(no subject)

[moonsheen]

Since it's summer and I have no more papers in the way, no dumb excuses, and am a hopeless masochist, I think I'll go with what all the cool kids are doing and open up the drabble meme again. You know the drill: Gimme series, characters, situation. And if it doesn't immediately break my brain (...chira yes, I AM looking at you) I'll write a short piece of god-knows-how-many-words-I-Am-Bad-At-This in response. So let's get to it.

Comments

[lacewood]

Ow, bugger, my brain is too tired to know what to ask for. Urahara and gang fic? Preferably goofy, but that's your call. This is probably a questionable way to say thanks for friending me. XD

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Urahara...somewhat minus gang fic. Sorry 'bout that. I've been reading the His Dark Materials trilogy, and it sort of shows.


The butterfly roused herself at the first sounds of morning life in the shop. She flew against the silver bars of her confinement, the patterns in her wings flashing from black to green to blue to black again. She was having a tiny, graceful hissy fit. Urahara touched the cage bottom and gave it a light spin, clucking at the back of his throat. He held his cane tightly.

“Now, now,” he murmured. “Terribly sorry, but you’ll just to accept this for now.”

The butterfly redoubled her efforts, almost rocking the cage on her own. It would do no good; the bars were well crafted, elegant as their current company, and reinforced to prevent any premature vanishing acts. “Can’t have you flying off yet—ah, careful,” Urahara said. “You’ll hurt yourself. It would be a pity if you died at it, no?”

He pulled a white flower out of his sleeve, and pressed it carefully through the bars. It was fresh, with a sweet scent that very likely belonged in another world. The insect hovered over it, warily.

“Here.” Urahara smiled. “Your favorite.” That seemed a fair enough offer. Appeased for the moment, the butterfly settled her thread-thin legs on the petals, unrolled her tongue, and helped herself to breakfast. The tips of her wings shivered.

Impatient little thing isn’t she, murmured the voice in his mind, on a low laugh. Urahara’s eyebrows rose. The corners of his lips turned up a little more.

Ah, he thought. She’s not the only one, is she?

Mm, came the reply, and if it were possible for that voice to sound drowsy, it did. If he pulled his hat a little lower and closed his eyes he imagined he would see a woman lounging in folds of a brilliantly red kimono. That woman’s eyelids heavy and her mouth formed in a pretty frown: Perhaps.

A little longer, he hummed; running his thumb over the head of his cane, turning. Not much longer.

Not much longer—it took great effort not to chuckle at the way he was sure those eyes would be narrowing at him—had better not be another century, Kisuke. Now hurry up and open your shop. The children will need to be woken up soon, too. Don’t forget.

He paused at the doors, and thought differently. No, he decided, the children could sleep in for a bit. And so could he, come to think of it. That idea was looking very promising, actually. The agitation in his mind did make him chuckle, this time. The shopkeeper shrugged, turning back.

“We’ll just have to stay open a little longer tonight, won’t we? Ah! Irresponsible, my princess calls me! You know we get more interesting business at those hours anyway…yes, yes you do…”

And somewhere in the city, Kuchiki Rukia balanced on a streetlamp, eyes tilted towards the sky. She listened for the wing beats of a swallowtail.

[harukami]

Oh, this is niiiiiiiiiice. Nice, nice, NICE. Simple yet complex and everything has layers on layers. Just pure excellence.