first choice?”
Jazz grins at him, bracing his weight on the steel-framed broom. “Of course. This bar is home. And maybe the mech who runs it, too.”
Blurr's spark flutters. Heat grows beneath his facial plating and he dips his helm, returning to the mess beneath him.
“You know you're always welcome here,” Blurr says, uncertainty a new feeling for him, but strangely, not wholly unwanted. It is frighteningly normal. “For what it's worth, I'm glad you stayed.”
Jazz starts sweeping again. “Me, too.”
It doesn't stop him from grabbing a bin and starting the arduous task of collecting debris. He will rebuild. It will be better than it was before. Blurr can't think of anything else to do.
He starts a list, cataloging all that needs to be done. Repairs and replacements must be acquired.
How many of his clientale perished? How many clung to their brands and walked out of the city? How many will blame him for not joining the Autobots?
So much to do, Blurr reflects, his feet crunching over broken glass. His optics take in the sight of scorched paneling. The stench of ash and spilled mechfluid clings to the air.
His home, tainted by war once again. It's almost too demoralizing to fathom. What is the point?
Primus, he could use a drink. But what hadn't been destroyed had been liberated by looters. He was fragging lucky the whole place hadn't burned to the ground.
Footsteps announce the arrival of another mech. The field registers as familiar, friendly, and dare he say it, something more.
“I'm still surprised you're here,” Blurr says, taking a piece of shattered chair and tossing it into his box.
“I don't have to like Starscream to think he's right.”
Blurr half-turns, sweeping his gaze over Jazz, noting for himself the absence of something that has defined Jazz for as long as they have known each other. “Some might call you a traitor.”
Jazz rolls his shoulders and gestures to Blurr with a broom. “Nothing has ever been black and white. Just ask Prowl.”
“Yeah. I'll keep that in mind.” Blurr's vents hitch in amusement and he turns back to his cleaning.
A beat passes before the sound of the broom sweeping up shattered glass joins the quiet.
“You don't have to help, you know,” Blurr says.
“Yeah. I do.” Jazz crouches, picking up a small decoration that had survived the chaos, tucking it away into an arm compartment. “It's a side-effect, you know, of being in the Autobots for so long. I gotta have somewhere to belong. I figure here is as good as anywhere.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Blurr, amused, stares at the once temporary leader of the Autobots, who had kept them going through some of their darkest hours. “Was I at least your first choice?”
Jazz grins at him, bracing his weight on the steel-framed broom. “Of course. This bar is home. And maybe the mech who runs it, too.”
Blurr's spark flutters. Heat grows beneath his facial plating and he dips his helm, returning to the mess beneath him.
“You know you're always welcome here,” Blurr says, uncertainty a new feeling for him, but strangely, not wholly unwanted. It is frighteningly normal. “For what it's worth, I'm glad you stayed.”
Jazz starts sweeping again. “Me, too.”
For dellessa
Prompt: TFA, MegatronxOptimus, escape
Fandom: Transformers TFA, sequel to this flash fiction. Warnings: Optimus is a prisoner but no smut. Yet. Nuff said.
He doesn't know what vile plan Megatron has concocted. Optimus doesn't want to know. The infamous Decepticon warlord is the mech nightmares are constructed from.
There is only one thing Optimus is contemplating.
Escape.
Rescue is also an option he'll accept. Though as time passes, it becomes less likely. He is certain Ratchet and the others are trying. But there is hope, reality, and the thin line between and Optimus knows he's walking a very fine line.
His prison, however, is one in name only. It is a small room, but furnished with a berth, a locked energon dispenser, and a table. It is not a brig by any definition. His wrists are still shackled by the stasis cuffs.
His chronometer counts the minutes. Then hours. Then days.
A drone stops by like clockwork, activating the dispenser long enough to retrieve Optimus a cube before it departs again. He has no other visitors.
Optimus can't move. He's certain the door is locked and coded. Even if he were to somehow break free, he's outnumbered, weapon-less and unfamiliar with his surroundings.
He is, as Bumblebee would put it when he thinks Optimus isn't paying attention, fragged.
The door slides open.
Optimus, startled, swings his helm toward it. The drone had been here minutes before. Which means he has a visitor. Though one can hardly call the powerful Decepticon leader a mere visitor.
“Hello, little Prime,” Megatron says, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind him. That he's alone proves that he's either an idiot, or someone so confident in his own skills that he doesn't need a bodyguard. “Enjoying the accommodations?”
Optimus cycles through several potential responses, grinding his denta with disdain. “There is little to be had in the way of entertainment.”
Megatron smirks, clasping his hands behind his back. “That could change. It would be a shame to keep you prisoner. Not when you can be much, much more.”
Why does that sound more like a threat than an offer? And if Megatron thinks Optimus is going to join the Decepticons, then he's clearly more deluded than Optimus ever gave him credit.
“No, thank you,” Optimus says through a clenched jaw. “And now that's settled, you can let me go.”
Amusement dances in Megatron's optics. He crouches in front of Optimus, tilting his helm to the side. “Not quite. We have much to talk about, you and I, and as long as you are here, I have an audience, however unwilling you may be. To start.”
Optimus narrows his optics. “I have no interest in anything you have to say.”
“Then allow me to offer you a deal.” Megatron reaches for Optimus, one hand tapping his chestplate. “Listen to me without argument. And when I am finished, I will let you leave, provided you still wish to.” His fingers drop to Optimus' wrists, one hand touching the stasis cuffs and causing the ready light to shift to yellow – half power. “Deal?”
Optimus eyes the door behind Megatron. He has only to bide his time, wait for an opportunity. Prowl has always stressed the value of patience. It's past time that Optimus listened to him.
“Deal,” he agrees.
There is only one thing Optimus is contemplating.
Escape.
Rescue is also an option he'll accept. Though as time passes, it becomes less likely. He is certain Ratchet and the others are trying. But there is hope, reality, and the thin line between and Optimus knows he's walking a very fine line.
His prison, however, is one in name only. It is a small room, but furnished with a berth, a locked energon dispenser, and a table. It is not a brig by any definition. His wrists are still shackled by the stasis cuffs.
His chronometer counts the minutes. Then hours. Then days.
A drone stops by like clockwork, activating the dispenser long enough to retrieve Optimus a cube before it departs again. He has no other visitors.
Optimus can't move. He's certain the door is locked and coded. Even if he were to somehow break free, he's outnumbered, weapon-less and unfamiliar with his surroundings.
He is, as Bumblebee would put it when he thinks Optimus isn't paying attention, fragged.
The door slides open.
Optimus, startled, swings his helm toward it. The drone had been here minutes before. Which means he has a visitor. Though one can hardly call the powerful Decepticon leader a mere visitor.
“Hello, little Prime,” Megatron says, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind him. That he's alone proves that he's either an idiot, or someone so confident in his own skills that he doesn't need a bodyguard. “Enjoying the accommodations?”
Optimus cycles through several potential responses, grinding his denta with disdain. “There is little to be had in the way of entertainment.”
Megatron smirks, clasping his hands behind his back. “That could change. It would be a shame to keep you prisoner. Not when you can be much, much more.”
Why does that sound more like a threat than an offer? And if Megatron thinks Optimus is going to join the Decepticons, then he's clearly more deluded than Optimus ever gave him credit.
“No, thank you,” Optimus says through a clenched jaw. “And now that's settled, you can let me go.”
Amusement dances in Megatron's optics. He crouches in front of Optimus, tilting his helm to the side. “Not quite. We have much to talk about, you and I, and as long as you are here, I have an audience, however unwilling you may be. To start.”
Optimus narrows his optics. “I have no interest in anything you have to say.”
“Then allow me to offer you a deal.” Megatron reaches for Optimus, one hand tapping his chestplate. “Listen to me without argument. And when I am finished, I will let you leave, provided you still wish to.” His fingers drop to Optimus' wrists, one hand touching the stasis cuffs and causing the ready light to shift to yellow – half power. “Deal?”
Optimus eyes the door behind Megatron. He has only to bide his time, wait for an opportunity. Prowl has always stressed the value of patience. It's past time that Optimus listened to him.
“Deal,” he agrees.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Kitara/Azula, why did it have to be her?
Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender. Warnings: Azula is kinda fragged in the head. Surprise, surprise.
The first time she had the dream, Azula woke with the urge to bathe in scalding water if only to wash away the images. She wished she could apply the same scouring to her thoughts and memories.
It would be a one-time occurrence, Azula vowed. She would regain control of her unconscious mind and never worry about such weakness again.
She had no interest, no time for such dreams. She longed to one day rule the world at her father's side. Not.... Not...
Well, nevermind the details. All that mattered was the dream and it didn't matter at all.
A week later it returned, more vibrant, more detailed, and she woke with an ache in her nethers that was unacceptable.
Soft skin. Warm lips. A voice crooning in her ears. The slick glide of a tongue. The scent of some herbal soap and cooking fires.
Azula shuddered. She could not suffer this dream again.
She trained harder. She sought the mystics for better mental techniques and punished those who failed her.
Azula had no need for soft kisses, gentle touches, and bright blue eyes. Not real or imagined!
But every night she was plagued by the dreams, each more vivid than the last. Azula woke cursing her own body, feeling betrayed. She paced back and forth in her chambers, seeking a solution beyond the obvious.
Laying her hands on a water tribe peasant was simply an untenable option. Of all the benders in all the world, Azula's subconscious had to latch onto the one she loathed the most! On the bright side, at least it wasn't her non-bender brother.
Revolting.
Azula shuddered and glared into the evening, the loathing growing within her with each flash of memory and surge of illicit want through her veins.
No. Sating her carnal desires was not the answer.
Removing them, however, that was feasible. Preferable. And how better to succeed than by destroying the source.
She would kill the water tribe peasant and her troubles would be over. Yes, that was acceptable.
Azula smiled.
Tonight, she would sleep in peace.
Tomorrow, she would begin the hunt.
It would be a one-time occurrence, Azula vowed. She would regain control of her unconscious mind and never worry about such weakness again.
She had no interest, no time for such dreams. She longed to one day rule the world at her father's side. Not.... Not...
Well, nevermind the details. All that mattered was the dream and it didn't matter at all.
A week later it returned, more vibrant, more detailed, and she woke with an ache in her nethers that was unacceptable.
Soft skin. Warm lips. A voice crooning in her ears. The slick glide of a tongue. The scent of some herbal soap and cooking fires.
Azula shuddered. She could not suffer this dream again.
She trained harder. She sought the mystics for better mental techniques and punished those who failed her.
Azula had no need for soft kisses, gentle touches, and bright blue eyes. Not real or imagined!
But every night she was plagued by the dreams, each more vivid than the last. Azula woke cursing her own body, feeling betrayed. She paced back and forth in her chambers, seeking a solution beyond the obvious.
Laying her hands on a water tribe peasant was simply an untenable option. Of all the benders in all the world, Azula's subconscious had to latch onto the one she loathed the most! On the bright side, at least it wasn't her non-bender brother.
Revolting.
Azula shuddered and glared into the evening, the loathing growing within her with each flash of memory and surge of illicit want through her veins.
No. Sating her carnal desires was not the answer.
Removing them, however, that was feasible. Preferable. And how better to succeed than by destroying the source.
She would kill the water tribe peasant and her troubles would be over. Yes, that was acceptable.
Azula smiled.
Tonight, she would sleep in peace.
Tomorrow, she would begin the hunt.
a/n: More prompt fills to come, I hope. At least two are written and I'm attempting to write even more.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
