Flash Fiction Fills Take 55
Dec. 12th, 2014 12:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: The best thing to come out of being unemployed is that my writing time has quadrupled. As such, in a week, I've written all my flash fiction. Go me! So here are the three not connected to any established universes, with the other two to come as I edit and fact-check them with the universes they belong to. Enjoy!
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: G1, SidesxSunny, “Santa Baby”
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: implied twincest, crack
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat and family, “old-fashioned country Xmas”
Fandom: Justice League, probably DCAU. Warnings: fluff, holiday cheer
For starfire201
Prompt: BluestreakxStarscream, make you talk, gen, G1
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: massive speculation, wild theories, implications of Bad Things
a/n: I can't write anything without building a backstory for it, no matter how short. *headdesk* As for the Bluestreak and Starscream one, well, that hit me out of nowhere and I couldn't not write it so I did and well, there you are. A wildly random head canon that decided it wanted to have a say (or, the story where once upon a time, the Emirate of Vos took a trip to Praxus, had a torrid love affair with an Enforcer, and returned home with an unexpected surprise, Primus help us all).
Ahem. That being said.... Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! Be on the look out for the other two flash fiction, one of which has to wait a bit until I post the two ficlets that precede it (Here's looking at you The Art of Self-Destruction) and the other that just needs another quick self-beta. And probably a continuity-check.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: G1, SidesxSunny, “Santa Baby”
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: implied twincest, crack
When the opening refrains of the song spilled into the rec room, Sunstreaker knew who was to blame. He sighed, tucked his datapad away, and waited for the show to begin. Amusingly, he was not the only one who did so.
Conversation died. The song got louder. All optics turned toward the open door. And Sideswipe sashayed in to an audience, just like the glitch surely wanted.
Thank Primus he didn't sing along to the cheerful, holiday song. But the twist and sway to his hips had to be illegal in several galaxies.
Sunstreaker planted a frown on his face, arched an orbital ridge, and pretended that he wasn't at all affected by the floor show. Even as it flounced his way.
Someone in the crowd snickered. It was probably Jazz, jealous that he hadn't thought of it first. Which only meant that next week, Jazz would show up with something even more outrageous. And Sunstreaker had a sudden image of a Christmas song dance off as his brother and Jazz battled to see who could get the most whistles.
And as usual, it would be Sideswipe's fault.
Sunstreaker sighed, again, and folded his arms over his chestplate. Even as artfully polished red plating sparkled as it danced toward him. A red-plated aft shook his direction, teasing and taunting and Sunstreaker almost slapped it. But for Sideswipe, that wasn't much of a deterrent.
It was encouragement.
Sunstreaker tapped his pede as the song picked up in crescendo, as some human female crooned for Santa to bring her gifts. To “shimmy down her chimney.” Pah. For a child's holiday, there was a looooot of subtext in their songs.
Or was that obvious-text?
Either way, Sideswipe capitalized on the tune by inviting himself onto Sunstreaker's lap, performing a languid slide of his frame that would have earned him a credit or several out on the streets of Kaon.
His frame hummed with heat, his field sliding teasingly over Sunstreaker's as if inviting him to play.
You're an idiot, Sunstreaker said over their bond, clenching his hands to keep from touching. The song aside, Sideswipe was as irresistible as he thought he was. No need to prove it in front of everyone.
But you still want to touch me, Sideswipe sang back, aft bobbing and weaving and dancing lewdly across Sunstreaker's lap. Where's my ring? I want you to make an honest man out of me.
There's nothing honest about you, Sunstreaker retorted, though his lips twitched.
Sideswipe pouted, a wholly attractive look. You're so mean.
And you're heavy. With an almighty shove, Sunstreaker tossed his brother to the floor, perfectly timed to the last beat of the song.
He hit with an ungainly clatter and ungraceful flailing of his limbs. Sunstreaker broke into a grin and chuckled while Sideswipe's audience found it all highly amusing.
“Struck out again, Siders,” Jazz said from the nearest edge of the crowd. And yeah, that was definitely a gleam of challenge in his visor.
“Maybe this time,” Sideswipe admitted, picking himself up and making a show of brushing off his plating. He winked an optic. “But I've still got it.”
Sunstreaker harrumphed, turning his helm away. Dance for me later, he said.
I always do, Sideswipe purred.
Conversation died. The song got louder. All optics turned toward the open door. And Sideswipe sashayed in to an audience, just like the glitch surely wanted.
Thank Primus he didn't sing along to the cheerful, holiday song. But the twist and sway to his hips had to be illegal in several galaxies.
Sunstreaker planted a frown on his face, arched an orbital ridge, and pretended that he wasn't at all affected by the floor show. Even as it flounced his way.
Someone in the crowd snickered. It was probably Jazz, jealous that he hadn't thought of it first. Which only meant that next week, Jazz would show up with something even more outrageous. And Sunstreaker had a sudden image of a Christmas song dance off as his brother and Jazz battled to see who could get the most whistles.
And as usual, it would be Sideswipe's fault.
Sunstreaker sighed, again, and folded his arms over his chestplate. Even as artfully polished red plating sparkled as it danced toward him. A red-plated aft shook his direction, teasing and taunting and Sunstreaker almost slapped it. But for Sideswipe, that wasn't much of a deterrent.
It was encouragement.
Sunstreaker tapped his pede as the song picked up in crescendo, as some human female crooned for Santa to bring her gifts. To “shimmy down her chimney.” Pah. For a child's holiday, there was a looooot of subtext in their songs.
Or was that obvious-text?
Either way, Sideswipe capitalized on the tune by inviting himself onto Sunstreaker's lap, performing a languid slide of his frame that would have earned him a credit or several out on the streets of Kaon.
His frame hummed with heat, his field sliding teasingly over Sunstreaker's as if inviting him to play.
You're an idiot, Sunstreaker said over their bond, clenching his hands to keep from touching. The song aside, Sideswipe was as irresistible as he thought he was. No need to prove it in front of everyone.
But you still want to touch me, Sideswipe sang back, aft bobbing and weaving and dancing lewdly across Sunstreaker's lap. Where's my ring? I want you to make an honest man out of me.
There's nothing honest about you, Sunstreaker retorted, though his lips twitched.
Sideswipe pouted, a wholly attractive look. You're so mean.
And you're heavy. With an almighty shove, Sunstreaker tossed his brother to the floor, perfectly timed to the last beat of the song.
He hit with an ungainly clatter and ungraceful flailing of his limbs. Sunstreaker broke into a grin and chuckled while Sideswipe's audience found it all highly amusing.
“Struck out again, Siders,” Jazz said from the nearest edge of the crowd. And yeah, that was definitely a gleam of challenge in his visor.
“Maybe this time,” Sideswipe admitted, picking himself up and making a show of brushing off his plating. He winked an optic. “But I've still got it.”
Sunstreaker harrumphed, turning his helm away. Dance for me later, he said.
I always do, Sideswipe purred.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat and family, “old-fashioned country Xmas”
Fandom: Justice League, probably DCAU. Warnings: fluff, holiday cheer
Bruce has more dignity than to tug on his collar like an impatient child. But he still has to stop himself mid-reach. Bad enough that the sweater is a hideous conglomeration of color but it also itches. Right now, there's no such thing as mind over matter. He's convinced his sweater has been woven from sandpaper.
Of course, Clark is having no trouble in his equally revolting sweater. He wears it with pride, sewn-in bells jingling with every motion.
Nearby, Dick is having an animated conversation with Connor, both boys clutching mugs of egg nog sans the rum. Their sweaters flash in eerie unison, Dick in Rudolph and Connor as Frosty. Bruce doesn't know what they are discussing but it makes Dick laugh and Connor lose that pinched, angry expression he often wears.
Mrs. Kent – call me Martha – and Alfred are debating the merits of nutmeg in another corner with the former trying to foist another slice of pie onto the later. Alfred resists, unwilling to admit who might have the better recipe.
Mr. Kent steadies himself on a step stool, adding the last of the ornaments to an already cluttered tree. Clark watches, offering advice but little help, busy as he is with his own egg nog.
Outside, Smallville is experiencing a rare white Christmas. There's enough snow that no one's going anywhere tomorrow without a snow shovel or Superman.
The radio on the mantle is tuned to the local station, one playing non-stop holiday music. Right now, Brenda Lee is Rockin Around the Christmas Tree and Clark has that look in his eyes. The one that suggests he's going to try and get Bruce to dance and he won't take no for an answer.
It's Christmas Eve but that doesn't mean criminals are taking a holiday. Someone, somewhere is breaking the law. And Bruce is here, trying not to tug on a scratchy holiday sweater. He wonders if anyone would notice him slipping out the back...
“Yes, we would.”
Bruce narrows his eyes and feigns interest in his hot cocoa. “What are you talking about?”
Clark edges into the periphery of his personal space as though approaching an armed nuclear device, nearly the only time Bruce has seen him take caution. “You're thinking of sneaking out. And yes, we'd notice and be disappointed.”
Bruce stares at the happy mini-marshmallows floating in his cup. “I have work to do.”
“More important than this?”
He sighs, Clark's earnest tone an effective guilt trip. He looks again, at Dick smiling and Alfred laughing, and has to grudgingly concede that Clark has a point.
He may even – Bruce grits his teeth – be right.
The low growl he makes is as much assent as Clark is going to get.
Clark grins and leans closer, his lips brushing Bruce's ear. “I'll even promise to help take off that sweater later. Deal?”
Damn manipulative Boy Scouts.
“Deal,” Bruce mutters and resigns himself to joining the holiday cheer.
Just this once.
Of course, Clark is having no trouble in his equally revolting sweater. He wears it with pride, sewn-in bells jingling with every motion.
Nearby, Dick is having an animated conversation with Connor, both boys clutching mugs of egg nog sans the rum. Their sweaters flash in eerie unison, Dick in Rudolph and Connor as Frosty. Bruce doesn't know what they are discussing but it makes Dick laugh and Connor lose that pinched, angry expression he often wears.
Mrs. Kent – call me Martha – and Alfred are debating the merits of nutmeg in another corner with the former trying to foist another slice of pie onto the later. Alfred resists, unwilling to admit who might have the better recipe.
Mr. Kent steadies himself on a step stool, adding the last of the ornaments to an already cluttered tree. Clark watches, offering advice but little help, busy as he is with his own egg nog.
Outside, Smallville is experiencing a rare white Christmas. There's enough snow that no one's going anywhere tomorrow without a snow shovel or Superman.
The radio on the mantle is tuned to the local station, one playing non-stop holiday music. Right now, Brenda Lee is Rockin Around the Christmas Tree and Clark has that look in his eyes. The one that suggests he's going to try and get Bruce to dance and he won't take no for an answer.
It's Christmas Eve but that doesn't mean criminals are taking a holiday. Someone, somewhere is breaking the law. And Bruce is here, trying not to tug on a scratchy holiday sweater. He wonders if anyone would notice him slipping out the back...
“Yes, we would.”
Bruce narrows his eyes and feigns interest in his hot cocoa. “What are you talking about?”
Clark edges into the periphery of his personal space as though approaching an armed nuclear device, nearly the only time Bruce has seen him take caution. “You're thinking of sneaking out. And yes, we'd notice and be disappointed.”
Bruce stares at the happy mini-marshmallows floating in his cup. “I have work to do.”
“More important than this?”
He sighs, Clark's earnest tone an effective guilt trip. He looks again, at Dick smiling and Alfred laughing, and has to grudgingly concede that Clark has a point.
He may even – Bruce grits his teeth – be right.
The low growl he makes is as much assent as Clark is going to get.
Clark grins and leans closer, his lips brushing Bruce's ear. “I'll even promise to help take off that sweater later. Deal?”
Damn manipulative Boy Scouts.
“Deal,” Bruce mutters and resigns himself to joining the holiday cheer.
Just this once.
For starfire201
Prompt: BluestreakxStarscream, make you talk, gen, G1
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: massive speculation, wild theories, implications of Bad Things
The last Autobot Starscream expected to walk into the brig was Bluestreak. Not just because he knew the sniper was not a Special Ops mech, but because their shared history made the chances of him being granted a visit nonexistent. Either someone hadn't read Bluestreak's file, or they were more than aware and thought it could be used to their advantage.
Starscream narrowed his optics, straightening on his cot. If they thought their pathetic attempts at mind games were going to work, they were sorely mistaken.
“Did they send you?” Starscream asked.
Bluestreak tilted his helm, optics dimming as he looked at Starscream through the energy bars. “Do you want the honest answer or a lie? Because we can play this two ways. I know which one I prefer, but you've always been something of a contradiction.”
Starscream chuckled, flicking his wings out of the way so he could get comfortable. “Mm. I taught you well.”
“Actually, there wasn't much you taught me that I remember.” Bluestreak snagged a chair and brought it closer, making himself comfortable as though he planned to stay awhile. “That's what happens, I guess, when someone bombs your hometown and leaves you buried under the rubble for so long, that by the time rescuers dig you out, you're on the twilight of stasis lock, talking to ghosts.”
Starscream did not flinch, but only because he'd gotten so much practice at concealing his reactions. “Uraya was supposed to be safe.”
“And did you honestly think I would stay there? That I could?” Bluestreak's sensory panels, pale mockery of a Seeker's wings, go rigid. “It may have bordered Praxus, but I stood out enough that everyone could see me for what I was.”
Starscream narrowed his optics. “You always were ashamed of your lineage.”
“There wasn't much in it to give me pride.” Bluestreak inclined his helm, the edge of his smirk all too familiar to Starscream. “Though I did learn a valuable lesson. Along with many, many valuable skills.”
“In torture?” Starscream arched a brow.
Bluestreak waved a hand of dismissal. “If pain motivated you, Megatron would have a lot fewer issues with backstabbing usurpers. I could threaten to take away your wings, but we both know I won't do that. Frag, I could make any threat and you wouldn't believe me capable of doing it. The Autobots are too soft-sparked. They have principles. Morals. A line they refuse to cross.”
Starscream pressed his lips together briefly. There was something to Bluestreak's tone that didn't sit right. “They didn't send you down here,” he realized aloud. “And they don't know you're here either.”
He glanced out of his cell, at the cameras that were always present in his previous stints in the brig, abbreviated though they were. How curious that they were no longer pointed his direction. Though wouldn't someone notice that inconsistency? Wouldn't their paranoid security director realize their very-important-prisoner was not under observation?
“No, they don't.” Bluestreak pushed to his pedes, close enough to the energy bars that they snap at his plating. “I think, maybe, I have ten minutes before someone realizes something's wrong. It is just long enough.”
“For what?” Starscream barked a laugh. He faced Megatron every day. What could an Autobot do to him that would be worse?
Bluestreak's optics flashed. “For you to remember that I'm not all Autobot,” he growled. “And I know how to make you talk. Isn't that right, creator?”
Starscream cycled a ventilation. He wouldn't call what coiled in his spark fear, but it certainly wasn't excitement either. Bluestreak had been taking great effort to shoot Starscream out of the sky for the entirety of the war. That he would choose now to verbally acknowledge their relationship bode nothing but ill tidings.
In this, Starscream would have preferred a visit from Jazz. At least the Special Ops commander was predictable.
There was no way, however, Starscream could have prepared himself for this.
Starscream narrowed his optics, straightening on his cot. If they thought their pathetic attempts at mind games were going to work, they were sorely mistaken.
“Did they send you?” Starscream asked.
Bluestreak tilted his helm, optics dimming as he looked at Starscream through the energy bars. “Do you want the honest answer or a lie? Because we can play this two ways. I know which one I prefer, but you've always been something of a contradiction.”
Starscream chuckled, flicking his wings out of the way so he could get comfortable. “Mm. I taught you well.”
“Actually, there wasn't much you taught me that I remember.” Bluestreak snagged a chair and brought it closer, making himself comfortable as though he planned to stay awhile. “That's what happens, I guess, when someone bombs your hometown and leaves you buried under the rubble for so long, that by the time rescuers dig you out, you're on the twilight of stasis lock, talking to ghosts.”
Starscream did not flinch, but only because he'd gotten so much practice at concealing his reactions. “Uraya was supposed to be safe.”
“And did you honestly think I would stay there? That I could?” Bluestreak's sensory panels, pale mockery of a Seeker's wings, go rigid. “It may have bordered Praxus, but I stood out enough that everyone could see me for what I was.”
Starscream narrowed his optics. “You always were ashamed of your lineage.”
“There wasn't much in it to give me pride.” Bluestreak inclined his helm, the edge of his smirk all too familiar to Starscream. “Though I did learn a valuable lesson. Along with many, many valuable skills.”
“In torture?” Starscream arched a brow.
Bluestreak waved a hand of dismissal. “If pain motivated you, Megatron would have a lot fewer issues with backstabbing usurpers. I could threaten to take away your wings, but we both know I won't do that. Frag, I could make any threat and you wouldn't believe me capable of doing it. The Autobots are too soft-sparked. They have principles. Morals. A line they refuse to cross.”
Starscream pressed his lips together briefly. There was something to Bluestreak's tone that didn't sit right. “They didn't send you down here,” he realized aloud. “And they don't know you're here either.”
He glanced out of his cell, at the cameras that were always present in his previous stints in the brig, abbreviated though they were. How curious that they were no longer pointed his direction. Though wouldn't someone notice that inconsistency? Wouldn't their paranoid security director realize their very-important-prisoner was not under observation?
“No, they don't.” Bluestreak pushed to his pedes, close enough to the energy bars that they snap at his plating. “I think, maybe, I have ten minutes before someone realizes something's wrong. It is just long enough.”
“For what?” Starscream barked a laugh. He faced Megatron every day. What could an Autobot do to him that would be worse?
Bluestreak's optics flashed. “For you to remember that I'm not all Autobot,” he growled. “And I know how to make you talk. Isn't that right, creator?”
Starscream cycled a ventilation. He wouldn't call what coiled in his spark fear, but it certainly wasn't excitement either. Bluestreak had been taking great effort to shoot Starscream out of the sky for the entirety of the war. That he would choose now to verbally acknowledge their relationship bode nothing but ill tidings.
In this, Starscream would have preferred a visit from Jazz. At least the Special Ops commander was predictable.
There was no way, however, Starscream could have prepared himself for this.
a/n: I can't write anything without building a backstory for it, no matter how short. *headdesk* As for the Bluestreak and Starscream one, well, that hit me out of nowhere and I couldn't not write it so I did and well, there you are. A wildly random head canon that decided it wanted to have a say (or, the story where once upon a time, the Emirate of Vos took a trip to Praxus, had a torrid love affair with an Enforcer, and returned home with an unexpected surprise, Primus help us all).
Ahem. That being said.... Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! Be on the look out for the other two flash fiction, one of which has to wait a bit until I post the two ficlets that precede it (Here's looking at you The Art of Self-Destruction) and the other that just needs another quick self-beta. And probably a continuity-check.
