#and ill be honest. i say prompts so vaguely. it might be like. draw this person this day!

[hyolks]

i know i joked about it but would you guys actually join me in an fma month draw challenge... fmabruary if i may.... and if you were to join would you prefer prompts or not..

of course if you join you dont have to be a maniac like me and literally draw on the day of bc i know its a really hard thing to do (i did not finish unscathed lol) AND. who cares. you odnt even have to do all 29 days of february. maybe just three drawings in february. just a month where theres fma. imagine.....

[fanfickittycat]

The Price

TITLE: The Price CHAPTER NUMBER/ONE SHOT: Chapter 7 AUTHOR: fanfickittycat CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Roman Godfrey x OC GENRE: Romance, Smut FIC SUMMARY: Ginger makes a deal with popular bad boy Roman, if he helps her up the social ladder by pretending to be her boyfriend then she’ll be his dog in return RATING: M AUTHORS NOTES/WARNINGS: sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind

Time seemed to be moving slower than usual and it was making me antsy. The lethargic ticking of the clock at the front of the classroom seemed to mock me, making me feel more restless than usual. I could see that the substitute teacher was getting irritated by the way I held the pen between my thumb and index finger, shaking the biro from side to side as my leg shook in accompaniment. I had tried to ignore the feeling throughout the week; the sense of loss and confusion that made my stomach turn if I concentrated on it too hard. It had been exactly one week of no Roman, and though I was still annoyed with the way he spoke to me I was starting to miss him a little. His stupid smirk, and the way he’d make his way through a pack of cigarettes like it was candy. His complete lack of awareness of the normal world, and the inside jokes we’d share was missing from my life. Sometimes when I thought back to our first kiss my lips hardly remembered what it had felt like, as though it hadn’t happened. Even my dreams seemed to be plagued with Roman, whether it be a happy or angry version of him, and I’d wake up with the dying sensation of his phantom touch leaving me as I tried to differentiate between dream and reality. I realised later that day as I sat with my new friends that I missed Roman’s presence, but also his friendship. Our relationship was difficult to define but it was there, only barely being held together by the tenderness I still had for him. I couldn’t stop it and I felt as though I were fighting a losing battle.

I had started to wander around his favourite haunts, hoping to catch him but he was never there. I had even used my new found popularity to scour the latest parties but was left disappointed, with my feet sore from the heels, and an untouched cup of warm beer in my hand. It felt like I was simultaneously at my best and worst, and all I wanted was to talk to Roman again but it had been two weeks since he had been in class and I was starting to get worried. I was about to believe my conspiracy theory that Roman had fled the country when I overheard a teacher talking to Peter about delivering Roman’s missed homework and notes. In typical Peter fashion, he had taken the stack of papers and dumped them gracelessly to one side of his locker as he fiddled with an exchange of his own possessions. He smiled politely when he saw me, and I wondered if Roman had said anything to him about me.

“Hi” it felt weird to say, especially because my mind raced to find an opening to a conversation “nice jacket.”

Peter glanced down at his everyday brown jacket “um, thanks.” A tense silence followed and I opened my mouth, hoping something normal would come out.

“How are you?” I asked, hugging my book against my chest tighter as the nerves started to get to me.

“I’m okay. You?”

“I’m okay too.” I bit my lip and Peter looked away to his locker.

“He’s sick” he finally said “caught the flu. I’m meant to be delivering these to him” he patted the stack “but something tells me that maybe you’d like to instead.” He held out the pile to me and I reached out, and then hesitated briefly.

“Well I mean I’m going to be in the neighbourhood so” I cleared my throat “I guess I could help out, like, if you’re okay with that.” I took the collection of unwanted work from him, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I struggled to express the relief I felt.

“He’s been a grumpy son of a bitch for the past two weeks, I think a visit from you might cheer him up.”

“Really? Did he say that?”

Peter shrugged “I can just tell. Go easy on him though, he’s never really had to deal with relationships before so he’s pretty bad at them. I blame the parents.”

“I’ll ask him to lie down and tell me about his mother when I see him.”

“Make sure to wear comfortable clothes when you do, that’s a whole Pandora’s box worth of pent up feelings” Peter joked but his smile softened “he misses you.”

“I miss him too” I admitted, feeling strangely free when I said it out loud.

I let the feeling give me the courage to navigate my way to Roman’s house, which was more daunting looking than I had ever previously imagined. The dead leaves tumbling past my ankles didn’t make me feel much better, but I pushed myself to knock at his door whilst my hands shook. I reminded myself to breathe, straightening my back and pressing my freshly re-glossed lips together. It was quiet and I wondered if I should knock again, but the sound of the lock clicking made me jump and draw my hand back.

“What’re you doing here Ginger?” Roman stood in front of me, a frown on his pale face that should have been severe but wasn’t. His cheeks were flushed, and his nose red as he dabbed at it with a scrunched up tissue in his hand. His hair, which was usually immaculately slicked back was free of any constraint, and it flopped towards the front softly. Gone were the formal shirts and leather gloves, he instead donned a pair of blue striped, cotton pyjamas. He looked younger and less intimidating than ever before, and it made my heart somersault in my chest.

“I brought you your homework and stuff” I said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

“Keep it” he muttered “not like I do that crap anyway.” He sniffed, trying to hide how obvious his illness was.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Some business trip.”

“So you’re here all alone?” I asked, feeling an instant stab of sadness at the thought of Roman alone in his big house.

He scowled “I’m not a kid, I can take care of myself” he insisted, though he looked more vulnerable than I had ever seen him before. I was still upset with what had transpired between us last time but I was seeing what Peter meant, Roman didn’t know how relationships of any kind functioned. This was uncharted territory for him; something which needed him to be open with his emotions without fear of being hurt. He didn’t know what to do.

“Roman, can we ta-” but before I could be honest about how I felt he had slammed the door shut and left me speechless and more bruised than I was. I turned away, not sure how I was meant to get him to listen to me. The cold was getting worse, and the rejection threatened to make my heart freeze too. I walked away in a daze, only to come back an hour and a half later brimming with tenacity.

“You again” Roman said when he opened the door, and I barged my way past him into his house much to his surprise.

“Where’s your room?”

“You can’t come in here!” He said, his face revealing just how astounded he was.

“I don’t care” I said, more argumentatively than I had planned to sound “tell me where your room is.”

“You’re trespassing private property!”

“I’m going to assume it’s upstairs” I said, ignoring his empty threat and walking up the grand staircase. It didn’t take long to hear his own footsteps following mine eagerly, as he continued to complain about this being a ‘criminal activity’ and saying that ‘I had lost it’.

“Right or left?” I asked when we got up to the first floor.

“I’m not telling you.”

I shrugged and turned left down the hallway only to be stopped.

“It’s right” he mumbled, conceding defeat bitterly as I changed direction to accompany him at his heels.

His room was cleaner than I thought it would be, with only his bed sheets ruffled from where he had tossed the covers aside. The room itself seemed devoid of any personality, and only a small collection of items were strewn throughout the room. I set down his neglected homework on the desk, and started to take out the things I had both earlier from the paper bag. Roman stood behind me, watching suspiciously as I took out a medley of medicines, teas, juice, chicken noodle soup mix, and two boxes of tissues that had been on offer.

“What is this?”

“They’re things to make you feel better” I said “now get into bed.” He looked vaguely annoyed but turned to get in anyway. He made a sound of discontent when I started fluffing his pillows and tucking him in, but I slapped his hand away and kept rearranging the sheets until I was satisfied.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“What do you care?”

“Guess I’ll take that as a no. I’m going to go make you some soup.” I turned to leave but Roman caught my sleeve, prompting me to turn back.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care about you” I said, breaking eye contact with him as I nervously looked instead at his grip on my sleeve “and dogs are always loyal to their owners.” Roman seemed perplexed for a moment and then let go of me.

“Don’t keep me waiting then, dog.” He tried to sound dominant but his voice was still stuffy and he sounded comical more than anything.

He complained indignantly when I tried to feed him, but soon let me spoon the broth and noodles into his mouth though he still kept the expression of a surly house cat, or a sulking child. He was mildly irritated when I pushed the glass of watered down juice to his mouth every few minutes, batting me away and grumbling that he didn’t need so much liquid. He even objected to taking medicine, and his face screwed up at the taste of the syrup and was quickly followed by a list of curses. His sleeping was sporadic, and I had taken to a chair I had pulled to his bedside where I would do my own homework whilst he rested.

“You’re still here” he croaked, a few hours later, sounding not so much accusatory as factual. He wasn’t very happy when I brought out the tub of Vapor Rub, but quickly stopped whining when I rubbed the gel in slow circles on his chest. He watched me drowsily as I screwed the lid back on, and exchanged it for the near empty glass on his bedside table. He now sipped without complaint.

“How’re you feeling now?” I asked, to a now mollified Roman who practically purred when I stroked my hand over his hair.

“Better” he said “and sleepy.”

“Close your eyes, you need all the rest you can get.”

“But you’ll go” he said worryingly, rubbing his eyes with his knuckle.

“I’m not going anywhere Roman” I said, but he still looked troubled.

“Come here” he said patting the space in bed next to him, and I raised an eyebrow only for him to repeat the action. I put down my book, and slid in next to him, feeling his body pressed against mine. Even though I had taken his temperature earlier and confirmed that he had no fever, his body was still considerably warmer than mine. I shifted to face him and he watched me silently for several minutes before speaking.

“Doesn’t your boyfriend mind that you’re here?”

“He didn’t like it at first but now that he’s let me lie next to him I think he might be okay with it.”

Roman huffed “you should break up with him, he sounds like he’s not capable of being in a relationship.”

“He’s just not used to be being cared for, but” my tone changed as I continued “if he’s going to let his insecurities get the better of him then he can’t shut me out.”

He averted his gaze “well stop talking to that guy then.”

“Roman.”

“Okay fine” he relinquished “but I’m still going to hate him.”

“That’s not much better.”

“It’s my final deal” he said “now close your eyes dog, all this emotional stuff is making me feel nauseated.”

“Ha ha” I said humorlessly and I leaned over to peck a kiss on his pink cheek. He reached out and pulled me closer, and I finally closed my eyes and let Roman’s breathing lull me to sleep.

[sonnets-and-snowdrops]

Hi! I saw the prompt you did on Ukitake/Byakuya, and I was wondering if you'd do another one? I saw your writings on AO3 and they're amazing, and I absolutely love the way you portray this pairing! To be honest all these hurt!memes seem like amazing ideas for fics and I'd be fine with any of them, but maybe "you don’t care, nobody cares, just leave"? Either way, you're amazing and thanks for sharing all these stories!

From here || Always accepting :)))

Okaaaaay, so - here’s what I’ve learned. I’m pretty awful at incorporating these prompts word for word. In fact, I’m so awful at it that, this time, the prompt didn’t even make it into the final version of the fic. I tried giving a variation of the line to Ukitake in the second section, and then I tried giving it to Byakuya in the third section, but… it just didn’t quite work for me? Somehow? So, uh - apologies, but I, uh - may not have followed this prompt at all. Uh. Oops.That said - here’s a little story with some mild ByaUki senpai/kohai relationship stuff going on, and with a little bit of Yoruichi (which surprised me - I’ve never written her before, ever, and she just kinda showed up in this fic? So, uh, okay!) stepping in as Bya-kun’s mentor when Juu-chan finds himself pretty much down for the count.It’s worth noting that Byakuya is quite young in this fic - younger than he is in TBTP, even. He’s probably the equivalent to eight or ten years old, in Soul-Society-time, whatever that is.And, finally - thanks for your patience, and your lovely comments, and your lovely request, Anon-san! I hope you can forgive me for going off the rails so much, prompt-wise haha…

Byakuya is young.

Byakuya is old enough to understand the things that thenoblemen that come and go whisper to his grandfather in the shadows of theKuchiki mansion, but Byakuya is young enough for the noblemen to dismiss him asan innocent, inoffensive, innocuous presence. They do not recognize just howmuch Byakuya hears, and they speak freely in front of him. To say that Byakuyais glad to be looked at as childish and insignificant would be a grossexaggeration - he is of noble birth,after all, and no matter how young he is, Byakuya believes that he is worthy ofat least some small modicum of respect, under all circumstances - but,privately, Byakuya always finds himself quietly thrilled when secrets that arenot meant for him reach his ears.

But sometimes, these secrets remind Byakuya of how much hehas yet to learn.

Byakuya did not know, for example, that his favorite teacher- a Captain, like his grandfather, but a man who admonishes only gently, andwho speaks kindly to Byakuya, and who smiles,unlike his grandfather - is not, in fact,a strong person. Byakuya has marveled at the grace and elegance with which histeacher wields his zanpakutō,and Byakuya has found himself spellbound by his teacher’s extraordinaryfacility with intricate kidō.Byakuya has spent long hours sipping tea with his teacher, and talking abouthistory, and mythology, and what makes a good leader, and how to define thingslike happiness and sadness and friendship and love.Byakuya was led to believe, throughout his entire childhood and into his earlyadolescence, where he awkwardly lingers now, that his teacher was the pinnacleof strength.

Howvery, very wrong he was.

“CaptainUkitake has taken ill,” a seated officer from the Thirteenth Division tellsByakuya’s grandfather.

“Again,”Byakuya’s grandfather growls under his breath, clearly displeased. Byakuyafrowns from where he stands at the side of the reception hall. His grandfatherdoes not seem concerned, and that hits a sour chord with Byakuya. It’s as ifByakuya’s grandfather takes Captain Ukitake’s illness for granted, as if he expected that Captain Ukitake shouldfall ill - and that can’t be right, can it? Why, Byakuya wonders, is hisgrandfather not showing greater concern?

“I’vecome with a formal entreaty,” the seated officer continues, “from the Captainhimself. He wants to know whether it might be possible for the Sixth Divisionto take over a small portion of the Thirteenth’s reconnaissance duties, forapproximately the next two weeks. But,” the officer adds, dropping his voiceand glancing about himself, “between you and me, sir, I’d suggest making moreextensive preparations. The Captain mentioned two weeks, but we both know howoptimistic he is.”

Byakuya’sgrandfather, already frowning, makes a small sound of annoyance. “Oh?”

Theofficer shakes his head. “The Captain is not well, sir,” is all he says.

Byakuya’sgrandfather straightens his back, and he draws a high, tight breath, and henods, crisply, just once. “Very well,” he tells the seated officer. “I willmake the necessary arrangements.” He dismisses the officer with a curt wave ofhis hand, and he turns on his heel, making for his office. “Byakuya?” he calls.“Come. This will be a good lesson in logistics. I will show you - ”

Byakuya’s grandfather’s frown deepens. His grandson, who hecould have sworn was present for his interaction with the seated officer, isnowhere to be seen. Mildly irritated, but not enough to give it a secondthought, he harumphs under hisbreath, and sets off again, with bold strides and a head full of complaints,for his office.

—

Byakuya’s fists are balled up at his sides. He’d used hisvery best-flash step to make it here, just outside the small, wooden structurein the middle of the Thirteenth Division’s territory that serves as histeacher’s private quarters. Byakuya has been here many times, but never withoutinvitation - and never, Byakuya thinks, under such grave circumstances. Byakuyais not certain whether he will be welcome here, at a time like this. Histeacher has always been a generous host, but Byakuya wonders vaguely aboutother members of his teacher’s division. A sickroom is not a place for a child,Byakuya learned long ago. His grandfather taught him that, and though Byakuya’sfather had been of a different opinion, his grandfather’s wishes had always wonout. Not, of course, that it much matters anymore; Byakuya’s father is gone,now. Perhaps there was some wretched connection between his father’s untimelydeath, and the amount of time that Byakuya, fearful and foolish and ignorant,had spent at his bedside. It’s unlikely, Byakuya knows - but he can’t help butwonder.

Tentatively, Byakuya presses his palm to wood of the door.He applies pressure, and the door slides open, just as it always does.“…hello?” Byakuya dares to ask. “Ukitake-san? Are you here?”

When Byakuya hears no answer, he opens the door a little bitfarther. It is darker inside his teacher’s quarters than it is outside, andByakuya blinks, hoping that his eyes will adjust quickly -

And then Byakuya’s hand flies to his mouth. He stuffs thebacks of two fingers inside and bites down, almost succeeding - but not quite -in suppressing a gasp.

Because the man lying before him is not his teacher, not asByakuya knows him.

Still, Byakuya cannot deny that there uncanny similaritiesbetween his teacher and this barely breathing body, stripped to the waist andplied with cool cloths and poultices and splayed weakly out upon a sweat-soakedfuton that must once have been dry and clean. They have the same white hair,and the same kindly features. They have the same thin limbs, and the samemassive reiatsu. They even have the same bright, green eyes - though, Byakuyahas seen enough of sickness to know that fever can make a person’s eyes shinejust as readily as joy or cleverness.

Byakuya feels afraid. He feels afraid, because it seems tohim that he has, for perhaps the first time in his life, stumbled uponsomething that he is very definitely not supposed to see. He feels that he hasintruded upon something horribly private, and that he has somehow violated histeacher by coming here, and by seeing him like this. Byakuya squeezes his eyesshut, and he turns his head to the side. He will leave, he decides. He willleave, and he will run away, and he will forget that he ever saw his teacher’sbody laid so low.

“…who’s there?”

The voice that rises from the darkness is not his teacher’svoice, either, not as Byakuya knows it. Byakuya’s teacher has a rich, clearvoice that rolls like gentle waves, and this voice wafts, weak and wavering,floating slow and directionless through the air like fog on a grey and hazysummer morning.

Byakuya’s mouth is dry, and when he speaks, his voicecracks. “It’s Byakuya,” he says.

A quiet smile alights upon his teacher’s face. “Bya-kun,” hesays. His words are soft, and they slur gently - it’s subtle, but it’s enoughthat Byakuya notices. “Do come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Byakuya steps quietly through the door and inches closer,still staring at his teacher. Has no one, Byakuya wonders vaguely, thought toattend to his teacher in a more proper fashion than this? Should his teachernot be transferred to the Fourth Division for closer supervision and bettertreatment? Why has his teacher been left to suffer what is clearly a gravesickness in solitude, and in darkness? Byakuya’s nose wrinkles against thesmell of strong herbs, and his lip curls as the vague beginnings of anger start to coil inside his belly. This isn’t right. Somethingabout this isn’t right, and none of it sits well inside Byakuya’s youngheart.

He wants to help. He musthelp, somehow. His teacher is sick - his teacher could be dying, for allByakuya knows - and no one seems to be doing anything about it.

“I heard you were sick,” Byakuya says, kneeling tensely athis teacher’s side. “I was worried. I… wanted to see you…”

—

Tears stream down Byakuya’s face as he wanders his weary wayhome. Byakuya is young, but Byakuya is not so young that he does not know whatdeath looks like when it first begins to grip the living. Byakuya didn’t knowwhat he’d been thinking - why, he wonders, had he supposed that visiting histeacher would make anything better?

Byakuya’s teacher is dying.

Byakuya’s teacher is dying, and Byakuya knows it. The fever istoo high, and his teacher’s body is too weak, and though Byakuya is no experton the subject, he does not believe that anyone who brings up that much bloodwhen they cough is on track to survive for more than a few days.

Byakuya had sat with his teacher, and they had talked for atime, but soon, Ukitake had waved a weak and trembling hand, and had toldByakuya that he did not need to stay any longer, if he did not wish to.

Byakuya had nodded wordlessly, and he had risen anddeparted. It was for the best, he supposed; his throat had grown tight, and he hadnot wished to weep in front of his dying teacher.

Byakuya walks mindlessly, not quite knowing where he wantsto go, and not quite caring. Sunset bathes the Seireitei in golden light, andByakuya scowls at the splendor laid out before him. He finds it cruel, that theworld should keep on turning like this - and so beautifully, too - when one ofthe greatest lives that it has ever seen is about to end.

“Byakuya-bō!Yo - is that you?”

Byakuya groans aloud. This voice is one of the very, verylast he wants to hear right now. He is not in the mood for ridicule, and he isnot in the mood for games. He is in the mood for solitude and sadness. He is inthe mood to be alone with his grief.

“Byakuya-bō?C’mon! Turn around and face me, kid! I’m your elder, y’know - gotta respect me,right?”

Byakuya, limbs heavy with sorrow, musters the energy to makea slow about-face. He stares, dead-eyed, and he takes in Yoruichi-san’s big,bright smile, and he lets her read what she will in his expression and demeanor.He is too tired for her antics, and he silently prays that, perhaps, she willlook into his eyes and understand this.

For a second, Yoruichi-san is silent. Her smile, which wasbroad and wide and cheery at first, starts to crumple in on itself like awilting flower. She blinks, and lets out a soft, “Shit,” and she drops to herknees, so that her face is level with Byakuya’s now. Byakuya winces when shelays a hand on his shoulder, but she stays him with gentle words. “Hey,” shesays, “easy. Easy, kid. What happened to you?”

Byakuya shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing happenedto me. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Sure. That’s why you’re crying, right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Nah, you’re not. Nice try, Byakuya-bō.”

“Stop it, Yoruichi-san. Please. I’m fine. I promise.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I am. But…” Byakuyalooks away. “…Captain Ukitake isn’t,” he says softly.

Comprehension slowly dawns in Yoruichi-san’s face. “Oh,” shewhispers. “Byakuya-bō - ”

“He’s dying,” Byakuya says, unable to keep himself fromcutting Yoruichi-san off, because he’s quite sure that she doesn’t understand.“That’s not what he says - he says he’ll be all right soon, but - but he won’t. I know he won’t. I’ve just been to see him, and… a-and…” Byakuyahangs his head, and he finds himself leaning hard against Yoruichi-san, seekingcomfort from her in a way that he never, neverimagined he would. “He’s so sick, Yoruichi-san,” Byakuya says in a hoarse,broken whisper. “He can’t even breathe right, not really… and no one’s takingcare of him, I don’t think… and he’s dying,Yoruichi-san, he’s gonna die, I know it - ”

“…hey.” Yoruichi-san pulls Byakuya to her, and Byakuya,against every part of his better judgement, shakes and cries and breaks apartin her arms. He feels Yoruichi-san’s hands on his back, and he’s sure that histears are staining the pristine white of her haori, but she doesn’t seem tocare, and so, right now, neither does Byakuya. “Hey, Byakuya-bō. It’s cool. I’ve gotcha. Letit out, Byakuya-bō…let it out…”

After atime, Byakuya’s sobbing subsides. He finds himself trembling in Yoruichi-san’sarms, only half-listening to her words of comfort. He’s suddenly exhausted, andhe wants to lay down on the ground, right here and right now, and curl up intoa tiny ball, and never speak to anyone, ever again, unless they have come totell him truly that his teacher is alive and well, and will always be.

“Yougood now?” Yoruichi-san asks gently.

“No,”Byakuya answers.

“Right.Yeah, I guess - that’s not what I meant. I meant - if I were to tell yousomething about Captain Ukitake right now, do you think you’d have it in you tolisten to me?”

Thatpiques Byakuya’s interest. Hope flares in his chest - but Byakuya is wary, andhe does not let his hope glow too brightly. Still, he pulls slightly away fromYoruichi-san, and he says, “Yes.”

“Cool.”Yoruichi releases Byakuya from her embrace, and she lays both hands flat onByakuya’s shoulders, and she looks him squarely in the face. “Listen to me, kid- you might not believe it, but I promise you - Captain Ukitake isn’t dying.Okay?”

Byakuyablinks. “What?”

“Youheard me, right? He’s not gonna die, all right? Not any time soon. Simple asthat.”

“But -but I saw him - ”

“And?”

“And -and he’s sick, Yoruichi-san, he’s -he’s so sick - ”

“Easy,Byakuya-bō. Hear meout, okay?” Yoruichi-san’s eyes soften, and so do her hands on Byakuya’sshoulders. “I dunno how much of this I should be telling you,” she says, “butCaptain Ukitake has a really unusual body. He’s used to getting sick like this.It happens all the time.”

Byakuyafrowns. “I’ve never seen him get sick before,” he points out.

“Maybe.”Yoruichi-san pauses, considering. It looks to Byakuya like she’s choosing her wordscarefully, and that angers him. Byakuya is young, but he is not a child, andhe’s worried about his teacher. He wants Yoruichi-san to tell him the wholetruth. “Ask Captain Ukitake to explain this himself when he recovers,” is whatYoruichi-san says, in the end. “For now - believe me when I tell you he’s no stranger tosickness, and believe me when I tell you he’ll pull through. He always does.” She cocks her headto the side, and gives Byakuya a tiny, lopsided, half-hearted smile. “Do youfeel better now?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” Byakuya shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

“Do you believe me?”

“About Captain Ukitake?”

Yoruichi-san nods.

Byakuya chews his lip. “My grandfather,” he says quietly,“told me my father was going to get better. I don’t know if I can believeanyone, when they say things like that.”

Yoruichi-san nods again. “Makes sense,” she says, and herwords are harsh enough that they catch Byakuya by surprise. “I’m not reallyinto lying to kids, though. If that helps.”

Byakuya sets his jaw and crosses his arms. “I’m not a kid,”he tells Yoruichi-san.

She smiles, as if Byakuya has said something amusing.“Right,” she says. “Silly me - of course you’re not.” With that, Yoruichi-sanwithdraws her hands from Byakuya’s shoulders, and stands back up. She doesn’ttower over him now, not exactly, but Byakuya still finds himself standingbegrudgingly in her shadow. He hopes that he will grow to be taller than her,one day. Perhaps he’ll grow to be tall like Captain Ukitake, he thinks. That,Byakuya decides, would be very nice indeed.

“I should go home,” Byakuya says. “My grandfather will beangry if I’m gone much longer.”

“Want me to come with you?” Yoruichi-san asks. “Keep youcompany for a little while?” Her eyes glint mischievously. “I can give your grandpaa piece of my mind if he gets in your shit when you get home.”

Despite himself, Byakuya feels a smile tugging at his lips. “No,”he says, “that’s quite all right, Yoruichi-san. Thank you.”

“Any time, Byakuya-bō.”Yoruichi-san tips her head to Byakuya in a casual gesture of farewell. “Anytime. You got that?”

Byakuyanods. He understands what she means, and in truth, he is grateful. “Gotit,” he says, and with that, he turns around and runs, feeling very fast andvery free, down the cobbled streets of the Seireitei, making his way back tothe place he calls his home.

—

Two months pass, and summer slowly gives way to autumn. Byakuyaspends as much time as he can outside, basking in the last vestiges of seasonalwarmth and working industriously at his swordsmanship technique, masteringmaneuvers and perfecting his form. He twists lithely from position to position,fancying that he looks elegant and deadly like a real soldier, but knowing thathe probably looks clumsy and silly - not like a boy, because Byakuya is surelytoo big and strong to be called a boy anymore,but like an amateur. Byakuya does not want to be an amateur. He wants to be amaster, someone to be envied and mimicked and admired.

It takes practice to become a master, Byakuya knows.

And so, tirelessly, Byakuya practices.

The sun rises and sets every day, and every day, Byakuyafinds himself less and less offended by the beauty that comes with thesecelestial markers of passing time. He stomachs what little of his grief andfear remain, and he applies himself to his work, and he tries his best not tothink very much, or feel very deeply.

One evening, as the sun is starting to sink below thehorizon and Byakuya, as ever, is wielding his wooden practice sword in thegardens with tireless arms and dauntless sprit. He makes his diligent waythrough a series of moves that he’s only just recently mastered, and then hedrops his hands, and he hangs his head, and he lets is sweat drip down into hisface, reveling in the dual stings of exertion in his arms and of sharp, saltyliquid in his eyes.

A hand, heavy and gentle, drops onto Byakuya’s shoulder.

Byakuya starts. He whips around, and he is about to admonishthis newcomer for daring to be so bold -

And then, Byakuya finds himself horribly glad that his faceis drenched in sweat. Perhaps, he thinks dimly, it will hide the tears thatbegin to spill from his eyes.

Captain Ukitake, face aglow with health and eyes bright withgood humor, grins. “Remind me,” he says, “to show you a thing or two about wieldinga blade in your non-dominant hand. Your form could use some work, I’m afraid.”

[twilight-adamo]

Author’s Notes: Brave New World, Chapter 2: The Here and Now

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709434/chapters/46906186

I rarely end up naming my chapters until I’ve finished them - this was no exception, and I ended up taking the chapter title from the last line. I considered it making “Now Was All We Had” or “Now Is All We Have” outright, but I felt that would be a bit too repetitive.

One week between new chapters! How long has it been since I last managed THAT? I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep that pace up, to be quite honest with you - I had actually hoped to spend substantially more time with my Fandom Trumps Hate commission this weekend. But that story is coming together, at least, and my muse wanted to talk Twilight, so here we are.

I’m not sure this chapter gives as much of a sense of Renée as I would have liked, and honestly poor Phil gets...no dialogue and next to no time in the spotlight at all. Still, hopefully it gives you some idea of who Bella’s mom is. I’ve read quite a few fanfics that portray her as chronically irresponsible and even abusive (not necessarily in a physical sense, but from a standpoint of neglect and overburdening her daughter with responsibility). I don’t necessarily oppose that depiction, and may use it or something close to it myself in a future story, but it wasn’t what I wanted here, and I don’t think it quite aligns with canon. She is depicted as absent-minded in the books, and as something of a free spirit, but she also canonically loves Bella very much and (I was surprised to learn) actually has a degree in elementary education and has evidently worked as a teacher. Honestly, as someone who has a decent job and maintains some aspects of my life well while being absent-minded in others, I sympathize with her.

So I wanted to show that Bella has two parents who love her very much, that Renée may not be a perfect parent but she tries and she misses her daughter fiercely. I also wanted to depict her as sex-positive and realistic about what her teenage daughter and said teenage daughter’s friends would be getting up to, something I touched on somewhat when I had Renée give Bella The Talk over the phone in the last book. That positivity, and Renée’s frankness in expecting it, ended up spinning into a few very raunchy scenes that I just couldn’t bring myself to cut. My characters got a little out of control for a while there.

(No, I have no idea how Rosalie and Emmett fit into one of those airplane lavatories at all, either. I barely fit into an airplane lavatory on my lonesome. But I have faith in their ability to manage it.)

In the course of writing this chapter, I spoke with a friend who’s familiar with Jacksonville, and researched the city independently. I ended up using next to none of it, aside from the climate in late June/early July, the name of Phil’s baseball team, and the fact that there are beaches and a zoo. Ultimately I’m not here to write a travelogue, there may be enough of that in the next chapter, and I didn’t feel I knew Jacksonville well enough personally to write any details convincingly. Besides, the emphasis was always going to be more on my characters than their surroundings.

The conversation with Renée on the beach consciously echoes similar conversations with Charlie in the last book, and of course prompts Alice to ask pointed questions as to what Bella wants to do about her mother. Bella’s answer, this time, is very different, precisely because of what happened to Charlie toward the end of the last book - but the prospect of getting married young, giving Renée one last milestone to witness in Bella’s life, emerges here, and, well, you can probably guess that will be relevant down the line. The Volturi are still looming over everything, even if they’re not yet aware of Bella, even if they’ve no reason to dictate her fate here and now. With so much uncertainty and danger ahead, I think it makes a certain amount of sense that even this Bella would want to celebrate and solidify what she has before she risks losing it all.

The sketchbook Alice filled for Renée was sort of a random notion that popped up once Bella had eaten the page of Rosalie/Emmett diagrams and breezed about a surprise, but I think it’s fitting here, and again echoes a scene from the last book, when Alice sketched Bella gazing up at the stars. (Incidentally, I did in fact have to stop and research whether pencil sketches are safe to eat. I still don’t recommend you do it at home, but I found that drawing charcoal is generally safe and graphite is minimally toxic, and I figured a hybrid would find it unpleasant but suffer no ill effects. The things I do for this story.) It provided a nice, touching scene to end this chapter on, and an opportunity for Renée to embrace Alice as one of “her girls”. I’m not entirely sure where I would have ended the chapter otherwise, so while Bella may be mortified by what happened on the plane, I suppose I should be grateful.

There’s a brief mention of Renée in roller derby gear, so I should say that, yes, one of the things I was considering for this chapter - before I realized I had more than enough to fill it - was a roller derby bout in which Renée would be one of the jammers. 2005 is a little early for Jacksonville Roller Derby to exist as the organization it is now, but I figured there might still have been people scraping together bouts before it was formally launched. Renée would have skated under the name “School Daze” and her gear would have been largely black, decorated with white paint forming the repeated “chalk” line “I will not jam in class.” I wrote a little of the scene, which I’m posting under the cut as another outtake, but soon decided I wasn’t really up for writing a bout in an interesting fashion, and coming up with names and other derby folks would have been too much work for a chapter that was already done. Something else I may have to work into side material or future installments in some way, I suppose.

As I’ve said previously, I’ve written a bit of Chapter 3 already - a scene or two that I’ve been looking forward to for some time - and I can’t wait to share it. But we’ll all have to wait, as I’ve more to write both before and after that section, and I don’t know quite how long I’ll be. Beyond Chapter 3, I’ve got the story properly outlined through approximately Chapter 8, and a vague sense of what happens after that. Here’s hoping things go smooth.

And now, the outtake I promised from Chapter 2. As usual, Tumblr doesn’t do the best job of preserving my formatting, so please bear with me.

The days flew by, filled with visits to local restaurants and landmarks and plenty of quality time with mom, my girlfriend and my friends. We didn’t see much of Phil, busy as he was, though he did end up spending a little extra time with us when a couple of his games were rained out, and we finally got to take in a Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp game around the start of the holiday weekend. I’ve never been that invested in baseball, but it was easy to cheer Phil and his team on as they beat the visiting team 4-1.

And then, on Sunday, it was time for the most unexpected part of this little trip.

“I still can’t believe you do roller derby,” I said, laughing, as we walked into the massive university athletic center where the bout was to be held.

“Am I getting cool mom points for this?” she asked, grinning.

“Serious cool mom points. Like...I don’t know, a thousand points, that sounds good.”

“Hey, I’ll take it,” mom replied. “It’s not a big deal. We don’t even have an official league yet, just a couple loose teams. We’re hoping to get more organized.”

“It’s still awesome,” Alice told her.

“Yeah, definitely,” I agreed. “I guess I just didn’t see it as something my mom would be doing.”

Mom smirked. “Advantages to being a young, hot mom. Thirties, flirty and thriving, baby.”

I stopped to stare at her. “Please don’t call yourself hot again.”

“What? I am a dish.”

“You’ve got a hot mom, Bells, it’s true,” Emmett offered from behind us.

“She is pretty cute,” Alice added.

“Hey! You know what we should do? Find our seats,” I said brightly, clapping my hands once, rolling my eyes as they all chuckled, then leaning over to hug my mother. “See you after the bout.”

“Definitely. I’ll introduce you to some of the girls, they’ve been dying to meet you,” mom replied, hugging me back. “Love you, Bella.”

“Love you, too,” I murmured back, and we headed up into the bleachers spread around the indoor track. It wasn’t a bad crowd for an amateur match, though the place was hardly packed full, and it looked like there were even concessions on sale.

“What do you think my derby name would be?” Alice asked, as we settled into our seats.

“Tinker Hell,” Rosalie offered. “Might as well work the manic pixie dream girl from hell angle.”

Alice’s mouth dropped open in mock outrage. “I think Bella would tell you I’m absolutely heavenly. And I am not a manic pixie dream girl. Bells?”

“Uh...you can be kind of manic. You’re definitely a pixie. And you’re my dream girl,” I told her, with a soft smile that widened as she beamed back at me. “Plus you’re just a little too wicked to be an angel, sorry, baby.”

“Hmph. Well I forgive you because you called me your dream girl,” she allowed, pouting.

“As long as we’re playing to type, though, Rosalie, you’d be Barbie Maul,” I added, smirking when Rose turned a level look and a slowly arching eyebrow on me in return. “Hey, you started it.”

“I also didn’t ask,” she sniffed.

“Well, fine, I will,” I returned. “I was thinking Terror Dactyl, or--”

“Murdermaid,” Rosalie interjected.

Emmett snickered. “Princess Scariel.”

“Tidal Rave,” Alice offered, laughing when I pouted at her. “They took the obvious ones. You have to admit you’re a little predictable, baby.”

“I have other interests!”

My girlfriend leaned into me, wrapping her arm around mine. “Yes. But you also have a very definite brand.”

“See if any of you are on my Christmas list this year,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help a small smile regardless.