Welcome to the first official BBRae prompt collection (series) on AO3!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Where a bunch of idiots come up with cool ideas to write about and post it all together in one big series!
If you see a prompt that you wanna write about, message PSI-Triforce, Relentlesslyoptimistic, or me! for an invite to collaborate and add your fic to the series!
All previous prompts are also welcome!
Add all your BBRae prompt craziness we want it ALLLL!!!
They were slumped together on the sofa in the common room, half watching the news while scrolling on their phones, when Rachel found herself pausing. She dropped her hands to her lap and tilted her head to look down at her shoulder pressed against his. “Gar?”
“Hmm?” He was trying to rearrange three yellow letters on his wordle.
“What are we?”
He didn’t even look up. “Um, super duper freaky geeks. Teenage mutant ninja turtle and Marceline the Vampire Queen-”
“No, I mean…” And now she shifted a little to face him.
This time, Gar noticed and put his phone down as well, eyebrows furrowing in preparation to be concerned. “What?”
“You and me.” She said it carefully, but with intention, motioning with her eyes at their proximity to one another.
She watched his face go slack with realization. His cheeks slightly colored but he bravely held her gaze. Then he matter of factly held his hand up, palm facing upward.
Rachel’s mouth slowly pulled into a gentle smile as she placed her own hand over his, weaving their fingers together with something like decorum. She felt a relieved happiness, a warm contentment she knew was only half her own. She also felt a wave of affection wash over her, fresh and sweet as spring rain.
“We are… together,” he whispered with the barest hint of a question at the end of the word.
In answer, Rachel leaned close and kissed his cheek before resting her chin on his shoulder. And for a moment all she felt was elation, joy, pure euphoria, her eyes closing as it filled up her whole body, trying to hold it in. But it overflowed and spilled out in a bubbly giggle. When she opened her eyes, Gar was grinning ear to ear, dazzling despite the pink flush creeping around his ears.
In unison, they both snuggled closer to each other and stared down at their clasped hands, basking in the quiet simplicity of an unspoken declaration, a wordless articulation of something that had existed all along. The common room felt a little different. A new stage. The news droned on the TV screen in front of them, but neither of them were paying attention anymore.
It wasn’t a mission or a job. Rita heard an old friend had died and simply wanted to pay respects. Steve flew with her to the city of Matadi in the Republic of Congo, and then drove to the smaller town of Inga where they found the gravestones of Marie and her husband Mark. Rita only needed to see “beloved parents,” and Steve suddenly found himself helplessly trailing after as his wife tracked down the fate of her friend’s child. For her peace of mind.
That was Rita. She cared tenderly for people. Made missions out of caring. It was probably the only reason she was still with Steve. He didn’t feel he deserved her, but she made a daily responsibility out of proving that he did. “You fight so hard for humanity,” she’d remind him. “You should also get to participate in it.” She’d point at his chest and claim she saw the good good man inside.
It was enough to make him try. Try to be softer when they extracted victims from perilous situations, instead of simply handing them off to the proper aids and authorities. Try to be more understanding when they caught a criminal who acted out of desperation rather than ill will. Try to pause and listen when emotions entered an equation.
Because he was far too used to being the one to take care of the dirty work. The part of the job that was too difficult or unpleasant. Steve did it. When a nefarious organization needed to be stopped, when a madman needed to be taken down, when a situation called for bloodshed. Steve just. Did it. He buried the human part of himself a long time ago, so that the rest of humanity could be safer.
But Rita had found a thread, at some point along the way. And she’d tugged and pulled until she found purchase, and she tied herself to him, to the good good man inside. Sometimes it ached, and sometimes it rattled him, but it also made him hope. And try. To be worthy of her, he always tried.
This was such a small situation compared to some of the missions Steve had completed. Little clues here and there, Steve and Rita quickly deduced a man was embezzling from his dead client’s estate, taking advantage of their orphaned child. Galtry had been shifty. He feigned politeness, but his smile was too flat, too forced… and there was no sign of the kid. So Rita “excused herself to the restroom” while Steve casually questioned the other man and felt him out. He did the dirty work, he sussed out Galtry’s scheme, he raised fisticuffs when the hired hitmen appeared at Galtry’s summons, and he felt zero guilt with how roughly he took them down and handed them over to the police.
Rita had found the kid and sent her coordinates to Steve. When he arrived at a tiny rudimentary campsite hidden in the jungle, he stopped short. His chest fluttered dangerously. Because he suddenly knew, at the very first sight, his life was about to change.
It was the look in Rita’s eyes. That tender determined look. And the possessive way she held the kid in her arms. Absolute certainty. And then she turned that look to Steve, and he knew it was not a request. It was a yank on that thread she had a hold of. A holy command to the good good man inside.
The kid was small, dirty, twig thin… and green. Rita could just as easily been holding an actual live goblin against her chest. But it wasn’t the green that scared Steve. It wasn’t the long pointed ears, the clawed tips of his fingers and toes, or the little glinting fangs. None of those things scared Steve.
What scared Steve was the vulnerable way the kid clung to Rita. What scared him was the nervous hope in those big green eyes. Steve should not be a target of that kind of hope. He didn’t know how to handle children. Children were glass, and Steve was a hammer. He did the dirty work, he nailed the bad guys. He crushed the knees of drug and trafficking rings. He stained his hands where others could not. He did not… he could not handle a child.
But Rita was already approaching him. She held the kid like a gift. A very precious gift. And she had that look in her eyes. You can do this, Steve.
No, no he couldn’t. He was too scared. He would get it wrong. He would mess it up. And he swore the kid could see it too, those big green eyes reading him with sharp curiosity. I don’t want to hurt you, Steve thought. But I don’t know how…
But Rita had that look. And for her, Steve would try. For the kid too. He would try.
The last Wednesday of May is a yearly celebration of otters, raising awareness and inspiring people around the world to help protect these irreplaceable aquatic mammals.
This year we’re showing up to the party with lots of love for our resident southern sea otters and the exceptional team that makes sure our girls are happy, healthy, and ready for their close up!
Opal, Ivy, Selka, Suri, and Willow are all on exhibit together right now, but that’s not always the case—for a great reason. 💙
All of our non-releasable resident otters sometimes spend time behind the scenes as part of our Sea Otter Program. We aim for our resident otters to also serve as surrogate mothers to orphaned otter pups, raising them with the skills and behaviors they need for a second chance at life in the wild. 🥹
Today, almost 300 rescued southern sea otters of all ages have been released back to their ocean home after being cared for in our Sea Otter Program, helping restore their populations and revive the beautiful coastal habitats they call home. 🦦🌊 There’s wonder in ocean life and caring for it helps us all.
Join the World Otter Day sea-lebration on our live Sea Otter Cam, streaming the lovable antics of these five otter conservation superstars from 7 to 7. ⭐
How are you celebrating otters today?
“Actually, Rache, can we do this without the incense?” His face wrinkled inward for a second. “Its kinda making me-”
“Oh fuck, I should of thought of that, sorry!” Rachel shuffled up to her feet and went to snip off the burning end of the incense stick. She opened a window, then came and sat back down. “Better?”
Gar smiled gratefully at her. “Thanks.”
Hers was apologetic. “Let's let it air out a minute.”
Gar took her hands in his and traced the pads of his thumbs across the lines of her palms. “I like doing this with you.” They gazed warmly at each other.
Rachel huffed softly. “It’s a little weird though, right?”
“So weird!” But both their smiles were slightly giddy.
And then Gar's smile faded as he looked down at their hands. “I know it's cliche, but do you ever get the ‘why me's? Or like, imposter syndrome?”
Rachel's brow pursed in thought. After a moment, she finally said, “when I didn't know what it was, when I thought it was something out of my control… it terrified me.”
“Yeah,” he agreed knowingly.
Rachel squeezed his hands. “But as I learned how to use it, to control it… as I learned the shape and smell and sound of it… it felt more and more like… like me. Like I was finding myself. It still scares me sometimes, because there's still so much more of it I haven't even begun to understand yet. But I just try to be patient and keep learning, little by little.”
Gar nodded, pinched his lips and looked away for a second. She felt him searching for his words. “I think mine's more like… like I was given a really complex rocket ship, and the instruction manual is in another language, and I'm trying to learn Swahili and how to drive at the same time, and it’s already moving really fast, and the cargo is Noah's arc, literally every single living thing you can think of, and I have to keep them all alive somehow, but also-”
“Gar, look at me!” Rachel gave his hands a short jerk. “It's okay! You're already doing it, aren't you? You're going to be fine, I know it!”
He took a deep sharp breath. Then he relaxed, but his mouth pulled in a frown. “Don't you ever feel like, how does it know you're the right person, that you won't mess it up, that you even deserve this?”
Rachel's face suddenly took on an odd light. “Gar,” she breathed. “I was made by my power. I was already born with it.” She beamed proudly at him. “The Red sought you out and found you. You were chosen.”
Victor kicked him out. “She’ll be fine, I promise. Go get some rest before I make you rest. And you don’t want me to make you rest.”
Gar hated it. He hated waiting. Even though he knew Vic was right. She healed faster than all of them. But he still hated it. He hated seeing her in pain. He hated knowing he would have nightmares later. Nightmares where she was in pain and couldn’t heal and he couldn’t do anything… He hated it.
He trudged miserably to his room, shoulders drooping. He tried to feel sanctuary in the comfort of his familiar space, that he had made his own. His unmade lofted bed, blankets hanging over the edge like crinkly tree moss. Underneath, his collection of comic books and library books and beach paperbacks, spread messily around a beanbag chair like a nest of foliage. And then his forty inch screen and video game console set up at the foot. He should rest, like Victor said. Or read. Or play a game.
But he didn’t want to. He wanted to wallow and mope and maybe cry.
Superheroes don’t cry, came Steve’s firm voice in his head and he instinctively flinched. Dick had said that was bullshit and never ever made Gar feel bad about getting upset. But when your head is in a bad place, it just likes to pull up every bad thing ever that you’d rather forget.
There were four aquariums on the right side of the room, warm and cold, salt and fresh. All filled with colorful gravel, waving seaweed and coral hills, little plastic castles and scuba men. Neon and black lights made them glow cheerfully.
Gar stood in front of them for a moment. Maybe he could turn into a goldfish for a while and forget. Forget about the falling stones. Forget about the sound they made when they struck her. Forget how he’d been too slow to notice until it was too late.
Or he could be a hermit crab and hide in one of the little conch shells. Hide from his guilt and worry and shame. Hide behind a haze of cloudy water and pretend the salt was not from tears.
He sighed and turned toward his big picture window instead, where a jungle of potted plants, shrubs and small trees framed a view of bluebird sky and the sparkling sea. It was messy over here too. Loose soil, dead leaves and shedding needles littered the floor. Grow light stands and humidifiers were shoved in without coordination or thought. He couldn’t keep all the species and their particular needs straight, so they were in various states of thriving and dying.
But when he was a bug or a small critter, he never minded. Maybe he could be an orb spider and weave his anxiety into a web. Or a praying mantis and…. Gar rolled his eyes. Too on the nose.
The flowers, of course, were quite healthy. She brought those in, so he was always careful about looking after them properly. He couldn’t help the little rise in the corner of his mouth. They were all so gothic. The chocolate cosmos. The queen of night tulips. The black star gladiolus… She’d said so he could be a bee. He had to inform her that boy bees do not collect pollen. No, they don’t help build the hive or act as guards either.
“Then what do they do?”
“They lay around and wait.”
“For what?”
“For their queen.”
“They wait on the queen.”
“Yup. Just wait until she needs them.”
He leaned down and smelled the flowers. The warm chocolatey scent of the cosmos wafted up into his head and picked apart the warm pressure behind his eyes. He told himself she would be okay. He hummed tunelessly, blinked away a bit of moisture, and then shrank until the dark maroon petals of the flowers surrounded him like deep velvet curtains. He pretended they were her arms, healthy and strong. He hummed and remembered her face when she had brought these flowers, eagerly arranging them so that his little jungle looked a bit more organized or curated. He hummed and settled into the powdery fluff of the stamen, planning what he could make her for breakfast as soon as she woke and felt well enough to eat.
The aroma was bigger now. It settled heavily over him and made him giddy in the head. He told himself she really would be okay. More than okay. And he would be right there as soon as she needed him. He curled his fuzzy striped body into a ball and nestled into the pollen. And he waited.
I love that Jimmy Olsen is exactly the type of photographer Peter Parker pretends to be. Just bat-shit insane.
Whenever someone asks Peter how he took a picture he's like "Oh! I uh-, climmed a flagpole. Totally"
And very mortal, normal-human Jimmy is like "See, Clark, is not that weird"
I mean, look at this nutjob.
The world could be ending, lava on the streets and Jimmy would be out there photographing away. No powers, no sense of self preservation. Just khakis, a camera and a dream.
I like to imagine Peter meeting Jimmy and immediately being mortified about it.
Jimmy: –and so luckily I was able to take the picture before the building collapsed on me... Superman was super pissed at me but, photographer to photographer, it was totally worth it.
Peter: Right, no– See, this is actually my first time hearing how fucking insane that sounds. No wonder people at work look at me weird.
“Everyone deserves care,” her mom says as they pull on black hair nets and thin plastic aprons. The smell of cafeteria blends with the smell of dirt and body odor from the line of people waiting for a hot meal, but Rachel doesn’t mind. She recognizes a few of them from previous volunteer days and looks forward to chatting with them. The coordinator asks everyone to bow their heads to give blessing, and Rachel's mom squeezes her hand.
Latex gloves on, Rachel begins scooping squares of corn bread onto paper plates, and the bustle and chatter of the soup kitchen makes her feel good. Humble thank yous and God blesses pepper throughout cheerful conversations and hearty laughter. Evangeline with the frizzy beehive and missing teeth shows Rachel a Polaroid of herself in her glamorous younger days, when she sang in a Casino lounge. Edgar hides a tiny quivering chihuahua in his pocket, that isn't allowed, but everyone pretends not to see it.
Whenever Rachel looks over, her mom's smile is warm and proud. It’s their favorite together time. Even after exhausting extra shifts at the hospital, even when the house needs cleaning and errands need running, even when homework assignments need doing… they never miss church volunteer days.
It’s the most positive human interaction Rachel experiences. She’s too weird at school, too awkward, avoided by most of the other kids, but maybe she also avoids them. The people who come here, though, almost feel like kindred spirits, overlooked or shunned, looking for a safe space and a friendly face.
This is Rachel's real education, amongst real people trying to survive, striving for dignity, appreciating what little they have.
That evening at home, they’ve had enough of food for one day, so they sit in front of the TV with popcorn and diet soda. They watch Hallmark romances and Disney cartoons. Rachel will sneak out after her mom’s asleep to watch the unapproved trashy reality shows and Lord of the Rings, but for now she paints her toenails purple, and her mom trims her hair. They laugh about the impromptu barber shop quartet that four of the soup kitchen volunteers had attempted. They sang badly, but the applause was so resounding, they could have been in Carnegie Hall.
Her mom sits on the edge of her bed as they say their prayers, and then she kisses her goodnight. “This was the best day of my life,” she tells Rachel. She says that every time they have a volunteer day together, but it always feels special.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
“To explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life,” his mom dramatically declares just before pulling a hazmat helmet over her head. Then she leans forward with puckered lips and bumps the face shield against Gar's nose. “Woops!” comes her now muffled voice, their little joke. She does the same thing to his dad as he uses masking tape to seal her gloves to her sleeves.
“See you tonight, honey.” His dad is in field khakis, like Gar, and once his mom disappears behind the heavy tent flaps into the decontamination compartment, they exit the other way into the bright sunshine outside. “Let's find some flying foxes!” His dad exclaims with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, and they climb into the back of a truck with other scientists and volunteers.
They set traps the day before. Today their team will collect samples from whatever bats or birds they'd caught. Last week was frogs and shrews, and the week before that moths and millipedes. It’s like a giant elaborate puzzle. What animals carry what germs or viruses, during what season, in what part of the biozone? And what might have disrupted migratory patterns or caused an irregular exposure between species?
Gar and his dad both gasp in delight when, during the ride into the jungle proper, they see a leopard in the distance. It jumps from behind a shrub and races parallel to their vehicle, its long powerful limbs a blur beneath it, until it disappears into a copse of small trees. They are laughing, and Gar’s dad keeps a strong steady arm around his waist as they cruise into the heart of the Congo.
This is Gar's school, out in the grassy bush, under the green canopies of the jungle, and along the banks of the river. He spends his days peering through long blades of grass, across crags of rock, and through the fractals of silvery tree branches.
Latex gloves and N95 masks on, the men collect samples then release the flying critters as Gar carefully packs away the traps. Next week, they’ll search for bigger mammals, hogs and okapis. His mom is looking for a particular virus.
When they return, he and his dad scrub themselves and everything in their tent to an inch of its life, and then they prepare a dinner of mayebo, plantain, and cassava bread, just like they were taught by their hosts. When his mom arrives, though her eyes look tired, she lights up and exclaims at their presentation.
After dinner, they huddle around a laptop to watch youtube videos of vigilante heroes back home, like comic books come to life. Gar falls asleep in his mother’s arms.
They walk hand in hand along a winding trail through towering columns of Douglas fir. Bright emerald moss covers the long tree trunks, and the ground swells with feathery ferns that brush against their sleeves. A light mist drizzles downward but they are warm and dry in heavy slickers and galoshes. Everything smells so green and fresh they almost skip over the exposed roots and hold their palms out to collect the moisture.
Fatter drops take over the mist, and the forest begins to sing loudly as the rain patters against the branches and the brush.
They slightly hunch against the sudden downpour, but then Gar stops. “Oh my gosh! We should have a passionate kiss in the rain, just like the movies!”
Raven gives him a skeptical look. “What?”
Gar's face fills with devastation. He snatches his hood back so that the rain begins to dowse his head.
“My whole life!” He sobs. “I always thought I'd be alone!” His eyes are so huge and tragic the rain on his face could easily be tears. “But then I met you… and you said… you said you loved me!” He squints upward and clutches at his chest like he’s in pain. “It all led up to this moment, can't you see? I'm just a boy. Standing in front of-”
“Gar, you know I suck at this improve stuff,” complains Raven, pulling at his hand.
The melodramatic emotion evaporates instantly and Gar pouts in defeat. “Fine.” Then he lifts his brows hopefully. “Could we just regular kiss then? It'll still be totally cinematic in my head.”
Raven tugs the hood of her slicker further over her head. “We can kiss in the rain if…” she purses her lips for a moment. “If you turn into a duck after.”
Gar's face twists in confusion. “What? Why?”
Raven gives him a lopsided smile. “I like watching you waddle around in the puddles. It's cute and funny.”
This explanation first mystifies Gar. And then it cracks him up. He throws his head back in a fit of laughter. “Deal!”
So Raven pulls her hood back with a grin, lets the rain soak into her hair and collect on her lashes… and just as they lean toward each other, she affects a desperate and gasping voice. “It all led up to this moment!” She teases, taking hold of his shoulders.
Gar is almost too overcome with giggles but he manages to kiss her properly, squeezing his arms about her waist and lifting her up to her toes.
Later, she trots happily along the trail, swinging her arms as her little duck flaps and quacks and shakes his tail beside her.
Ope, time to scrub the tub again, I'm starting to see that pink ring from whatever is in the city water. Man, I don't think I ever cared for that Cat in the Hat book, what was that? They just kept spreading dirt around instead of just cleaning it up, its so frustrating! Also, fuck that mouse that kept asking for more shit after getting a cookie, someone please a write a children's book about setting appropriate boundaries and when its time for a polite but firm “no!” Why are people obsessed with stories about infuriating characters that run you dry with their relentless nonsense? I was never satisfied at the end, just relieved it was finally over. Maybe this is why I'm so tentative about meeting people and fostering relationships, like, how high maintenance are they going to be, I don't have that kind of energy or motivation.
I should probably shave my legs before the hot water runs out…
Rachel pressed her lips together in a deep frown as she sprayed bleach onto a crusted something from maybe two weeks ago and then scrubbed the scratchy side of the sponge over it until it finally dissolved and wiped away, leaving pristine white tile.
She hated cleaning. With a severe and visceral wrath. She hated it so hard. But she scooted forward and sprayed the next section of countertop, and she would come back afterward and wipe everything down again with a paper towel. The dishes had already been washed and put away. The microwave had been scraped out and disinfected - barf. Dick had shown her how to lift the stovetop up to get under the burners - also barf. She still had the floors to scrub. She would even wipe the fronts of the cupboards and the refrigerator handles. The fronts of the cupboards and refrigerator handles! What in the OCD germaphobic fuck?!
“Within an inch of its life.” She would have this kitchen spotless within an inch of its life. And then she would order takeout. Dick offered to cook but Rachel tut tut tutted. The meal needed to be hers, on her dime if not made by her hand, and no one wanted anything made by her hand, she knew her limitations.
She pulled out her phone and doordashed five Buddha bowls from their favorite Thai restaurant. ETA thirty minutes. Perfect. She tossed the bleach bottle back under the sink and dove into the pantry for the swiffer mop. She shoved it across the floor with spastic vigor, changed the wet wipe twice, and then got on her hands and knees with yet more paper towels to wipe up any remaining smears.
The kitchen would be spotless, and a beautiful meal would be prepared.
Once she was satisfied, and her nostrils felt burned out by all the cleaners, she checked the time. Food was five minutes out.
Rachel ran to her room. No time for a proper shower, but she pulled on clean pants and… and the tee-shirt he'd gotten her from the sealife center with a watercolored octopus wrapping its tentacles around the words "I'm a bit clingy.”
The doordash arrived, and Rachel set the table and transferred the food into serving dishes, creating a presentation fit for a fancy dinner party.
“They're a block away,” Dick reported, looking up from his phone with a teasing smile.
Rachel ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it down. And then she stood where she could watch the door and waited.
Because Gar was on his way home from a mission. And this was specifically what Gar always did whenever anyone else came home from a mission. He cooked and he cleaned like a fussy nanny, a love language carried across three different lives and families.
He knew how much Rachel hated to clean. And she was definitely banned from cooking.
Rachel pressed her lips together in a smile and watched the door.
