Work was busy today...
Aug. 18th, 2009 12:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ante_luceThusly, I didn't get to stay at my desk for any appreciable period of time.
So guess what? Work!bunny followed me home!
Title: ((Yeah. I'm just going to give up on this one for a bit... Should make a tag though...))
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Datsuns. Lambos. Mirage. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
They stumbled into his room, too caught up in each other to notice where they were going until they landed, tangled together on the berth. As his hands roamed a pair of conveniently pinned doorwings, pale ones reached up to pull his black helm closer for a kiss, before trailing a hot mouth along his jaw line and neck, making his intakes stutter.
His foggy CPU registered a smug purr of satisfaction, and, not one to just let such things pass, he got even by running his glossa over a gleaming red chevron. As the doorwinged mech writhed, moaning his name, he moved lower to give the now exposed neck cables a gentle bite, driving his lover to overload and turning that moan into an actual scream.
“Primus, Sideswipe!”
“Prowl!”
Suddenly, he found himself flipped on his back, a doorwinged form straddling his frame as a chevroned helm bent close, bringing them optic to stunned optic.
“You’d better have a fragging good explanation for that, Sideswipe.”
Bluestreak hissed, one form of passion abruptly switched for another as his fingers dug into the red frontliner’s throat.
= = =
Smokescreen ‘relaxed’ on one of the rec room couches (tense? He wasn’t tense, not at all, even if there were a lot of mechs eyeing his little brother in ways that made him want to lock the other tactician up in his quarters until the week, frag that, the year, was well and truly over), and was talking idly with Mirage and Trailbreaker when Bluestreak’s frantic comm. rang through his processors.
//Smokescreen! Where’s Prowl?//
He turned away from his friends with a quick apology, scanned the room for one sibling and tried to sooth the other.
//In the rec room. I’m keeping an optic on him, don’t worry, Blue’.//
//Worry! Sideswipe just overloaded me, screaming his name! Where’s Sunstreaker?!//
//He’s… Oh frag.//
//Smokey? Smokey!//
//Bluestreak, I’ll get back to you, ‘kay?//
The diversionary mech shot to his feet with nary a word to the other two mechs, just barely stopping himself from scrambling over the furniture between him, a black and white Datsun and the Lamborghini suddenly very close to said black and white Datsun.
Distantly, he noted Mirage exclaiming in concern, and the blue spy was immediately beside him (leaving behind a very confused Trailbreaker), calmly nattering on about something as he accompanied Smokescreen to his intended destination.
A harried and questioning look on the tactician’s part prompted the Ligier to say, simply, “I noticed.”
Smokescreen nodded, then turned his optics back to his brother and the yellow frontliner looming over the smaller mech, who was for some reason completely unaware of (or worse, not adverse to) the invasion to his personal space.
“Primus.”
“I agree, Sunstreaker is not going to be easy to deal with.”
Mirage’s composed answer drew an aggravated ‘not helping’ sound from the yellow chevroned mech, before they paused a good distance away from Prowl, stopped by the sight before their optics.
= = =
“Evening Sunstreaker, Prowler.”
Another black and white mech had insinuated himself smoothly between the two, nodding at Prowl’s quiet greeting and smiling at Sunstreaker when the Lamborghini directed a death glare at him.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing, just wondering what you two were discussing. Y’looked real cosy over here.”
Sunstreaker blinked. Jazz’s words, while effortlessly light, carried a faint undertone of menace that abruptly reminded the frontliner of the Ops mech’s well deserved reputation. One did not cross the Porsche lightly when he used that tone.
And one did not cross the Porsche at all when he smiled like that.
“Nothing important.”
Jazz smiled again, recognising surrender when he heard it. “Then you won’t mind if I ask Prowler something?”
“He’s a free mech.” And with that, the Lamborghini sneered and stalked away, head held high as the visored mech turned to meet the SIC’s raised optic ridge.
“So, Prowler. I was wondering…”
= = =
The diversionary tactician surreptitiously checked the room, and noted that every bot previously fixated on his youngest brother was now determinedly minding their own business. He glanced over at Mirage, gratified to see his slightly disbelieving expression mirrored on the spy’s faceplates. Quietly, he murmured to the Ligier.
“Well. That’s one problem settled.”
“Yes, but how are we going to handle this new one?” Mirage waved a hand at the two black and whites as they conversed, then started for the exit. Smokescreen sighed.
“… We turn around, go back to Trailbreaker, see if we can scrounge up some highgrade and try not to think for the rest of the night.”
“But-”
“My little brother is possibly going to jump another mech’s struts in a few moments. Trust me, I do not want to be in any way, shape or form able to contemplate this fun fact for a long, long while yet.”
“I have some of the good stuff in my quarters.”
“Thank you.”
So guess what? Work!bunny followed me home!
Title: ((Yeah. I'm just going to give up on this one for a bit... Should make a tag though...))
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Datsuns. Lambos. Mirage. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
They stumbled into his room, too caught up in each other to notice where they were going until they landed, tangled together on the berth. As his hands roamed a pair of conveniently pinned doorwings, pale ones reached up to pull his black helm closer for a kiss, before trailing a hot mouth along his jaw line and neck, making his intakes stutter.
His foggy CPU registered a smug purr of satisfaction, and, not one to just let such things pass, he got even by running his glossa over a gleaming red chevron. As the doorwinged mech writhed, moaning his name, he moved lower to give the now exposed neck cables a gentle bite, driving his lover to overload and turning that moan into an actual scream.
“Primus, Sideswipe!”
“Prowl!”
Suddenly, he found himself flipped on his back, a doorwinged form straddling his frame as a chevroned helm bent close, bringing them optic to stunned optic.
“You’d better have a fragging good explanation for that, Sideswipe.”
Bluestreak hissed, one form of passion abruptly switched for another as his fingers dug into the red frontliner’s throat.
= = =
Smokescreen ‘relaxed’ on one of the rec room couches (tense? He wasn’t tense, not at all, even if there were a lot of mechs eyeing his little brother in ways that made him want to lock the other tactician up in his quarters until the week, frag that, the year, was well and truly over), and was talking idly with Mirage and Trailbreaker when Bluestreak’s frantic comm. rang through his processors.
//Smokescreen! Where’s Prowl?//
He turned away from his friends with a quick apology, scanned the room for one sibling and tried to sooth the other.
//In the rec room. I’m keeping an optic on him, don’t worry, Blue’.//
//Worry! Sideswipe just overloaded me, screaming his name! Where’s Sunstreaker?!//
//He’s… Oh frag.//
//Smokey? Smokey!//
//Bluestreak, I’ll get back to you, ‘kay?//
The diversionary mech shot to his feet with nary a word to the other two mechs, just barely stopping himself from scrambling over the furniture between him, a black and white Datsun and the Lamborghini suddenly very close to said black and white Datsun.
Distantly, he noted Mirage exclaiming in concern, and the blue spy was immediately beside him (leaving behind a very confused Trailbreaker), calmly nattering on about something as he accompanied Smokescreen to his intended destination.
A harried and questioning look on the tactician’s part prompted the Ligier to say, simply, “I noticed.”
Smokescreen nodded, then turned his optics back to his brother and the yellow frontliner looming over the smaller mech, who was for some reason completely unaware of (or worse, not adverse to) the invasion to his personal space.
“Primus.”
“I agree, Sunstreaker is not going to be easy to deal with.”
Mirage’s composed answer drew an aggravated ‘not helping’ sound from the yellow chevroned mech, before they paused a good distance away from Prowl, stopped by the sight before their optics.
= = =
“Evening Sunstreaker, Prowler.”
Another black and white mech had insinuated himself smoothly between the two, nodding at Prowl’s quiet greeting and smiling at Sunstreaker when the Lamborghini directed a death glare at him.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing, just wondering what you two were discussing. Y’looked real cosy over here.”
Sunstreaker blinked. Jazz’s words, while effortlessly light, carried a faint undertone of menace that abruptly reminded the frontliner of the Ops mech’s well deserved reputation. One did not cross the Porsche lightly when he used that tone.
And one did not cross the Porsche at all when he smiled like that.
“Nothing important.”
Jazz smiled again, recognising surrender when he heard it. “Then you won’t mind if I ask Prowler something?”
“He’s a free mech.” And with that, the Lamborghini sneered and stalked away, head held high as the visored mech turned to meet the SIC’s raised optic ridge.
“So, Prowler. I was wondering…”
= = =
The diversionary tactician surreptitiously checked the room, and noted that every bot previously fixated on his youngest brother was now determinedly minding their own business. He glanced over at Mirage, gratified to see his slightly disbelieving expression mirrored on the spy’s faceplates. Quietly, he murmured to the Ligier.
“Well. That’s one problem settled.”
“Yes, but how are we going to handle this new one?” Mirage waved a hand at the two black and whites as they conversed, then started for the exit. Smokescreen sighed.
“… We turn around, go back to Trailbreaker, see if we can scrounge up some highgrade and try not to think for the rest of the night.”
“But-”
“My little brother is possibly going to jump another mech’s struts in a few moments. Trust me, I do not want to be in any way, shape or form able to contemplate this fun fact for a long, long while yet.”
“I have some of the good stuff in my quarters.”
“Thank you.”
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Date: 2009-08-18 02:11 pm (UTC)