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nonislandWas talking about the Ye Olden Tumblr Days of “give me a number from this list and a character/ship and I'll write a one-sentence very small fic” with ![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
mondegreen and...could not actually find a helpful prompt list until I dug up an old table and offered it.
No AO3 crosspost yet, because I don’t enjoy filling out a tag list that’s longer than the fic itself; some of these will be expanded, and the rest I’ll probably do a few more microfics for the same character/ship and put them up as chaptered. This is broadly Choose Not To Warn, though I think everything is either canon-typical or milder than canon.
I’ve included the prompt table if there's something else you desperately want to see (doubles are fine, I in fact have a (non-zuka) double that is sitting in the research basket as I type this) :D
Jump to:
Law and order; the will of the King, and Lazare its instrument. The stable progress of society. A city where people do as they are told, instead of rioting in the streets.
Two figures stagger out of the Bastille. One stays, defiant, before the gates, amid the screams and shouts of the mob. Lazare recognizes the defiance even before he recognizes the man.
This, then, will be the end of this particular agitant. The order will be to shoot Ronan Mazurier down. Lazare has breath drawn and hand half-raised to give it—the will of the King, yet now he hesitates.
Versailles has always been a dream, floating and lovely, the kind of place an Olympe de Puget could never have expected to work.
Now it is still a dream, like the sets on a stage, like the Queen’s jewel-box of a farm. The walls sway like painted silk, and when Olympe lifts something it feels weightless as a papier-mâché copy.
But this is real, this is her life, not Ronan Mazurier with his seditious pamphlets and his iconoclastic dislikes, his weary eyes and his kiss like starlight. This is real, and Olympe wishes none of her wished it weren’t.
The roulette table can only entertain Antoinette so much. She loves the crowds, the laughter, the music, the dazzle of fashions surrounding her—but at the same time she feels entirely useless, the center of attention, invisible.
“My queen,” Axel calls her. A Swedish greve owes no allegiance to a French queen or an Austrian princess, but she is a queen and she is his.
It’s the only quiet she can bear, when he holds her, when there is nothing she needs to forget.
“I can’t break promises,” Pocky says, horrified. “That isn’t sexy beautiful crime, that’s… that’s…”
Sweetheart examines their nails, a motion that makes them look more elegant and more lethal than ever. “Do you know how many promises Baddy has broken to me?”
Pocky shakes his head.
“Hundreds. It’s what keeps things interesting.”
“Well, I don’t…” Inspector Goody would never break a promise, Pocky is sure of that. She won’t like it if he does, either.
Sweetheart insinuates an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll start with an easy one, then. Promise me you won’t kiss me.”
“I’m not afraid,” Misa insists.
But I am. Rem can almost feel her fingertips crumbling. With every step she takes, she wonders if her legs will hold her. And still, it would be worth it. She shouldn’t have let Misa convince her.
“It’ll be all right.” Misa’s beautiful voice is shredded and raw. “Come on, Rem, don’t—don’t leave me alone here.”
There are as many ways to die as stars, but none are pretty. All Rem can do is make it quick.
She shouldn’t have listened. She shouldn’t—she could have saved Misa, and—
Misa sits up, leaving body and blindfold behind together. She stretches out her arms and considers them with fathomless eyes, a smile slowly dawning on her face, and Rem stands rooted to the ground.
“Come on!” Misa grabs her by the wrist, and it sends a shock of radiance clear up Rem’s arm. “Now we can really help him out!”
Juan Tenorio is a nightmare, an incubus, a man haunted by Carlos doesn’t even know what. He scoffs at ethics, at philosophy, at basic decency.
His mouth should be bitter, like his smile is.
Instead it burns, sweet and stunning; Carlos tells himself Stop, and doesn’t, and tells himself You know better, and does.
After, Juan says, “You’ve got a meeting in the morning, right?”
He looks—not so much like a fallen angel as an angel dropped from a great height, splattered and hollow-eyed, and in spite of himself Carlos wants to stay.
It’s been years since Sisi gave up trying to understand people; none of them ever returned the favor—except one, she reminds herself. This one. He has learned her like herself, all these long, wretched years.
She holds out her hand, and der Tod lets her take his.
He has watched her hold knives and emptiness both. She has no scars from it, but he does: a glittering shadow that runs along the vena amoris. She has not made a habit of probing other people’s wounds, when she so hated to have her own surveyed. She traces that scar now; she wants to understand him, too.
“It will be easy,” der Tod had said, not tearing himself away from brooding over Elisabeth.
He had not lied.
For now, one of his angels is called Marie Vetsera; for now, she will be in love with love, and death, and Prince Rudolf. He is half-fervent and half-feral, with the Habsburg doom woven into him so deep that Marie can feel the beat of his heart when she so much as touches his gloved hand with hers.
Rudolf is hers already, and yet—she wants to keep him for herself.
Lunatic, they call him. Madman. Insane.
The madness wasn’t in killing the empress Elisabeth, Luigi thinks, watching sunlight crawl across the floor of his cell and wishing night would fall again. The madness is here, alone in this dead room with him.
To kill an empress is a monumental thing, to be marked with bloody fanfare. There was no blood and no fanfare; Luigi would doubt he’d done it at all if they would only let him out of here, or kill him, either one. Yet he had done it—a service to the lord of the Underworld, beautiful like a lightning strike is beautiful—he had done it.
If he was mad when they put him in here, it was from stealing those two glimpses of the Underworld with mortal eyes—its lord’s domain and its lady’s homecoming.
He is mad now: they have left him alive to punish him.
Ouessant is beautiful: sharp cliffs that claw the sky, reefs that turn the deadly water above them into the finest lace.
“It suits you,” Tyrian says.
He half-expects to feel the crack of Gilda’s palm across his face, but instead she lifts her chin proudly and says, “I know.”
“If I could go somewhere else…” Rudolf stares up at the ceiling—carved and painted like a wedding cake, the most beautiful prison imaginable. As a boy he’d wondered why his mother was always traveling. Now he wonders how she ever stops.
Marie curls closer to him, trusting. “Where would you go?”
“Anywhere. Would you come with me?”
“Anywhere,” she sighs.
He thinks of sunlit beaches: the deep indigo of the Mediterranean, the clear azure of the Caribbean. It’s impossible, there’s too much to be done, but he’d like to see her there.
His dreams are a welter of blood: the clean cut of the guillotine, the ugliness wrought on the poorest citizens in the street. The unsteady throb of his own pulse. It’s all blood, in the end; he is beginning to hate sleep.
“You’re not well,” Georges—Danton—says. Pours Maxime wine, as if he can be tempted; offers him food, as if he would indulge. Stretches out his arms, and Maxime could accept—he could let—a single hug, he could—one failure of will, no one is here—
He is here, and Danton who should be exiled is here, and Maxime would take, he would—
He reels away as if Danton had offered him a knife blade-first, and half expects still to see his own blood pooling amid the wreckage of the table.
Death walks the streets of Verona. Roméo has seen him, time and time again, in the things no Montague may do or Capulet may have. The Prince can demand peace but not command it, and there’s blood on livery and in the gutters, strangers’ blood, Mercutio’s blood, Tybalt’s.
Death walks the streets of Verona, and still Roméo is shocked to turn and see him: dark and lovely, smiling, hand outstretched. Salt and iron drowned even the scent of the flowers in Juliette’s bedchamber, but in Death’s arms Roméo smells only cool dust.
Juliette has always believed in love. The painters use amorini, little round babies that have no place in the scene, but she thinks love must be something quiet and everyday, another girl like she is herself with a gentle smile and a guiding hand. Love must belong, the way Juliette herself belongs; maybe a little awkward as she is at this gala, but it is still her home.
She sees a guest in a pink gown in one of the galleries and smiles in delight at the girl’s obvious pleasure in the festivity. She’ll just go and welcome her, then.
A star streaks through the heavens, and falls.
“Oh, God, I can’t bear it,” cries a girl whose voice Benvolio doesn’t know. A Capulet, then. “What now?”
It’s exactly what he was thinking, and so he turns to look. Her hair tumbles out of its pins and her red gown is crooked, and she hugs herself as if that’s all that’s keeping her from freezing.
“As if we need an omen of disaster,” he says, with an ease that startles him. Behind them, his dear friend and her lady lie dead, and yet he speaks.
The Capulet lady-in-waiting turns, startled. On her face is his sorrow.
Roméo had wanted peace, for all he’d planned to build it with love. Benvolio says, “And yet maybe that omen is late, and the disaster come already,” and watches the brittle line of her arms ease.
Chauvelin would have died for his dream: to bring about a free France where a man could do enough honest work to buy bread, and a citizen was more than a game piece for the king. Now instead he will die unwillingly for someone else’s. There will be no grief at his execution; after all the souls he’d helped to Madame Guillotine’s embrace he expects she will greet him like an old lover.
“Lizards, is your problem,” says a voice outside his cell.
The language is French, the accent lower-class Parisian. Still something about it sounds familiar enough that Chauvelin’s head snaps up.
“Big lizards,” the man who cannot possibly be Marguerite Blakeney’s husband—again—continues. “Have you ever walked through the sewers, end to end? Really gone wading in there, through all the—call it mud?”
The guard on watch stammers a denial.
“They’ve got things in there you’ve never seen,” says, Chauvelin is increasingly and horribly convinced, Sir Percy Blakeney. “Jewelry just lying around. Old statues, the kind of things you see in churches. Lizards longer than my arm.”
It is a horrendous lie, too impossible to be believed. What on earth can the man be playing at?
…It is a lie, isn’t it?
“So your chewed-up things are from the sewer lizards,” Blakeney says, “and I’ll need to check and see where they’re getting in.”
“There’s no such thing?”
Blakeney’s smug grin is audible. “I’ll show you my scar.”
Chauvelin tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. Whatever Blakeney is doing here, he should hurry up and get it done and leave them all in peace.
The door to his cell screeches open.
Everyone knows Lady Percy Blakeney hosts the best parties, even now that she is quite sickeningly and unfashionably in love with her husband. They are the place to be: a riot of jewels and perfume, a slice of revelry and fearlessness.
And there their host and hostess are, sneaking off from the dance—
In the garden, shaded from even the moonlight by the lush shadow of a rose arbor, Marguerite murmurs, “The French ambassador’s wife is nervous tonight.”
“Worth another look,” Percy says, and pulls her closer, for verisimilitude.
No AO3 crosspost yet, because I don’t enjoy filling out a tag list that’s longer than the fic itself; some of these will be expanded, and the rest I’ll probably do a few more microfics for the same character/ship and put them up as chaptered. This is broadly Choose Not To Warn, though I think everything is either canon-typical or milder than canon.
I’ve included the prompt table if there's something else you desperately want to see (doubles are fine, I in fact have a (non-zuka) double that is sitting in the research basket as I type this) :D
Jump to:
- 1789: les amants de la bastille [3]
- baddy: the bad lot comes from the moon [1]
- death note: the musical [1] (snuck in here by way of frank wildhorn appreciation chat)
- don juan [1]
- elisabeth: ai to shi no rondo [3]
- el halcón [1]
- mayerling (utakata no koi) [1]
- a passage through the light (hikari furu michi) [1]
- roméo to juliette [3]
- the scarlet pimpernel [2]
| 01. angels among us | 16. off the map |
| 02. beautiful disaster | 17. old oak |
| 03. blood and moon | 18. one thousand promises |
| 04. castles in the sky | 19. one wild night |
| 05. chained to mortality | 20. portals of discovery |
| 06. death becomes you | 21. the ravages of time |
| 07. the eye of the storm | 22. shooting star |
| 08. fall from grace | 23. spellbound |
| 09. i break | 24. still crossroads |
| 10. i wish upon tonight | 25. surrender to me |
| 11. illuminated darkness | 26. switching roles |
| 12. the in-between | 27. through the fire |
| 13. island of light | 28. under the roses |
| 14. leap of faith | 29. unguarded touch |
| 15. no one mourns the wicked | 30. virtue was not convenient |
1789: les amants de la bastille
[tsuki | 2015] i break + peyrol/ronan
Law and order; the will of the King, and Lazare its instrument. The stable progress of society. A city where people do as they are told, instead of rioting in the streets.
Two figures stagger out of the Bastille. One stays, defiant, before the gates, amid the screams and shouts of the mob. Lazare recognizes the defiance even before he recognizes the man.
This, then, will be the end of this particular agitant. The order will be to shoot Ronan Mazurier down. Lazare has breath drawn and hand half-raised to give it—the will of the King, yet now he hesitates.
[hoshi | 2023] i wish upon tonight + ronan/olympe
Versailles has always been a dream, floating and lovely, the kind of place an Olympe de Puget could never have expected to work.
Now it is still a dream, like the sets on a stage, like the Queen’s jewel-box of a farm. The walls sway like painted silk, and when Olympe lifts something it feels weightless as a papier-mâché copy.
But this is real, this is her life, not Ronan Mazurier with his seditious pamphlets and his iconoclastic dislikes, his weary eyes and his kiss like starlight. This is real, and Olympe wishes none of her wished it weren’t.
[tsuki | 2015] eye of the storm + axel/antoinette
The roulette table can only entertain Antoinette so much. She loves the crowds, the laughter, the music, the dazzle of fashions surrounding her—but at the same time she feels entirely useless, the center of attention, invisible.
“My queen,” Axel calls her. A Swedish greve owes no allegiance to a French queen or an Austrian princess, but she is a queen and she is his.
It’s the only quiet she can bear, when he holds her, when there is nothing she needs to forget.
baddy: the bad lot comes from the moon
one thousand promises + ot4
“I can’t break promises,” Pocky says, horrified. “That isn’t sexy beautiful crime, that’s… that’s…”
Sweetheart examines their nails, a motion that makes them look more elegant and more lethal than ever. “Do you know how many promises Baddy has broken to me?”
Pocky shakes his head.
“Hundreds. It’s what keeps things interesting.”
“Well, I don’t…” Inspector Goody would never break a promise, Pocky is sure of that. She won’t like it if he does, either.
Sweetheart insinuates an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll start with an easy one, then. Promise me you won’t kiss me.”
death note: the musical
leap of faith + misa/rem
“I’m not afraid,” Misa insists.
But I am. Rem can almost feel her fingertips crumbling. With every step she takes, she wonders if her legs will hold her. And still, it would be worth it. She shouldn’t have let Misa convince her.
“It’ll be all right.” Misa’s beautiful voice is shredded and raw. “Come on, Rem, don’t—don’t leave me alone here.”
There are as many ways to die as stars, but none are pretty. All Rem can do is make it quick.
She shouldn’t have listened. She shouldn’t—she could have saved Misa, and—
Misa sits up, leaving body and blindfold behind together. She stretches out her arms and considers them with fathomless eyes, a smile slowly dawning on her face, and Rem stands rooted to the ground.
“Come on!” Misa grabs her by the wrist, and it sends a shock of radiance clear up Rem’s arm. “Now we can really help him out!”
don juan
one wild night + juan/carlos + modern au
Juan Tenorio is a nightmare, an incubus, a man haunted by Carlos doesn’t even know what. He scoffs at ethics, at philosophy, at basic decency.
His mouth should be bitter, like his smile is.
Instead it burns, sweet and stunning; Carlos tells himself Stop, and doesn’t, and tells himself You know better, and does.
After, Juan says, “You’ve got a meeting in the morning, right?”
He looks—not so much like a fallen angel as an angel dropped from a great height, splattered and hollow-eyed, and in spite of himself Carlos wants to stay.
elisabeth: ai to shi no rondo
[yuki | 2007] switching roles + tod/sisi 2007 or 2016
It’s been years since Sisi gave up trying to understand people; none of them ever returned the favor—except one, she reminds herself. This one. He has learned her like herself, all these long, wretched years.
She holds out her hand, and der Tod lets her take his.
He has watched her hold knives and emptiness both. She has no scars from it, but he does: a glittering shadow that runs along the vena amoris. She has not made a habit of probing other people’s wounds, when she so hated to have her own surveyed. She traces that scar now; she wants to understand him, too.
[hana | 2014] off the map + rudolf/marie (ship prompted without canon so i went double off the map)
“It will be easy,” der Tod had said, not tearing himself away from brooding over Elisabeth.
He had not lied.
For now, one of his angels is called Marie Vetsera; for now, she will be in love with love, and death, and Prince Rudolf. He is half-fervent and half-feral, with the Habsburg doom woven into him so deep that Marie can feel the beat of his heart when she so much as touches his gloved hand with hers.
Rudolf is hers already, and yet—she wants to keep him for herself.
[tsuki | 2009] blood and moon + lucheni (dealer’s choice)
Lunatic, they call him. Madman. Insane.
The madness wasn’t in killing the empress Elisabeth, Luigi thinks, watching sunlight crawl across the floor of his cell and wishing night would fall again. The madness is here, alone in this dead room with him.
To kill an empress is a monumental thing, to be marked with bloody fanfare. There was no blood and no fanfare; Luigi would doubt he’d done it at all if they would only let him out of here, or kill him, either one. Yet he had done it—a service to the lord of the Underworld, beautiful like a lightning strike is beautiful—he had done it.
If he was mad when they put him in here, it was from stealing those two glimpses of the Underworld with mortal eyes—its lord’s domain and its lady’s homecoming.
He is mad now: they have left him alive to punish him.
el halcón
island of light + tyrian/gilda
Ouessant is beautiful: sharp cliffs that claw the sky, reefs that turn the deadly water above them into the finest lace.
“It suits you,” Tyrian says.
He half-expects to feel the crack of Gilda’s palm across his face, but instead she lifts her chin proudly and says, “I know.”
mayerling [sora | 2013]
off the map + rudolf/marie
“If I could go somewhere else…” Rudolf stares up at the ceiling—carved and painted like a wedding cake, the most beautiful prison imaginable. As a boy he’d wondered why his mother was always traveling. Now he wonders how she ever stops.
Marie curls closer to him, trusting. “Where would you go?”
“Anywhere. Would you come with me?”
“Anywhere,” she sighs.
He thinks of sunlit beaches: the deep indigo of the Mediterranean, the clear azure of the Caribbean. It’s impossible, there’s too much to be done, but he’d like to see her there.
a passage through the light
virtue was not convenient + maxime
His dreams are a welter of blood: the clean cut of the guillotine, the ugliness wrought on the poorest citizens in the street. The unsteady throb of his own pulse. It’s all blood, in the end; he is beginning to hate sleep.
“You’re not well,” Georges—Danton—says. Pours Maxime wine, as if he can be tempted; offers him food, as if he would indulge. Stretches out his arms, and Maxime could accept—he could let—a single hug, he could—one failure of will, no one is here—
He is here, and Danton who should be exiled is here, and Maxime would take, he would—
He reels away as if Danton had offered him a knife blade-first, and half expects still to see his own blood pooling amid the wreckage of the table.
roméo to juliette
[tsuki | 2012] death becomes you + death
Death walks the streets of Verona. Roméo has seen him, time and time again, in the things no Montague may do or Capulet may have. The Prince can demand peace but not command it, and there’s blood on livery and in the gutters, strangers’ blood, Mercutio’s blood, Tybalt’s.
Death walks the streets of Verona, and still Roméo is shocked to turn and see him: dark and lovely, smiling, hand outstretched. Salt and iron drowned even the scent of the flowers in Juliette’s bedchamber, but in Death’s arms Roméo smells only cool dust.
[hoshi | 2013] angels among us + love&/juliette
Juliette has always believed in love. The painters use amorini, little round babies that have no place in the scene, but she thinks love must be something quiet and everyday, another girl like she is herself with a gentle smile and a guiding hand. Love must belong, the way Juliette herself belongs; maybe a little awkward as she is at this gala, but it is still her home.
She sees a guest in a pink gown in one of the galleries and smiles in delight at the girl’s obvious pleasure in the festivity. She’ll just go and welcome her, then.
[hoshi | 2013] shooting star + benvolio/elena [beniairi dealer’s choice]
A star streaks through the heavens, and falls.
“Oh, God, I can’t bear it,” cries a girl whose voice Benvolio doesn’t know. A Capulet, then. “What now?”
It’s exactly what he was thinking, and so he turns to look. Her hair tumbles out of its pins and her red gown is crooked, and she hugs herself as if that’s all that’s keeping her from freezing.
“As if we need an omen of disaster,” he says, with an ease that startles him. Behind them, his dear friend and her lady lie dead, and yet he speaks.
The Capulet lady-in-waiting turns, startled. On her face is his sorrow.
Roméo had wanted peace, for all he’d planned to build it with love. Benvolio says, “And yet maybe that omen is late, and the disaster come already,” and watches the brittle line of her arms ease.
the scarlet pimpernel [hoshi | 2017]
no one mourns the wicked + chauvelin
Chauvelin would have died for his dream: to bring about a free France where a man could do enough honest work to buy bread, and a citizen was more than a game piece for the king. Now instead he will die unwillingly for someone else’s. There will be no grief at his execution; after all the souls he’d helped to Madame Guillotine’s embrace he expects she will greet him like an old lover.
“Lizards, is your problem,” says a voice outside his cell.
The language is French, the accent lower-class Parisian. Still something about it sounds familiar enough that Chauvelin’s head snaps up.
“Big lizards,” the man who cannot possibly be Marguerite Blakeney’s husband—again—continues. “Have you ever walked through the sewers, end to end? Really gone wading in there, through all the—call it mud?”
The guard on watch stammers a denial.
“They’ve got things in there you’ve never seen,” says, Chauvelin is increasingly and horribly convinced, Sir Percy Blakeney. “Jewelry just lying around. Old statues, the kind of things you see in churches. Lizards longer than my arm.”
It is a horrendous lie, too impossible to be believed. What on earth can the man be playing at?
…It is a lie, isn’t it?
“So your chewed-up things are from the sewer lizards,” Blakeney says, “and I’ll need to check and see where they’re getting in.”
“There’s no such thing?”
Blakeney’s smug grin is audible. “I’ll show you my scar.”
Chauvelin tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. Whatever Blakeney is doing here, he should hurry up and get it done and leave them all in peace.
The door to his cell screeches open.
under the roses + blakeneys
Everyone knows Lady Percy Blakeney hosts the best parties, even now that she is quite sickeningly and unfashionably in love with her husband. They are the place to be: a riot of jewels and perfume, a slice of revelry and fearlessness.
And there their host and hostess are, sneaking off from the dance—
In the garden, shaded from even the moonlight by the lush shadow of a rose arbor, Marguerite murmurs, “The French ambassador’s wife is nervous tonight.”
“Worth another look,” Percy says, and pulls her closer, for verisimilitude.
Tags:
- fic,
- fic: death note the musical,
- fic: takarazuka,
- fic: takarazuka: 1789,
- fic: takarazuka: baddy,
- fic: takarazuka: don juan,
- fic: takarazuka: el halcón,
- fic: takarazuka: elisabeth,
- fic: takarazuka: mayerling,
- fic: takarazuka: passage thru the light,
- fic: takarazuka: roméo to juliette,
- fic: takarazuka: the scarlet pimpernel
no subject
Date: 2023-10-12 11:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-10-28 10:47 pm (UTC)