Flash Fiction (Take 21 - Part Final)
Oct. 12th, 2011 12:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Posting before I go to work. The last three flash fiction. Huzzah!
For hockeyiris
Prompt: Kyouya and Kaoru, understanding
Fandom: Ouran HSHC (vaguely references Consequences and Repercussions). Warning for language and refs to slash.
For animelover1993
Prompt: Sam and Optimus, “Moves like Jagger”
Fandom: Transformers (Bayverse with a splash of G1). Warnings: hinted mechxmech
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: MaesxRoy, “not over the phone!”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist. Warnings: implied slash, some cursing, Riza with a gun :)
a/n: And that's the last of them. Not as many this time. Still, I hope you liked! More fic to come this week. More The Beautiful Lie and The Break of Day.
For hockeyiris
Prompt: Kyouya and Kaoru, understanding
Fandom: Ouran HSHC (vaguely references Consequences and Repercussions). Warning for language and refs to slash.
It's just a game, but sometimes, Kaoru feels like calling the whole thing off. It's supposed to be funny, to trick the trickster, to outsmart the senpai who thinks he knows everything.
And yet, it's starting to feel a bit too real for Kaoru's comfort.
He finds himself thinking the most random things. About how much it would be better if he weren't lying. If he and Kyouya-senpai actually were involved.
Hikaru doesn't get it. Right now, he only has eyes for Haruhi. He doesn't see Kyouya-senpai's appeal.
Kaoru does, however, and it's becoming more and more apparent with every moment longer that Kaoru spends in Kyouya-senpai's presence. That for as distant and cold as their senpai acts, he actually has the capacity for warmth and understanding. He lets Tamaki walk all over him, bend him this way and that, and even when it comes to Haruhi, Kyouya-senpai allows himself to crack a bit.
He can be gentle when he wants. His obsession with facts and figures and data is not as sterile as everyone thinks. It means he notices the little things, that he can be perceptive when the situation calls for it. And being the center of all that focus... it can be quite the heady thing.
Kaoru feels a hot shiver dance down his spine just remembering it. The way Kyouya-senpai had mapped out every erotic zone, categorizing and memorizing them, until he learned all the best ways to make Kaoru squirm and cry out. It's all to easy to forget, in those moments, that Kaoru is supposed to be pretending. It's a little too easy to pretend that it's real.
Those times, Kaoru has to remind himself of his part in the plan. What it is, exactly, that he and Hikaru are trying to accomplish. He has to push away the niggling guilt, the part of his conscience that tells him this is a Very Bad Idea. That he should be lucky he's seeing these hidden parts of Kyouya-senpai. That he's betraying the trust of one of the few friends he's ever had outside his own brother.
Kaoru has to quash down all of those doubts lest he end up betraying his twin as well. He has to keep playing the game, pretending and acting and feeling like's tearing apart himself all at the same time.
It's only a game, after all, and when the curtain falls, and the bell sounds, and the scores are tallied, the Hitachiin twins will find themselves at the top. Except that for the first time in as long as he can remember, Kaoru honestly doesn't want to win. Which leaves him trapped between a metaphorical rock and a hard place: the trust his brother has in him, and the faith Kyouya-san is slowly granting. Plainly put, Kaoru's fucked.
And yet, it's starting to feel a bit too real for Kaoru's comfort.
He finds himself thinking the most random things. About how much it would be better if he weren't lying. If he and Kyouya-senpai actually were involved.
Hikaru doesn't get it. Right now, he only has eyes for Haruhi. He doesn't see Kyouya-senpai's appeal.
Kaoru does, however, and it's becoming more and more apparent with every moment longer that Kaoru spends in Kyouya-senpai's presence. That for as distant and cold as their senpai acts, he actually has the capacity for warmth and understanding. He lets Tamaki walk all over him, bend him this way and that, and even when it comes to Haruhi, Kyouya-senpai allows himself to crack a bit.
He can be gentle when he wants. His obsession with facts and figures and data is not as sterile as everyone thinks. It means he notices the little things, that he can be perceptive when the situation calls for it. And being the center of all that focus... it can be quite the heady thing.
Kaoru feels a hot shiver dance down his spine just remembering it. The way Kyouya-senpai had mapped out every erotic zone, categorizing and memorizing them, until he learned all the best ways to make Kaoru squirm and cry out. It's all to easy to forget, in those moments, that Kaoru is supposed to be pretending. It's a little too easy to pretend that it's real.
Those times, Kaoru has to remind himself of his part in the plan. What it is, exactly, that he and Hikaru are trying to accomplish. He has to push away the niggling guilt, the part of his conscience that tells him this is a Very Bad Idea. That he should be lucky he's seeing these hidden parts of Kyouya-senpai. That he's betraying the trust of one of the few friends he's ever had outside his own brother.
Kaoru has to quash down all of those doubts lest he end up betraying his twin as well. He has to keep playing the game, pretending and acting and feeling like's tearing apart himself all at the same time.
It's only a game, after all, and when the curtain falls, and the bell sounds, and the scores are tallied, the Hitachiin twins will find themselves at the top. Except that for the first time in as long as he can remember, Kaoru honestly doesn't want to win. Which leaves him trapped between a metaphorical rock and a hard place: the trust his brother has in him, and the faith Kyouya-san is slowly granting. Plainly put, Kaoru's fucked.
For animelover1993
Prompt: Sam and Optimus, “Moves like Jagger”
Fandom: Transformers (Bayverse with a splash of G1). Warnings: hinted mechxmech
“Sam...” The tone of Optimus' voice can only be identified as pained with a side order of mortified and sprinkled with affection. “The sentiment is appreciated but...”
Optimus trails off, looking helplessly at the party that is in full swing. It is, apparently, in honor of Optimus' birthdate which someone has arbitrarily chosen as February 22nd for reasons the Prime has yet to discern. The largest building in Diego Garcia has been converted into a... well, it's a dance club for all intents and purposes. Which Optimus fully blames Jazz for. There is no possible way Sam could have done this on his own.
A sparkling ball hanging from the ceiling sends an array of colors in all directions. Periodically, glitter and streamers fall from the ceiling. Large speakers hang everywhere, pumping out a bass that Optimus can feel rattling through his armor. Energon is flowing freely, and Optimus doesn't need a sniff to know that it's not their everyday casual grade.
His optics swerve to a suspicious corner where the two main perpetrators of high grade brewing are comparing techniques with a third bot who is the last mech Optimus would have suspected.
The dance floor is packed with Cybertronian forms, moving, grinding, twisting, and stomping to the boot. A raised dais provides a safe platform for the humans to dance as well and Optimus is quite certain they aren't drinking anything innocent either.
And is that Red Alert he sees in the corner with Mirage? Who's monitoring the systems? Watching for Decepticon attacks? Is anyone going to be sober come morning?
“Come on, Optimus. You deserve to have fun just like everyone else,” Sam says from somewhere near Optimus' ankle. He raps his knuckles against a piece of plating as though to drive the point home. “This is the way we celebrate on Earth. Welcome home.”
The sentiment is appreciated but... Optimus watches, helpless, as Sam dives into the crowd of dancing Cybertronians, full of complete and utter faith that they won't step on him and seconds later, Optimus spies Bluestreak lifting Sam up in his palm.
“Kid's got a point, boss bot,” Jazz drawls from where he's perched himself on Optimus' shoulder as though he belongs there, causing their energy fields to intertwine and mingle in a way that Optimus appreciates. One foot keeps tapping in time with the music, as though he can't wait to get out on the dance floor. “Ya do deserve it.”
And apparently, Ironhide agrees, because when he passes with Lennox in residence on his shoulder, he pushes a cube of high grade into Optimus' hand and salutes.
Optimus surrenders to inevitability. “Very well. But I refuse to dance.”
Jazz chuckles, a particular gleam in his visor. “We'll see about that.”
Optimus trails off, looking helplessly at the party that is in full swing. It is, apparently, in honor of Optimus' birthdate which someone has arbitrarily chosen as February 22nd for reasons the Prime has yet to discern. The largest building in Diego Garcia has been converted into a... well, it's a dance club for all intents and purposes. Which Optimus fully blames Jazz for. There is no possible way Sam could have done this on his own.
A sparkling ball hanging from the ceiling sends an array of colors in all directions. Periodically, glitter and streamers fall from the ceiling. Large speakers hang everywhere, pumping out a bass that Optimus can feel rattling through his armor. Energon is flowing freely, and Optimus doesn't need a sniff to know that it's not their everyday casual grade.
His optics swerve to a suspicious corner where the two main perpetrators of high grade brewing are comparing techniques with a third bot who is the last mech Optimus would have suspected.
The dance floor is packed with Cybertronian forms, moving, grinding, twisting, and stomping to the boot. A raised dais provides a safe platform for the humans to dance as well and Optimus is quite certain they aren't drinking anything innocent either.
And is that Red Alert he sees in the corner with Mirage? Who's monitoring the systems? Watching for Decepticon attacks? Is anyone going to be sober come morning?
“Come on, Optimus. You deserve to have fun just like everyone else,” Sam says from somewhere near Optimus' ankle. He raps his knuckles against a piece of plating as though to drive the point home. “This is the way we celebrate on Earth. Welcome home.”
The sentiment is appreciated but... Optimus watches, helpless, as Sam dives into the crowd of dancing Cybertronians, full of complete and utter faith that they won't step on him and seconds later, Optimus spies Bluestreak lifting Sam up in his palm.
“Kid's got a point, boss bot,” Jazz drawls from where he's perched himself on Optimus' shoulder as though he belongs there, causing their energy fields to intertwine and mingle in a way that Optimus appreciates. One foot keeps tapping in time with the music, as though he can't wait to get out on the dance floor. “Ya do deserve it.”
And apparently, Ironhide agrees, because when he passes with Lennox in residence on his shoulder, he pushes a cube of high grade into Optimus' hand and salutes.
Optimus surrenders to inevitability. “Very well. But I refuse to dance.”
Jazz chuckles, a particular gleam in his visor. “We'll see about that.”
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: MaesxRoy, “not over the phone!”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist. Warnings: implied slash, some cursing, Riza with a gun :)
Under the watchful glare of his trusty lieutenant (who has her hand on a gleaming pistol), Roy dutifully attends to his paperwork. Never has a pen flowed so smoothly across a document. And he can't rest either. No matter how much his fingers start to cramp.
Not with Riza watching him like her namesake.
When the phone rings, Roy only glances at it. He casts a pleading look at Riza, but she shakes her head and answers it herself. Roy sighs. Foiled.
He diligently returns to his paperwork, ignoring whomever might be on the phone, until Riza thrusts it at him, the receiver inches from his nose.
“You have five minutes,” she says curtly.
Warily, Roy accepts the phone. “Mustang here.”
“Roy!” Maes' cheerful voice pours out at him, loud enough that Roy winces and Riza's lips thin. “I see you've been chained to your desk again.”
Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, Roy doesn't let his pen stop moving. “Is this going to be important?” As much as he loves, adores, and tolerates his best friend (and occasional lover) now is not a good time.
“Depends on what you mean by important,” Maes says, his tone pitched low this time, a seductive sound that dances down Roy's spine and makes him squirm in his seat. “It does, after all, regard our plans for the evening.”
“Our plans?” Roy asks, looking at Riza who mouths two minutes at him.
“Shall I spell it out?” Maes murmurs into the phone. “I recall mention of a paddle, a pair of handcuffs, and--”
“Maes!” Roy hisses into the receiver as heat floods through him, mind helpfully supplying graphic images. “Not over the phone!”
Laughter pours out from the other end and Roy can just imagine the mischievous look in Maes' eyes. “If you insist, Colonel,” he replies with a purr that should be illegal. “Though if you ask me--”
“Time's up, Colonel,” Riza says sharply, and Roy is ridiculously grateful.
“Sorry, Maes. I'll talk to you later!” And he hangs up before Maes can flirt anymore, which consequently leaves Roy with paperwork and a nagging erection. Damn.
Not with Riza watching him like her namesake.
When the phone rings, Roy only glances at it. He casts a pleading look at Riza, but she shakes her head and answers it herself. Roy sighs. Foiled.
He diligently returns to his paperwork, ignoring whomever might be on the phone, until Riza thrusts it at him, the receiver inches from his nose.
“You have five minutes,” she says curtly.
Warily, Roy accepts the phone. “Mustang here.”
“Roy!” Maes' cheerful voice pours out at him, loud enough that Roy winces and Riza's lips thin. “I see you've been chained to your desk again.”
Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, Roy doesn't let his pen stop moving. “Is this going to be important?” As much as he loves, adores, and tolerates his best friend (and occasional lover) now is not a good time.
“Depends on what you mean by important,” Maes says, his tone pitched low this time, a seductive sound that dances down Roy's spine and makes him squirm in his seat. “It does, after all, regard our plans for the evening.”
“Our plans?” Roy asks, looking at Riza who mouths two minutes at him.
“Shall I spell it out?” Maes murmurs into the phone. “I recall mention of a paddle, a pair of handcuffs, and--”
“Maes!” Roy hisses into the receiver as heat floods through him, mind helpfully supplying graphic images. “Not over the phone!”
Laughter pours out from the other end and Roy can just imagine the mischievous look in Maes' eyes. “If you insist, Colonel,” he replies with a purr that should be illegal. “Though if you ask me--”
“Time's up, Colonel,” Riza says sharply, and Roy is ridiculously grateful.
“Sorry, Maes. I'll talk to you later!” And he hangs up before Maes can flirt anymore, which consequently leaves Roy with paperwork and a nagging erection. Damn.
a/n: And that's the last of them. Not as many this time. Still, I hope you liked! More fic to come this week. More The Beautiful Lie and The Break of Day.
