Flash Fiction Fills Take 64 Part Ten

[dracoqueen22]

For ladydragon76
Prompt: Megatron/Sunstreaker, “what is this I feel?"

Fandom: Transformers AU, part of This Calamitous Life. Warnings: None

Megatronus was recharging.

His vents snuffled in his recharge. Probably because he gave himself over to it so completely. Even now, even after all that he had lived through, he still held this fraction of innocence. He recharged as though he had no reason to be guarded. He recharged and perhaps, he had the luxury of dreams.

He didn’t stir when Sunstreaker rested a hand on his helm, stroking over the curve of it, remembering the delicate sensory panels beneath. Sunstreaker had seen them once, had marveled at their beauty, even as he remarked that they were a weakness. An opening.

Megatronus had smirked. True strength, he argued, was in learning how to protect those weaknesses.

He carried the delicate panels still. Perhaps he didn’t want to forget where he came from. Perhaps he clung to his past.

Sunstreaker could not understand that. He was trying his best to escape his own.

He frowned and shifted, getting a bit more comfortable, as best as he could squeezed on this narrow berth with Megatronus’ heavier frame ruched up against his. Megatronus lay half against his side, his helm pillowed on Sunstreaker’s chestplate. He’d even thrown an arm and a leg over Sunstreaker, as though they were lovers.

Perhaps they were.

If sharing a berth, guarding one another’s backs, and interfacing until it was lights out defined them as lovers.

Sunstreaker wouldn’t know. He had never had a partner, romantic or otherwise. He had Sideswipe, but that defied definition as well. He had a twin. He believed he loved his twin. But was love something involuntary? Could it be called love if he had no choice in the matter?

Sunstreaker didn’t know that either.

His fingers stroked over Megatronus’ helm, tracing the symbols of his caste, his livelihood. He trekked over the caution markers. He measured the scrapes. Megatronus had survived many things most of his like had not.

He was stronger, stronger than anyone else here. He could become something great, so long as no one killed him first.

He was a fool.

Sunstreaker tilted his helm back against the wall and offlined his optics. There was something tight in his spark, something aching. The idea of seeing Megatronus fall in the arena, like so many before him, it did not settle. It did not sit well.

He tried. He trained. He taught Megatronus everything he knew in the vain hope that it might garner the mech’s survival. At least let Sunstreaker do something good with this fractured life of his.

He would never admit such to Megatronus aloud. Megatronus already thought himself a mech of worth. If he fully believed it, he might not understand what it meant to be cautious. His pride, as it was, might prove to be his downfall. He did not know what it meant to back down.

Sunstreaker cycled a ventilation.

Beside him, Megatronus shifted. His helm nuzzled against Sunstreaker’s chestplate. His fingers twitched where they hooked on an armor seam.

Vulnerable. Defenseless. Open and trusting.

Sunstreaker did not know what to do with it. No one trusted him. No one had for a long time. Not even Sideswipe. Sideswipe never trusted him.

“There’s darkness in your spark, bro,” Sideswipe had said. “It’s that part of you that I never know if you’re going to frag me or slag me.”

Maybe, Sideswipe, it was both.

Sideswipe hadn’t liked that answer too much. Then again, he hadn’t liked it when Sunstreaker took off into the gladiator’s arena. He kept comming, kept looking for Sunstreaker. And Sunstreaker kept reading the messages and deleting them, one by one.

They were only brothers.

But Megatronus… he was something else. He touched a part of Sunstreaker’s spark that Sideswipe had never owned. And that frightened Sunstreaker. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud.

He knew he ought to ease out of this berth and creep from the room. He ought to lock the door behind him and never look back.

But he stayed. The thought of leaving Megatronus was unwelcome. It sent a pang through his spark that he did not understand.

He could not leave Megatronus so unguarded. He could not let this bright spark, with visions of a better future, turn dark and jaded.

He could not fail Megatronus as he had failed himself.

He could not see Megatronus hurt.

Sunstreaker would stay.

For Mistress_Pirate
Prompt: BatFlash, Alfred, comfort food

Fandom: Justice League/Young Justice. Warnings: None

It wasn’t the first time he woke up to find that he was no longer sharing the king-sized bed, and Wally was certain it would not be the last. He yawned and peered at the clock, which told him it was a little after eight in the morning. Too early for Bruce to be up, but up he was.

Wally rolled out of bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and shoved his feet into slippers – a gift from Alfred who was officially becoming Wally’s favorite person ever – and tugged on a robe. He figured he would find Bruce in the batcave, but first, Wally planned a stop by the kitchen. He needed to refuel because unlike most people, Wally couldn’t run on empty.

He fought back a yawn and sped toward the kitchen at one-third his usual rate, only to skid to a halt right after barreling through the double swinging doors. His jaw dropped. Bruce was not, in fact, in the Batcave. He was seated at the table in the kitchen – the servants table so to speak – and there was a plate of pancakes in front of him. Chocolate-chip by the look of them, liberally soaked in maple syrup with a glass of orange juice nearby.

It was the single most unhealthy thing Wally had ever seen him consume.

He stared.

Bruce, of all things, blushed.

“You’re up… early,” Bruce commented with a cough. He set down his plate, pretending as though he hadn’t been about to consume the most calorie-laden dish with no nutritional return ever put in front of him.

Wally shook himself and planted a smile on his face. “Technically, I overslept. You’re the one who’s up early.” He strutted into the kitchen, whipped out a chair, and slung himself into it, right next to Bruce. He leaned into his partner’s personal space and peered at his plate. “What'cha eating?”

Alfred swept into view, setting a steaming plate in front of Wally, four times the stack of Bruce’s and filled with blueberries instead.

Man, oh, man, oh, man. This was why Alfred was Wally’s favorite. He beamed up at the butler, all traces of the sleep crud gone from his thoughts. Oooo, these smelled heavenly.

“Thank you, Alfred!” Wally said as the butler also placed a container of syrup in front of him.

“My pleasure, young master West,” Alfred said. He sounded very amused, despite his polite tone. Wally knew it was at Bruce’s expense. He resisted the urge to chuckle as he snuck another glance at his lover.

Bruce cleared his throat. “I am eating breakfast, something I have been told time and time again that I ought not to skip,” he said, and with all the poise he’d been taught, he cut into his pancakes and took a careful bite.

Wally grinned. “Pancakes though. Have to admit, didn’t think it was your style. Where’s the poached egg? The vegetable crepe? The quiche?”

“All of them have their merits,” Alfred said as he joined them at the table with his own meal, though it consisted of a couple plain biscuits and a cup of coffee. “This selection, however, is Master Bruce’s favorite.”

Was it just Wally or did the pink in Bruce’s cheeks darken?

Wally leaned in close enough that he could smell Bruce’s shampoo – he must have already showered. “Really?”he drawled before shoving an entire pancake into his mouth.

“Eat your breakfast,” Bruce said, carefully cutting another portion for himself. He sipped at his orange juice.

To the outside world, he looked entirely unbothered. But Wally had been with Bruce long enough to tell the difference.

For the first time ever, he found Bruce more than sinfully sexy. Now… he was kind of cute. Adorable even.

“And if I catch you breathing a word of this to Diana, I will inform her your preferred pajama choice, are we clear?” Bruce continued with a cutting glance toward Wally.

Ooo. Already moved into threats?

Alfred buried a chuckle behind his coffee.

Wally inched back toward his own breakfast. “Yes, dear,” he chirped.

Score one for the scrapbook.

For Ephdraws
Prompt: Blurr/Starscream, “don’t play a game you can’t hope to win”

Fandom: Transformers IDW, part ofTruth in Advertising. Warnings: NSFW

He’d been warned.

He had no one to blame for this but himself. And yet, here he was, continuing forward. Here he was, still in Starscream’s berth and in Starscream’s arms, with a purring Seeker on top of him.

He’d lost his bar, his home. His reputation was in ashes. His attempts to remain Neutral, to rebuild again outside the boundaries of war. All of it: gone up in smoke and flames. His thrusters needed to be rebuilt. His frame was a map of aches and pains and scars and scores and scrapes.

What were you thinking? he asked himself, over and over.

Yet, he still reached back when Starscream reached for him. He leaned in toward that smirking mouth and stole a kiss for himself, muffling whatever misdirection Starscream had been about to give him.

What happened? Who was to blame? What was he supposed to do next?

Starscream played at disinterest, but Blurr wasn’t fooled. Stay out of it. Stay safe. This isn’t your fight anymore.

Pitslag.

Blurr wasn’t going to get sidelined. The stakes had been raised. He hadn’t been ready to play this game before, but someone was switching up the pieces. Someone had changed to a whole new board.

He didn’t know what he was getting into before. But he knew it now. He knew it and he still flipped them over, still pressed Starscream down into the berth and dove in for a second kiss and then a third. He still nudged his way between Starscream’s thighs, ignoring the ache in his still healing hip, and ground his array against Starscream’s interface panel.

Starscream grabbed at him, fingers adding more scratches to Blurr’s paint. A sound worked out of his vocalizer, one of need and desire. One Blurr echoed, his spark pulsing faster and faster.

I’d tell ya to get out, but I think it’s too late for that, Jazz had said, and he almost looked apologetic as he patted Blurr on the shoulder. Strap in, soldier. You’re here for the long haul.

He hadn’t needed Jazz to tell him that. He’d only needed to look at Starscream and remember why he couldn’t walk away in all the words he wasn’t saying aloud. There was an ache in his chassis, in his chamber, and it wasn’t just healing welds and ghost pains.

He heard the snap of Starscream’s panel opening. He felt the wet slide of lubricant against his array and the streak of fluid left behind as Starscream’s pressuring spike slid against his armor. Starscream arched up beneath him, hunger in ever motion, and Blurr was eager to oblige. Eager to release his own equipment and slide into the wet, clenching heat of Starscream’s valve.

He wondered what Starscream was thinking. If he was congratulating himself for successfully distracting Blurr from another question he didn’t want to answer. He wondered if Starscream was thinking at all, or if all thoughts of politics had vanished in the wake of pleasure.

Blurr struggled to hold on to them himself. Pleasure throbbed up and down his spinal strut. His spike pulsed as Starscream’s valve nodes sparked in return. He broke away from the kiss, nuzzled into Starscream’s intake, licked and nipped at the delicate cables there. Starscream gasped, his helm falling back, arching up toward Blurr.

His fingers scratched at Blurr’s armor again, hooking on seams, pulling him down, pressing their frames together. As if Starscream was trying to keep him from leaving. Funny that, because Blurr hadn’t made a single plan to go.

Even though he should. A rational mech would. A mech who’d just had his bar blown to bits and all his hard work demolished certainly would run, not walk, out the door.

But here Blurr was.

Still in Starscream’s berth. Still losing himself to the pleasure, the frantic twining of their field, the eager press of Starscream’s frame. He was no less thirsty for it, no less desperate. He bit at Starscream’s throat and worked his way back to Starscream’s mouth as he rolled his hips, rocking deeper and deeper into Starscream with each consecutive thrust.

The sounds that rose in Starscream’s intake only fueled Blurr further. His spark pulsed to the same beat of his spike.

It was too easy to lose himself in this, to give himself over to the pleasure, the uncomplicated mess of it. Blurr pushed it all aside, his doubts and his disappointments and his confusion, and he focused on the easy part. On the pleasure and the feel of Starscream beneath him and against him.

Overload swept over him not long after, too soon for his own comfort, but hard and fast, setting his fans to spinning. Starscream followed him, overloading with a cry that had probably earned him his loathed nickname.

In the silence that followed, in the quiet of their fans whirring and the press of their frames, hot and slick with condensation, the thoughts rolled back in. The ones Blurr couldn’t ignore.

Starscream snuggled against him, for once not complaining about the mess between their frames. There was content in his field, but also satisfaction. As though he’d come out victorious.

It had never been about winning, Blurr thought as he stroked a hand down Starscream’s backstrut and felt his spark clench again.

But somehow, Blurr still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing.

a/n: And that's all folks! Well, all except for one more which ended up being an update to The Art of Self Destruction.

Phew. Flash fics are finally done! Go me!

Look for FFF to return in February. ^_^