Kate is that mum who turns up to the school gates in a perfectly prepared ensemble with freshly washed hair. Her children always say please and thank you. She bakes pies and always has flowers in a vase and a full fruit bowl. Basically the exact opposite of how I would be as a mother
I have to sleep on this, but top 4 selections in the Pandering to Doc’s ass contest (you were all amazing, I’ve literally been reading these for hours and days ahaha):
She is wicked; she skips over all pleasantries and straight into the meat of it, leaving some semblance of something too-holy and too-cold in her wake. The girl is sodom-city teeth, wolfish grin with with a knife tucked into her skirtfolds, a howl untapped in her throat. She is, by definition, a witch in her own right, and she has not once denied herself the satisfaction of the hunt, the heady scent of bloodlust that enhalos her just might bring sovereigns and disciples falling to their knees in desperate prayer. She was never a good acolyte, but earnest she supposes. Some things are better left lost in the wreckage of her- no, his, church, and she never looks back, not really, because that earnest girl is what caused this whole damn mess anyway, at least in a roundabout way.
There are days she is convinced she can rip open the maw of the sky and let its contents pour out like honey dripping into a mason jar, sunlight gilding everything. Other days she’d rather it wired shut so that not so much as a pinprick could ease its way through. Today is one of those days.
She is the one who stands among their bodies, remembers the hiss of their detransformation, the knowing grimace on Homura’s face as she tried- and failed- to flicker out of this timeline. She grinds the toe of her boot into gravel and twists her spear into a tighter grip before holding her breath.
Winston looked up from the stack of notes to where Lena dangled from his tire swing, then to the Chronal Accelerator in pieces on his work bench.
“For the record, I don’t remember writing any of that.” She paused a moment and bounced down. “Not that I haven’t found notes to m’ self before. Feels like future me givin’ a heads up sometimes. She’s a bloody liar though. Felt every moment I was gone.” Lena had either found something extremely interesting on the ceiling, or was trying not to think about it.
Winston waited until she looked at him. Even if the brittle edges of her smile said it would hurt, he had to find out as much as possible. “This has happened before, hasn’t it?” The little flinch spoke volumes. Her glance at the containment unit from the first time she’d been lost said so much more.
“Couple a times, yeah. Nothing like this though. Usually it’s just little notes, ‘hey, you’ve met Em’s mum before she approves’ or ‘you’ve picked up bread the last three days going, you have enough’. The dates don’t always make much sense, sometimes they’re months ahead or weeks past.” Lena practically glowed as she grinned to herself, “I spent a good half year wondering who Em was.” The smile faded, “But no, I haven’t dropped pages long conduct codes on myself before. Bit out of the blue this.”
“Did she hurt me?” Emily’s voice broke as she wiped a trail of blood from over Tracer’s eye, where a shard of her googles had cut the skin, and glanced over Tracer’s deformed ribcage, shattered collarbone, legs limp at impossible angles, blood seeping from her torn sleeve and her mouth. “Lena, look at you!”
“Emily,” Tracer forced again, every sound she made now obviously taking a lot from her. “Did she—”
“No. No, I’m fine. My shoulder hurts, is all.” Emily then froze when the blue light illuminating both their faces flickered, and Tracer squeezed her eyes shut. “Lena, your accelerator—”
“It’s cracked. It’s cracked.” Tracer was shaking now, tears falling from her eyes, trailing down into her hair. “Em, don’t let me go.”
“I won’t, love, I won’t,” Emily promised desperately, pressing a hand to the device to hold it in one piece. “Lena, we have to get you help.”
“Don’t let me go,” Tracer whispered again. “Not again, not like this, please… please…”
Haruka had let out a breath that she hadn’t known of even holding. But she had been awfully aware of Michiru’s scent now, her presence, and it choked her only more.
Once they had moved into their home, as a couple, being happy and at peace after travelling the world, it had become theirs fully. With paintings and pictures and souvenirs that became more and more over the years. With a relaxation that Haruka had never felt before in her whole life.
The way Michiru looked at a candid from their wedding.
The way the shower was still scented with her shampoo.
Michiru’s favorite tea cup, a birthday gift by Makoto that had been filled up with self-made pieces of chocolate. Dark chocolate, rich, just the way Michiru had wanted it.
Now Haruka’s knuckles were as white as the minimalistic decorated walls back then. Her muscles ached as she was cleaning the kitchen so hard, like her life depended on a clean sink. The smell of purification wouldn’t erase the smell of blood. Her breath was short. Her heart was beating fast.
No music could cover the sounds of terror – and Haruka couldn’t listen to any kind of music anyway now. And while the house was at silence, she almost didn’t hear Mina letting herself in, with take-away bags in her hands. Meals she wouldn’t touch.