A/N: Yup, toldja I'd be posting a bunch of stuff. This is another of the memes I picked up. I did these a year ago, and there are still a few not yet done. That should be rectified in time for my posting schedule. Anyway, so these are 28 ficlets dedicated to the Protectobots. Each prompt was requested by someone who could not only pick the prompt from a list, but also tell me if they wanted it to be slash or not, any additional characters to be included, ideas for it, etc. As with my other things, if something is slash, there will be a notice in the scroll-down to warn you ahead of time. Um… I think that's it for now. This first one is Naughty!P-bots. Non-slash. Enjoy!
A quick double-check to make sure no one was coming… and he was in. Blades crept cautiously to his brother's berth. That was it; this was ending one way or another. He'd had it up to his optics, and he wasn't going to take it anymore. He could only take so much before he snapped, and if he had to hear one more 'oh, Lord Worthington!' he was going to kill someone.
And that someone was most likely going to be his white nightmare of a brother.
Streetwise was out for the day, running his usual route in the city, doing whatever it was that Prowl had him do. He wouldn't be back until late tonight which gave Blades plenty of time to do the deed.
Now if he were an insane interceptor, where would he hide his trash novels?
Ah yes, under the berth. Blades braved the frightening underside of Streets' berth where it probably hadn't seen a decent cleaning since the Protectobot's creation. Some spare weapons and gadgets (surprisingly it was Streetwise and not First Aid who had inherited their creator's love of invention.) Even some of the other brothers' belongings were hidden away where none but Blades dare venture.
Just as he was about to give it up as a lost cause, the helicopter finally came across the mother load. Every trash novel the interceptor had managed to save from the Great Righteous Wrath of Prowl and Hot Spot™ safely stowed away next to an old box of pogs.
Blades fished out every last one, subspacing them to dispose of later. How could anyone ever read this slag, even for plain entertainment value?
He decided not to subspace the last one, activating it out of curiosity. May as well see what sort of strange appeal it had on his brother. Best to know thine enemy, right? Well, at any rate, that was his story and he was sticking to it. It wasn't like he was actually interested in reading this piece of slag.
Let's see… begin chapter one… 'The crisp autumn leaves fell around the silent form of young Emmeline Winging, the sole heiress of…'