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Jul. 2nd, 2012 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
camfieldTraded prompts with Dellessa! These are the ones she chose for me. :)
All drabbly. Nothing long.
Soundwave/Bluestreak - Vocal
Soundwave picked up the restraints that were sitting by the berth, fingering the clasp on the handcuffs as he looked around the bare room. Everything else had already been taken out, and here he was, looking like some lost turbopuppy who’d had his bone taken away from him.
A snort, and he subspaced the cuffs, turning to leave when a movement caught his optic. Stopping and turning around to find Bluestreak standing there, gaze unflinching and hard against Soundwave’s own.
“I hate you,” he spat. “I hate you with every fiber of my being. Every ounce of metal that covers my frame. Every drop of Energon that runs through my lines.”
Soundwave is quiet, not because he wants to be, but because he has to be. Everything the Autobot gunner says is true, and Soundwave was the cause of it all.
“I hate that you took my seals. I hate that I gave them to you, I hate that everything you did was a lie from the beginning because even though I knew better, it didn’t matter. Even though I was told you were bad news I went ahead and loved you anyway.”
The pull in his spark was painful, but there was nothing that he can refute. All of it is true.
“Most of all, I hate that you left me alone. I hate that I had to come and find YOU. Instead of the other way around.”
The cassette mech tips his head forward, as much of an apology as he can offer.
“Soundwave: Still loves Bluestreak.”
The gunner gave him one last piercing stare, before turning and walking away, fading into nothing but whisps of smoke.
Ratchet/Starscream - you were always a jerk
Starscream set himself down on the ground carefully, being mindful of his already damaged plating. That dammed medic had given him his comm frequency, and told him to call, but had kept Starscream waiting nearly two full solar cycles.
“I’ll kill him.” Of course, if he lost much more energon, he would be the one who was offline, but at this point he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Lying back on the dirt, he started at the sky. Watching the stars that shot across his visual feed, processor wandering until it kept replaying memory files of Ratchet. Before the war, when he was a professor at the local college. At the beginning when he stood so tall and proud at the new Prime’s side. Cherry red and spotless white frame, he was sure he still remembered where to touch, only ever dirty when he’d spent a long shift in the medical facility.
Now, he was dented and pitted. His alt mode a boxy ambulence that added a fair bit of kibble to his already sturdy frame, and Starscream gave a long and slow vent as he thought. Everything becoming muddier as he lost more and more energon, systems shutting down to conserve what was left.
He remembered fights, over petty things like the way taht the chair was turned in their apartment. The way that they stored their datapads, or energon cubes. Squabbles that had always led to some of the best interfacing he’d ever had.
A caustic medic, a snarky scientist, and somehow, for that while, they’d made it work.
Then the war came and he believed in what Megatron was selling. Wholesparkedly. It was a dream come true for those who had been lower class, and he excitedly had told Ratchet about it one orn only to find that his lover’s face had turned to horror. The medic not saying anything that night, but had been gone before the waking cycle. Leaving most of what he’d had behind with a note for Starscream that had broken his spark and left him jaded.
And now. Here they were. Full circle, just a grounder and a flyer. Medic and his patient.
His last thoughts, before his processor finally sent him into stasis were of annoyance at Ratchet’s tardiness. “You were always a jerk.”
Jazz/Datsun Trine - Nobody’s business
The first time they found Jazz in a cuddle pile of overcharged Datsuns, they shrugged it off.
The second time, optical ridges were raised.
The third time, rumors and gossip started to fly.
“They don’t even understand!” Wailed Bluestreak, Smokescreen petting his chevron as he tried to soothe the gunner. Prowl pacing the floor, a snarl on his normally blank visage.
Jazz slid onto the couch and held out his arms, Bluestreak crashing into them with a force that made him grunt. Smokescreen sliding in on one side, Prowl hesitating before slipping over to the other side.
“It isn’t like they think!” Bluestreak was rambling, his wild optics gradually calming down as Jazz’s hands petted his doorwings, helm rubbing audial horns with chevrons of the three in a gentle caress.
“It ain’t nobody's business but ours. Dun worry Blue, let them talk. We have all we need right here.”
All drabbly. Nothing long.
Soundwave/Bluestreak - Vocal
Soundwave picked up the restraints that were sitting by the berth, fingering the clasp on the handcuffs as he looked around the bare room. Everything else had already been taken out, and here he was, looking like some lost turbopuppy who’d had his bone taken away from him.
A snort, and he subspaced the cuffs, turning to leave when a movement caught his optic. Stopping and turning around to find Bluestreak standing there, gaze unflinching and hard against Soundwave’s own.
“I hate you,” he spat. “I hate you with every fiber of my being. Every ounce of metal that covers my frame. Every drop of Energon that runs through my lines.”
Soundwave is quiet, not because he wants to be, but because he has to be. Everything the Autobot gunner says is true, and Soundwave was the cause of it all.
“I hate that you took my seals. I hate that I gave them to you, I hate that everything you did was a lie from the beginning because even though I knew better, it didn’t matter. Even though I was told you were bad news I went ahead and loved you anyway.”
The pull in his spark was painful, but there was nothing that he can refute. All of it is true.
“Most of all, I hate that you left me alone. I hate that I had to come and find YOU. Instead of the other way around.”
The cassette mech tips his head forward, as much of an apology as he can offer.
“Soundwave: Still loves Bluestreak.”
The gunner gave him one last piercing stare, before turning and walking away, fading into nothing but whisps of smoke.
Ratchet/Starscream - you were always a jerk
Starscream set himself down on the ground carefully, being mindful of his already damaged plating. That dammed medic had given him his comm frequency, and told him to call, but had kept Starscream waiting nearly two full solar cycles.
“I’ll kill him.” Of course, if he lost much more energon, he would be the one who was offline, but at this point he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Lying back on the dirt, he started at the sky. Watching the stars that shot across his visual feed, processor wandering until it kept replaying memory files of Ratchet. Before the war, when he was a professor at the local college. At the beginning when he stood so tall and proud at the new Prime’s side. Cherry red and spotless white frame, he was sure he still remembered where to touch, only ever dirty when he’d spent a long shift in the medical facility.
Now, he was dented and pitted. His alt mode a boxy ambulence that added a fair bit of kibble to his already sturdy frame, and Starscream gave a long and slow vent as he thought. Everything becoming muddier as he lost more and more energon, systems shutting down to conserve what was left.
He remembered fights, over petty things like the way taht the chair was turned in their apartment. The way that they stored their datapads, or energon cubes. Squabbles that had always led to some of the best interfacing he’d ever had.
A caustic medic, a snarky scientist, and somehow, for that while, they’d made it work.
Then the war came and he believed in what Megatron was selling. Wholesparkedly. It was a dream come true for those who had been lower class, and he excitedly had told Ratchet about it one orn only to find that his lover’s face had turned to horror. The medic not saying anything that night, but had been gone before the waking cycle. Leaving most of what he’d had behind with a note for Starscream that had broken his spark and left him jaded.
And now. Here they were. Full circle, just a grounder and a flyer. Medic and his patient.
His last thoughts, before his processor finally sent him into stasis were of annoyance at Ratchet’s tardiness. “You were always a jerk.”
Jazz/Datsun Trine - Nobody’s business
The first time they found Jazz in a cuddle pile of overcharged Datsuns, they shrugged it off.
The second time, optical ridges were raised.
The third time, rumors and gossip started to fly.
“They don’t even understand!” Wailed Bluestreak, Smokescreen petting his chevron as he tried to soothe the gunner. Prowl pacing the floor, a snarl on his normally blank visage.
Jazz slid onto the couch and held out his arms, Bluestreak crashing into them with a force that made him grunt. Smokescreen sliding in on one side, Prowl hesitating before slipping over to the other side.
“It isn’t like they think!” Bluestreak was rambling, his wild optics gradually calming down as Jazz’s hands petted his doorwings, helm rubbing audial horns with chevrons of the three in a gentle caress.
“It ain’t nobody's business but ours. Dun worry Blue, let them talk. We have all we need right here.”
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