Word Prompts (G7): Gift

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On Tuesday, Aaron meets the love of his life.

By Friday, they have gotten into four fights–the last one escalating into physical blows and ending with two months of detention each.

Just enough time for Aaron to ask Jericho to prom.

—

“Have you found her?” Benny asks, hands gripped together tightly with concern, skin along his knuckles gone pale and taut.

Hopper doesn’t answer, but his silence is enough.

Benny sighs and looks out the window of his hospital room; snow falls softly in the woods.

—

You’re tossed into the wall, body smacking painfully against the brick and dislodging a shower of red dust.

Your energy shield managed to cushion the blow, though it’s still hard enough that you black out for a brief moment; you’ll have the worst bruises come tomorrow.

The creature roars, windows reverberating dangerously with the sound–if you see tomorrow, that is.

~

A/N: Properly moved in today (fucking finally) so had to put together this quick little set of three sentence fic.

The second one is a Stranger Things AU in which Benny Hammond doesn’t die which I may come back to because I have a lot of Eleven-as-Benny’s-adopted-kid feels.

Prompt: Shikadai and/or Shikako’s child/children. Gaara/Shikako, Shilamaru/Temari – learn your family’s relationships in history class, or the most awkward history lesson

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Hi anon, thanks for the prompt. Awkward kidfic sounds like it’ll be fun! 🙂

Though I think I’m going to have to do something like “Five Cousins Shikadai Might Have Had” kind of thing instead of just one strictly Shikaara kidfic…

It’ll probably have some Kareru from You and Me and Baby (Makes Fifteen), the as of yet unnamed but brainstormed Shikasuke kid, and… well. I dunno yet, we’ll see?

Stars Also Dream, 5/? (2016-09-01)

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interlude I

—

Of the clans, the Nara aren’t the first to notice Yoshino. Actually, it could be argued that they’re the last to notice her. And then, of course, she ends up married to the clan head so…

But that’s a different story for a different time.

So no, of the clans, the first to notice Yoshino isn’t the Nara clan, but their allies the Yamanaka.

After all, when a clanless teenaged rookie kunoichi appears with the ability to sense truth from lies with absolute certainty, there’s no way T&I would ignore such a prospective recruit. It definitely doesn’t hurt that her best friend and most frequent mission partner has notes in his Academy file for high aptitude in information gathering and interpersonal communication.

Inoichi isn’t Head of T&I yet, but his aunt is. It’s from her that he learns to keep an eye on people with potential and Yoshino Kinokawa’s name as one such person.

(It’s from Shikaku, a few years later, that he learns Yoshino Kinokawa has a temper, a penchant for earth jutsu, and, apparently, beautiful brown eyes. Objectively, of course, Inoichi why are you laughing?)

—

It’s during Yoshino’s first mission outside Fire Country that she properly meets Hizashi Hyuuga. And promptly slaps him in the face.

He laughs and even lets the strike connect, because that’s the kind of person Hizashi is.

It’s true that most civilians and even non-clan shinobi don’t really understand how the Byakugan works. They understand it’s powerful, can see nearly all angles at once, and can look through things.

The more foolish mutter snide things about voyeurs. The less foolish still talk about invasions of privacy.

Yoshino is neither, but she certainly doesn’t appreciate Hizashi taking one look are her via the Byakugan and calling her chakra coils feeble.

Feeble!

She knows an insult when she hears one.

“You know that’s the Hyuuga Clan Head’s son, right?” Ibiki asks dryly, no move whatsoever to stop her.

“I don’t care if he’s the Sage of Six Path’s son,” she retorts, using one of the epithets she picked up from the members of the Genin Corps. She continues threateningly, “Talk shit, get hit.”

Hizashi laughs, absolutely delighted.

(The mission goes FUBAR within the hour, but all three of them manage to survive it. Next time Yoshino and Ibiki snag a three person B-rank, they invite Hizashi to be their third. He doesn’t even hesitate to accept.)

—

The Uzumaki, technically, aren’t a clan anymore. Or if they are, they’re a pale shade of themselves; only a handful of members far from their destroyed home. It’s not something to actively mourn anymore, but Kushina still carries it with her in the line of her shoulders and the curves of her fingers in a fist.

Yoshino tries not to show how much that resonates with her, but in two decades her daughter will be confronted with a bluer version of those observant eyes, and Force or not Yoshino doesn’t stand a chance.

And, anyway, it’s kind of nice to have a female friend who isn’t a series of immaculately crafted lies.

Not that Yoshino tells her the truth–Force, no, she can’t tell anyone that–but it’s as if Kushina has seen enough of a kindred spirit in Yoshino to decide that, yes, they are going to be friends now. Whether she likes it or not.

Luckily, Yoshino does like Kushina–enough to withstand frequent exposure to the malevolent Force signature sealed inside of her; which means quite a lot, actually.

(An October several years later, she experiences an unfiltered version of that signature–angry and caustic and heartbreaking because Yoshino knows she has another person to mourn)

~

A/N: Went to my local NaNo writing meet-up at the Dublin Panera which was very nice; trying to psyche myself up for NaNoWriMo without also psyching myself out like two years ago. 😛

A Little Danger (A Lot Stranger), 1/? (2016-08-31)

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In hindsight, Stiles could understand how his actions might be interpreted a certain way.

But when has hindsight ever helped him?

—

“I think he’s a werewolf,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed and following the, admittedly, hot-like-burning possibly-a-werewolf browsing through the shelves of Beacon Hills’ comic book store unimaginatively named Comics and Stuff.

Erica snorts and rolls her eyes, giving minute tweaks to the expensive figurines in the glass case even though there’s nothing wrong with the way Stiles set them up. She just likes to exert dominance over him by redoing his work. It’s disgustingly successful, the boss is considering giving her a promotion (but no raise because haha, as if. Comic book stores don’t make money anymore since people can just buy things online instead).

“You could just ask him out like a normal person–oh wait,” she pauses, “you aren’t a normal person.”

Stiles scowls. “Yellow makes you look jaundiced,” he snipes then–because he does have some self-preservation–darts away frantically.

Right into the solid wall of probably-a-werewolf’s muscular chest.

Stiles kind of bounces off him like the least aerodynamic rubber ball in existence and only gets saved from collapsing to the ground in an ungainly heap of limbs because definitely-a-werewolf manages to snag his wrist and tether him upright.

“Holy inferiority complex, Batman!” Stiles yelps, because why make only one reference when he can do two simultaneously?

Hot Werewolf tilts his head in a way that shouldn’t be cute considering his whole molten-sexuality-vibe going on, confused but curious–which is one of the more positive reactions Stiles has gotten in the face of his… everything.

In response, Stiles just stares like a gormless idiot. Hot Werewolf has really nice eyes.

Erica coughs, swooping in to save him, “Do you need help with anything?” She asks checking out Hot Werewolf blatantly.

Never mind, she’s obviously swooping in to do something other than save Stiles from himself.

Hot Werewolf turns toward her, “Just need to pay for this,” he says, holding up a Superman t-shirt in his left hand. His right hand is still wrapped around Stiles’ wrist.

Shit, he can probably feel how fast his pulse is going.

“Sure thing,” Erica says, leaning forward with a smirk in a combination that Stiles has actually seen her practice before, and then, bizarrely, she steps away? “I have to go shelve the Catwoman serials, but Stiles here can help you with that.”

“I can?” He asks, uselessly, to Erica’s retreating back as she heads in the complete opposite direction of where the DC serials are. “I-I mean, yeah, definitely, I can totally help you with that, dude,” he amends, doing his best to get to the cash register while his wrist is still being held hostage by Hot Werewolf.

“Don’t call me dude,” Hot Werewolf argues, but amenably follows Stiles’ lead. “My name’s Derek,” he adds, while Stiles rings up the t-shirt.

Hot Werewolf–Derek–is apparently the kind of person to give exact change. Stiles tries not to fumble the coins too badly, but even with two hands now, he can feel the pressure of Derek’s gaze.

“Thanks for shopping at Comics and Stuff,” Stiles says by rote as he hands over Derek’s receipt. “Come again soon.”

“I’m sure I will,” Derek smirks, teeth bright and sharp and thrilling.

It’s not until the door chime jingles sadly that Stiles takes a shaky breath.

“Wow,” Erica says, “I practically gift-wrapped that for you. You should be making out with him right now. Like, up against that shelf right there.”

And because Stiles has no idea how to respond to that, he ignores it and says instead, “He’s definitely a werewolf.”

~

A/N: I was discussing food allergies with my sister and had a weird thought and then it turned into this so…

I thought I was going to be able to do it all in one shot but its approaching midnight so apparently this is going to be a multi-parter.

Underneath the Red Lights, 2/? (2016-08-30)

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Carlos spends–spent–his days making locks. And doorknobs. And latches. And fences. And gates.

But no keys.

Which is bleakly appropriate considering all of the people he ever loved are in prison.

The point is that Carlos works–worked–with a lot of metal. A lot of shiny, reflective metal.

The first time he saw it, he didn’t even notice–it was just a blur of blue and peach–it could easily have been his own reflection even though the uniform is more grey than blue, and his skin more tan than peach.

The second time, he took a moment to look around. Figured maybe it was someone else, the curved angle of the metal bouncing the light bizarrely. But no one was there, and when he turned back the reflection was gone.

The third time, he actually saw a face–a face that he’d recognize anywhere even after five years, a face he thought he’d never see again.

“Evie!”

—

It turns out that, no matter how kind their hiring practices, dwarves are about as tolerant of an employee halting an entire day of production to have a freak out as humans are.

That is to say, not tolerant at all.

He’s told to turn in his uniform and keycard, they inform him he’ll receive his partial paycheck in the mail, and then he’s summarily guided out the door never to return.

“I didn’t want to work here anyway,” Carlos mutters, quietly enough that he won’t be overheard because maybe if he’s lucky they’ll still give him a good reference. Though when has luck ever been on his side?

His unemployment walk of shame is about as awful as a regular walk of shame, worse actually because he didn’t even have any fun to make up for it, but a part of him is thrumming with excitement and a little bit of what might be hope.

He keeps looking in ever reflective surface–the windows of shops he passes by, the side mirrors of parked cars, even each puddle he carefully steps around–hoping to see another glimpse of Evie, but so far nothing.

Maybe he’s going mad.

He’s straining so hard to find her that he isn’t paying as much attention to walking as he ought to–

“Carlos.”

–he hears his name, a familiar voice for all that it’s deeper and somehow not attached to a body. He stops, nearly trips, nearly–

–a car rushes past him, close enough and fast enough that the displaced air ruffles his clothes, his hair, blows violently against his skin.

—

He goes straight home–no more gazing at windows and wishing for something that’s not real, refusing to respond to a voice calling his name in a tone and cadence as fondly irritated as he remembers–although home is a bit of a stretch.

The tiny studio apartment he shares with Jane doesn’t leave room for much privacy, but neither of them really care about that because at least it’s only one other roommate instead of the twenty they grew up with.

Their cracked and mismatched dishes are piling up in the sink, their clothes are mixed together–whites and blacks and greys and, on the rare occasions they can splurge, tiny hints of blues and pinks and reds–and the bathroom door isn’t so much a door as it is a jury rigged plank of wood and that they have to either eel around or manually shift. Neither of them have actual beds–not that there’s space for it–so Jane has a futon and Carlos uses a couch that they scavenged from the curb and cleaned as best as they could (it still smells like bleach, which is better than the alternative).

It’s not home, but it’s the closest thing they’ll ever get. Just like how neither of them are each other’s first choice in friends, but they’ve worked hard to make it work.

Carlos goes home and Jane sees his face–pale and shocked and horrified and wild-eyed–and decides he needs a distraction.

“Don’t sit down,” she orders, already digging into their shared pile of clothes and tossing a pair of black skinny jeans at his head–it might be hers or it might be his, they’re the same size so it doesn’t really matter.

“I need your help with something important,” she adds, without elaborating, and it’s not until they’re in line to enter Problématique does Carlos realize that the ‘something important’ is either helping Jane get drunk or get laid.

Whatever, he’s not opposed to having a night out.

It’s not like this day can get much worse.

~

A/N: Not keen on that ending, but it’s already seven past so…

Underneath the Red Lights, 1/? (2016-08-29)

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The week of his twentieth birthday, Carlos gets:

1) fired from his job,

2) nearly run over by a car,

3) tricked into going out clubbing by Jane for their shared birthday, then immediately ditched when she finds someone to make out with,

and

4) a panic attack fueled by an existential crisis as he considers the rest of his life playing out in terrible, bleak monochrome.

All in all, it’s not as awful as the week of his fifteenth birthday, so he’ll take it.

Oh, he also gets a boyfriend… kind of.

It’s a long story.

—

The collective kingdoms of Auradon have had fairly negative experiences with magic and so, in a spectacular show of panicked bigotry, decided to ban all magic and lock away all magicians.

Present and future.

Of course, the nobility like to think they’re the good guys, so they don’t exactly go around imprisoning children–but they also don’t hesitate to throw sixteen year old potential magicians into Auradon’s maximum security prison, Maison Rouge. It’s not like anyone really has the power to stop them.

Certainly not a magic-less boy living in a government run orphanage (even though technically he’s not an orphan since, as far as he knows, his mother is still alive).

So when Carlos wakes up the morning of his fifteenth birthday–January 1st, a New Year baby–and finds the three bunks nearest his empty and cold, he only cries a little bit into his scratchy blankets before quickly wiping away his tears.

(Jay’s not there to throw a stolen handkerchief at his face, Evie won’t run a comforting hand through his hair, Mal won’t stand guard and glare at anyone else who might stare or laugh)

—

In a different way, that morning was the worst day of Jane’s life, too. Mostly due to the fact that she woke up on her sixteenth birthday and hadn’t been in Maison Rouge.

Like him, Jane isn’t actually an orphan either.

—

The factory Carlos works in–or, rather, used to work in–is dwarf owned. Then again, most factories are dwarf owned. Most companies, in fact.

Forget titles and pedigrees–precious stones and metals, then later oil and technology–that’s where real prestige comes from.

As it is, though, dwarf culture and business practices are a lot kinder than human run companies. Carlos didn’t love his job–it was repetitive and boring and, if he’s going to be honest, way below his capabilities–but considering he only has the minimum government provided education and no social capital whatsoever, it was a decent first job.

Definitely better than where some of his former housemates ended up.

Until, after two years of mind-numbing diligence, he somehow managed to fuck it up entirely.

In his defense, it’s not entirely his fault.

Probably.

~

A/N: I’m a big liar who lies, apparently, because it looks like I am, in fact, going to write Underneath the Red Lights – or at least try my best at it.

Hopefully this will reignite my Descendants feels again. Fingers crossed.

So, recap: Jane has no magic, Jane and Carlos share a birthday but she’s one year older, every December 31st the government does a sweep of all sixteen year olds and throws those with magic potential in jail.

Word Prompts (F45): Found (2016-08-28)

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“I guess I just miss you, is the problem.” A brush of fingertips against smooth stone, as gentle and affectionate as a kiss.

“It’s not the same without you,” he confides, before crouching down and placing the small bouquet by the plaque. Straightening again, he can’t help but read over the engraving–years and a name, so simple, a poor substitute.

“Goodbye, love, I’ll see you again next weekend.”

—

A migraine is building behind your eyes, pressure and heat and sludgy solid sickness. It’s been a while since you’ve had one–not since you were a teenager–and you thought your were done with them for good.

Then again, you did take a tire iron to the back of the head, so it’s not like it’s your fault.

A wet trickle makes it’s way down your neck–blood, most likely–and you’d like to wipe it away except that your hands are tied behind your back and you’ve never been particularly flexible.

“This is the last time I do a favor for Jenny.”

Just as well, considering this one’s posthumous anyway.

—

Raoul had always loved her, from the first moment he laid eyes on her. Bright smile and crinkled eyes and a smear of dirt across one cheek. He had admired the way her legs looked in that floral skirt, the curve of her back easily accommodating of the sledge hammer across her shoulders.

Just some renovation, she had said, and Raoul–the naive, lovestruck idiot that he was, newly moved into the apartment across the hall–had nodded and tried not to make too much a fool of himself.

Too late.

But Jenny had always had a fondness for fools.

—

“Oh, sure, watch over your boyfriend. No big, he’s an accountant, what’s the worst he could get into?” You growl, shifting your arms, your wrists, your hands futilely–desperate to escape. “Getting into business with corrupt cops, that’s what! Fucking hell, Jenny, you have shitty taste in guys.”

You might have a concussion, what with the irritability and talking to a dead person, but then again, anyone would be irritable in this situation. And you wouldn’t put it past her to somehow be able to listen in after her death.

A rattle of chains grabs your attention, makes you quiet and cautious. You don’t actually know who hit you over the head and tied you up.

“Hello?” A voice calls, one irritatingly familiar to you for all that you’ve never actually had a conversation with the idiot. “I’m here to settle my girlfriend’s debt.”

Now both of you are going to end up dead. Goddamnit, Jenny.

I need my Garaa/Shikako fix. So prompt: The morning after/or the moment they themselves realize their relationship is more than “just friends”

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Hey anon, thanks for the prompt!

I’ve been missing the Shikaara ship, too–unsurprising since it’s been a while and it is the ship that started me writing recursive fic for DoS in the first place. For some reason, though, nothing’s been coming to mind for this ship lately so I do appreciate the prompt. Hopefully it’ll jar something loose, yeah?

River Running High, a Haku/Shikako ficlet (2016-08-27)

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The girl from Leaf knocks him down and spares his life and all Haku can think to himself is,

Oh.

Later on he’ll come to the conclusion that this was the beginning.

—

It’s a cliche, he knows, but he thinks of people in terms of water. Zabuza-sama, for all that it’s Haku with the blood limit, is ice: sharp and deadly, but almost beautiful for it. Haku himself is more like snow–seemingly soft and corruptible, yet the cold and damp easily drawing the unwary into the gentle embrace of hypothermia.

The Leaf team, too, he thinks in water metaphors. The teacher a lake, placid on the surface but deep and teeming with secrets beneath. Naruto-kun the ocean, wide and encompassing and unstoppable. The other boy a waterfall, predictable yet powerful and compelling.

The girl a river, branching far and wide; life and movement and connections.

—

The girl from Leaf knocks him down and spares his life and then Gatou shows up and unsurprisingly betrays them, but that’s okay, Zabuza-sama didn’t like him anyway.

Haku doesn’t say I told you so, but he thinks it very quietly and doesn’t argue at all when Zabuza-sama decides to hang around the Leaf team and the bridge builder like stray cats once fed.

Now that they aren’t on opposing sides, Haku finds he likes the Leaf team–all of them, not just Naruto–likes what they represent.

He’ll never regret being Zabuza-sama’s tool–his apprentice, his friend or the closest thing he’ll allow himself to have–but seeing the Leaf team together makes him yearn. Makes him wish that Kiri were the kind of place where he could’ve had something like that, too. Wish it were the kind of place where survival wasn’t about being the meanest and toughest person around, where an existence wasn’t about survival so much as it was about living.

Having friends you would die for, and a teacher who acknowledges you and indulges in water fights of all things as if there were no dangers or hardships or sadness. Or as if to say yes, there are dangers and hardships and sadness in the world, but for now let us have safety and fun and happiness.

Haku wants that, too.

The girl from Leaf–Shikako–smiles at him and Haku thinks that maybe it’s not so impossible at all.

—

The bridge builder’s daughter really does treat them like stray cats once fed–which is a better reception than could be expected considering he and Zabuza-sama were hired to kill her father–and while she watches them warily, she doesn’t ask the team from Leaf to run them off.

Zabuza-sama and he have slept in worse places than in the quiet forest of a newly peaceful country.

Naruto-kun shakily carries them a tray from the bridge builder’s house, and dutifully relays that Tsunami-san told him to tell them that she had cooked extra and it would be a waste of food and that wouldn’t he be a dear and bring this to them?

Zabuza-sama scoffs at the blatant lie, but Haku has always been more practical than that. Isn’t too prideful to turn away even this minimal charity.

He wouldn’t be here with Zabuza-sama if he did.

—

Naruto and Shikako switch off on bringing out dinner–not that he and Zabuza-sama are actually dependent on the meals, but it’s nice and reminds him of that life he appreciates but doesn’t have–for obvious reasons. The other boy–Sasuke–is still recovering, for all that Haku’s attack wasn’t fatal, and it’s understandable that he wouldn’t want to be alone with the person who did that to him.

Not that Naruto and Shikako are alone, really, their teacher’s chakra not so much threatening as it is obviously present.

Naruto brings conversation along with the food: a continuous stream of chatter about training and the work on the bridge and the bridge builder’s grandson and tales of the Leaf village and nearly every little observation and thought that went through his mind in the day. Zabuza-sama finds it annoying, Haku thinks it’s hilarious.

Shikako brings secrets–not for charity, but for trade.

—

“In theory,” Shikako says one night, “if Hoshigaki Kisame were to  work with a partner–”

“Not likely,” Zaubza-sama scoffs, dismissive.

“Of course,” she says, agreeable veneer over her argument, “Just as you wouldn’t.”

Haku would never smile at Zabuza-sama getting put in his place by a girl practically half his height and a third his weight.

“Theoretically,” she resumes, “he’d have a partner just as strong as him, who specializes in opposing skills.”

Haku tilts his head, “Do you have a specific person in mind?”

Shikako smiles brightly at him, before going onto a complete non sequitur. “Sasuke is naturally skilled in genjutsu.” She frowns, then adds, “The Uchiha used to be one of our village’s strongest bloodlines. Now Sasuke is the only one left in Konoha.”

Uchiha Itachi

He exchanges glances with Zabuza-sama, who nods in understanding and proceeds to tell a completely unrelated story about how a particular fellow former swordsman once fought and nearly lost against a Cloud nin with the strange ability to magnetize his shuriken.

The hour turns late and the Leaf teacher’s chakra flares once–protective and admonishing both–calling Shikako back inside to the bridge builder’s house.

“Thank you for the story,” she says, smile on her face.

Zabuza-sama shrugs, looks away. Haku smiles back.

—

The bridge is finished and both groups are ready to depart. The Leaf team back to their village, he and Zabuza-sama to an undisclosed island which may or may not be the headquarters of a number of unaffiliated Kiri nin, no really.

For all that their mission to kill the bridge builder was a failure, the two of them will join with more money and resources–both still from Gatou–than promised. And valuable intel on top of all that.

Though how a girl from Leaf would know the reason behind the Yondaime Mizukage’s bizarre shift from decent leadership to reign of terror is beyond Haku’s guess.

But since Zabuza-sama doesn’t care, Haku doesn’t need to know and neither does the Rebellion.

Besides, she knocked him down and spared his life. All beginnings lead somewhere; eventually the snow will melt and join the river.

~

A/N: Long long ago, anonymous asked for Haku/Shikako with Zabuza and Kakashi chaperoning and I thought I had an idea for it but couldn’t articulate it and so here’s this hot mess instead.

This is more like pre-relationship than actual relationship (I mean, even more so than my usual) but I just couldn’t come up with something that wouldn’t have been a rehash of Chances Gone By or Dreaming of S(omething) but Mist Edition instead. ¯_(ツ)_/¯

Title from Lykke Li’s song “Follow Rivers”