Various fandoms: 8 flashfics
Fic cache clearing, part seven million. (I'm sick and in a housekeeping mood, don't mind me.)
These first two were written for the bad romance novel meme, too silly to re-post (also, the Patrick/Pete was written when I had absolutely no knowledge of the canon at all, so, um, be warned?):
Firefly: Stern Passion (Mal/Simon | T | 455w)
Fall Out Boy: Sweet Sixteen (Patrick/Pete | T | 281w)
And for the never write meme:
Brokeback Mountain: Untitled (Ennis/Lureen | T | 215w)
And then the rest of the mini_nanowrimo commentfic I hadn't re-posted. All written 2007-11-30.
Life: Banquet (Charlie | K | 82w | mirror | prompt: fruit)
It bursts on his tongue like a tiny explosion. Ah. Perfect. Fresh, tart, saccharine sweet, tangy citrus-he loved it all. What he sought was not a particular flavor or texture or consistency. More ephemeral than that, less tangible; there was a sensation, a humming satisfaction he found in every juicy and crisp bite, savoring vitality that he’d been denied and denied and denied that he could be denied no longer.
They tasted like freedom, like he was here and here and here.
Deep Space Nine: Regrets (Jadzia/Lenara | K | 87w | mirror | prompt: Lenara attending Jadzia’s funeral)
Lives they could have had flashed before her eyes: Jadzia’s laughter was something she never forgot, no matter how many years had passed, no matter how many times she'd tried to transpose the image of Torias’s smile over hers, Jadzia would not be dimmed. She would not be smoothed down by the passage of time.
What she realized now, far too late to do any good, was that it had been Jadzia all along, not Dax. And though Dax would live on, she had lost Jadzia forever.
Brimstone/Threshold: Wrong Guy (Lucifer/Zeke | T | 219w | mirror | prompt: Zeke gets mistaken for an alien)
“Don’t you think you should get me out of here?” Zeke held up his arms, which were firmly encased in a straight jacket.
“Asking for my help, detective? That isn’t like you.” Lucifer sauntered over, running a finger from Zeke’s shoulder to his bound wrists with a pleased smile. “I rather think I like this trend.”
“But I’m not an alien. They’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Well, what were they to think, you rising from the apparent dead as such?” He sat in Zeke’s lap, snaking an arm around Zeke’s neck. “Really. Sloppy work.”
“How was I supposed to know they were scoping out that building?” Zeke growled, trying to wriggle away. He didn’t even come close to succeeding; Lucifer’s fingers toyed with his hair, alternating stroking and yanking out single strands.
“You were supposed to be doing your job, detective.” The way he said the word, it had layers of fire and smoke underneath, an implicit threat. “Don’t expect me to clean up every little mess you make along the way. You’re a big boy, Ezekiel. Now prove it.”
Lucifer disappeared in a whiff of sulfur, and when the doctor with the syringe and blue gloves came in he sighed, he was already scheming about the next time he’d sink a bullet right between those evil little eyes.
House: Debate Etiquette (House/Wilson | T | 280w | mirror | prompt: cane)
He twirled it around, rocking his chair back, watching Wilson shake his head as he looked out the window.
“You wanna angle a bit over this way?” House said, jerking his chin in the general direction of Wilson’s lower body.
“Greg, this is serious. You can’t just pretend that-”
“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.” House propped the cane up on his shoulder, rolling his eyes skyward. “You know I’m not going to apologize, and for me to ‘learn from my mistakes,’” he did overly exaggerated air quote symbols around the phrase Wilson had used earlier in their argument, “you’d have to convince me I made one, first. And I hate to break it to you, being that you are the all-knowing king of pop psychology...”
He grabbed the cane in his hand, palm facing up, and let it slide so that the tip was suspended just above his crotch. “But you could learn a thing or two about how to win an argument.”
Wilson glared, stepping back from the window, hands on his hips. “This isn’t some game that I can win with sex, you emotionally arrested imbecile.”
House raised a pointed eyebrow, leaning back farther in his chair which showcased the growing erection in his pants in a more favorable light. “And just how do you expect me to concentrate? This isn’t just going to take care of itself.”
Wilson made one last valiant effort at scowling House into submission, but, well, it was House, so before long he was sighing and kneeling down, trying to ignore the smug grin on House’s face and snatching House’s cane away when he tried to shove it down the back of Wilson’s pants.
Batman Begins/Superman Returns: Spin Spin Sugar (Bruce/Clark | T | 691w | mirror | prompt: dancing)
(Edit: ahahaha! Perfect.)
If Clark had ever guessed, he wouldn’t have taken Bruce for the type. Brucie, certainly-it was a requirement of his position in his society, a necessary part of the caricature he put on when he went in public, but... Bruce? Bruce, the eternally dour, the man controlled down to the tiniest detail who never seemed anything but the way he chose to display himself? No, Clark wouldn’t have taken him for the type to enjoy dancing.
But one day, he’d floated down to the Cave, thinking that Bruce was just practicing his morning warm-up-he’d only paid attention to the sounds of physical exertion peripherally, because he was thinking about the specimen he was going down there to fetch-and found him spinning mid-air in what appeared to be an incredibly complex ballet maneuver.
He’d floated away just as quietly as he’d come, turning over this new knowledge very carefully in his mind.
*
A few weeks passed before he was brave enough to make use of it, time in which he chewed over the best way to proceed, second- and third-guessed himself out of ever doing anything. But curiosity about how it would pan out won over his insecurity, in the end, and he straightened the black fedora-like hat he’d fished out of the big trunk of costumes in the bedroom, poising his finger over the button on the stereo as he waited for Bruce to enter the living room.
As soon as Bruce stepped in, he pushed play and super-sped over to where Bruce was standing, taking Bruce’s right hand in his and slipping his left arm around Bruce’s waist as the swing music started up in the background.
“Take me for a swing, daddy-o?” He said, smiling in what he hoped was a winning fashion.
This was a gamble, he was aware-assuming that Bruce would have any desire to dance with him, that he was even familiar with this style. (But, knowing Bruce, if he were to take up any kind of dance, he would take them all up, and excel at every single one.)
And from the thinning line of Bruce’s lips and the immediate tightening of all his muscles, perhaps the gamble had been too large, the stakes too high. Maybe this was something he wasn’t ready to share with Clark, maybe he was being too forward, maybe Bruce didn’t even want Clark to know at all, much less make it something they could share.
“How did you know?” He asked, voice hard and flinty as granite, not softening his hand in Clark’s grasp.
“I... I saw you.” Clark looked down, now embarrassed by the suit he’d put on and the production he’d made of all this. “You were just so... I wanted to see... I thought maybe if I brushed up a bit on my swing, you wouldn’t mind humoring me.” He went to step back, all sorts of apologies crowding tripping over themselves in his mouth, ready to offer up.
“Wait.” Bruce’s fingers curled over and closed around the back of Clark’s hand. “When was the last time you danced?”
Clark scuffed his newly shined shoe on the carpet. “College.” He smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t very good, then, either.”
“Hm.” The harsh line of Bruce’s lips twitched just a bit upwards. “East or West Coast?”
“West. A little East, but I was always better with slots.”
“How’s your reverse whip?”
Clark tried to suppress his smile, but it didn’t work. “Sharp and turns on a dime.”
Bruce didn’t quite smile back, but he also didn’t growl, which was a start.
“Prove it,” he said, taking Clark’s left hand and putting them in the two-handed starting position.
*
It was weeks of endless pivots, turns, sugar tucks, reverse closes before Bruce was even remotely satisfied with his form, and if Clark didn’t practice on his own time when he was supposed to, well, it wasn’t for lack of having a good teacher. But he really enjoyed the hands-on portions of the lessons, and way Bruce tied him up with the suspenders afterwards was really just the cherry on the sundae.
These first two were written for the bad romance novel meme, too silly to re-post (also, the Patrick/Pete was written when I had absolutely no knowledge of the canon at all, so, um, be warned?):
Firefly: Stern Passion (Mal/Simon | T | 455w)
Fall Out Boy: Sweet Sixteen (Patrick/Pete | T | 281w)
And for the never write meme:
Brokeback Mountain: Untitled (Ennis/Lureen | T | 215w)
And then the rest of the mini_nanowrimo commentfic I hadn't re-posted. All written 2007-11-30.
Life: Banquet (Charlie | K | 82w | mirror | prompt: fruit)
It bursts on his tongue like a tiny explosion. Ah. Perfect. Fresh, tart, saccharine sweet, tangy citrus-he loved it all. What he sought was not a particular flavor or texture or consistency. More ephemeral than that, less tangible; there was a sensation, a humming satisfaction he found in every juicy and crisp bite, savoring vitality that he’d been denied and denied and denied that he could be denied no longer.
They tasted like freedom, like he was here and here and here.
Deep Space Nine: Regrets (Jadzia/Lenara | K | 87w | mirror | prompt: Lenara attending Jadzia’s funeral)
Lives they could have had flashed before her eyes: Jadzia’s laughter was something she never forgot, no matter how many years had passed, no matter how many times she'd tried to transpose the image of Torias’s smile over hers, Jadzia would not be dimmed. She would not be smoothed down by the passage of time.
What she realized now, far too late to do any good, was that it had been Jadzia all along, not Dax. And though Dax would live on, she had lost Jadzia forever.
Brimstone/Threshold: Wrong Guy (Lucifer/Zeke | T | 219w | mirror | prompt: Zeke gets mistaken for an alien)
“Don’t you think you should get me out of here?” Zeke held up his arms, which were firmly encased in a straight jacket.
“Asking for my help, detective? That isn’t like you.” Lucifer sauntered over, running a finger from Zeke’s shoulder to his bound wrists with a pleased smile. “I rather think I like this trend.”
“But I’m not an alien. They’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Well, what were they to think, you rising from the apparent dead as such?” He sat in Zeke’s lap, snaking an arm around Zeke’s neck. “Really. Sloppy work.”
“How was I supposed to know they were scoping out that building?” Zeke growled, trying to wriggle away. He didn’t even come close to succeeding; Lucifer’s fingers toyed with his hair, alternating stroking and yanking out single strands.
“You were supposed to be doing your job, detective.” The way he said the word, it had layers of fire and smoke underneath, an implicit threat. “Don’t expect me to clean up every little mess you make along the way. You’re a big boy, Ezekiel. Now prove it.”
Lucifer disappeared in a whiff of sulfur, and when the doctor with the syringe and blue gloves came in he sighed, he was already scheming about the next time he’d sink a bullet right between those evil little eyes.
House: Debate Etiquette (House/Wilson | T | 280w | mirror | prompt: cane)
He twirled it around, rocking his chair back, watching Wilson shake his head as he looked out the window.
“You wanna angle a bit over this way?” House said, jerking his chin in the general direction of Wilson’s lower body.
“Greg, this is serious. You can’t just pretend that-”
“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.” House propped the cane up on his shoulder, rolling his eyes skyward. “You know I’m not going to apologize, and for me to ‘learn from my mistakes,’” he did overly exaggerated air quote symbols around the phrase Wilson had used earlier in their argument, “you’d have to convince me I made one, first. And I hate to break it to you, being that you are the all-knowing king of pop psychology...”
He grabbed the cane in his hand, palm facing up, and let it slide so that the tip was suspended just above his crotch. “But you could learn a thing or two about how to win an argument.”
Wilson glared, stepping back from the window, hands on his hips. “This isn’t some game that I can win with sex, you emotionally arrested imbecile.”
House raised a pointed eyebrow, leaning back farther in his chair which showcased the growing erection in his pants in a more favorable light. “And just how do you expect me to concentrate? This isn’t just going to take care of itself.”
Wilson made one last valiant effort at scowling House into submission, but, well, it was House, so before long he was sighing and kneeling down, trying to ignore the smug grin on House’s face and snatching House’s cane away when he tried to shove it down the back of Wilson’s pants.
Batman Begins/Superman Returns: Spin Spin Sugar (Bruce/Clark | T | 691w | mirror | prompt: dancing)
(Edit: ahahaha! Perfect.)
If Clark had ever guessed, he wouldn’t have taken Bruce for the type. Brucie, certainly-it was a requirement of his position in his society, a necessary part of the caricature he put on when he went in public, but... Bruce? Bruce, the eternally dour, the man controlled down to the tiniest detail who never seemed anything but the way he chose to display himself? No, Clark wouldn’t have taken him for the type to enjoy dancing.
But one day, he’d floated down to the Cave, thinking that Bruce was just practicing his morning warm-up-he’d only paid attention to the sounds of physical exertion peripherally, because he was thinking about the specimen he was going down there to fetch-and found him spinning mid-air in what appeared to be an incredibly complex ballet maneuver.
He’d floated away just as quietly as he’d come, turning over this new knowledge very carefully in his mind.
*
A few weeks passed before he was brave enough to make use of it, time in which he chewed over the best way to proceed, second- and third-guessed himself out of ever doing anything. But curiosity about how it would pan out won over his insecurity, in the end, and he straightened the black fedora-like hat he’d fished out of the big trunk of costumes in the bedroom, poising his finger over the button on the stereo as he waited for Bruce to enter the living room.
As soon as Bruce stepped in, he pushed play and super-sped over to where Bruce was standing, taking Bruce’s right hand in his and slipping his left arm around Bruce’s waist as the swing music started up in the background.
“Take me for a swing, daddy-o?” He said, smiling in what he hoped was a winning fashion.
This was a gamble, he was aware-assuming that Bruce would have any desire to dance with him, that he was even familiar with this style. (But, knowing Bruce, if he were to take up any kind of dance, he would take them all up, and excel at every single one.)
And from the thinning line of Bruce’s lips and the immediate tightening of all his muscles, perhaps the gamble had been too large, the stakes too high. Maybe this was something he wasn’t ready to share with Clark, maybe he was being too forward, maybe Bruce didn’t even want Clark to know at all, much less make it something they could share.
“How did you know?” He asked, voice hard and flinty as granite, not softening his hand in Clark’s grasp.
“I... I saw you.” Clark looked down, now embarrassed by the suit he’d put on and the production he’d made of all this. “You were just so... I wanted to see... I thought maybe if I brushed up a bit on my swing, you wouldn’t mind humoring me.” He went to step back, all sorts of apologies crowding tripping over themselves in his mouth, ready to offer up.
“Wait.” Bruce’s fingers curled over and closed around the back of Clark’s hand. “When was the last time you danced?”
Clark scuffed his newly shined shoe on the carpet. “College.” He smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t very good, then, either.”
“Hm.” The harsh line of Bruce’s lips twitched just a bit upwards. “East or West Coast?”
“West. A little East, but I was always better with slots.”
“How’s your reverse whip?”
Clark tried to suppress his smile, but it didn’t work. “Sharp and turns on a dime.”
Bruce didn’t quite smile back, but he also didn’t growl, which was a start.
“Prove it,” he said, taking Clark’s left hand and putting them in the two-handed starting position.
*
It was weeks of endless pivots, turns, sugar tucks, reverse closes before Bruce was even remotely satisfied with his form, and if Clark didn’t practice on his own time when he was supposed to, well, it wasn’t for lack of having a good teacher. But he really enjoyed the hands-on portions of the lessons, and way Bruce tied him up with the suspenders afterwards was really just the cherry on the sundae.