Flash Fiction Fills Take 64 Part Five
For fulcrum is the bomb
Prompt: Krok helps Spinister through a panic attack
Fandom: Transformers MTMTE. Warnings: None
He can’t ventilate.
His fingers are shaking. His knees are wobbling. There aren’t any errors on his HUD, but he’s quite sure something is wrong.
His spark flares and flickers. His helm aches. His vision’s on the fritz. There’s static in his audials. He doesn’t know what it is.
He needs to get away- go away. He needs- needs-
“Spinister?”
Hand on his arm.
He whirls, bats it away, draws his blaster, shouts “don’t touch me!” and snarls as his world spins and spins.
It’s Krok. Click-click. No. No click. Eerie silence.
Krok holds up his hands. Backs off. His optics gleam. He's… worried?
Spinister can sense it in his field.
“Just… go away,” Spinister growls and ow, ow, ow, he didn’t really mean it. His helm hurts. He’s overheating. It’s too hot. It’s too-
“It’s just me here,” Krok says and Spinister blinks.
He’s right. The noise is gone. Crankcase isn’t complaining. Grimlock and Misfire aren’t playing their game. Fulcrum’s on watch where he should be. It's… quieter.
Heat flushes to ice. He’s shivering. His plating is rattling. His fingers are still trembling and he's… pointing his blaster at Krok? Slag. That’s not good.
“You want to sit down?” Krok asks.
And sitting. Yes. Sitting is good.
Spinister drops back down into his chair. His knees are grateful. He remembers to stow his blaster.
Krok finally lowers his hands. “I’ve got some midgrade in my subspace. You want it?”
“Don’t need fuel,” Spinister bites out. His vision is spotty. Audio sensors still glitching.
But it’s quiet.
Krok moves slowly, carefully. He sits next to Spinister, out of reach of all but his field. He doesn’t even stare, not directly.
Spinister cycles a rattling vent. “You could… talk?” He suggests. His fingers rap on the table - jerky, uncoordinated.
“Okay,” Krok says. “I’ll talk.”
He launches into a story. Something ridiculous and boring, but there’s a cadence, a rhythm. One Spinister can focus on, match his sparkbeats to.
And it’s good.
Spinister dims his optics.
Yeah, it’s good.
For Skywinder
Prompt: Jazz/Tracks, "You hurt him, they won't ever find the pieces"
Fandom: G1, related to this oneshot. Warnings: None
It was more than a little startling to walk into his room, switch on the lights, and see Jazz casually reclined on his berth.
Tracks blinked and reminded himself that Jazz was, first and foremost, an Autobot. He was the friendliest member of high command. And the only mechs he was interested in hurting were Decepticons.
He tried not to remember that beneath Jazz’s flashy smile and sense of humor, lurked a shadowy demon that even the worst Cons had come to fear.
“Can I help you?” Tracks asked, careful to keep his tone pleasant, though he could do little for the spike of fear that tainted his field.
Jazz stretched languidly and slid down from the berth as though his struts were liquid. “I’m thinkin’, actually, that I can help you.”
Tracks chuckled and kept a fair bit of distance between himself and the other mech. Though he knew Jazz was fast, he hoped to get maybe a half-second of warning. Maybe long enough to screech over the comms? If Jazz hadn’t blocked them.
“Help me with what?” Tracks asked brightly.
“Not makin’ a terrible mistake.” Jazz was still grinning as he stalked toward Tracks, leaving no room for him to move out of the way. “I hear that you and my mech got a little somethin-somethin goin’ on, and I just want to make sure you understand how things work.”
Tracks swallowed thickly. “Is this the part where you threaten me?” he asked with another nervous laugh. “I thought they only did that in movies?”
“Threaten?” Jazz waved a dismissive hand and laughed. “For one, I don’t threaten, I promise. And two, threatening is a kind of juvenile thing, yeah? I mean, Mirage is a grown mech. He can make his own choices.”
Tracks looked anxiously toward his door. He didn’t think he could make it. “I don’t get it.”
And then Jazz was there, right in front of his face, so close that Tracks absolutely did not yelp. “I just want ya to know that if ya hurt him, they won’t ever find the pieces, got me?”
“That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?” Tracks proposed, and oh Primus, he was going to die. Why did he have to be so belligerent? “I mean, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Oh, I know that things happen. Relationships fall apart for one reason or another. People hurt each other. It happens.” Jazz lifted a hand and poked Tracks in the chestplate, right over his Autobot symbol. “All I’m sayin’ is that if I catch ya hurtin’ him on purpose, you and me, we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
Tracks nodded. “Got it.” Crystal. Loud and clear. Warning heard and registered.
“Good.” Jazz patted him on the chestplate. “So long as we understand each other.” He stepped back with a little dancing skip. “Have a nice recharge.”
“You, too.”
Tracks watched him go, with a groove to his movements, and didn’t cycle a ventilation of relief until the door slid shut.
It might have taken him a bit longer than usual until he felt he could safely move.
Primus save him from overprotective commanders.
Damn.
For TAnon
Prompt: IDWMegatron/TFP Optimus, hips
Fandom: Transformers Prime. Warnings: None
They were absolutely mesmerizing.
Megatron was used to the Optimus Prime who had been Orion Pax, who had been a police officer in Rodion. He was used to a massive mech with broad shoulders, his protoform bristling with protective armor, thick thighs and even thicker pedes.
This tall and slim Optimus Prime was something else and Megatron couldn’t help but stare. He tried to hide it, pay attention elsewhere, but he was captivated by the sway of those hips.
This Optimus Prime was top heavy, but he had the long, long legs to make up for it. And he was fast. Megatron had seen him in battle. Seen how fast he could spin and pivot. Seen how flexible he could be when he was kicking or maneuvering around the enemy.
He danced when he walked.
Megatron couldn’t stop staring.
It had gotten to the point that Ratchet started faking a cough to warn him whenever his stare lingered for too long. This Ratchet, too, was different. A little shorter, a little stouter, a lot grumpier. And Megatron hadn’t known that Ratchet could get any grumpier.
There was a Bumblebee here, too. Younger. Faster. Chirpier.
Alive.
He was a very different mech compared to the brittle and exhausted Autobot Megatron had fought beside.
Still… none of these similar but different mechs had caught Megatron’s optic the way this different Optimus did. He was more dignified. He carried himself with pride. He was kinder. Gentler.
And Primus be damned if Megatron didn’t want to take him by the hips and kiss him senseless. If he didn’t want to pin Optimus down to a berth and wrap those long, long legs around his waist.
His cooling fans clicked on. Megatron refused to be embarrassed. Even if Ratchet gave him a reminder cough and Bumblebee beeped on out of the room.
“Not again,” the blue motorcycle groaned, hiding behind her palm.
Optimus, for his part, warmed a little in the faceplate and tried to go back to work, pretending he hadn’t noticed.
But Megatron didn’t miss that his faceplate pinked around the edges.
Maybe Megatron would manage to get him into the berth sooner than he thought.
a/n: Many, many more to come. I'm about halfway done now. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/317696.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Prompt: Krok helps Spinister through a panic attack
Fandom: Transformers MTMTE. Warnings: None
He can’t ventilate.
His fingers are shaking. His knees are wobbling. There aren’t any errors on his HUD, but he’s quite sure something is wrong.
His spark flares and flickers. His helm aches. His vision’s on the fritz. There’s static in his audials. He doesn’t know what it is.
He needs to get away- go away. He needs- needs-
“Spinister?”
Hand on his arm.
He whirls, bats it away, draws his blaster, shouts “don’t touch me!” and snarls as his world spins and spins.
It’s Krok. Click-click. No. No click. Eerie silence.
Krok holds up his hands. Backs off. His optics gleam. He's… worried?
Spinister can sense it in his field.
“Just… go away,” Spinister growls and ow, ow, ow, he didn’t really mean it. His helm hurts. He’s overheating. It’s too hot. It’s too-
“It’s just me here,” Krok says and Spinister blinks.
He’s right. The noise is gone. Crankcase isn’t complaining. Grimlock and Misfire aren’t playing their game. Fulcrum’s on watch where he should be. It's… quieter.
Heat flushes to ice. He’s shivering. His plating is rattling. His fingers are still trembling and he's… pointing his blaster at Krok? Slag. That’s not good.
“You want to sit down?” Krok asks.
And sitting. Yes. Sitting is good.
Spinister drops back down into his chair. His knees are grateful. He remembers to stow his blaster.
Krok finally lowers his hands. “I’ve got some midgrade in my subspace. You want it?”
“Don’t need fuel,” Spinister bites out. His vision is spotty. Audio sensors still glitching.
But it’s quiet.
Krok moves slowly, carefully. He sits next to Spinister, out of reach of all but his field. He doesn’t even stare, not directly.
Spinister cycles a rattling vent. “You could… talk?” He suggests. His fingers rap on the table - jerky, uncoordinated.
“Okay,” Krok says. “I’ll talk.”
He launches into a story. Something ridiculous and boring, but there’s a cadence, a rhythm. One Spinister can focus on, match his sparkbeats to.
And it’s good.
Spinister dims his optics.
Yeah, it’s good.
For Skywinder
Prompt: Jazz/Tracks, "You hurt him, they won't ever find the pieces"
Fandom: G1, related to this oneshot. Warnings: None
It was more than a little startling to walk into his room, switch on the lights, and see Jazz casually reclined on his berth.
Tracks blinked and reminded himself that Jazz was, first and foremost, an Autobot. He was the friendliest member of high command. And the only mechs he was interested in hurting were Decepticons.
He tried not to remember that beneath Jazz’s flashy smile and sense of humor, lurked a shadowy demon that even the worst Cons had come to fear.
“Can I help you?” Tracks asked, careful to keep his tone pleasant, though he could do little for the spike of fear that tainted his field.
Jazz stretched languidly and slid down from the berth as though his struts were liquid. “I’m thinkin’, actually, that I can help you.”
Tracks chuckled and kept a fair bit of distance between himself and the other mech. Though he knew Jazz was fast, he hoped to get maybe a half-second of warning. Maybe long enough to screech over the comms? If Jazz hadn’t blocked them.
“Help me with what?” Tracks asked brightly.
“Not makin’ a terrible mistake.” Jazz was still grinning as he stalked toward Tracks, leaving no room for him to move out of the way. “I hear that you and my mech got a little somethin-somethin goin’ on, and I just want to make sure you understand how things work.”
Tracks swallowed thickly. “Is this the part where you threaten me?” he asked with another nervous laugh. “I thought they only did that in movies?”
“Threaten?” Jazz waved a dismissive hand and laughed. “For one, I don’t threaten, I promise. And two, threatening is a kind of juvenile thing, yeah? I mean, Mirage is a grown mech. He can make his own choices.”
Tracks looked anxiously toward his door. He didn’t think he could make it. “I don’t get it.”
And then Jazz was there, right in front of his face, so close that Tracks absolutely did not yelp. “I just want ya to know that if ya hurt him, they won’t ever find the pieces, got me?”
“That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?” Tracks proposed, and oh Primus, he was going to die. Why did he have to be so belligerent? “I mean, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Oh, I know that things happen. Relationships fall apart for one reason or another. People hurt each other. It happens.” Jazz lifted a hand and poked Tracks in the chestplate, right over his Autobot symbol. “All I’m sayin’ is that if I catch ya hurtin’ him on purpose, you and me, we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
Tracks nodded. “Got it.” Crystal. Loud and clear. Warning heard and registered.
“Good.” Jazz patted him on the chestplate. “So long as we understand each other.” He stepped back with a little dancing skip. “Have a nice recharge.”
“You, too.”
Tracks watched him go, with a groove to his movements, and didn’t cycle a ventilation of relief until the door slid shut.
It might have taken him a bit longer than usual until he felt he could safely move.
Primus save him from overprotective commanders.
Damn.
For TAnon
Prompt: IDWMegatron/TFP Optimus, hips
Fandom: Transformers Prime. Warnings: None
They were absolutely mesmerizing.
Megatron was used to the Optimus Prime who had been Orion Pax, who had been a police officer in Rodion. He was used to a massive mech with broad shoulders, his protoform bristling with protective armor, thick thighs and even thicker pedes.
This tall and slim Optimus Prime was something else and Megatron couldn’t help but stare. He tried to hide it, pay attention elsewhere, but he was captivated by the sway of those hips.
This Optimus Prime was top heavy, but he had the long, long legs to make up for it. And he was fast. Megatron had seen him in battle. Seen how fast he could spin and pivot. Seen how flexible he could be when he was kicking or maneuvering around the enemy.
He danced when he walked.
Megatron couldn’t stop staring.
It had gotten to the point that Ratchet started faking a cough to warn him whenever his stare lingered for too long. This Ratchet, too, was different. A little shorter, a little stouter, a lot grumpier. And Megatron hadn’t known that Ratchet could get any grumpier.
There was a Bumblebee here, too. Younger. Faster. Chirpier.
Alive.
He was a very different mech compared to the brittle and exhausted Autobot Megatron had fought beside.
Still… none of these similar but different mechs had caught Megatron’s optic the way this different Optimus did. He was more dignified. He carried himself with pride. He was kinder. Gentler.
And Primus be damned if Megatron didn’t want to take him by the hips and kiss him senseless. If he didn’t want to pin Optimus down to a berth and wrap those long, long legs around his waist.
His cooling fans clicked on. Megatron refused to be embarrassed. Even if Ratchet gave him a reminder cough and Bumblebee beeped on out of the room.
“Not again,” the blue motorcycle groaned, hiding behind her palm.
Optimus, for his part, warmed a little in the faceplate and tried to go back to work, pretending he hadn’t noticed.
But Megatron didn’t miss that his faceplate pinked around the edges.
Maybe Megatron would manage to get him into the berth sooner than he thought.
a/n: Many, many more to come. I'm about halfway done now. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/317696.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.