#flash fiction fills

[izhunny]

A Stolen Exchange

Chapter 12 “Is this blood?”

Whoops, these ficlets just developed some plot!

A flashfic (500 words or less) frostiron pocket universe. Titles reflect prompts. Available to logged-in AO3 members only. (◕ᴗ◕✿)

[dracoqueen22]

hmmm, for a prompt:

Piers Nivans going to the gym with Chris and trying to be subtle about his admiration as Chris works out.

(yes I'm still thinking about it)

Piers is in the zone, mind thankfully blank, and breathing perfectly in control when he hears the door thud open behind him. It’s just after midnight in the BSAA gym, and usually, Piers has the place to himself. Everyone else would rather be out and about on a Friday night, then cooped up in headquarters in the gym. 

It’s probably Marco. He’s the only one who has even less of a life than Piers. 

There’s movement in his peripheral vision – the visitor taking the treadmill next to Piers – and he glances over for a quick confirmation. His rhythm stumbles. 

It’s not Marco. 

“Oh, uh, hey, Captain,” Piers says, trying to sound cool and collected and not at all inwardly freaking out. Chris’ wearing shorts that barely brush mid-thigh and a tank top that’s two sizes too small. “Didn’t think you’d be here so late.” 

Chris gives him one of those gorgeous half-smiles that lights up his eyes. “Am I out past my bedtime?” he asks. 

Piers laughs, and hopes it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels. “Of course not. Just surprised is all. Usually, I’m the only one here.” He slows to a stop, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“Do you prefer to be alone?” Chris asks. He hasn’t climbed up on the treadmill yet, like he’s genuinely going to turn around and leave if Piers asks him, too. Because that’s the kind of guy Chris Redfield is. 

Good to the last drop. 

Also, it’s a tough question. Piers absolutely doesn’t want Chris to go anywhere, but he also doesn’t know how well he’s going to focus if his captain is right beside him, sweating and grunting and looking too fuckable. 

“Nah,” Piers says, the demon whispering just how much he doesn’t want to miss out on the sight of Chris Redfield, covered in sweat, wearing those too-short shorts. “Don’t mind the company if it’s yours, sir.” 

Chris huffs a laugh. “We’re off duty,” he says as he climbs onto the treadmill, tucking water bottle and phone into the holders. “You can call me Chris.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Piers offers an unsteady smile. 

Chris shrugs and powers on the treadmill, plugging in all the settings he prefers. “Suit yourself.” 

Piers does the same, getting back to work, trying to focus on his breathing, his pace. If he runs and doesn’t have to think, if he lets the rhythm pound through his feet, it’s like meditation. His mind drifts to nowhere and nothing. 

Not tonight though. 

Not with Chris Redfield a pace beside him, muscles flexing, body moving, a thin sheen of sweat building after ten minutes. He’s focused, sometimes typing on the phone with one hand, oblivious to Piers tracking a bead of sweat down the curve of his neck until it vanishes into the drooping dip of the tank. 

Christ, why does Chris always have to buy clothes two sizes too small? 

Piers swallows and stares at the readout on his own treadmill. He’s been at pace for fifteen minutes, more than warmed up, so he steps away, wipes his face. Normally he’d go into some light sparring with the dummy, but the LAT machine is right there, and he’d have a great view of Chris’ ass. 

He shouldn’t. 

But he does. He sits his ass at the LAT machine and starts to work, heart in his throat and mouth dry as Chris runs. His ass is perfectly framed by the taut stretch of his gym shorts, the way they ride up the back of his thighs. 

They’ve sparred a few times, Piers and Chris. Friendly wrestling matches out on the mats or testing spars between a captain and his subordinate to keep their skills fresh. Piers has been beneath Chris and on top of Chris and caught by Chris, so he knows how all those muscles feel. How strong Chris’ legs are, and how it’s like being in a cage when those thick arms wrap around you. 

Oh, fuck. 

Piers lets the LAT machine rest and leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch a breath. He’s dizzy. This is such a bad idea. He should have said no. 

The rhythm of the treadmill slows and stops. Chris hops down, wipes sweat from his face, sucks down half the water bottle. Some of it escapes, trickles out the corner of his mouth, and Piers’ gaze is glued on that spill. It soaks the top of Chris’ white tank, and Piers swears he can see Chris’ nipples through the thin fabric. 

“You already done?” Chris asks as he moves to the bench and starts loading an ungodly amount of weight on the bar. 

“Yeah,” Piers says, though he’s nowhere near done. He didn’t even finish a set. 

“Spot me?” Chris asks as he lays on the bench, feet to either side of it, thighs spread. Piers’ can’t even form the spit to swallow. “I’ll return the favor.” 

“Sure,” Piers says, and embarrassingly, his voice cracks. He clears his throat and stands, moving to the head of the bench like a good spotter would. 

From here, he can look down the whole length of Chris’ body, and it’s a dizzying view. The tank has slipped a little, revealing one peach-colored nipple. A dusting of dark hair decorates Chris’ chest and disappears behind the white cotton. The gym shorts lay flat against his groin, but don’t do anything to hide his package. 

Christ. Piers isn’t going to survive this. 

“Thanks,” Chris says with a friendly wink. He looks up as he wraps his fingers around the bar. “Hope it’s not too much for you.” 

It’s an ungodly amount honestly, but there’s no way Piers is going to say that. “It’s fine,” he says, and Chris’ eyes sparkle. 

He starts to press the weights, and Piers kicks into automatic mode. He spots Chris without thinking, keep the captain safe chanting at the back of his mind, like it always does when he’s covering Chris’ back. 

But his eyes wander. Up and down, from bare ankles to bare legs to bare knees, to partially bare thighs, all dusted with hair. To the space between thighs where Piers could easily fit himself and rub his cheek on the soft dick beneath. To where Piers could sit, on those wide hips, his own legs splayed wide as he ground down and Chris fucked up into him. How wide those big hands might feel on his waist. 

That’s dangerous so Piers drags his gaze up higher, and that’s no safer. That taut tank hides nothing, not the planes of Chris’ belly, soft and muscled, or the swell of his pecs, strong but pillow soft. Piers’ mouth wets itself at the thought of tasting Chris’ nipples, making him moan or pant. Of bending over to kiss Chris, and taste the heat of his mouth. 

He wants to sit on the space at the end of the bench, put his mouth on Chris right now, so that when he leaves tonight, it’s with the taste of Chris lingering on his tongue. 

“Piers?” 

Piers blinks and is suddenly aware of the heat on his face, the red flush down his neck and chest. Chris looks up at him, at Piers’ iron grip on the bar Chris is trying to lift, and embarrassment makes his ears go hot. 

“S-sorry, Captain,” Piers stutters, begging to God that his shorts hide his boner. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought. Raincheck on that favor?” 

Chris pushes the bar back onto the rest, and Piers hastily steps away, turning his hips out of view. “You work too hard.” He sits up, twisting to keep Piers in his peripheral vision. “Go get some rest, kid.” 

Kid!? Oh, the indignity. 

“Funny. We all say the same thing about you, sir,” Piers says. He backs away, step by step, veins running hot and cock filling at the weight of Chris’ scrutiny. 

Chris laughs. “Fair enough.” He grabs his water bottle and takes a swig, toasting Piers with it. “I’ll take that raincheck then. Get some sleep.” 

Sleep is the last thing on Piers’ mind. 

“Yes, sir.” He shoots off a playful salute and makes a hasty escape, his heart hammering, his cock throbbing, and the star of every wet dream sitting there, glistening with sweat. 

Fuck his life. 

Piers skips the shower. No way he can lather up knowing Chris is a wall and an unlocked door away. Not knowing that Chris will be using this shower minutes after he does. 

Nope. 

Piers is going straight to his bunk. 

***

[dracoqueen22]

For Quiet-Shadow, who asked for Barret & Yuffie -- Preparing for a Teenage Daughter

Barret’s head hurts. 

Barret’s head hurts, and his ears are ringing, and he swears, if that ninja says one more stupid joke or yells another stupid insult, he’s going to toss her off the mountain and gleefully count every ridge she hits on the way down. 

Barret sighs. 

No, he won’t actually do that, but if it gives him a moment of peace, he’s tempted. Yuffie is loud and obnoxious. She never stops talking. She’s definitely hiding something. 

Yes, she saved their asses a few times. And yes, she’s very skilled for someone her age. But gods, she is loud, and Barret’s getting too old for this. 

“You look exhausted,” Tifa says. She sounds like she’s laughing at him, but the only thing on her face is that secretive, shy smile she carries. 

Think she’s a big tough woman, Tifa does. And tough she is. Tough as nails, punches like a tank, and takes down things ten times her size without breaking a sweat. She’s got a gentle heart and a sweet soul, though, and this world just isn’t made for a sweet soul anymore. 

Barret will do whatever he can to help her keep it though. World needs more of them, more people like Tifa. 

“Long climb,” Barret says as he trudges along in Yuffie’s wake. He’ll take age and experience over youth any day of the week, but fuck, he could use a drop of that youthful energy right about now. 

He hasn’t climbed this mountain in years. He didn’t think he’d be climbing it again so soon. 

“Right. It’s the climb,” Tifa says, and that smile’s louder in her voice now. She’s got that teasing edge, and Barret just knows she’s about to say some fool thing that’ll get under his skin. “It’s not at all our newest, most energetic friend.” 

Barret sighs. “She’s useful in a fight, and we could keep on saying no, but she’d be lurking around. Merc made the right choice in keeping her where we can see her but…” 

“But she’s just a kid?” Tifa says. 

“Something like that,” Barret says, right as Yuffie springs up into a tree and shades her eyes with her hand, squinting up the mountain. 

“Hurry up, people!” she hollers loud enough to echo off the rocks and scare off a clump of birds resting their wings for a minute. “The mat– the robed guys are climbing faster than you!” 

Tifa hides a giggle in her hand, like Barret can’t see it. “Marlene will be that age soon enough, you know.” 

“She will not!” Barret says, whirling on her. “My sweet little Marlene may be that age, but she’ll never act like that.” 

“Oh, she will,” Tifa says. She tucks her hands behind her back and skips ahead, only to look back over her shoulder. “All teenage girls do. You’ll just have to think of this as practice.” 

Barret shakes his head. No, not his sweet little girl. She’s always going to be kind and generous and polite. She won’t make a ruckus or put herself in danger, or run around the world barely dressed without anyone to watch her back. 

Absolutely not. 

“Hey!” Yuffie hollers, her hands cupped around her neck. 

A vein in Barret’s neck starts to pulse. “Lower your voice!” he hisses at her. He stomps over to the tree and glares up into the spindly branches. “You want every monster and fiend and ShinRa goon to hear you?” 

“Pfft. I’m not scared.” Leaves rain down before Yuffie drops out of the tree with an exaggerated landing. She grins. “Hah. Nailed it.” 

“It’s not about being scared,” Barret grinds out. “I thought ninjas were supposed to be stealthy?”

Yuffie beams and gives him a thumbs up. “We are where it counts!” 

“Practice,” Tifa sings as she strides past, and Barret’s eyebrow twitches again. Tifa’s barely older than Yuffie. She’s a better example for Marlene anyway. 

Not this ruffian. 

“Well, it counts right now,” Barret says. “Zip your trap and get going. We got a job to do.” 

Yuffine plants her hands on her hips and gives him an exaggerated frown that Barret swears echoes Marlene last week when she didn’t want to eat her peas. “You’re not the boss of me.” She pushes her nose to the air. “Keep that up and I’ll let the Bloatfish get you.” 

“I don’t need your help!” Barret snaps as Yuffie skips away, hurrying to catch up to Tifa. 

She spins and sticks her tongue out at him. “Nyah!” 

Barret growls. “You little–” 

Yuffie promptly trips on a rock and falls on her ass. Probably would’ve tumbled right off the edge of the cliff if Tifa hadn’t grabbed her arm. “Ow! I’m blaming you, Barret!”

No. No way. His sweet, precious baby girl is never going to meet Yuffie, and she’s never going to turn into a teenager. Nope. She’s going to stay Daddy’s Little Angel her whole life. 

Marlene’s not allowed to grow up. 

That’s all there is to it. 

“You should probably watch where you’re going,” Tifa admonishes as she hauls Yuffie up and checks her over for any real injuries. 

“A ninja always knows where she’s going,” Yuffie declares as she dusts off her shorts. “That was just, uh, a check of your reflexes. That’s right. I was checking to see how quick you are.” 

“Sure you were,” Tifa says, not that Yuffie sticks around to hear it. She’s bounding further up the trail between one blink and the next, before she abruptly veers toward a wall and takes out that stupid piece of chalk for another pointless drawing. 

“So the others don’t get lost,” she says as she graffitis Mount Corel at every available opportunity. 

Barret sighs and trudges along after them. His head hurts, and his ears are ringing, and one day, his baby girl is going to grow up into one of those things. 

Life just ain't fair. 

*** 

[dracoqueen22]

For Maia: Chadley/simulated!Cloud - Chadley programs a Cloud simulation to practice flirting with

Chadley has had approximately (exactly) forty (seven) conversations with Cloud Strife, but somehow, guiding the topic beyond their mutually beneficial research partnership has turned his tongue to knots. 

It’s unexpected, the way his heart flutters and his face warms, the very moment he spies his favorite speci– err, candidate. 

Cloud either does not notice or is kind enough not to comment. 

Chadley decides (hopes) it is the former over the latter. Cloud is kind in his own way, but Chadley would prefer to present a fully capable front. Unfortunately, he is too organic to simply reprogram the stutters out of his vocabulary, and while he’s read every instructional manual he was capable of downloading, none of them have presented a solution to solve this particular quandary. 

The simulator is MAI’s idea. 

“If it’s good enough for Cloud, it’s good enough for you,” she says. “And let’s face it, buddy, you need the practice.” 

“I do not,” Chadley grits out. 

(He definitely does.)

Virtual!Cloud is a near-perfect copy of the real Cloud. Chadley borrows data from the battle simulator and every recorded interaction, plus his own personal observations, to approximate a digital version of his favorite candidate. 

Theoretically, with enough practice in the virtual world, Chadley will behave with dignity in the natural world. No more hot cheeks. No more stammering thoughts. Nothing but a scientist who is cool, calm, and collected. 

“Just don’t get up to anything NSFM, alright? I’m watching, you know,” MAI says. 

Chadley does not recognize the acronym. “NSFM?” 

“Not safe for MAI!” She giggles and vanishes with a burst of glittery, virtual particles. 

Now it’s just Chadley and Virtual!Cloud in an empty, virtual space. 

“Hmm.” Chadley activates the holo panel and considers available settings. “It won’t do any good to practice in an obviously fabricated environment. I need more realistic parameters.” 

He considers his options and dismisses anything related to Midgar. The city holds too many unpleasant connotations. No, what they need is a fresh start. Somewhere bright and cheerful with fresh air and sunlight. 

Somewhere outside Kalm, perhaps. There are quite a few scenic spots that have been noted by local photographers, so Chadley picks one and builds it into the virtual space. There. A cliff overlooking the ocean with lots of grass and flowers underfoot. Perfect. 

The setting blooms to life around them and Chadley deactivates the holo panel. Now it’s just him and Virtual!Cloud on a cliff on a bright, sunny day. Perfect. 

Chadley stares at Virtual!Cloud and Virtual!Cloud… doesn’t stare back. His face is too blank for that. Empty. 

Unactivated. 

Oh!

Chadley taps the controls and Virtual!Cloud blinks. He looks around as if he’s confused, that little pinch between his brows. 

“Cloud!” Chadley waves to get his attention. “What a surprise to run into you here!” 

No, that’s inane. 

Virtual!Cloud looks back at him. “How did I get here?” he asks. He plants his hands on his hips, but he looks more bewildered than angry. 

Hmm. Perhaps a touch too realistic. 

Chadley pauses, rewrites a few lines of code, and tries again. 

“Cloud!” He smiles and waves. “It’s nice to see you again. I have worked hard on all of the data you’ve been collecting. I think you’re really going to like what I’ve created.” 

Wait. No. That’s just business. 

Chadley frowns. He’s doing this all wrong. Also, he didn’t re-activate Virtual!Cloud. Gods, Cloud makes him so flustered. Even a virtual one. 

He tries again. Minor adjustments uploaded. Virtual!Cloud activated. Chadley takes in a deep breath, exhales, and starts over. 

“Cloud! I’m glad to see you’re looking well,” he says, which is both true because Virtual!Cloud is a near copy of actual Cloud, and because Cloud gets into very dangerous situations, and Chadley often worries. Though he knows he shouldn’t. 

Cloud is more than capable of taking down anything. 

“... Thanks,” Virtual!Cloud says. “Uh, is that all?”

“Actually,” Chadley starts and stumbles. Even in practice this is difficult. “I was hoping you would be willing to assist me in a new venture.” 

Virtual!Cloud tilts his head, a cute pinch of confusion between his eyebrows. Programmed perfectly. “You want me to kill something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Chadley says, waving his arms. “It’s something of an, eh, personal nature…?” He trails off and gives Virtual!Cloud a look. 

People initiate dating protocols via lots of subtle words and gestures, Chadley’s read. He needs to master these if he has any chance of being successful. 

Virtual!Cloud squints. “Personal?” 

“Yes,” Chadley says with  more confidence than he feels. “I would be honored if you’d accompany me on a personal errand. I would be happy to include a meal and a beverage afterward.” 

Food and drink, both key factors of social interaction with interpersonal relationships. Also, sustenance is an important part of daily functioning. Cloud looks like he could use a few hearty meals and some relaxation, perhaps on a beach? 

Oh, no.

Cloud on a beach. He certainly couldn’t wear his usual uniform. He’d have to dress more comfortably. Show more… skin. Even more skin than when he was wearing that dress, with the make up and the hair and–

Oh, dear. 

“Your face is red,” Virtual!Cloud says, much more astute than the actual Cloud. 

Chadley spins around, hits pause on the simulation, and tries to get ahold of himself. He finger-combs his hair, takes a few deep breaths, waits for the heat to leave his cheeks. 

This is going to be a lot harder than he thought. 

Chadley’s going to need a heck of a lot more practice. 

***

[dracoqueen22]

A writing prompt for you:

FFVII, Reno & any number of other Turks, an escaped experiment that's supposed to spew poison but instead spews something else entirely. (Like sex pollen, for example.)

(As NSFW or not as you like!)

This is like... two years late, but at last! I have answered this flash fiction fest from the last one I hosted. Please enjoy! <3

There are many unspoken rules about being a Turk. Truths they’ve acknowledged over the years, that they pass on to new recruits but no one dares write down because the Turks are secretive by nature, and no one wants to admit that they are actually fallible.

Don’t go after an escaped experiment alone is not the number one unspoken rule, but it’s high on the list. Right next to it is: always wear a gas mask. And an addendum to that? Kill first, ask questions later. 

You never can be too careful with what escapes from Hojo’s many, many labs. And if sometimes, the experiment growling back at you has the face of someone you used to work beside, well, you just pretend you didn’t see it. 

Don’t ask Hojo what he’s doing. That’s a very important unspoken rule. Never ask Hojo what he’s doing behind closed doors. Else it might be your face your partner is seeing the next time something escapes, however accidentally. (Rumor has it that Hojo frequently lets things loose just to see how they fare against ShinRa’s elite, the bastard). 

Tseng remembers the rules. He always remembers the rules. So why is he staring at Reno with glazed eyes, no gas mask, and sweat beading on his brow? Why is he launching himself at Reno with attacks harder and faster than Reno can defend or evade? Reno’s never won in a hand to hand spar with Tseng. 

He’s under no illusions that he’s going to win now. Even if Tseng’s acting like a puppet without strings, some kind of powder puffing from his suit in lurid highlighter-yellow wisps. 

“Fuck,” Reno gasps into his gas mask. He doesn’t want to shoot Tseng. Tseng is not the escaped experiment. 

He’s the first responder who somehow didn’t bring his godsdamned gas mask and has now been dosed by whatever freak-of-nature poison Hojo’s newest pet sprayed on him. 

“Come on, boss. Snap out of it!” Reno shouts as he twists to avoid another grab and doesn’t make it. 

Tseng gets a handful of his suit jacket, so Reno wriggles out of it and cuts it down to a loss. He can get another jacket. He’s pretty sure he can’t get another arm. Unless he subjects himself to Hojo’s mercies, and since this whole situation is Hojo’s fault, no thank you. 

His comm crackles. "Reno, do you need assistance?" Elena asks, all new recruit eager and helpful, and ugh, any other time Reno would be happy to let her do the hard work.

"Not right now, rookie. Stay the fuck away and go find whatever caused this mess," Reno snarls as he ducks away from another swipe from Tseng and contemplates his options. Why hadn't he packed stun charges in his baton this time? Why had he gone for lethal only?

Because it's a Hojo experiment, that's why. Kill first, ask questions later. That's the rule. Along with "always wear a gas mask" which Tseng apparently forgot. Which means Reno’s going to have to somehow take Tseng down, and hope Tseng doesn’t decide punishment is in order later. 

Or hope that he chooses punishment, but it’s the kind Reno likes. Mmm. That would be nice. Bent over the knee, a little spanking, some fingers slicked up with lube and – 

Tseng slams into Reno, and he curses – caught by the horny haze, damn it – as they both go down and Tseng winds around him like a python. He’s all long limbs and strong hands and those legs circle around Reno’s waist like a vise. 

Fuck. 

Tseng’s hard. Like hard enough Reno can feel the heat of his dick through his slacks, grinding against Reno’s pelvis as Tseng squeezes and squeezes with those powerful thighs of his, spreading that yellow powder everywhere. 

“Come on, boss!” Reno yelps, twisting his head left and right, but it’s useless, because Tseng grabs hold of his mask, yanks, and tosses. 

Reno drags in a gulp of air without thinking, and something powdery lands on his tongue. It’s bitter and sour, chalky as it goes up his nose and into his mouth. He coughs, eyes watering, as Tseng’s legs tighten and he– uh, yup. That sure is Reno’s boss grinding against him like a harlot. 

“I’m never gonna let you live this down,” Reno wheezes. 

Tseng looks at him with hazy eyes, face flushed, hair wild around his face. Wait, no. He’s looking at Reno, yeah, but specifically, at Reno’s lips. Tseng licks his own and then his mouth crashes down on Reno’s, and wow. Tseng can kiss. His tongue’s an unrelenting force that pushes a moan out of Reno. He turns to liquid want, spine tingling and brain going mush. 

Reno gets a fistful of Tseng’s suit, grinding that yellow dust into his own skin, into the dark of Tseng’s suit. And he thinks he ought to push Tseng away. He ought to try and fight back, but his limbs are noodles, and Tseng’s burning up, and something’s boiling in his own gut, too. Lust pours through his veins, throbs through his dick, and Tseng rolls up against him, and Reno, he knows this dance. 

He rolls down, and they both groan. Tseng’s biting at his mouth and lips, leaving them bruised and hot, his skin glittering from the powder, with a throat that’s made for marking. Reno’s had more than a few choice fantasies of pinning his boss down and seeing if he can dissolve Tseng’s elegant poise. 

Well. 

Tseng’s got no poise now. He’s making hungry noises, his thighs wrapped around Reno like a vise, his hands restless as they pull and tug at clothes like he’s forgotten how buttons work. 

Reno has about five seconds to realize that this isn’t normal, and it’s probably all Hojo’s fucking fault, but then he’s drowning in sensation, and Tseng smells so fucking good. Every bit of restraint he has turns to shreds, and he kisses Tseng back. His comm crackles, but he flicks it off and lets himself enjoy this.

It isn’t how he imagined seducing his boss, but fuck, he’ll take it. Let Rude and Elena handle the escaping monster. 

Reno’s got Tseng well in hand. 

***

[dracoqueen22]

[G1] Writing on the Wall

Title: Writing on the Wall Universe: G1, Ownership ‘verse Characters: Jazz/Orion Pax|Optimus Prime, the Matrix Rating: T Description: Matrix or not, Jazz is not going anywhere. Orion Pax is still his, and he aims to prove it.

Orion is still unconscious.

No, not Orion.

He’s Optimus Prime now.

Jazz peers through the slats of the ventilation cover, at his unconscious partner on the berth, surrounded by monitoring equipment, with far too many cameras pointed at his helpless frame. The priests have gone. The “important” members of the Senate have left.

The Chief Medical Officer is something of a terror, and when Wrench put his foot down, even the haughtiest of mechs obeyed. Optimus Prime is to be left to recover in peace, Wrench says. It’s hard to adapt to the Matrix, he reminds them. He’s lucky to be alive, Wrench growls.

He’s lucky.

Jazz’s fingers curl in the slants of the vent cover. It rattles beneath his grip, so he ex-vents, in-vents, masters himself until he’s calm, until the rage is buried oh so deep.

He extracts the screws silently, all save one, which he leaves in place so the vent cover can swing down without hitting the ground.

Jazz slides out of the vent, drops silently to the ground, pressed between two cabinets of medical supplies. He glances at the cameras and hacks their feed without thought. The security in this place is pathetic. Are they trying to get their new Prime killed?

Jazz creeps to the door, peers out through the viewing window. Wrench, he knows, is in his office, sleeping in his chair, snores rattling out of his vents. The night shift has gathered around the main desk, arguing over the possible results of tonight’s race. Perhaps one of them has their optic on the readouts monitoring their recovering Prime.

There’s a guard outside the door, a member of the Prime’s personal security. He’s emblazoned with the Senate’s badge, the familiar and blocky red face. The same symbol now adorns Orion’s shoulders -- his much broader shoulders.

Jazz withdraws a magnalock from subspace and attaches it to the door. It won’t stop them forever, but it’ll stop them long enough. Besides, if all goes to plan, no one will know he’s been here.

No one but Optimus and that living relic in his chassis.

Jazz dims the viewing window before he turns to the berth and the recharging Prime upon it. His Orion. His sweet, passionate, generous, and empathic Orion. Of course the Matrix has accepted him. Jazz can’t think of anyone more worthy.

He’s still not happy about it.

Jazz climbs onto the berth, careful of the cords, and straddles Optimus’ hips. His broader hips, and fortunately, Jazz is flexible. Everything about his Orion is different now. He’s taller, heavier, stronger. He’s armed, where he’s never been before. His sweet face is gone, replaced by something sterner, more like the ancient reliefs of Primus himself.

Jazz cups his face, presses his forehead to Optimus’, feels the warmth of him, the vibrations of proof he’s alive and functioning. “I’m still here,” he murmurs. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Yer still mine.” He presses a kiss to Optimus’ forehead and leans back.

“There’s just somethin’ I gotta do real quick, love,” Jazz says as his hands flutter over Optimus’ chassis, searching for the quick-release he’d seen Wrench utilize earlier. It’s not in the same place it used to be.

He finds the catch, and with a click, Optimus’ chassis opens, sliding to the side, the beautiful spill of his spark shimmering back up at Jazz. This, at least, is familiar and unchanged. He’s still the same gorgeous blue, the same warmth, and Jazz would weep for this.

If not for the Matrix hugging his Orion’s spark like a parasite, encircling what should be free and unburdened.

It flashes when Jazz looks at it, and Jazz shudders. Quiescent artifact his aft. This damn thing is sentient and knows exactly what it’s doing.

That’s fine. Jazz does, too.

He cycles a ventilation and glares down at the Matrix. “I know you know I’m here,” he says. “Just like I know you know who I am. If you think I’m lettin’ him go just ‘cause of your say-so, you’re wrong. I’ll kill ‘im before I let ya ruin him.”

Another flash dances across the Matrix’s surface.

“That’s what I thought,” Jazz says, and he steels himself, one hand grabbing Optimus’ and linking their fingers together.

“Now you and me,” Jazz says as sets his jaw and rests his other palm over the Matrix, right over the pulsing blue of Optimus’ trapped spark. “We’re going to talk.”

***

a/n: Ahhh, I love this series so much. Writing Jazz/Optimus as a pairing is something I just don’t do enough. 

Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated. Feel free to reblog or reply to this post! 

[dracoqueen22]

For Maia:: Xia/Sasha, soft tender aftercare after a particularly bad drop following an intense bit of play

Highs and Lows

Xia hasn’t turned a page in the past five minutes. 

Sasha frowns and casually glances at her, and the frown deepens when she notices the slight tremble to Xia’s fingers, the thin press of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes. She’s curled into herself, tucked into a ball, and curved away from Sasha. 

Sasha puts down her tablet. “Xia?” 

“Hm?” Xia looks up at her, but her eyes are unfocused, and her skin is starting to grey -- a sign she’s losing control over her glamour. It’s supposed to be a purely subconscious spell, so if it is slipping, something is very wrong. 

“What’s wrong?” Sasha asks. 

Xia shakes her head. “Nothing.” She stares down at her book, a page caught between two fingers, but if she’s actually reading it, Sasha will eat her shoe. 

Right then. 

Sasha shifts and moves across the couch, closing the distance between them. Xia’s cold toes press against her bare thigh, and worry tightens a fist around Sasha’s heart. She cups Xia’s cheek -- unhealthily cool to her palm. 

“You’re not okay,” Sasha murmurs. 

Xia drags in a breath, and it’s shaky. Her eyes are wet. “I should be,” she says, sharp and frustrated. “There’s nothing wrong. I don’t--” She breaks off and shakes her head, hand forming a fist against the open page. “... Sorry.” 

That quiet, tiny apology makes Sasha close her eyes and master her own emotions. There are times she wants to call up Sinclair and strangle her. 

Instead, she eases the book out of Xia’s hands and sets it aside. “You have nothing to apologize for. You realize what’s happening, don’t you?” 

“I’m being an idiot,” Xia mutters. 

“No, you’re dropping,” Sasha gently corrects. She pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and tucks it around Xia before tugging her girlfriend into her arms. “It’s fairly common.” 

Xia huffs. “I know that. I’m not stupid.” She’s stiff as a board in Sasha’s embrace, but the moment Sasha threads one hand through her hair and starts to stroke, Xia melts into putty. 

Sasha doesn’t take the irritability personally. It’s another symptom, and Xia will be appropriately apologetic about it later. 

“I never said you were, dearest.” Sasha tucks Xia into the curves of her body, a wordless promise that she’s going nowhere. “But I can’t take care of you if I don’t know you’re hurting. We played pretty hard earlier tonight.” 

“Not that hard,” Xia says. “I’m not human, Sash. You can’t actually hurt me.” 

Sasha briefly tightens her grip in Xia’s hair, causing it to pull lightly on Xia’s scalp with a dull pressure. “I wasn’t talking about physical pain. Now you’re just being purposefully dense.” 

“Am not,” Xia mutters, and presses her ice-cold nose to Sasha’s throat. “... Yes, I am. I’m sorry. It’s just…” 

“You don’t have to explain. I already know.” Sasha swallows her sigh because it’s not a conversation that needs to be had in this moment, and besides, it’s a bit like beating a dead horse. 

Xia and Sinclair are friends now, and have since gotten over the friction of their failed relationship, but some wounds take longer to heal, and even when they do, they leave painful scars. 

Xia may be nigh indestructible to the average human, but her heart is a fragile thing. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sasha asks. 

“No.” There’s a note of finality in Xia’s voice which is not to be ignored. “I mean, not now. Maybe later.” 

Sasha hums and continues to play with Xia’s hair. “Then tell me what you need.” 

Xia’s quiet for a moment, her exhales puffing against Sasha’s throat before she finally says, “Just this. Just you.” 

“Ask me something hard,” Sasha murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of Xia’s head. She will wait until Xia is more settled for the discussion about the necessity of communication. 

For now, she will focus on giving Xia what she needs -- comfort and care and a reassurance, whether vocalized or not, that Sasha will be here for her, and is both willing and able to care for her. Ups, downs, highs, lows, and everything in between. 

***

a/n: Xia and Sasha are the romantic duo of my novella “Half and Half” about two lesbians trying to stop a cult from raising a chaotic god to destroy the world. ;)

[dracoqueen22]

For eerian_Sadow:: Beatrix/Steiner, fluffy, like a dinner date or a walk under the stars

Duty and Heart

Adelbert feels oddly naked without his armor.

It would not do, however, to spend an evening with his lady while dressed in full knight's garb. His current clothing feels stiff and awkward, and he can't remember the last time he shed his armor for civilian threads. The breeze over his bare head is the worst of the discomfort, and he has to stop himself from running his hands through his hair over and over again.

Beatrix, by contrast, is the loveliest thing Adelbert has seen in his entire life, and she looks completely at ease in her own civilian garb.

They have both left their weapons at home for the evening, though Adelbert can see the hilt of a dagger poking from the top of Beatrix's left boot. Ever one to be prepared, she is, and a surge of affection warms Adelbert's heart.

He hadn't even thought to bring a small, concealable weapon.

Beatrix glances at him, and gives him a sharp look. "What?"

He must have had that goofy look on his face again. "It's a nice night," Adelbert says. He glances down, where their hands swing lightly at their sides.

They're walking side by side, close enough that it is obvious they are together. Her hand is inches from his. Would it be too forward of him to link their fingers together?

"It looks like it might rain," Beatrix says, and well, she's right. Clouds streak across the starry sky, and on the horizon, an approaching grey mass suggests a storm.

"I don't have an umbrella," Adelbert mourns. He should have brought one.

He glances at their hands again.

"I'm sure we'll be indoors before it hits," Beatrix says. She smiles at him, soft and gentle, and Adelbert's heart melts a little more. "Dinner was nice."

"Yes, it was! I am impressed with how far the rebuilding has come!" Adelbert smiles, thinking of the busy restaurant, the smiling patrons, the general atmosphere of Alexandria as the last vestiges of Queen Brahne's descent into madness have been restored to their former glory.

"Prin-- I mean, Queen Garnet is a wonderful leader," Adelbert says, though his smile falters around the edges.

Garnet has absolutely risen to the occasion, but there are days Adelbert catches her staring longingly out the window. He knows she's thinking of that foolish thief, and while Adelbert admires Zidane's strength and courage, he hates the man a little as well. For leaving the princess alone and lonely with such a sad look in her eyes.

"She has a kind heart," Beatrix says. "And a very dedicated support."

Adelbert nods. "Yes, with you by her side, there is nothing she can't accomplish."

"I was referring to you," Beatrix says gently.

Heat stains Adelbert's cheeks. "I-- um-- well, it is my duty," he says, flustered. "I will always stand by the Princ-- Queen's side." He glances down at their hands. "And yours, of course, Beatrix. I am here for you as well."

"I know." Beatrix's voice is soft and warm, as is the gentle curl of her fingers around his as she takes his hand. He can feel the calluses of years of sword work bumping up against his own.

She's so beautiful.

"You are a good man, Adelbert Steiner," she says. "And I am having a wonderful time tonight."

Adelbert's heart goes thumpity-thump, and he swears there's a direct line from their linked hands, to his increasing pulse. "As am I, milady," he says. "Would you... care to do it again? Tomorrow perhaps?"

Her eye shines in the moonlight, but her smile is even brighter. "It's a date."

***

[dracoqueen22]

For @jeegoo:: Established couple Link and Zelda visit the Gerudo (disguised for w/e reason) and individually realize they wanna get gangbanged by all the big, strong, sexy ladies but can't admit it to the other out of fear they'll be kinkshamed so they both just struggle to hide their horny shame but the Gerudo see this so often they all just KNOW and are watching with immense amusement

Share and Share Alike

"Why is it you always look better in these clothes than I do?" Zelda grumbles as she tucks the last tie of Link's veil into place, and he looks out at her over the purple silk, blue eyes brilliantly lined with kohl.

He shrugs.

She sighs. "Worse that you don't even realize it."

"You look beautiful," Link signs and gives her a thumbs up.

Dork.

Zelda smiles behind her own veil. "Thank you," she says, squeezing his hand. "Now let's go meet with Riju before she sends out a search party."

It would be easier if an exception could be made for Link, but no, those aren't the rules. So in disguise he must be, and if he's in disguise, Zelda must don one of her own. Otherwise people might question the lovely lady at her side, and wonder where Link has gone.

Link nods.

And they walk through the front gate without any of the Gerudo guards blinking twice at them. 

No, that is inaccurate. They give both Link and Zelda appreciative looks and smiles and approving glances at their choice in attire, but they don’t question whether or not they belong. 

Zelda tries not to stare herself, really she does. But after spending one-hundred years trapped in a castle with Ganon’s calamitous stench, and then spending the last several months wandering all across Hyrule, being in a tropical location and surrounded by so many lovely women is a wonderful change of pace. 

The Gerudo are all so friendly! They call out to her, compliment her, try to offer her beautiful clothes and jewels. Link, too, gets his fair share of greetings, but his comes with a degree of familiarity from his previous travels here. He knows more than a few of the Gerudo by name, and it’s honestly going to take ages for them to get to the palace, because Link stops and introduces Zelda to everyone he recognizes. 

Isha, in particular, draws Zelda’s eye, and she finds herself flushing beneath the concealment of her veil. Why are all of the Gerudo so beautiful and strong? Zelda wants desperately to get to the palace, if only so she can catch her breath and stop imagining all of the many ways she could find her pleasure with someone here. 

It doesn’t help that they are equally interested in her. 

“Such fair skin you have,” Isha clucks, but her smile is warm, her hands equally so as she holds Zelda’s and strokes her fingers along the inside of her wrist. “I can think of many ways to adorn you, Zelda. You must watch yourself here. The desert sun can be merciless.” 

“Pah! Link’s skin is equally fair, and she’s fine,” says Cara, Isha’s business partner. She touches the earrings dangling from Link’s right lobe. “We made these, yes? They look beautiful on you, as we thought they might.” 

Link’s turning pink behind his own veil, and he scuttles a little closer to Zelda’s side. They exchange a knowing look, and Zelda’s eyebrows crawl toward her hairline. She should’ve known he’d be as weak to the Gerudo as she is.

“We really must be going,” Zelda says, trying to nudge them toward an escape, but Isha’s hand is still wrapped around hers, and Zelda is very weak. 

“You are in a hurry?” Isha asks. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Cara says. “We thought you might join us for a drink. Furosa has something new at the Noble Canteen. Created in honor of Link helping calm the Divine Beast.” 

Link taps her on the shoulder and tilts his head toward the palace, signing “Riju” with quick flicks of his fingers. 

“Another time perhaps,” Zelda says, reluctantly disengaging from Isha. “We have a prior engagement with Lady Riju.” 

“I’ll hold you to it,” says Isha with a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes, her hand landing on her hip, and Zelda forcing her gaze to remain northward rather than roaming over Isha’s warm curves and strong thighs. 

“I shall have something for the both of you,” Cara says, tapping her chin with one manicured finger. “Items of beauty to match.” 

Link signs ‘thank you’ and starts to look a little desperate. Zelda’s feeling a bit like if she doesn’t escape now, she’s going to end up making a fool of herself. 

“Thank you very much,” she says, and backs out the door, Link in tow. 

They don’t run to the palace, but it’s a near thing. 

“Whatever happens, we share, right?” Zelda asks once there’s a bit of distance between them and the two Gerudo in Starlight Memories. 

Link nods, the tips of his ears bright red. 

“So long as we agree,” Zelda says.

Goodness, she had no idea a simple diplomatic visit would prove to be so darn tempting. The next few days are going to be torture. 

***

[dracoqueen22]

Oh yay, another flash fic weekend!! Tysm for having these, they are so fun. I'll stick to your amazing harpy universe and may I please request Rodimus being the one to purposely romance/seduce Megatron this time? Since Megatron was so good to Rodimus in Sweet Surrender! :D

Conspiracy Theory

When both Orion and Soundwave showed up to evict him from his office and relieve him of his paperwork, Megatron knew something was up. Orion never took the stacks Megatron tried to sneak him with a smile on his face. Soundwave sent him off with an invitation to sleep in as late as he wished tomorrow.

Megatron didn’t know what they were planning, but he also knew he was helpless to stop whatever plot the two had devised.

He really was Liege of this flock in name only.

He put up a token protest and let himself be ushered out of his office and shooed toward his nest instead. He tried to stop by the dining hall to pick up a snack, but Maximus planted his massive frame in the doorway, crossed his arms, and refused Megatron entry.

“I apologize my liege,” he said, “but I’m under orders to make sure you go straight to your nest.”

“Soundwave?” Megatron asked.

Maximus nodded.

“Ah,” said Megatron. “As you were then.”

Liege or not, there was a certain hierarchy to certain orders when issued by his trusted staff, and Megatron’s flock had long since learned that Soundwave’s word often overrode Megatron’s own. Even he knew better than to defy Soundwave when it came to certain issues.

Megatron went back to his nest. Whatever Soundwave and Orion had planned, Megatron knew better than to disturb it. He’d obey.

He wasn’t an idiot.

The curtain to his nest was closed, odd since he usually kept it open when he was out, and when Megatron ducked inside, he was immediately struck by the most enticing aroma. He blinked into the cozy warmth, curtain falling shut behind him, as the warm glow of over a dozen candles lit the otherwise dim interior. The curtain had been drawn over the balcony as well, so the flickering flames were the only illumination.

“What is this?” Megatron asked, and that’s when Rodimus emerged from the small nook that served as their pantry.

He smiled at Megatron, beaming from head to toe. “I knew I could count on them,” he said, and grabbed Megatron by the arm, towing him toward their nest-bed. “This is a surprise for you.”

“It’s a fire hazard,” Megatron said dumbly. There were a lot of open flames around dry wood.

Rodimus rolled his eyes. “I knew you’d say that. They’re fake candles. I got them from Blurr.”

“I apologize. I meant to say ‘thank you for the surprise, Rodimus’,” Megatron said, deeply touched by the gesture. He let himself be guided down into their nest-bed, snuggling in amongst pillows and blankets that smelled freshly washed and hung in the sun to dry. “What’s the occasion?”

Rodimus shrugged. “None really. Just because.” He ducked his head, looking embarrassed, which was something of a novelty for Megatron. There was little which embarrassed Rodimus. He tended to embrace a complete lack of shame.

It was completely and utterly adorable, and Megatron’s core swelled with too much affection to be contained. He reached up, grabbed Rodimus by the ankle, and yanked.

Rodimus squawked and tumbled down, right into Megatron’s waiting arms, where he was then free to smother his mate with kisses of gratitude.

“I love you,” Megatron murmured, pressing his forehead to Rodimus’. “Thank you for being with me.”

Rodimus’ face radiated heat, but he melted in Megatron’s arms and snuggled equally close. “I brought us dinner, too. So we wouldn’t have to leave to get it.”

Megatron hummed. “Did you now? What else did you have in mind?”

Rodimus squirmed and carded his claws through Megatron’s feathermane. “You’ll find out after dinner.”

Megatron chuckled and stole Rodimus’ lips for another kiss, tasting the sweetness of fruit on Rodimus’ tongue. He’d probably been eating out of sheer nervousness, and the mental image of it filled Megatron with warmth all over again.

“Then I shall wait for you to surprise me,” Megatron said.

“Good.” Rodimus looked up at him and said, ever so quietly, as if it was a secret only Megatron was supposed to know, “I love you, too.”

Megatron pressed his mouth to Rodimus' temple. "I know."

***

[dracoqueen22]

For Quiet_Shadow:  Martha Kent & Batman – “You, young man, need a nap.”

He hadn’t meant to snap. 

But Bruce had been nurturing a migraine since he removed the cape and cowl this morning, and Tim and Damien’s bickering had gone from mildly amusing to downright irritating. He’d ground his teeth the entire drive down to Smallville, and the pain in his jaw now radiated up into his temples. Every sound was nails on a chalkboard, no matter how slight, and the smell of the holiday meal which should have been delicious and inviting, made his stomach turn. 

Those were all excuses. Bruce was not a man made of excuses, but when he should have responded with calm rationale, he’d snapped. He’d raised his voice. He’d used a tone he promised himself he’d never use on his sons. 

Mortification slapped him in the aftermath as both Damien and Tim looked up at him with wide eyes -- Tim hurt and Damien stunned. Connor scowled up at him, half-crouching as if he meant to spring over the back of the couch in defense of the two Waynes. 

Bruce snapped his mouth shut hard enough to click his molars and spun on a heel, strutting out of the family room, past the adults gathered in the kitchen, and straight out the front door. The screen door squeaked as he yanked it open, and it banged shut behind him. He stood in the cool evening, eyes closed, hands on his hips, and breathed. 

He waited for Clark to follow him, to ask in his quiet and caring way, what was wrong. Bruce could not give him an honest answer, because truthfully, there was nothing wrong. He’d made a mistake, as he seemed prone to doing as of late, and he was only human. 

He should have grabbed a bottle of aspirin on his way out. 

His head throbbed and pounded. Spikes of pain radiated from his temples. Blinking was a special agony. 

The screen door opened behind him, still squeaking, but it closed without the rude bang Bruce had forced out of it. There was a quiet click of the latch slotting neatly into the jamb. 

Bruce exhaled and waited, but it wasn’t a broad-shouldered, too-big frame that stepped up beside him. Instead, there was a cap of grey hair, slighter shoulders, the scent of cinnamon and apples clinging to a soft smile and worried blue eyes. 

“I… apologize,” Bruce said, lowering his arms and his chin. He looked at Martha Kent askance, too ashamed to meet her eyes. 

He braced himself for the motherly castigation -- he knew she was capable of it. He’d witnessed her planting Clark on his ass on at least a dozen occasions. There was no one who made Superman cower quite like Martha Kent. That she did it with gentleness and love never ceased to amaze Bruce. 

She and Alfred must have attended the same school of punishment by polite disappointment. 

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” she said in that mild tone Bruce had come to fear. “You, young man, need a nap.” 

Bruce’s cheeks heated. He was approaching the tail end of forty, but no one made him feel quite like a child in the way Martha Kent could. 

There was a soft rattle as Martha grabbed his hand and pressed something cool into it, closing his fingers around it. Bruce looked down to see a generic bottle of aspirin. 

“There’s lemonade in the fridge,” she said. “Take two and go upstairs. Clark’s bed should fit you.” 

Bruce nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Martha patted his shoulder like he’d seen her do to Clark more times than he could count. “I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready. You can apologize to your boys afterward.” 

“I will,” Bruce said. 

She smiled at him, and the warmth of her affection spread through him like it had a special magic all its own. She squeezed his arm and went back outside, leaving Bruce to breathe in the cool evening with a bottle of aspirin in his hand. 

How had she known? 

Bruce sighed, fetched some lemonade, and went upstairs to take a nap. 

*** 

[dracoqueen22]

I love your writing! could I please request optimus/soundwave with the prompt lullaby :)

The Voice of Primus

No matter how hard he looked, Optimus could not find the source of the song. 

It would come to him, at the furthest edge of his audial range, and he would follow it until the music drifted away again, but there was never anything at the end of the line. It came to him in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, in the dead of night when he promised Ratchet he was recharging. 

No one else could hear it. 

If Optimus asked, he received strange looks from Ironhide and Prowl and Jazz, who had the most finely tuned audio sensors of anyone in the Ark. Ratchet scanned him, over and over, thinking perhaps it was a glitch, but could find nothing wrong. 

After awhile, Optimus stopped asking. 

It was a soft song. Gentle. Soothing. It came to him when he struggled to recharge, and lulled him right to sleep. It tickled his audials when the stress of datawork caught up to him, and suddenly, Optimus found himself emboldened to continue. It wrapped around his spark during the long, long council sessions where Optimus spoke with Lord Megatron to make a better Cybertron for everyone. 

Lord Megatron, as always, knew best, and Optimus demurred to his advice. 

When he grew angry, the song was there, soothing out the ruffled edges. When he grew distraught, the music hummed its comfort and calmed him, like the warm embrace of a cherished partner. Like Soundwave, who held Optimus in his arms every evening. 

Soundwave could not hear the music either. It didn’t bother him when Optimus asked about it. He was the only one who didn’t think Optimus was glitching or losing himself. He stroked the back of his hand over Optimus’ cheek, and said, “Voice of Primus perhaps,” and Optimus decided it was as good an explanation as any. 

After all, what did any of them really know about the Matrix?

Sometimes, in the long, slow hours between one meeting and the next, a feeling like he was missing something would crawl over Optimus’ shoulders and tap at the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure what it meant, save that the feeling would grow stronger and stronger, a sense of urgency and desperation building in his spark. He was forgetting something important. 

But then the music would start up again, and Optimus found himself chasing the soothing strains, sure its origin was just around the next corner. More often than not, he found something, but sometimes, he’d run into Soundwave, who’d hold out his arms and draw Optimus into them and tell him it was all right. 

Primus just liked making sure Optimus was paying attention. 

He wasn’t forgetting anything at all. 

***

[dracoqueen22]

For flash fiction prompts: Megatron/Jazz, postwar, bonding over having to do awful things to save their people?

“Do you regret it?” 

It is not the first time Jazz has rolled over in the middle of the night only for the query to rise out of the gloom, originating from a berthpartner who is equally riddled with insomnia. 

And like all the times before, his answer is different. It changes with the seasons, with the rise and fall of his guilt, of his satisfaction, of the clash of betrayal and certainty, all layered within his spark. 

“Sometimes,” Jazz murmurs. 

He scoots across the berth, back into Megatron’s reach, where occasionally the shame assaults him in his recharge, and he wriggles out of Megatron’s embrace. A brawny arm wraps around him, tucking him close, and Jazz rests his head over Megatron’s chassis, listening to the creaks and groans of a frame aged by relentless battle, though the spark beneath burns ever strong. 

“I did what needed to be done,” Jazz says. “As did you.” 

Megatron chuckles, but it is a dark, dry sound, lacking in humor. “To satisfy my ego, perhaps. We both know at some point it became less about the inequality and more about the anger, the humiliation.” 

“They deserved it,” Jazz says because as much as he had stood by Optimus’ side, as he’d helped the war come to its inevitable end with a flood of corpses in their wake, Jazz could not deny this truth.

Cybertron was broken long before the Decepticons rose to finish the job. 

“Not all of them. In the end, I harmed the very mechs I intended to protect.” Megatron sighs, and his field flattens, heavy with self-castigation. 

Jazz hums thoughtfully. His palm rests on Megatron’s chassis, tracing the empty plane where a Decepticon brand had once been proudly set. “Ya remember Aegis 7?” 

“I do.” 

“How many died that day?” 

Megatron looks at him, optics dim coal-fire in the dark of their shared quarters. “Jazz--” 

“Not that I’ve forgotten or anythin’,” Jazz says, tracing the outline of the long-abandoned Decepticon brand, over and over. “But remind me anyway.” 

Megatron’s vents rattle a heavy cycle. “Our last records show the base was staffed by three-thousand seven-hundred and fifty-two mechs.” 

“Plus the ninety-two Neutral suppliers who happened to arrive a day early and were in the process of unloading their shuttle,” Jazz murmurs. “We didn’t find out about them until we were siftin’ through the wreckage lookin’ for more actionable intel.” 

Silence. 

Megatron shifts then, turning, curving around Jazz from behind, tucking Jazz into the dips and angles of his frame. His large hand rests on Jazz’s chestplate now, over his spark, his ex-vents ghosting along the back of Jazz’s neck. 

Jazz twitches. More than a decade down the line, and he still has trouble with mechs at his back. Still has trouble with dark corners, sharp noises in the night, far too open spaces, and the distinct whine of a weapon cycling up. 

It takes two, three, four ventilation cycles before he can relax into the embrace, cover Megatron’s hand with his own. 

“We did what needed to be done,” Megatron murmurs. “By all accounts, destroying that base helped end the war, pushing us out of a stalemate that had caused countless soldiers on both sides to suffer a slow, painful death by starvation.” 

Jazz works his intake. “Starvation ain’t so bad. Eventually, ya get used to it.” 

If the world had spun a slightly different way, if maybe he’d heard Megatron before he’d heard Optimus Prime, Jazz might have been a Decepticon. The pang of hunger in his tanks, the trials of clawing his way out of the gutter, the things he’d done to survive…

He might’ve found himself hating the Autobots, too. He might have wanted to kill anything that looked at him wearing the brand of his oppressor. 

Megatron presses a kiss to the curve of his helm, and Jazz cycles his optics, glad for the visor which even in the berth, hides the heat of his grief. 

“Sometimes, I regret it,” Jazz says. “And most of the time, I don’t.” 

“Yes,” Megatron vents a quiet sigh. “As do I.” 

He settles around Jazz, a shield against the ghosts of war. If they come for their revenge, they’ll take him first, and maybe, they’ll be satisfied enough with his spark. 

Jazz won’t let them. If Megatron goes, he does, too. 

They’re both guilty all the same. 

***

[dracoqueen22]

Tarn finally, FINALLY getting his hands on Optimus as Optimus is Megatron's true obsession and Tarn taking advantage of that. (★ ω ★)

What extraordinary luck. 

Optimus Prime. Alone. Ripe for the taking, and take Tarn had.

A few well-placed shots from the Peaceful Tyranny had taken out both engines, and it had been a simple matter to scoop the single-occupant ship into the cargo bay. Optimus Prime had, of course, emerged ready to fight, but one Optimus Prime was no match for the full might of the Decepticon Justice Division. 

Centuries of seeking this mech and here he had wandered into their path without a care in the universe. Truly, Primus was on Tarn’s side. 

“The war is over, Tarn,” Optimus Prime growled, and even kneeling before Tarn, arms cuffed behind his back, energon dribbling from a few opportune blows, disarmed and beaten, he tried to be a voice of authority. “I am Optimus Prime no longer.” 

Tarn lifted a hand, and Kaon placed the datapad into it. “This informs me otherwise,” he said, gesturing with the datapad. 

Every scrap of information the Decepticons had on Optimus Prime had been fed into this datapad. Kaon had painstakingly matched every detail to what Soundwave had accumulated. There was no doubt in Tarn’s mind, this was Optimus Prime. 

He could call himself whatever he liked, but he was Optimus Prime. 

“Can we kill him now?” Tesarus asked, his left hand bearing down on the Prime’s shoulder, the spinning blades of his grinder quietly whirring as they cycled into readiness. 

Helex’s cauldron bubbled, waves of heat emanating around him as his right hand clenched, crumpling the armor of the Prime’s other shoulder. “I get the scraps, right?” 

The air was ripe with their combined glee. 

“Gentlemechs,” Tarn purred, hitting the right frequency to make Optimus Prime shudder, to make his engine squeal a distressed pitch before Tarn dialed it back. “Let’s not be too hasty. We have an extraordinary opportunity here, do we not?” 

“We only get to kill him once,” Kaon agreed. He all but vibrated beside Tarn, little arcs of electricity passing between his coils. 

Vos said nothing, but he stared at Optimus Prime, and sometimes, a stare without words could be unsettling enough. He stroked the edges of his faceplate, and stared at Optimus Prime, one finger teasing beneath the edge. 

“You can kill him when I am done with him,” Tarn said. 

His own spark quivered with excitement. He hardly knew where to begin. Optimus Prime would die, oh yes, but Tarn had spent decades dreaming of this very moment. Truly, the Prime’s only competition would be Starscream or that traitor Deadlock. 

“Megatron is dead, Tarn,” Optimus Prime said, as though such a lie might save him. “There is no need for this.” 

Tarn chuckled. “Lord Megatron is not dead, because Lord Megatron cannot die. He will rise again, I can assure you.” He stepped closer to the bound Prime and grasped Optimus’ chin, tilting his head up. 

He rather enjoyed being able to look down on Optimus Prime. 

This mech who had so captivated Lord Megatron, who had defied Lord Megatron time and time again, who did not deserve to occupy so much of Lord Megatron’s processor, and yet did so anyway. This was where he belonged, at the feet of Lord Megatron’s most loyal Decepticons. 

“The Decepticon Cause lives and will always live, and you are the single greatest threat to our glory,” Tarn said before he curled his claws in the edges of the Prime’s battle mask and yanked. 

It tore free, crumpling in his grip, and Tarn looked down at the pathetic piece of metal. A souvenir, perhaps. Proof he could present to Lord Megatron that his foe and distraction had been disposed of, and Cybertron -- no, the universe -- was now his for the taking. 

The Prime jerked, letting slip the tiniest of grunts. Of course, it would take much, much more than a little pain to get Lord Megatron’s rival to react. 

Tarn scraped at the torn edges of the Prime’s mask-mount with the tip of his claw. “We are going to have so much fun,” he purred, perfectly tuned to send Optimus’ spark into spasms of distress. 

There wouldn’t be much left of Optimus Prime in the end. 

Perhaps then Lord Megatron would finally see the Prime for the useless, pathetic scrap of a mech he was. 

***

a/n: And this is the /SFW/ version of what I initially had planned. *coughs*

[dracoqueen22]

Oooh! JazzRod with possessive Jazz and clueless Rod?

Rodimus hated diplomatic functions. 

He hated the smiling, and the handshaking, and the polite conversation, and the pretend interest, and the thinly veiled threats and the empty promises of good faith and cooperation. He hated attending these things, and only did so because it was required of him, because as the heir-apparent to Optimus Prime, he would have to be skilled at diplomacy. 

Grimlock wasn’t so bad. Starscream either. The Decepticons were generally good for telling it like it was, and Starscream especially could be counted on for making a sarcastic comment about one of the other diplomats. Rodimus laughed, though he shouldn’t have, until Ultra Magnus inevitably arrived to drag him toward some other high muckity-muck demanding attention. 

Usually, it was a Neutral. 

More rarely, it was some emissary from the Galactic Federation, some snotty alien species who thought they were better than the Cybertronians because they hadn’t had a civil war which ended up spilling onto other planets. 

Jazz often attended these events because he was audials and optics, seamlessly sliding through the crowd and picking up snippets of conversation no one would expect him to hear. He was charming, and seductive, and he always came back with the most delicious gossip. 

Rodimus barely saw Jazz during these events, which was a shame because he could have used the distraction, but he resigned himself to the reality of it all. 

Until tonight. 

For some reason, Jazz was sticking to his side like they were magnetically attached at the hip. He’d shooed off Ultra Magnus, he’d glared off Springer, and the only mech he seemed to tolerate with any of his usual charm was Optimus. 

Rodimus had no clue what was going on in Jazz’s head, but now was not the time to bring up his odd behavior, because they were surrounded by Sharkticons in the shape of diplomatic emissaries. 

And one of Rodimus’ least favorites was approaching now -- Regent Glaxio from the planet Exelon Five. The Exelons were an organic species, smaller than the average Cybertronian but larger than Jazz, with far too many arms, and far too many tentacles. 

Also. They were… handsy. 

Rodimus planted a smile on his face. “Nice to see you again, Regent Glaxio,” he said, offering a hand to the ambassador, who took it in two of her soft appendages, her long, long fingers wrapping around his wrist and caressing the thinner derma. 

Jazz went rigid beside him. 

“It is a pleasure, as always, Rodimus Prime,” Glaxio said, her bubbly voice sounding weird through the universal translator. “You are truly a stunning representation of your species.” 

Rodimus tried to take back his hand. 

Glaxio’s grip persisted. It was no secret that many Exelons had a… fondness for Cybertronians. There were many a Cybertronian who’d landed on Exelon Five during the war and found a place of refuge if they didn’t mind a little cross-species interfacing. 

Rodimus was not one of those mechs. 

“You flatter me once again, Regent,” Rodimus said. “Thank you for attending. It is important to us that we continue to foster a good relationship with our galactic neighbors.” 

He tried to take back his hand again, but Glaxio stroked over his inner wrist again, finding a sensor with the practiced ease of one who had numerous Cybertronian berthmates before. 

Jazz’s field flickered with agitation. “I’ll be having you release our Prime now, Regent,” he said, his tone pleasant and cheerful to anyone who didn’t know better. “He’s taken.” 

“On my planet, there is no such thing,” Glaxio said, her gaze flicking to Jazz, but if she took any offense, there was no sign. “We all share and share alike.” 

Jazz leaned in, curling an arm around Rodimus’ waist, while the other rested on Glaxio’s wrist, a light touch. “That’s nice, but you’re not on your planet right now. Yer on ours. And here, we don’t share.” His fingers flexed, too gentle to be a squeeze, but it was a warning nonetheless, before he released her wrist. 

“As flattered as I am, my guardian is correct,” Rodimus said, keeping his tone bland. The last thing he needed was to cause another Incident. “My interest is reserved for my partner alone.” 

Glaxio exhaled, a bubbly wet sound, and finally, her fingers uncurled from Rodimus’ wrist, withdrawing. “It is a shame, this. You really are quite lovely. We could make a beautiful peace together.” 

She reached up, as if she intended to touch his face, but Jazz’s engine revved again -- audibly, a growl this time -- and Glaxio seemed to think better of it. 

“Ya can make peace with words,” Jazz said. “Or else you’d be a pretty poor diplomat, right?” He grinned, a smile with too much denta for it to be anything but a threat. 

Glaxio withdrew, pressing both sets of hands together in front of her body, just the fingertips touching. “You are correct,” she said, to Jazz, before she looked at Rodimus, the slightest curve to her thin lips. “Perhaps I shall see if the Decepticon commander is more inclined to sharing.” 

Rodimus snorted before he could stop himself. “Good luck with that. I don’t know which of the two is more possessive in that relationship -- Grimlock or Starscream.” 

Amusement danced in Glaxio’s eyes. “Possessive, yes.” She chuckled, still an odd and bubbly sound. “Your partner would know something of that as well.” 

She drifted away before Rodimus could retort, and frankly, he was too glad to see her go. Let someone else navigate that minefield. 

Rodimus sighed. “That was not very discreet.” 

Jazz looked up at him, face full of innocence that Rodimus did not believe for a second. “There’s diplomacy and then there’s rudeness, and that was fragging rude.” He pressed his fingers in on Rodimus’ backstrut, chaste but pointed. “You’re mine.” 

Well, that explained why Jazz was sticking particularly close this time around at least. 

“You do realize I have zero interest in berthing an Exelon, right? I mean…” Rodimus made sure they were reasonably alone before he let himself shudder. “They’re squishy.” 

“It’s not about what you’d do, it’s about her touching things she shouldn’t,” Jazz retorted and he pulled out a meshcloth, already pre-dampened. “Here. Your hand is probably all sticky now.” 

Rodimus chuckled, but accepted the offer because Jazz was correct. Where Glaxio’s fingers had teased into his seams there was now an oily residue. 

“You should talk to Xaaron next,” Jazz suggested. “He can keep his hands to himself.” 

“And where will you be?” Rodimus asked. 

Jazz took the dirtied rag and tucked it back into some invisible pocket. “Right next to you.” 

Of course. 

Well, at least Rodimus wouldn’t be bored. 

***