Flash Fiction (Take 15 - Part 2)
Jul. 3rd, 2011 12:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Good afternoon, my friends! Here are the next three flash fiction! (And also my third attempt to write Transformers fandom. Beware!)
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tmelange
Prompt: Superman/Batman, “Save the last dance for me”
Fandom: Justice League animated 'verse. Warnings for background violence, battle wounds.
Forkr4nky
Prompt: Playing with Fire verse, KisukexShinji, comb
Fandom: Bleach, Playing with Fire verse. Warnings for spoilers, angst, prelude to smut, slash
For azardarkstar
Prompt: RatchetxMirage, “Monster” by Paramore
Fandom: Transformers, I'm gonna say Bayverse. Warnings for battle violence, battle gore, possible character death, loads of angst, my fail-tacular attempts at transformers medical lingo...
a/n: I have no idea why, but my muses were all a twangst this go round. Yikes. Still, I hope you enjoyed.
For
tmelange Prompt: Superman/Batman, “Save the last dance for me”
Fandom: Justice League animated 'verse. Warnings for background violence, battle wounds.
The average life expectancy of the average human is 78.2 years. Bruce is 52. Arguably, he should have at least thirty solid years left in him. Life, it seems, has other ideas.
Admittedly, it's a fitting way to go. In the midst of battle, defending his city. Bruce would much rather fall here, like this, than waste away in a convalescent home, or find himself one day unable to wear the suit. This, he decides, is a much more dignified end.
He would have preferred if it had happened after the battle. He'd like to live long enough to see them win. The Justice League that is. Bruce knows they'll win; they always do. Still, it would be reassuring to have that confirmation. He'd find it easier to let go.
But no, life once again has other ideas. Instead, he's lying here amidst a shattered building, three or four levels of stone and furniture and circuitry crumpled atop him. His head is uncovered, but the suits a mess. His breathing is stuttered, blood spilling out from numerous cuts. He clinically catalogs all of his wounds: ruptured internals, shattered ribs, punctured lung, numbness in his legs which doesn't bode well for mobility. There are other injuries, too, but Bruce has accomplished his goal.
He knows he's dying; he doesn't need to pound that point home to himself.
Bruce is glad that he's had the foresight to plan for this. There's a file in his systems stating what his team should do in the case of his death. He doesn't say it nearly enough, but he knows Dick is more than capable.
His eyes flutter, vision blurry, but not so gone that he doesn't notice the smear of blue and red that suddenly invades his sight. A piece of rubble is tossed away, freeing Bruce's right leg.
“Oh no, you don't,” Superman says, and another bit of stone flies to the side, baring Batman's broken body to the unrelenting summer heat. “You're not dying on me yet.”
He'll crack a smirk, if only his jaw would work. But Bruce thinks it's been dislocated, too. So instead of a snappish retort, he glares. It's ineffective, Superman as immune to them as is to damn near everything else.
The battle's still raging. What the hell is Superman doing here? He should be on the front line, taking down that massive... whatever it is that their enemy brought this time. And no, it doesn't matter which enemy in the end. They're all the same in one way or another.
Superman reaches for him, hands strong but undeniably gentle, pulling Batman from the wreckage of what was once a hotel. “This isn't our last dance,” Superman says firmly, those blue eyes so focused on him, Bruce flushes.
Well... if he puts it that way. Bruce supposes he has no choice but to live.
Admittedly, it's a fitting way to go. In the midst of battle, defending his city. Bruce would much rather fall here, like this, than waste away in a convalescent home, or find himself one day unable to wear the suit. This, he decides, is a much more dignified end.
He would have preferred if it had happened after the battle. He'd like to live long enough to see them win. The Justice League that is. Bruce knows they'll win; they always do. Still, it would be reassuring to have that confirmation. He'd find it easier to let go.
But no, life once again has other ideas. Instead, he's lying here amidst a shattered building, three or four levels of stone and furniture and circuitry crumpled atop him. His head is uncovered, but the suits a mess. His breathing is stuttered, blood spilling out from numerous cuts. He clinically catalogs all of his wounds: ruptured internals, shattered ribs, punctured lung, numbness in his legs which doesn't bode well for mobility. There are other injuries, too, but Bruce has accomplished his goal.
He knows he's dying; he doesn't need to pound that point home to himself.
Bruce is glad that he's had the foresight to plan for this. There's a file in his systems stating what his team should do in the case of his death. He doesn't say it nearly enough, but he knows Dick is more than capable.
His eyes flutter, vision blurry, but not so gone that he doesn't notice the smear of blue and red that suddenly invades his sight. A piece of rubble is tossed away, freeing Bruce's right leg.
“Oh no, you don't,” Superman says, and another bit of stone flies to the side, baring Batman's broken body to the unrelenting summer heat. “You're not dying on me yet.”
He'll crack a smirk, if only his jaw would work. But Bruce thinks it's been dislocated, too. So instead of a snappish retort, he glares. It's ineffective, Superman as immune to them as is to damn near everything else.
The battle's still raging. What the hell is Superman doing here? He should be on the front line, taking down that massive... whatever it is that their enemy brought this time. And no, it doesn't matter which enemy in the end. They're all the same in one way or another.
Superman reaches for him, hands strong but undeniably gentle, pulling Batman from the wreckage of what was once a hotel. “This isn't our last dance,” Superman says firmly, those blue eyes so focused on him, Bruce flushes.
Well... if he puts it that way. Bruce supposes he has no choice but to live.
For
kr4nky Prompt: Playing with Fire verse, KisukexShinji, comb
Fandom: Bleach, Playing with Fire verse. Warnings for spoilers, angst, prelude to smut, slash
“I'm going ta cut it.”
Kisuke's hands stop mid-comb, fingers buried in lengths of blond hair. “Why?” he asks, forcing himself to resume. The repetitive motion is as soothing to him as it is to Shinji.
“Because it's who I used ta be. Who I'm not anymore,” Shinji replies, hands flat on his thighs, but Kisuke can see his fingers curling and uncurling. Shinji's reiatsu is a muddled mess, occasionally flaring, as he fights to keep it under control.
Kisuke chews on the inside of his cheek for a long moment. “You're still you,” he says, watching the comb slide through Shinj's long hair, from root to tip, over and over.
“No. Not anymore. Now there's him.” The last is said with so much loathing that Kisuke nearly takes a step back.
His lips thin and he sets the comb aside, choosing to set his palms on Shinji's shoulders instead. He can feel the restless reiatsu, feeling the churning of darker energies that have yet to fully merge with Shinji's Shinigami abilities.
Kisuke honestly doesn't know what to say in return. He doesn't know precisely what Shinji is going through. He's done his best to help and in the end, it's just not good enough. He's actually surprised Shinji doesn't resent him for it.
“You're still you,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “And I like your hair the way it is.”
Shinji snorts, and one of his hands lift, settling over Kisuke's. “Thanks,” he says, and squeezes Kisuke's hand. “But I'm still goin' ta cut it.”
He should have known. Shinji is nothing if not stubborn, and once he's made his mind up about something, nothing will change it.
Kisuke ghosts his fingers over the sensitive sides of Shinji's neck. “If you insist.”
“I do.” Shinji rises to his feet, dislodging Kisuke's hold, but turning around to face Kisuke which makes up for it. “So if yer done playin' with my hair, there are better things we could be doin'.”
Kisuke's lips quirk toward a smile. “That's one of the worst pick up lines I've ever heard.”
“So sue me. I'm rusty.”
“Only a little,” Kisuke murmurs, and cups Shinji's face, pulling him into a kiss. It won't heal him by any means, but it's a start. He'll settle for that right now.
Kisuke's hands stop mid-comb, fingers buried in lengths of blond hair. “Why?” he asks, forcing himself to resume. The repetitive motion is as soothing to him as it is to Shinji.
“Because it's who I used ta be. Who I'm not anymore,” Shinji replies, hands flat on his thighs, but Kisuke can see his fingers curling and uncurling. Shinji's reiatsu is a muddled mess, occasionally flaring, as he fights to keep it under control.
Kisuke chews on the inside of his cheek for a long moment. “You're still you,” he says, watching the comb slide through Shinj's long hair, from root to tip, over and over.
“No. Not anymore. Now there's him.” The last is said with so much loathing that Kisuke nearly takes a step back.
His lips thin and he sets the comb aside, choosing to set his palms on Shinji's shoulders instead. He can feel the restless reiatsu, feeling the churning of darker energies that have yet to fully merge with Shinji's Shinigami abilities.
Kisuke honestly doesn't know what to say in return. He doesn't know precisely what Shinji is going through. He's done his best to help and in the end, it's just not good enough. He's actually surprised Shinji doesn't resent him for it.
“You're still you,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “And I like your hair the way it is.”
Shinji snorts, and one of his hands lift, settling over Kisuke's. “Thanks,” he says, and squeezes Kisuke's hand. “But I'm still goin' ta cut it.”
He should have known. Shinji is nothing if not stubborn, and once he's made his mind up about something, nothing will change it.
Kisuke ghosts his fingers over the sensitive sides of Shinji's neck. “If you insist.”
“I do.” Shinji rises to his feet, dislodging Kisuke's hold, but turning around to face Kisuke which makes up for it. “So if yer done playin' with my hair, there are better things we could be doin'.”
Kisuke's lips quirk toward a smile. “That's one of the worst pick up lines I've ever heard.”
“So sue me. I'm rusty.”
“Only a little,” Kisuke murmurs, and cups Shinji's face, pulling him into a kiss. It won't heal him by any means, but it's a start. He'll settle for that right now.
azardarkstar Prompt: RatchetxMirage, “Monster” by Paramore
Fandom: Transformers, I'm gonna say Bayverse. Warnings for battle violence, battle gore, possible character death, loads of angst, my fail-tacular attempts at transformers medical lingo...
“Tell me what to do,” Mirage says urgently, dragging up his sense of poise and rationality and clinging to both of them, relying on them.
Trying not to stare as energon spurts from various lines and electricity crackles over a chartreuse frame. Trying to focus amid the noises of weapon fire, explosions, screaming, shouting, jets breaking the sound barrier above him, the damning knowledge that the only one who can help him, is the one spilling energon underneath him.
He's frantically pinged Wheeljack, whose on the other side of the battlefield, distracted by Seekers. He's also sent off comms to First Aid, but he fears neither of them will get to him in time.
Static crackles; Ratchet tries to speak. “Clamp the – bzzkrt – main – scrktitch – line.”
He doesn't know what the frag he's doing. Main line? Which main line? And where? With what? Mirage knows basic field repairs, and has gleaned a few odds and ends from being in the med bay so much. But this... this is beyond him. This is the sort of damage that requires Ratchet's miraculous abilities.
A hand (the other arm is about fifty feet away, out of grasp, Mirage will worry about retrieving it later) grips his shoulder, but grips is too strong a word. Paws, perhaps, in an attempt to grip, trying to get Mirage's attention as he stares aghast at damage, rage burning in the back somewhere. Behind the fear and the worry, there's rage, too.
'I'll tear Shockwave's spark out with my own hands,' he seethes. But first, Ratchet must live. He has to live.
Warmth. Through their bond. Not an ounce of fear. Not from Ratchet who, it seems, is always fearless. Concern, yes, but for Mirage instead. Certainty. Faith. Not in a deity, but in Mirage.
He inclines his head, focuses, stares through a haze and traces a main energon line, one radiating out from Ratchet's spark chamber. Mirage finds the tear, pulls a clamp out of his field kit, and patches it up.
He tells himself his hands aren't shaking as he drags his optics back to Ratchet's face, inwardly terrified by the dimming of Ratchet's optics. Energon loss. Even Mirage knows to recognize that.
“Now what?” he asks, desperate for the next step. Mirage has no idea where to begin; he needs Ratchet to tell him. "Ratchet?"
But there's no answer to his query.
Trying not to stare as energon spurts from various lines and electricity crackles over a chartreuse frame. Trying to focus amid the noises of weapon fire, explosions, screaming, shouting, jets breaking the sound barrier above him, the damning knowledge that the only one who can help him, is the one spilling energon underneath him.
He's frantically pinged Wheeljack, whose on the other side of the battlefield, distracted by Seekers. He's also sent off comms to First Aid, but he fears neither of them will get to him in time.
Static crackles; Ratchet tries to speak. “Clamp the – bzzkrt – main – scrktitch – line.”
He doesn't know what the frag he's doing. Main line? Which main line? And where? With what? Mirage knows basic field repairs, and has gleaned a few odds and ends from being in the med bay so much. But this... this is beyond him. This is the sort of damage that requires Ratchet's miraculous abilities.
A hand (the other arm is about fifty feet away, out of grasp, Mirage will worry about retrieving it later) grips his shoulder, but grips is too strong a word. Paws, perhaps, in an attempt to grip, trying to get Mirage's attention as he stares aghast at damage, rage burning in the back somewhere. Behind the fear and the worry, there's rage, too.
'I'll tear Shockwave's spark out with my own hands,' he seethes. But first, Ratchet must live. He has to live.
Warmth. Through their bond. Not an ounce of fear. Not from Ratchet who, it seems, is always fearless. Concern, yes, but for Mirage instead. Certainty. Faith. Not in a deity, but in Mirage.
He inclines his head, focuses, stares through a haze and traces a main energon line, one radiating out from Ratchet's spark chamber. Mirage finds the tear, pulls a clamp out of his field kit, and patches it up.
He tells himself his hands aren't shaking as he drags his optics back to Ratchet's face, inwardly terrified by the dimming of Ratchet's optics. Energon loss. Even Mirage knows to recognize that.
“Now what?” he asks, desperate for the next step. Mirage has no idea where to begin; he needs Ratchet to tell him. "Ratchet?"
But there's no answer to his query.
a/n: I have no idea why, but my muses were all a twangst this go round. Yikes. Still, I hope you enjoyed.
