petronia

Gaaaah okay I've written more but I'm just too damned hungry now.

(Holy heck there's a lot of requests. I won't impose a statute of limitations, methinks, but I tire quickly. So the further down the list you are the worse your chances. XD;;)

Tuna, sorry for skipping yours. Just that I'm still at ep.10 of 2nd Gig and I want to finish watching what I have before trying to write. T_T

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dipping_sauce: Rukia

The witch (had there been a witch) might have said: let it be, then. You will have a family, and they will give you a name. But the payment must be of equal value.

What is the thing of equal value?

The idea haunts her.

It was not always like this. The tears that dampened her friends' graves lightened her body of water and salt. She had ambition, one might say - as well ascribe force of will to a weed shooting up toward the sun. She knew what she could be. And Renji?

Unthinkable, then, that he could leave her behind. Unthinkable that she could do the same.

There is, indeed, a Rukia of the noble Kuchiki lineage. At sharp turns in the long corridors of that house her white limbs can be glimpsed in mirrors; her hair is black, her kimono as well. Her eyes are camouflaged in shadows, cast by the moon on a floor of polished dark wood.

***

worldserpent: 11th Division

This, Yumichika decided, was all Abarai Renji's fault.

The sky was unbroken cornflower blue, except for a wisp of cirrus in the upper righthand corner that looked like someone had torn a bit off a cotton ball and dropped it there. For lack of anything else to do he focussed on it. Two of his ribs were doing their level best to keep air from entering his lungs, and his jaw pounded dully. Was that molar loose?

"Good grief, you stupid nancy-pansy arse, are you done?" said a voice. Yumichika thought about moving his neck, and did so stiffly. The leafy top of a tree came into view, then the trunk, then Ikkaku leaning against the trunk. He looked rather the worse for wear, but he was on his feet, and Hoozukimaru dangled from his hand.

"It was an automatic promotion," he said. "Automatic. No fighting required."

"I just don't like four," said Yumichika.

"Why the hell not? It's one higher than five!"

"It's ugly. I mean it's all very well for you but—"

"What?"

"It's stiff as a board. Right angles sticking out everywhere and – ugh. Just ugh. Graceless. Whereas three—" He sketched a vague form in the air with one hand.

"I'm not hearing this," Ikkaku said.

"And it's an unlucky number. Shi. Homonym for death."

"What, like the shi in 'shinigami' you mean?"

"Are you trying to provoke me?" Yumichika said evenly. Ikkaku stared at him.

"Suck it up and deal," he said.

"I'll stay fifth."

"Switch seats with Tonosa? The Captain would wipe the floor with you on principle."

"Of course not. There just won't be a fourth seat, that's all."

"You're raving nutters," said Ikkaku. He pushed away from the tree trunk. "Can you stand? Make me call the medics for you and I'll kick your ass again."

Yumichika took the proferred hand, ignoring his ribs' screech of protest. "Rank isn't everything, you know. I hear they made Abarai eighth seat."

"Yeah, and I hear the Sixth Division are a bunch of stuck-up self-important snots." Ikkaku snorted through his nose. "Kuchiki Byakuya, he says. Him and what army?"

"At least he's pretty," Yumichika pointed out. Ikkaku made an exaggerated gagging noise.

***

gisho: Ban's mother

Once upon a time, she had been shown a photograph. The woman had been young, the paper yellowed with age. She had had a wide forehead, thin lips, dark hair marcelled in the style of the decade; she had not been a beauty. Once upon a time, she had thought the mother looked nothing like the son.

Once upon a time, she had loved him.

"You see the danger," the old woman said.

She crouched, shaking, at the centre of a clear circle. All around lay shards of broken glass. Some were strewn, some were buried point down in the floor, gashes in the wood a centimetre deep. The room stank of hot metal.

"To me or to that thing?"

"To you, as long as you are with him."

Finally it was clear. They knew – he had known this would happen. Perhaps something ran latent in her as well, recognizable to others of the breed. Perhaps circumstance prompted the choice, and any woman in her place at that time would have done. Bile rose in her throat.

Even in tales, in the old tales, the young girl received a messenger of fire: her consent was asked and freely given, in understanding of what her womb would bear. But what court was there that would render her justice, for blood and flesh taken unknowing and made inhuman?

For hatred she did not look at the child. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, hoarsely, "Take him, then. Take him and get out of my sight."

***