Flash Fiction Fills (Take 24)
Dec. 19th, 2011 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Good evening, my friends. I finally have all six flash fiction for ya. Be warned, they aren't edited, but otherwise, enjoy!
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Ukitake/Aizen, “Perfect Enemy,” by t.a.t.u
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: slash, lightly NSFW
For hockeyiris
Prompt: Shirosaki/Renji, “intrigue” or RoyEd, “home”
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: foul language, Shirosaki's libido, probably OOC
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Tatsuki/Soifon, “snowball fight”
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: light yuri, probably OOC
For miss_meip
Prompt: Erland being happy, “I See the Light,” Mandy Moore
Universe: Erland Duology, post Best Intentions. Warning: light het, possible spoilers, references to past angst
For animelover1993
Prompt: Bayverse, RatchetxTwins, “Blame It,” Glee
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse. Warning: implied mechporn, slash, overindulgence of alcohol-like stuff, cliffhanger
For ancientlybroken
Prompt: FMA, any pairing, “the fire is so delightful”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist. Warning: intended alcohol use, light OOC probably
a/n: Done at last! Some of these threatened to spawn long fics. Geez, when would I have time to write those? lol. Hope you enjoyed!
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Ukitake/Aizen, “Perfect Enemy,” by t.a.t.u
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: slash, lightly NSFW
“You could always join me.”
Jyuushirou makes an elegant noise in his throat. “You know that is not going to happen,” he says, and shifts as though to climb out of the bed, but the arms wound around his waist tighten. Trapped. Alright then.
He settles back down.
“The Shinigami are going to be defeated,” his lover says, or whispers more like, into his ear, tone dark and sinful and making Jyuushirou shiver. “Wouldn't you rather be on the winning side?”
“I'd rather be on the side that is right.”
Sousuke chuckles, nuzzling into the nape of Jyuushirou's throat, such a vulnerable place. “That, Jyuushirou, is all a matter of perspective.”
“Your tactics leave much to be desired.”
“And yet I haven't killed anyone.” Sousuke presses tighter against his back, all suffocating heat and twining reiatsu, as though braiding their spirits together means they won't have to separate. “Imagine that.”
Jyuushirou sighs. Sousuke's invitation is tempting, but only for a moment. He would never consider abandoning the Shinigami for Sousuke's war because he could never think about abandoning Shunsui, his brother-in-bond. Or the memory of Kaien either, whose death is partially Sousuke's fault, and a lingering source of agonizing guilt.
Bad enough that he consents to meet with Sousuke once or twice a week. Bad enough that he enjoys the stolen moments of intimacy. He can't make the betrayal complete by up and running to Hueco Mundo.
He knows that one day he will have to face Sousuke across the battlefield, and he will have to choose between destroying his lover or betraying the Shinigami and those he considers family. Jyuushirou feels he knows what he would do, but sometimes, it's hard to say with any certainty.
“I will not be convinced,” he murmurs but relaxes into Sousuke's hold. “Let it be enough that we have this.”
“As you say it, so it shall be,” Sousuke retorts, but Jyuushirou knows he hasn't given up.
He never does.
Jyuushirou makes an elegant noise in his throat. “You know that is not going to happen,” he says, and shifts as though to climb out of the bed, but the arms wound around his waist tighten. Trapped. Alright then.
He settles back down.
“The Shinigami are going to be defeated,” his lover says, or whispers more like, into his ear, tone dark and sinful and making Jyuushirou shiver. “Wouldn't you rather be on the winning side?”
“I'd rather be on the side that is right.”
Sousuke chuckles, nuzzling into the nape of Jyuushirou's throat, such a vulnerable place. “That, Jyuushirou, is all a matter of perspective.”
“Your tactics leave much to be desired.”
“And yet I haven't killed anyone.” Sousuke presses tighter against his back, all suffocating heat and twining reiatsu, as though braiding their spirits together means they won't have to separate. “Imagine that.”
Jyuushirou sighs. Sousuke's invitation is tempting, but only for a moment. He would never consider abandoning the Shinigami for Sousuke's war because he could never think about abandoning Shunsui, his brother-in-bond. Or the memory of Kaien either, whose death is partially Sousuke's fault, and a lingering source of agonizing guilt.
Bad enough that he consents to meet with Sousuke once or twice a week. Bad enough that he enjoys the stolen moments of intimacy. He can't make the betrayal complete by up and running to Hueco Mundo.
He knows that one day he will have to face Sousuke across the battlefield, and he will have to choose between destroying his lover or betraying the Shinigami and those he considers family. Jyuushirou feels he knows what he would do, but sometimes, it's hard to say with any certainty.
“I will not be convinced,” he murmurs but relaxes into Sousuke's hold. “Let it be enough that we have this.”
“As you say it, so it shall be,” Sousuke retorts, but Jyuushirou knows he hasn't given up.
He never does.
For hockeyiris
Prompt: Shirosaki/Renji, “intrigue” or RoyEd, “home”
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: foul language, Shirosaki's libido, probably OOC
“Lemme out!” If anyone asks, by the way, that is distinctly not a whine.
“No,” King says with that annoying firm tone he uses when he's not inclined to give his Hollow anything he wants.
Shirosaki huffs, stalking back and forth across the side of a building, glass crinkling beneath his feet. “But I wanna play!” he says, tongue sliding over his lips. If he closes his eyes, he can see out through King's. He can see the red-headed Shinigami as he and King spar, and not for the first time, Shirosaki is interested.
Poor King. He's blind as a bat. Can't see the interest the pineapple is giving him. But Shirosaki can, and he's more than willing to reciprocate. If only King would let him out.
King ignores him.
Shirosaki can feel their reiatsu surging around him, can feel the brushes of Abarai's reiatsu too. It makes him shiver, tingling from head to toe. Zabimaru sometimes shouts hello, though the baboon would rather talk to Zangetsu.
“He wants a challenge!” Shirosaki shouts to the sky, which is thankfully a bright blue today. Damn but King can be an angsty bitch sometimes. “Yer not givin' him one!”
Zangetsu and Zabimaru clash with a resounding clang that vibrates up King's arm and echoes in King's head space.
King growls out loud and Abarai laughs, that fanged smirk making Shirosaki's insides twist with heat. Damn but he wants to steal King's body, throw himself at the red-haired Shinigami and make him beg. Bet he turns nice and crimson.
“Yer distracted Ichigo,” Abarai says, or taunts rather.
King chuckles, but it's a darkly amused sound. “You'd be, too, if you knew how much Shirosaki wants to bend you over right now.”
Abarai's eyes widen in surprise and King takes that moment of distraction to his advantage. He drives Abarai backward and the duel shifts back into King's favor.
“That was a low blow, man. Mocking me like that!” Abarai curses.
King grins, a curve of his lips that's not unlike Shirosaki's own smirk. “Who said I was joking?”
Abarai nearly chokes on his next breath. Ah, sweet amusement.
“No,” King says with that annoying firm tone he uses when he's not inclined to give his Hollow anything he wants.
Shirosaki huffs, stalking back and forth across the side of a building, glass crinkling beneath his feet. “But I wanna play!” he says, tongue sliding over his lips. If he closes his eyes, he can see out through King's. He can see the red-headed Shinigami as he and King spar, and not for the first time, Shirosaki is interested.
Poor King. He's blind as a bat. Can't see the interest the pineapple is giving him. But Shirosaki can, and he's more than willing to reciprocate. If only King would let him out.
King ignores him.
Shirosaki can feel their reiatsu surging around him, can feel the brushes of Abarai's reiatsu too. It makes him shiver, tingling from head to toe. Zabimaru sometimes shouts hello, though the baboon would rather talk to Zangetsu.
“He wants a challenge!” Shirosaki shouts to the sky, which is thankfully a bright blue today. Damn but King can be an angsty bitch sometimes. “Yer not givin' him one!”
Zangetsu and Zabimaru clash with a resounding clang that vibrates up King's arm and echoes in King's head space.
King growls out loud and Abarai laughs, that fanged smirk making Shirosaki's insides twist with heat. Damn but he wants to steal King's body, throw himself at the red-haired Shinigami and make him beg. Bet he turns nice and crimson.
“Yer distracted Ichigo,” Abarai says, or taunts rather.
King chuckles, but it's a darkly amused sound. “You'd be, too, if you knew how much Shirosaki wants to bend you over right now.”
Abarai's eyes widen in surprise and King takes that moment of distraction to his advantage. He drives Abarai backward and the duel shifts back into King's favor.
“That was a low blow, man. Mocking me like that!” Abarai curses.
King grins, a curve of his lips that's not unlike Shirosaki's own smirk. “Who said I was joking?”
Abarai nearly chokes on his next breath. Ah, sweet amusement.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Tatsuki/Soifon, “snowball fight”
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: light yuri, probably OOC
“You four keep to the right!” Soifon barks out the command, hand whipping through the air as she directs her allies. “And you three, come up the center! You're bait.”
A mixture of groans and cheers arise from the gathered Shinigami, but, as Tatsuki notices, they all leap to obey their captain. After all, it's not everyday that Soifon-taichou consents to allowing them to have fun. And during work-time no less.
Then again, Tatsuki swears that Soifon is the only person she has ever met who thinks that a random and heavy snowfall in Seireitei is the perfect time to practice battle maneuvers and try out new battle tactics. With snowballs to serve as ammunition. Eh, she supposes Soifon's underlings will take what fun they can get.
“And what about me?” Tatsuki asks, unable to hide her amusement. She plants her hands on her hips. “What am I supposed to do?”
Soifon whirls toward her, chin tilted with triumph. “You and the rest will be our opponents.” One eyebrow arches upward. “Prepare to be slaughtered.”
“By snowballs?” Tatsuki doesn't bother to stop herself. She outright laughs. “My dear, you take things way too seriously. I swear I'm going to make you have fun.”
Soifon steps closer, lowering her voice, and managing to loom, though she's a couple inches shorter than Tatsuki. “This is what I call fun,” she says and then smirks, a smirk which makes Tatsuki wonder if perhaps she should run for her life. “I also intend to make things interesting.”
“How?” Tatsuki folds her arms over her chest. Behind her, the majority of her appointed team shift and mumble restlessly.
“A bet.”
“You don't approve of gambling.”
“Call it incentive then.” A few bare inches separate them now, the air crackling with something that makes Tatsuki's breath catch. “Whosoever has the winning team at the end, gets to request anything she wants from the loser.”
Tatsuki's own lips start to curl upward. “Anything?”
Brown eyes darken with promise. “Don't get too excited. I have decades of command experience over you.”
Tatsuki laughs mischievously. “But you don't want it as badly as I do. You're on.”
A mixture of groans and cheers arise from the gathered Shinigami, but, as Tatsuki notices, they all leap to obey their captain. After all, it's not everyday that Soifon-taichou consents to allowing them to have fun. And during work-time no less.
Then again, Tatsuki swears that Soifon is the only person she has ever met who thinks that a random and heavy snowfall in Seireitei is the perfect time to practice battle maneuvers and try out new battle tactics. With snowballs to serve as ammunition. Eh, she supposes Soifon's underlings will take what fun they can get.
“And what about me?” Tatsuki asks, unable to hide her amusement. She plants her hands on her hips. “What am I supposed to do?”
Soifon whirls toward her, chin tilted with triumph. “You and the rest will be our opponents.” One eyebrow arches upward. “Prepare to be slaughtered.”
“By snowballs?” Tatsuki doesn't bother to stop herself. She outright laughs. “My dear, you take things way too seriously. I swear I'm going to make you have fun.”
Soifon steps closer, lowering her voice, and managing to loom, though she's a couple inches shorter than Tatsuki. “This is what I call fun,” she says and then smirks, a smirk which makes Tatsuki wonder if perhaps she should run for her life. “I also intend to make things interesting.”
“How?” Tatsuki folds her arms over her chest. Behind her, the majority of her appointed team shift and mumble restlessly.
“A bet.”
“You don't approve of gambling.”
“Call it incentive then.” A few bare inches separate them now, the air crackling with something that makes Tatsuki's breath catch. “Whosoever has the winning team at the end, gets to request anything she wants from the loser.”
Tatsuki's own lips start to curl upward. “Anything?”
Brown eyes darken with promise. “Don't get too excited. I have decades of command experience over you.”
Tatsuki laughs mischievously. “But you don't want it as badly as I do. You're on.”
For miss_meip
Prompt: Erland being happy, “I See the Light,” Mandy Moore
Universe: Erland Duology, post Best Intentions. Warning: light het, possible spoilers, references to past angst
He wakes with the sun every morning, some internal time mechanism letting him know that it's time to rise since his eyes are no longer capable of telling him. Unsurprisingly, Valda has already risen. Her side of the bed is cold even.
Some days, Erland swears he will get up before her, perhaps even surprise her with breakfast. But today is not to be so.
He tumbles out of the bed, takes a moment to get his bearings, and dresses in darkness. It's all routine by now, so much so that he hardly notices his infirmity anymore. He feels like he can see the room as unusual as that may sound.
The three-room cottage is not the palatial caverns of Kayel, but it is home, and in many ways, Erland is much happier for it.
He pushes through the heavy cloth separating their bedchamber from the main room and his nose twitches at the scent of frying bacon, eggs, and the evidence of bread rising. Soon to be freshly baked sourdough if his nose is at all accurate.
“Good morning,” Valda says warmly, and Erland can track her location by the sound of her voice alone. “Sleep well?”
Meaning: was his rest without nightmares?
Erland pauses, considering. “Actually... I did,” he replies, to his own surprise. He doesn't think he had a single nightmare – reality revisited – at all.
It's been five years since he left Kayel and this is the first night without the past haunting his sleep. Maybe he really is healing. Maybe he really can leave all that behind. Maybe he's being forgiven.
“I thought so. You didn't toss or turn once.” He can't see Valda's smile, but he hears it in her voice. “Well, get in here and greet me properly.”
The corner of his mouth tilts upward. “Yes, dear.” He carefully makes his way to the corner of the main room reserved for their kitchen area, guided by memory alone.
Valda chuckles. “I still say cutesy endearments like that sound strange coming from you.”
Approaching her from the right, Erland leans down and can sense Valda leaning upward, putting their lips in perfect proximity for a quick morning's kiss, where Erland is ever careful of his sharp canines. His lover smells of yeast, her lips sweet to the touch.
“They feel strange,” Erland admits. “But I like to use them anyway.”
Some days, Erland swears he will get up before her, perhaps even surprise her with breakfast. But today is not to be so.
He tumbles out of the bed, takes a moment to get his bearings, and dresses in darkness. It's all routine by now, so much so that he hardly notices his infirmity anymore. He feels like he can see the room as unusual as that may sound.
The three-room cottage is not the palatial caverns of Kayel, but it is home, and in many ways, Erland is much happier for it.
He pushes through the heavy cloth separating their bedchamber from the main room and his nose twitches at the scent of frying bacon, eggs, and the evidence of bread rising. Soon to be freshly baked sourdough if his nose is at all accurate.
“Good morning,” Valda says warmly, and Erland can track her location by the sound of her voice alone. “Sleep well?”
Meaning: was his rest without nightmares?
Erland pauses, considering. “Actually... I did,” he replies, to his own surprise. He doesn't think he had a single nightmare – reality revisited – at all.
It's been five years since he left Kayel and this is the first night without the past haunting his sleep. Maybe he really is healing. Maybe he really can leave all that behind. Maybe he's being forgiven.
“I thought so. You didn't toss or turn once.” He can't see Valda's smile, but he hears it in her voice. “Well, get in here and greet me properly.”
The corner of his mouth tilts upward. “Yes, dear.” He carefully makes his way to the corner of the main room reserved for their kitchen area, guided by memory alone.
Valda chuckles. “I still say cutesy endearments like that sound strange coming from you.”
Approaching her from the right, Erland leans down and can sense Valda leaning upward, putting their lips in perfect proximity for a quick morning's kiss, where Erland is ever careful of his sharp canines. His lover smells of yeast, her lips sweet to the touch.
“They feel strange,” Erland admits. “But I like to use them anyway.”
For animelover1993
Prompt: Bayverse, RatchetxTwins, “Blame It,” Glee
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse. Warning: implied mechporn, slash, overindulgence of alcohol-like stuff, cliffhanger
Sunstreaker onlines slowly, systems more or less dragging into their boot sequences instead of leaping sharply into awareness. The last to come online are his optics, and that with great reluctance. His joints feel tight, his vents clogged, and his sensors too responsive for his comfort.
Frag but Que's special mix of Praxian High Grade and Earth's highest octane fuel packs a punch. He'd had half a dozen cubes of it. And Sides'd had more than him.
From their bond, Sunstreaker senses nothing but static. Either Sides has yet to online, or he's feeling substantially worse than Sunstreaker.
Sunstreaker doesn't want to move, but there's a blinking light in the corner of his HUD, reminding him that his shift starts in two breems. Which is just enough time to drag his aft to a washrack and try to wash out the aches with the gentlest grade of energon.
Something's lying on his right arm. Or shall he say, Sideswipe. With a grunt, Sunstreaker jerks his arm free, rolls over, and promptly rolls out of the berth with a resounding clatter.
Ow. That certainly hadn't helped his systems settle. His tanks roil.
“Huh? Whozawhat'sit?” Sideswipe's mumble floats up from the berth.
“Fraggit! Too early for noise,” someone else mutters, sounding grumpy.
Sunstreaker freezes on the floor. Two voices? Slag. This can't be good. He grabs the edge of the berth and drags himself up, bleary optics making out a horrid chartreuse paintjob just as Sideswipe mumbles “Who?”
Recognition floods Sunstreaker's sluggish processor and he leaps to his feet, instantly regretting the too-quick motion when his gyros reel out of equilibrium. “Ratchet!”
Sideswipe jerks upward, sitting up in an instant. “Where?” he demands, and then groans, clutching his helm. “It's too fraggin' bright in here.”
“Right here you halfwit,” Ratchet grumbles and with a laborious motion, drags himself upward, squinting around the room. “It's too early for this slag.”
Sunstreaker's gapes. “You!” he splutters, pointing at Ratchet with one finger. “You!”
“Me,” Ratchet agrees. “And for the record, I'm blaming this on Perceptor.”
“Did we...?” Sideswipe trails off, as though unwilling to finish. One hand clumsily gropes at his plating, as though he can tell from touch alone. Which is, frankly, impossible.
Ratchet hauls himself off the berth, looking more spry than either of the twins. “Let me know when your memory cores catch up. I'll be in my med bay,” he grumbles, and sweeps out of their room without so much as a by your leave.
“Did he just...?”
“Yeah, I think he did,” Sunstreaker replies. And then his HUD starts beeping incessantly. Barely a breem now. “Frag!” He rushes from the room, leaving Sideswipe to deal with the aftermath of... whatever that was. Sideswipe's cry of utter betrayal resonates across the bond.
Frag but Que's special mix of Praxian High Grade and Earth's highest octane fuel packs a punch. He'd had half a dozen cubes of it. And Sides'd had more than him.
From their bond, Sunstreaker senses nothing but static. Either Sides has yet to online, or he's feeling substantially worse than Sunstreaker.
Sunstreaker doesn't want to move, but there's a blinking light in the corner of his HUD, reminding him that his shift starts in two breems. Which is just enough time to drag his aft to a washrack and try to wash out the aches with the gentlest grade of energon.
Something's lying on his right arm. Or shall he say, Sideswipe. With a grunt, Sunstreaker jerks his arm free, rolls over, and promptly rolls out of the berth with a resounding clatter.
Ow. That certainly hadn't helped his systems settle. His tanks roil.
“Huh? Whozawhat'sit?” Sideswipe's mumble floats up from the berth.
“Fraggit! Too early for noise,” someone else mutters, sounding grumpy.
Sunstreaker freezes on the floor. Two voices? Slag. This can't be good. He grabs the edge of the berth and drags himself up, bleary optics making out a horrid chartreuse paintjob just as Sideswipe mumbles “Who?”
Recognition floods Sunstreaker's sluggish processor and he leaps to his feet, instantly regretting the too-quick motion when his gyros reel out of equilibrium. “Ratchet!”
Sideswipe jerks upward, sitting up in an instant. “Where?” he demands, and then groans, clutching his helm. “It's too fraggin' bright in here.”
“Right here you halfwit,” Ratchet grumbles and with a laborious motion, drags himself upward, squinting around the room. “It's too early for this slag.”
Sunstreaker's gapes. “You!” he splutters, pointing at Ratchet with one finger. “You!”
“Me,” Ratchet agrees. “And for the record, I'm blaming this on Perceptor.”
“Did we...?” Sideswipe trails off, as though unwilling to finish. One hand clumsily gropes at his plating, as though he can tell from touch alone. Which is, frankly, impossible.
Ratchet hauls himself off the berth, looking more spry than either of the twins. “Let me know when your memory cores catch up. I'll be in my med bay,” he grumbles, and sweeps out of their room without so much as a by your leave.
“Did he just...?”
“Yeah, I think he did,” Sunstreaker replies. And then his HUD starts beeping incessantly. Barely a breem now. “Frag!” He rushes from the room, leaving Sideswipe to deal with the aftermath of... whatever that was. Sideswipe's cry of utter betrayal resonates across the bond.
For ancientlybroken
Prompt: FMA, any pairing, “the fire is so delightful”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist. Warning: intended alcohol use, light OOC probably
The mid-winter office party is a staple for Roy's division. Many of the other units have done away with their festive celebrations to cut on costs, but Roy just can't do the same. Even if means he has to fund it himself. Sure, he's usually a tightwad until to spend his cash, but really, he's got a good crew here, and they could use a bit of spoiling.
Also, copious amounts of drink equals copious amounts of blackmail material later and that Roy can't bear to lose.
He manages to foist most of the food costs by making it a potluck. Maes can always be counted on to contribute some kind of fruit or vegetable or cookie plate and Gracia's famous cinnamon apple crumble never has so much as a crumb remaining by the end of the night. Especially when Edward notices it.
Fuery has a weird obsession with deviled eggs, but they are a party favorite so the more the merrier. Havoc brings gallons of his Special Egg Nog which knocks even the sternest of them clearly on their asses. Falman can be relied on for more filling fare, usually sandwiches or, one year, a tray of delicious mini pot pies. Riza, dear Riza, she makes the best sausage balls hands down, spicy and cheesy and perfect. Breda is the one surprise; every year it's something different. Last year, he'd brought brownies.
Music is a must, though Roy prefers to use recorded materials instead of a live band because who can really afford that? The decorations are plain, a few spritz of streamers here, a bright tablecloth there, and a few strings of brightly colored lights. Besides, no one really pays attention to them.
One of the tables is stacked high with unaddressed packages, all wrapped to various stages of perfection. Roy can easily pick out which one is Breda's; some of the box peeks out from places where he'd miss-measured the paper. Wine glasses again. At least, in this, Breda is predictable.
Sometime during the night, once they are all sufficiently soused, they'll play a game of sorts, a gift auction that will inspire much laughter, arguing, and more blackmail for later.
By the time the sun goes down, everyone gathers in the large break room, now bedecked in party spirit. But of course, the celebration can't start until Roy completes his yearly tradition.
Dressed in his finest, Roy struts down the aisle, chin tilted, ever so proud. He eyes his target – the rarely used hearth for heating – and with a snap of his white gloves, sets the carefully stacked logs within ablaze.
“Huzzah!” everyone shouts, the egg nog is poured, and the party begins. Roy already has his camera ready.
Also, copious amounts of drink equals copious amounts of blackmail material later and that Roy can't bear to lose.
He manages to foist most of the food costs by making it a potluck. Maes can always be counted on to contribute some kind of fruit or vegetable or cookie plate and Gracia's famous cinnamon apple crumble never has so much as a crumb remaining by the end of the night. Especially when Edward notices it.
Fuery has a weird obsession with deviled eggs, but they are a party favorite so the more the merrier. Havoc brings gallons of his Special Egg Nog which knocks even the sternest of them clearly on their asses. Falman can be relied on for more filling fare, usually sandwiches or, one year, a tray of delicious mini pot pies. Riza, dear Riza, she makes the best sausage balls hands down, spicy and cheesy and perfect. Breda is the one surprise; every year it's something different. Last year, he'd brought brownies.
Music is a must, though Roy prefers to use recorded materials instead of a live band because who can really afford that? The decorations are plain, a few spritz of streamers here, a bright tablecloth there, and a few strings of brightly colored lights. Besides, no one really pays attention to them.
One of the tables is stacked high with unaddressed packages, all wrapped to various stages of perfection. Roy can easily pick out which one is Breda's; some of the box peeks out from places where he'd miss-measured the paper. Wine glasses again. At least, in this, Breda is predictable.
Sometime during the night, once they are all sufficiently soused, they'll play a game of sorts, a gift auction that will inspire much laughter, arguing, and more blackmail for later.
By the time the sun goes down, everyone gathers in the large break room, now bedecked in party spirit. But of course, the celebration can't start until Roy completes his yearly tradition.
Dressed in his finest, Roy struts down the aisle, chin tilted, ever so proud. He eyes his target – the rarely used hearth for heating – and with a snap of his white gloves, sets the carefully stacked logs within ablaze.
“Huzzah!” everyone shouts, the egg nog is poured, and the party begins. Roy already has his camera ready.
a/n: Done at last! Some of these threatened to spawn long fics. Geez, when would I have time to write those? lol. Hope you enjoyed!
