Flash Fiction Fills Take 54 Part Two
Oct. 27th, 2014 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: At last! The last three flash fiction are here. Please enjoy!
For starfire201
Prompt: TracksxBlaster, G1, differences
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: implications of sticky
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Any, Sideswipe/Sunny, Optimus, “we can turn you on.... or turn on you"
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse, Coping Mechanisms 'verse (prequel to Just for Now and What About Now). Warnings: None
For ladydragon76
Prompt: IDW, BlurrxStar, I always come out on top
Fandom: Transformers IDW Robots in Disguise AU, direct continuation of Into the Fire. Warnings: sticky, political maneuverings
a/n: Finally, I managed to get these done. Phew. I hope they were worth the wait! (Some may see themselves expanded later...)
There won't be a FFF in November because it's NaNoWriMo so look for the announcement on December's date.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
For starfire201
Prompt: TracksxBlaster, G1, differences
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: implications of sticky
Tracks prefers to recharge on his front, which works out perfectly well for Blaster because there's nothing he enjoys more than the sight. Tracks' aft is a construction to be admired, which he tells his partner often.
Blaster also enjoys trailing kisses down Tracks' backstrut, pausing to lave attention over his sensitive spoiler with teasing nips. He loves the way Tracks quivers, his aft pushing up, field leaking arousal.
It's Blaster's favorite position, to blanket Tracks from behind, his hands mapping every inch of perfectly polished plating. He loves to feel Tracks shuddering and writhing beneath him, the desperate clamp of his valve, the eager flutter of his winglets.
They don't recharge like that, of course. Because while Tracks likes to lay on his front, Blaster prefers to lay on his back, one arm propped under his helm.
It all works out for the best considering the narrowness of their berth. Tracks splays across Blaster's frame as though it's the most comfortable cushion, his helm pillowed on Blaster's dock.
He claims it's because Blaster runs hotter than normal mechs. Which is true. And Tracks enjoys the heat beneath him, their frames pressed and notched together, as if they belong.
It brings new significance to the phrase “opposites attract.” Because while Blaster likes his energon violent and dark, gritty to the end with a taste that lingers, Tracks enjoys his better fresh and floaty, like drinking a ray of sunlight.
Tracks likes the quiet; Blaster likes to play his music so that it rattles the walls and makes his frame vibrate. He wants to feel the beat, down to the sensitive metal of his spark chamber, and when he sings along, it doesn't matter that he's out of tune. It matters that he loves doing it.
Tracks endures with an optic roll. But at least they can both agree on one thing: classic rock trumps all others.
They both hate the war and are resigned to it, indulging in what little pleasures they can scrape together around the violence and the terror and the underlying current of despair. They cling even tighter to each other, even during the occasional argument that happens when two vibrant personalities inhabit the same space.
But there's little left that Blaster has to remind him of Cybertron. He has his cassettes and they are the best friends a mech could ask for. He has a new joy, all the tunes to be found on Earth. And he still has Tracks, lost and then found again, his partner in crime for all that matters.
Their relationship has never made sense to anyone and Blaster's long since learned that it doesn't have to. It only has to be what they want and need.
Blaster also enjoys trailing kisses down Tracks' backstrut, pausing to lave attention over his sensitive spoiler with teasing nips. He loves the way Tracks quivers, his aft pushing up, field leaking arousal.
It's Blaster's favorite position, to blanket Tracks from behind, his hands mapping every inch of perfectly polished plating. He loves to feel Tracks shuddering and writhing beneath him, the desperate clamp of his valve, the eager flutter of his winglets.
They don't recharge like that, of course. Because while Tracks likes to lay on his front, Blaster prefers to lay on his back, one arm propped under his helm.
It all works out for the best considering the narrowness of their berth. Tracks splays across Blaster's frame as though it's the most comfortable cushion, his helm pillowed on Blaster's dock.
He claims it's because Blaster runs hotter than normal mechs. Which is true. And Tracks enjoys the heat beneath him, their frames pressed and notched together, as if they belong.
It brings new significance to the phrase “opposites attract.” Because while Blaster likes his energon violent and dark, gritty to the end with a taste that lingers, Tracks enjoys his better fresh and floaty, like drinking a ray of sunlight.
Tracks likes the quiet; Blaster likes to play his music so that it rattles the walls and makes his frame vibrate. He wants to feel the beat, down to the sensitive metal of his spark chamber, and when he sings along, it doesn't matter that he's out of tune. It matters that he loves doing it.
Tracks endures with an optic roll. But at least they can both agree on one thing: classic rock trumps all others.
They both hate the war and are resigned to it, indulging in what little pleasures they can scrape together around the violence and the terror and the underlying current of despair. They cling even tighter to each other, even during the occasional argument that happens when two vibrant personalities inhabit the same space.
But there's little left that Blaster has to remind him of Cybertron. He has his cassettes and they are the best friends a mech could ask for. He has a new joy, all the tunes to be found on Earth. And he still has Tracks, lost and then found again, his partner in crime for all that matters.
Their relationship has never made sense to anyone and Blaster's long since learned that it doesn't have to. It only has to be what they want and need.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Any, Sideswipe/Sunny, Optimus, “we can turn you on.... or turn on you"
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse, Coping Mechanisms 'verse (prequel to Just for Now and What About Now). Warnings: None
“You don't have to be here, Optimus,” Ironhide says, vents puffing as he keeps up with Optimus' faster pace. “I can assess the new recruits.”
“Is it frowned upon?” Optimus asks, careful to keep his tone mild. But right now, Ironhide is sounding like all the priests who continued to tell him what a Prime should and should not do.
And look how well that worked out for everyone.
Ironhide's field fizzles with discomfort. “It's the Lord High Protector's task,” he answers, subvocally, and therein lies the rub.
Optimus' tone is firm. “All the more reason I should attend.”
“If you insist.”
He doesn't, however, for one second think that Ironhide will let him go alone. And he's not surprised when the weapons specialist falls into step along with him, as they draw closer and closer to the sound of metal clashing and the tremors of discharged weaponry.
“How many?” Optimus asks.
“Not enough.” Ironhide grimaces, plucking at the surgical mesh lain over his right optic. They remain hopeful that it will self-repair into usefulness. “Mechs still believe Neutral is an option.”
They pause at the viewing window overlooking the open arena below. “I wish that it were,” Optimus murmurs.
'Not enough' is quite accurate, Optimus observes. He counts perhaps a dozen new registrants, the majority of whom are citizen-class. Merchants and the like, who have perhaps never held a weapon in their life. The cost of upgrading their armor to battle-minimum alone would be exorbitant.
Except for two.
Optimus shifts his weight. Gold and silver. They are noticeably larger than the rest with heavier armor, though dented and scraped, a testament to their efforts to get here.
“Most will need training and upgrades,” Ironhide says. “Until now, the only violence they've ever witnessed was on the vids.”
“What of those two?” Optimus doesn't bother to point. It should be painfully obvious.
Ironhide grunts, field going sour. “Gladiators. Go by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”
“You don't sound impressed.”
“They're killers, Prime.”
Optimus tilts his helm. “Aren't we all?”
“Yeah, well, they're liars, too.”
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “Oh?”
Ironhide shuffles his pedes, mouth twisting into a grimace. “They claim they're twins. Split-spark twins.”
A rarity but not an impossibility. Optimus watches them spar, how they move, a spark-deep sense of intuition to their awareness of each other. He can believe it, even if Ironhide doesn't. Ironhide has no clue what it's like.
Optimus lifts his hand, rubbing his chest, an ache developing beneath. “What does Ratchet say?”
Ironhide grunts again. “He's too busy to worry about slag that doesn't matter. His words, not mine.”
Ratchet is overwhelmed with maintenance and repairs right now. He probably rebuffed Ironhide's whining because he considered it a 'non-issue'. Why it seems to bother Ironhide, Optimus does not know.
“Prime?”
Silver and gold clash.
“I want to meet them.”
“No.”
Optimus cycles his optics, looking at his weapons specialist. That had been a rather firm and final negative, bounds above Ironhide's authority.
His field warbles with a mixture of distress and apology. “What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let two pitspawn like that near you?”
“It wasn't a request.” Ironhide's been telling him to assert his authority. Now's the time.
Optimus turns on a heel-strut and starts walking, expecting Ironhide to follow. Which he does, more attempts to dissuade Optimus on his lipplates.
“They can't be trusted.”
“Red Alert once said the same thing about you.”
“That's different.” But his protest falls flat and he knows it.
They arrive at the arena floor, pausing at the edge of it. Optimus lingers, watching the twins as they face each other, but are too evenly matched. They know each other's movements. The current evaluator calls an end to it and that's when Optimus' presence is noticed.
“Prime, sir!” The evaluator, a stocky mech unfamiliar to Optimus, snaps to attention as the dozen new recruits murmur amongst themselves.
The twins, however, don't spare Optimus a glance.
“I only wish to observe,” Optimus says. Ironhide says nothing, but he vibrates with menace, all but glaring at the two gladiators.
“Of course,” the instructor replies, his field now ripe with distress. “We are honored to--”
“Observe?” the flat tone is just shy of derisive.
“Does the Prime not fight?” A second voice challenges.
Optimus traces both comments back to their originators. He is none too surprised to find that the twins have closed ranks and now stare his direction, bristling with implication.
“The Prime doesn’t have time for the likes of you!” Ironhide snarls, stomping toward them with the distinctive whine of a cannon prepping for charge.
Optimus resists the urge to sigh. “Ironhide.”
The black mech huffs but holds his ground. That doesn't keep him from cycling his cannons, as though to remind everyone present that he is a danger.
“Traditionally, no, the Prime does not fight,” Optimus answers, stepping closer to them despite the warning growl in Ironhide's engine. “But of the many things my brother has shattered, this is but a panel.”
They trade smirks. Their swords poke from wrist sheaths as though in challenge.
“We should have been Cons,” says the silver one, whom Optimus suspects is Sideswipe.
“We came here thinking you'd give us a reason not to be,” Sunstreaker adds, something far more aggressive in his tone.
Behind them, their instructor splutters. “He is the Prime! What other reason do you need?”
“He's not my Prime,” Sideswipe says.
“Not yet,” Sunstreaker adds.
“You!”
“How dare you!”
Optimus holds up a hand, ignoring both the instructor and Ironhide, and taking note of the increasingly mutinous murmurs of the other recruits. “No,” he says. “I cannot blame them. Not after knowing what travesties have been committed in the name of the Prime.” He moves closer to them, despite Ironhide making noises and probably contacting Red Alert and whoever else he can to make Optimus see reason.
“What would you have of me?” Optimus spreads his hands, palms up, to show that he carries no weapons on his frame. Not yet anyway. It is only a matter of time.
“Prime!” Ironhide sounds aghast.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchange startled glances. Perhaps they hadn't expected Optimus to take them seriously. But he had. Not only because they present a valid point, but also because Optimus sees a bit of himself in them. And he admits, only to himself, a sense of envy.
“A challenge,” they finally say, in eerie unison. Something Optimus and Megatron had never done.
“Either here,” Sideswipe continues with a smirk.
“Or the berth,” Sunstreaker finishes, less a smirk and more a sneer. “Since it seems you're more suited for it.”
If they intended to make Ironhide speechless, they succeeded. Somehow, listening to Ironhide splutter fills Optimus with amusement, despite lingering strains of surprise.
He can hear the argument now. Personal attention given to new recruits? Why do they deserve it more than anyone else? What makes them special?
And to that, Optimus thinks, what makes them undeserving? Why should they be any less indistinguishable than any other mech? It is that very thinking that has lead Cybertron to it's current state.
“Very well,” Optimus says, and conceals his smirk when both twins cycle their optics, clearly not expecting him to agree. “Since I fear my CMO's wrath far more than anything else, shall we retire to my quarters?”
“Prime!” Ironhide all but shouts.
“My lord, this is unprecedented,” the instructor frets, hands wringing each other.
The other recruits stare, murmuring in earnest, some of their faces stricken with envy.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchange glances, speaking to each other without words and oh, how Optimus knows that look. That familiarity and comfort. His innards ache to see it, his thoughts turning to his own brother.
“We accept,” Sideswipe says with a firm tip of his helm.
And something within Optimus eases. He can't give reason to why or how, but there is a certain degree of relief to their agreement.
And there is a part of him painfully eager for what comes next, though he keeps that little truth to himself.
“Is it frowned upon?” Optimus asks, careful to keep his tone mild. But right now, Ironhide is sounding like all the priests who continued to tell him what a Prime should and should not do.
And look how well that worked out for everyone.
Ironhide's field fizzles with discomfort. “It's the Lord High Protector's task,” he answers, subvocally, and therein lies the rub.
Optimus' tone is firm. “All the more reason I should attend.”
“If you insist.”
He doesn't, however, for one second think that Ironhide will let him go alone. And he's not surprised when the weapons specialist falls into step along with him, as they draw closer and closer to the sound of metal clashing and the tremors of discharged weaponry.
“How many?” Optimus asks.
“Not enough.” Ironhide grimaces, plucking at the surgical mesh lain over his right optic. They remain hopeful that it will self-repair into usefulness. “Mechs still believe Neutral is an option.”
They pause at the viewing window overlooking the open arena below. “I wish that it were,” Optimus murmurs.
'Not enough' is quite accurate, Optimus observes. He counts perhaps a dozen new registrants, the majority of whom are citizen-class. Merchants and the like, who have perhaps never held a weapon in their life. The cost of upgrading their armor to battle-minimum alone would be exorbitant.
Except for two.
Optimus shifts his weight. Gold and silver. They are noticeably larger than the rest with heavier armor, though dented and scraped, a testament to their efforts to get here.
“Most will need training and upgrades,” Ironhide says. “Until now, the only violence they've ever witnessed was on the vids.”
“What of those two?” Optimus doesn't bother to point. It should be painfully obvious.
Ironhide grunts, field going sour. “Gladiators. Go by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”
“You don't sound impressed.”
“They're killers, Prime.”
Optimus tilts his helm. “Aren't we all?”
“Yeah, well, they're liars, too.”
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “Oh?”
Ironhide shuffles his pedes, mouth twisting into a grimace. “They claim they're twins. Split-spark twins.”
A rarity but not an impossibility. Optimus watches them spar, how they move, a spark-deep sense of intuition to their awareness of each other. He can believe it, even if Ironhide doesn't. Ironhide has no clue what it's like.
Optimus lifts his hand, rubbing his chest, an ache developing beneath. “What does Ratchet say?”
Ironhide grunts again. “He's too busy to worry about slag that doesn't matter. His words, not mine.”
Ratchet is overwhelmed with maintenance and repairs right now. He probably rebuffed Ironhide's whining because he considered it a 'non-issue'. Why it seems to bother Ironhide, Optimus does not know.
“Prime?”
Silver and gold clash.
“I want to meet them.”
“No.”
Optimus cycles his optics, looking at his weapons specialist. That had been a rather firm and final negative, bounds above Ironhide's authority.
His field warbles with a mixture of distress and apology. “What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let two pitspawn like that near you?”
“It wasn't a request.” Ironhide's been telling him to assert his authority. Now's the time.
Optimus turns on a heel-strut and starts walking, expecting Ironhide to follow. Which he does, more attempts to dissuade Optimus on his lipplates.
“They can't be trusted.”
“Red Alert once said the same thing about you.”
“That's different.” But his protest falls flat and he knows it.
They arrive at the arena floor, pausing at the edge of it. Optimus lingers, watching the twins as they face each other, but are too evenly matched. They know each other's movements. The current evaluator calls an end to it and that's when Optimus' presence is noticed.
“Prime, sir!” The evaluator, a stocky mech unfamiliar to Optimus, snaps to attention as the dozen new recruits murmur amongst themselves.
The twins, however, don't spare Optimus a glance.
“I only wish to observe,” Optimus says. Ironhide says nothing, but he vibrates with menace, all but glaring at the two gladiators.
“Of course,” the instructor replies, his field now ripe with distress. “We are honored to--”
“Observe?” the flat tone is just shy of derisive.
“Does the Prime not fight?” A second voice challenges.
Optimus traces both comments back to their originators. He is none too surprised to find that the twins have closed ranks and now stare his direction, bristling with implication.
“The Prime doesn’t have time for the likes of you!” Ironhide snarls, stomping toward them with the distinctive whine of a cannon prepping for charge.
Optimus resists the urge to sigh. “Ironhide.”
The black mech huffs but holds his ground. That doesn't keep him from cycling his cannons, as though to remind everyone present that he is a danger.
“Traditionally, no, the Prime does not fight,” Optimus answers, stepping closer to them despite the warning growl in Ironhide's engine. “But of the many things my brother has shattered, this is but a panel.”
They trade smirks. Their swords poke from wrist sheaths as though in challenge.
“We should have been Cons,” says the silver one, whom Optimus suspects is Sideswipe.
“We came here thinking you'd give us a reason not to be,” Sunstreaker adds, something far more aggressive in his tone.
Behind them, their instructor splutters. “He is the Prime! What other reason do you need?”
“He's not my Prime,” Sideswipe says.
“Not yet,” Sunstreaker adds.
“You!”
“How dare you!”
Optimus holds up a hand, ignoring both the instructor and Ironhide, and taking note of the increasingly mutinous murmurs of the other recruits. “No,” he says. “I cannot blame them. Not after knowing what travesties have been committed in the name of the Prime.” He moves closer to them, despite Ironhide making noises and probably contacting Red Alert and whoever else he can to make Optimus see reason.
“What would you have of me?” Optimus spreads his hands, palms up, to show that he carries no weapons on his frame. Not yet anyway. It is only a matter of time.
“Prime!” Ironhide sounds aghast.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchange startled glances. Perhaps they hadn't expected Optimus to take them seriously. But he had. Not only because they present a valid point, but also because Optimus sees a bit of himself in them. And he admits, only to himself, a sense of envy.
“A challenge,” they finally say, in eerie unison. Something Optimus and Megatron had never done.
“Either here,” Sideswipe continues with a smirk.
“Or the berth,” Sunstreaker finishes, less a smirk and more a sneer. “Since it seems you're more suited for it.”
If they intended to make Ironhide speechless, they succeeded. Somehow, listening to Ironhide splutter fills Optimus with amusement, despite lingering strains of surprise.
He can hear the argument now. Personal attention given to new recruits? Why do they deserve it more than anyone else? What makes them special?
And to that, Optimus thinks, what makes them undeserving? Why should they be any less indistinguishable than any other mech? It is that very thinking that has lead Cybertron to it's current state.
“Very well,” Optimus says, and conceals his smirk when both twins cycle their optics, clearly not expecting him to agree. “Since I fear my CMO's wrath far more than anything else, shall we retire to my quarters?”
“Prime!” Ironhide all but shouts.
“My lord, this is unprecedented,” the instructor frets, hands wringing each other.
The other recruits stare, murmuring in earnest, some of their faces stricken with envy.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchange glances, speaking to each other without words and oh, how Optimus knows that look. That familiarity and comfort. His innards ache to see it, his thoughts turning to his own brother.
“We accept,” Sideswipe says with a firm tip of his helm.
And something within Optimus eases. He can't give reason to why or how, but there is a certain degree of relief to their agreement.
And there is a part of him painfully eager for what comes next, though he keeps that little truth to himself.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: IDW, BlurrxStar, I always come out on top
Fandom: Transformers IDW Robots in Disguise AU, direct continuation of Into the Fire. Warnings: sticky, political maneuverings
Starscream's berth was as ostentatious as the rest of his suite of rooms. It was large enough for three mechs, plush and heated.
Blurr gaped at it for longer than was logical before Starscream tugged him toward it. Then Blurr forgot the berth because their mouths crashed together, Starscream's hands mapping every micron of Blurr's plating within reach. Starscream's field was hot with charge, drizzling over Blurr's frame.
He shivered, pawing at the Seeker like a half-starved mech. High grade simmered in his tanks. His higher processing functions had given way to lust and Blurr's thoughts were less on interrogation and more on how he could get Starscream on that fragging berth.
And then Starscream had to ruin it all by talking.
“You never answered my question,” he said, nibbling on Blurr's crest.
“Nnn.” Not a reply, barely vocal.
Blurr arched up, pressing hard against Starscream, heat pooling in his array. His spark pulsed, his spike throbbed and what fragging question is Starscream talking about?
The Seeker chuckled. “Well?”
Blurr huffed a ventilation and shoved Starscream back toward the berth. “Are politics all you think about?” he snapped.
Starscream backed away willingly, because Blurr's push had little power behind it. All his strength was in his legs, his lower hydraulics, not his arms. And Starscream out-massed him. He moved because he wanted to.
“I have more than a one-track mind,” Starscream purred, optics glittering. “I can easily mix work with play.”
“Well, I don't.” Blurr leaned closer, hands skimming Starscream's thighs, the scent of the Seeker's fine polish invading his olfactory sensors. “At least not until I know whether it's worth it.”
A hum vibrated through Starscream's chassis. “I'm always worth it.”
“Prove it.”
The challenge hung in the air between them, waiting. Starscream's optics brightened; Blurr's ventilations stalled.
He was not disappointed.
Starscream grabbed him and Blurr responded in kind. They half-stumbled, half-wrestled to the berth. It was easy for the Seeker to pick Blurr up and toss him onto the cushioned surface. But Blurr had only to lay the bait as Starscream climbed after him, gaze sharp like a predator thinking it's prey cornered.
Blurr smirked, legs splaying invitingly, finger crooked.
“You have no shame,” Starscream said, wings cocked above him, field a sensuous press of desire. “I like that.”
Blurr rolled his shoulders. “Why bother? We both know why I'm here.”
“Actually, I'm not too sure.” Starscream crawled over him, knees bracketing Blurr's hips, hands to either side of his shoulders. “But don't think that means I'm not going to take advantage.”
Blurr hooked his fingers in Starscream's chestplate, right on those helpful handholds. “I wouldn't expect anything less,” he said, and surged upward, executing a takedown that would have made Kup proud, especially with interfacing applications.
In a flash, their positions were reversed, Starscream's back against the berth and Blurr triumphant above him, his powerful legs locked in place. His fingers encircled Starscream's wrists, pressed against nerve lines that rendered his hands useless.
“After all,” Blurr said with a grin, circling his hips atop Starscream's pelvic array, metal gliding against metal in a hot purr. His panel snapped open, lubricant dripping with a plip-plop. “I always come out on top.”
“I'm impressed.” Starscream's vents surged to life with enough force to rattle the berth. “Though you can't think to hold this for long.”
“I don't have to.” Blurr ground down, feeling the heat in the panel beneath him and knowing it matched the heat in his circuits. “Open up, flyboy.”
Starscream chuckled, but he obeyed, spike pressuring immediately and teasing the rim of Blurr's valve. “In the end, I'm still getting what I want.”
Blurr circled his hips, caught the head of Starscream's spike, and then sunk down, ever so slowly, relishing the stretch and rub of his internal sensors. “So you think.” He shuddered, pleasure lighting up his sensory net.
It had been far too long since he indulged like this. And he would take this moment for everything it was worth.
“Mm. Does that mean you'll listen to my proposal?”
Blurr managed a chuckle, his fingers tightening around Starscream's wrists as he circled his hips. “Your persistence is impressive.”
Starscream, movement limited as it was, managed an aborted push upward, spike stirring deep within Blurr's valve. “Impressive enough?”
Blurr leaned closer, near enough that their lips could brush. “We'll see.”
Starscream smirked.
Blurr gaped at it for longer than was logical before Starscream tugged him toward it. Then Blurr forgot the berth because their mouths crashed together, Starscream's hands mapping every micron of Blurr's plating within reach. Starscream's field was hot with charge, drizzling over Blurr's frame.
He shivered, pawing at the Seeker like a half-starved mech. High grade simmered in his tanks. His higher processing functions had given way to lust and Blurr's thoughts were less on interrogation and more on how he could get Starscream on that fragging berth.
And then Starscream had to ruin it all by talking.
“You never answered my question,” he said, nibbling on Blurr's crest.
“Nnn.” Not a reply, barely vocal.
Blurr arched up, pressing hard against Starscream, heat pooling in his array. His spark pulsed, his spike throbbed and what fragging question is Starscream talking about?
The Seeker chuckled. “Well?”
Blurr huffed a ventilation and shoved Starscream back toward the berth. “Are politics all you think about?” he snapped.
Starscream backed away willingly, because Blurr's push had little power behind it. All his strength was in his legs, his lower hydraulics, not his arms. And Starscream out-massed him. He moved because he wanted to.
“I have more than a one-track mind,” Starscream purred, optics glittering. “I can easily mix work with play.”
“Well, I don't.” Blurr leaned closer, hands skimming Starscream's thighs, the scent of the Seeker's fine polish invading his olfactory sensors. “At least not until I know whether it's worth it.”
A hum vibrated through Starscream's chassis. “I'm always worth it.”
“Prove it.”
The challenge hung in the air between them, waiting. Starscream's optics brightened; Blurr's ventilations stalled.
He was not disappointed.
Starscream grabbed him and Blurr responded in kind. They half-stumbled, half-wrestled to the berth. It was easy for the Seeker to pick Blurr up and toss him onto the cushioned surface. But Blurr had only to lay the bait as Starscream climbed after him, gaze sharp like a predator thinking it's prey cornered.
Blurr smirked, legs splaying invitingly, finger crooked.
“You have no shame,” Starscream said, wings cocked above him, field a sensuous press of desire. “I like that.”
Blurr rolled his shoulders. “Why bother? We both know why I'm here.”
“Actually, I'm not too sure.” Starscream crawled over him, knees bracketing Blurr's hips, hands to either side of his shoulders. “But don't think that means I'm not going to take advantage.”
Blurr hooked his fingers in Starscream's chestplate, right on those helpful handholds. “I wouldn't expect anything less,” he said, and surged upward, executing a takedown that would have made Kup proud, especially with interfacing applications.
In a flash, their positions were reversed, Starscream's back against the berth and Blurr triumphant above him, his powerful legs locked in place. His fingers encircled Starscream's wrists, pressed against nerve lines that rendered his hands useless.
“After all,” Blurr said with a grin, circling his hips atop Starscream's pelvic array, metal gliding against metal in a hot purr. His panel snapped open, lubricant dripping with a plip-plop. “I always come out on top.”
“I'm impressed.” Starscream's vents surged to life with enough force to rattle the berth. “Though you can't think to hold this for long.”
“I don't have to.” Blurr ground down, feeling the heat in the panel beneath him and knowing it matched the heat in his circuits. “Open up, flyboy.”
Starscream chuckled, but he obeyed, spike pressuring immediately and teasing the rim of Blurr's valve. “In the end, I'm still getting what I want.”
Blurr circled his hips, caught the head of Starscream's spike, and then sunk down, ever so slowly, relishing the stretch and rub of his internal sensors. “So you think.” He shuddered, pleasure lighting up his sensory net.
It had been far too long since he indulged like this. And he would take this moment for everything it was worth.
“Mm. Does that mean you'll listen to my proposal?”
Blurr managed a chuckle, his fingers tightening around Starscream's wrists as he circled his hips. “Your persistence is impressive.”
Starscream, movement limited as it was, managed an aborted push upward, spike stirring deep within Blurr's valve. “Impressive enough?”
Blurr leaned closer, near enough that their lips could brush. “We'll see.”
Starscream smirked.
a/n: Finally, I managed to get these done. Phew. I hope they were worth the wait! (Some may see themselves expanded later...)
There won't be a FFF in November because it's NaNoWriMo so look for the announcement on December's date.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
