Flash Fiction (Take 18 Final)
Aug. 16th, 2011 09:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Good evening, friends! I'm sneaking in late to post the final three flash fiction. One of them gave me a bit of trouble but at last, I emerged victorious. Please enjoy!
For ancientlybroken
Prompt: Dear God, it's me, Kyouya
Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club. No spoilers. Caution: ANGST.
For firegirl0
Prompt: Superman/Batman, this was most definitely out of his comfort zone
Fandom: vaguely references Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths. Slashy kiss. Batman humor. OOC? I, um, ignored the prompt because my muses wouldn't cooperate so I hope this makes up for it?
For cancer69heart
Prompt: Squall's dreams
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII. Ended up being a Kingdom Hearts crossover. Sorta. Mild spoilers for both fandoms.
a/n: As always, these were fun to write. I hope that you enjoyed!
For ancientlybroken
Prompt: Dear God, it's me, Kyouya
Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club. No spoilers. Caution: ANGST.
He clings to each steady beep as though it were a song from on high, the voice of angels. Each one is another second that Tamaki clings to life with the same stubbornness that Kyouya is relying on right now.
Earlier, Kyouya had sat watching it, each steady tick of the heart monitor. Each soft drip of the medicine that dulls the pain and keeps his best friend alive. Each minute twitch of Tamaki's eyelid or lip or finger.
Now, however, he keeps his eyes closed. He can't bear to look, even though he knows he must. If he misses something...
Kyouya takes in a heavy breath, swallows thickly.
Tamaki is here, in the Ootori hospital, receiving the best care that money can buy. The doctors here have done the best they can do. The specialists flown in from all around the world have given their diagnostics, have made their suggestions – both experimental and legitimate – until they, too, have done the best they can.
Kyouya has done everything his money and power and influence is capable. He has plotted and planned and schemed and bribed and cajoled and threatened every last person on the planet who could possibly save Tamaki. Yet, it is still not enough. Tamaki may still die.
Kyouya has never felt so useless in his entire life. For once, there is a problem he cannot solve. For once, he has been outclassed and defeated.
Now, he sits alone in Tamaki's private room, one smelling of the dozens of vases of fresh flowers and the dozens of boxes of fine chocolates. It's bright with Get Well cards and helium filled balloons and a shelf filled with stuffed animals of various design. There is the slight smoke-scent of incense hanging in the air.
The rest of the Host Club have come and gone. Off to eat finally. Or get some much needed sleep or attend to their jobs and families and duties. They'll return. For now, watch duty falls to Kyouya, as it does for the majority of the day.
They have looked at him, wondering why Kyouya hasn't fixed things yet. Haruhi, with her ever understanding gaze, squeezed his shoulder before she left earlier. She doesn't blame him, but Kyouya wishes she would.
Eyes feeling hot, Kyouya squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a shaky breath. He clasps his hands in front of him and bows his head. He is too logical, too ruled by numbers, to think this a workable option, but it's all he has left. He is desperate. Tamaki must live. So in the bright quiet of Tamaki's hospital room, Ootori Kyouya begins to pray.
Earlier, Kyouya had sat watching it, each steady tick of the heart monitor. Each soft drip of the medicine that dulls the pain and keeps his best friend alive. Each minute twitch of Tamaki's eyelid or lip or finger.
Now, however, he keeps his eyes closed. He can't bear to look, even though he knows he must. If he misses something...
Kyouya takes in a heavy breath, swallows thickly.
Tamaki is here, in the Ootori hospital, receiving the best care that money can buy. The doctors here have done the best they can do. The specialists flown in from all around the world have given their diagnostics, have made their suggestions – both experimental and legitimate – until they, too, have done the best they can.
Kyouya has done everything his money and power and influence is capable. He has plotted and planned and schemed and bribed and cajoled and threatened every last person on the planet who could possibly save Tamaki. Yet, it is still not enough. Tamaki may still die.
Kyouya has never felt so useless in his entire life. For once, there is a problem he cannot solve. For once, he has been outclassed and defeated.
Now, he sits alone in Tamaki's private room, one smelling of the dozens of vases of fresh flowers and the dozens of boxes of fine chocolates. It's bright with Get Well cards and helium filled balloons and a shelf filled with stuffed animals of various design. There is the slight smoke-scent of incense hanging in the air.
The rest of the Host Club have come and gone. Off to eat finally. Or get some much needed sleep or attend to their jobs and families and duties. They'll return. For now, watch duty falls to Kyouya, as it does for the majority of the day.
They have looked at him, wondering why Kyouya hasn't fixed things yet. Haruhi, with her ever understanding gaze, squeezed his shoulder before she left earlier. She doesn't blame him, but Kyouya wishes she would.
Eyes feeling hot, Kyouya squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a shaky breath. He clasps his hands in front of him and bows his head. He is too logical, too ruled by numbers, to think this a workable option, but it's all he has left. He is desperate. Tamaki must live. So in the bright quiet of Tamaki's hospital room, Ootori Kyouya begins to pray.
For firegirl0
Prompt: Superman/Batman, this was most definitely out of his comfort zone
Fandom: vaguely references Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths. Slashy kiss. Batman humor. OOC? I, um, ignored the prompt because my muses wouldn't cooperate so I hope this makes up for it?
“I saw that.”
Batman turns away, returning his attention to the Batcomputer, fingers clacking over the keys and bringing up new information. “I don't know what you mean.”
Behind him, Superman has his arms crossed over his face, a petulant look on his face. “That smirk. That look that says I'm always right.”
Well, I am, Batman thinks, but he doesn't say so aloud. His lips twitch. “Do you deny that my tactics brought us our victory?”
“No,” Superman huffs.
“Do you deny that Owlman was brought down in the end?”
In the reflection of the monitor, Batman could see those blue eyes narrow. “No.”
A tap of his finger and a recent police report comes on the screen, but Batman's not really paying attention to the data. That so-called smirk is trying to steal across his lips. “Then you can't really deny that I was right, can you?”
“That's not the point,” Superman says, and uncrosses his arms as he strides across the floor, coming to stand beside Batman, who turns to face him. “I'm not always wrong, you know.”
“No,” Batman concedes, and his lips twitch. Again. “Just most of the time.”
“You...” Superman shakes his head and gives him an exasperated look, with an edge of fondness. “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?”
“I don't know what you mean.” Inside, Batman is laughing.
A flurry of emotions cross Superman's face – he is always so easy to read, which makes teasing him that much more amusing. “You,” he says, his hands landing lightly on Batman's shoulders, thumbs stroking over a collarbone buried beneath layers of Kevlar and protective lining, “Are the single most infuriating man I have ever met.”
“It's all part of my charm,” Batman says, and reaches up, hooking a finger in the open collar of Superman's suit, dragging the hero closer to him. “It only proves that I'm always right.”
“For now,” Superman says, and closes the distance between them for a kiss. Which, really, has been Batman's intention all along.
Batman turns away, returning his attention to the Batcomputer, fingers clacking over the keys and bringing up new information. “I don't know what you mean.”
Behind him, Superman has his arms crossed over his face, a petulant look on his face. “That smirk. That look that says I'm always right.”
Well, I am, Batman thinks, but he doesn't say so aloud. His lips twitch. “Do you deny that my tactics brought us our victory?”
“No,” Superman huffs.
“Do you deny that Owlman was brought down in the end?”
In the reflection of the monitor, Batman could see those blue eyes narrow. “No.”
A tap of his finger and a recent police report comes on the screen, but Batman's not really paying attention to the data. That so-called smirk is trying to steal across his lips. “Then you can't really deny that I was right, can you?”
“That's not the point,” Superman says, and uncrosses his arms as he strides across the floor, coming to stand beside Batman, who turns to face him. “I'm not always wrong, you know.”
“No,” Batman concedes, and his lips twitch. Again. “Just most of the time.”
“You...” Superman shakes his head and gives him an exasperated look, with an edge of fondness. “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?”
“I don't know what you mean.” Inside, Batman is laughing.
A flurry of emotions cross Superman's face – he is always so easy to read, which makes teasing him that much more amusing. “You,” he says, his hands landing lightly on Batman's shoulders, thumbs stroking over a collarbone buried beneath layers of Kevlar and protective lining, “Are the single most infuriating man I have ever met.”
“It's all part of my charm,” Batman says, and reaches up, hooking a finger in the open collar of Superman's suit, dragging the hero closer to him. “It only proves that I'm always right.”
“For now,” Superman says, and closes the distance between them for a kiss. Which, really, has been Batman's intention all along.
For cancer69heart
Prompt: Squall's dreams
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII. Ended up being a Kingdom Hearts crossover. Sorta. Mild spoilers for both fandoms.
There's a talking duck with a vile temper and a magical staff. Next to him is a talking dog with a goofy laugh and a big shield. Together, they bracket a brunet kid with spiky hair, wielding a weapon that's shaped like a key. Hardly an effective weapon, in Squall's opinion, but for some reason it seems to work.
As many times as he's had this dream, the erratic, craziness of it continues to surprise Squall.
There's talk of all sorts of things. Heartless and Keyholes and destroyed worlds. Squall is there, too, only he calls himself Leon. Stupid thing that. Leon Leonhart? Squall knows he has better sense than that. Also, what the hell is up with his wardrobe?
No one else is there though. Squall – Leon – is alone. He's surrounded by strangers. No Seifer. No Rinoa. No Quistis or Irvine or Selphie or Zell. It's just Squall, a bunch of strangers, and the spiky-haired kid with his key-shaped weapon.
Sometimes, he hears details. Leon's own world was destroyed by the Heartless. He's here, as a refuge, in this place called Traverse Town, a scattered star in the broad loneliness of space. Everyone looks up to him. He has a close friend named Cloud, apparently, and Cid's here, too. Only he's not the Cid who Squall knows. He's a different Cid. A surlier, coarser, more violent Cid.
Images blur. Events blaze by. Sometimes, in his dreams, Squall can hardly grasp them. Other times, memories are clear as if they belong to him and not to Leon. There's a great evil, when is there not, and only the spiky-haired kid can save them. Kids saving the world. Huh. It all sounds familiar.
Squall supposes that in the grand scheme of things, perhaps this is the way his psyche is processing the battle against Ultimecia and all the pain and suffering associated with it. Perhaps instead of reliving his own trials, his mind has transferred them into an alternate dimension, where the world doesn't rest on his – Squall's – shoulders, but someone else's. Maybe that's what he's longed for all along.
He wakes from these dreams, neck cramped and crooked from his odd position at his desk, papers crumpled beneath his cheeks. There's an inkprint of his half-completed signature on his face and he idly wipes it away. Outside his window, the sky is blue with only a few clouds.
His own world is at peace thanks to he and his friends. Sometimes, Squall wonders which is really the dream. This reality or those half-formed images during his sleeping hours. And he thinks, to himself, that he's glad for this reality, if only because he'd been responsible for protecting one world, rather than an entire universe. Small favors, he supposes, and bends over his desk once again. Paperwork awaits.
As many times as he's had this dream, the erratic, craziness of it continues to surprise Squall.
There's talk of all sorts of things. Heartless and Keyholes and destroyed worlds. Squall is there, too, only he calls himself Leon. Stupid thing that. Leon Leonhart? Squall knows he has better sense than that. Also, what the hell is up with his wardrobe?
No one else is there though. Squall – Leon – is alone. He's surrounded by strangers. No Seifer. No Rinoa. No Quistis or Irvine or Selphie or Zell. It's just Squall, a bunch of strangers, and the spiky-haired kid with his key-shaped weapon.
Sometimes, he hears details. Leon's own world was destroyed by the Heartless. He's here, as a refuge, in this place called Traverse Town, a scattered star in the broad loneliness of space. Everyone looks up to him. He has a close friend named Cloud, apparently, and Cid's here, too. Only he's not the Cid who Squall knows. He's a different Cid. A surlier, coarser, more violent Cid.
Images blur. Events blaze by. Sometimes, in his dreams, Squall can hardly grasp them. Other times, memories are clear as if they belong to him and not to Leon. There's a great evil, when is there not, and only the spiky-haired kid can save them. Kids saving the world. Huh. It all sounds familiar.
Squall supposes that in the grand scheme of things, perhaps this is the way his psyche is processing the battle against Ultimecia and all the pain and suffering associated with it. Perhaps instead of reliving his own trials, his mind has transferred them into an alternate dimension, where the world doesn't rest on his – Squall's – shoulders, but someone else's. Maybe that's what he's longed for all along.
He wakes from these dreams, neck cramped and crooked from his odd position at his desk, papers crumpled beneath his cheeks. There's an inkprint of his half-completed signature on his face and he idly wipes it away. Outside his window, the sky is blue with only a few clouds.
His own world is at peace thanks to he and his friends. Sometimes, Squall wonders which is really the dream. This reality or those half-formed images during his sleeping hours. And he thinks, to himself, that he's glad for this reality, if only because he'd been responsible for protecting one world, rather than an entire universe. Small favors, he supposes, and bends over his desk once again. Paperwork awaits.
a/n: As always, these were fun to write. I hope that you enjoyed!
