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dazlious2012-06-03 10:47 pm
phantastus) wrote in dazlious2012-06-03 10:47 pm
64-Prompt Drabble Requests
SUP FOLKS I FEEL LIKE WRITING TONIGHT between my tags.
Comment here with two (or more) characters and pick a prompt or three-- I'll write you a drabble based on that prompt! These prompts can either be fandom-based (although I'm afraid I'm a one-trick pony and only trust myself to do Silent Hill justice, although I might make exceptions) or based on RP CR that we have.
The prompts are first-come, first-serve-- I wanna exercise my writing chops so try not to pick something that's already been chosen! Feel free to pick as many as you want as long as they haven't been picked already!
PROMPTS
The Theme List
1. 2 a.m.
2. metaphor
3. sky
4. lost scene
5. degrees
6. seize the day
7. opposite
*8. passions run
*9. connection
*10. lull and storm
*11. animal
12. children
*13. we all float on
*14. chess
15. duty
16. rip
17. missing time
18. crest
*19. itch
20. explode
*21. rise
*22. crumble
23. range
*24. fight/flight
25. acid
26. color
*27. give
28. needle
*29. locks
30. slope
*31. correspondence
32. linger
33. charm
*34. roads
35. hunger
36. reciprocity
*37. kind
38. fruity
39. half-life
*40. comedy of errors
41. tragedy
*42. hope is the thing with feathers
43. empire
*44. turpentine kisses and mistaken blows
45. rings
*46. dust
47. every you, every me
*48. project
49. adore
*50. murmur
51. above
52. below
*53. incalculable
54. wire
*55. landslide
*56. the beginning is the end is the beginning
57. door
*58. enemy gate
*59. stone
*60. bright
*61. stories
62. chime
*63. laugh
64. hold
Comment here with two (or more) characters and pick a prompt or three-- I'll write you a drabble based on that prompt! These prompts can either be fandom-based (although I'm afraid I'm a one-trick pony and only trust myself to do Silent Hill justice, although I might make exceptions) or based on RP CR that we have.
The prompts are first-come, first-serve-- I wanna exercise my writing chops so try not to pick something that's already been chosen! Feel free to pick as many as you want as long as they haven't been picked already!
The Theme List
1. 2 a.m.
2. metaphor
3. sky
4. lost scene
5. degrees
6. seize the day
7. opposite
*8. passions run
*9. connection
*10. lull and storm
*11. animal
12. children
*13. we all float on
*14. chess
15. duty
16. rip
17. missing time
18. crest
*19. itch
20. explode
*21. rise
*22. crumble
23. range
*24. fight/flight
25. acid
26. color
*27. give
28. needle
*29. locks
30. slope
*31. correspondence
32. linger
33. charm
*34. roads
35. hunger
36. reciprocity
*37. kind
38. fruity
39. half-life
*40. comedy of errors
41. tragedy
*42. hope is the thing with feathers
43. empire
*44. turpentine kisses and mistaken blows
45. rings
*46. dust
47. every you, every me
*48. project
49. adore
*50. murmur
51. above
52. below
*53. incalculable
54. wire
*55. landslide
*56. the beginning is the end is the beginning
57. door
*58. enemy gate
*59. stone
*60. bright
*61. stories
62. chime
*63. laugh
64. hold
1
YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.
I DO KNOW WHAT TO DO. Meranda, Maurice, and Heather (1)
Meranda Leeds' favorite was "the asscrack of dawn".
No other worldly phrase seemed to do that feeling justice, and it was just crude enough to get her feelings across.
Today was an asscrack-of-dawn day. That much she knew. What she didn't know yet was just how literal that descriptor was going to wind up being.
Meranda dragged herself out of bed with a physical lethargy that matched the mental perfectly. She worked a long shift later that afternoon and she was not looking forward to it. Her thoughts were still wrapped up in the blankets on her bed as she slogged down the hallway towards the kitchen to turn the coffeepot on, pretty much the only thing that could make the rest of the day even remotely bearable.
As the machine of Caffeine Nirvana bubbled to life, Meranda turned her bleary gaze to the living room, where a snoring lump on the couch indicated her housemate's presence. Without even thinking about it, she looked past the couch to make sure the curtains were fully-drawn, since she didn't feel like handling the pained screams that would ensue if a bit of sunlight touched down on him before he had a chance to dramatically scramble away from it.
... Asscrack of dawn, she thought to herself again, reminded of the phrase for no reason that she could particularly put her finger on.
Then she trundled back down the hall to turn her dinosaur of a laptop on so that it could boot up in its usual molasses-trickle way while the coffee brewed. It was something of a routine.
As the coffee pot bubbled fuller and fuller, she eventually emerged from the depths of her room, marginally more dressed than before. Letting out a deep sigh of the relief that only came with caffienation on a cruddy morning. Once she had a mug of steaming black gold in her hand and had swallowed enough of it to return to a state somewhat resembling awareness, she leaned back against the counter and looked back over into the living room, the edge of the mug meeting her lips.
And then coffee got sprayed all over the kitchen floor.
"HUTCH!"
The lump on the couch snorted awake, the blanket shifting and a wild head of bright yellow hair that had been matted up on one side from a night spent shoved against the armrest popping up.
"Whzzunhg huh? WHAT?!"
"HUTCH!" she screamed again, because it seemed like the only word that could adequately explain what she was seeing, and pointed to what sat behind the couch.
Maurice Hutch, who shared the house and sometimes heated words with Meranda, pushed himself up on one arm and gave her an aggravated, nose-wrinkled look of bafflement, before twisting around to look where she had indicated.
His whole body jerked in surprise.
Then it rested for a moment as the cogs underneath his wild rocker mullet worked at processing what he was seeing.
Then he relaxed.
"Oh yeah," he said. "That."
Propped up against the closed curtains of the window was what seemed to be a large, official-looking sign, or roughly half of one. Black, no-nonsense capital letters spanning across it proudly spelled out two words:
"And what," hissed Meranda, "is THAT?"
Maurice lifted a pudgy hand and ran it through his hair, still looking at the sign, as though trying to think of the explanation that would get him beaten the least. "It's, uh... kind of a long story..."
"Maurice, tell my why I have a giant sign that says BUTT HOLE in my living room."
Her voice had gone high and strained and the sentence had leaped out in one breath, because in the space of two seconds, she had completely run out of patience for the situation. Maurice quailed, pulling the blanket back up to his chin, but was fortunately spared from further interrogation by a pair of long, skinny arms emerging from under some pillows on the other end of the couch in a stretch.
"Nng, what's all the screaming for?"
The arms had been followed by a scruffy blond head, which Meranda proceeded to glare at.
Oh. Oh. That explained everything from Maurice being gone all night to the BUTT HOLE sign. She wasn't sure how it explained it yet, but it did. Every time the vampire went off with his buddy Daisy or whatever her name was (in truth, Meranda actually knew the girl's name just fine-- but pretending she didn't give enough of a shit to remember it made her feel a little better. It was easier to believe that she didn't feel a resentful stab of loneliness every time Maurice went galavanting off on adventures with her and his other friends that way), something like this happened.
He would come home with paint all over him or a giant bundle of pool noodles or pillowcase full of candy whose brands she'd never heard of or a life-sized cardboard Edward Cullen cutout dressed in luau getup, and every time he would tell her 'It's a long story' and nothing else.
Today it was a giant sign that said BUTT HOLE.
And she wasn't surprised at all to hear the same excuse being trotted out.
So she glared at his friend.
It was all her fault.
Oblivious to the amount of venom currently being sent in her direction, the freckled teen scrubbed at her eyes and with a fist and blinked over the back of the couch. Unlike Maurice, her immediate response to the sight after the obligatory double-take was to burst into raspy laughter.
"Oh man! I totally forgot! Dude, I just-- I can't. I can't. Zilla!" Bracing her back against the armrest she'd evidently spent the night (or whatever had remained of the night when they'd gotten in) curled up against, she reached out with a lanky leg and gave Maurice a nudge with her foot. "Tell her!"
Maurice shoved the sock-clad toes away with a mumble of "C'mon, 'Thur!" and looked over at Meranda apprehensively, as though expecting to get yelled at. Under normal circumstances, she probably would have, but she did want to hear what had happened. So instead she folded her arms. "Yeah, 'Zilla," she spat. She wasn't sure where that nickname came from. It was just another fun inside-joke with his new friends that she'd never been privy to. "Tell me."
"Well," Maurice said, squirming to sit up a little straighter and pressing two thick fingers together. "We were out last night, y'know, just wanderin' around some city somewhere..."
"Drunk," added 'Thur' helpfully.
"Yeah, and uh..." Despite himself, the vampire's face split into a wobbly gap-toothed grin and a high-pitched giggle escaped him. "We found-- it was like two AM, we thought we were hallucinating at first-- this STREET."
"Called BUTT HOLE ROAD," the teenager finished for him, unable to resist leaping into the story. "Honest to GOD that's what it was called. And like... miraculously, there was NO GRAFFITI on it ANYWHERE--"
"So Heather turned to me and was like-- was like-- ZILLA, WE TOTALLY NEED TO STEAL THIS SIGN!! So... we did!"
Meranda watched sourly as the pair dissolved into laughter as they undoubtedly had the night before when they had found it to begin with. She'd thought that hearing the story would make her feel better-- that it would undoubtedly be something completely stupid that she wouldn't feel cheated for having missed. Well, it was completely stupid, but for some reason that just made it worse.
"Dude," Heather said, plopping onto her knees. "How did we even TAKE it? I just remember finding it, nothing in between."
"I don't even KNOW... it looks like a pretty clean cut... did we like... SAW IT OFF? Oh my god."
"I THINK- ... no, wait... NO! I think we did! Do you remember going into some guy's garden shed or am I just nuts?"
"... Shit, I think we did. Oh my god."
The conversation faded out as Meranda retreated down the darkened hallway, fingers locked around the mug like a vice. She didn't think it was possible to feel worse than she had when she'd just woken up, but she did.
Fuck everything.
She was going back to bed.
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Heather & Nero, 8
Am I doin it rite???
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Heather & Ironhide (Abax); 9. connection
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AND A NEW ONE: Heather and Envy, 39 half-life
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Heather and Coop, 29!
(HAHA I'M SO FUNNY)no subject
Starscream and Heather.
#44
/failing poker face
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31, Heather, Harry and Cybil
MY BIAS. IT'S SHOWING.Good+ Ending!Cybil and Heather (7)
A small wave of water sloshed onto the sidewalk and soaked the feet of anyone unfortunate enough to be walking close to the curb as the car rolled through, and Cybil sighed.
Normally she liked driving on rainy days. The patter of rain on the windshield and the rhythmic chugging of the wipers shut out the outside world nicely and she was pretty damn good at driving with a hot coffee in one hand. It was a chunk of time to relax in a little moving bubble of metal and rubber, to actually hear her own thoughts without having to listen to red-faced officers bawling angry diatribes over simple paperwork or deal with the usual suspects trying to convince her that the weed wasn't theirs, despite being lodged in places she hoped to dear god no one would put someone else's belongings. Hers was a career where you needed some peace and quiet sometimes-- otherwise you'd just lose it.
But today she was not happy in the slightest to be on the road, and the reason was sitting next to her with its knees tucked to its chest and its face turned petulantly to the window.
Her initial (genuine, though admittedly-curt) inquiry after her passenger's wellbeing had been met with a sour "I'm fine.", but she had the peripheral vision of a hawk and she'd seen the surreptitious swipes at the bruises and bloodied nostrils whenever the girl thought she wasn't looking.
The first fifteen minutes or so after pulling out of the station were spent in stony silence as the watercolor lights outside washed over them.
But after awhile, Cybil decided it was time to say something. Disappointed silent treatments could work wonders on guilty teenage consciences, but Heather seemed immune to almost any kind of parental disapproval so she doubted this one was doing anything.
"I hope you realize how serious the trouble you're in is, Heather." Her tone was clipped and she could see that her eyes were icy in the overhead mirror.
"S'not like I haven't been in trouble before," muttered the girl sullenly, still refusing to look at the woman beside her. She'd pulled her hood up over her head, perhaps aware of the eyes on her and wanting to bar any chance of being observed furthe.
"Schoolyard brawls and detentions are one thing. Landing yourself in a holding cell for going to a bad part of town after curfew and punching someone's front teeth out is another thing entirely. Your father is devastated," Cybil said coldly, "and now you've got a record. I hope you're happy with yourself."
There was no reply at first. Then, almost too softly to hear, there was a sniff and a rustle as she lifted her arm to wipe tellingly at her nose again.
Cybil's lungs swelled in a frustrated sigh.
She had known Cheryl Mason-- known now under Witness Protection as 'Heather Morris'-- for sixteen years. Since her birth, actually. Not on a constant basis, no-- until her transfer from Brahms to Bangor, their connection had mainly been through letters and phonecalls-- but she'd still watched the girl grow up, whether it was in person or through photographs. And it had been a rough ride for the kid, she acknowledged that.
A motherless childhood was no picnic, and while Harry Mason was a better father than Cybil had believed could exist in this cold and often-cruel world (before she'd met him, anyway), raising a child alone was a difficult and lonely task-- one he had often lamented to her that he wasn't doing well enough. Then there had been the shadow of the past, an incident that had uprooted them from their home; an armed gunman breaking into their home with murder and kidnapping in mind. A gunman who'd had to be shot down right in front of her to prevent the unthinkable from happening.
A haunting, harrowing ordeal for any toddler-- which was what Heather had been at the time.
Then came the years of constant moving. Apartment to apartment, town to town, school to school. No time to form lasting friendships, no place to truly call home. All the while with the ever-present threat of being found by the people they were trying to avoid, looming over them both like a heavy-bellied cloud.
Stick all those ingredients in the oven and you'd get a piping hot pan of troubled teen. That was understandable. Even expected. Being a policewoman who'd seen countless wayward kids in her time, she knew that better than anyone. She'd told Harry to expect trouble years ago, not as discouragement but a gentle warning of the rocky road that was to come.
But not even she had expected Heather to turn into a fullblown delinquent.
"I thought you two had a recent talk about this kind of thing," she said, keeping one eye on the road even as she turned her head to the bedraggled girl. "He said you'd worked some things out."
Heather rolled her shoulders in a morose shrug and made a noncommittal noise.
"He loves you, you know. And he worries about you. A lot."
Finally, the girl let out a snort and spoke, in a croaky voice that sounded like the prelude to a sore throat. "Yeah, I know. If I had to take a quiz on how much he worries about me, I'd get an A because he doesn't let me forget."
"Well, he'd worry a lot less if you didn't keep giving him reasons to," Cybil said sharply. It was a tone that had gotten winces out of the many she'd lectured on drugs or petty theft, but Heather didn't so much as twitch. The policewoman watched her a moment longer, then rolled her eyes up and sighed, voice softening. "Look. I know you think I'm Bad Cop, trying to scare you straight, but I'm not. Being a teenager is tough. You've been through a lot and you're still going through a lot. But that doesn't mean you can act out like this. It's taking everything that anyone has ever done for you and spitting on it. Your father doesn't deserve that, Heather."
Heather's head whipped around at that, voice rising.
"I'm not trying to spit on him!"
Cybil wasn't about to get into a passionate screaming match with a hotheaded high-schooler in her own car. She was willing to do a lot of things for Harry, but not that. So her words were clipped and to the point. "Then what are you trying to do?"
The girl huffed, looking away again. "You wouldn't understand. You're a cop. We're pretty much polar opposites."
The word dripped venom, and Cybil had to admit, that hurt a little bit. There had been a time when Harry's daughter's eyes had glowed with admiration whenever Cybil came to visit, and when she had let out thrilled gasps every time she'd been allowed to hold the shiny badge or wear the over-large police cap. And then at some point down the road, the admiration had dramatically reversed itself and become contempt for anything related to law-enforcement. It was a phase, and one that she understood to an extent, but still.
"Actually, I'd understand better than you might think."
"Yeah, right," Heather snorted dismissively, folding her arms. "That's what everybody says. But none of them do."
There was a pause as Cybil drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, briefly deliberating.
"... Did you know I was an orphan?"
Heather looked up, apparently caught off-guard. "... Uh. ... No..."
Cybil nodded, eyes hooded, and flipped on the turn signal to make a lane-change. "My parents died when I was very small. A burglar broke into our house and shot them. I saw it, from where I was hiding in the closet." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before going on. "... I spent most of my childhood being bounced from foster home to foster home. Sometimes clear on the opposite coast of the one I started on."
She looked over to Heather once more and, noting the girl's wide eyes, smiled sadly.
"Sound familiar?"
"... I... I didn't know," Heather said at last, voice small. "Dad... never told me that."
"That's because he doesn't know. You're the first person I've talked to about that in quite some time." The smile turned fonder, although she couldn't get it to lose its melancholy twinge. "You remind me a lot of the way I was when I was your age, Heather. You're smart. Kind. Passionate. And I know you like helping people-- hatred for the badge or not. You got that from your dad."
The last bit was said pointedly, and Heather turned her head away again, cheeks reddening.
"I guess the only thing I don't understand is why you seem so determined to ignore what you have," Cybil continued when it was obvious that the girl wasn't going to weigh in on the topic of her virtues. "You have a father who loves you. Who is willing to root for you no matter what. That's big, Heather. I would have... I would have given anything to have that kind of support when I was sixteen."
"I'm sorry, okay?" Heather mumbled, staring down at her lap. "You didn't have any parents and turned out awesome and I've got a great dad but I'm an ungrateful piece of shit so I've fucked it all up."
"That's not what I'm saying. I didn't bring up my story to make you feel guilty, or selfish. There'll always be someone starving in Africa who's worse off than you and that doesn't make you a bad person," Cybil said gently. They were at a red light, so she took the liberty of taking a hand off the wheel and giving Heather's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I'm just trying to help. Don't make the mistake of discounting the good things. I know the world can seem like a bad placeand I won't lie to you... most of the time, it is. ... But you don't have to go down with it. You're better than that."
She straightened up in her seat, returning her hand to the wheel.
"I felt a lot of anger when I was a teenager, too. But I kept my nose clean. Stayed away from drugs and bad crowds. I wanted to make a difference-- help make sure that no kid ever had to go through what I did-- what you did. And I couldn't do that by being angry all the time."
On the passenger side, Heather had started sitting a little straighter too-- swiping an arm across her nose again.
"But you were mad. Real mad, right? But you got over it," she said, the sullenness gone and replaced instead with a hopeful note. "You grew up and turned out fine."
"Yes, I was angry. Most kids who've been through things like we have are at least a little angry. It's normal."
An enormous, relieved grin broke across Heather's face, making her blackened eye squint.
"Oh my god. I thought I was-- I thought I was broken or something," she exclaimed. "I thought I was-- I don't know, I just... I'm so mad, all the time. And-- and I take it out on Dad and I just-- hate myself, I hate everything. So much. I thought I was evil."
"Being angry doesn't make you evil, Heather. You just need to channel it in a positive way. Find an appropriate outlet," said Cybil. And then, with a slightly wry smile, she added, "Getting into fist fights in front of the bowling alley is not an example of an appropriate outlet."
That dragged a sheepish giggle out of Heather, who scrubbed some hair out of her face. "Not even if he deserved it?"
"Not even if he deserved it."
A companionable quiet descended between them for a moment.
Then Heather spoke up again.
"So... how did you deal with wanting to hurt people?"
That caught Cybil by surprise.
"With... what?"
"Y... you know. Not like, people in general, but just..." Enthusiasm fading slightly, Heather tilted her head. "That... bloodthirstiness. Just... wanting to hurt stuff. To fight. That trapped feeling. Where you just... feel so scared and mad and... like a wild animal. You know? Like you're going crazy. And you just... um..."
She trailed off there, suddenly looking insecure-- and a little scared.
"... You said you were angry like me when you were a kid. Right"
"... I was angry, yes, but I didn't want..." Cybil looked at the girl again, and this time there was a very real flutter of concern in her heart. "Tell me more about... about this feeling."
"... Well..." Looking now like she regretted opening her mouth at all, she looked back down into her lap, where her bruised fingers were clenched into loose, bloodied fists. Her words were high and breathless. "I mean... I don't mean like... serial killer stuff. That sadistic crap? That's different. I don't mean that. But I just... sometimes, you know? There's so many bad people out there and sometimes I just wanna... wanna go out and hurt them. hurt them until they won't ever do anything to hurt me-- or anybody-- ever again. Like... not put them in jail, but just... destroy them. With my fists. Or my teeth. Or fire. I dream about it sometimes. They're not good dreams, but I feel so powerful. Like a ... werewolf or something-- all crazy and bloodthirsty but strong. Like a monster. ... Or... or a god."
Cybil's heart pounded. She hoped she didn't look as pale as she felt.
"... Repeat that?"
Now looking frightened, Heather fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. "... Or a god?" she said again, meekly.
Harry had worried about it a lot.
For the first year especially, but even after that sometimes the old fears would well up again.
Cybil had spent a lot of late nights on the phone calming the 'new' father down, trying to quell his concerns with quiet, sound logic. And for the most part she had believed it. As questionable as the baby's origins had been, all signs pointed to her being a normal-- if inexplicable-- infant. Her head didn't spin, she uttered happy baby babble rather than demonic whispers, and there was no Omen-like sociopathy as she grew up. Cheryl Mason 2.0 had been a happy, rambunctious little girl who specialized in blowing disgusting-sounding raspberries and saving bugs by capturing them in cups and setting them free in the garden. She liked dinosaurs and dolls and had jack-knifed off of her bike more times than could be counted. She was wild and sweet and everything a child should have been.
But now, with the teenaged Cheryl Mason before her and looking abjectly frightened, images that Cybil hadn't thought about in years were springing back to her mind's eye.
A veiled, barefoot corpse, smoldering and smoking on a floor of wire grating.
And above it, a shaggy, towering creature with eyes that burned like firebrands and still-wet wings that stretched for the first time above a haloed, infernal head.
"... Ms. Bennett?" Heather asked quaveringly, and Cybil shook herself.
"I think... it's time to have a talk with your father."
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40 for James and Mary
56 for Harry and Cybil
Routeverse!Heather, Henry, and Harry (6)
Heather, who had been there the longest, preached it until her mouth ran dry. There was no question that, as the years passed and her time spent in the colorful land of Johto accumulated, she more than any of them knew what it was like to lose people over and over.
She was all too happy to tell her tales, too-- how she'd learned early on not to waste time keeping people at arm's length. That each day was a gift that could be slapped out of your hands at any second and that the regret of not having done ANYTHING would far outweigh the sadness of having gotten close to someone and then lost them.
That Johto's fickleness had only honed a lesson she'd received long before: that you can lose everything in a matter of minutes and god help you if you'd squandered your time.
And Henry, who was returning to an uncertain future, had more reason than ever to take advantage of the newly-bought-- but not infinite-- time he had. To prepare, to embolden himself for what was to come. He had a newborn God to fight, and the very thought of facing it and its conjuror filled him from head to toe with a horrible squirming not unlike that of the cold, meaty slugs that crawled across the many grungy surfaces of the Otherworld that had gripped his apartment complex back home.
But here he was, temporarily stranded in what might as well be one giant, exotic vacation spot, and in the company of two people who'd been subject to more or less the same immense task that he had been forced into-- if not a greater one. And they'd done it.
It was a precious and fleeting chance that god only knew how many others in his situation would have begged for.
And yet, neither of them seemed to be able to put their money where their mouth was.
For all her bravado, Heather was all too often paralyzed by doubt and worry.
Would doing this ruin a friendship and spoil everything?
Would it waste the time even more disastrously than not taking any action at all?
Was dancing on the edge of a deeper friendship forever better than taking the plunge and inadvertently ruining her chances all around?
And Henry would be happy just shutting himself up in hotel rooms, rain and shine. He took comfort in the familiarity, the quiet, the near lack of anything and everything that could possibly be scary or upsetting. An object at rest is likely to remain at rest, and Henry quickly reverted to something as close to his life before Silent Hill and Johto as possible, without even thinking about it.
It was for this reason that Harry Mason took every opportunity to encourage his daughter to pursue happiness, to drag Henry outside for some much-needed fresh air, and to give himself up fully to cherishing his strange little family, now that he was here in this place where bills, a career, and enemies were no longer on the table.
It figured that the only one out of the three who truly knew how to seize the day was the man who was already dead.
Re: Routeverse!Heather, Henry, and Harry (6)
Alright, let me be a little more coherent. That was absolutely beautiful. The style, the word choice, and the content all worked together to basically just smash my heart into a million pieces, but in the best possible way. The way you've laid out their struggles here, the way the characters are portrayed... good god. It gave a very poignant and touching portrait of what's going on inside their heads, what they've got to deal with, and the uncertain happiness they feel in Johto. Oh god. I just love this so much.
As always, your writing is all kinds of perfect and I feel humbled just to read it. Thank you so much for this <3
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Also Heather and her father, 55! :3
Kaito and Heather (3)
The gloved hands holding onto her waist gently but firmly did nothing to quell the sensation.
Actually, she was pretty sure they were making it worse. The stupid tingly butterflies may have been somewhat enjoyable (in a stupid, incredibly girly way) under normal circumstances, but in this one, all they did was make her all the more aware of the horrifying weightless feeling where she was pretty sure most of her insides used to be.
"... Heather," said the hands' owner next to her ear. "Having second thoughts?"
"I'm not, but my liver and kidneys totally just bailed on me."
"... You looked down, didn't you."
"I totally looked down."
"I TOLD you not to..."
"I couldn't HELP it, it was THERE, I HAD to look at it!" Heather tightened her hands around his. "I changed my mind. Let's not do this and say we did."
Kaito Kuroba heaved a sigh, shrugging his shoulders to adjust the position of the graceful, white-winged contraption on his back. They had made it to the edge of the Goldenrod Department Store's rooftop before Heather had started to get cold feet about their afternoon plans.
"You promised you'd help me test out my new glider," he reminded her, not entirely seriously, but still with a teasing edge. He had known Heather Mason for almost two years now and it seemed there were few things she backed down from. The prospect of gliding over the city on a pair of hand-built wings was apparently one of them. "Come on, we won't even be as high as that time we went up on my Charizard."
"That was different, your Charizard was alive and could think and change course if it was about to slam into a building or something! A hang-glider isn't!"
"But I'm controlling the hang-glider and I'm alive. And I can think."
"Yeah, well, I'm startin' to think you WEREN'T when you came up with THIS idea!" Heather shot back, still unable to peel her eyes away from the tiny antlike people moving around far below.
Kaito rolled his eyes.
"Awesome-san... would it help if you looked up at the sky instead of down at the ground?"
That stopped Heather in her tracks for a moment or so while it computed. "I-- ... yeah, I guess, but how the heck am I supposed to do THAT while I hang on?"
"Like this."
Not bothering to bite back a toothy grin, Kaito promptly stopped steadying his friend, opting instead to scoop her straight off her feet with his hands at her knees and back-- and then hopping straight off the building, the warm gusts of Goldenrod air catching the glider's wings and carrying them zipping between the tall buildings like the Wingulls that pinwheeled through the sky at the edges of town where civilization met sea.
Judging by the shriek of mingled surprise and outrage, there would be hell to pay later, but he figured the way she'd flung her arms around his neck to cling to him made it worth the consequences.
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37. Jodie Mason and Heather and possibly Harry idk
59. Harry and Cheryl
58. Harry and Alessa
50. Harry and Jodie
14. Harry, Henry and Heather
48. Harry and all the characters from the games he adopts. /all Silent Hill character that aren't evil.
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Crow & Heather - 21, 46
Crow, Kaito & Heather - 53
Heather & Harry - 27
Team Silent (+/- add-ons?) - 34
i'm sorry
2.
You know what to do.
a whole fuck of them. Morphinverse!Maurice and Fenix (2)
Maurice looked up from the dashboard, against which he'd spread out a word-search puzzle and was circling things slowly so as to avoid poking holes in the paper, to give a curious look to the scruffy redhead sitting next to him. "Oh. Uh... why's that?"
Jonesy was leaning back in the seat with his arms behind his head and one overlarge sneaker on the dashboard, carelessly.
"Because now when I say 'I'm a bear', I get to mean it figuratively and literally."
As Maurice stared at his fellow new recruit in mild confusion, Jonesy slowly winked, mouth stretched open in a big, bombastic grin.
Maurice paused, the cogs in his head turning as they tried to figure out what about that statement would deserve a wink. They didn't come up with anything.
So he defaulted to grinning back and letting out an extremely fake laugh. "Hahah, yeah, I know what you mean!"
"Do you?" Jonesy asked, eyes twinkling in that way they sometimes did. Sometimes it meant he was about to make a horrible play on words, but most of the time it meant that he was in on a joke that nobody else was.
Maurice hadn't known him long enough to figure out the last one.
"Well, yeah! I mean... we're both bears. So that's pretty cool!"
When the other Animorphs returned to the truck where they'd left the two on stakeout, they found Jonesy pounding on dashboard and positively roaring with laughter, and a porcupine-morphed Maurice wailing < I THOUGHT IT WAS A CUTE WAY OF SAYING WE WERE HAIRY! > at the top of his thought-lungs.