Flash Fiction (Take 15 - Part 1)
Jul. 2nd, 2011 04:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Greetings everyone! Today, I bring you the first three flash fiction, one of which is my second attempt at Transformers fandom. Tremble in fear. *grins*
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mandalee1013
Prompt: Parallax Redux 'verse, Kisuke, “Break” by Three Days Grace
Fandom: Bleach, Parallax Redux Universe. Warnings for spoilers, slight OOC, angst, implied character death.
Forhockeyiris
Prompt: IronhidexLennox, “Iridescent”
Fandom: Bayverse Transformers. Warning for implied mechxhuman slash.
Forcptnsuz
Prompt: WOTA, Tungsten, Love at first sight
Universe: War of the Animum. No warnings. Consider it canon. Not romance. More or less gen.
a/n: Five more flash fiction to come! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
For
mandalee1013 Prompt: Parallax Redux 'verse, Kisuke, “Break” by Three Days Grace
Fandom: Bleach, Parallax Redux Universe. Warnings for spoilers, slight OOC, angst, implied character death.
It's worse in the dead of night, when the echoes of Sousuke's presence prove strongest, and Souheki is curled in sleep.
Kisuke sits at his desk, raises his eyes, and watches their daughter, quiet in repose, face for once eased of fear and inexplicable grief. It's been more than a few years, but that hasn't dampened the pain for either of them. If anything, the agony has only grown stronger, deeper, has embedded it's roots deep into Kisuke's being, bearing fruit of bitterness and fury.
Their daughter is old enough now to understand that Sousuke is not coming back. No matter how much either of them wish it. That conversation had been no easier for Kisuke than it had been for Souheki.
Frowning, Kisuke drags his eyes back to his desk and the papers spread across it. They'd not been easy to come by, but Kisuke had been a member of the second division for a reason. Schematics and shift schedules and recent promotions are laid out before him.
He'd have to start here, of course. Wriggle his way into power, start at the lowest bases, until his influence was so well-entrenched Soul Society and the soutaichou would have no choice but to bow to him. Kisuke won't obtain this in the same grand manner as Sousuke had attempted, but his goal isn't the same as Sousuke's either.
He wants to see Soul Society burn and whatever rises from the ashes will be Kisuke's to claim. They won't see it coming either. They'll have no clue, no premonition. He'll be sly and ruthless, quiet and confined. He'll infect them from the inside out.
There won't be a war. No vast and destructive battle. The Shinigami won't have the chance to counterattack. They'll spend the rest of their lives wondering, how, how did they let the poison consume them.
Kisuke is patient. He has nothing but time now, and more than enough rage for fuel. He has Souheki's future to attend. He has his own vengeance to wrought.
He bends over the papers again, brush swiping over sections of Seireitei. Eyes flitting over carefully inked notations on each Shinigami. Their weaknesses, their dark desires, their pressure points. One by one, they will fall to him. He simply has to calculate the most effective means of subverting each and every one.
He'll let Yamamoto fall last. Not out of kindness. Let the old man reap what he sowed and die weeping. All the better.
It can be done. Kisuke just has to be patient. Careful. He will have his vengeance, but he'll be smart about it. He has all the time in the world.
Kisuke sits at his desk, raises his eyes, and watches their daughter, quiet in repose, face for once eased of fear and inexplicable grief. It's been more than a few years, but that hasn't dampened the pain for either of them. If anything, the agony has only grown stronger, deeper, has embedded it's roots deep into Kisuke's being, bearing fruit of bitterness and fury.
Their daughter is old enough now to understand that Sousuke is not coming back. No matter how much either of them wish it. That conversation had been no easier for Kisuke than it had been for Souheki.
Frowning, Kisuke drags his eyes back to his desk and the papers spread across it. They'd not been easy to come by, but Kisuke had been a member of the second division for a reason. Schematics and shift schedules and recent promotions are laid out before him.
He'd have to start here, of course. Wriggle his way into power, start at the lowest bases, until his influence was so well-entrenched Soul Society and the soutaichou would have no choice but to bow to him. Kisuke won't obtain this in the same grand manner as Sousuke had attempted, but his goal isn't the same as Sousuke's either.
He wants to see Soul Society burn and whatever rises from the ashes will be Kisuke's to claim. They won't see it coming either. They'll have no clue, no premonition. He'll be sly and ruthless, quiet and confined. He'll infect them from the inside out.
There won't be a war. No vast and destructive battle. The Shinigami won't have the chance to counterattack. They'll spend the rest of their lives wondering, how, how did they let the poison consume them.
Kisuke is patient. He has nothing but time now, and more than enough rage for fuel. He has Souheki's future to attend. He has his own vengeance to wrought.
He bends over the papers again, brush swiping over sections of Seireitei. Eyes flitting over carefully inked notations on each Shinigami. Their weaknesses, their dark desires, their pressure points. One by one, they will fall to him. He simply has to calculate the most effective means of subverting each and every one.
He'll let Yamamoto fall last. Not out of kindness. Let the old man reap what he sowed and die weeping. All the better.
It can be done. Kisuke just has to be patient. Careful. He will have his vengeance, but he'll be smart about it. He has all the time in the world.
For
hockeyiris Prompt: IronhidexLennox, “Iridescent”
Fandom: Bayverse Transformers. Warning for implied mechxhuman slash.
“Nervous?”
There's a rolling rasp of noise, that Will has already learned to interpret as a snort or a huff. “Hardly.”
Leaning back, Will folds his arms behind his head, drawing one knee up. “Yeah. Well, I am.”
Beneath him, he can feel Ironhide rumble, a pleasing sensation that simultaneously comforts and stimulates. Which, he assumes, had been Ironhide's intention from the start. “You're no stranger to battle, Will.”
“No,” he concedes. “But something feels different.”
Will's not even sure he can put it into words. His face goes through a series of expressions from attempting to do so. There's something in the air, something that settles heavy in his chest, twists in his gut.
“It's not going to be like all the others,” Will adds, lifting his gaze, letting it roam over the twilight sky, stars peeking out through a light cloud cover. Somewhere, out there, is a dead planet that used to be Ironhide's home. “It's... different.”
“Ah. You're psychic now?” Humor is rich in that deep voice. Will never ceases to marvel at that. For all that they are different species, some things remain remarkably the same.
The same fear and happiness and pleasure and pain. They are highly advanced creatures made of metal and chips and other bits that Will could never make sense of, but they are, at spark, the things that Will identifies as human. Or, according to Ratchet, the humans, at heart, are Cybertronian.
Will rolls his eyes, knocks his elbow backward, hears the low echo as it reverberates a short distance across Ironhide's frame. Probably barely felt it. “No,” he says. “I'm surprised you can't feel it.”
There's quiet for a moment, quiet where Will expected to hear another witty retort or a sharp bark of laughter, or some kind of amusement. Instead, the air is thick with contemplation.
“I do,” Ironhide says quietly. “And I'd tell you to be careful, but I'm no recently sparked fool. This is war.”
Will unfolds an arm, dropping his hand down to drag fingers over Ironhide's chassis beneath him. “Yeah, I know. Same to you.”
There's a rolling rasp of noise, that Will has already learned to interpret as a snort or a huff. “Hardly.”
Leaning back, Will folds his arms behind his head, drawing one knee up. “Yeah. Well, I am.”
Beneath him, he can feel Ironhide rumble, a pleasing sensation that simultaneously comforts and stimulates. Which, he assumes, had been Ironhide's intention from the start. “You're no stranger to battle, Will.”
“No,” he concedes. “But something feels different.”
Will's not even sure he can put it into words. His face goes through a series of expressions from attempting to do so. There's something in the air, something that settles heavy in his chest, twists in his gut.
“It's not going to be like all the others,” Will adds, lifting his gaze, letting it roam over the twilight sky, stars peeking out through a light cloud cover. Somewhere, out there, is a dead planet that used to be Ironhide's home. “It's... different.”
“Ah. You're psychic now?” Humor is rich in that deep voice. Will never ceases to marvel at that. For all that they are different species, some things remain remarkably the same.
The same fear and happiness and pleasure and pain. They are highly advanced creatures made of metal and chips and other bits that Will could never make sense of, but they are, at spark, the things that Will identifies as human. Or, according to Ratchet, the humans, at heart, are Cybertronian.
Will rolls his eyes, knocks his elbow backward, hears the low echo as it reverberates a short distance across Ironhide's frame. Probably barely felt it. “No,” he says. “I'm surprised you can't feel it.”
There's quiet for a moment, quiet where Will expected to hear another witty retort or a sharp bark of laughter, or some kind of amusement. Instead, the air is thick with contemplation.
“I do,” Ironhide says quietly. “And I'd tell you to be careful, but I'm no recently sparked fool. This is war.”
Will unfolds an arm, dropping his hand down to drag fingers over Ironhide's chassis beneath him. “Yeah, I know. Same to you.”
For
cptnsuz Prompt: WOTA, Tungsten, Love at first sight
Universe: War of the Animum. No warnings. Consider it canon. Not romance. More or less gen.
He knows, from the moment he lays eyes on her, that they are meant to be. Well, there's also the niggling truth that they were destined for one another by some elder god and the forces of fate, but Tungsten ignores such trivial facts.
They are meant to be.
“Hi, I'm Asclepius!” she says, with a giggle and a bounce. Light dancing in her scarlet eyes and a gleeful radiance about her.
At first, Tungsten admits he is less than impressive. He gapes like a landed fish, flushes from head to toe, and manages to stammer out a reply. “I... I'm Tungsten.”
“Oh, I knew that!” Her hands latch behind her back as she bounces on the balls of her feet, like she can't contain her energy. “Remember?”
Oh, yes, he remembers. Asclepius had been the first deity to let him inscribe her name on his casting rod. She'd been the first to accept him as a fledgling mage.
Never mind few had been impressed. Certainly none of the other apprentices awaiting the assignation of masters at the order had been. They'd been more interested in the dangerous deities, those of fire and water and destruction. The ability to protect was weak to them. Useless.
The burn in his cheeks has yet to fade, instead now spreading to his ears. “Thank you,” he says, because it's only polite, and Mother always told him that politeness is the mark of a civilized man. (Raven-san, for that matter, could use a few lessons in decorum.) “For that, I mean. For giving me your permission.”
Asclepius' lips twitch. “No need to thank me. I like you! Even before the Big Boss told me we had a bond.”
Tungsten flushes again, if that were at all possible, twisting his fingers together nervously. “Will you teach me?” he asks, hoping that he doesn't sound too pathetically desperate.
“You're so adorable!” Asclepius announces, and before Tungsten can blink, she's pitched herself forward and thrown her arms around him, all soft curves and smelling like fresh herbs. “Of course I will!”
Completely speechless, with a faceful of mint-green hair, Tungsten returns the embrace automatically. It's polite, right?
“This is going to be great!” Asclepius says, and honestly, Tungsten can't agree more.
They are meant to be.
“Hi, I'm Asclepius!” she says, with a giggle and a bounce. Light dancing in her scarlet eyes and a gleeful radiance about her.
At first, Tungsten admits he is less than impressive. He gapes like a landed fish, flushes from head to toe, and manages to stammer out a reply. “I... I'm Tungsten.”
“Oh, I knew that!” Her hands latch behind her back as she bounces on the balls of her feet, like she can't contain her energy. “Remember?”
Oh, yes, he remembers. Asclepius had been the first deity to let him inscribe her name on his casting rod. She'd been the first to accept him as a fledgling mage.
Never mind few had been impressed. Certainly none of the other apprentices awaiting the assignation of masters at the order had been. They'd been more interested in the dangerous deities, those of fire and water and destruction. The ability to protect was weak to them. Useless.
The burn in his cheeks has yet to fade, instead now spreading to his ears. “Thank you,” he says, because it's only polite, and Mother always told him that politeness is the mark of a civilized man. (Raven-san, for that matter, could use a few lessons in decorum.) “For that, I mean. For giving me your permission.”
Asclepius' lips twitch. “No need to thank me. I like you! Even before the Big Boss told me we had a bond.”
Tungsten flushes again, if that were at all possible, twisting his fingers together nervously. “Will you teach me?” he asks, hoping that he doesn't sound too pathetically desperate.
“You're so adorable!” Asclepius announces, and before Tungsten can blink, she's pitched herself forward and thrown her arms around him, all soft curves and smelling like fresh herbs. “Of course I will!”
Completely speechless, with a faceful of mint-green hair, Tungsten returns the embrace automatically. It's polite, right?
“This is going to be great!” Asclepius says, and honestly, Tungsten can't agree more.
a/n: Five more flash fiction to come! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
