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ante_luceNo angst this time, promise. Eesh, that last bunny was depressing.
And![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deceptobot? Take a look at the last scene of this bespectacled fic ^_^
Title: Bots Make Passes... (Part 2)
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing
Red Alert growled, glaring at the datapad he held hard enough that Prowl started to wonder if it would spontaneously combust.
“Red Alert?”
Another growl, and the security director dropped the datapad into the SIC’s hand, whipping off the glasses he, like the other two mechs, now wore almost constantly (it was easier to adjust to having them on all the time rather than to have to keep putting them on when needed) to glare at them now.
As the Datsun read through the requisitions information and the security report for the shipment, Red Alert fumed in the background. “Another mix up. Everything else comes through from Cybertron just fine, except for the materials for new optics. At this rate, Ratchet won’t be able to replace our optics for a year!”
“I understand that Wheeljack is working with Grapple and Hoist to manufacture the parts from Earth sourced materials.”
“That could take even longer! Just the refining process alone takes weeks.”
“They’ve managed to acquire a sufficient quantity of reasonably pure material for one set of optics.”
“There are three of us requiring new optics.”
“And you are at the head of that line, Red Alert.”
At the security director’s blink, Prowl smiled, gesturing to his desk and all the reports on it. “The glasses do not affect my ability to do paperwork so much. Your need was deemed the greatest out of us three.”
“But, battle situations…”
“My optics are malfunctioning, not my battle computer. I can still draw up tactics, and can work with coordinates if need be. Smokescreen and Trailbreaker have enough experience to direct a live situation. We are all off the battle roster in any case. But you are the only security director we have.”
“Perceptor?”
“Has Skyfire offering to work with him in his lab for the time being. And with the research interns from Cybertron around, he will have more than enough pairs of fully functional optics to help him monitor his experiments.”
The Lamborghini fell silent, and Prowl took the opportunity to go through another datapad in the relative quiet.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
= = =
The latest individual to knock on his door with some inane query had finally left. Bots had been in and out the whole day, distracting him and generally interfering with the completion of his work, and each time someone new came in, they stared at him, and the glasses on his faceplates. Prowl felt like a goldfish. The spectacles were odd and unusual, fine, he could accept that they would be gawked at. But these were grown bots he was dealing with. They should have gotten over the sight by now.
Cycling air in frustration, the SIC rose from his desk to put away more datapads (thank Primus, he was finally done) when a knock on his door sounded. Stifling a groan, doorwings drawn back and flared out in annoyance, he could not quite hide the look he directed at the door. The mech poking his head in made an undignified cross between a gasp and a squeak, intakes stuttering, upon being subject to that glower, and the black and white mech sighed, shuttering his optics tiredly and leaning back against his desk.
“I apologise, Jazz. It’s been a long day.”
The saboteur inched into the room in an overly cautious manner, and Prowl sighed again, his faint smile trying and failing to be hidden. The Porsche grinned in return. “That’s better.”
“If you say so. What brings you here? Ratchet said you were not to tax yourself.”
“I know, but you’re supposed to be on light duties too. And according to the roster, you were supposed to go off duty hours ago.”
“The vid conference with Cybertron took longer than usual, and bots have been coming in here all day with the most absurd of requests. I’ve only just gotten done. That is, if no one else comes in to stammer through some other ridiculous question.”
“Whoa. Mech, looks like you need a break. I got a couple of energon cubes and you got the time, what say we go hide from everyone for a bit?”
The tactician had slipped off his glasses, and was unconsciously tapping the slender object against his lip plates as he considered Jazz’s offer. The Ops mech watched him, optics drawn to the movement, and by association, those lip plates as well. The soft murmur of a purring engine sounded in the room, and the visored mech silently cursed as Prowl shot him a penetrating look, spectacle frame paused in mid-tap.
“Jazz?”
“Ah. Frag.”
The Porsche reached for Prowl’s glasses, removing them from the other black and white’s grasp. He’d heard the reasons for their use while stuck in the med bay, as well as more than his fair share of whispered exclamations over their effect on the looks of the mechs who had to wear them (and he suspected that the reason certain supplies were not making it through from Cybertron was so that certain mechs would have to wear the things for longer). The tactician eyed him warily as he slipped the glasses back into place on Prowl’s faceplates.
“Much, much better.” He breathed, staring down at the now bespectacled mech, who looked back at him in amusement.
“Care to explain, Jazz?”
“Y’look hot in these, Prowler. Well, you’ve always had a gorgeous aft, but the glasses make you look even hotter. Can’t blame the mechs for wanting to stare at you.”
The Datsun was abruptly made aware of how revved up Jazz’s systems sounded as the Ops mech drew even closer. Dryly, the tactician murmured back. “It seems you have more in mind than just staring.”
Encouraged by the fact that the chevroned mech was most definitely not trying to get away, the saboteur came to rest, pressed close to the other mech. “Always been the more… tactile sort. Prefer the laying on of hands, to worshipping from afar.”
Jazz’s hand skipped lightly over black and white plating, tracing patterns onto similarly coloured doorwings. As Prowl’s engine replied with a purr of its own, the saboteur smirked in a predatory manner. “We’ve been dancing around each other since forever now, and I think it’s high time I paid my dues.”
He leant forward then, claiming a kiss from the tactician. And as he nudged the other black and white back onto the desk, he heard Prowl murmur. “My door had better be locked, Jazz.”
“Hey, if it isn’t, maybe they’ll stop staring.”
Prowl’s attempt to reply to this was derailed by another kiss.
= = =
“If wearing these was all it took to get you to make your move, I should have tried them a long time ago.” Jazz onlined his optics to see Prowl toying with the spectacles, turning them over in his hands. He stretched out, shifting against the Datsun languidly, and plucked the frames out of pale hands.
“Perhaps. You look good in glasses, like some kinda hot secretary.”
The Porsche’s teasing smirk was met with a sly look. “Considering how some mechs consider me Optimus’s glorified personal assistant, perhaps the image is not unexpected. Undignified, and I hate to think what their twisted little CPUs are coming up with, but not unexpected.”
There was a possessive note to Jazz’s growl, and the tactician smirked back. “Down, boy.”
Playing along, the visored mech bared his denta, nipping at a bright red chevron. “Mine.”
Prowl’s comm. chose then to sound, and when he replied, Optimus was on the other end, sounding puzzled.
//Prowl, Cybertron’s calling for another vid conference. They want to apologise personally for the delay in getting the supplies to repair our mechs’ optics to us. Could you drop by my office?//
//I understand, sir. I’ll be there in a few minutes.//
//Thank you, Prowl.//
= = =
The vid conference started off well enough. Elita-1 made the apology, shooting a glare at a few sheepish looking femmes and mechs off to her side. For their part, Optimus and Prowl were polite, accepting the apology with little fuss. All was going well, until Jazz strode forward and yanked the Datsun towards him for a loud, dramatic (and lengthy) lip lock.
The Prime stared, came to his senses quickly, and shifted so that he stood between the pair of black and whites and the vidscreen, effectively blocking them from the view of the bots on Cybertron. Elita-1 stared back, and Optimus shrugged (tuning down the sensitivity of his audios as he did so), having realised a few things over the course of the vid conference.
“Jazz has always been rather… possessive.”
The connection was quickly terminated after that, and the Autobot commander peeked warily over his shoulder, unsure of what he would find behind him. The sight that met his optics prompted another bout of staring as he watched his bespectacled SIC give the Spec Ops head a rather heated look, grab hold of the grinning mech and drag him out of the room and down the corridor.
As the pair turned the corner, Optimus blinked as he realised his engine was revving. Alright, perhaps he could see why the bots on Cybertron had been effectively devouring Prowl with their optics.
= = =
“Perceptor?”
“In here.”
Skyfire followed the sound of the microscope’s voice, locating the other researcher in amongst an array of experiments. The mech looked harried, searching amongst items and equipment for something.
“Looking for these, ‘Cep?” The shuttle held out a pair of glasses, and Perceptor sighed in relief, prompting a quiet chuckle from the larger mech.
“Yes, thank you. Where were they?”
“You left them in my lab. My intern found them and was wondering what they were for.”
Skyfire smiled as he recounted the incident. The green mech, somewhere in his youngling vorns and posted to the Earth base as part of his training, had come across the glasses lying on a worktable while helping the researcher tidy his lab. He’d picked them up, sensor panels perking in curiosity, and Skyfire had come across him just as he’d placed them on his faceplates, having figured out that much from their structure.
The magnifying effect the lenses had on the mech’s optics had been rather endearing, resulting in a large opticked little mech, standing very still and staring up at the shuttle in a daze as his processors tried to adjust to his suddenly modified vision. Perceptor smiled at the tale, and laughed when Skyfire sent over an image capture of the smaller mech, having pulled off the glasses, holding them up to peer through the lenses from a more manageable distance, grinning almost cheekily at the viewer.
“Adorable little youngling, isn’t he?”
“Mhmm.”
“Don’t worry, ‘Cep. You’re still cuter.”
The microscope felt his faceplates heat up again, and he nearly dropped the glasses he now held. Skyfire was laughing once more.
NOTE: ... Because I cave like a caving thing. Here's a happy ending for Time and Mechs.
There was another spike of energy, identical to the one at the Ark not so long ago. Any bot not on duty ran for the gates, transformed and broke all speed limits heading in the direction of the anomaly.
The first thing any of them heard when they got there were distinctive, achingly familiar voices, one of them swearing up a storm.
“Frag you to the Pit, you fool mech! What kind of overclocked, thrice glitched excuse of a scheme did you cook up in that slagging glorified abacus of yours?!”
“Cool it before you blow a gasket, med-bot. We were goners, with the shuttle two nanosecs from exploding. How we survived, I don’t know, but it had something to do with that doohickey he pulled out.”
“Frankly, I don’t care how we survived. I just hope the explosion slagged the ‘Cons who boarded us.”
The first thing they saw were three figures, emerging from a dust cloud, with a fourth (doorwinged, like only a select few were) leaning heavily on one of them.
The second most important thing that happened was Perceptor’s announcement that the mechs were not going back. Ever.
The most important thing? A quiet declaration, from one battered, black and white mech to another.
“The spark remembers what the processors cannot. I can’t promise you forever, or tell you that it will be long enough, but all the time I have left is yours.”
End of snippet!
And
deceptobot? Take a look at the last scene of this bespectacled fic ^_^Title: Bots Make Passes... (Part 2)
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing
Red Alert growled, glaring at the datapad he held hard enough that Prowl started to wonder if it would spontaneously combust.
“Red Alert?”
Another growl, and the security director dropped the datapad into the SIC’s hand, whipping off the glasses he, like the other two mechs, now wore almost constantly (it was easier to adjust to having them on all the time rather than to have to keep putting them on when needed) to glare at them now.
As the Datsun read through the requisitions information and the security report for the shipment, Red Alert fumed in the background. “Another mix up. Everything else comes through from Cybertron just fine, except for the materials for new optics. At this rate, Ratchet won’t be able to replace our optics for a year!”
“I understand that Wheeljack is working with Grapple and Hoist to manufacture the parts from Earth sourced materials.”
“That could take even longer! Just the refining process alone takes weeks.”
“They’ve managed to acquire a sufficient quantity of reasonably pure material for one set of optics.”
“There are three of us requiring new optics.”
“And you are at the head of that line, Red Alert.”
At the security director’s blink, Prowl smiled, gesturing to his desk and all the reports on it. “The glasses do not affect my ability to do paperwork so much. Your need was deemed the greatest out of us three.”
“But, battle situations…”
“My optics are malfunctioning, not my battle computer. I can still draw up tactics, and can work with coordinates if need be. Smokescreen and Trailbreaker have enough experience to direct a live situation. We are all off the battle roster in any case. But you are the only security director we have.”
“Perceptor?”
“Has Skyfire offering to work with him in his lab for the time being. And with the research interns from Cybertron around, he will have more than enough pairs of fully functional optics to help him monitor his experiments.”
The Lamborghini fell silent, and Prowl took the opportunity to go through another datapad in the relative quiet.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
= = =
The latest individual to knock on his door with some inane query had finally left. Bots had been in and out the whole day, distracting him and generally interfering with the completion of his work, and each time someone new came in, they stared at him, and the glasses on his faceplates. Prowl felt like a goldfish. The spectacles were odd and unusual, fine, he could accept that they would be gawked at. But these were grown bots he was dealing with. They should have gotten over the sight by now.
Cycling air in frustration, the SIC rose from his desk to put away more datapads (thank Primus, he was finally done) when a knock on his door sounded. Stifling a groan, doorwings drawn back and flared out in annoyance, he could not quite hide the look he directed at the door. The mech poking his head in made an undignified cross between a gasp and a squeak, intakes stuttering, upon being subject to that glower, and the black and white mech sighed, shuttering his optics tiredly and leaning back against his desk.
“I apologise, Jazz. It’s been a long day.”
The saboteur inched into the room in an overly cautious manner, and Prowl sighed again, his faint smile trying and failing to be hidden. The Porsche grinned in return. “That’s better.”
“If you say so. What brings you here? Ratchet said you were not to tax yourself.”
“I know, but you’re supposed to be on light duties too. And according to the roster, you were supposed to go off duty hours ago.”
“The vid conference with Cybertron took longer than usual, and bots have been coming in here all day with the most absurd of requests. I’ve only just gotten done. That is, if no one else comes in to stammer through some other ridiculous question.”
“Whoa. Mech, looks like you need a break. I got a couple of energon cubes and you got the time, what say we go hide from everyone for a bit?”
The tactician had slipped off his glasses, and was unconsciously tapping the slender object against his lip plates as he considered Jazz’s offer. The Ops mech watched him, optics drawn to the movement, and by association, those lip plates as well. The soft murmur of a purring engine sounded in the room, and the visored mech silently cursed as Prowl shot him a penetrating look, spectacle frame paused in mid-tap.
“Jazz?”
“Ah. Frag.”
The Porsche reached for Prowl’s glasses, removing them from the other black and white’s grasp. He’d heard the reasons for their use while stuck in the med bay, as well as more than his fair share of whispered exclamations over their effect on the looks of the mechs who had to wear them (and he suspected that the reason certain supplies were not making it through from Cybertron was so that certain mechs would have to wear the things for longer). The tactician eyed him warily as he slipped the glasses back into place on Prowl’s faceplates.
“Much, much better.” He breathed, staring down at the now bespectacled mech, who looked back at him in amusement.
“Care to explain, Jazz?”
“Y’look hot in these, Prowler. Well, you’ve always had a gorgeous aft, but the glasses make you look even hotter. Can’t blame the mechs for wanting to stare at you.”
The Datsun was abruptly made aware of how revved up Jazz’s systems sounded as the Ops mech drew even closer. Dryly, the tactician murmured back. “It seems you have more in mind than just staring.”
Encouraged by the fact that the chevroned mech was most definitely not trying to get away, the saboteur came to rest, pressed close to the other mech. “Always been the more… tactile sort. Prefer the laying on of hands, to worshipping from afar.”
Jazz’s hand skipped lightly over black and white plating, tracing patterns onto similarly coloured doorwings. As Prowl’s engine replied with a purr of its own, the saboteur smirked in a predatory manner. “We’ve been dancing around each other since forever now, and I think it’s high time I paid my dues.”
He leant forward then, claiming a kiss from the tactician. And as he nudged the other black and white back onto the desk, he heard Prowl murmur. “My door had better be locked, Jazz.”
“Hey, if it isn’t, maybe they’ll stop staring.”
Prowl’s attempt to reply to this was derailed by another kiss.
= = =
“If wearing these was all it took to get you to make your move, I should have tried them a long time ago.” Jazz onlined his optics to see Prowl toying with the spectacles, turning them over in his hands. He stretched out, shifting against the Datsun languidly, and plucked the frames out of pale hands.
“Perhaps. You look good in glasses, like some kinda hot secretary.”
The Porsche’s teasing smirk was met with a sly look. “Considering how some mechs consider me Optimus’s glorified personal assistant, perhaps the image is not unexpected. Undignified, and I hate to think what their twisted little CPUs are coming up with, but not unexpected.”
There was a possessive note to Jazz’s growl, and the tactician smirked back. “Down, boy.”
Playing along, the visored mech bared his denta, nipping at a bright red chevron. “Mine.”
Prowl’s comm. chose then to sound, and when he replied, Optimus was on the other end, sounding puzzled.
//Prowl, Cybertron’s calling for another vid conference. They want to apologise personally for the delay in getting the supplies to repair our mechs’ optics to us. Could you drop by my office?//
//I understand, sir. I’ll be there in a few minutes.//
//Thank you, Prowl.//
= = =
The vid conference started off well enough. Elita-1 made the apology, shooting a glare at a few sheepish looking femmes and mechs off to her side. For their part, Optimus and Prowl were polite, accepting the apology with little fuss. All was going well, until Jazz strode forward and yanked the Datsun towards him for a loud, dramatic (and lengthy) lip lock.
The Prime stared, came to his senses quickly, and shifted so that he stood between the pair of black and whites and the vidscreen, effectively blocking them from the view of the bots on Cybertron. Elita-1 stared back, and Optimus shrugged (tuning down the sensitivity of his audios as he did so), having realised a few things over the course of the vid conference.
“Jazz has always been rather… possessive.”
The connection was quickly terminated after that, and the Autobot commander peeked warily over his shoulder, unsure of what he would find behind him. The sight that met his optics prompted another bout of staring as he watched his bespectacled SIC give the Spec Ops head a rather heated look, grab hold of the grinning mech and drag him out of the room and down the corridor.
As the pair turned the corner, Optimus blinked as he realised his engine was revving. Alright, perhaps he could see why the bots on Cybertron had been effectively devouring Prowl with their optics.
= = =
“Perceptor?”
“In here.”
Skyfire followed the sound of the microscope’s voice, locating the other researcher in amongst an array of experiments. The mech looked harried, searching amongst items and equipment for something.
“Looking for these, ‘Cep?” The shuttle held out a pair of glasses, and Perceptor sighed in relief, prompting a quiet chuckle from the larger mech.
“Yes, thank you. Where were they?”
“You left them in my lab. My intern found them and was wondering what they were for.”
Skyfire smiled as he recounted the incident. The green mech, somewhere in his youngling vorns and posted to the Earth base as part of his training, had come across the glasses lying on a worktable while helping the researcher tidy his lab. He’d picked them up, sensor panels perking in curiosity, and Skyfire had come across him just as he’d placed them on his faceplates, having figured out that much from their structure.
The magnifying effect the lenses had on the mech’s optics had been rather endearing, resulting in a large opticked little mech, standing very still and staring up at the shuttle in a daze as his processors tried to adjust to his suddenly modified vision. Perceptor smiled at the tale, and laughed when Skyfire sent over an image capture of the smaller mech, having pulled off the glasses, holding them up to peer through the lenses from a more manageable distance, grinning almost cheekily at the viewer.
“Adorable little youngling, isn’t he?”
“Mhmm.”
“Don’t worry, ‘Cep. You’re still cuter.”
The microscope felt his faceplates heat up again, and he nearly dropped the glasses he now held. Skyfire was laughing once more.
NOTE: ... Because I cave like a caving thing. Here's a happy ending for Time and Mechs.
There was another spike of energy, identical to the one at the Ark not so long ago. Any bot not on duty ran for the gates, transformed and broke all speed limits heading in the direction of the anomaly.
The first thing any of them heard when they got there were distinctive, achingly familiar voices, one of them swearing up a storm.
“Frag you to the Pit, you fool mech! What kind of overclocked, thrice glitched excuse of a scheme did you cook up in that slagging glorified abacus of yours?!”
“Cool it before you blow a gasket, med-bot. We were goners, with the shuttle two nanosecs from exploding. How we survived, I don’t know, but it had something to do with that doohickey he pulled out.”
“Frankly, I don’t care how we survived. I just hope the explosion slagged the ‘Cons who boarded us.”
The first thing they saw were three figures, emerging from a dust cloud, with a fourth (doorwinged, like only a select few were) leaning heavily on one of them.
The second most important thing that happened was Perceptor’s announcement that the mechs were not going back. Ever.
The most important thing? A quiet declaration, from one battered, black and white mech to another.
“The spark remembers what the processors cannot. I can’t promise you forever, or tell you that it will be long enough, but all the time I have left is yours.”
End of snippet!
