Flash Fiction Fills Take 61 Part Two
a/n: Three of ten with now five more to go. Pay attention to the opening warnings. The first one is very NSFW, the middle one SFW, and the last one borderline. Barely edited. And enjoy!
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Arcee/Wheeljack/Bulkhead, down time
Fandom: Transformers Prime, part of my Misbehavior series. Warnings: Threesome, Sticky, Elements of BDSM, NSFW
He'd lobbied long and hard for this and now that he'd earned it, Bulkhead planned to make full use of it. He so rarely had time to indulge and this was his chance, but all he could think about was getting his spike into Jackie and letting him set the pace.
“You're such a sap, Bulk,” Wheeljack drawled from his position in Bulkhead's lap. His hips moved in a steady rhythm, rising to show off the thick swell of Bulkhead's spike before his valve swallowed it down inch by ribbed inch.
Bulkhead was content to rest his hands on Wheeljack's thighs, his thumbs stroking the inner plating. “Just 'cause I don't beat ya like 'Cee, doesn't mean I'm a sap. You like what I offer, too, you know.”
“I know.” Wheeljack winked and rolled his shoulders. His hands had been bound his back, a precaution to keep him from taking hold of his spike and ending the session too soon.
He had a habit of doing that, Jackie did. He had no patience. Given the opportunity, he'd wrangle as many overloads as he could manage from his own frame. Then again, considering how often Arcee kept him on the edge, no wonder.
“S'why I love ya, partner,” Wheeljack added and his glossa swept over his lips. He inclined his helm, casting Bulkhead a smirk. “And that two-wheeled menace, too.”
Bulkhead chuckled. “She'd consider that a compliment.”
“Know that, too.” Wheeljack rose up and sank down again, a shiver echoing across his plating.
Bulkhead could feel Jackie's valve rippling around his spike, calipers rolling and gripping as though trying to pull out his overload. Hah. Of all of them, Bulkhead had the most stamina and Jackie knew it. His efforts were futile.
“Did someone say my name?”
Bulkhead glanced over his shoulder to see Arcee emerging from the smaller room they'd hollowed out for a berth, arms stretched over her helm and a yawn on her lips.
“Bout time you woke up!” Wheeljack said and he sank down, grinding hard on Bulkhead's spike. “We figured you were going to sleep this whole day away. And after Bulk worked so hard to get it for us.”
Arcee tossed Bulkhead an amused look. “Did you lose the gag?”
Bulkhead chuckled and swung his gaze back forward. “Didn't need it this time.” His hands inched forward and he let his thumbs sweep Wheeljack's pelvis, one brushing his spike panel, the other rubbing his anterior nub.
“Bulk likes to hear me talk.” Wheeljack waggled his orbital ridges, though it was lost to a moan as Bulkhead applied more pressure to his throbbing sensor. “Unlike a certain someone.”
Bulkhead had a second's proximity warning before he felt the lithe, warm frame press to his back. Arms slithered over his shoulders from behind and ex-vents caressed his neck cabling.
“Because you talk far too much,” Arcee retorted, but her tone was playful, as were her lips as they pressed a kiss to Bulkhead's audial. “Thank you for our downtime, Bulkhead. I appreciate it.”
He never had any doubt.
Wheeljack's thighs trembled and he pushed himself up again, lubricant seeping from his valve around Bulkhead's spike to soak Bulkhead's hips. “I talk as much as I need to. Now get off Bulk and let him do me like I need him to.”
“I'm hardly stopping him,” Arcee purred. Long, slender fingers slid down, toying with transformation seams on Bulkhead's chest.
He shivered, engine rumbling. His hips flicked upward, jostling Wheeljack, who hissed a moan.
“You're distracting me,” Bulkhead said. It wasn't a complaint.
Arcee's glossa flicked over his audial again. He heard a click and felt the wet slide of a spike against his back plating. Arcee rocked forward, grinding against him.
“Wasn't my intention,” she said. “Just wondering when it's going to be my turn?”
Wheeljack sucked in a ventilation, his optics flashing. He leaned forward, changing the angle of Bulkhead's spike in his valve, but also presenting an obvious invitation.
“Could be now, if you wanted,” he said, lust spiking heavily in his field. “I can fit you both.”
They'd done it before after all. Bulkhead had many, many archived memories of that particular night. And so many others. Wheeljack was insatiable, Arcee was creative, and the two of them combined often left Bulkhead an exhausted, yet satiated heap of green metal.
Arcee rubbed her helm along Bulkhead's. “I'm not rude enough to interrupt Bulkhead's plans. I can wait.”
“And what if my plans included you?” Bulkhead asked, turning his helm to catch her gaze. “What if I didn't grab a gag because I thought you'd prefer to occupy his mouth.”
“Primus, Bulk,” Wheeljack groaned and his valve cinched down on Bulkhead's spike, squeezing hard. Not quite an overload, but almost there.
“Mmm.” Arcee nipped at his mouthguard, something Bulkhead should have thought to remove. “Sounds good. So long as you don't mind.”
His hands slid back to Wheeljack's thighs, ignoring Jackie's muttered protest. “Not at all,” Bulkhead said.
He felt more than saw Arcee grin.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: FlashBat and Alfred, late night munchies
Fandom: Justice League/Young Justice-ish. Warnings: None.
The crash and clatter were what roused Alfred from his slumber and prompted him to investigate. It occurred to him to wake the actual vigilante members of the household, but he dismissed the thought just as quickly. He was old, not incapable.
Besides, he had an emergency communicator tucked into the pocket of his robe.
Cane in hand - more a weapon than something he needed, but it would fool any potential intruders - Alfred crept toward the source of the noise. It had come from the kitchen. An odd place for a burglar, but to each his own, Alfred supposed. Even criminals got hungry.
Brazen criminals they were as well! They'd gone so far as to turn the light on. He could see it spilling through the gaps around the door. Alfred eased the swinging door open a crack and peered into the kitchen.
He sighed and shook his head in amusement. He should have known.
Alfred hooked his cane on the wall near the door and pushed his way fully inside. “Mr. West,” he said, with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A very guilty, barely-dressed redhead sat on the counter, a plate of food in his lap. There was no evidence of what had caused the earlier noise, but no doubt the famous Speedster had cleaned it up in a flash. Green eyes instantly flicked Alfred's direction. Cheeks stuffed with what looked to be the remains of Alfred's cheesecake bobbed up and down.
“Um,” Wally said around a mouthful of cake. And then he mumbled something that sounded a bit like, 'No thanks, I helped myself.'
“I can see that.” Alfred's lips twitched. “If I had known you were visiting, I would have prepared some snacks in advance for you.”
Wally chewed aggressively and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “It was kind of a spur of the moment thing,” he said. Which probably explained his state of mostly undress.
There was probably a trail of Flash uniform across the floor of Master Bruce's suite. Fortunately, Alfred was not responsible for dry cleaning these. He didn't precisely know how it worked, only that the Flash took care of his own laundry.
“You do realize that it is three in the morning,” Alfred pointed out.
“Yeah.” Wally ducked his head. “Sorry for the late visit.”
Alfred took the empty dish from Wally and rinsed it off in the sink. “I am not opposed to your company, Mr. West. I only pointed out the time because Master Wayne usually does not return until sunrise.”
Wally coughed into his hand, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “The key word, Alfred, is 'usually'. He's, um, he's here now.”
“I am not sure I wish I know how you convinced him to do so.” Alfred chuckled and slid the dish into the washer. “However, thank you. Anything that gets him off the street and into bed sooner is something that I approve.”
“You're welcome.” The tips of Wally's ears were red. “And yeah, you probably don't want to know.” He rubbed the back of his head just as his stomach made an audible grumble. “But if it's not too much to ask, do you have anything else in there that no one's laid claim to?”
Alfred chuckled and opened the breadbox, pulling out a loaf of sourdough. “I will make you a sandwich, Mr. West.”
“Oh, but you don’t have to do that. I mean, I can do it.”
“It's my job.” Alfred tossed the young speedster a smile over his shoulder.
Young would be accurate. Fifteen years younger than Master Bruce but also, one of the few capable of making Master Bruce smile. Alfred did not object to their relationship, to each his own as both were consenting adults. And goodness knows Master Bruce's genuine social circle was rather limited.
“Besides,” Alfred continued as he opened the fridge and pulled out the necessary condiments, “I will be making one extra for you to take to Master Bruce and use whatever method you deem necessary to make him eat it.”
There was a choked noise behind him.
Alfred glanced over his shoulder. Wally's face was buried behind his palm, the tips of his ears a fierce red. The blush had spread down his neck even.
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” Wally said in a strained voice. “Just... fine. Alfred, you really have no shame, do you?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” He returned his attention to his sandwich making duties, that way the young speedster could not see his smile. “Now, I'm not as fast at this as you are but I should be done soon enough. Why don't you tell me what you want for breakfast so I can have it ready when you both wake.”
Wally loosed a soft chuckle. “French toast?”
“Ah. One of Master Bruce's favorites. Easy enough, Mr. West.” It was also one of Master Dick's favorites as well.
It remained Alfred's hope that Master Dick would get over his anger with Master Bruce and return home. Of course, it had not helped that Mr. West and Master Bruce were now involved.
“Thank you, Alfred.”
“You are very welcome, young sir.” Three layers of roast beef and swiss cheese later and Alfred was done with the sandwiches, as in plural.
Alfred carefully arranged them on a platter, added a bottle of water and a sports drink for Wally, and turned to hand said tray to Wally. “Now then, here you are. I'd offer to take it for you but I suspect I should not.”
Wally hopped down off the counter, his bare feet smacking the tile. He accepted the tray, lighting up at the sight of a medium-rare roast beef sandwich.
“No, probably not.” Wally laughed, some of the blush easing out of his complexion, though it made his freckles all the brighter.
How this charming, bright young man had managed to both walk into their lives and remain, Alfred would never know. But he was grateful for the miracle.
“I'll just take this up then. Thanks again, Alfred.”
He smiled, patting the young man on the shoulder. “No, Mr. West. Thank you.”
For far more than he knew.
For Skywinder
Prompt: G1 Bluestreak or Bumblebee, not that innocent, gen or romance
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: presence of sex toys but no actual facing
Tucked into a corner in the shadows, Bluestreak saw everything. This was his favorite place to hide when he wasn't up to talking and being friendly and his normal chatty self. Mechs had come to learn to leave him alone when he was here, unwilling to be alone, but unwilling to socialize. In fact, they'd learned to ignore him.
Which was why nobody noticed him noticing poor Bumblebee.
It was Sideswipe this time, the red frontliner heedless to Bumblebee's subtle requests and then blunt interest. Sideswipe laughed it off as though quite certain the minibot wasn't serious. He claimed that he didn't dare have Prowl drag him in for questioning and corrupting the innocent, before he went away, laughing with his twin and Smokescreen. .
Bluestreak's frown deepened. Sideswipe, for all his friendliness, could be an aft sometimes. It was why Blue had never made his way back to Sides' berth. One time of being treated like glass was one too many.
Left behind, Bumblebee stared at his energon, his expression giving nothing away to the casual observer, but Bluestreak recognized it all too well. Frustration. Annoyance. Anger. A touch of self-loathing to round it out. Bluestreak had been there before. Was still there, more often than not, truth be told. It was why he was both single and lacking in casual partners.
No one wanted to corrupt the smiling and innocent last survivor of Praxus.
Pitslag.
Bluestreak finished off his energon, let the cube dissipate, and rose to his pedes. He approached Bee's table and leaned over, bracing his elbows on the table top as he looked at Bumblebee's face. The angle of his frame and his doorwings gave them a semblance of privacy.
“You look bored,” Bluestreak said with a grin. “And I've got some free time and a roommate on long patrol. Want to come back to my room?”
Bee offered him a smile, but it didn't reach his optics. “Thanks, Blue. But I think I'm just going to recharge early or something. Don't really have the spark for games tonight.”
Bluestreak tilted his helm, lowering his vocals. “I'm thinking of a different kind of game, Bee. One that Sideswipe already declined.”
Bee blinked at him and then his optics widened. He leaned back in his chair, giving Bluestreak a long, second look. Finally, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, getting up from the table. “Let's go.”
Bluestreak grinned, planting his chirpy and fake smile back on his lips. “Great!” he said as Bee fell into step beside him. “I really think you're going to like this one. It's fun! It's not like the racing games either. I mean, I know we're cars, but we don't always have to like racing games.”
Bumblebee chuckled. “If it was up to Smokescreen, we'd all like card games.”
“That's because he wants to win all the time,” Bluestreak replied, keeping up the cover. Anyone they passed offered greetings but no one looked surprised.
Why would they? It was just Bluestreak and Bumblebee, the two most innocent mechs in the Ark, on their way to do something pure and gentle like take a nap or play Go Fish or giggle over their favorite character.
Ugh. Bluestreak almost purged just thinking about it.
They kept up the idle chatter until Bluestreak keyed open the door to the room he shared with Hound and gestured Bumblebee inside. Once the door was shut and they had privacy, Bluestreak dropped the act.
“You're not the only one,” he said, something like a sigh hissing from his vents. “They treat me like that, too. Dismissing me because of a perceived youth or innocence I don't have.”
Bumblebee turned in a slow circle around the room before facing Bluestreak and planting his hands on his hips. “So you did notice.”
“Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt as Sparkplug would say.” Bluestreak snorted and went to his berth. He knelt on the floor, digging around beneath it for the box he knew he kept stashed in the back.
“In my case, they can't see past the act,” Bumblebee said, and the edge of frustration in his vocals was oh-so-familiar. “They forget that I'm Spec Ops, that I'm doing what I'm trained to do, and that it's all a ruse for interacting with humans. Oh, and not to mention the fact that I'm older than half the crew on the Ark.”
“I'm still young,” Bluestreak admitted reluctantly and all but crowed when his fingers found the edge of the box. He dragged it out, shoving aside extra blaster cartridges as he did so. “But I'm at least older than fragging Sideswipe.”
The box emerged into the light, covered in a thin layer of gritty dust, with his ownership glyph stamped on the lid. Bluestreak gave it a loving pat before pulling himself to his pedes and hauling the box onto a nearby chair.
“What is it?” Bumblebee asked.
“My collection,” Bluestreak answered and he flicked the catches and flipped open the lid, beaming with pride.
There, lined across a padded, velvet cushion, were his toys. False spikes. Vibrators. Nub clamps. Spike rings. Two types of whips. Three types of flogs. Inhibitors. Gags. Stasis grade handcuffs. And this was only his portable set.
“I'm impressed, Blue. This is better than mine.” Bumblebee picked up one of the floggers, giving it a testing swish.
“I prefer high-quality stuff.” Bluestreak reached down and selected the double-ended false spike, holding it up to make a point. “How about it? You and me, this toy, that berth, getting rid of more than a little frustration together?”
Bumblebee made a thoughtful noise in his intake before he dropped the flogger and grabbed one of the vibrators instead. “Only if we can use this too.” His optics flashed with lust.
Bluestreak's grin was just shy of wicked as he purred, “Anything you want.”
a/n: Woot! Halfway done. Yep. That's me. Proud of myself. More ficcage to come! Two more unrelated flash fics, two updates to Truth in Advertising, and an update to The Art of Self-Destruction.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/291855.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: Arcee/Wheeljack/Bulkhead, down time
Fandom: Transformers Prime, part of my Misbehavior series. Warnings: Threesome, Sticky, Elements of BDSM, NSFW
He'd lobbied long and hard for this and now that he'd earned it, Bulkhead planned to make full use of it. He so rarely had time to indulge and this was his chance, but all he could think about was getting his spike into Jackie and letting him set the pace.
“You're such a sap, Bulk,” Wheeljack drawled from his position in Bulkhead's lap. His hips moved in a steady rhythm, rising to show off the thick swell of Bulkhead's spike before his valve swallowed it down inch by ribbed inch.
Bulkhead was content to rest his hands on Wheeljack's thighs, his thumbs stroking the inner plating. “Just 'cause I don't beat ya like 'Cee, doesn't mean I'm a sap. You like what I offer, too, you know.”
“I know.” Wheeljack winked and rolled his shoulders. His hands had been bound his back, a precaution to keep him from taking hold of his spike and ending the session too soon.
He had a habit of doing that, Jackie did. He had no patience. Given the opportunity, he'd wrangle as many overloads as he could manage from his own frame. Then again, considering how often Arcee kept him on the edge, no wonder.
“S'why I love ya, partner,” Wheeljack added and his glossa swept over his lips. He inclined his helm, casting Bulkhead a smirk. “And that two-wheeled menace, too.”
Bulkhead chuckled. “She'd consider that a compliment.”
“Know that, too.” Wheeljack rose up and sank down again, a shiver echoing across his plating.
Bulkhead could feel Jackie's valve rippling around his spike, calipers rolling and gripping as though trying to pull out his overload. Hah. Of all of them, Bulkhead had the most stamina and Jackie knew it. His efforts were futile.
“Did someone say my name?”
Bulkhead glanced over his shoulder to see Arcee emerging from the smaller room they'd hollowed out for a berth, arms stretched over her helm and a yawn on her lips.
“Bout time you woke up!” Wheeljack said and he sank down, grinding hard on Bulkhead's spike. “We figured you were going to sleep this whole day away. And after Bulk worked so hard to get it for us.”
Arcee tossed Bulkhead an amused look. “Did you lose the gag?”
Bulkhead chuckled and swung his gaze back forward. “Didn't need it this time.” His hands inched forward and he let his thumbs sweep Wheeljack's pelvis, one brushing his spike panel, the other rubbing his anterior nub.
“Bulk likes to hear me talk.” Wheeljack waggled his orbital ridges, though it was lost to a moan as Bulkhead applied more pressure to his throbbing sensor. “Unlike a certain someone.”
Bulkhead had a second's proximity warning before he felt the lithe, warm frame press to his back. Arms slithered over his shoulders from behind and ex-vents caressed his neck cabling.
“Because you talk far too much,” Arcee retorted, but her tone was playful, as were her lips as they pressed a kiss to Bulkhead's audial. “Thank you for our downtime, Bulkhead. I appreciate it.”
He never had any doubt.
Wheeljack's thighs trembled and he pushed himself up again, lubricant seeping from his valve around Bulkhead's spike to soak Bulkhead's hips. “I talk as much as I need to. Now get off Bulk and let him do me like I need him to.”
“I'm hardly stopping him,” Arcee purred. Long, slender fingers slid down, toying with transformation seams on Bulkhead's chest.
He shivered, engine rumbling. His hips flicked upward, jostling Wheeljack, who hissed a moan.
“You're distracting me,” Bulkhead said. It wasn't a complaint.
Arcee's glossa flicked over his audial again. He heard a click and felt the wet slide of a spike against his back plating. Arcee rocked forward, grinding against him.
“Wasn't my intention,” she said. “Just wondering when it's going to be my turn?”
Wheeljack sucked in a ventilation, his optics flashing. He leaned forward, changing the angle of Bulkhead's spike in his valve, but also presenting an obvious invitation.
“Could be now, if you wanted,” he said, lust spiking heavily in his field. “I can fit you both.”
They'd done it before after all. Bulkhead had many, many archived memories of that particular night. And so many others. Wheeljack was insatiable, Arcee was creative, and the two of them combined often left Bulkhead an exhausted, yet satiated heap of green metal.
Arcee rubbed her helm along Bulkhead's. “I'm not rude enough to interrupt Bulkhead's plans. I can wait.”
“And what if my plans included you?” Bulkhead asked, turning his helm to catch her gaze. “What if I didn't grab a gag because I thought you'd prefer to occupy his mouth.”
“Primus, Bulk,” Wheeljack groaned and his valve cinched down on Bulkhead's spike, squeezing hard. Not quite an overload, but almost there.
“Mmm.” Arcee nipped at his mouthguard, something Bulkhead should have thought to remove. “Sounds good. So long as you don't mind.”
His hands slid back to Wheeljack's thighs, ignoring Jackie's muttered protest. “Not at all,” Bulkhead said.
He felt more than saw Arcee grin.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: FlashBat and Alfred, late night munchies
Fandom: Justice League/Young Justice-ish. Warnings: None.
The crash and clatter were what roused Alfred from his slumber and prompted him to investigate. It occurred to him to wake the actual vigilante members of the household, but he dismissed the thought just as quickly. He was old, not incapable.
Besides, he had an emergency communicator tucked into the pocket of his robe.
Cane in hand - more a weapon than something he needed, but it would fool any potential intruders - Alfred crept toward the source of the noise. It had come from the kitchen. An odd place for a burglar, but to each his own, Alfred supposed. Even criminals got hungry.
Brazen criminals they were as well! They'd gone so far as to turn the light on. He could see it spilling through the gaps around the door. Alfred eased the swinging door open a crack and peered into the kitchen.
He sighed and shook his head in amusement. He should have known.
Alfred hooked his cane on the wall near the door and pushed his way fully inside. “Mr. West,” he said, with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A very guilty, barely-dressed redhead sat on the counter, a plate of food in his lap. There was no evidence of what had caused the earlier noise, but no doubt the famous Speedster had cleaned it up in a flash. Green eyes instantly flicked Alfred's direction. Cheeks stuffed with what looked to be the remains of Alfred's cheesecake bobbed up and down.
“Um,” Wally said around a mouthful of cake. And then he mumbled something that sounded a bit like, 'No thanks, I helped myself.'
“I can see that.” Alfred's lips twitched. “If I had known you were visiting, I would have prepared some snacks in advance for you.”
Wally chewed aggressively and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “It was kind of a spur of the moment thing,” he said. Which probably explained his state of mostly undress.
There was probably a trail of Flash uniform across the floor of Master Bruce's suite. Fortunately, Alfred was not responsible for dry cleaning these. He didn't precisely know how it worked, only that the Flash took care of his own laundry.
“You do realize that it is three in the morning,” Alfred pointed out.
“Yeah.” Wally ducked his head. “Sorry for the late visit.”
Alfred took the empty dish from Wally and rinsed it off in the sink. “I am not opposed to your company, Mr. West. I only pointed out the time because Master Wayne usually does not return until sunrise.”
Wally coughed into his hand, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “The key word, Alfred, is 'usually'. He's, um, he's here now.”
“I am not sure I wish I know how you convinced him to do so.” Alfred chuckled and slid the dish into the washer. “However, thank you. Anything that gets him off the street and into bed sooner is something that I approve.”
“You're welcome.” The tips of Wally's ears were red. “And yeah, you probably don't want to know.” He rubbed the back of his head just as his stomach made an audible grumble. “But if it's not too much to ask, do you have anything else in there that no one's laid claim to?”
Alfred chuckled and opened the breadbox, pulling out a loaf of sourdough. “I will make you a sandwich, Mr. West.”
“Oh, but you don’t have to do that. I mean, I can do it.”
“It's my job.” Alfred tossed the young speedster a smile over his shoulder.
Young would be accurate. Fifteen years younger than Master Bruce but also, one of the few capable of making Master Bruce smile. Alfred did not object to their relationship, to each his own as both were consenting adults. And goodness knows Master Bruce's genuine social circle was rather limited.
“Besides,” Alfred continued as he opened the fridge and pulled out the necessary condiments, “I will be making one extra for you to take to Master Bruce and use whatever method you deem necessary to make him eat it.”
There was a choked noise behind him.
Alfred glanced over his shoulder. Wally's face was buried behind his palm, the tips of his ears a fierce red. The blush had spread down his neck even.
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” Wally said in a strained voice. “Just... fine. Alfred, you really have no shame, do you?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” He returned his attention to his sandwich making duties, that way the young speedster could not see his smile. “Now, I'm not as fast at this as you are but I should be done soon enough. Why don't you tell me what you want for breakfast so I can have it ready when you both wake.”
Wally loosed a soft chuckle. “French toast?”
“Ah. One of Master Bruce's favorites. Easy enough, Mr. West.” It was also one of Master Dick's favorites as well.
It remained Alfred's hope that Master Dick would get over his anger with Master Bruce and return home. Of course, it had not helped that Mr. West and Master Bruce were now involved.
“Thank you, Alfred.”
“You are very welcome, young sir.” Three layers of roast beef and swiss cheese later and Alfred was done with the sandwiches, as in plural.
Alfred carefully arranged them on a platter, added a bottle of water and a sports drink for Wally, and turned to hand said tray to Wally. “Now then, here you are. I'd offer to take it for you but I suspect I should not.”
Wally hopped down off the counter, his bare feet smacking the tile. He accepted the tray, lighting up at the sight of a medium-rare roast beef sandwich.
“No, probably not.” Wally laughed, some of the blush easing out of his complexion, though it made his freckles all the brighter.
How this charming, bright young man had managed to both walk into their lives and remain, Alfred would never know. But he was grateful for the miracle.
“I'll just take this up then. Thanks again, Alfred.”
He smiled, patting the young man on the shoulder. “No, Mr. West. Thank you.”
For far more than he knew.
For Skywinder
Prompt: G1 Bluestreak or Bumblebee, not that innocent, gen or romance
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: presence of sex toys but no actual facing
Tucked into a corner in the shadows, Bluestreak saw everything. This was his favorite place to hide when he wasn't up to talking and being friendly and his normal chatty self. Mechs had come to learn to leave him alone when he was here, unwilling to be alone, but unwilling to socialize. In fact, they'd learned to ignore him.
Which was why nobody noticed him noticing poor Bumblebee.
It was Sideswipe this time, the red frontliner heedless to Bumblebee's subtle requests and then blunt interest. Sideswipe laughed it off as though quite certain the minibot wasn't serious. He claimed that he didn't dare have Prowl drag him in for questioning and corrupting the innocent, before he went away, laughing with his twin and Smokescreen. .
Bluestreak's frown deepened. Sideswipe, for all his friendliness, could be an aft sometimes. It was why Blue had never made his way back to Sides' berth. One time of being treated like glass was one too many.
Left behind, Bumblebee stared at his energon, his expression giving nothing away to the casual observer, but Bluestreak recognized it all too well. Frustration. Annoyance. Anger. A touch of self-loathing to round it out. Bluestreak had been there before. Was still there, more often than not, truth be told. It was why he was both single and lacking in casual partners.
No one wanted to corrupt the smiling and innocent last survivor of Praxus.
Pitslag.
Bluestreak finished off his energon, let the cube dissipate, and rose to his pedes. He approached Bee's table and leaned over, bracing his elbows on the table top as he looked at Bumblebee's face. The angle of his frame and his doorwings gave them a semblance of privacy.
“You look bored,” Bluestreak said with a grin. “And I've got some free time and a roommate on long patrol. Want to come back to my room?”
Bee offered him a smile, but it didn't reach his optics. “Thanks, Blue. But I think I'm just going to recharge early or something. Don't really have the spark for games tonight.”
Bluestreak tilted his helm, lowering his vocals. “I'm thinking of a different kind of game, Bee. One that Sideswipe already declined.”
Bee blinked at him and then his optics widened. He leaned back in his chair, giving Bluestreak a long, second look. Finally, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, getting up from the table. “Let's go.”
Bluestreak grinned, planting his chirpy and fake smile back on his lips. “Great!” he said as Bee fell into step beside him. “I really think you're going to like this one. It's fun! It's not like the racing games either. I mean, I know we're cars, but we don't always have to like racing games.”
Bumblebee chuckled. “If it was up to Smokescreen, we'd all like card games.”
“That's because he wants to win all the time,” Bluestreak replied, keeping up the cover. Anyone they passed offered greetings but no one looked surprised.
Why would they? It was just Bluestreak and Bumblebee, the two most innocent mechs in the Ark, on their way to do something pure and gentle like take a nap or play Go Fish or giggle over their favorite character.
Ugh. Bluestreak almost purged just thinking about it.
They kept up the idle chatter until Bluestreak keyed open the door to the room he shared with Hound and gestured Bumblebee inside. Once the door was shut and they had privacy, Bluestreak dropped the act.
“You're not the only one,” he said, something like a sigh hissing from his vents. “They treat me like that, too. Dismissing me because of a perceived youth or innocence I don't have.”
Bumblebee turned in a slow circle around the room before facing Bluestreak and planting his hands on his hips. “So you did notice.”
“Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt as Sparkplug would say.” Bluestreak snorted and went to his berth. He knelt on the floor, digging around beneath it for the box he knew he kept stashed in the back.
“In my case, they can't see past the act,” Bumblebee said, and the edge of frustration in his vocals was oh-so-familiar. “They forget that I'm Spec Ops, that I'm doing what I'm trained to do, and that it's all a ruse for interacting with humans. Oh, and not to mention the fact that I'm older than half the crew on the Ark.”
“I'm still young,” Bluestreak admitted reluctantly and all but crowed when his fingers found the edge of the box. He dragged it out, shoving aside extra blaster cartridges as he did so. “But I'm at least older than fragging Sideswipe.”
The box emerged into the light, covered in a thin layer of gritty dust, with his ownership glyph stamped on the lid. Bluestreak gave it a loving pat before pulling himself to his pedes and hauling the box onto a nearby chair.
“What is it?” Bumblebee asked.
“My collection,” Bluestreak answered and he flicked the catches and flipped open the lid, beaming with pride.
There, lined across a padded, velvet cushion, were his toys. False spikes. Vibrators. Nub clamps. Spike rings. Two types of whips. Three types of flogs. Inhibitors. Gags. Stasis grade handcuffs. And this was only his portable set.
“I'm impressed, Blue. This is better than mine.” Bumblebee picked up one of the floggers, giving it a testing swish.
“I prefer high-quality stuff.” Bluestreak reached down and selected the double-ended false spike, holding it up to make a point. “How about it? You and me, this toy, that berth, getting rid of more than a little frustration together?”
Bumblebee made a thoughtful noise in his intake before he dropped the flogger and grabbed one of the vibrators instead. “Only if we can use this too.” His optics flashed with lust.
Bluestreak's grin was just shy of wicked as he purred, “Anything you want.”
a/n: Woot! Halfway done. Yep. That's me. Proud of myself. More ficcage to come! Two more unrelated flash fics, two updates to Truth in Advertising, and an update to The Art of Self-Destruction.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
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