Flash Fiction Fills 22 (part one)
Oct. 30th, 2011 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22At last! I come to you with half of the flash fiction fills. I say half because two of them have taken on lives of their own and one of those two hasn't decided how it will end. I will post them tomorrow. These have not been edited in the slightest so please pardon any grammatical mistakes.
For hockeyiris
Prompt: KyouyaxMori, changes
Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club. Warnings: hints of slashy pairing, bit of angst, spoilers?
For azardarkstar
Prompt: AtLA, better red than dead
Fandom: Avatar - The Last Airbender. Warnings for spoilers (book three)
For mistress_pirate
prompt: Sleet/Crysan, losing a bet
Universe: War of the Animum. Warnings for cross-dressing and cursing
For hockeyiris
Prompt: KyouyaxMori, changes
Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club. Warnings: hints of slashy pairing, bit of angst, spoilers?
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose. Kyouya cannot help but think of how relevant those words are right now as he stands just off stage, watching the graduation ceremony with mixed feelings of pride and dread. Graduation is inevitable. People age, move on with their lives. Moments are fleeting, and times when we are happy pass much quicker than times when we are not.
If not for the host club, Kyouya would have paid little attention to this year's graduating class. After all, aside from helping to organize it and make sure it is an affair worth attending, it has little to do with him. He has another year before he will be graduating out of Ouran.
But now, thanks to the host club, Kyouya is paying all too much attention to this year's graduating class. Hunny-senpai will be missed, but he is not the one who has captured Kyouya's eye. No, instead he is avidly watching as Mori-senpai accepts his graduate certification, approximates a smile for the cameras, and shakes hands with the president.
Kyouya is logical enough to have recognized that his and Mori-senpai's relationship is as evanescent as their time spent together in the host club. But that doesn't stop the most un-logical side of him from viewing this occasion with reluctant eyes. The ridiculous and emotional side of him which wishes that the year could go on forever, that the seniors would never graduate, and he would never have to say goodbye to the host club.
The ties that bind will bind them forever, perhaps, but in the end, the adult world awaits and those bonds made in childhood will slowly wither away.
Every effort made to not fall in too deeply had been wasted. Kyouya had fallen, had allowed himself to be wooed, to get attached, and this is what it has brought him. They've made no promises to each other, and realistically, Kyouya knows that a future together is, well, impossible.
Kyouya must go on to whisk his place as the Ootori heir out from under his brothers' noses, and Mori-senpai must go on to his own future, whatever he decides it to be. Their respective futures have no place for their relationship.
In this, there is no place for fairytale happy endings. But Kyouya nonetheless feels a small part of him wish for that anyway. He can't and won't ask for Mori-senpai to wait for him, same as he knows Mori-senpai won't request the same of him.
Things would have been easier if Kyouya had never given in. If he had continued to ignore Mori-senpai's interest and ignored his own. If he had never allowed himself the happiness that their relationship had brought him. But such is the way of things. Change is inevitable. Kyouya just wishes it had waited a little bit longer.
If not for the host club, Kyouya would have paid little attention to this year's graduating class. After all, aside from helping to organize it and make sure it is an affair worth attending, it has little to do with him. He has another year before he will be graduating out of Ouran.
But now, thanks to the host club, Kyouya is paying all too much attention to this year's graduating class. Hunny-senpai will be missed, but he is not the one who has captured Kyouya's eye. No, instead he is avidly watching as Mori-senpai accepts his graduate certification, approximates a smile for the cameras, and shakes hands with the president.
Kyouya is logical enough to have recognized that his and Mori-senpai's relationship is as evanescent as their time spent together in the host club. But that doesn't stop the most un-logical side of him from viewing this occasion with reluctant eyes. The ridiculous and emotional side of him which wishes that the year could go on forever, that the seniors would never graduate, and he would never have to say goodbye to the host club.
The ties that bind will bind them forever, perhaps, but in the end, the adult world awaits and those bonds made in childhood will slowly wither away.
Every effort made to not fall in too deeply had been wasted. Kyouya had fallen, had allowed himself to be wooed, to get attached, and this is what it has brought him. They've made no promises to each other, and realistically, Kyouya knows that a future together is, well, impossible.
Kyouya must go on to whisk his place as the Ootori heir out from under his brothers' noses, and Mori-senpai must go on to his own future, whatever he decides it to be. Their respective futures have no place for their relationship.
In this, there is no place for fairytale happy endings. But Kyouya nonetheless feels a small part of him wish for that anyway. He can't and won't ask for Mori-senpai to wait for him, same as he knows Mori-senpai won't request the same of him.
Things would have been easier if Kyouya had never given in. If he had continued to ignore Mori-senpai's interest and ignored his own. If he had never allowed himself the happiness that their relationship had brought him. But such is the way of things. Change is inevitable. Kyouya just wishes it had waited a little bit longer.
For azardarkstar
Prompt: AtLA, better red than dead
Fandom: Avatar - The Last Airbender. Warnings for spoilers (book three)
His skin itches. Crawls really. He feels all too exposed. Wearing the livery of the Fire Nation makes him feel dirty somehow, as though he's betraying everything his family has fought for, his own people have died for.
Disguising themselves as legitimate members of the Fire Nation is a good idea. It's one that will keep them alive, enable them to travel freely through the Fire Nation. Yet, Sokka does not like it. And he won't ever like it.
He knows that Katara probably feels the same way. They are both smart enough to recognize a good plan when they see one, but still... this isn't easy.
Aang is practically giddy. The pacifist probably sees this as a closer step toward a worldwide peace that he's been dreaming of. Small steps, baby, small steps.
Toph... well, it's always hard to read Toph. She can't see what colors she's wearing anyway, so she probably doesn't care. She doesn't carry the same level of dislike for the Fire Nation as Sokka and Katara anyway.
His skin itches again. Sokka casually drags his fingers over his neck where he's itching. Then his arm. Then his right side. Then his elbow. Gah, itching everywhere.
It's too much. He understands, but still... it's like everything the Fire Nation has threatened is being experienced right now. Because isn't that what Ozai is trying to do? Take over their entire world, turn everything to Fire Nation red, wipe out what exists of the Water Tribes and the Earth Kingdom. He's already succeeded with the Air Nomads! Their temples have been covered in Fire Nation victory flags, Fire Nation livery, red everywhere.
And here Sokka is. Here is Team Avatar. Dressed up like the very thing they are trying to fight. It just... ugh. It has to be done, but deep inside, Sokka loathes this with every portion of his being.
His knee itches again. And around his collar. The small of his back. His wrists and his ankles get treated to a scratch, too.
“Sokka!”
“What?” he demands, looking sourly at Katara, who's giving him a perplexed expression.
“Stop scratching,” she says. “There's nothing wrong with you.”
Sokka sighs. And obeys. Katara's right after all. He doesn't really itch; he just thinks he ought to. But, he supposes, better a little red than a lot dead.
Disguising themselves as legitimate members of the Fire Nation is a good idea. It's one that will keep them alive, enable them to travel freely through the Fire Nation. Yet, Sokka does not like it. And he won't ever like it.
He knows that Katara probably feels the same way. They are both smart enough to recognize a good plan when they see one, but still... this isn't easy.
Aang is practically giddy. The pacifist probably sees this as a closer step toward a worldwide peace that he's been dreaming of. Small steps, baby, small steps.
Toph... well, it's always hard to read Toph. She can't see what colors she's wearing anyway, so she probably doesn't care. She doesn't carry the same level of dislike for the Fire Nation as Sokka and Katara anyway.
His skin itches again. Sokka casually drags his fingers over his neck where he's itching. Then his arm. Then his right side. Then his elbow. Gah, itching everywhere.
It's too much. He understands, but still... it's like everything the Fire Nation has threatened is being experienced right now. Because isn't that what Ozai is trying to do? Take over their entire world, turn everything to Fire Nation red, wipe out what exists of the Water Tribes and the Earth Kingdom. He's already succeeded with the Air Nomads! Their temples have been covered in Fire Nation victory flags, Fire Nation livery, red everywhere.
And here Sokka is. Here is Team Avatar. Dressed up like the very thing they are trying to fight. It just... ugh. It has to be done, but deep inside, Sokka loathes this with every portion of his being.
His knee itches again. And around his collar. The small of his back. His wrists and his ankles get treated to a scratch, too.
“Sokka!”
“What?” he demands, looking sourly at Katara, who's giving him a perplexed expression.
“Stop scratching,” she says. “There's nothing wrong with you.”
Sokka sighs. And obeys. Katara's right after all. He doesn't really itch; he just thinks he ought to. But, he supposes, better a little red than a lot dead.
For mistress_pirate
prompt: Sleet/Crysan, losing a bet
Universe: War of the Animum. Warnings for cross-dressing and cursing
“Just so you know,” Sleet says sourly, inflecting every bit of irritation and loathing he can muster into his tone, “this is not my idea of a good time.”
Lady Crysan laughs. “My dear, the idea of losing a bet is never anyone's good time. You should not have agreed to the terms.”
Sleet squares his jaw. “You cheated.”
“Never.” The madame grins, fluttering her hand at her chest. “You, however, should have known better than to play games of chance with a determined woman. It is a well-known fact that Luck is a lady. And I'm sure she is just as eager to see you fulfill the terms.”
Sleet twitches. “Fine,” he spits at her. “Do you worst.”
“I plan to.”
The rest of the women titter appreciatively and flock around him, all too eager to help in Sleet's humiliation. Dread mingles with embarrassment, and Sleet feels himself sliding back to the past, when his mother had done this to him. He hadn't any choice in the matter then either.
“Blue, I think my dears,” Lady Crysan announces over the giggling, gossiping women. “The better to match his eyes.”
An hour later, he finds himself the focus of a gaggle of prostitutes and their madam, all staring appreciatively at their cumulative efforts.
For all that he is draped in layers of fabric, Sleet feels exposed. And not in a good way. And when they bring a mirror into play, Sleet's humiliation is complete.
Lady Crysan had decided that a style more reminiscent of the people of Yokoto and further north was appropriate. So Sleet has a long swath of silk wrapped around his frame, from his bare ankles up to the high collar on his neck. A second piece of equally silky fabric drapes over his elbows, hanging down in a thin curtain. His face has been painted to match, his eyes heavy with kohl, cheeks thick with rouge. His lips are a smear of crimson which actually... isn't quite that bad.
Dionne giggles. “He actually looks good,” she says. “Earn some good coin here.”
Lady Crysan nods, hands on her hips and satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “Of course he does. Tell me, Sleet, would you consider working as one of my girls?”
His eyes narrow. “Fuck you.” Laughter echoes all around.
a/n: And the latter two will be posted tomorrow. I promise. And then Tuesday starts NaNoWriMo. Huzzah! I've decided to write my lingering SuperBat fic and then after that, finish Shady Hill. That should get me to 50K.
Lady Crysan laughs. “My dear, the idea of losing a bet is never anyone's good time. You should not have agreed to the terms.”
Sleet squares his jaw. “You cheated.”
“Never.” The madame grins, fluttering her hand at her chest. “You, however, should have known better than to play games of chance with a determined woman. It is a well-known fact that Luck is a lady. And I'm sure she is just as eager to see you fulfill the terms.”
Sleet twitches. “Fine,” he spits at her. “Do you worst.”
“I plan to.”
The rest of the women titter appreciatively and flock around him, all too eager to help in Sleet's humiliation. Dread mingles with embarrassment, and Sleet feels himself sliding back to the past, when his mother had done this to him. He hadn't any choice in the matter then either.
“Blue, I think my dears,” Lady Crysan announces over the giggling, gossiping women. “The better to match his eyes.”
An hour later, he finds himself the focus of a gaggle of prostitutes and their madam, all staring appreciatively at their cumulative efforts.
For all that he is draped in layers of fabric, Sleet feels exposed. And not in a good way. And when they bring a mirror into play, Sleet's humiliation is complete.
Lady Crysan had decided that a style more reminiscent of the people of Yokoto and further north was appropriate. So Sleet has a long swath of silk wrapped around his frame, from his bare ankles up to the high collar on his neck. A second piece of equally silky fabric drapes over his elbows, hanging down in a thin curtain. His face has been painted to match, his eyes heavy with kohl, cheeks thick with rouge. His lips are a smear of crimson which actually... isn't quite that bad.
Dionne giggles. “He actually looks good,” she says. “Earn some good coin here.”
Lady Crysan nods, hands on her hips and satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “Of course he does. Tell me, Sleet, would you consider working as one of my girls?”
His eyes narrow. “Fuck you.” Laughter echoes all around.
a/n: And the latter two will be posted tomorrow. I promise. And then Tuesday starts NaNoWriMo. Huzzah! I've decided to write my lingering SuperBat fic and then after that, finish Shady Hill. That should get me to 50K.
