HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHARLIE!
AND YES, I KNOW I'M UNFORGIVEABLY LATE!
For you, dear, I have a platter of tiny snack-sized fics--one sweet, one weird, one bloody, and one silly!
HANAMI
A zanpakutou is the mark of a Shinigami-a fragment of one’s own soul shaped to a fine cutting edge. Yet to treat them as mere swords, or as beings without consciousness, would be an untruth and a crime. They have minds of their own (as Kurosaki Ichigo could ruefully attest)…and sometimes they know the minds of their wielders better than the Shinigami themselves.
Kuchiki Byakuya, for one, did not realize why the tiny woman with the gaze that never wavered (even while her tinkling voice made protestations of greatest humility) made his stomach lurch and his palms sweat.
Senbonzakura, on the hand, understood perfectly. And bloomed.
SHINIGAMI CHAMPLOO
The “client” she found lying on a makeshift cot in a tiny tumbledown shack in a poor fishing village-though given the nature of her “business” it could have just as easily been a silken futon in a great castle in Edo. And the man could have just as well been a rich and elderly samurai lord than the young, penniless foreigner who lay there in the gray area between free and bound.
The only difference was the sword at her throat, and the young man whose glasses hid the expression in his eyes as he warned her, “Not. Yet.”
JUSTICE RIDES A DARK HORSE
The shockwaves from the battle were felt even in the Rukongai. The whole of Seireitei is watching him with a fear and reverence that would make his ancestors smirk in triumph. The 4th Division is alternately quaking and trying to figure out how best to clean up the mess. Zaraki seems to be meditating on what kind of sparring partner he would make. Hitsugaya looks vaguely sickened by the whole affair. Nemu has something waking in her that has never yet dared show itself.
But Ishida Ryuuken cares only for the look in Uryuu’s eyes, when he drops Kurotsuchi Mayuri’s severed head at his son’s feet.
LAB PRACTICUM
“And this, class,” crabby old Fujioka-sensei said, looking down over his half glasses at the small crumpled heap of Quincy, “Is why we have those pesky rules about resting after blood donation. TATSUMI-KUN! No using your fellow students to practice giving injections! Kurosaki Isshin, I think you ought to get Ishida-kun out of here before he gets mistaken for a cadaver.”
As he heaved the pale, bony bundle over his shoulders, Isshin consoled himself with the thought that, if he got bored waiting for Ryuuken to come to, there was always all that lovely long black hair to put beads and feathers and ribbons and clips in! ^^
For you, dear, I have a platter of tiny snack-sized fics--one sweet, one weird, one bloody, and one silly!
HANAMI
A zanpakutou is the mark of a Shinigami-a fragment of one’s own soul shaped to a fine cutting edge. Yet to treat them as mere swords, or as beings without consciousness, would be an untruth and a crime. They have minds of their own (as Kurosaki Ichigo could ruefully attest)…and sometimes they know the minds of their wielders better than the Shinigami themselves.
Kuchiki Byakuya, for one, did not realize why the tiny woman with the gaze that never wavered (even while her tinkling voice made protestations of greatest humility) made his stomach lurch and his palms sweat.
Senbonzakura, on the hand, understood perfectly. And bloomed.
SHINIGAMI CHAMPLOO
The “client” she found lying on a makeshift cot in a tiny tumbledown shack in a poor fishing village-though given the nature of her “business” it could have just as easily been a silken futon in a great castle in Edo. And the man could have just as well been a rich and elderly samurai lord than the young, penniless foreigner who lay there in the gray area between free and bound.
The only difference was the sword at her throat, and the young man whose glasses hid the expression in his eyes as he warned her, “Not. Yet.”
JUSTICE RIDES A DARK HORSE
The shockwaves from the battle were felt even in the Rukongai. The whole of Seireitei is watching him with a fear and reverence that would make his ancestors smirk in triumph. The 4th Division is alternately quaking and trying to figure out how best to clean up the mess. Zaraki seems to be meditating on what kind of sparring partner he would make. Hitsugaya looks vaguely sickened by the whole affair. Nemu has something waking in her that has never yet dared show itself.
But Ishida Ryuuken cares only for the look in Uryuu’s eyes, when he drops Kurotsuchi Mayuri’s severed head at his son’s feet.
LAB PRACTICUM
“And this, class,” crabby old Fujioka-sensei said, looking down over his half glasses at the small crumpled heap of Quincy, “Is why we have those pesky rules about resting after blood donation. TATSUMI-KUN! No using your fellow students to practice giving injections! Kurosaki Isshin, I think you ought to get Ishida-kun out of here before he gets mistaken for a cadaver.”
As he heaved the pale, bony bundle over his shoulders, Isshin consoled himself with the thought that, if he got bored waiting for Ryuuken to come to, there was always all that lovely long black hair to put beads and feathers and ribbons and clips in! ^^