Flash Fiction (Take 20 - Part 1)
Sep. 24th, 2011 07:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: And the first three of ten. Enjoy!
For firegirl0
Prompt: Yumichika, “Perfect Isn't Easy,” Oliver and Company
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: None
For cancer69heart
Prompt: “Unfaithful,” Rihanna, SeiferxZell, ZellxSquall
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII. Warnings: mild slash, infidelity
For animelover1993
Prompt: Optimus/Ratchet, “Cinema” by Benny Benassi
Fandom: Transformers: Prime. Warnings: mild mech groping, slashiness supposedly
He's standing at the console, servos flying over the various systems, optics trained on the screens, when he feels like he's being watched. His sensors are tuned down at the moment, as he has little fear of being attacked while in the middle of their base, but Ratchet dials them back up again. In a moment, he has discerned the identity of the bot – or human for that matter – watching him.
It comes as no surprise.
Ratchet pretends ignorance, hunching down as he stares at the incomplete formula for Synthetic Energon. He will crack this formula. Of course, he could do it a lot easier if Perceptor were here, but such is the way of things.
The ground vibrates as his watcher takes another step, the sound of gears shifting, metal grinding, pistons pumping, echoing around the interior of their headquarters. Ratchet pauses, mid-thought, performing another scan. They are alone. The humans are with their protectors, doing whatever it is they do when Bulkhead isn't here destroying Ratchet's important equipment.
No wonder he is being watched. Clearly, a certain leader has plans.
“I know what you're thinking,” Ratchet says, and brings up another screen, tilting his head to consider the schematic he has displayed.
Behind him, Optimus chuckles. “That I enjoy watching you work.”
“Oh no,” Ratchet replies, shaking his head and refusing to turn around, to acknowledge the lusty look that is surely gleaming in Prime's optics. “You are thinking of taking advantage of our solitude. Not today.”
“And why not?” There's the sound of another step, and then servos rest on Ratchet's shoulders, fingers teasing at sensitive seams, Optimus looming over him with a very tangible presence, heat radiating outward. His energy field lapping at the edge of Ratchet's, coaxing him with inviting tingles.
Ratchet's carefully composed refusal slips out of his processor. “... Because.”
Optimus chuckles again, leaning forward, his chassis brushing against Ratchet, a small frission of electricity jumping between them. Ratchet barely fights back his shiver. “That, old friend, is not a logical reason.”
His fingers slide away from the console and Ratchet is no longer even remotely focused on the task at servo. “Then you'll have to be quick about it,” he capitulates, like always. “I am not explaining to the humans why you have your servos all over me.”
a/n: Hee. Some of these were quite fun to write. Seven more to come!
For firegirl0
Prompt: Yumichika, “Perfect Isn't Easy,” Oliver and Company
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: None
He wakes without need of alarm because his internal clock works just as perfectly as the rest of them. The sun is shining brightly. He doesn't have to be onshift for two hours, but he'll need every minute of it if he's going to be ready for the public in time.
Yumichika rises from his futon and turns to fold his blankets and the futon. All are carefully stowed away for later use. His first stop is his private washroom, one he scrimped and saved and borrowed to have installed in his quarters so he wouldn't have to share with everyone else and could bathe at a moment's notice.
He draws a bath, at the perfect temperature and lets himself soak. He washes his hair with the finest, soft-smelling shampoos and conditions twice, for the perfect silky shine. He uses a salt scrub from the Living World on his skin and follows up with a light coating of skin oil, with a soft, enticing fragrance. He washes his face last, using a gentle, smoothing cleanser that foams away the previous day's stresses.
Forty minutes later, he carefully pats himself dry with a lint-less towel, and only then can he dress. He pulls out a clean shihakushou, meticulously pressed and stored in his closet, and gets dressed. Smoothing down the folds of his hakama, Yumichika frowns as he finds a stray piece of fluff attached to his haori. He plucks it off, flicking it away with a finger.
And then it's back to the bathroom, where he perches in front of a mirror to apply his face. First, a layer of moisturizing cream. As it soaks into his skin and dries, he works some softening oil into his hair, styling it just so. He runs a comb through his hair, until it lies flat without a piece out of place. Then, it is time to add the feathers. A touch of makeup glue and they are applied perfectly.
Washing his hands, Yumichika dries them with a towel and then applies a moisturizing cream to them as well. They get so dry and calloused from all of the sword practice taichou makes them undergo.
He's about as perfect as perfect can be now.
With a final glance in the mirror, Yumichika decides that he is ready to greet the day. He adjusts the fall of his hair, checks for wrinkles in his shihakushou, and is satisfied. Smiling, he opens the door of his quarters and steps into the hallway beyond. Right on time, as usual.
One of his fellow division mates happens to be passing by. “Good morning, Ayasegawa-san. Looking good!” He receives a thumbs-up.
Yumichika smirks. “Of course I am,” he replies, and head held high, he saunters to the office. Taichou, no doubt, has stacks of paperwork in need of completing and sorting and Yumichika is the only one who can do things right. Of course.
Yumichika rises from his futon and turns to fold his blankets and the futon. All are carefully stowed away for later use. His first stop is his private washroom, one he scrimped and saved and borrowed to have installed in his quarters so he wouldn't have to share with everyone else and could bathe at a moment's notice.
He draws a bath, at the perfect temperature and lets himself soak. He washes his hair with the finest, soft-smelling shampoos and conditions twice, for the perfect silky shine. He uses a salt scrub from the Living World on his skin and follows up with a light coating of skin oil, with a soft, enticing fragrance. He washes his face last, using a gentle, smoothing cleanser that foams away the previous day's stresses.
Forty minutes later, he carefully pats himself dry with a lint-less towel, and only then can he dress. He pulls out a clean shihakushou, meticulously pressed and stored in his closet, and gets dressed. Smoothing down the folds of his hakama, Yumichika frowns as he finds a stray piece of fluff attached to his haori. He plucks it off, flicking it away with a finger.
And then it's back to the bathroom, where he perches in front of a mirror to apply his face. First, a layer of moisturizing cream. As it soaks into his skin and dries, he works some softening oil into his hair, styling it just so. He runs a comb through his hair, until it lies flat without a piece out of place. Then, it is time to add the feathers. A touch of makeup glue and they are applied perfectly.
Washing his hands, Yumichika dries them with a towel and then applies a moisturizing cream to them as well. They get so dry and calloused from all of the sword practice taichou makes them undergo.
He's about as perfect as perfect can be now.
With a final glance in the mirror, Yumichika decides that he is ready to greet the day. He adjusts the fall of his hair, checks for wrinkles in his shihakushou, and is satisfied. Smiling, he opens the door of his quarters and steps into the hallway beyond. Right on time, as usual.
One of his fellow division mates happens to be passing by. “Good morning, Ayasegawa-san. Looking good!” He receives a thumbs-up.
Yumichika smirks. “Of course I am,” he replies, and head held high, he saunters to the office. Taichou, no doubt, has stacks of paperwork in need of completing and sorting and Yumichika is the only one who can do things right. Of course.
For cancer69heart
Prompt: “Unfaithful,” Rihanna, SeiferxZell, ZellxSquall
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII. Warnings: mild slash, infidelity
It's a struggle to get out of the bed, unwinding his limbs from the nearly octopus-like grip that Seifer has on him. Zell wriggles, which only succeeds in making Seifer tighten his hold, muttering into the back of his neck.
“Where do ya think you're going?” he asks, teeth nipping at Zell's nape.
Zell lunges forward, trying to extricate himself, resorting to pinching at Seifer's arm. “I have a meeting, Seif. Let me go.”
Seifer snorts and peers over his shoulder. “At 8am? Tell Puberty Boy to get a life or let the rest of us enjoy ours.”
With a huge, annoyed sigh Seifer reluctantly lets him go, only to roll over and throw his arm over his face. Zell scrambles from the bed, hopping around on the cold floor to find his clothes, casting a light Cure to rid himself of any wayward scratches, bite marks, or noticeable hickies. Seifer has this thing about his mouth...
“You better come back later,” Seifer grumbles, his voice muffled by the pillow he's now pulled over his head, anything to block the inevitable morning.
“Not tonight,” Zell says, balancing on one foot and then the other as he pulls on his sneakers. “Got that thing, remember?” More like somewhere else he has to be.
“What thing?”
Zell's already at the door, lifting a hand to key it open. “See you tomorrow, Seif,” he says, and he's in the hall before Seifer can question him further. Lucky it's so early that no one sees him emerge; classes don't start until nine.
Zell breaks into a jog, hustling for the central elevator that'll take him up to Squall's office. The meeting doesn't start until 8:30, technically, but Zell will take any private time with Squall he can manage. Before the meeting is always best.
It's early enough that Squall's secretary hasn't arrived yet, which gives Zell free reign to stride into Squall's office, where the commander looks about as bright-eyed as he ever gets. He's probably already on his second cup of coffee.
Zell leans in, presses a kiss to Squall's cheek. “Good morning, sunshine,” he says, and unceremoniously hops on the desk. Gloved hands settle on Zell's hip, squeezing gently.
“And where have you been?” Squall asks, for once not annoyed by the wrinkling of his paperwork.
Zell grins, shoving down any niggling guilt. Choose? Impossible. “Oh. Around.”
“Where do ya think you're going?” he asks, teeth nipping at Zell's nape.
Zell lunges forward, trying to extricate himself, resorting to pinching at Seifer's arm. “I have a meeting, Seif. Let me go.”
Seifer snorts and peers over his shoulder. “At 8am? Tell Puberty Boy to get a life or let the rest of us enjoy ours.”
With a huge, annoyed sigh Seifer reluctantly lets him go, only to roll over and throw his arm over his face. Zell scrambles from the bed, hopping around on the cold floor to find his clothes, casting a light Cure to rid himself of any wayward scratches, bite marks, or noticeable hickies. Seifer has this thing about his mouth...
“You better come back later,” Seifer grumbles, his voice muffled by the pillow he's now pulled over his head, anything to block the inevitable morning.
“Not tonight,” Zell says, balancing on one foot and then the other as he pulls on his sneakers. “Got that thing, remember?” More like somewhere else he has to be.
“What thing?”
Zell's already at the door, lifting a hand to key it open. “See you tomorrow, Seif,” he says, and he's in the hall before Seifer can question him further. Lucky it's so early that no one sees him emerge; classes don't start until nine.
Zell breaks into a jog, hustling for the central elevator that'll take him up to Squall's office. The meeting doesn't start until 8:30, technically, but Zell will take any private time with Squall he can manage. Before the meeting is always best.
It's early enough that Squall's secretary hasn't arrived yet, which gives Zell free reign to stride into Squall's office, where the commander looks about as bright-eyed as he ever gets. He's probably already on his second cup of coffee.
Zell leans in, presses a kiss to Squall's cheek. “Good morning, sunshine,” he says, and unceremoniously hops on the desk. Gloved hands settle on Zell's hip, squeezing gently.
“And where have you been?” Squall asks, for once not annoyed by the wrinkling of his paperwork.
Zell grins, shoving down any niggling guilt. Choose? Impossible. “Oh. Around.”
For animelover1993
Prompt: Optimus/Ratchet, “Cinema” by Benny Benassi
Fandom: Transformers: Prime. Warnings: mild mech groping, slashiness supposedly
He's standing at the console, servos flying over the various systems, optics trained on the screens, when he feels like he's being watched. His sensors are tuned down at the moment, as he has little fear of being attacked while in the middle of their base, but Ratchet dials them back up again. In a moment, he has discerned the identity of the bot – or human for that matter – watching him.
It comes as no surprise.
Ratchet pretends ignorance, hunching down as he stares at the incomplete formula for Synthetic Energon. He will crack this formula. Of course, he could do it a lot easier if Perceptor were here, but such is the way of things.
The ground vibrates as his watcher takes another step, the sound of gears shifting, metal grinding, pistons pumping, echoing around the interior of their headquarters. Ratchet pauses, mid-thought, performing another scan. They are alone. The humans are with their protectors, doing whatever it is they do when Bulkhead isn't here destroying Ratchet's important equipment.
No wonder he is being watched. Clearly, a certain leader has plans.
“I know what you're thinking,” Ratchet says, and brings up another screen, tilting his head to consider the schematic he has displayed.
Behind him, Optimus chuckles. “That I enjoy watching you work.”
“Oh no,” Ratchet replies, shaking his head and refusing to turn around, to acknowledge the lusty look that is surely gleaming in Prime's optics. “You are thinking of taking advantage of our solitude. Not today.”
“And why not?” There's the sound of another step, and then servos rest on Ratchet's shoulders, fingers teasing at sensitive seams, Optimus looming over him with a very tangible presence, heat radiating outward. His energy field lapping at the edge of Ratchet's, coaxing him with inviting tingles.
Ratchet's carefully composed refusal slips out of his processor. “... Because.”
Optimus chuckles again, leaning forward, his chassis brushing against Ratchet, a small frission of electricity jumping between them. Ratchet barely fights back his shiver. “That, old friend, is not a logical reason.”
His fingers slide away from the console and Ratchet is no longer even remotely focused on the task at servo. “Then you'll have to be quick about it,” he capitulates, like always. “I am not explaining to the humans why you have your servos all over me.”
a/n: Hee. Some of these were quite fun to write. Seven more to come!
