Flash Fiction Fills (Take 30) Part One
a/n: See? I promised I hadn't forgotten the flash fics. Okay so today I only have two of them but a third one has grown life on it's own and I've started on a fourth. I am working on them. *grins*
Please enjoy these two. They are again longer than the average flash fics.
For dellessa
Prompt: WheeljackxRatchet, G1, science is tricky
Fandom: G1. No real warnings.
“Ratch.” A wealth of amusement-concern punctuates his designation.
“Not. One. Word.”
Wheeljack grins, flashing bright colors at him. “Don't worry. I promise not to tease you. Much.”
Ratchet groans, offlining his optics, and holding back on the series of scans his coding demands he run. “How bad is it?”
“Hmm.” He can barely detect the presence of fingers on his plating. “You managed to fuse your dermal layer a bit. Your right hand's scrap.” There's a noise of muffled chuckling. “And I bet your dignity's taken a beating, too.”
Ratchet unshutters his optics to pin his partner with a glare usually reserved for miscreant Lamborghinis. “This is all your fault.”
“Not this time,” Wheeljack all but sings.
The inventor is far, far too smug. Ratchet refuses to admit his own embarrassment. He also refuses to acknowledge the fact that they've drawn a crowd. Bots eager for a glimpse of more destruction.
“You're bad luck,” Ratchet grouses and makes a tentative stab at movement. Several gears shriek in protest.
Wheeljack pats him on an undamaged shoulder. “Science is tricky, isn't it?”
“All right, Jack, enough gloating,” First Aid says primly, finally arriving on scene after pushing his way through the crowd of amused Autobots. “Move so I can get to my patient.”
“I'm not gloating,” the scientist says as he moves to Ratchet's other side, making room for First Aid to kneel next to the prone medic.
“Yes, you are,” Ratchet retorts churlishly.
Grinning, Wheeljack's battle mask slots back as he leans over for a quick, reassuring kiss. “I don't hold it against you.”
“Y'know,” Jazz says from somewhere in the crowd hovering over Ratchet. “Y'hear about bots taking on the characteristics of their spouses, but this is a bit much, Ratch.”
Laughter ripples through the gathered mechs.
Wheeljack preens. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Jazz.”
More laughter.
“I will reformat you all soon as I'm fixed, see if I don't!” Ratchet roars, threatening. He'd shake a fist at them, but frankly, none of his limbs are wanting to respond properly. The explosion must have knocked out a few circuits.
Ironhide and Wheeljack both crouch to lift Ratchet off the floor, since his pedes are incapable of supporting himself.
“Empty threats, Ratch. Empty threats,” Ironhide says with a rumbly laugh.
“Don't worry,” First Aid adds, patting Ratchet on his shoulder. “I'll get you fixed up as soon as possible.”
Wheeljack makes a noise not unlike a smothered laugh.
“Not one word,” Ratchet warns his smug partner. “Not one more word.”
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Ichigo/Ulquiorra, long live the king
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: implied character death
It has taken everything out of him. He has nothing left. Zanpakutou shattered into bits, barely a scrap of reiatsu remains to keep him standing. He's exhausted. Bloody. Beaten.
Victorious.
But a shape steps out of the gloom of dust, shadow, and ash. Ichigo peers into the murk, the form of Ulquiorra coming into view. His expression is blank, empty of reaction.
His odd cyan eyes fall first on Aizen's defeated body. They then lift to Ichigo.
He tenses, fully expecting for Ulquiorra to draw his own blade, to avenge his master's defeat. Ichigo has nothing left to him but the tattered hilt of his zanpakutou. His knees are weak, his breathing labored. He won't survive this. But he'll go down fighting. He'll die knowing that the world and Soul Society are safe from Aizen.
If this is his fate, so be it.
Unexpectedly, however, Ulquiorra drops to one knee. He lowers his head in a formal bow, laying his zanpakutou across the blood-spattered sand.
“Long live the king,” he murmurs.
… Huh?
Ichigo stares. The world spins around him. And then the ground rushes up to meet him.
He wakes some indeterminable time later, staring up at a pale grey ceiling that is wholly unfamiliar. He feels just as drained as before, limbs too heavy to lift, and mind drifting from thought to thought too slowly to connect.
Ichigo turns his head and sees Ulquiorra sitting next to him. At his bedside. Like some kind of concerned lover. Ichigo wonders if he's still dreaming.
“I'm not dead,” he says.
Ulquiorra's expression remains perfectly bland. “No, you're not.”
Ichigo's fingers twitch. A miracle. “You didn't kill me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are King.”
Not the king. Or a king. Merely King. Not unlike what his Hollow likes to call him from time to time.
“Of what?” Ichigo asks and makes another aborted effort to move. Nothing responds. From Zangetsu there is still silence. “And how?”
Ulquiorra's mask cracks and he stares at Ichigo with a hint of disdain. “Don't insult me by pretending you don't know.”
“I'm still dreaming, aren't I?”
Exasperation flickers across the Arrancar's face. “My loyalty was to King, not Aizen. I won't harm you for however long you hold the title.”
Ichigo's still confused. Maybe it's because his thoughts are mush and his body still refuses to respond. “How long will that be?”
“Until death.”
“Oh.” He pauses, considering. Nope, still nonsense. “Are you sure I'm not dreaming.”
Ulquiorra rises to his feet, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Rest well, King,” he says, and leaves the room.
Ichigo tracks his exit, feeling the darkness creeping up on him all over again. This is weird. Weirder than weird. Aizen's dead, he's still alive, and Ulquiorra's not trying to kill him. And somehow, Ichigo is now King. Not the king or a king. But King. Capital letters and everything.
Well, Ichigo supposes he's adapted to worse. At least he's alive. He can solve the rest later.
a/n: Got ten more flash fics still to come. They'll trickle out over the course of the month. My muses have been revitalized and are ready to go. *grins*
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/174689.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Please enjoy these two. They are again longer than the average flash fics.
For dellessa
Prompt: WheeljackxRatchet, G1, science is tricky
Fandom: G1. No real warnings.
“Ratch.” A wealth of amusement-concern punctuates his designation.
“Not. One. Word.”
Wheeljack grins, flashing bright colors at him. “Don't worry. I promise not to tease you. Much.”
Ratchet groans, offlining his optics, and holding back on the series of scans his coding demands he run. “How bad is it?”
“Hmm.” He can barely detect the presence of fingers on his plating. “You managed to fuse your dermal layer a bit. Your right hand's scrap.” There's a noise of muffled chuckling. “And I bet your dignity's taken a beating, too.”
Ratchet unshutters his optics to pin his partner with a glare usually reserved for miscreant Lamborghinis. “This is all your fault.”
“Not this time,” Wheeljack all but sings.
The inventor is far, far too smug. Ratchet refuses to admit his own embarrassment. He also refuses to acknowledge the fact that they've drawn a crowd. Bots eager for a glimpse of more destruction.
“You're bad luck,” Ratchet grouses and makes a tentative stab at movement. Several gears shriek in protest.
Wheeljack pats him on an undamaged shoulder. “Science is tricky, isn't it?”
“All right, Jack, enough gloating,” First Aid says primly, finally arriving on scene after pushing his way through the crowd of amused Autobots. “Move so I can get to my patient.”
“I'm not gloating,” the scientist says as he moves to Ratchet's other side, making room for First Aid to kneel next to the prone medic.
“Yes, you are,” Ratchet retorts churlishly.
Grinning, Wheeljack's battle mask slots back as he leans over for a quick, reassuring kiss. “I don't hold it against you.”
“Y'know,” Jazz says from somewhere in the crowd hovering over Ratchet. “Y'hear about bots taking on the characteristics of their spouses, but this is a bit much, Ratch.”
Laughter ripples through the gathered mechs.
Wheeljack preens. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Jazz.”
More laughter.
“I will reformat you all soon as I'm fixed, see if I don't!” Ratchet roars, threatening. He'd shake a fist at them, but frankly, none of his limbs are wanting to respond properly. The explosion must have knocked out a few circuits.
Ironhide and Wheeljack both crouch to lift Ratchet off the floor, since his pedes are incapable of supporting himself.
“Empty threats, Ratch. Empty threats,” Ironhide says with a rumbly laugh.
“Don't worry,” First Aid adds, patting Ratchet on his shoulder. “I'll get you fixed up as soon as possible.”
Wheeljack makes a noise not unlike a smothered laugh.
“Not one word,” Ratchet warns his smug partner. “Not one more word.”
For azardarkstar
Prompt: Ichigo/Ulquiorra, long live the king
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: implied character death
It has taken everything out of him. He has nothing left. Zanpakutou shattered into bits, barely a scrap of reiatsu remains to keep him standing. He's exhausted. Bloody. Beaten.
Victorious.
But a shape steps out of the gloom of dust, shadow, and ash. Ichigo peers into the murk, the form of Ulquiorra coming into view. His expression is blank, empty of reaction.
His odd cyan eyes fall first on Aizen's defeated body. They then lift to Ichigo.
He tenses, fully expecting for Ulquiorra to draw his own blade, to avenge his master's defeat. Ichigo has nothing left to him but the tattered hilt of his zanpakutou. His knees are weak, his breathing labored. He won't survive this. But he'll go down fighting. He'll die knowing that the world and Soul Society are safe from Aizen.
If this is his fate, so be it.
Unexpectedly, however, Ulquiorra drops to one knee. He lowers his head in a formal bow, laying his zanpakutou across the blood-spattered sand.
“Long live the king,” he murmurs.
… Huh?
Ichigo stares. The world spins around him. And then the ground rushes up to meet him.
He wakes some indeterminable time later, staring up at a pale grey ceiling that is wholly unfamiliar. He feels just as drained as before, limbs too heavy to lift, and mind drifting from thought to thought too slowly to connect.
Ichigo turns his head and sees Ulquiorra sitting next to him. At his bedside. Like some kind of concerned lover. Ichigo wonders if he's still dreaming.
“I'm not dead,” he says.
Ulquiorra's expression remains perfectly bland. “No, you're not.”
Ichigo's fingers twitch. A miracle. “You didn't kill me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are King.”
Not the king. Or a king. Merely King. Not unlike what his Hollow likes to call him from time to time.
“Of what?” Ichigo asks and makes another aborted effort to move. Nothing responds. From Zangetsu there is still silence. “And how?”
Ulquiorra's mask cracks and he stares at Ichigo with a hint of disdain. “Don't insult me by pretending you don't know.”
“I'm still dreaming, aren't I?”
Exasperation flickers across the Arrancar's face. “My loyalty was to King, not Aizen. I won't harm you for however long you hold the title.”
Ichigo's still confused. Maybe it's because his thoughts are mush and his body still refuses to respond. “How long will that be?”
“Until death.”
“Oh.” He pauses, considering. Nope, still nonsense. “Are you sure I'm not dreaming.”
Ulquiorra rises to his feet, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Rest well, King,” he says, and leaves the room.
Ichigo tracks his exit, feeling the darkness creeping up on him all over again. This is weird. Weirder than weird. Aizen's dead, he's still alive, and Ulquiorra's not trying to kill him. And somehow, Ichigo is now King. Not the king or a king. But King. Capital letters and everything.
Well, Ichigo supposes he's adapted to worse. At least he's alive. He can solve the rest later.
a/n: Got ten more flash fics still to come. They'll trickle out over the course of the month. My muses have been revitalized and are ready to go. *grins*
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/174689.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.