communi_kate: (Default)
 ASOIF, Arya and Sansa, at the end of all things for [livejournal.com profile] silvr_dagger 

At The End of All Things

They stand atop the Wall and stare together at the end of the world.The Iron Throne is Sansa's now and she needs no other sword, though Arya beside her carries enough knives for two. Their wolves pace nervously along the ice-slick path that runs along the Wall as they watch the White Walkers come.

FF8,Seifer, now or never for [livejournal.com profile] adraekh

Now or Never

She said it's now or never, and it should have been never.
Seifer quenches his cigarette with a whisper of frost and thinks how nice it would have been to know that at the time.
Can't go back,” he says, and takes her hand.

FF10, Auron, journey's end for [livejournal.com profile] silvr_dagger

Journey's End

We will make a flute from your bones,” the Ronso promises as he leans over Auron's body.
Auron opens his mouth to tell the Ronso he doesn't care what happens to his bones as long the Ronso promises to do as Auron tells him, but there is a sharp pain in his chest and he is very, very tired.
He takes a deep breath and holds it as long as he can before he exhales with a sigh, and then he's gone.

The Borgias, Lucrezia/Cesare, bound in blood for [livejournal.com profile] caramelsilver

A Rose for the Borgias

The rose is egg- yolk yellow, as yellow as the leaves that float down the Tiber in autumn to rot. Lucrezia takes the flower by its stem without flinching and wonders whether to tell Cesare that yellow roses symbolize infidelity.
But then, she thinks, why else would he have given me a rose?

Twelfth Night, Viola, fluid, for [livejournal.com profile] lizzie_marie_23

Ukiyo

She has heard there is a land far from Illyria where they call the demi monde the floating world, where courtesans and acrobats mingle in the lantern light beside fast flowing rivers as they ply their water trade and boys and girls are never what they seem. Viola has always found the description peculiarly appropriate.
Women are like water, she thinks as she painstakingly glues the first of many boars' bristles onto her upper lip, they always change

Dragon Age:Origins: any origin + any other origin, you think you've had it tough? for [livejournal.com profile] classicslover

Two Fantasy Protagonists

We 'ad to catch a nug every morning for breakfast with a broken piece of string just to stay alive,” Warden Brosca said, frowning so the casteless brand on her cheek creased into a dark smudge, “and then for afters Ma'd let us lick the lichen from the rocks for dessert.”
Warden Mahariel raised one elegant Elvish eyebrow; “My mother was eaten by wolves,” she said, “and every morning my old aunt'd make us climb seven hundred feet straight up a kauri tree to scrape off a handful of moss from the topmost branches for our breakfast, and that was our only meal of the day, and the Dalish don't believe in dessert.”
All right, said Warden Brosca grudgingly around another mouthful of ale, “you win.”

Inception, Ariadne/Arthur, slow dancing around the living room at three am to Frank Sinatra, for anonymous.

You and Frank Sinatra

They finish the maze, finally, in the living room of Ariadne's new apartment in Barcelona, at quarter to three in the morning and there's not a soul awake in the building except Arthur and Ariadne and the husky voice of Frank Sinatra on the midnight radio. Ariadne yanked the carpet up hours ago to draw patterns on the floorboards, and Arthur traces the route through the maze with the toe of his chalk-scuffed wingtip, singing one more for my baby and one more for the road.
Somewhere along the line the tap of feet on floorboards becomes a jaunty dance, and when Ariadne protests sotto voce that he'll wake the neighbours he switches to a waltz and removes an imaginary hat with a flourish as he holds out a hand to her in the monochrome moonlight, a moment so strange and so beautiful that Ariadne thinks it belongs in a dream.

 

communi_kate: (Default)
 So I've been getting into [livejournal.com profile] comment_fic  on livejournal, because I have major time management problems at present  and fic snippets are working well for me (despite a writing devolution from novel-length fan fiction to novellas, to short stories, drabbles and three sentence fics...) Maybe soon I'll be writing fan haikus, but for now...on with the fic!

Title: Cherry Blossom  
Fandom: Bones
Theme: quotations
Prompt: any, any, quote:I want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees.

"I want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees," Booth murmured.

Brennan looked puzzled. "You want me to flower, attracting bees and other beneficial insects, allowing them to pollinate the flowers, encouraging the development of fruit?"

Booth sighed. "Sometimes it is possible to be too literal, you know."
 

Title: The Way
Fandom: Rise of the Guardians
Theme: weather
Prompt: Jack, walking barefoot in the snow.

Jack's feet never get cold, no matter how far he walks in the snow. He's walked as far north as Alaska, spinning snowflakes in the air and frosting patterns on the pipeline when it crosses the tundra. It's always winter where he goes, and although his powers flake out somewhere south of Georgia in the east, he can follow the spine of the Rockies all the way down to New Mexico in January. His frosts add flavour to maple syrup festivals in spring and trace scary silhouettes upon windows on All Hallows Eve. 

He never gets hungry, and he never gets old.

And no matter how far he walks, he never makes it home.
 

Title: The Ultimate Rush
Fandom: 
Premium Rush
Theme: transportation
Prompt: any, any, it's not the end of the journey that matters, it's how you get there.

Wilee looks back over his shoulder at the silver Mazda chasing him, and sees something switch off in the driver's eyes.  It's the moment when the payoff if the driver succeeds becomes greater than the risk that he will seriously injure or maybe even kill Wilee in his attempt to steal the letter, and both of them know it.

He's had people nearly kill him before, but none of them have been actually trying. The fear does not surprise him. The exhilaration does. It's the ultimate in adrenaline rushes.

He thinks of Vanessa, only a little as his mind is already on his route, and then even that thought is lost in the sheer joy of speed.

Maybe the driver will catch him. Maybe he won't. If Wilee were a gambling man (and more importantly, f he actually had any money) he would be betting on the latter. It's not the outcome that matters. It's how you get there, and how fast.

Wilee grins as his calf muscles begin to burn and wonders if he is, ever so slightly, as insane as they say.


Title: Loot
Fandom:
Assassin's Creed 3
Theme: 500 words
Prompt: any, any, making the best of a bad situation.

The dead soldier's blood stained his scarlet coat wine-red. His eyes and mouth were open. Sergeant Tom Wilkinson of the Continental Army looked away and shuddered as a fly landed upon one glazed eyeball. The sounds of the battle faded behind them, leaving the flies and the corpses behind like jetsam upon the conflict's shore.

"Turn him over," he said.

Taylor shoved the Englishman's body with the toe of his boot.  The redcoat slumped onto his face. Wilkinson crushed the fly neatly between his fingers.

"You get his boots," he told Taylor. "I'll check for jewellery."

He knelt to take the dead man's hand, smiling as he noticed a gold wedding ring. The sinews of the corpse's fingers gave way easily beneath his knife.

"Get away from the body," someone snapped.

Wilkinson glanced up, still sawing. A quartet of British soldiers levelled their rifles at his head. He stopped.

"Now then," he said carefully, "-we don't want trouble." He looked over at Taylor. "Drop the bloody boots, lad." 

"Scavengers!" one of the soldiers said contemptuously.

"No need for that," Wilkinson said easily. "We're only trying to get by." He held up his hands and glanced hopelessly at his rifle, which he had propped some distance away against a rock in order to leave both hands free. "You going to shoot us, or what?"

"Nope," The lead soldier sucked his teeth. "We'll take you prisoner."

Wilkinson had heard tales of the English prison hulks. He tensed, preparing to rush them, and saw an arrow sprout from the redcoat's throat. The soldier choked, hand reaching up to his white cravat, and then he dropped to his knees, collapsed, twitched and was still.

The second soldier raised his gun. Wilkinson swallowed.

And then an Indian materialised from a clump of beech trees and stabbed the soldier in the back. The third redcoat jabbed at the Indian with his bayonet, but the native swayed away from the blow and buried his axe in the soldier's ribs with a sound like a lumberjack felling a tree. He dragged the weapon out and chopped it into the last soldier's skull, dispatching the man as neatly as a steer. It all took less time than a man would take to load a musket.

The Indian looked up. "The main command?"

Wilkinson pointed. "That way," he said.

"My thanks," said the Indian. He stepped into the bushes, then turned back. "You should not dishonour yourself looting corpses. One day it may be your body that is rifled."

"What do I care?" said Wilkinson. "I'll be dead."

The Indian stared at him, that grim hatchet face unreadable. "Never mind," he said at last, and set off into the bush.

"I didn't realize natives were involved," Taylor said.

Wilkinson picked up his knife. "Some are. I've heard that fellow has a grudge against the British. For whatever reason, I'm glad he's on our side."

Taylor looked doubtful.

"Cheer up," said Wilkinson. "Things could be worse. He could be on theirs."


Title: Drowning
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Theme: 500 words
Prompt: Altair +/ anyone, hydrophobia.

"I'm not afraid of water," said Altaïr.

Malik rolled his eyes. "Of course not."

The short expanse of water stretched in front of them, sunlight rippling from its surface. Five or six low pilings studded the surface.

"If you're afraid of water, we can take another road."

Altaïr's mouth was a flat angry line under his hood. "I'm not afraid."

Malik gestured at the water, "Then go first."

Altaïr glared at him. His usual grace escaped him as he stepped to the edge of the jetty and peered warily at the first paling. "It's slippery. There are better ways."

Altaïr gazed at the water, shaking his head, and Malik shoved him. He didn't mean to push so hard, but the planks were slippery. Altaïr's boots slid out from under him and he toppled into the water. He didn't struggle or splash. He just sank. 

Malik waited a few moments. When Altaïr did not reappear he cursed and began to strip off his weapons. He pulled off his boots, robe and sash before he dived into the water.

The harbour was blood-warm, and murky. It was deep enough to drown in. The pilings stretched down past Malik like tall trees to bury their roots in harbour mud.

There was no sign of Altaïr.

Malik cursed and dived deeper. He saw a pale blur to his right and swam towards it. Altaïr's robes billowed around him. Malik saw a gleam of steel and realised the idiot had kept all of his weapons. He did not waste time trying to cut them free. He grabbed hold of Altaïr's wrist and tried to pull him to the surface.

It didn't quite work like that. Altaïr's knee caught Malik in the stomach, and his breath escaped in a cloud of silver bubbles. He pushed Altaïr away. Altaïr grabbed for his hands. Malik snatched his arms back and backpedalled, treading water as he seriously considered letting Altaïr sink.

He reached for Altaïr's hood, hoping to tow him to the surface but the waterlogged cloth slid through his fingers before they had travelled more than an arms' breadth. Altaïr's struggles grew weaker. In desperation, Malik slipped behind Altaïr and grabbed him by the throat. He'd either save Altaïr or strangle him. At that moment, he didn't care which.

 To his surprise, it worked well. Altaïr couldn't reach Malik, and Malik had one arm free to swim. The shining surface of the water came closer and closer. Malik's arms burned.

He struggled to keep Altaïr's head above water until he finally managed to get one arm onto the jetty.

They coughed their guts up together in the baking sun before Malik said. "I didn't know."

"You did. You almost drowned me."

"So did you." Malik retorted. "You should have taken off your sword."

"I'd rather die."

"You almost did." Malik snapped. "Why didn't you say you couldn't swim?"

"You asked if I was afraid of water," Altaïr coughed. "I said no."

Malik sighed. "You're an idiot," he said.

 


communi_kate: (Default)
Waiting to post a couple of longer fics; this leads to ficbits!.

The Assassin's Guild (AC/Pratchett crossover)

I don't know why there isn't more Pratchett/AC fic, but there should be. Set during Jingo.

In a mountain fortress far from Al-Khali, two men bent over a map, and argued.

Each was noteworthy in his own way. Altair ibn La'Ahad, Grand Master of the Klatchian Assassin's guild; a man so talented that he wore robes white as snow yet had more kills to his name than any other Assassin in living history, frowned as he surveyed the map. Malik Al-Sayf, the man whose job was to stop Altaïr from doing something so unbelievably stupid again without thinking about it first, shook his head.

"If we are to stop this," he said, pointing to the map with his single hand, "we must be fast and merciless. Let me take ten men to Gebra to kill this Sir Samuel Vimes, and we'll finish this war before it starts-"

The Grand Master shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"There's no point."

"There are many points," snarled Malik, "and they are all pointing straight at the heart of this empire! Why not?"

"Because I have seen what will be in the orb," Altaïr said, "and that is not what happens."

"Not what happens? Then how will this end? Next thing you will be telling me that the island will sink beneath the sea!"

"Well," said Altair, "Stranger things have happened."

"No," Malik said. "They haven't."

 

So Take Your Fast Car (and keep on driving) (Fast and the Furious Six)

Because I like cars. And sure, Diesel's getting a little old to pull off the skin tight t-shirt look but FF6 is just...fun. Insert obligatory joke about eleven-speed gearboxes and never-ending runways here.

Domenic Toretto is just a guy who likes to drive fast cars.

So when he stands alone in the hold of an old Russian cargo plane that can't take off because it's got three muscle cars anchored to its fuselage and watches the tarmac race by through the open hatch that just swallowed the English super-villain's flailing body, he wonders how he got into this situation again.

 The plane, he realises, appears to be on fire.

But his Charger is on the ramp, hood pointed firmly towards the plane's nose cone.

The keys are in the ignition.

And Dom Toretto has always liked fast cars.

 

Provenance (AC)

So I was playing AC3, and got pissed off by Haytham's 'Men like you have no need for books' comment in the opening chapters. Books are for everyone.

"Men like you have no need for books," says the sayyid, and holds out his hand.

Malik curses his bad luck. The sayyid would never have noticed him if Malik hadn't stumbled and dropped the book directly under his nose. Now the book's fine leather cover is stained and Malik is in a situation he would far rather have avoided.

The sayyid won't catch Malik if he decides to run, but he will have to leave the book behind to have any chance at climbing. He could unseam the man with a stroke, but he will need his arm free.

"Let's have it," the sayyid says sharply.

Malik realises that his hesitation is ruining his cover. A true shopkeeper would hand over the text; trading a small loss now for the hope of greater profit later.

But Malik is not a shopkeeper, no matter how much he pretends.

"Plague," he says.

The sayyid takes a step back, his hand still extended. "Pardon?"

"The book. It carries plague. From a plague house. You know that the disease can be passed upon skins?"

The sayyid gazes at the book's fine tooled leather binding, snorts and turns away, flicking the memory of Malik off like dust from his shoe. Malik smiles, tucks the book beneath his arm, and walks on.

He has always been good at hiding in plain sight.

 

Discoveries (AC3)

Ziio, why?

"I expected more," he says.

Ziio wishes that Haytham had found whatever it was that he sought in the cave. She tells him the story of Iottsitison to console him, and then she slips her small hand into his larger one and wonders how their bodies will fit together.

Haytham gazes at her with an expression that looks like love but isn't, in the same way that the paintings on the cave wall look like people but do not breathe or move or speak. There is darkness within Haytham, but Ziio has a darkness all of her own, and she knows herself a match for him.

They make a new bargain, and do together what men and women do. 

communi_kate: (Default)
 for [personal profile] vialethe , Game of Thrones, Tyrion, I know no matter what you say/there's some debts you'll never pay

Debts

"The Lannisters made you, and we can-I can- unmake you just as easily," snarls Lord Tywin.

"The Lannisters merely gave me the clay," says Tyrion. "I made myself."


for [personal profile] tiny_white_hats , Firefly, Wash/Zoe, when we're older

When I am old I will do all those things    

"When we get old," she says sleepily, "we'll look up at the stars and tell our children how we went there, and we'll say the spaceships were better in our days."


"Sure," he says, running a finger through her dark hair, "we'll tell the kids."


"We'll do all those things," she says, "we'll do all those things when we're older."

communi_kate: (Default)
More three sentence stories

Any, Any, manic Mondays, fo[livejournal.com profile] with_rainfall ,

Interview
 
"You rescued a krogan team from tunnels no human being has ever entered, saved the life of a rachni queen, and salvaged Reaper tech that may help us win this war. What sort of mission was this?"

Shepard grins, "Round here, we call it 'Monday.'"
 

 For [personal profile] hostilecrayon 's prompt Assassin's Creed, Desmond Miles, wanderlust.

Travelling Without Moving


Desmond has travelled many places in his mind, although his body has left America only once. He's probably the only person alive who remembers the stinging scent of Damascus steel as it quenches in a puff of steam, the rosy sheen of the Mona Lisa's freshly painted cheeks, and the exact lyrics of rowdy colonial marching songs.  

 

He stares at the lid of the latest Animus and wishes that he didn't always end up in the same place.
 

And a reply to my prompt, 'AC, Malik, mapmakers don't travel', by [personal profile] degrees 

"The quill scratches over the blank paper, copying thick and thin lines gleaned from his collection of maps, highlighting valleys and peaks of lands both distant and near. With a steady hand, he fills in the details a traveler would need to find his way, the black of the ink glistening in the lamplight. He has piles and piles of maps made the same way, maps of places that he'll never go except in his mind, of places that for him exist only in black and white."

Many thanks!

 

communi_kate: (Default)
 Mass Effect, Garrus + Ashley, distrust, prompt courtesy of [personal profile] wallwalker  

Ricochet.

Ashley Williams didn't trust aliens; and she never let Garrus get behind her.

Garrus's first bullet ricocheted from the shield of the geth in front of them, flew down the corridor over the turian's head and dropped the husk shambling up behind Williams in its tracks.

"Relax, Williams," he called, "If I wanted to shoot you, I would have done it by now."

Mass Effect, anyone, what happens now, from [personal profile] hot_tramp 

Crashlanding.

"What happens now?" asks EDI.

The Normandy is a scarred hulk in a shroud of smouldering tropical vegetation, and the universe is not as they once knew.   

"Whatever we want," Joker says, and takes her hand.

Game of Thrones, Jon Snow, I never knew my parents/I wonder which one has my eyes, from [personal profile] vialethe 

Promise (four lines, but I just couldn't get it any shorter)

Jon remembers the day Ned Stark left him on the cold fells with one last parting promise, "Next time we meet, lad, I'll tell you about your mother."

Now Ned Stark rots in King's Landing, and his bones have forgotten the promise they once made.

But Jon Snow's eyes are dark as tarns, and the Starks' eyes are pale like their wolves, so he searches everywhere he goes for a woman with the same dark eyes as him.

He never finds her.

***


This is fun! It's a bit like limbering up. for a run Bloody short punchy sentences, though. And there's a few good unclaimed prompts for a handful of fandoms-A Hundred Thousands Kingdoms, Sabriel, & co- I'd I really like to fill but can't, as it's too long since I read the books themseves to do them justice, and I still don't have my library.

BTW, I've suggested another prompt, 'Assassin's Creed, Malik, mapmakers don't travel'. Hopeful, since there's a load of AC prompts (all answered, worse luck) and if nobody answers it then I will bloody well have to write it myself. 

communi_kate: (Default)
Title: Deus Vult
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Spoilers: None
Rating: R, for violence.
Summary: Written for the prompt: counter kill

Deus Vult... )

Title:An Improbable Paramour.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Spoilers: For AC: Revelations
Rating: PG.
Summary: Written for the prompt: Ezio/Sofia, eavesdropping. Fluffy rather than sexy.

An Improbabale Paramour... )

Title:A Cunning Plan.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Spoilers: None.
Rating: PG-13, for drug use.
Summary: Why didn't the Templars just ban hay?

A Cunning Plan... )

Title: Eagle's Nest
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Spoilers: Mild for Revelations, environments only.
Rating: PG
Summary: Written for the prompt:' Ezio in Masyaf.'

Eagle's Nest... )

Title: Right Hand Man.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Spoilers: My Crusades canon; jossed all to hell and back.
Rating: PG
Summary: Written for the kinkmeme prompt 'Altair asks Malik to be his right hand man.'

Right Hand Man... )

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