#prompt 1346

[wonderful-prompts]

Prompt #1346

Who walks the midnight dogs?

[midnight-fables]

S2 Entry 2: Soothe the Goosebumps

Image credit: @neverscreens

Summary: Carmy’s girlfriend (who he calls Darling) soothes him down from an impending panic attack with apple cubes. (1346 Words) FLUFF.

Warnings: Swearing, hurt, comfort, fem reader/lass who is a trauma surgeon, she/her pronouns, finger sucking (light), impending panic attack (panic attack doesn’t happen), praise kink, feeding kink?, subby!Carmy. Mentions of Donna Berzatto.

Notes: Thank you for reading and sharing! This is a work in CB Journals Season 2 and will be tagged with #cb journals s2.

Sideblog for commentary and social stuff: @m-z-shoroi

Prompt: String Lights

“Do you not decorate for Christmas?” she asked. “Not even string lights or a mini tree?”

No. Fuck Christmas.

The silence, and the subsequent recoil evident on her face when I looked up from the apple I was dicing, is what told me I’d said that aloud. My stomach flipped. Hands abruptly turned cold for some reason. Heat flooded into my face.

I can’t even begin to explain to you the biblical level of shit I was in that week. That whole month, honestly. The review didn’t go well—we weren’t given our star, which meant that not only did all my bullshit that I pulled in the restaurant after having that mental fucking breakdown after the walk-in incident severely strain all my interpersonal relationships, it also did fuck all to give us any sort of results. If we’d gotten the star, then maybe, maybe, it would’ve stung just a little less. The wounds haven’t gone away—the repeated flare-ups of fighting between Sugar, Richie, Syd, and me are evidence of that—but the star would’ve been salve on the cuts. Maybe taken away some of the burn. No, it just redoubled everyone’s rage at me (including my own. I was getting dangerously close to hating myself more than I hate the fucking Devil at this point). So, the burst of fighting at the top of November turned into all-out war for the rest of the month. We’d found something of a balance before—minus the flare-ups—where I’d do a new menu every month using seasonal ingredients. I’d be mindful of what the kitchen staff could do, Syd and I would actually properly collaborate on them, so she didn’t feel voiceless (even if working with another person drove me fucking insane sometimes), and Richie and I would, generally, as much as we both could corral our familial trauma, try to stay out of each other’s way. Sometimes even get along a bit.

“Carmy?”

Now? Now I lost all fucking control of my restaurant. Syd and I were battling over the menu because even when accounting for her notes, she wanted to scrap whatever I did. Richie was so far out of my grasp that Sugar maintained a demilitarized zone between us, acting as the Secretary of State—or I don’t know, a fucking messenger pigeon—bringing things back and forth, all while trying not to (and failing on multiple occasions) explode at either of us for our bullshit. And it was bullshit. We’re fucking adults, I keep trying to act like a fucking adult and get a handle on myself so this doesn’t fucking happen again—I’m in therapy, for fuck’s sake!—and yet Richie and Syd insist on being fucking children about it.

In retrospect, I don’t blame Syd. If your coworker spiraled off the fucking deep end, and all you got out of that was the trauma of surviving that spiral, would you even want to fucking look at them again? She worked her ass off to make The Bear what it is, she put stock in her own identity as a chef, and wants, more than anything, to be able to take pride in her work.

I said I wouldn’t stand by and let her do to herself what I did to me, right?

Am I not her Devil?

So here we are, December three days away, still without a fucking menu.

“Baby? Sweetheart? Hey.”

Shit. Shit. Fuck. I dropped the knife onto the cutting board. “S-sorry. Sorry, I-I should explain—”

“I just wasn’t expecting such a strong reaction.” She held her hands up, palms out towards me. “It’s okay. It just caught me by surprise is all.”

“Christmas-Christmas is fucking traumatizing.” Why did it come out like a question? It’s a fact. It was fucking traumatizing. I closed my eyes, trying to retreat to the quiet dark, where it’s stable, where it’s safe. “My-my mom, she would, uh, she would do this-this big feast. Seven Fishes... And it was-it was always such a fucking disaster. And-and she would always explode at the tiniest thing. I-I hate fucking Christmas and New Years a-a-and-and fucking birthdays. Fuck birthdays.”

Something burned in my chest. A deep sort of fiery sting that took me two heartbeats to recognize as stomach acid bubbling into my esophagus. I grasped at the pain as if I could somehow get ahold of it and remove it from me, could toss it away like a wet paper towel, but all I found was the front of my apron.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Oh no, Darling sounded worried. I fucking hate when I worry her. I pried my eyes open and found her expression contorted in concern, eyebrows scrunched together, corners of her mouth turned down. “What’s wrong? Pain? Nausea?”

I tried talking, but I couldn’t produce sound past the hot iron burning my insides. Blindly reached for the quart of water and chugged a few sips down. It provided some relief initially, but the flames came right back.

“Hold on.” She rifled around the cabinet above my head and pried off the lid of the baking soda container. Put two pinches in the quart. Swirled it. “It’ll taste weird, but it should help.”

Metallic. Metallic, bitter, kind of salty? Like I licked a dirty penny or something. Weird doesn’t sum it up, it’s fucking disgusting. She rubbed up and down my sternum as I gulped this vile concoction down.

“It’s a base, it’ll help neutralize the acid,” she explained. “Just take little sips until the burning stops.” I’m sure she knew I understood the logic, but I appreciated her talking to me anyway. It was comforting. Something to focus on. Something to drown out the memories of ma’s yelling bubbling away in the back of my head.

Goosebumps exploded on my arms when I took another gulp of the baking soda water. It just kept getting worse. Now the weird taste was lingering on my tongue well after the water was gone, but my chest still burned like a brand was on it. Darling rubbed her hands up and down my forearm, trying to soothe the goosebumps away.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

I responded too slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Not even giving me this horrible shit; it was helping the heartburn.

“No, about the whole…” she gestured in a wide circle. Ah. About Christmas and shit. Got it. “It’s gotta be tough. With. How much those things are engrained in society and all.”

I shrugged a shoulder. Grimaced and got another wave of chills on the next sip of baking soda water. She picked up an apple cube and pressed it to my lips. It wasn’t meant to be an intimate gesture—I’m getting better at reading her face and knowing what the intention behind anything she does is—but something deep in my core tightened and warmed when she fed me the morsel of apple, when the tip of her finger rested just a second too long on my lips. I must’ve had a certain look on my face because she made the cute little cooing sound that meant she figured something out. Cupped my face with her other hand. Stroked my cheek.

“That better, pretty boy?”

She brought another apple cube to my lips, kept her eyes locked on mine—this piercing gaze halfway between interrogative and fascinated, like she was a cat observing a new toy, trying to figure out how to pounce on it. My navel flooded with heat, dick twitched in my sweats. Half of me wanted to shrink in place, become tiny and insignificant, small enough to fit in her pocket like a pathetic but endearing pet. The other half of me got lost in her eyes, in those shimmering river stones, in the perfect architecture of her eyelashes, as if admiring a fine work in some pretentious fucking museum somewhere. She let me suck the tip of her thumb clean. Dragged it slowly over my tongue.

I nodded. Yes. Yes, it’s better.

The fuck was I even stressing about before?

Tags: @carmenberzattosgf @jess248 @catharticconsolation @persymons @morgthemagpie @glitch0o0 @nox-is-thename @forgechildofheph @leminjelly @fridavacado @lumoslemon @cyarskj1899

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

congrats on 2222!! soulmate au with frankie would be so cute. I love frankie sm he’s just the cutest 😍

Hi lovely! Thank you for this prompt. I was a bit apprehensive because I've read one (1) soulmate AU in my entire life and wasn't sure if I could do it justice. But obviously, Frankie takes this by the ears and I just had the best time writing it. This is also a college AU because apparently I love AUs set with Pedro boys in college 🤷🏻‍♀️

This drabble is actually an AU of an upcoming fic I have in the works, called Summer House (with a lot less angst and pain). I hope you like it sweet anon!

Frankie Morales x soulmates AU

Fuck Yeah 2222 Sleepover micro drabble request | 1346 words (sorry) | warnings: mentions of alcohol consumption, college AU, inexperienced reader, drinking games, friends to soulmates

Sometimes, you wonder what colour Frankie’s eyes are.

It’s not something you wonder about often, not when everyone has grey eyes - but not really. One day, when you kiss your soulmate for the first time, you will see their eye colour, and they will see yours.

So you definitely don’t have any business wondering anything of the kind about Frankie at all, seeing that you two do not get along. Never have, probably never will, despite having been in the same close knit group since you were kids. Benny has long played the second to your principal in your duels with Frankie, while Santi is his, with Will keeping the peace whenever you get into a particularly thorny disagreement.

But that’s the funny thing about friendship. Despite your bickering, you got his back, and you know he has yours.

You’ve heard about it once or twice through the grapevine in high school, but finding one’s soulmate seems to be a dime a dozen in college, with happy news dropping left, right and centre throughout the academic year.

While you’re not in a hurry to find your fated other half, you start thinking that you should at least get started with the kissing part. You’re way behind your friends and peers on that front, somehow missing out on the formative experience despite being a regular fixture at house parties at high school, then sorority parties in your freshman year in college.

You really should blame the boys. No one wants to risk messing with a girl who has three hulking seniors and one equally hulking sophomore at her beck and call, not when there are far easier options around.

But you know it’s not just that, and you’ll only admit it when you're drunkenly tucking yourself into bed, alone yet again after another party. It feels like you’re the only person your age who’s still (stupidly) holding onto the hope that your first kiss can be something, not just a sloppy makeout session with too much tongue and too little meaning.

And so you find yourself, still never been kissed, when summer rolls around at the end of your first year at college. Your gang of five is about to shrink to just you and Benny, with the rest of the boys enlisting after they graduate, and the impending farewell upsets you more than you care to show.

The five of you spend the first week together at the Millers’ summer house after school lets out, as has been tradition since you were kids - with your parents when you were younger, but it’s been just kids for the last few years.

Well, just the kids plus one, since Frankie always brings a girlfriend. Unfailingly, it's someone beautiful with perfect hair who has a wandering eye for the other boys, and hates your guts for being the only girl in the group.

On the last night, the guys invite a select crowd over for one final hurrah before they go home and get ready to ship out to basic training the following week. Music is booming, cheap beer is flowing, and you’re all in the garden, the sticky Floridian heat clinging to you like a second skin.

Ironically, it’s Frankie’s girlfriend who wants to play spin the bottle. He sits opposite you, his Standard Oil cap pulled over his eyes but failing to hide his annoyance at being forced to participate. You roll your eyes at him across the circle, and he gives you a middle finger back.

Will, the self-appointed gamesmaster, spins the bottle set on a pizza box atop the lawn.

It spins, and spins, and spins - until it doesn’t.

You look on in sheer horror when the bottle stutters to a stop squarely before you, the other end pointing at Frankie, who turns green with nausea.

‘FUCK NO!’

You attempt to run, only to be tackled to the ground by Santi, who practically hauls you by the waist back to the circle as you kick and scream.

Frankie, on the other hand, has to be restrained by both Miller brothers.

‘I have a girlfriend!’ he shouts, digging the heels of his beat-up sneakers into the grass.

She doesn’t seem to mind though, clapping gleefully along with everyone else, chanting, ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’

Shoved toe to toe in the middle of the circle under watchful eyes, you exchange vicious glares. Frankie’s broad shoulders are hunched over defensively, arms crossed. It’s strange, you’ve known him forever, but this is probably physically the closest you’ve ever been to each other without being locked in a fist fight.

Warmth bounces off his tightly wound up frame as he towers over you, and by some folly, you feel an inexplicable pull.

You fight the staggering want to bury your nose in that grey tshirt (the one he wears Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and restocks at Old Navy when it wears too thin), to swipe that hat off his head to brush the curls from his face, to look into his eyes - and see what colour they are.

In the end, Frankie breaks first - you’re not sure if it’s the jeering and goading from the crowd or your stubborn standoff that makes him snap. Grabbing you by the elbow, he hauls you firmly into his chest before you can react.

You should be embarrassed, mortified that this is how you’re going to end up losing your first kiss. And yet, losing doesn't seem like the right word.

There’s a deep-seated calmness inside you, knowing that it’s going to be Frankie. The boy you’ve known since you were three, the teenager who used to make you cry with stupid juvenile pranks, and the man now who wouldn’t hesitate to throw a punch if anyone even looks at you the wrong way.

As soon as the tip of his proud nose brushes yours, your eyes slide shut of their own accord - and he kisses you.

God, his lips are so soft. Your breath catches in your throat, and your knees wobble so dangerously that your fingers twist into the front of his tshirt, holding on for dear life.

Can he tell that you don’t know how to kiss, at all? Does he think you’re terrible? The fact that this feels so fucking perfect despite having no idea what you’re doing sets you on edge, a magnifying glass trained on your inexperience in a way that makes you stiffen with nerves and awkwardness. 

He must be appalled at how bad you are, especially after the litany of gorgeous, more experienced girls he’s been with over the years. You can’t believe you’re subjecting him to this, how would he ever look you in the eye afterwards -

But then, something shifts when his hands find your waist, palms easily spanning the small of your back as he pulls back for air, but only just, still so close that you can feel the tickle of his beard on your chin. There’s an unmistakable hitch in his breath, a tremour as he exhales, which in turns makes you tremble and switches off the unwelcome commentary in your head.

It’s as if he wants you.

Before you can think too hard, Frankie leans in and kisses you again, harder this time, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, and heat chases down your spine like a meteor. He sucks on your bottom lip when it falls open in a gasp, dipping between your lips with a clever swipe of his tongue against yours that makes you shudder and whimper, which he swallows with a possessive growl.

Your lungs are burning when he draws back, his nose still touching yours.

Then he calls your name.

You blink as your eyes open -

Frankie’s staring at you, lips parted, his gaze reverential. Like he’s never seen you before. Reaching up, he takes your face in his hands, calloused palms on your cheeks, thumbs swiping away the tears that won’t stop. You break into a watery grin, which he mirrors, a warm chuckle rumbling in his chest, holding you close as everything falls into place -

Frankie’s eyes are brown.

Note: In case it's not clear, in this fic, everyone’s eyes appear grey. You can only see your soulmate's eye colour after you kiss them for the first time.

[some-messed-up-writing-for-you]

Short Prompt #1346

Their home planet had never looked so small before today. Villain admired the cosmic view from their spaceship, gently tracing its shape on the glass.

Behind them, the whirr of computers and control centers sang in a steady rhythm alongside the clicking of keys. Soon, one of the henchmen spoke up.

“We’re ready, sir. At your command.”

The villain allowed themself the tiniest hint of a smile. “Fire.”

[kay-elle-cee]

@jilytoberfest 31 Prompts: Day 30 || 1346 Words || Read on Ao3 This one's sad! 😀 —

It’s a cloudy day outside—that much James can tell from the little window in his room. He’s been told there’s no outside time today by his Healer, Opal, so he guesses there’s probably rain coming, or maybe snow—he’s not sure he can recall what month it is. But still, he enjoys sitting in the comfy chair by the window, smoothing the blanket on his lap as he watches the birds fly by, for a long while. 

A few times he mistakes his reflection for a bird—the grey strands of his hair rustling with the turn of his head. This earns a low chuckle from him—so jumpy after a life spent in war, even in a place as safe as St. Mungo’s. 

“James?”

His name pulls his attention from the birds outside to the doorway across the room. Standing there is a woman with sparkling green eyes, edges crinkled as she smiles tentatively over at him. Her hair—a light, faded red—is plaited over one shoulder and she slowly takes a step forward. “My name is Lily. I’m a Mungo’s volunteer, and I thought I could sit with you for a while, if you’d like some company.”

He nods, gesturing to the matching chair beside him. “Of course.”

His invitation relaxes something in her shoulders and her smile melts from tense to easy. She grabs a pillow from another nearby chair and places it behind her back as she sinks down next to him. Her eyes scan him, and James suddenly becomes self-conscious. 

He knows the war he’d fought in had left him marked with scars, had left him bruised and battered, and he tugs his cardigan tighter around his neck to hide some of the more gruesome marks he’s not sure how to explain. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Lily,” he nods with a smile, trying to move on from the awkwardness of his scars.

A flash of something crosses her face, but it’s gone so quickly he figures he must have imagined it. Instead, a warm smile is back on her lips and she’s leaning towards him. “It’s nice to meet you, too, James. Tell me, do you know what today is?”

He thinks for a moment, but still can’t pinpoint the month or year, much less the day.

Lily doesn’t let him stew too much in his thoughts, reaching into her purse and pulling out something she enlarges with the tap of her wand. It’s a container that contains two chocolate cupcakes, and when she opens it, the smell alone jolts James back to his parents’ kitchen as a boy.

“Opal told me it’s your birthday,” she says with a gentle excitement, handing him one of the cupcakes. “Luckily I happened to have this in my purse, I thought it could be a nice little treat.”

“Oh,” James blinks, staring at the treat in his hand, “thank you.” She smiles at him again before taking a bite, humming appreciatively, and he follows suit.

It’s good. He can’t remember having something like this since—

Well, that’s the problem with spell damage, isn’t it? He doesn’t know. 

He lets out a sigh of frustration as he takes another bite, trying to usher the negative feelings away as he focuses on the kindness of his guest. They make some idle chit-chat between bites and she vanishes up the crumbs with a wave of her wand once they’re done.

“Contraband, no evidence,” she whispers with a mischievous smile and a lively glint in her eyes that has James staring too long. 

Under his gaze, she tucks a strand of light hair behind her ear and he notices the glint of a ring on her finger, and inexplicably his heart sinks. Offering her a slightly weaker smile, he thanks her again for the cupcake, realizing that if it’s his birthday, then that means it’s March, and if it’s March, that means Quidditch was nearing the end of regular season.

“I have an…odd question,” he asks. Lily gives him an encouraging nod. “Puddlemere United. Would you happen to know how they’re getting on this season?”

Her head falls back with delicate laughter, and when she smiles, it’s warm and buzzing with affection—a fellow Puddlemere supporter. “They’re doing really well,” she tells him, her laughter still echoing in the spaces between the words. “Two of the Chasers have been drafted onto England’s team for the World Cup.”

“There’s a World Cup this year?”

“Yes, there is. Held in Italy, if you can believe it.”

James sighs, leaning back in his chair with a look of wonderment on his face. He removes his glasses and wipes his face. “I wish I could go to the Cup. Just once, at least.”

“You—” Lily begins a sentence, then clears her throat before continuing. “It’s quite an experience, I’ll say.”

He sits up straight, looking at her with wide eyes. “You’ve been?”

Something’s changed. Her eyes still sparkle, but there’s a softness around the edges that tug at something in his chest. Lily takes a breath and nods slowly, dropping her eyes to her lap, where she twists the rings around her finger. “I have. My husband and I went some years ago, when it was held here in England.” A smile tugs the corners of her lips back up. “It was remarkable.”

“Please tell me he doesn’t hold allegiance to a stupid team.”

She laughs again, shaking her head softly. “No, no. He has good taste. A Puddlemere man, through and through.”

He makes a sound of approval and sees her lips twitch from his periphery. “He’s a patient here, actually. It’s why I love to come to Mungo’s and volunteer, to see him.”

“Lucky bloke,” he comments, flashing her a smile just as Opal raps on the doorframe with a large smile on her face.

“Look at you two,” she gushes as she crosses the threshold. His cheeks redden at the insinuation in her tone. “Are you enjoying your visitor, Mr. Potter?”

Potter. The name is a bolt of lightning in his system—something to grasp for that’s a natural extension of James but is just slippery enough to not stay put, no matter how many times he hears it. 

Potter. It conjures up more faded memories: the blast of spells, overlapping schoolboy laughter, vibrant red hair, a small child with bright green eyes and wild black hair.

Potter. His head turns to look at the woman beside him, and her features—beautiful as they are in their graceful age, flicker to something younger, something fiercer. Something full of hope, until suddenly they’re back in his room at St. Mungo’s and her hair is faded and her eyes twinkle with concern. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming, these surges of memories through the lasting damage of decaying magic. These two sets of eyes on him—expectant and kind and worried. His gaze falls into the hands in his lap—old, wrinkled, but undoubtedly his own—and he frowns as he twists a silver band around his finger, not quite remembering how it got there.

“Yes. It’s been nice company to have, especially on my birthday.”

He retreats into himself, as he normally does after such an intense round of mental strain, and Lily quietly rises, reaching over and squeezing his hand in a silent farewell. 

It’s a sensation he remembers, he just doesn’t know from where.

He’s silent as he watches her go, hoping he didn’t upset her enough that she won’t return—he really did enjoy her visit. It was…comfortable. Familiar.

“I’m going to give him some time to rest,” he hears Lily whisper to Opal across the room. “I’ll be back later with Harry when he gets off work.”

“Of course, dear, we’ll see you back around dinner.”

As she crosses the threshold of his room, she casts one last glance back at him, and this time when their eyes meet his heart thunders against his ribcage at the sadness and love he sees in their depths. Emotion breaks forth from somewhere deep in his chest, deep in his soul and reminds him—however briefly—of love he can’t forget.

Lily.

[ladyhoneydee]

30 Day Song(fic) Challenge: Day 23

Today's Song(fic) Challenge prompt was "A song with a color in the title", and let me tell you, when I was planning these days out, I had a whole host of potential songs for this one! Too bad none of them inspired me on the night of, lol. After some desperate searching, I did hit on one, though: "August 30, 2023: Super Blue Moon" by Sleeping at Last. If you've never heard their work before, SaL does stunning instrumentals inspired by all kinds of things, including astronomical behavior, and this one just has such a peaceful, calming atmosphere that immediately gave me an image in my mind for what to write.

Under the Bluebell Moon

Game: Twilight Princess

Pairing: Link/Midna (nonsexual romantic love, as she's still in imp form)

Word Count: 1346

Keywords: rituals, longing, soothing

“On the night of the Bluebell Moon, everyone in the village goes out into the forest and the fields, and even the hills, if they’re careful. We each pick bluebells, and we give them to people we want to show our gratitude. For us, they mean something like…” He taps his chin in thought. “Fidelity, I suppose? Although that doesn’t quite cover it.” He tries again, with more words this time. “They mean love and gratefulness for who that person is, or what they’ve done for you in the last year, since the bluebells last bloomed, and the promise to love and care for them until they come back next year.” ... "If we were in Ordon tonight, I'd pick some for you."

Read the fic on Ao3, or under the cut!

The air smells of pine and safety.

Pine, because they’ve bedded down in soft fallen needles beneath a Lanayrish fir, on their way back south from a visit to Zora’s Domain. And safety, because Midna is lying next to him.

Next to, not on top of, or tucked within. In these warming summer nights, her small impish body doesn’t require his furry heat to be able to make it through to dawn without waking up from the force of her shivers. He finds he misses the feeling of her cuddled next to him. Less from any sense of pleasure the action could give, although it’s nice to be close to a person who knows and loves him so well. No, he longs for the vulnerability. Midna is just so good at pretending she doesn’t need anyone; doesn’t want anyone beyond what they can do for her. And maybe sharing body heat falls within those borders—it certainly did at the start, when she practically ordered him to keep her safe, mutt—but these days it’s something far more tender.

Past the evergreen canopy, he can see the full moon shining down. It’s the tenth one since they began their travels together. It’s a hard number to believe: it at once feels like he’s always been on the road, has nothing besides dust and travel and stone walls and sharp blades in his past; and like it was only yesterday that he was sneaking out to Ordon Spring with Ilia in the middle of the night, not because they had any reason to sneak or even go at all, but because they were kids, and that’s simply what kids do. 

“In Ordon, we have a name for the sixth full moon of the year,” he whispers. 

Midna says nothing, but he almost feels rather than hears her shift ever so slightly to face him. 

“We call it the Bluebell Moon.”

“Funny. It doesn’t look any more blue to me than normal.”

Link can’t tell if Midna is being sarcastic—well, she’s always sarcastic, but more at some times than others—or if, due to the Twilight Realm’s lack of celestial bodies, she actually doesn’t know.

“The moon doesn’t actually change colors,” Link hastens to correct her. “Well, I mean, sometimes it turns yellow or orange, especially in autumn, or when there’s a big wildfire. And sometimes it turns red, although no one knows why…” He trails off. He can practically feel Midna’s raised eyebrow and smirk through the darkness. “Well, it doesn’t turn blue, at any rate. We call it the Bluebell Moon because that’s when the bluebell flowers surrounding the village are at their peak.”

Midna is quiet for a moment. “Tell me more about them,” she eventually murmurs. Her voice is tired. Link wonders if she’s simply using the tones of his voice as a sleeping draught, but decides that whatever the case may be, he’s more than happy to do it for her. 

He stares up at the moon, at the crags on its surface. Each one with a different story. Each culture of Hyrule with a different belief. Even if he laid down his sword and started collecting the wisdom and tales of Hyrule tonight, he would die of old age before the anthology would be complete. The thought that the Twilight Realm might be the same is dizzying to the boy who has always loved a night of legends around the campfire. Even after he became one. 

“They’re called bluebells, but really, they come in all different colors,” he begins. “Sometimes they’re white or grey; some come up lilac or pink; some are a lighter blue than even the most worn and washed sleep shirt, and some are such a dark blue that they rival the depths of Lake Hylia.” This is how they’ve always been described in his village, but now, having plumbed the great lake’s furthest reaches himself, he can confirm it. 

“They really are a bell shape, though. A dozen can grow on a single stem, and they all point downward. I’m not sure what we must have called them before Hyrule began trading with us and introduced metal bells.” He ponders this for a moment. So much knowledge has been lost over the centuries, as generations of Ordonians slowly distanced themselves from their roots to the south in the name of sedentary fields stocked with corn and goats. 

“I’m not sure about other places, but in Ordon, we have our own seasonal rituals at this time of year. One of them…happens tonight.”

Midna turns to face him fully. Her eyes remain closed, but he can tell from her facial features alone that she is listening. 

“On the night of the Bluebell Moon, everyone in the village goes out into the forest and the fields, and even the hills, if they’re careful. We each pick bluebells, and we give them to people we want to show our gratitude to. For us, they mean something like…” He taps his chin in thought. “Fidelity, I suppose? Although that doesn’t quite cover it.” He tries again, using more words this time. “They mean love and gratefulness for who that person is, or what they’ve done for you since the bluebells last bloomed, and the promise to love and care for that person until they come back next year.”

He pictures this year’s Bluebell Moon, in a fantasy that blooms with both sweetness and pain in his chest. The children in Kakariko, with no bluebells nearby with which to keep to the tradition; he can only hope that they’ve found another way to celebrate one another and the village keeping them safe from harm. Hanch, Sera, Pergie, Jaggle, and Uli trading blooms, in gratitude for keeping one another going through the hardest year they’ve ever had to face. Rusl perusing the flower stalls of Castle Town’s market for any bluebells to give to the Resistance, or to keep in his room to represent his far-flung family. 

All of them missing pieces, all of them honoring what still remains, all of them hoping that they’ll be reunited by next year’s bluebells. 

And here Link is, laying beside the person he’s most grateful for, so very far from home. 

“If we were in Ordon tonight, I’d pick some for you.” His chest twinges, warm and sharp, at the confession. “There’s a patch that grows in the woods behind my house. I’d love to take you there.”

“I would pick some for you, too.” Midna’s eyes open in the dark. Scarlet set in yellow, glowing across the few inches between them. The opposite of the cool, watery tones of the bluebells back home, and yet they provide him with the same feeling of comfort. 

“I can warp us there, if you want,” she whispers. 

Link feels warmth rush through him like a summer rain. Midna is happy to offer warping when it comes to the needs of their quest or his physical body, but it’s taxing enough magically that she rarely supplies for emotional needs. That she would give him this chance now…

“No,” he breathes. “I know you’ll need all your strength for Hyrule Castle. But, Midna…” One leather-gloved hand reaches out to rest upon her own. “It means the world to me that you would do that for me.”

She purses her lips in that old familiar way. “Not just for you, wolf boy. I…” She takes a breath. “I’m thankful for you too, you know.”

She doesn’t speak the other words aloud—fidelity, love, the promise to stay by his side—but he feels them there, weighty and warm, in the darkness between them. Her small fingers lace between his and linger, for once not pulling away.

Link doesn’t know what next year’s Bluebell Moon will bring. If his family will be reunited at long last. If Midna will be there to hold his hand. If he’ll even be alive. 

But as he stares up at the moon, listening to the call of owls and nighthawks in the trees, with Midna beside him, he hopes, and hopes, and hopes. 

[gryphonlover]

Whumptober 2023 Day 3

Prompt: journal

Victim: Four

Words: 1346

Notes: Journaling really can help, but talking to people is also very important.

Zelda says that journaling will help me process the stuff that happened after I pulled the Four Sword. I'm not sure that I believe that, but she said I either had to use the journal, or talk things out with someone and I would rather jump in a cucco pen than talk about my feelings at this point.

I had a dream last night. I put the Four Sword back in the pedestal but didn't merge back into one person. It felt so real and then I woke up.

Maybe if I'd never pulled the Four Sword I wouldn't be so broken now. I don't even know who I am anymore.

I hate the way that people look at me now. They hate me because all they can see is the guy who sicced a dragon on the castle. Shadow was the real hero, though. I or we or whatever couldn't manage to fight one stupid flying eyeball so he sacrificed his life. He doesn't deserve this.

Zelda said we could make Shadow a memorial if I want. I need to think about it.

I told her yes. He shouldn't be forgotten. He gave up everything for Hyrule.

Today we went and made him a memorial. I cried. I miss him. I wish we'd been able to see eye-to-eye sooner. Maybe he wouldn't be dead and I wouldn't be alone.

The house is always empty. Dad is never home. It has to be my fault. He worked a lot before, but he always had time for me. Now he just avoids me. I wish I'd never pulled the Four Sword. Maybe then I wouldn't be crazy. I want things to go back to the way they were before.

I don't know if I can do this. I'm on indefinite leave for… something, and it's not like I can take an apprenticeship anywhere. I'm going crazy with nothing to do.

Everything is so stupid. Why can't anyone just treat me like a normal person!? I'm not a bomb, I'm not going to stab people in the back or set Castletown on fire for crying out loud! I just want to be a proper knight again and to have people respect me and shut up about Shadow.

Maybe I really am crazy.

I'm going to dig up the fire rod. They can't stop me.

In my defense, it was only a little fire. I just wanted to blow off some steam and thought that a controlled fire on Mount Crenel would be fine, but no, now I'm in solitary confinement for a whole day with nothing but this stupid journal.

I just want to feel whole again. I thought that maybe I could— look, it was a dumb decision, I know that, they don't need to rub it in my face.

Solitary confinement is overrated. So is probation. I hate life.

New plan: going to that place Blue got frozen.

Yeah, okay that was also a bad idea. Hypothermia is real.

I have been royally banned from travelling to any more "dangerous climates with dangerous weapons." Stupid Zelda and her stupid princess stuff.

I just want to be us again. I hate being this. I hate having so many thoughts and feelings and memories crammed in my head.

I don't care anymore, I need the sword back.

Well as it turns out the sword hates me. Great.

Back in solitary confinement. Two days for "vandalizing public property." If you ask me, the Four Sword's sanctuary shouldn't count as public property. Zelda and I are the only people who go there, and no one maintains it. Besides, the sword itself and it's stupid pedestal are apparently indesctructible because of stupid goddess magic, anyway.

I am at the end of my rope. If I can't split back, then I don't know what else to do. Everyone keeps telling me that "time heals all wounds" and stuff, but if anything it just gets worse with time. They don't get it. I was split into four people and then crammed back into one body and Shadow died.

Day 2 of solitary confinement. I really don't get why they think putting the crazy guy in solitary is going to make him less crazy. This is stupid.

I'm pretty sure crying every day isn't normal, but who even cares anymore.

I can't do this.

Turns out I have no choice. Some guy with the same name as me showed up at the house. He seems nice enough, so I told him I'd go fight evil or whatever with him. At least I can get something useful out of my life before I kick the bucket.

Ran into another person named Link. Nicknames are in order. I need to think about mine.

Having a new name feels good. Link didn't really fit anymore. I was Link before the Four Sword, then… well, now I'm Four. It feels right.

Sky and Hyrule are pretty nice. Hyrule seems a bit jumpy, but he takes good care of his sword, and Sky is basically just a star-crossed lover. I miss the way things were before I put the Four Sword back, but it's nice to have a distraction.

Today Twilight joined the group. He's got some weird tattoos on his face, and a wolf pelt for some reason, but he's also pretty nice. A bit obsessed with goats, though.

Twilight has integrated into the group well. He balances out Hyrule's wandering. I don't know how, but he always knows where everyone is.

Wind is pretty fun, but he reminds me of Red. It… hurts.

Wind is determined to be friends. I do not want to be friends.

I am now friends with Wind and have no idea how.

Time is unsettling, but seems to know what he's doing. He's kind of like how Dad was before the Four Sword.

Time is also a star-crossed lover. Him and Sky will not shut up about their wives.

Wild is very Wild. Twilight has taken to him, and so have Hyrule and Wind. I am preparing myself for pranks.

I want to go home.

Legend is a grump. I'm not sure if I like him or not.

Legend has adopted Hyrule. I am only a little bit jealous.

I'm crying in the woods. Legend is just like Blue. This is stupid and I hate it.

Warriors is kind of like me, except actually good at his job. I wish I'd been able to beat Vaati. Shadow would be alive if I was better at my job.

I want to punch Warriors in his stupid pretty face.

Sparring practice went okay. I haven't sparred properly in a long time, but I think I did good enough. Now I'm sore all over. I would be taking a bath, except SOMEONE is hogging all the water. Ugh.

I am so sick of walking. I wish Miss Fairy could just teleport us around. Man, that was convenient. I wonder where she is now?

I think I'm doing okay at fitting in, but they don't seem to expect much of me. Maybe it's because I'm short?

Finally got to punch Warriors in the face. I'm sitting in jail, but it was so worth it. That felt good.

Legend bailed me out. That was weirdly nice of him.

Wind made me talk about feelings. The audacity.

Okay, so maybe talking it out helped. Maybe Wind was right about communicating with the group better.

We did more talking today, this time it was everyone. It went well. They didn't hate me for anything I told them, and they actually understood how I felt.

I'm going to keep the journal just in case, but I have people I can trust now. It's going to be okay.

[saintcecily]

♱ ❘ ❘ ❘ ▌ # 𝗦𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗖𝗘𝗖𝗜𝗟𝗬 ▌ : an original character , CECILY NOVAK : the lady of the black death, patron saint of vampires. as lovingly weaved by DRUID ( they / them + 23 ). this blog is strictly 20+ due to mature themes being present; dead dove material may apply. private + mutually exclusive, friends &. plot = priority.

𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗦 : ⌞ DOCS. RULES. MULTI. HEADCANONS. PROMPTS. ⌝

GIVEN NAME. cecelia eliška noväk . NICKNAMES. cecily ( preferred ) . TITLES. sister cecelia , saint cecily , svaty cecelia . SPECIES. once - human , turned vampire circa 1350 . DOB. 12 / 23 / 1326 . capricorn sun , aries moon , gemini rising . AGE. 693 years old , immortalized at 24 . GENDER. femme agender , she / they pronouns . ORIENTATION. doesn't like labels , interested in any gender . SHIPPING STATUS. open for ships , with or without prior plotting . LANGUAGES. czech ( primary ) , english , many others .

TLDR BIOGRAPHY. cecily was born in 1326 to a commonwealth family . from an early age , she was deeply instilled with religious values ; as was most of her small town . she pursued the sisterhood of the church as a young woman , eventually becoming a recognized nun under the church . the plague struck in 1346 , churches becoming sanctuary for the ill &. those seeking to be prayed over . cecily fell victim to a wounded vampire seeking his lifeline , turned by a traveler who sought aid at the chapel . cecily went on to pose an offer to many sick townspeople ; giving them the chance to survive as a vampire , or to pass as god intended . cecily sired hundreds of vampires in this manner , inadvertently building a network that she would eventually go on to exploit . her acts were considered 'miracles' , &. she was crowned the title saint cecelia after years of 'curing' those ailed by the black death . cecily disappears from the history books in the mid-1380's , most assuming she had passed away . cecily lives well into the 21st century , surviving with the help of her sired network . she has amassed wealth over the years by selling old relics &. artifacts to museums &. research facilities , &. keeps a watchful eye on the vampires she's sired .

-> FANDOM VERSES ARE AVAILABLE HERE ! MORE IN PROGRESS, THE POST WILL BE UPDATED ! -> cult leader au.

[chemanalystdata]

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[ao3feed-izch]

MHA not fic promts

by Workin_n_readin

I got in trouble, This used to be a "prompts" book where I gave out ideas I planned on turning into fanfics myself but didn't have time to, so was just letting people know my schedule but I got in trouble because I forgot prompts weren't allowed on ao3

Words: 1346, Chapters: 12/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Multi

Characters: Midoriya Inko, Class 1-A (My Hero Academia), Class 1-B (My Hero Academia), Shinsou Hitoshi, Midoriya Hisashi

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku/Rody Soul, Midoriya Izuku/Shinsou Hitoshi, Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku/Shigaraki Tomura | Shimura Tenko, Midoriya Izuku/Uraraka Ochako, Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku/Uraraka Ochako

Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, repost, this is not prompts, Villain Midoriya Izuku, Godly Deku, Facetime flowers, Vigilante Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku has a god complex, Crazy Midoriya Izuku, Hanahaki Disease, Suicidal Midoriya Izuku, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, use these ideas as you wish- but they are not prompts

source: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49888909

[sleep-escapes-me]

A completed collection of 28 one-shots all showcasing Imogen & Laudna in a variety of prompts and universes.

Relationship: Imogen x Laudna

Word Count: 38,923

Death. Merfolk girl. Lightning. Naked Fearne. Delilah!? Fleeing a prison, stuck in the hole, coming back to life, crashing at your ex's stronghold for a week 'cause technically you killed your patron!

Everything is written into a semi-canon compliant Exandria. (no modern/real world AUs) There’s angst and humor, fated first meetings and earnest confessions of love, dead rats and dead people, cute slice-of-life moments. Just a lovely amalgamation of universes for Imogen and Laudna to interact with each other again and again.

Read it on AO3

list of prompts under read more

mini summaries and (word counts)

Strange First Meeting (457) - Classic meet cute.

Caught in the Rain (681) - Imogen deals with stress.

What's up, doc? (392) - Just a cute caring for the other moment.

Second Love (892) - Imogen is leaving. Laudna is worried.

Roadtrip/Backpacking (885) - Sometimes it's not always best to go off the beaten path.

Pirate AU (948) - They're not pirates.

Pull a Rabbit Out of a Hat (443) - FCG doesn't like magicians.

Going Down a Rabbit Hole (1427) - They say drugs can open your mind.

Soulmate AU (1828) - Marks and tattoos on one's body glow when you think about your soulmate or are around them.

Opposites (1076) - Laudna is dead. Imogen reads her journal.

Why Are You Naked in my Bed? (538) - It's Fearne.

Secret Admirer (1168) - Laudna has a secret admirer.

Vampire AU (1071) - The hunger brings interesting developments.

Merfolk AU (2217) - Laudna finds a hidden lake.

Fairy Tale AU (2041) - Once upon a time Matilda got a second chance at life.

Starting a New Tradition (1158) - La Calamity: An Exandrian Opera

Fake Dating (1691) - In the name of undercover work.

Curses (712) - She’s blue! Again!

Blood is Thicker Than Water (1128) - Laudna will always support her girl...

Trapped Together (894) - 10 minutes in the hole.

College AU (1822) - Pining from a distance means nothing when Fearne gets involved.

Plenty of Fish in the Sea (1448) - Sad girl Imogen. [2nd person POV]

Crime/Mafia AU (3387) - Years have passed since Imogen and Laudna have seen each other.

Flotsam and Jetsam (1138) - Flotsam are things in the water deliberately thrown overboard. Jetsam are things in the water as the result of a shipwreck.

Lighthouse Keeper AU (5364) - Imogen finds an abandoned lighthouse and maybe a friend.

What's the Worst That Could Happen? (1539) - Laudna gets a job as a prison guard.

Nontraditional Format (1346) - FCG wrote a script.

Still Waters Run Deep (934) - Laudna loves the little things about Imogen. [2nd person POV]

[koof]

I saw this and immediately interpreted it as s prompt~

The year is 1346, the start of something big

A great famine caused by the bacterium yersinia pestis

You might have heard of it, just a little something called the black death or pestilence

Now good sir or madam could you please spare a grain?

Just something to make my stomach feel whole again

Not like you'll need it though, one-third of Europe is about to be changed, never the same

People left and right dropping like flies

Friends and family all quarantined- LIES!

They fled to the cities and left me behind

They said, "not enough food," those heartless kind

Funerals, gatherings of death and disease

All attendants fall ill and on their knees

This rabid disease first spread by the fleas

then the rats, then the people, then the merchants traversing sea

As if by the wrath of God. Oh hear our pleas!

They fall on deaf ears, oh please! oh please!

Cemeteries full, pits dug up and bodies thrown in

As if divine power is punishing us for all our sins

Oh when will this end? These years, thirteen-fourty-six to thirteen-fifty-three, the longest 7 years of my life

I've certainly survived but by no means am I alive

I'm spitting bars like a malnourished European child in 1346

[em-writes-stuff]

Whumptober days 1-3

@whumptober-archive

prompts: “This wasn’t supposed to happen”, cornered, hair’s breadth from death

warnings: blood, vague descriptions of field care, cursing, reference to past torture, emotional manipulation (implied), physical whump, captivity, younger whumpee(s) (not specified but all of them are roughly 5-15yrs younger than whumper), multiple whumpees, emetophobia 

characters: sidekick, villain, hero, henchman

1346 words

a/n: not edited

___

Henchman paces around the small room, muttering to himself. Every few seconds he stops and stares at Sidekick, who stands staring at him in the corner near the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger with a foot up on the wall. 

Sidekick takes a deep breath and resists the urge to shout at Henchman to just take a fucking seat and shut up. But, Hero told him to watch Henchman; so that’s what he’ll do. That’s what he’s done for the past three days. Even if Henchman’s muttering is more annoying than the way the rock in the tread of his shoe scraped against the floor every single time he takes a step. Even if his uneven breathing is more annoying than the rock in the shoe. Even if his constant movement was setting Sidekick on edge. Even if-

The door opens and Hero’s head pops in. “Hey,” he says, pulling Sidekick out of his thoughts. “Villain won’t say anything so I need you to leave.” 

“Those two things don’t even remotely relate to each other.” Sidekick says. Hero steps into the room and Sidekick can see blood trapped under his fingernails. His mouth opens, “Oh.” 

He walks out of the room and looks back at Henchman, now backed into a corner of the room, watching as Hero stalks towards him. 

Sidekick looks away and wanders down from where Hero had come from. If he thinks hard enough, he can drown out the screaming from behind him. 

The doors in the hallway are always closed, so it’s a guessing game for Sidekick to find the one holding Villain. 

It’s easy enough to ignore the ones he knows the contents of. His room, Hero’s room, guest room, bathroom, laundry room, and so on and so forth. The basics all thrown into an abandoned two story apartment building. 

He figures that Hero wouldn’t put Villain on the ground floor since it would be much easier for her to escape. But the second floor had much more valuable information. She could be in one of the closets, since they lock from the outside, but he doubts Hero would have put the effort of moving everything out to do so. 

He opens a door, just to put his mind onto something else and when he pops his head in to look around the room, he nearly throws up. 

Most of the carpet is soaked with blood and the room is hot. He opens the door all the way and pulls his shirt over his nose. It barely helps with the smell. 

Villain’s hunched over, her hair in front of her face so Sidekick can’t tell if she’s awake or not. Although, with what he knows of Hero’s…interrogation tactics it doesn’t matter much. 

The carpet squelches under his boot and he has to take a deep breath to keep the rising bile down. She’s tied to a ladderback chair, feet bound to the legs of the chair and arms tied behind her back, there’s a thick leather strap holding her up right under her throat and Sidekick can see irritated red skin around it. 

He curses under his breath and walks behind the chair to undo the buckle. When he pulls against the strap to loosen it, Villain’s head shoots up. 

She thrashes wildly in the chair, rocking it and nearly falling over with the force. He pulls his hands away from the buckle. 

“Not Hero.” he says gently. Though, if she did hear him, she didn’t care. He walks in front of the chair and crouches down, pulling his shirt off his face and looks into her eyes. “I’m undoing this strap. Just sit still please.” 

Her jaw juts out in defiance, but she stills and Sidekick walks around to the back of the chair again. 

“Where’s Henchman?” she asks painfully. “Is he…” 

“He’s fine,” Sidekick says. “Or. He was when I last saw him.” 

“When.” 

“Just before I came here. Hero needed to be alone with him.” he pauses. 

She tenses and takes a deep, shaky breath. “Is he going to…” 

“I-I don’t know. I hope not.” Sidekick shakes his head and finishes with the buckle, letting the leather fall to the floor. “I don’t think he will.” 

Villain slouches forward, arms the only thing keeping her from falling all the way forward. Sidekick takes the strap in his hands and throws it to the other side of the room. 

“He can’t die. Not like that. He deserves so much better,” she whispers. “If Hero kills him…it’s all my fault. I told him to stay home but he followed me. There was enough time to get him somewhere safe before you and Hero ambushed us but-” 

“Hero won’t kill him. Right now he’s got leverage. He knows that.” Sidekick says. And he prays he’s right. He clears his throat. “Do you want me to treat some of these? I almost have a medical degree.” 

She scoffs. “How do I know you won’t do something to make them worse?” 

“Wait two days and you’ll probably die of infection.” he snaps back. 

She stares at him and blinks. “Treat them, don’t treat them. I couldn’t give a fuck either way.” 

He takes a deep breath and leaves the room. 

As soon as the door closes, he runs to his room and grabs his bag. He puts on two masks in an attempt to dull the smell, but he knows it probably won’t help. 

The hallway is eerily quiet on his walk back to Villain’s room and he knows Hero’s done with whatever he was doing and would be looking for him soon. 

He ignores the smell by some miracle and patches up the worst of what he can see, after just forty-five minutes he’s nearly satisfied. 

Almost fifty stitches litter her skin, gauze over what he didn’t think would stitch up nicely, he wrapped a few fingers that had been broken and gave her quite a few painkillers. 

“This is probably all you’re gonna get. Hero won’t be happy I’m doing this for you so I won’t be able to come back unless you’re dying.” he says, closing the lid to the bottle and stuffing it in the bottom of his bag. 

“You’re a weird one, Sidekick,” she says, almost smiling. “Why are you with Hero? You could do so much more good with literally anyone else.” 

The bag zips and he stands up, throwing it over his shoulder. “It really wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Hero was the good guy, you know? He fought the big bad and saved everyone. Now it’s too late to leave.” he coughs and looks around the room, making sure he hadn’t missed anything when he was picking everything up. “I’ll try to convince Hero to let you heal up some. No promises. Don’t do anything stupid and tell him what he wants to know. I’ll do my best to take care of Henchman. Just…stay alive. Okay?” he sniffs and leaves the room again. 

Hero’s in his room. Sitting on his bed, flipping through one of his picture books. He sets the book spine-up on the bed and stands up. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Hero says. 

Sidekick takes a deep breath and drops his bag on the floor. “I was treating Villain.” 

Hero bangs his fist on the dresser next to him and picture frames fall with the impact. “Did I ask you to do that?” Before Sidekick has the chance to respond, Hero answers for him. “Of course you didn’t. Because you just do whatever the fuck you want to whenever the fuck you want to. You’re lucky we’re on the same side because if we weren’t I would have killed you ages ago.” 

Sidekick takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. “She was going to die if I didn’t do anything. You need her to tell you about Supervillain. She can’t do that if she’s dead.” 

“You don’t go back in there. Understand?”  Hero spits on the ground and pushes past Sidekick.

“Yes, sir.” Sidekick whispers. 

[baronessblixen]

Hi ! You are m'y favourite fanfic writer, it's a joy to follow your Ficmas writings :) would you take this prompt ? Scully dressing up as a fox and Mulder completely falling in love with her when he finds her like this :)

Hi! thank you so much for the kind words and the cute prompt! I hope you like it. It turned into a bit of flirting in season 7. Wc: 1346. Tagging @today-in-fic

Foxy Times

His answering machine is blinking when Mulder returns from his Saturday morning run. He listens to the message while peeling himself out of his clothes, in desperate need of a hot shower.

“Mulder, it’s me,” Scully’s voice says. “I know you said you had this, and I quote ‘super fascinating case’ for us, but I can’t come in today. The heat in my apartment stopped working last night and I’m still waiting for the handyman to get here. See you Monday? Bye.”

No heat while they’re having one of the coldest Decembers in recent history? Mulder shudders. He doesn’t care that she’s not coming into the office today. The super fascinating case is a mere ruse so he can see her. So what if he wants to spend more time with her before she leaves for San Diego next week?

He has a better idea for today. Last night, his neighbor Mrs. Mumm brought over chicken soup, claiming she’d made too much – as always – and saying how worried she was about him not eating enough – also as always. He has more soup in his fridge than he could possibly eat by himself. Imaging Scully as half an icicle by now, he decides to bring it over to her place. Maybe she’ll let him warm her up in more ways than one, too.

One hot shower later and soup packed up, Mulder arrives at Scully’s building. It’s chilly as he waits for her to open the door. She must be home after what she said on his answering machine, but she’s not opening the door.

“Scully,” he says, knocking again. “It’s me. Open up.” Nothing but silence on the other side of the apartment. Mulder puts the soup on the floor and fishes out his keys to open unlock the door.

“Scully?” He asks again, stepping inside. He puts the soup container on her kitchen counter and his arms around himself. It’s almost as cold inside as it is outside. “Where are you?” He mumbles and then stops dead in his tracks when he sees a lump on the couch. Scully is buried under layer upon layer. The only thing that half sticks out is what he suspects is her head. Except that it’s not exactly her head. There are soft, pointy ears in an artificial orange color that reminds him of a fox plushie he used to have as a child.

“Hey,” he says softly, touching the mountain of blankets. It moves and Scully’s head pops out.

“Mulder?” She asks sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “What are you doing here?” He’s momentarily rendered speechless. Now that Scully’s head is out of the cocoon, he sees it clearly. He has no idea what she’s wearing underneath all these blankets but the hood on her head is adorned by a sweetly smiling fox face.

“I was worried about you,” he says. “It’s as cold as Antarctica in here.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you call me? If you wanted a fox to keep you warm,” he says, touching one of the ears sticking from the hood, “you could have just called me.”

“Are you making fun of my attire?”

“What exactly is this thing, Scully?” She crawls out under from under the blanket and Mulder’s mouth goes dry when he sees what Scully is wearing.

“You’re wearing a… onesie? A fox onesie?” He asks in disbelief.

“It’s called a sleepsuit,” Scully defends herself. She sits up and the hood falls over her eyes.

“Scully, it’s a fox.” He can’t stop staring at it, at her. “Why do you- what is this?”

“I just told you,” she says, taking the hood off. “It’s made from flannel. It’s warm. It’s so warm in fact that I took off my winter coat and used it as another blanket instead.” He briefly glimpses the colorful outdoor jacket he’s seen her wear once or twice. Then his eyes return to the onesie – the suit, whatever she wants to call it. His mouth is still dry and his mind empty.

“But why do you- and why is it- a fox?”

“It was a Christmas gift from Melissa years ago,” she says quietly. “After she met you, she became obsessed with the ideas of foxes.” A wistful smile passes over her face. Mulder puts his hand over hers, knowing the beautiful ache that accompanies these memories. “She really liked you.”

“I didn’t- I didn’t know.”

“She thought… well, she thought you and I would, um… so she liked to give me these gag gifts, like this suit. Things like that were funny to her. She thought I should always have a fox at home. In one way or another.”

“You’ve had this suit for years?” He asks and she nods.

“I may have worn it once or twice before,” she admits with a shy smile.

Mulder’s brain is slow to process. Melissa thought they’d – what, exactly? He thinks of the other Scully woman who he would have liked to have known better. He knows what it’s like to lose a sibling and wishes he could have spared Scully this experience. But seeing his Scully in the fox suit, knowing her sister got it for her because of him, makes him smile.

It’s been years since Melissa’s death and yet, she must have seen something between them to nudge her sister in the right direction, bug her about what kind of relationship they were having. Looking back at that time, Mulder knows he was a goner from their first case. The realization, however, has taken him much, much longer. And now, seeing her like this, he knows for sure that it’s love. He’s utterly and completely in love with her. There’s no way around it.

“It suits you,” he says, finding his voice again and swallowing his feelings. Admitting them now, Scully will just call him crazy. Again. “You’re a cute fox.”

“So are you.” She winks at him.

“I think the cold may be clouding your judgment.”

“No,” she says with a sigh. “I always thought you were cute.”

“You did?”

“Yes, Mulder. I did. Now please tell me what you’re doing here?”

“I can’t let my partner freeze, can I?”

“Hmm, you have saved me from subzero temperatures before.”

“I brought you soup. My neighbor Mrs. Mumm made it. It will warm you right up. I’m just going to heat it up, okay?”

“Let me help.”

“I think I can warm up some soup.”

“I know you can but moving around will make me feel warmer.” Several blankets slip to the ground as Scully gets up from the couch. She’s wearing her running shoes, making her outfit look equally cute and ridiculous. He’s already grinning when he sees something he hasn’t seen before.

“Scully is that- does the suit have a tail?”

“Of course it does.” She’s unfazed. “Now come on, I’m really craving some soup.” He grabs the tail and Scully stops. The material is softer than he anticipated.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

“I just- you may think I’m crazy but seeing you in this is like an early Christmas gift.”

“Good to know,” she says, freeing herself of his grip and stepping into his personal space. “Does that mean you don’t want your real present?” All he wants is her. In or out of this fox costume. He’s not sure that’s what she wants to hear so he keeps quiet, trying to come up with an answer.

“Chicken soup. Mrs. Mumm is a great neighbor,” Scully says, ignoring his current mute state and opening the container. “And an even better cook. I hope you thanked her.” He nods, dazed by Scully’s behavior. She’s not embarrassed at all to be parading around in a fox onesie.

“And thank you.” Scully hugs him, all soft and warm in his arms. “For the soup, for checking up on me and… for not making fun of me for wearing this.”

“Would you think less of me if I admitted that I’m really turned on by you wearing this thing?”

Scully just laughs, hugging him more tightly.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Signs of Grace and Delusion:

I turn now to take a look at a work entitled “On the Signs of Grace and Delusion, written for the Confessor Longinos: Ten Texts” by St. Gregory of Sinai, contained in the IV volume of the Philokalia. St. Gregory (b. circa 1265, d. 1346) after embracing the monastic life in Cyprus, received the the full monastic profession at Mt. Sinai, and then travelled to Crete where he was taught by a monk called Arsenios about ‘guarding the intellect, true watchfulness and pure prayer, including the Jesus prayer; and so was initiated into the hesychastic tradition to which the writings of the Philokalia bear witness. From Crete, Gregory went to Mt. Athos where he lived for 25 years in a secluded hermitage not far from the monastery of Philotheou, until being forced to leave due to the Turkish incursions. He lived out the remainder of his life in the remote wilderness of Paroria on the border between the Byzantine Empire and Bulgaria. Five of his works have been included in the Philokalia.

Though very brief, “Signs of Grace and Delusion” addresses inner prayer, in particular the Jesus prayer, and contains a much needed description of how one discerns between what is of God and the movement of the Holy Spirit and what is of the fallen self and Satan, the source of delusion and falsehood.

Often we lose sight of our dignity and destiny as sons and daughters of God - those given new life through baptism. God has given us all we need to know Him and His will and to converse intimately with Him through the pure prayer of the heart. St. Gregory describes this sad state with simplicity and candor:

“As the great teacher St. John Chrysostom states, we should be in a position to say that we need no help from the Scriptures, no assistance from other people, but are instructed by God; for ‘all will be taught by God’ (Isa. 54:13; John 6:45), in such a way that we learn from Him and through Him what we ought to know. And this applies not only to those of us who are monks but to each and every one of the faithful: we are all of us called to carry the law of the Spirit written on the tablets of our hearts (cf. 2 Cor. 3:3), and to attain like the Cherubim the supreme privilege of conversing through pure prayer in the heart directly with Jesus. . . Unaware of the surpassing grandeur of the honor and glory in which we share, we fail to realize that we ought to grow in soul and spirit through the keeping of the commandments and so perceive noetically what we have received. On account of this most of us fall through indifference and servitude to the passions into a state of benighted obduracy.”

Having failed to keep His commandments in obedience and to purify the the eye of the heart through unceasing prayer (“the continuous invocation of the Lord Jesus”. . . “that sets the heart alight with the ineffable love for God and man”), we no longer see and perceive what God has given us. Rather, we fall into an unyielding and inflexible state of pitiful or contemptible intellectual or moral ignorance; no longer sons and daughters of Light but those whose faith is “formal, lifeless and ineffectual.”

For every beginner, St. Gregory tells us, there are “two forms of energy at work, each affecting the heart in a distinct way” and each generating different kinds of fervor that can be prompted either by grace or delusion. We would do well to study them thoroughly. The following three paragraphs excerpted from this text will hopefully be a helpful introduction:

ON DIVINE ENERGY

“The energy of grace is the power of spiritual fire that fills the heart with joy and gladness, stabilizes, warms, and purifies the soul, temporarily stills our provocative thoughts, and for a time suspends the body’s impulsions. The signs and fruits that testify to its authenticity are tears, contrition, humility, self-control, silence, patience, self-effacement and similar qualities, all of which constitute undeniable evidence of its presence.”

ON DELUSION

“The energy of delusion is the passion for sin, inflaming the soul with thoughts of sensual pleasure and arousing phrenetic desire in the body for intercourse with other bodies. According to St. Diadochos it is entirely amorphous and disordered, inducing a mindless joy, presumption and confusion, accompanied by a mood of ill-defined sterile levity, and fomenting above all the soul’s appetitive power with its sensuality. It nourishes itself on pleasure, aided and abetted by the insatiable belly; for through the belly it not only impregnates and enkindles our whole bodily temperament but also acts upon and inflames the soul, drawing it to itself so that little by little the disposition to self-indulgence expels all grace from the person thus possessed.”

This is just a taste of St. Gregory’s work, which should be read in its entirety. Within it, he discusses how to discover the energy of the Holy Spirit and what are the signs which accompany the Holy Spirit’s activity in us. St. Gregory also describes different kinds of exultation, joyousness, and trembling, explaining what such experiences may look like which are from God and symptomatic of the experience of divine grace, and those which come from the Evil One and are symptomatic of demonic delusion.

[dimigexwrites]

Whumptober, Day 30 - Kakashi/Tenzo

Prompt: Digging your grave (major character death, left for dead, ghosts) Fandom: Naruto Characters: Kakashi/Tenzo Rating: T Words: 1346 Notes: For @vibgyoroygbiv who didn't request this but needs this hurt as much as I do lol

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"I love you," Tenzo whispered, running his fingers through Kakashi's silver hair. He brushed the soft strands away from the other man's forehead. The Copy Nin wasn’t wearing the hitai-ate that usually slanted across his face, and Tenzo let his gaze wander over the long scar that had taken Kakashi’s original eye. The jonin rarely sat still long enough for Tenzo to appreciate his beauty the way that he was able to right now. Of course, Kakashi was every bit as beautiful in motion, so Tenzo never really minded.

Kakashi looked peaceful, another thing that almost never happened. The man carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and had for as long as Tenzo had known him. Even in their early days of Anbu, Kakashi shoulders burdens far too heavy for a boy his age. Tenzo understood the immensity of an inescapable past better than most, and he'd recognized it in his captain. That had been one of the things that drew the men together. Somehow, in the darkness of Anbu, they’d saved each other.

As he gazed down, Tenzo’s chest constricted and his knees almost gave way. It hurt to draw air into his lungs. His hand slid over Kakashi’s cheek, and he leaned down to meet their lips together in a gentle kiss. Tenzo lingered, tears filling his eyes and running down his cheeks, until he heard the door open behind him. For once, the sound caught the Anbu off guard.

A feminine cough announced the presence of the Hokage, and Tenzo straightened from adjusting Kakashi’s mask over his mouth. Light brown eyes met darker ones, and Tsunade nodded. “It’s time.”

Tenzo nodded and wiped his cheeks. He allowed himself one final squeeze of Kakashi’s hand before following Tsunade from the room. He composed himself on the walk to the cemetery, recalling every ounce of training Anbu had given him. By the time Tenzo reached Kakashi’s student, his face had taken on a mask of shinobi emotionlessness.

The younger ninja didn't fare as well. Tears clung to Naruto's golden lashes, and his face was splotched in red, but he managed to hold himself together for most part. Sakura did better, surprisingly. Her hands clenched against her pants and her nose was tinged pink from crying earlier, but no tears fell. Tenzo rested a hand on each of the student’s shoulders without speaking.

Distant thunder rumbled as Tsunade began, extolling Kakashi’s strength, virtue, and sacrifice. Tenzo muted the Hokage’s words to a buzz, choosing to remember the way that Kakashi’s eyes creased when he smiled. He pictured the effortless way that Kakashi shoved his headband up and moved through combat as if he were invincible. Kami, Tenzo’s always thought he was. Kakashi was almost untouchable, in battle anyway.

Tenzo’s favorite image would always be Kakashi in bed, a gorgeous flush of desire on his pale cheeks as he watched Tenzo crawl toward him. The memory gripped his throat, forcing the air out. A sob lodged there, held there by pure willpower. Icy rain splashed onto Tenzo’s face, cold tendrils worming through his hair and down his cheeks. Warm tears joined it before he could stop them. Brilliant lightning flickered across the sky. Tenzo glanced up, welcoming the reminder of Kakashi as Tsunade drew the memorial to a close.

Slowly, people began to drift away. A few spoke to Tenzo, but he didn’t recognize the words. He probably responded, or they took his silence as an answer. Either way, the cemetery emptied of everyone except Kakashi’s team. Sakura stood by Tenzo’s side until everyone else had gone. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug, then lifted on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Tenzo felt nothing. “Why don’t you come back to my apartment, I’ll make something for dinner and we can-

“Thank you, no,” Tenzo interrupted, forcing his emotions into a tight ball of agony that he held away from his countenance.

“We could watch a movie, or play cards, or go get ramen,” Naruto offered, his blue eyes brighter from the tears that left tracks down his whiskered face.

Tenzo made himself smile. “Kakashi was so proud of you, of the shinobi you’ve become,” he offered to soften his refusal. Kakashi didn’t say it often enough. Tenzo nodded toward the village. “I appreciate the offer, but why don’t you two go ahead? I’m fine.”

Naruto started to argue, but Sakura caught his arm. She bit her lower lip, eyes watery. Tenzo hated the feeling that she saw through his guise, hated the knowing expression. “You know where to find us if you want to talk. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

The rain increased, slicking Sakura’s pink hair to her face. Tenzo mumbled a thank you without meeting her gaze. He watched the pair leave, disappearing around the bend that led back to Konoha. Thunder rumbled again, and Tenzo moved closer to the flower covered slab that held an image of Kakashi. The photograph didn’t look like him; the hokage robes weighed down his shoulders, and the hat shadowed his beautiful, charcoal grey eyes. Kakashi stared soberly back at Tenzo.

Fingers traced the cold, damp glass that differed so much from Tenzo’s memory. Even so, it was Kakashi, his Kakashi. Pain flared from Tenzo’s knees when his legs gave way, cracking against the hard stone. A sob rose in Tenzo’s throat before he could stop it, and for once, he didn’t try to hold it back. The strength of emotion took him by surprise, squeezed his chest until the world grew dark at the edges. Tenzo sucked a desperate breath into his lungs, only to sob it out the next second. The noise was louder than the rain, louder than the thunder, louder still than the heart beat that he wished would simply stop.

Tenzo crumpled forward, head resting against his knees until the sound quieted. The sobs never ended, but his body had nothing left to give. He stayed there until he felt a hand touch his back. He found Tsunade above him, a bottle of sake in the hand that wasn’t touching him. “Mourn him in private,” she offered, voice gentle. “Not here, and not like this.”

Before Tenzo could think of an answer, the former Hokage pressed the bottle into his hand. He stared at it in confusion, before tipping it toward the sky. The alcohol burned his throat, somehow loosening the pain he’d held there. The tears started again. “I can’t do th--”

“Yes, you can,” Tsunade interrupted, taking the bottle back. She took another long drink, then sat it on the stone and pulled Tenzo to his feet. “You can, and you will. Kakahsi wouldn’t want you to fall apart because of him.”

Tenzo nodded, unable to form words. He didn’t need them; Tsunade continued. “He’d want you to be there for his team when he can’t, for his friends. You’re the last piece of him that they have.”

The blonde’s eyes took on a distant expression as she spoke, and Tenzo knew that she was speaking from experience. He blew out a breath. “How do you do it?”

“Copious amounts of alcohol and sarcasm,” Tsunade laughed, releasing Tenzo to take another drink. “But, you’ll probably manage through gardening and yoga or some shit like that. But you have to keep going; don’t let his sacrifice be in vain, Tenzo.”

The man lifted his head to meet Tsunade’s eyes, surprised that hearing his name sent a flash of warmth through his frozen chest. For years, it had been Kakashi’s to use, something private between the two of them. Now, every time that Tenzo heard it, he would think of the changes that Kakashi had brought about in his life.

“Thank you,” Tenzo murmured, pushing his damp hair away from his face. He glanced back toward the soft light of the village, hazed by the drizzle that clung to the air, and wondered if it was too late to take Sakura and Naruto up on their offer. He could do this, for Kakashi.