Flash Fiction Fills Take 64 Part Four
For Kitty Anon
Prompt: Sunstreaker as someone's all too happy pet.
Fandom: Transformers G1/IDW. Warnings: Petplay, food play, nameless participant
“Open.”
He knew this game. He loved this game.
Sunstreaker’s engine purred as he tilted his helm back, parted his lips, and stuck out his glossa. He looked up at his master with adoration, waiting patiently for the sweet energon treat to be placed on his glossa.
He hummed gratefully as the small cube landed on the tip of his glossa, but he knew better than to eagerly gulp it down. He waited for his Master’s permission, waited for the nod of approval.
“Good boy,” his Master said, stroking a finger down the tip of his olfactory sensor. “You may swallow.”
Sunstreaker shivered as he drew his glossa into his mouth and closed his lips around the treat. The sweet and tart flavor melted across his glossa, down his intake, and into his tank. It glowed there warmly and his engine purred all the stronger. His hands kneaded at the floor. His optics shuttered.
Master’s hand cupped his helm and Sunstreaker turned into it. Warmth flooded his entire frame. His spark throbbed with it.
“You are so obedient,” Master told him, his words ringing through Sunstreaker’s audials like the finest song. “You have come so far, pet. I am proud of you.”
Sunstreaker made a noise, it didn’t qualify as a word, and nudged his helm harder into Master’s touch. He wanted to crawl into Master’s lap and stay there, but he hadn’t been given permission. And he was a good boy, he was a good pet. He wanted to keep it that way.
It was so much easier when Master told him what to do. Sunstreaker didn’t want to lose that.
Master’s thumb stroked over his bottom lip. Sunstreaker knew what to do here, too.
He opened his mouth, let Master’s thumb slide inside. Let it push down on his glossa, trace over his denta, let Master do whatever he wanted.
Because Sunstreaker was obedient and he was happy to be so.
“Beautiful,” Master murmured, his ventilations getting sharper and faster. The fingers of his free hand teased at Sunstreaker’s helm vents. “Beautiful and all mine.”
Sunstreaker moaned, oral lubricant dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
Yes. He belonged to Master.
There was nowhere else he’d rather be.
For histrionicstarscream
Prompt: Megatron and Starscream, 'forgiveness'
Fandom: Transformers IDW, post-Dark Cybertron. Warnings: None
He’d had to bribe three guards for this opportunity and convince a fourth to disable the audio recording.
Starscream didn’t care if anyone knew he’d come here. But he didn’t want anyone to know why. Let them assume the obvious.
The sight of Megatron behind bars provided him much joy. The shackles were a charming bonus. That the cell was a touch too small, a shade beyond comfortable, filled Starscream with a quiet glee.
And yet, he had not come here with the purpose of mocking his once great leader.
“Go away, Starscream.”
The fragger’s back was to the bars, but somehow, he’d known who had come to visit.
“All these millennia together and you still won’t listen to what I have to say?”
“In all those millennia, you never had anything of worth to offer.” Megatron stood, hydraulics creaking, his frame new but carrying the weight of years. “You’ve had your podium. What do you want?”
Starscream tilted his helm. “Don’t think I’ll forget that it was my speech that changed your mind, worthless though my words are.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “What. Do. You. Want?”
A pity. He used to be more entertaining.
“A moment of your time, that is, if you’re not too busy picking up the shredded remnants of your pride.”
Starscream grinned. He’d seen the speech Optimus Prime had written for Megatron. He hadn’t known Optimus could be so cruel. Where had he learned such tactics?
But that was beside the point. Megatron had ignored his pointed statement. His glare was hot enough to singe paint.
“Then since I have your attention, I’ll say what I’ve come to say.” Starscream folded his arms behind his back. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your cowardice.”
He eyed Megatron, caught the ripple that rolled across his armor, and the growl that echoed in his chassis.
Starscream smirked and continued, “I mean, dying ends the game, yes? So I want you to know that I forgive you for becoming what you are.” He turned, slanting Megatron a sideways look. “There’s a little traitor in all of us, I suppose.”
Ventilations whirred. Oo, if there weren’t bars between them! Starscream was certain Megatron longed to visit violence upon him.
“Is that all?” Megatron growled.
“It’s more than you deserve,” Starscream said as he turned to face the once mighty warrior. “Enjoy your trip, Master. You won’t be missed.”
“You won’t hold their loyalty long, Starscream. What will you do then?”
He turned, giving Megatron his back. “Unlike you, I think further ahead than the next battle. At least, I won’t be remembered as the loser in this game.”
Ah. It had turned into mockery after all. Oops.
“Starscream.” He paused at the exit, Megatron’s gaze heavy between his wings.
“I didn’t lose the game,” Megatron said. “I just didn’t win. Remember that.”
Starscream frowned. Touche.
He had no ready retort. He opted for silence instead, something which had always unnerved Megatron and forced explosions of anger in the past.
Besides, Megatron was the one in a cage. Starscream had a planet to rebuild.
It was time he left failure in the past where it belonged.
For gaslight-dreamer
Prompt: Smokescreen/Rung, professional courtesy
Fandom: Transformers IDW, MTMTE. Warning: mentions of kink
Every action has a meaning. Every word has a secret message. Every smile, every laugh, every coy glance, flirtatious wink and furious scowl…
Actions are roadmaps of behavioral origins. And once you know how to read the legend, it’s impossible to get lost. And impossible to forget.
Smokescreen knows it’s creepy. He knows that moment of realization when a casual conversation turns guarded. When a friend treats you like an enemy because everything has meaning.
He picked the Lost Light because no one on the roster knows who he used to be. Or if they do - like Ultra Magnus - they keep their silence. Or, like Rung, recognize his reasons.
Rung, however, takes pride where Smokescreen stays in the shadows. Then again, Rung has the unique ability to be forgotten. Smokescreen is a mech trained to be remembered.
Having Rung around is a relief, admittedly. Smokescreen can be himself around the therapist like he can no one else. They share a professional courtesy and sometimes, it’s almost a game. To see who has the better mask.
Rung usually wins. Smokescreen thinks it’s because the glasses give him an edge. That and Rung’s been around for so long he has more life experience to draw from.
He always takes his victories in stride, but Smokescreen can read the pride behind his humble bow. There’s a wicked humor within Rung, one that few give him credit for, but one Smokescreen enjoys witnessing.
He’s a clever mech, and a strong one, and Smokescreen often wonders what it would have been like to watch he and Froid, in their heyday, debate the finer points of psychotherapy.
Still… there’s a reason Smokescreen knocks on Rung’s habsuite door once a week, and it’s not just to play the game.
It’s because Rung understands. And for Smokescreen, there’s nothing more valuable than the welcome in Rung’s field and the genuine smile on his face.
His nimble fingers and creative toys? Those are just a charming bonus. One Smokescreen enjoys quite thoroughly when he’s lashed down to Rung’s berth and begging for mercy, with that cultured smirk directed toward him. Unguarded blue optics shimmer at him in promise.
“I won’t break you,” Rung purrs. “At least, not any more than you want me to.”
Better that Smokescreen can trust him. More, even, than he can trust himself.
a/n: Bit by bit, I'm knocking these out. Woo!
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