RyuuHime Drabbles x2 plus... IDEK.
So these were for a commentfic meme- the first as for margerydaw_s2 , and the second for wingedcrash . The third was for wet , the prompt being "lady gaga kills JB with her shoe"- I don't even know. The end was inspired by this icon, which she happened to be using.
---
She’s not listening to him. She doesn’t see visiting the Vizards as too scary or dangerous, but in her mind’s eye, she can already see Ishida-san’s brow furrow over his glasses, just like Ishida-kun’s does, can already hear him saying-
“I believe I told you to stay out of danger.”
Orihime nearly jumps in shock as she guiltily turns around to face none other than Ishida-san himself, head stuck out of the car window in spite of the rain.
"I am," she says more than a little guiltily. She wonders if this is what it's like to get caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Sora always let her get away with it.
"You define 'safe' as going to visit not just Shinigami, but Shinigami with Hollow sides?"
"They're still good people," she counters, eyes tracing the path of raindrop after raindrop from the wet ends of his hair, down the sharp planes of his face, and off his chin. The last bit looks kind of silly, like he's growing a watery beard, and quite ruins the rest of the scene. "I don't want to be useless anymore."
Ishida-san is quiet, quiet enough to make her think that maybe he just didn't hear her mumbling over the rain.
"Get in," he says quietly, motioning to his car. Orihime hesitates, just for the briefest moment, but still finds herself struggling to shut her umbrella, half-in the passenger seat, half outside. Raindrops are splattering all over his beige leather interior, but if his silence is anything to go by, he doesn't seem to mind. Red-faced, Orihime is still tugging mightily on the umbrella when Ishida-san's arms wrap around her from behind, his hands covering hers and providing the last bit of force needed to abruptly shut the umbrella and send her tumbling backwards practically into his lap. For just a moment, his breath is warm against her ear, and she feels a single stray raindrop fall from his hair and roll down the back of her neck. They sit there like that for just a few seconds longer than is right before Ishida-san pulls away, reaching across her lap to shut the door.
"You'll get my interior wet," is all he says, even though there's a tiny puddle already established around Orihime's feet. Sheepishly, she nods and proceeds to look at something very interesting out the window. In its reflection, she can see Ishida-san turning the car back on and turning back onto the main street, face expressionless. He's certainly no Kurosaki-kun in a suit, she thinks with a mixture of guilt and something warm churning in her stomach. No, he's a very wet and mysterious Quincy doctor. A tired one, to boot, she thinks, noticing just now the deep, bruise-like bags under his eyes.
Maybe she's a little bit surprised when they actually do end up at the Vizards' warehouse- if Ishida-kun hates Shinigami and Hollows as much as he does, she can only imagine the degree of Ishida-san's feelings.
"Thank you," she says, climbing a little awkwardly out of the car.
"Be back within an hour," is all he says in response. "And refrain from mentioning this to Uryuu, if you would. I don't want to put up with a griping son any more than I have to." That's what he says, but what she hears is "I don't want to worry my son, but I don't want to admit it, either". With a smile, she squares her shoulders and slips through Hacchi-san's barrier for some long-overdue answers. She feels his eyes on her long after she leaves his sight, and she can't say she doesn't mind, no matter how traitorous it makes a not-so-tiny part of her feel.
---
When she offers to stay the night with him, he gives her the guest room, right across from the one Ishida-kun spent his childhood in. Only part of it, really, Orihime thinks, flicking on the light with a suddenly shaking hand. He never got to really grow up. He'll be eighteen forever, old enough for university, but too young for anyone to treat you like a "grown-up".
The room is nearly bare and just as empty-feeling as the rest of the house- is this what it's been like for Ishida-san since Ishida-kun left? She's not sure she wants to know how that feels, even though she already does. A bed just the right size for a little boy sits at the far side of the room, its quilted coversheet white with crooked splotches of blue. Looking closer, Orihime's throat tightens painfully with the realization that the blue splotches are clumsily sewn crosses, probably the first he ever did. She just met Ishida-kun in high school, but that hardly stops her from falling to her knees with a dull thud and burying her face in the sheet, crying as much for the young man she just lost as for the little boy she never knew.
"Crying won't bring him back," Ishida-san says hoarsely from the doorway, wafts of cigarette smoke curling in the air above Orihime's head. Whether it's the smoke or something else, she realizes that she's been heaving dry sobs, her cheeks and eyelashes only mildly damp.
"Do- Do you ever think," she asks, rubbing her eyes on the back of her sleeve, "That maybe one day, you just run out of tears and can't cry anymore?" It's the only reason she can think of as to why his eyes are as dry as the butt of his cigarette- she knew he loved Ishida-kun, even if Ishida-kun himself never did.
"From a medical standpoint, no." The rest is left hanging, even as the cigarette smoke begins to dissipate, even as Orihime buries her face in the quilt again, eyes dry. He makes no move to comfort her, and both of them know it's probably for the best.
When she at last falls asleep, he's the one to put a blanket over her shoulders and place a glass of water on the floor beside her, so even if she's cried all her tears, from a medical standpoint, she'll be able to cry more.
---
It was the night of Some Generic Celebrity Awards Show, and as the name might suggest, copious amounts of celebrities had conglomerated in ridiculous outfits that seem to come with the trade of getting paid shitloads of money for doing... Stuff. "Stuff" can generally be defined as "having a lack of talent", "standing around and looking attractive while lypsincing", or designing the clothing that comes with the trade of doing the aforementioned "stuff". In any event, absolutely nobody was surprised, nor were they any good at pretending they were, when Justin Bieber won every fucking award once again. Alright, anyone who wasn't a rapper might have been a little shocked by "Most Sex had in 2010", but that's neither here nor there. Kanye West, the only rapper who hadn't actually gotten a piece of the Biebster, decided it was high time he did his thing. Quickly shaving the shape of a penis into his hair, Kanye put on his shutter shades and shambled up on stage.
"Yoyo, Bieber, I'm real happy for you-"
"-And Imma let you finish, Kanye," Lady GaGa (whom everyone had previously thought to be a festively decorated shrubbery) interjected "but it's time to crash this Bieber dam." As she spoke, she whipped a pair of sunglasses out of nowhere and put them on suavely.
"YYYYEEAAAAAAH!" A memetic, disembodied voice shouted, the same word suddenly scrolling across the city horizon.
"Ohnoes!" squeaked the Biebster, who had only just now figured out the pun and was still sort of clinging to the hope that all of this was just a fever dream induced by his proximity to Lady GaGa. Unfortunately for him, it was not. GodGa hiked up her leafy skirt festooned with fake snow and Christmas lights to reveal shoes that doubled as functioning chainsaws. Reaching down, she revved them up and proceeded to do several things unsuitable for public broadcasting. Of course, like any incident where a female celebrity has a "wardrobe malfunction", it was televised anyways. Celebrities (or their clothing) go down, ratings go up, you know?
Somewhere in the balcony, Waldorf and Stantler cried "DO-HO-HO!", while in the distance, the girl who cried because she loved Justin Bieber really did cry. Watching this from home (because anthropomorphic nations can do that", Austria took a sip of tea and changed the channel, preventing the author from admitting to the fact that she knows diddlysquat about Hetalia. ...Oops.
---
She’s not listening to him. She doesn’t see visiting the Vizards as too scary or dangerous, but in her mind’s eye, she can already see Ishida-san’s brow furrow over his glasses, just like Ishida-kun’s does, can already hear him saying-
“I believe I told you to stay out of danger.”
Orihime nearly jumps in shock as she guiltily turns around to face none other than Ishida-san himself, head stuck out of the car window in spite of the rain.
"I am," she says more than a little guiltily. She wonders if this is what it's like to get caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Sora always let her get away with it.
"You define 'safe' as going to visit not just Shinigami, but Shinigami with Hollow sides?"
"They're still good people," she counters, eyes tracing the path of raindrop after raindrop from the wet ends of his hair, down the sharp planes of his face, and off his chin. The last bit looks kind of silly, like he's growing a watery beard, and quite ruins the rest of the scene. "I don't want to be useless anymore."
Ishida-san is quiet, quiet enough to make her think that maybe he just didn't hear her mumbling over the rain.
"Get in," he says quietly, motioning to his car. Orihime hesitates, just for the briefest moment, but still finds herself struggling to shut her umbrella, half-in the passenger seat, half outside. Raindrops are splattering all over his beige leather interior, but if his silence is anything to go by, he doesn't seem to mind. Red-faced, Orihime is still tugging mightily on the umbrella when Ishida-san's arms wrap around her from behind, his hands covering hers and providing the last bit of force needed to abruptly shut the umbrella and send her tumbling backwards practically into his lap. For just a moment, his breath is warm against her ear, and she feels a single stray raindrop fall from his hair and roll down the back of her neck. They sit there like that for just a few seconds longer than is right before Ishida-san pulls away, reaching across her lap to shut the door.
"You'll get my interior wet," is all he says, even though there's a tiny puddle already established around Orihime's feet. Sheepishly, she nods and proceeds to look at something very interesting out the window. In its reflection, she can see Ishida-san turning the car back on and turning back onto the main street, face expressionless. He's certainly no Kurosaki-kun in a suit, she thinks with a mixture of guilt and something warm churning in her stomach. No, he's a very wet and mysterious Quincy doctor. A tired one, to boot, she thinks, noticing just now the deep, bruise-like bags under his eyes.
Maybe she's a little bit surprised when they actually do end up at the Vizards' warehouse- if Ishida-kun hates Shinigami and Hollows as much as he does, she can only imagine the degree of Ishida-san's feelings.
"Thank you," she says, climbing a little awkwardly out of the car.
"Be back within an hour," is all he says in response. "And refrain from mentioning this to Uryuu, if you would. I don't want to put up with a griping son any more than I have to." That's what he says, but what she hears is "I don't want to worry my son, but I don't want to admit it, either". With a smile, she squares her shoulders and slips through Hacchi-san's barrier for some long-overdue answers. She feels his eyes on her long after she leaves his sight, and she can't say she doesn't mind, no matter how traitorous it makes a not-so-tiny part of her feel.
---
When she offers to stay the night with him, he gives her the guest room, right across from the one Ishida-kun spent his childhood in. Only part of it, really, Orihime thinks, flicking on the light with a suddenly shaking hand. He never got to really grow up. He'll be eighteen forever, old enough for university, but too young for anyone to treat you like a "grown-up".
The room is nearly bare and just as empty-feeling as the rest of the house- is this what it's been like for Ishida-san since Ishida-kun left? She's not sure she wants to know how that feels, even though she already does. A bed just the right size for a little boy sits at the far side of the room, its quilted coversheet white with crooked splotches of blue. Looking closer, Orihime's throat tightens painfully with the realization that the blue splotches are clumsily sewn crosses, probably the first he ever did. She just met Ishida-kun in high school, but that hardly stops her from falling to her knees with a dull thud and burying her face in the sheet, crying as much for the young man she just lost as for the little boy she never knew.
"Crying won't bring him back," Ishida-san says hoarsely from the doorway, wafts of cigarette smoke curling in the air above Orihime's head. Whether it's the smoke or something else, she realizes that she's been heaving dry sobs, her cheeks and eyelashes only mildly damp.
"Do- Do you ever think," she asks, rubbing her eyes on the back of her sleeve, "That maybe one day, you just run out of tears and can't cry anymore?" It's the only reason she can think of as to why his eyes are as dry as the butt of his cigarette- she knew he loved Ishida-kun, even if Ishida-kun himself never did.
"From a medical standpoint, no." The rest is left hanging, even as the cigarette smoke begins to dissipate, even as Orihime buries her face in the quilt again, eyes dry. He makes no move to comfort her, and both of them know it's probably for the best.
When she at last falls asleep, he's the one to put a blanket over her shoulders and place a glass of water on the floor beside her, so even if she's cried all her tears, from a medical standpoint, she'll be able to cry more.
---
It was the night of Some Generic Celebrity Awards Show, and as the name might suggest, copious amounts of celebrities had conglomerated in ridiculous outfits that seem to come with the trade of getting paid shitloads of money for doing... Stuff. "Stuff" can generally be defined as "having a lack of talent", "standing around and looking attractive while lypsincing", or designing the clothing that comes with the trade of doing the aforementioned "stuff". In any event, absolutely nobody was surprised, nor were they any good at pretending they were, when Justin Bieber won every fucking award once again. Alright, anyone who wasn't a rapper might have been a little shocked by "Most Sex had in 2010", but that's neither here nor there. Kanye West, the only rapper who hadn't actually gotten a piece of the Biebster, decided it was high time he did his thing. Quickly shaving the shape of a penis into his hair, Kanye put on his shutter shades and shambled up on stage.
"Yoyo, Bieber, I'm real happy for you-"
"-And Imma let you finish, Kanye," Lady GaGa (whom everyone had previously thought to be a festively decorated shrubbery) interjected "but it's time to crash this Bieber dam." As she spoke, she whipped a pair of sunglasses out of nowhere and put them on suavely.
"YYYYEEAAAAAAH!" A memetic, disembodied voice shouted, the same word suddenly scrolling across the city horizon.
"Ohnoes!" squeaked the Biebster, who had only just now figured out the pun and was still sort of clinging to the hope that all of this was just a fever dream induced by his proximity to Lady GaGa. Unfortunately for him, it was not. GodGa hiked up her leafy skirt festooned with fake snow and Christmas lights to reveal shoes that doubled as functioning chainsaws. Reaching down, she revved them up and proceeded to do several things unsuitable for public broadcasting. Of course, like any incident where a female celebrity has a "wardrobe malfunction", it was televised anyways. Celebrities (or their clothing) go down, ratings go up, you know?
Somewhere in the balcony, Waldorf and Stantler cried "DO-HO-HO!", while in the distance, the girl who cried because she loved Justin Bieber really did cry. Watching this from home (because anthropomorphic nations can do that", Austria took a sip of tea and changed the channel, preventing the author from admitting to the fact that she knows diddlysquat about Hetalia. ...Oops.