FFF Take Ten (Part Two)
Apr. 24th, 2011 05:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Three more Flash Fic for your reading pleasure, with the final two coming tomorrow. Please remember that these are unedited in the slightest. And enjoy!
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theablackthorn
Prompt: KyouyaxMori, Kyouya tries Kendo
Kyouya and Mori are characters from the anime/manga Ouran High School Host Club. No warnings.
Forcancer69heart
Prompt: SeiferxZell, Tears and Teddy Bears
Seifer and Zell are from the video game Final Fantasy VIII. Warnings here for hints of slashiness and foul language.
“Ow!”
Zell rolls his eyes, digs his fingers in harder, and grins when that results in the body beneath him giving another visible jerk as its owner hisses another curse.
“Fuck, Chicken! Are you helping me or making it worse?” Seifer demands.
Tilting his head to the side, Zell idly cuffs the taller blond across the back of his head. It doesn't hurt... much. Zell's bare-handed right now. But it's as good a warning as any.
“Don't call me that,” Zell says, and gets back to work, digging his fingers into Seifer's back and upper shoulders, where muscles have become tangles have become knots. Seifer's the only freaking person he knows who can get himself worked up for no fucking reason, and then bitch about how much stress he's under later.
Yeah. Zell calls it bitching. Seifer calls it “expressing his personal distaste for the Ice Prince.” It's all the same to Zell.
“I'll call you whatever the hell I want,” Seifer says, sulking now. He's got that furrow between his brows and a set to his jaw that Zell calls his “pouting face.” It's almost cute.
Twisting his jaw, Zell digs a thumb into that thick not of muscle at the back of Seifer's neck, just to the left of his spine. Seifer jerks, curses, and makes a noise that could be whimper if Seifer would just admit it.
“It didn't hurt that bad,” Zell says, rolling his eyes. “Don't cry, for Ifrit's sake.”
He sees the elbow before it even has a chance of hitting him, and Zell smoothly catches the attack with his palm. It stings a little, but just barely.
“I'm not crying,” Seifer growls.
Zell smirks, pushing Seifer's arm back to the bed and pinning it beneath his knee. He has no plans on being forced to dodge it later. “Sure you're not. Would you like a teddy bear to cuddle with or something?”
Seifer's entire body surges and Zell knows why. He's placing a bid to flip them over, to land on top and pin Zell beneath him. Except that there's only one martial arts master on this bed, and it's not Seifer.
In the end, Zell's the one who has Seifer's arms pinned above his head. Zell's the one straddling Seifer's waist with intent to molest. Zell's the one who leans over, kisses Seifer, and changes the tune of the game. Sweet, sweet victory. For hockeyiris
Prompt: Stark/Hichigo, Reflection
Stark, Ichigo, and Shirosaki are characters from the anime/manga Bleach. Warnings here for smut and language. NSFW.
He's Ichigo, only he's not. There's something in that difference which is as enticing as it is startling. Ichigo is somewhere behind those black and gold eyes, that devious cackle, and Stark knows it. Just sometimes... he has trouble seeing it.
The Ichigo he knows is stubborn, kind, with a guilt complex a mile wide, so heavy that he's constantly burned by the weight of it. Shirosaki, on the other hand, never seems to feel bothered by anything. He has a voracious appetite – for food, for sleep, for sex, for anything really – and he doesn't hesitate to ask for it. He has no shame, doesn't blush like Ichigo does, and more often than not, Shirosaki is the one who tackles Stark, rather than the other way around.
Kind of like now, in fact.
“Ya know,” Shirosaki purrs, his fingers tickling down Stark's ribs in a teasing, arousing touch. “It's times like these I can see why King likes ya.”
Stark's breath hitches, and his wrists strain against the silky ties that bind them. “Oh? Why's that?” he asks, hips canting upward, hoping desperately that Shirosaki will take pity on him and finally stroke his cock once or twice.
Shirosaki licks his lips, his expression one of desire and hunger, his face a mirror of Ichigo's but everything else about him all wrong. “Yer fun to play with,” he says, and leans over, the tip of his tongue touching the pebbled nub of Stark's nipple.
A groan slips past Stark's lips before he can stop it, the touch not enough and yet managing to send shocks of erotic pleasure through his body. Shirosaki chuckles in that husky voice of his and adds teeth, a slight pressure that hurts in such a good way. Stark's body shudders and he arches toward that teasing mouth.
“I think,” Stark says, a moan leaving his lips as Shirosaki transfers his attention to the other nipple, “that your boss values me a little bit more than just a toy.”
Thumbs sweep over his hipbones as Shirosaki's hands cup his hips, surprisingly warm. “And that's why me 'n King will always be a little bit different,” Shirosaki drawls, and there's a strange note to his voice, like he's offended or hurt or something.
Stark's not sure how to interpret it. Because Shirosaki and Ichigo are one and the same, but not quite. It's something he can't put into words. But he loves Ichigo, and he's coming to love all the different parts of him as well. Shirosaki's no exception. He can't say that now, it's too much a revelation of weakness, so he'll save that confession for later.
For now, he tells the other half of the truth. “I like different,” Stark says, and is rewarded with a kiss, sharp and hungry, that tastes like Ichigo but feels like Shirosaki. Perfect.
a/n: Two more pieces to go! I hope you enjoyed!
For
theablackthorn Prompt: KyouyaxMori, Kyouya tries Kendo
Kyouya and Mori are characters from the anime/manga Ouran High School Host Club. No warnings.
The moment he walks into the dojo, Kyouya feels an uncharacteristic burst of self-consciousness. Normally one confident no matter the situation, he feels out of place in the kendo uniform, the loose hakama and keikogi. Kyouya resists the urge to tug on the fabric against his skin, and he can feel the weight of the eyes watching him.
Another uncharacteristic flash of doubt dares trickle into Kyouya's conscious. He wonders why he agreed to this. He knows why, he remembers why, but still, he does question himself a little. Because this is not exactly his arena of expertise. It's Mori-senpai's, and Kyouya doesn't like being outside his own expertise.
Nevertheless, it is with confidence that Kyouya strides barefoot across the dojo floor and comes to a halt in front of his lover, ready for his inspection. Mori-senpai's eyes sweep him from top to bottom, looking every inch the teacher and senpai as he critically examines Kyouya's wardrobe. He even reaches with one finger to tug on the knot in Kyouya's obi, shifting it just a bit.
It's just a bare brush, but Kyouya still has to fight down the shiver. There's something unexpectedly erotic about the whole thing.
Finally, Mori-senpai nods, and the tiniest hint of a smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It's good,” he says.
“Isn't armor of some sort a requirement?” Kyouya asks, because if Mori-senpai is going to be swinging a wooden sword at him, Kyouya wants to make sure he's adequately protected. That's only practical.
Mori-senpai looks at him, and a low chuckle echoes from his throat. “I know better than to start out with shinai, Kyouya,” he replies. “Today, you're just going to learn form.”
Kyouya releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. One can hardly blame him. Mori-senpai has won awards for this and Kyouya hates to lose. These sorts of things can build quite a competitive spirit.
He's not a complete novice, Kyouya isn't. He read a couple books since Mori-senpai made this tentative suggestion weeks ago. He's not completely ignorant, but still, it's unfamiliar and he's never been the most athletic.
He's literally putting his safety in Mori-senpai's hands, not an altogether bad place come to think of it. Well, put that way, Kyouya wonders why he was ever anxious at all.
Another uncharacteristic flash of doubt dares trickle into Kyouya's conscious. He wonders why he agreed to this. He knows why, he remembers why, but still, he does question himself a little. Because this is not exactly his arena of expertise. It's Mori-senpai's, and Kyouya doesn't like being outside his own expertise.
Nevertheless, it is with confidence that Kyouya strides barefoot across the dojo floor and comes to a halt in front of his lover, ready for his inspection. Mori-senpai's eyes sweep him from top to bottom, looking every inch the teacher and senpai as he critically examines Kyouya's wardrobe. He even reaches with one finger to tug on the knot in Kyouya's obi, shifting it just a bit.
It's just a bare brush, but Kyouya still has to fight down the shiver. There's something unexpectedly erotic about the whole thing.
Finally, Mori-senpai nods, and the tiniest hint of a smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It's good,” he says.
“Isn't armor of some sort a requirement?” Kyouya asks, because if Mori-senpai is going to be swinging a wooden sword at him, Kyouya wants to make sure he's adequately protected. That's only practical.
Mori-senpai looks at him, and a low chuckle echoes from his throat. “I know better than to start out with shinai, Kyouya,” he replies. “Today, you're just going to learn form.”
Kyouya releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. One can hardly blame him. Mori-senpai has won awards for this and Kyouya hates to lose. These sorts of things can build quite a competitive spirit.
He's not a complete novice, Kyouya isn't. He read a couple books since Mori-senpai made this tentative suggestion weeks ago. He's not completely ignorant, but still, it's unfamiliar and he's never been the most athletic.
He's literally putting his safety in Mori-senpai's hands, not an altogether bad place come to think of it. Well, put that way, Kyouya wonders why he was ever anxious at all.
“Very well,” Kyouya says, and nods firmly, both to himself and his resolve, and Mori-senpai's patient stance. “I'm ready for my lesson, senpai.” Judging by his lover's smile, it is the right thing to say. See? Not so bad at all.
For
cancer69heart Prompt: SeiferxZell, Tears and Teddy Bears
Seifer and Zell are from the video game Final Fantasy VIII. Warnings here for hints of slashiness and foul language.
“Ow!”
Zell rolls his eyes, digs his fingers in harder, and grins when that results in the body beneath him giving another visible jerk as its owner hisses another curse.
“Fuck, Chicken! Are you helping me or making it worse?” Seifer demands.
Tilting his head to the side, Zell idly cuffs the taller blond across the back of his head. It doesn't hurt... much. Zell's bare-handed right now. But it's as good a warning as any.
“Don't call me that,” Zell says, and gets back to work, digging his fingers into Seifer's back and upper shoulders, where muscles have become tangles have become knots. Seifer's the only freaking person he knows who can get himself worked up for no fucking reason, and then bitch about how much stress he's under later.
Yeah. Zell calls it bitching. Seifer calls it “expressing his personal distaste for the Ice Prince.” It's all the same to Zell.
“I'll call you whatever the hell I want,” Seifer says, sulking now. He's got that furrow between his brows and a set to his jaw that Zell calls his “pouting face.” It's almost cute.
Twisting his jaw, Zell digs a thumb into that thick not of muscle at the back of Seifer's neck, just to the left of his spine. Seifer jerks, curses, and makes a noise that could be whimper if Seifer would just admit it.
“It didn't hurt that bad,” Zell says, rolling his eyes. “Don't cry, for Ifrit's sake.”
He sees the elbow before it even has a chance of hitting him, and Zell smoothly catches the attack with his palm. It stings a little, but just barely.
“I'm not crying,” Seifer growls.
Zell smirks, pushing Seifer's arm back to the bed and pinning it beneath his knee. He has no plans on being forced to dodge it later. “Sure you're not. Would you like a teddy bear to cuddle with or something?”
Seifer's entire body surges and Zell knows why. He's placing a bid to flip them over, to land on top and pin Zell beneath him. Except that there's only one martial arts master on this bed, and it's not Seifer.
In the end, Zell's the one who has Seifer's arms pinned above his head. Zell's the one straddling Seifer's waist with intent to molest. Zell's the one who leans over, kisses Seifer, and changes the tune of the game. Sweet, sweet victory.
hockeyiris Prompt: Stark/Hichigo, Reflection
Stark, Ichigo, and Shirosaki are characters from the anime/manga Bleach. Warnings here for smut and language. NSFW.
He's Ichigo, only he's not. There's something in that difference which is as enticing as it is startling. Ichigo is somewhere behind those black and gold eyes, that devious cackle, and Stark knows it. Just sometimes... he has trouble seeing it.
The Ichigo he knows is stubborn, kind, with a guilt complex a mile wide, so heavy that he's constantly burned by the weight of it. Shirosaki, on the other hand, never seems to feel bothered by anything. He has a voracious appetite – for food, for sleep, for sex, for anything really – and he doesn't hesitate to ask for it. He has no shame, doesn't blush like Ichigo does, and more often than not, Shirosaki is the one who tackles Stark, rather than the other way around.
Kind of like now, in fact.
“Ya know,” Shirosaki purrs, his fingers tickling down Stark's ribs in a teasing, arousing touch. “It's times like these I can see why King likes ya.”
Stark's breath hitches, and his wrists strain against the silky ties that bind them. “Oh? Why's that?” he asks, hips canting upward, hoping desperately that Shirosaki will take pity on him and finally stroke his cock once or twice.
Shirosaki licks his lips, his expression one of desire and hunger, his face a mirror of Ichigo's but everything else about him all wrong. “Yer fun to play with,” he says, and leans over, the tip of his tongue touching the pebbled nub of Stark's nipple.
A groan slips past Stark's lips before he can stop it, the touch not enough and yet managing to send shocks of erotic pleasure through his body. Shirosaki chuckles in that husky voice of his and adds teeth, a slight pressure that hurts in such a good way. Stark's body shudders and he arches toward that teasing mouth.
“I think,” Stark says, a moan leaving his lips as Shirosaki transfers his attention to the other nipple, “that your boss values me a little bit more than just a toy.”
Thumbs sweep over his hipbones as Shirosaki's hands cup his hips, surprisingly warm. “And that's why me 'n King will always be a little bit different,” Shirosaki drawls, and there's a strange note to his voice, like he's offended or hurt or something.
Stark's not sure how to interpret it. Because Shirosaki and Ichigo are one and the same, but not quite. It's something he can't put into words. But he loves Ichigo, and he's coming to love all the different parts of him as well. Shirosaki's no exception. He can't say that now, it's too much a revelation of weakness, so he'll save that confession for later.
For now, he tells the other half of the truth. “I like different,” Stark says, and is rewarded with a kiss, sharp and hungry, that tastes like Ichigo but feels like Shirosaki. Perfect.
