Flash Fic Friday (Take 12 - Part One)
May. 21st, 2011 12:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Good afternoon! Nice to see everyone still here on the day of our Apocalypse. I've come to contribute my end of such godless actions by providing gay porn! Go me!
Here's the first three flash fics for your entertainment! Standard warnings for unbeta'ed nature.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
firegirl0
Prompt: Gin/Ichigo, “Jack's Lament,” The Nightmare Revisited
Fandom: Bleach. Part of my "Just Rewards/Heaven Can Wait" verse. Somewhat NSFW. Darkish. Boykisses. A sampling of plot.
Forazardarkstar
Prompt: Ukitake/Urahara, Truth is in the telling, “Edge of Heaven,” Ace of Base
Fandom: Bleach. Very Worksafe. Kindasorta spoilerish. Hint of relationship between two men.
“How does it feel to be home?”
The question is innocent and well-intentioned. Kisuke fights back a snort, a callous snap that Seireitei hasn't been home for a long time. Jyuushirou doesn't deserve his vitriol.
“It's different,” he answers, leaning against the windowsill and looking out, staring up at Soul Society's blue sky that's just as blue as that in Karakura's. “It's not the same as I remember.” And yet, it hadn't changed and that makes Kisuke's insides twist a little.
The captain of the thirteenth division chuckles softly and moves to stand beside Kisuke, brown eyes turned toward the same view. “Even we Shinigami are capable of change.”
And sometimes they are not and pathetically stay the same. But again, this is something that Kisuke keeps to himself. He's been allowed back and pardoned, never mind the fact that it had never been his fault in the first place. That it was all Aizen's doing. Seireitei and Chamber 46 don't like admitting they had been wrong, that they had all been successfully manipulated by Aizen's machinations.
So here Kisuke is. Back “home.” Except, it doesn't feel much like home anymore. It's not welcoming or inviting or comfortable. It makes him long for his shop in Karakura. There's nothing here for him, not anymore.
“Urahara-kun....” Jyuushirou hesitates, sounding unsure, and if that isn't a rarity, Kisuke doesn't know what is.
He turns, lets his lips curl in the semblance of a smile, shifting to lean against the window ledge. “Since when have we reverted to such formalities, Ukitake-taichou?” Kisuke's not wearing his hat; it's sitting on Jyuushirou's desk, and in that moment, Kisuke wishes for the concealment of it. He feels a little hurt, not that he'll admit it aloud.
The tiniest flinch in Jyuushirou's expression is smoothed away by a light grin. “I didn't want to overstep my boundaries. It's been decades... Kisuke.”
A century, to be more precise, but Kisuke doesn't want the reminder anymore than Jyuushirou does. There's less than a foot between them, but the distance feels much wider.
Kisuke inclines his head. “Do you think my attentions so fickle?”
Relief warms Jyuushirou's gaze. “No. But I wouldn't blame you if they were.” He lifts a hand, offering it to the shopkeeper. “Welcome home, Kisuke.”
“It's good to be back,” Kisuke replies, and this time he means it.
Forcancer69heart
Prompt: AlcaeusxJanus, “No Scrub,” TLC
Universe: The Requiem of Janus. NSFW. Warning for unwelcome touches, swift justice, and some malexmale action
Here's the first three flash fics for your entertainment! Standard warnings for unbeta'ed nature.
For
firegirl0 Prompt: Gin/Ichigo, “Jack's Lament,” The Nightmare Revisited
Fandom: Bleach. Part of my "Just Rewards/Heaven Can Wait" verse. Somewhat NSFW. Darkish. Boykisses. A sampling of plot.
Gin's a killer. He's always been a killer and killing is what he's good at. It's a talent born of desperation and need in Rugonkai, honed to perfection under the Shinigami, and well-utilized with Aizen-taichou's master plans. His hands are soaked in blood, his zanpakutou drips with it, and even his smile is enough to unnerve other people.
He's a monster and the whole world knows it.
Except, somehow, for Ichigo who doesn't seem to see anything in Gin but Gin.
Ichigo presses a kiss to said blood-stained hands. Gin knows they are clean. He scrubbed them just this morning. Over and over with hot water and harsh soap and his fingernails in some places. But that doesn't mean he can't still feel the blood, or remember the warm gumminess of it.
His hands are coated in blood but Ichigo's never noticed. Never made a comment or called him anything other than Gin. Oh sure, in the beginning he'd been a rather terse and wary Ichimaru, but time and trust had changed said nomer to Gin.
It's been a long time since anyone's called him by his first name. And in such a warm tone at that.
Gin's still a killer. He may have changed sides – unbeknownst to Aizen-taichou. He'll always be a killer, and now he's a traitor to boot. He's going to keep killing, keep raising his sword again and again, taking one life after another. Whether it's Hollow or human or Shinigami or Vizard.
There's one more death he has to take before he can even think of changing, and he'll have to dirty his hands to get there. That's a simple fact of life, one Gin couldn't alter even if he wanted to. His hands are covered in blood already, what's a few more layers of death to add?
But Ichigo...
Gin's fingers curl through strands of auburn hair – orange really – and draws Ichigo into a kiss, lets himself breathe into Ichigo's mouth and enjoy the feel of the Vizard's warmth pressed against his own all too chilly body.
Ichigo's hands are so clean and all Gin can taste on him is soda, a touch of pasta sauce, and an underlying tang of innocence. Oh, Ichigo's fought in battle. He's lost and won and bled for his cause, but he's still free. He's not a monster.
And Gin plans to keep him that way. Because Gin's going to kill Aizen-taichou, and he'll do it however he has to. Stab him in the back if he must. Because Ichigo's not a monster or a killer but Gin is, and he'll keep it that way. Until the end.
He's a monster and the whole world knows it.
Except, somehow, for Ichigo who doesn't seem to see anything in Gin but Gin.
Ichigo presses a kiss to said blood-stained hands. Gin knows they are clean. He scrubbed them just this morning. Over and over with hot water and harsh soap and his fingernails in some places. But that doesn't mean he can't still feel the blood, or remember the warm gumminess of it.
His hands are coated in blood but Ichigo's never noticed. Never made a comment or called him anything other than Gin. Oh sure, in the beginning he'd been a rather terse and wary Ichimaru, but time and trust had changed said nomer to Gin.
It's been a long time since anyone's called him by his first name. And in such a warm tone at that.
Gin's still a killer. He may have changed sides – unbeknownst to Aizen-taichou. He'll always be a killer, and now he's a traitor to boot. He's going to keep killing, keep raising his sword again and again, taking one life after another. Whether it's Hollow or human or Shinigami or Vizard.
There's one more death he has to take before he can even think of changing, and he'll have to dirty his hands to get there. That's a simple fact of life, one Gin couldn't alter even if he wanted to. His hands are covered in blood already, what's a few more layers of death to add?
But Ichigo...
Gin's fingers curl through strands of auburn hair – orange really – and draws Ichigo into a kiss, lets himself breathe into Ichigo's mouth and enjoy the feel of the Vizard's warmth pressed against his own all too chilly body.
Ichigo's hands are so clean and all Gin can taste on him is soda, a touch of pasta sauce, and an underlying tang of innocence. Oh, Ichigo's fought in battle. He's lost and won and bled for his cause, but he's still free. He's not a monster.
And Gin plans to keep him that way. Because Gin's going to kill Aizen-taichou, and he'll do it however he has to. Stab him in the back if he must. Because Ichigo's not a monster or a killer but Gin is, and he'll keep it that way. Until the end.
For
azardarkstar Prompt: Ukitake/Urahara, Truth is in the telling, “Edge of Heaven,” Ace of Base
Fandom: Bleach. Very Worksafe. Kindasorta spoilerish. Hint of relationship between two men.
“How does it feel to be home?”
The question is innocent and well-intentioned. Kisuke fights back a snort, a callous snap that Seireitei hasn't been home for a long time. Jyuushirou doesn't deserve his vitriol.
“It's different,” he answers, leaning against the windowsill and looking out, staring up at Soul Society's blue sky that's just as blue as that in Karakura's. “It's not the same as I remember.” And yet, it hadn't changed and that makes Kisuke's insides twist a little.
The captain of the thirteenth division chuckles softly and moves to stand beside Kisuke, brown eyes turned toward the same view. “Even we Shinigami are capable of change.”
And sometimes they are not and pathetically stay the same. But again, this is something that Kisuke keeps to himself. He's been allowed back and pardoned, never mind the fact that it had never been his fault in the first place. That it was all Aizen's doing. Seireitei and Chamber 46 don't like admitting they had been wrong, that they had all been successfully manipulated by Aizen's machinations.
So here Kisuke is. Back “home.” Except, it doesn't feel much like home anymore. It's not welcoming or inviting or comfortable. It makes him long for his shop in Karakura. There's nothing here for him, not anymore.
“Urahara-kun....” Jyuushirou hesitates, sounding unsure, and if that isn't a rarity, Kisuke doesn't know what is.
He turns, lets his lips curl in the semblance of a smile, shifting to lean against the window ledge. “Since when have we reverted to such formalities, Ukitake-taichou?” Kisuke's not wearing his hat; it's sitting on Jyuushirou's desk, and in that moment, Kisuke wishes for the concealment of it. He feels a little hurt, not that he'll admit it aloud.
The tiniest flinch in Jyuushirou's expression is smoothed away by a light grin. “I didn't want to overstep my boundaries. It's been decades... Kisuke.”
A century, to be more precise, but Kisuke doesn't want the reminder anymore than Jyuushirou does. There's less than a foot between them, but the distance feels much wider.
Kisuke inclines his head. “Do you think my attentions so fickle?”
Relief warms Jyuushirou's gaze. “No. But I wouldn't blame you if they were.” He lifts a hand, offering it to the shopkeeper. “Welcome home, Kisuke.”
“It's good to be back,” Kisuke replies, and this time he means it.
For
cancer69heart Prompt: AlcaeusxJanus, “No Scrub,” TLC
Universe: The Requiem of Janus. NSFW. Warning for unwelcome touches, swift justice, and some malexmale action
Janus clenches his teeth. He despises these meetings, loathing them with every fabric of his existence. His only consolation is that they only occur four times a year, so he only has to suffer every three months. But being in the proximity of a lecherous bastard like Duke Ornwal even once a year is too much for Janus.
The hand beneath the table hasn't learned from the last time Janus stabbed a fork into it. In fact, it seems even more determined despite the pain. Perhaps Duke Ornwal is a masochist. The thought makes Janus' already unsettled belly churn unpleasantly.
It's not good manners or politics for Janus to set Duke Ornwal on fire, but he would love to do so right now. And damn the consequences.
Lord Ukire is talking, but Janus doesn't hear a word, his every thought focused on the unwelcome hand resting on his knee. It would almost be innocent, if not for the slow and steady slide upward, fingers a near-caress on the insides of his thigh as Duke Ornwal molests with no shame. Knowing he can get away with it because Janus doesn't dare set him afire without being accused of treason.
He can, however, cause great discomfort without maiming or death. Janus lifts his wine glass and takes a long sip of it. Both to disguise his expression and to help burn away the disgust of Ornwal's touch.
His fingers twitch around the fluted glass and he watches Ornwal's own wine glass tremble. It's perilously close to the edge anyway, and rather full since Ornwal's been more focused on his unwelcome advances than his meal. Another push of magick and--
“Damn it!” Ornwal hisses as he leaps to his feet, hand vanishing from Janus' thigh as red wine spills down the front of his once-immaculate white robes.
Lord Ukire stops mid-speech. “Need you be excused, Duke Ornwal?” There's a touch of frost to his voice, his eyes glancing once to Janus – who looks perfectly innocent – and the flustered Duke.
“I'll return in a moment,” Ornwal bites out, and he leaves, much to Janus' relief.
Janus smirks behind his glass, takes a long sip of the numbing wine, and then lowers the glass. He looks up, catching Alcaeus' eyes, the guard standing just behind Ukire and watching him, no doubt knowing how Ornwal had his accident.
Janus resists the urge to lick his lips. Wine can dull the memories, but only Alcaeus can chase them away. And this thought is the one that makes the rest of the meeting bearable, especially when a disgruntled, stained Ornwal returns and keeps his unwelcome hands to himself.
a/n: These were quite fun to write. Six more to come!The hand beneath the table hasn't learned from the last time Janus stabbed a fork into it. In fact, it seems even more determined despite the pain. Perhaps Duke Ornwal is a masochist. The thought makes Janus' already unsettled belly churn unpleasantly.
It's not good manners or politics for Janus to set Duke Ornwal on fire, but he would love to do so right now. And damn the consequences.
Lord Ukire is talking, but Janus doesn't hear a word, his every thought focused on the unwelcome hand resting on his knee. It would almost be innocent, if not for the slow and steady slide upward, fingers a near-caress on the insides of his thigh as Duke Ornwal molests with no shame. Knowing he can get away with it because Janus doesn't dare set him afire without being accused of treason.
He can, however, cause great discomfort without maiming or death. Janus lifts his wine glass and takes a long sip of it. Both to disguise his expression and to help burn away the disgust of Ornwal's touch.
His fingers twitch around the fluted glass and he watches Ornwal's own wine glass tremble. It's perilously close to the edge anyway, and rather full since Ornwal's been more focused on his unwelcome advances than his meal. Another push of magick and--
“Damn it!” Ornwal hisses as he leaps to his feet, hand vanishing from Janus' thigh as red wine spills down the front of his once-immaculate white robes.
Lord Ukire stops mid-speech. “Need you be excused, Duke Ornwal?” There's a touch of frost to his voice, his eyes glancing once to Janus – who looks perfectly innocent – and the flustered Duke.
“I'll return in a moment,” Ornwal bites out, and he leaves, much to Janus' relief.
Janus smirks behind his glass, takes a long sip of the numbing wine, and then lowers the glass. He looks up, catching Alcaeus' eyes, the guard standing just behind Ukire and watching him, no doubt knowing how Ornwal had his accident.
Janus resists the urge to lick his lips. Wine can dull the memories, but only Alcaeus can chase them away. And this thought is the one that makes the rest of the meeting bearable, especially when a disgruntled, stained Ornwal returns and keeps his unwelcome hands to himself.
