Flash Fiction (Take Seven - Part Final)
Feb. 14th, 2011 04:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Today I bring you the last three pieces of flash fiction! Huzzah! And one of them is even a bold step into a fandom where I forgot a lot of the details. Oooops. It's been forever since I read xxx-Holic (my copies of the manga are in storage and then OneManga shut down. Oh woe!). Anyway, I had fun so enjoy!
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theablackthorn
Prompt: Watanuki/Doumeki, “The Fallen Butterfly”
Watanuki, Doumeki and Yuko are characters from the anime/manga xxx-Holic by Clamp. Warnings here for spoilers, some slashy kisses, and slight OOC. Let's say NSFW to be safe.
Forfiregirl0
Prompt: Superman/Batman, “I thought that was mine.”
Superman/Clark Kent and Batman/Bruce Wayne are owned by their respective creators. I'm going to call this Justice League-verse just to keep things simple. Warnings for mentions of slashy behavior and some groping. Beware the likely OOC.
For: xcrimsontear89x
Prompt: Frost/Sleet
Frost and Sleet are two of the main characters from my slashy fantasy War of the Animum and it's respective verse. Warnings here for slashy porn, dirty thoughts, and language. Definitely NSFW.
a/n: And that's the last of the flash fiction folks. This Friday brings a return of FreeFicFriday and the Friday after that, perhaps I will have free time for another flash fic. Only RL will tell. *grins* I hope you enjoyed!
For
theablackthorn Prompt: Watanuki/Doumeki, “The Fallen Butterfly”
Watanuki, Doumeki and Yuko are characters from the anime/manga xxx-Holic by Clamp. Warnings here for spoilers, some slashy kisses, and slight OOC. Let's say NSFW to be safe.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Doumeki is often reminded of this the more time he spends with Watanuki, from the before to the after. He's different now, a little quieter, a little softer, a little more contained. But at heart, he's still the same Watanuki. Blustering and loud and pretending he hates cooking and company, but enjoying every minute of it.
He's different with Doumeki, too, but still the same. He relents a little more often now, gives in with less of a fight, but the fight remains. He sometimes yells or flails, but not as often as before and only when it's just the two of them. He mutters about slobbery kisses and lecherous hands and “big, dumb oafs that have no regard for romance or anything really” but in the end he lets Doumeki kiss him anyway. Different and yet the same.
Doumeki buries his face in Watanuki's bared throat and breathes, taking in the scents of tea and smoke and cooking. He mouths at pale skin, tasting sweet and salty all at once. Watanuki's warm and far too thin, but he's Watanuki so that makes it all better.
Doumeki's hands roam, dragging down Watanuki's sides, tickling over bare skin, tracking the reach of thin, long limbs. Watanuki squirms, uncomfortable under so much determined focus, but for once, he doesn't complain.
Sometimes, in moments like this, he relents just a little and that makes it worth everything in the world.
Doumeki can only see him here, can only be with him in this house, in this room that still feels like it's former owner. He is Watanuki's link to the outside world, and there's something heady in that, something that makes him feel valued and cherished.
His hand slides aside layers of expensive silk, a perfect match to Watanuki's pale skin. This Watanuki who is so different and yet the same. He tastes the same, feels the same, but there is a brokenness inside that Doumeki wishes he could fix and keep. He doesn't know what he wants, except to say that he wants Watanuki. He has the feeling Yuko would have smiled saying that it makes perfect sense.
Yuko, however, is the source of this change, and so Doumeki wisely steers away from thoughts of her. For now.
He instead focuses on Watanuki, the subtle changes in his breathing, the way his body squirms and moves fluidly. The taste of his skin and the look in his eyes, one his own, one Doumeki's. Another burst of possessive pride rises in him at that as well. His in so many ways.
Doumeki kisses him, slowly and thoroughly, and hopes one day that it will be enough. Unlikely perhaps, but he's also had a soft heart for lost causes. Watanuki is no exception.
He's different with Doumeki, too, but still the same. He relents a little more often now, gives in with less of a fight, but the fight remains. He sometimes yells or flails, but not as often as before and only when it's just the two of them. He mutters about slobbery kisses and lecherous hands and “big, dumb oafs that have no regard for romance or anything really” but in the end he lets Doumeki kiss him anyway. Different and yet the same.
Doumeki buries his face in Watanuki's bared throat and breathes, taking in the scents of tea and smoke and cooking. He mouths at pale skin, tasting sweet and salty all at once. Watanuki's warm and far too thin, but he's Watanuki so that makes it all better.
Doumeki's hands roam, dragging down Watanuki's sides, tickling over bare skin, tracking the reach of thin, long limbs. Watanuki squirms, uncomfortable under so much determined focus, but for once, he doesn't complain.
Sometimes, in moments like this, he relents just a little and that makes it worth everything in the world.
Doumeki can only see him here, can only be with him in this house, in this room that still feels like it's former owner. He is Watanuki's link to the outside world, and there's something heady in that, something that makes him feel valued and cherished.
His hand slides aside layers of expensive silk, a perfect match to Watanuki's pale skin. This Watanuki who is so different and yet the same. He tastes the same, feels the same, but there is a brokenness inside that Doumeki wishes he could fix and keep. He doesn't know what he wants, except to say that he wants Watanuki. He has the feeling Yuko would have smiled saying that it makes perfect sense.
Yuko, however, is the source of this change, and so Doumeki wisely steers away from thoughts of her. For now.
He instead focuses on Watanuki, the subtle changes in his breathing, the way his body squirms and moves fluidly. The taste of his skin and the look in his eyes, one his own, one Doumeki's. Another burst of possessive pride rises in him at that as well. His in so many ways.
Doumeki kisses him, slowly and thoroughly, and hopes one day that it will be enough. Unlikely perhaps, but he's also had a soft heart for lost causes. Watanuki is no exception.
For
firegirl0 Prompt: Superman/Batman, “I thought that was mine.”
Superman/Clark Kent and Batman/Bruce Wayne are owned by their respective creators. I'm going to call this Justice League-verse just to keep things simple. Warnings for mentions of slashy behavior and some groping. Beware the likely OOC.
The Boy Scout is too big, too hot standing right next to him and Clark damn well knows it. Bruce clenches his teeth, and forces himself to pay attention. There's a reason they were summoned out of bed at four in the morning, and it isn't so Clark can breathe down his neck, smugness radiating from his pores.
He leans even closer, knowing good and well that Bruce is putting distance between them on purpose. “You're wearing my underwear,” he comments in a low voice that considering the other occupants in the room, everyone heard except maybe Wally, but then, Wally has an ear for rumor.
Bruce bites back a sigh and grits out, “I thought they were mine,” he tells the big blue idiot under his breath.
That's the downfall of wearing nearly the same size as your lover in damn near everything. Superman might have an inch or two on him when it comes to shoulder width, but other than that, they might as well have been two peas in a pod. And at four in the morning, with a mad dash to find all the pieces of their respective uniforms and put them on as quickly as possible, on occasion there are... mix ups.
Bruce doesn't have Clark's lovely night vision but that one time with the capes is still no excuse. They looked ridiculous and Clark had been too amused to be of any help. Idiot.
So yes, this morning, the call from the Justice League had gone out, and Clark with his super hearing was the first to notice it as always. They'd had to untangle themselves from the bed and each other, and bemoan the mad removal of uniforms they'd undergone the night before as Kevlar mixed with reinforced red and four boots had managed to scatter to the four cardinal directions.
Clark's breath washes warm over his ear, even warmer than how close he is standing, practically pressed against Bruce from behind. He can feel him even through the Kevlar. “It's like you're wearing me,” Clark says, and he sounds far too gleeful, far too possessive, far too much like Clark when he should be Superman right now. And his hand, which he probably thinks is disguised from everyone else but they know Superman by now, drags down Bruce's back. Of course he feels it through the cape and the Kevlar, of course he does, and if he weren't so damn composed, Bruce would shiver.
Instead, he jams an elbow back and it strikes against Superman's steel-hard abdomen, not doing a lick of damage but serving as a warning nonetheless. Superman grunts, still sounds amused, and chuckles under his breath.
Diana, for that matter, doesn't look amused at all, fixing the both of them with such a stern expression that Bruce feels like a child being chastised by his grandmother. And of course Clark doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. Of course.
He leans even closer, knowing good and well that Bruce is putting distance between them on purpose. “You're wearing my underwear,” he comments in a low voice that considering the other occupants in the room, everyone heard except maybe Wally, but then, Wally has an ear for rumor.
Bruce bites back a sigh and grits out, “I thought they were mine,” he tells the big blue idiot under his breath.
That's the downfall of wearing nearly the same size as your lover in damn near everything. Superman might have an inch or two on him when it comes to shoulder width, but other than that, they might as well have been two peas in a pod. And at four in the morning, with a mad dash to find all the pieces of their respective uniforms and put them on as quickly as possible, on occasion there are... mix ups.
Bruce doesn't have Clark's lovely night vision but that one time with the capes is still no excuse. They looked ridiculous and Clark had been too amused to be of any help. Idiot.
So yes, this morning, the call from the Justice League had gone out, and Clark with his super hearing was the first to notice it as always. They'd had to untangle themselves from the bed and each other, and bemoan the mad removal of uniforms they'd undergone the night before as Kevlar mixed with reinforced red and four boots had managed to scatter to the four cardinal directions.
Clark's breath washes warm over his ear, even warmer than how close he is standing, practically pressed against Bruce from behind. He can feel him even through the Kevlar. “It's like you're wearing me,” Clark says, and he sounds far too gleeful, far too possessive, far too much like Clark when he should be Superman right now. And his hand, which he probably thinks is disguised from everyone else but they know Superman by now, drags down Bruce's back. Of course he feels it through the cape and the Kevlar, of course he does, and if he weren't so damn composed, Bruce would shiver.
Instead, he jams an elbow back and it strikes against Superman's steel-hard abdomen, not doing a lick of damage but serving as a warning nonetheless. Superman grunts, still sounds amused, and chuckles under his breath.
Diana, for that matter, doesn't look amused at all, fixing the both of them with such a stern expression that Bruce feels like a child being chastised by his grandmother. And of course Clark doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. Of course.
xcrimsontear89x Prompt: Frost/Sleet
Frost and Sleet are two of the main characters from my slashy fantasy War of the Animum and it's respective verse. Warnings here for slashy porn, dirty thoughts, and language. Definitely NSFW.
They don't often wake up in bed together. Frost is usually one to make sure of that, but he feels like being indulgent so instead of slipping away during the night, he allows himself to linger in heat, surrounded by the musk of sex and Sleet's own unique scent. An intriguing mix of citrus and cloves that never fails to make Frost salivate.
It's early enough that Frost can still escape with Sleet none the wiser, but he has no desires to do so. Not when Sleet is lying here, nude and marked up, so unaware of the danger he's in.
Frost slowly tugs down the blanket he'd tossed over them the night before after making the conscious decision to remain. Inch by inch, Sleet's skin – paler than Frost's but still kissed by the sun – is revealed, a canvas of scars and bite marks and bruises and hickeys.
Sleet doesn't stir, not even at the onset of cooler air. He'd really worn out his toy, hadn't he? His cock stirs at the memories of last night, of turning Sleet's ass a cherry red while the younger thief all but sobbed for it. Unable to do anything more than arch and whine and beg. Utterly delicious.
Sleet is lying on his stomach, one leg curled up, one arm serving as a pillow as the other stretches out underneath the pillow Frost had acquired. It's almost cute, but more than that, it makes Frost hungry. His palm lands on Sleet's bare ass, warm to the touch. His fingers dip into the cleft, teasing over Sleet's puckered entrance.
The smaller thief shifts slightly, breathing in, but doesn't wake. Frost licks his lips, and continues to tease, sliding one finger into Sleet. He's still a little loose from last night, still slick and warm. Another finger joins the first and he can hear Sleet's breathing increase as Frost strokes him from the inside, his cock quickly filling with blood.
This, right here, is the reason why Frost is allowing himself to indulge. There's nothing quite like starting the day with a great morning fuck. He fingers Sleet for several longer minutes, until Sleet's body seems to be moving of its own accord, rocking into the thrusts of Frost's fingers. His skin is starting to flush. He'll wake at any moment.
Frost retrieves the lube, slicks himself up, and moves quickly, rolling until he blankets Sleet's body with his own and slides into the twitching entrance in one smooth thrust. There's a gasp, an arch, and then Sleet is fully awake, visible hand clutching at the mattress. He's warm and soft beneath Frost, malleable and delicious.
“Ah, Frost,” Sleet moans, and the need in his voice is rich and thick.
Frost strokes a hand down Sleet's spine as he arches like a cat. “Morning,” he says, and thrusts again, a particularly hard shove that rocks Sleet's body up the bed. The answering gasp is really all the answer Frost needs.
It's early enough that Frost can still escape with Sleet none the wiser, but he has no desires to do so. Not when Sleet is lying here, nude and marked up, so unaware of the danger he's in.
Frost slowly tugs down the blanket he'd tossed over them the night before after making the conscious decision to remain. Inch by inch, Sleet's skin – paler than Frost's but still kissed by the sun – is revealed, a canvas of scars and bite marks and bruises and hickeys.
Sleet doesn't stir, not even at the onset of cooler air. He'd really worn out his toy, hadn't he? His cock stirs at the memories of last night, of turning Sleet's ass a cherry red while the younger thief all but sobbed for it. Unable to do anything more than arch and whine and beg. Utterly delicious.
Sleet is lying on his stomach, one leg curled up, one arm serving as a pillow as the other stretches out underneath the pillow Frost had acquired. It's almost cute, but more than that, it makes Frost hungry. His palm lands on Sleet's bare ass, warm to the touch. His fingers dip into the cleft, teasing over Sleet's puckered entrance.
The smaller thief shifts slightly, breathing in, but doesn't wake. Frost licks his lips, and continues to tease, sliding one finger into Sleet. He's still a little loose from last night, still slick and warm. Another finger joins the first and he can hear Sleet's breathing increase as Frost strokes him from the inside, his cock quickly filling with blood.
This, right here, is the reason why Frost is allowing himself to indulge. There's nothing quite like starting the day with a great morning fuck. He fingers Sleet for several longer minutes, until Sleet's body seems to be moving of its own accord, rocking into the thrusts of Frost's fingers. His skin is starting to flush. He'll wake at any moment.
Frost retrieves the lube, slicks himself up, and moves quickly, rolling until he blankets Sleet's body with his own and slides into the twitching entrance in one smooth thrust. There's a gasp, an arch, and then Sleet is fully awake, visible hand clutching at the mattress. He's warm and soft beneath Frost, malleable and delicious.
“Ah, Frost,” Sleet moans, and the need in his voice is rich and thick.
Frost strokes a hand down Sleet's spine as he arches like a cat. “Morning,” he says, and thrusts again, a particularly hard shove that rocks Sleet's body up the bed. The answering gasp is really all the answer Frost needs.
a/n: And that's the last of the flash fiction folks. This Friday brings a return of FreeFicFriday and the Friday after that, perhaps I will have free time for another flash fic. Only RL will tell. *grins* I hope you enjoyed!
