Flash Fiction (Take 18 Part 2)
Aug. 15th, 2011 06:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n : Good evening friends! I have three more flash fiction for your enjoyment.
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Sokka and Sideswipe
Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender and Transformers (Bayverse. Mostly). Warnings: Crack.
“So you're made of metal?”
“Yes.”
“But you're alive.”
“... Yes.” Sideswipe pauses, reconsiders. “In a matter of speaking. We're not organic like you. But we're not machines either.”
Sokka taps his chin with his finger as though earnestly contemplating the same facts they've gone over time and time again. “That... is seriously cool.”
Despite himself, Sideswipe preens. “I know.”
“No, I mean, that is very, very cool,” Sokka says, and leaps to his feet, pacing back and forth, arms waving wildly. “You're metal. But you move. And you're like thirty feet tall.”
“More like fifteen.”
Sokka waves a hand dismissively. “The point is: You. Are. Awesome.”
Sideswipe rocks back and forth on his wheels, feeling like his twin the way pride emanates from his frame. Slaggin' Sunstreaker, affecting him like this. “Of course I am.”
“I'll bet you're smart, too,” Sokka continues, pacing back and forth, only to pause and stare at Sideswipe's knee or Autobot emblem or wheel or really anything he can look at with awe. “And fast. And strong. And--”
“--seriously bored,” Sideswipe chimes in. Because as fun as it is to hear Sokka complimenting him, it would be far more amusing to slag some Decepticons.
Sokka pauses, mid-step, and whirls his body to face Sideswipe, planting his hands on his hips. “What do you do for fun anyway?”
Sideswipe rolls his shoulder with a creak of metal and a scrape of gears. “Games. Races. Beat up some 'Cons.” He pauses, and grins. “Pranks.”
An evil glint appears in Sokka's eyes, one that Sideswipe recognizes easily. “Really?” Sokka says with a cackle, rubbing his palms together. “Sideswipe, my man – I mean mech – I have a feeling we'll get along just perfectly.”
And somewhere, on the other side of the camp, both Prowl and Katara feel a simultaneous, eerie chill of dread creep over them.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Sleet and Lady Crysan, “Come on, Mom, just five more minutes”
Universe: War of the Animum. Warning: Nudity. Hints of slash. Hints of het.
For tmelange
Prompt: Superman/Batman, surprise kiss is a surprise
Fandom: DCAU Justice League. Warnings: Slash. Something like a kiss. Crack?
a/n: Three more to come. I hope you've enjoyed!
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Sokka and Sideswipe
Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender and Transformers (Bayverse. Mostly). Warnings: Crack.
“So you're made of metal?”
“Yes.”
“But you're alive.”
“... Yes.” Sideswipe pauses, reconsiders. “In a matter of speaking. We're not organic like you. But we're not machines either.”
Sokka taps his chin with his finger as though earnestly contemplating the same facts they've gone over time and time again. “That... is seriously cool.”
Despite himself, Sideswipe preens. “I know.”
“No, I mean, that is very, very cool,” Sokka says, and leaps to his feet, pacing back and forth, arms waving wildly. “You're metal. But you move. And you're like thirty feet tall.”
“More like fifteen.”
Sokka waves a hand dismissively. “The point is: You. Are. Awesome.”
Sideswipe rocks back and forth on his wheels, feeling like his twin the way pride emanates from his frame. Slaggin' Sunstreaker, affecting him like this. “Of course I am.”
“I'll bet you're smart, too,” Sokka continues, pacing back and forth, only to pause and stare at Sideswipe's knee or Autobot emblem or wheel or really anything he can look at with awe. “And fast. And strong. And--”
“--seriously bored,” Sideswipe chimes in. Because as fun as it is to hear Sokka complimenting him, it would be far more amusing to slag some Decepticons.
Sokka pauses, mid-step, and whirls his body to face Sideswipe, planting his hands on his hips. “What do you do for fun anyway?”
Sideswipe rolls his shoulder with a creak of metal and a scrape of gears. “Games. Races. Beat up some 'Cons.” He pauses, and grins. “Pranks.”
An evil glint appears in Sokka's eyes, one that Sideswipe recognizes easily. “Really?” Sokka says with a cackle, rubbing his palms together. “Sideswipe, my man – I mean mech – I have a feeling we'll get along just perfectly.”
And somewhere, on the other side of the camp, both Prowl and Katara feel a simultaneous, eerie chill of dread creep over them.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Sleet and Lady Crysan, “Come on, Mom, just five more minutes”
Universe: War of the Animum. Warning: Nudity. Hints of slash. Hints of het.
Of all her patrons, Sleet is by far the most adorable. Lady Crysan has often thought this to herself, not saying so aloud because she is aware how prickly Sleet can be about his appearance and his sexuality. She knows, but she doesn't quite understand. What reason is there to be ashamed? Then again, she has her occupation to thank for her liberal beliefs.
She has, once upon a time, met Frost as well. The male thief who has captivated Sleet's interests as of late, making him more interested in sleeping when he pays to visit, rather than indulging in her unique talents of domination. Crysan can see the attraction. If only Frost were interested in women, the fun they could have...
Ahem. Back to Sleet.
He is the only patron that pays to sleep in her bed and do nothing else. He pays her for the luxury of pillows and silk sheets and down mattresses and clean bedding. For sleeping undisturbed, in relative peace and quiet, though sometimes, he does allow her to play. It's ever so interesting to tease Sleet, to draw an erotic response from him, to watch the confusion play out over his face.
She is the only woman who can bring him such pleasure, and Crysan preens to herself at having such a talent.
Right now, a very nude Sleet is curled around her body-length pillow, clutching it as though he's missing some childhood stuffed toy. His hair is mussed, there's a crease in one cheek from when he'd been resting on his other side. In short, he's quite adorable in repose, and Crysan is almost reluctant to wake him.
Hitching up her thin robe, Crysan puts one knee on the bed, leaning toward Sleet. One arm plants on the mattress to the left of him as her free hand skates down his bare side, a light touch that could either tickle or arouse, depending on mood.
“Sleet,” she purrs, adding a bit of pressure, a scrape of her fingernails. “The sun's risen.”
He stirs, head nuzzling into the pillow. “Nnn. Five more minutes.”
Crysan, despite herself, chuckles and drags her touch further down, nails digging into shapely buttocks on display. “I am not your mother, Sleet Underwood. Get up. Or--” Here she pauses, reaching for his sleeping length, cupping the soft flesh in her fingers and dragging the pad of her thumb over the soft head. “Or I shall take it upon myself to play.”
One almost purple eye cracks open. “She-devil,” Sleet accuses, one thigh sliding up to protect his important bits.
Crysan smirks. “You get what you pay for.”
She has, once upon a time, met Frost as well. The male thief who has captivated Sleet's interests as of late, making him more interested in sleeping when he pays to visit, rather than indulging in her unique talents of domination. Crysan can see the attraction. If only Frost were interested in women, the fun they could have...
Ahem. Back to Sleet.
He is the only patron that pays to sleep in her bed and do nothing else. He pays her for the luxury of pillows and silk sheets and down mattresses and clean bedding. For sleeping undisturbed, in relative peace and quiet, though sometimes, he does allow her to play. It's ever so interesting to tease Sleet, to draw an erotic response from him, to watch the confusion play out over his face.
She is the only woman who can bring him such pleasure, and Crysan preens to herself at having such a talent.
Right now, a very nude Sleet is curled around her body-length pillow, clutching it as though he's missing some childhood stuffed toy. His hair is mussed, there's a crease in one cheek from when he'd been resting on his other side. In short, he's quite adorable in repose, and Crysan is almost reluctant to wake him.
Hitching up her thin robe, Crysan puts one knee on the bed, leaning toward Sleet. One arm plants on the mattress to the left of him as her free hand skates down his bare side, a light touch that could either tickle or arouse, depending on mood.
“Sleet,” she purrs, adding a bit of pressure, a scrape of her fingernails. “The sun's risen.”
He stirs, head nuzzling into the pillow. “Nnn. Five more minutes.”
Crysan, despite herself, chuckles and drags her touch further down, nails digging into shapely buttocks on display. “I am not your mother, Sleet Underwood. Get up. Or--” Here she pauses, reaching for his sleeping length, cupping the soft flesh in her fingers and dragging the pad of her thumb over the soft head. “Or I shall take it upon myself to play.”
One almost purple eye cracks open. “She-devil,” Sleet accuses, one thigh sliding up to protect his important bits.
Crysan smirks. “You get what you pay for.”
For tmelange
Prompt: Superman/Batman, surprise kiss is a surprise
Fandom: DCAU Justice League. Warnings: Slash. Something like a kiss. Crack?
In a grocery list of injuries that Bruce has suffered under the guise of Batman, his current scrape hardly rates in the top twenty of worrisome bruises, cuts, and broken bones. In fact, it doesn't rate at all. The scrape is annoying, barely bleeds, and stings every time a drop of sweat slides across it. In short, he's barely paying attention to it.
For some reason, however, Superman seems to be distracted by it. By the tear in Batman's reinforced costume, by the patch of flesh that's visible. By raised and reddened skin and the few drops of blood, bright splashes against the dark black of the batsuit.
When the battle is over – they won of course – Batman makes plans to disappear back to the Batcave. Jonn has the helm, the villains are in the process of being carted away, and the League has suffered no serious injuries. All in all, it's another day in the life of a superhero. Gotham is calling to him and Batman doesn't like to leave her unattended for long.
His work with the League is important but his city comes first. Always.
Intent blue eyes follow the swish of black cape, however, and as Batman strides down the corridor, he somehow acquires a blue and red shadow.
He turns, pausing. “Can I help you?”
Superman, too, pauses and his searing gaze seems to zero in on Batman's arm. “You're hurt,” he says.
Confused, Batman glances down at the scratch, one so mild it's already clotted. Won't even need a band-aid in fact. “No, I'm not.”
“You are,” Superman insists, oddly, and there's a blur as he cuts the distance between them with his superhuman speed, taking Batman's scraped arm into hand. He peers intently at the wound, as though his X-ray vision has somehow evolved into miraculous powers of healing.
Actually, coming from the alien who could rise from the dead, Batman wouldn't put such a thing past Superman.
“Allow me to make it better,” Superman continues, his voice a low rumble that matches the sparkle in his eyes, as he lifts Batman's arm and presses a light kiss to the scratch.
In the hallway. In full view of all and sundry.
Batman stares at him, unsure how he ought to react. Superman, on the other hand, smirks with revealed humor.
Making Batman speechless? Certainly a first. Score.
For some reason, however, Superman seems to be distracted by it. By the tear in Batman's reinforced costume, by the patch of flesh that's visible. By raised and reddened skin and the few drops of blood, bright splashes against the dark black of the batsuit.
When the battle is over – they won of course – Batman makes plans to disappear back to the Batcave. Jonn has the helm, the villains are in the process of being carted away, and the League has suffered no serious injuries. All in all, it's another day in the life of a superhero. Gotham is calling to him and Batman doesn't like to leave her unattended for long.
His work with the League is important but his city comes first. Always.
Intent blue eyes follow the swish of black cape, however, and as Batman strides down the corridor, he somehow acquires a blue and red shadow.
He turns, pausing. “Can I help you?”
Superman, too, pauses and his searing gaze seems to zero in on Batman's arm. “You're hurt,” he says.
Confused, Batman glances down at the scratch, one so mild it's already clotted. Won't even need a band-aid in fact. “No, I'm not.”
“You are,” Superman insists, oddly, and there's a blur as he cuts the distance between them with his superhuman speed, taking Batman's scraped arm into hand. He peers intently at the wound, as though his X-ray vision has somehow evolved into miraculous powers of healing.
Actually, coming from the alien who could rise from the dead, Batman wouldn't put such a thing past Superman.
“Allow me to make it better,” Superman continues, his voice a low rumble that matches the sparkle in his eyes, as he lifts Batman's arm and presses a light kiss to the scratch.
In the hallway. In full view of all and sundry.
Batman stares at him, unsure how he ought to react. Superman, on the other hand, smirks with revealed humor.
Making Batman speechless? Certainly a first. Score.
a/n: Three more to come. I hope you've enjoyed!
