#prompt 15

[alphieshplife]

Rue - @moonchaser-microfic - wc: 844

Rue represents regret, repentence, and sorrow

When Remus wakes in the Hospital Wing following the full moon, the last thing he expects to see is James in the bed next to him. But there he is, sitting up under the covers, Sirius and Peter in the chairs between their two mattresses, laughing gleefully despite the sling holding his arm and the bandage peeking out from below the collar of his shirt. 

He doesn’t have to ask to know what happened. After three years of running together, Remus had finally injured one of his friends. 

Stupid. He’s been stupid. If there’s one lesson his father tried to instill in him his whole life, it was how dangerous he is. And he had listened. For ten years, he had listened. And then his friends–his brilliant, kind, marvellous friends–had come to him with a solution. With animal companions, Remus would be less alone on the full moons, less likely to injure himself.

He had been hesitant at first, but it only took a few successful runs to completely forget what his father had taught him. He had been stupid, and foolish. And now James is hurt and it’s his fault, his fault, his fault–

“Moony.”

His eyes are closed, but there is a hand on his cheek, warm and gentle and wiping away the tears that Remus hadn’t even realized he had cried. The bed dips next to him, and then the hand on his cheek slides into his hair and he’s being pulled forward, into a solid chest, and James is hugging him–one-armed but still warm, still soothing. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers into his hair. Remus doesn’t believe him. Of course it’s his fault, who else’s would it be. He keeps his face hidden in James’s chest, and the other boy doesn’t try to move him. “Do you remember anything?”

For a moment, Remus doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. And then he shakes his head. No. He doesn’t. 

James’s hand cards through his hair, his fingernails scratching gently at his scalp. Just like always, the feeling calms him, and soon, his breaths are deep and low and his eyes are dry. How James is so good at soothing him, Remus will never know. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” James repeats. “Padfoot got his foot stuck in a tree root. He kept pulling it and pulling it, but it wouldn’t budge and I was starting to worry that he was going to break a bone.” He pauses, as if to let Remus absorb what he’s told him. He still doesn’t see how James’s injuries aren’t his fault, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. “You were far…far enough that I thought I had time–time to get him out and shift back. But he was really stuck, and…It’s my fault. I should’ve shifted back sooner, but I panicked.”

Finally, Remus sits up, looking at James incredulously. “You shifted? You left your animagus form?”

“...Yeah,” James breathes. 

The flash of emotions that runs through Remus could be rage, or fear, or anxiety–or any combination of the three, really. Without thinking, he reaches behind him for his pillow and whacks James with it, making the other boy yelp. 

“You idiot,” Remus shouts, whacking James with the pillow again. “Years, we’ve been doing this! Years!” Again, he whacks him. “And you thought–Oh, I’ll just shift into a human with a transformed werewolf nearby. That’ll go great! What is wrong with you?” When Remus goes to hit him again, James catches the pillow with his good hand and yanks it free from his weak grip. 

“Yes, I know!” James exclaims. It’s only then that Remus realizes how his face is twisted–like he feels guilty. Well, that just won’t do. “I know it was stupid, I know I’m an idiot, I wasn’t thinking, I thought there was more time–”

Remus isn’t sure what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from all the fear and anger he feels, or maybe it’s the terrible look on James’s face. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever the cause, Remus grabs James by the back of the neck and pulls him close, surging forward until their lips meet. 

There’s a split second where James freezes, and Remus thinks he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. But then James’s good hand comes up to slide into his hair, and he tilts his head for more room, and he kisses him back. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and beautiful all at once and Remus never wants it to end, never wants to face the conversation they’ll have after where James inevitably says, That was nice, but I’m just not interested in you like that. Sorry, Moons.

Except, when they separate, James’s guilty look has shifted into a dopey grin and his eyes are–for lack of a better word–sparkling. And what he says is not I’m just not interested. It’s, “Fucking finally.”

Remus is entirely sure that he’ll spend the rest of his life regretting having hurt James. But he also can’t feel anything but glad that it led to this. Fucking finally, indeed.

[hetakinkmeme]

I submitted the “American takes the 51st state rhetoric too far” prompt and wanted to leave it to the imagination but a pairing would probably help lol. Sorry!

AmeCan

Option 1: make it silly, Alfred is obsessed with Manifest Destiny 2.0, stressing he doesn’t need Canada but Canada needs America so they may as well be one.

Option 2: could make it angsty instead. Abusive, controlling tactics. “Look what you made me do.”

.

[kybercrystals94]

Focus Up

Read here on Ao3!

Angspril 2024 | Day 15 | Prompt 15: Confrontation

Rated: G | Words: 816 | Summary: A training exercise doesn't end the way the siblings expected. | Character Focus: Omega, Hunter, Echo

Slight content warning...someone gets a bloody nose.

“Focus up, Omega!” Echo calls from the sidelines when Omega’s gaze drifts again to the sparkling white beach and frothing surf. 

Omega turns her head to look at Echo and misses Hunter’s quick sweeping motion that knocks her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling forward across the soft, silty ground. Pushing herself up, Omega spits out a mouthful of grit. “That isn’t fair,” she growls, “Echo distracted me.” 

“You distracted yourself,” Hunter chides gently. “Do you think your enemies will wait for you to be focused before they strike?” 

“No,” Omega huffs, rolling over into a sitting position. “But why do we have to train today? I’ve never been on a beach before, and Wrecker promised he’d show me how to build sandcastles.” 

Hunter smiles at her and holds out a hand. “There’ll be time for fun after training. C’mon, let’s go again.” 

Omega takes his hand and Hunter hauls her up to her feet.

“Get in position,” Hunter says.

Halfheartedly, Omega changes her stance. Hunter adjusts her left elbow and right shoulder, and lightly kicks the heel of her boot to make her bring her foot up. “Good. Now bend your knees a little more, keep your center of gravity low.” 

“Will my enemies wait for me to get into position?” Omega snarks irritably. 

Omega is slightly annoyed when Hunter chooses endless patience instead of reacting. “With enough practice, getting into position will be second nature.” 

Once her brother is satisfied with her posture, he stands in front of her, slipping into his own familiar placement. “Start!” 

Omega is a flurry of frustrated movement, going through the maneuvers she’s been taught while Hunter easily blocks each strike. With a surge of adrenaline, Omega decides to try something different, wanting to catch Hunter off guard. She goes for an uppercut, which Hunter starts to block; however, she aborts the movement just before making contact and dives for his knees. Hunter isn’t ready for the sudden attack, and is nearly toppled; however, he moves to recover his balance. As he disentangles himself from Omega’s grip, his knee comes up and catches her hard in the nose. 

Omega lets out an involuntary yelp of pain, her vision going black for a moment as her body registers the blow. Falling back, she cups her hands over her nose, already leaking blood. She isn’t crying, but tears run down her face and blur the image of Hunter kneeling in front of her. 

“Move your hands, let me see,” his voice is saying over the roaring in her ears. She gives a tiny shake of her head, but Hunter gets more insistent. “I need to check if it’s broken, Omega.”

 Gingerly, Omega lowers her hands, being careful not to touch them against her clothes. Not that it matters with blood dribbling down her chin and neck. 

Hunter inspects the damage, gently prodding the cartilage. “Doesn’t seem to be broken. That’s good. Here, lean forward a bit and pinch here.” He guides one of her hands up to do as he says. “Echo’s getting a cold pack.”

Omega groans, closing her eyes as tears continue to escape without her permission. “I’m not crying,” she tells him, her voice sounding funny with her nose plugged. 

“I know you’re not,” Hunter soothes, patting her shoulder. 

“That’s one way to get out of training for the day,” Echo’s voice says beside her. 

Something soft and chilled presses lightly against the bridge of her nose. Omega hisses in surprise. “I didn’t do this on purpose!” she protests weakly. 

“We know, kid,” Hunter says. “And good job. You almost got me there.”

Echo chuckles. “Getting an injury during training is like a right of passage.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Omega,” Hunter mumbles. 

Omega grins behind her hands, peeking one eye open to look at Hunter. “But I almost knocked you down? Really?” 

“You should’ve seen his face,” Echo says. “If I had taken a holo, we would’ve gotten a good laugh out of that for years to come. I guess we’ll just have to settle for describing it in great detail to Wrecker and Tech later.” 

Hunter frowns over Omega’s shoulder where Echo is situated. Omega giggles, the pain and tears of her injury nearly forgotten. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Omega adjusts Eva’s left elbow and right shoulder. She nudges Eva’s heel to prompt her to shift forward. “There,” Omega whispers. “Keep your knees bent. Good.” 

“This will help us to fight?” Eva whispers. 

Omega can’t train these children as her brothers trained her. She can’t teach them to throw a punch, or hold a blaster, or how to avoid detection. However, she can give them a foundation, as small as it might be. She can teach them to slip into position until it’s second nature, until her brothers find them and rescue them. 

Smiling grimly, Omega puts a reassuring hand on little Eva’s shoulder. “It’s a start.”

END

@the-little-moment and @just-here-with-my-thoughts 😱 This is the halfway mark??? YAY! Go team!! 15 more angsty prompts to go 😇

(Make sure to check out all of our stories this month for ultimate heartbreak!)

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[fluentfridays]

Prompt #15

What is your favorite joke in your native language/language you are learning?

[sweetperversiongirl]

Thank you Rayray @rayrayor for encouraging me to participate in the Drabble Challenge ♥ Thanks to Mandi @bawlbrayker for helping me edit this ♥

Here's my drabble on request number 15: “I’d kill for a coffee...literally.”

Morning crept inexorably into Ian and Mickey's bedroom, along with the sun's insidious rays. They should have gotten new blinds to replace the old ones Ian had taken from Lip and Tami's house in Milwaukee. In fact, Ian wasn't the least bit bothered by the fact that he had to wake up literally at the crack of dawn. He had long since gotten used to the strict regimen. The same could not be said for his husband, who had become particularly restless lately. Besides, Mickey had always hated the beginning of the work week.

Not that Ian thought there was any reason for Mickey's restlessness. But apparently Mickey himself thought otherwise.

The agitated tossing under the covers signaled to Ian that his husband was awake, and not in the best of spirits. It didn't come as a surprise to him either.

"Fucking shit!" Mickey jumped up from the bed so abruptly that the phone Ian was holding fell onto his chest.

Raising an eyebrow, Ian decided he wasn't going to release any comments just yet. Instead, he preferred to focus on enjoying the magnificent sight of his grumpy and completely naked husband. He couldn't hold back a disappointed sigh as Mickey quickly picked up the first boxers he could find from the floor and put them on, thus depriving Ian of an important part of his aesthetic pleasure.

Standing in front of the window, Mickey grabbed the blinds, crumpling them at the edges. He then jerked his arms violently, pulling the blinds off the window, allowing sunlight to fill their bedroom.

"Might as well not have this shit in here," Mickey yelled, throwing the now permanently broken blinds to the floor. Glancing over his shoulder, he threw Ian an angry look. "You should give this shit back…” he kicked the blinds with his foot,"to your fucking brother. I'll be fucking glad to know that asshole has as fucked up a morning start as we do."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with my morning," Ian couldn't resist commenting, for which he was immediately rewarded with two blue knives pointed right between his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I completely forgot that you are Mr. 'Nothing Can Take Away My Zen'. In that case, Master Shifu, could you stop thinking only about your own ass for a second and take care of your fucking neighbor? Isn't that what fucking kung fu teaches?"

"Actually, kung fu teaches you to be more tolerant of your neighbor first and foremost," Ian snapped back. "I'm sure I've been pretty good at it so far, Mickey."

With those words, he threw back the covers and slipped out of bed. His morning boner stared proudly at the ceiling as Ian stalked naked into the bathroom. He didn't like the fact that his husband had managed to get him off balance so quickly, but Mickey's lustful sigh behind Ian's back made up for that brief discomfort.

Ian's peace of mind was fully restored after Mickey caught up with him in the bathroom doorway. Ian received his rightful morning blowjob, which he immediately returned to Mickey with all the enthusiasm of which he was capable.

Brushing his teeth, Mickey mentioned in passing that Kit, their new West Side client, had turned out to be a sneaky bastard who'd tried his best to drive the price of shit down. Ian simply reminded Mickey that credit should be given to Kit, since it was Mickey who had arbitrarily jacked up the price of shit. The incident was over.

Until it turned out that there was no coffee in their apartment.

________________________________________________________

As they approached Starbucks, they found a line a mile long, which in itself was not surprising for a Monday morning. The next coffee shop was much less crowded, much to Ian's sincere joy. All his hopes of getting the morning going again were dashed immediately after the waiter mixed up their order and brought them iced coffee.

"If I liked drinking this shit, I'd have stayed in fucking Mexico!" shouted Mickey desperately as Ian dragged him outside, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

Eventually, after all the morning's misadventures, they found themselves in a tiny, unremarkable coffee shop. By West Side standards, it was just a hole in the wall, mostly ignored by the civilized locals. Ian figured: why not? After all, he and Mickey were still ghetto dudes, right? His temporary excitement quickly faded when he and Mickey walked up to the counter and found there.... the laziest barista in fucking Chicago.

Ian read the man's name on the nametag.

"Good morning, uh... Squidward?" he greeted the barista with the most idiotic name he'd ever seen. After the guy didn't even bother to look up from his phone at him, Ian decided to order anyway. "Double Americano and an Americano with cream, please."

Again, no response. Throwing a glance at his husband, who was leaning his butt on one of the tables, Ian realized Mickey was approaching boiling point. He returned his attention to the barista, already seriously contemplating that a plate of stale oatmeal cookies would look good on this guy's head.

"Hey, Mr. Tentacles," Ian muttered through clenched teeth.

Meanwhile, Mickey had gotten his ass off the table and walked over to the counter, resting his palms on it. A sly smile played on Ian's lips as he reached across the counter and slapped Squidward hard on the shoulder. The man didn't even flinch at this unceremonious invasion of his personal space. Instead, he slowly raised his head and stared at Ian, blinking his sleepy fish eyes stupidly, as if he didn't know there was anyone here but him.

Ian arched an eyebrow and nodded at Mickey's tattooed fingers, which his husband defiantly spread, knuckles pressing against the counter.

"I suspect you can read. Can you see what it says here?"

This time it apparently reached Squidward what an unpleasant situation he had gotten himself into. He swallowed awkwardly, and then, like an idiot, began to read aloud the writing on Mickey's knuckles. This made Ian growl impatiently and Mickey snort smugly.

"Bite him, Hercules!"

"Jesus Christ," Ian rolled his eyes, ignoring his shithead husband's retort. "Are the people in this place even capable of reading between the lines?" The barista blinked dumbly again. "Look," Ian noisily let the air out of his lungs. He points at Mickey’s tattooed fingers and spells it out, "It says, 'I'd kill for a coffee.' And that's not a euphemism, Mr. Tentacles. We understand each other now, right?"

With a hasty nod, Squidward jumped up from his seat.

A few minutes later, Ian and Mickey were enjoying a fairly decent coffee, seated at a table in the deserted coffee shop. They'd even allowed themselves to get a little fucked in the bathroom because Mickey was so damn horny. Ian thought he guessed the reason for that.

"Bye, Sponge fucking Bob. See you later," Mickey called out cheerfully, waving goodbye to Squidward as they left the café.

Once outside, Ian put his arm around his husband's waist and pulled him to him for a brief but deep kiss.

"Do you think he'll be happy to see us here again?"

"I don't care if he'll be glad or not," Mickey snorted. He looked relaxed now, which Ian couldn't help but be pleased about. "We'll definitely come back here again. Dude's a dickhead, sure, but his coffee's pretty damn good."

A wolfish smile blossomed on Ian's lips.

"Are you sure it's not because I turn you on so much when I'm angry?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Peter fucking Pan," Mickey rolled his eyes. "You know you look like a golden retriever most of the time, right?"

Twisting out of Ian's embrace, Mickey headed toward their parked car. Ian rushed after Mickey, resenting being demoted so abruptly.

"Hey, what happened to fucking Hercules?"

[chocoblep]

#15: Warming Up to the Idea

Prompt: Freee day! (Achieve)

Illian leaned over the temperature control panel that he’d nearly finished embedding into the wall, screwdriver in hand. He was fairly certain he would have to adjust the crystals below the floor once he finished this step and turned it on, as he’d used a modified version of the one he had in his own workspace. Now that he’d had sufficient time to test it, he’d slowly started installing these temperature controls in other places around Highvale Manor. This particular unit was for the kitchen–specifically, the larder. If he could get it to keep a consistently cold temperature, then they could store more in the space while using significantly less ice crystals.  Thankfully, they’d just cleaned it out and moved the contents they were keeping to a temporary cooler, so if this didn’t work, at least things wouldn’t spoil. Still, he was fairly sure it would.

He finished the panel’s install, and then went to double-check the wires he’d attached to the regulator below. The only differences in this setup was the lack of switch from warm to cold and the presence of two ice crystals instead of an ice and fire crystal from which to draw aspected aether. Once he was certain all of the connections were in place, he moved back outside the larder and began to press buttons on the panel. Setting it to freezing temperatures, he confirmed his choice, and then tipped his head to listen.

When he heard the tell-tale whir of the fans, he smiled and rounded back into the larder to feel in front of the three ducts along the top of the wall with his bare fingers. Satisfied with the cold air pushing into the room, he covered the floor panel and then walked out and closed the door.

“What’s for lunch, Khalan?” he asked, and the cook–an older dark-skinned Miqo’te woman with silvery streaks in her pulled-back dark hair–turned her tea-green eyes toward him. A smile lit her face.

“Oh, done already, are ya? That was quick!” She was already pulling out a plate and setting it on the counter. “Popoto crisps are almost done, and I could build ya a sandwich ahead of the rest of ‘em.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Illian said, swinging his leg over one of the stools that usually went unused at the kitchen counter. Most people ate in the dining room, and Rath seemed to vacillate between eating with his staff and taking his meals privately. It really depended on whether or not he was absorbed in a task.

As Khalan built his sandwich, the pair chattered about different things that he could improve around the kitchen. The device he’d made to mix ingredients for baked goods had saved her aging arms many aches, but her knuckles were starting to get knobby and stiff.

“Should we be looking into getting you an apprentice, or an assistant, to take over when you finally decide to retire?” he asked, not bothering to hide his concern.

“Oh, you know me and my kitchen,” she replied.

And he did. He’d once tried to help her prepare a meal, and gotten the biggest lecture of his life  for it. M’rath was banned from using it, and he’d floated the idea of an assistant or apprentice several times with no luck. He gave her a nod as she loaded up some of the finished crisps onto a plate and then finished his sandwich, sliding the food over to him.

“At least have Lord Highvale look at your hands,” he implored, before crunching into his first crisp and biting back a groan of happiness.

“That, I’ll do,” she replied, turning back toward the stove to pull out the last tray of crisps and set them out to cool. “At my age, I wouldn’t terribly mind an extra set of hands–ah, but they've got to be capable! Not somebody like you coming in to help!”

“Firstly, rude,” he said around a bite from his sandwich. “Secondly, you’re right; I’m not an experienced cook, unless you count campfire meals.”

“Which I don’t. If you’re going to insist on hiring me an assistant, then I need to test them.” She eyed Illian with a stern expression, placing both hands on her soft hips.

“I’ll talk to him about it, and we will bring any prospective candidates to you. I promise.” It was an assurance that he could keep, and as he watched her nod and go to grab the tongs, moving slower than she used to, he thought that perhaps he should initiate that process sooner rather than later.

When he was done eating, he checked on the larder’s temperature, delighted to find that it had chilled to the temperature he’d set. Supplying Khalan with instructions to monitor the panel every half bell and report any fluctuations to him, he set off back through the manor to attend his other duties. Nothing else was going to give him the satisfaction of convincing Khalan to entertain the idea of someone else sharing her kitchen, but they had to be done nonetheless.

[promptsbytaurie]

prompt #15: imagine your OTP!

A: *glares at Person C*

B: *notices, and whispers* why don't we like them?

[oswsfandomchallenge]

We're almost there, and for our second to last prompt, we've thought of something special. We've brought you the classics, now we're bringing you a new spin on one:

prompt #15:

❄️ Last Kiss ❄️

[fanfictasia]

Whumpuary Prompt 15

You’re Safe/Aftermath

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from Vision

When I sleep, I dream, flickers of Crosshair and Kamino that I can’t make sense of.

I don’t want to dream. I don’t want to See. It gave me hope we could get him back, but it was wrong. I was wrong. I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t want to think about him, but I can’t stop.

I push myself up, leaning against the wall again. I don’t want to go back to sleep, even if everyone else is.

Omega is tossing a little beside me – nightmare – and I reach out, shaking her shoulder. She gasps faintly, eyes flying open and jolting upright.

“Sh, it’s okay,” I soothe. “You’re safe.”

From how fast she scoots back from me, I can’t help wondering if she’s remembering Bracca. That wouldn’t be the first time, though I’ve never seen her outright react to it before. Not like this. Omega looks around, breathing still a little high. “Okay,” she says, blinking a few times, “We’re here, but I… I keep seeing Kamino. I can’t believe they just destroyed it.”

“That’s what the Empire does. That’s why it needs to die.”

“Do you want to fight it?” It’s a tentative question, but not one I’ve ever seen Omega ask before. I didn’t know she thought about it.

“I want to kill it.”

She bites her lip. “You know that would mean fighting Crosshair, right?”

I huff, turning away, setting back against the wall, one hand falling to the picture, fingers tracing over the cool edges. Everything is cold, especially me. I’m still freezing inside out. I shake my head a little, hearing, but not really accepting. I can’t believe that. “I can’t believe he would do something like that.”

“I know,” Omega whispers, “But he did.”

[tricksterfiction]

Prompt #15 Portentous

Handmade Heaven - MARINA

It was mid afternoon, Sen stood hesitating on the door way to her mentor's home. Her hand hovered over the handle, she knew she didn't have to knock to enter. She wore a comfortable loose sleeved green shirt, with a grey skirt, her redwood cane strapped to her back.

Sen had been practically hiding away at Gaelicat's Rest, the quiet inn halls were often hers alone to relax in. She felt safe from outside forces.

Now she had been dreading this talk for what felt like ages now, she had made the decision, clutched in her other hand was her military commendations letter - it was in of itself portentous of her future, what awaited her. Success in misery.

But... she made a promise to her... girlfriends...?

Gods, no - she shook her head, kissing and scheming with Giovanna over the mysteries of Avielun didn't count. Then offering herself to being used as a scratching post by said mystery didn't count either.

Was this really the right choice? Was quitting her career actually going to be worth it? Or would she be signing herself up for more confusion, forcing herself into an even more vulnerable position?

Her hand lowered, then leaned her forehead against the grains of wood.

Resolve had left her, she turned on her heel meaning to retreat to recoup her nerve elsewhere. The door opened as she was half way down the path and was called by Madame Dubois, "I was waiting for you to come in and now you are going to leave?"

Shit...! Sen thought scrunching up her shoulders, looking very much like she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Heyyyy." She drew out, "I was uh- going to go... uh-" She looked over the the moogle box, "Fetch your mail." Opening the box she felt around to find it completely empty, then slowly closed it.

The wizened Elezen frowned in a perfectly disappointed way, "You clearly have something to talk to me about, mayhaps why you have been avoiding me outright?"

"I-I haven't been avoiding you Madame, it was for your safety-"

Madame Dubois threw her eyebrow up, then whistling sharply a block of earth shot up under Sen to forcibly scoot her back toward the house followed by a very insistent breeze blowing her further.

Sen was in the house now, removing her boots, surrendering to her fate.

Madame Dubois was ahead of her, leading the raen out to the beautifully kept garden. Their beautifully kept garden, her hand passing over some poppies. They sat down at stone table and chairs, birds were enjoy the bird bath chirping to the chorus of buzzing bees working diligently. There was a pitcher of water set aside, Sen automatically poured them both a glass.

"Madame, I-" She began, then slide the letter across the table.

"Is this...?" She asked, knowingly. "Your last commendations?"

Sen nodded, she wasn't smiling with pride nor elation.

Madame Dubois reigned in her brief excitement at the absence of Sen's.

Then Sen without another second thought she spilled her guts.

To Madame Dubois' credit she remained silent while she listened to her apprentice. Sen clutched at her heart, her voice dipped in volume, it shook at times as the truth came spilling out. The years of discontent, her career did not matter, nor did the plans for real change within Gridania matter. Ambition had all but left her a husk of indecision, doubt. Quietly, the quietest she had been yet to imply that included abandoning the art of conjury in favour of something better.

The writing had been on the walls. It wasn't simply a funk, no amount of time would quiet this exceptionally loud knock at her door for change. Ultimately, she expressed how she saw it all as bars to her cage, she tapped the commendation letter.

The silence stretched between them. Sen tentatively watched her mentor for her reaction interrupting it with a, "I'm sorry I know you must be feeling-"

"Betrayed to the highest order?" Madame Dubois supplemented venomously.

Sen sucked back in her words, bracing herself now.

The elezen stood not only as symbol but a tower over tradition. Sen quailed under her shadow, not moving.

"You-" Rage was boiling, years of frustration, hopes - dreams all turning to ash. Sen saw her jaw work and grinding away enamel. "Would... Throw it all away?"

Sen swallowed hard, then she pinched her shoulders back - her resolve coming back to her, "Yes."

All seven hells broke at that, unlike ever before did Sen experience real rage from her mentor. The short snaps, the huffy frustrations, the yelling over her tantrums, it all paled in comparison to what Madame Dubois unleashed now.

Once she was screamed at to get out of her sight, Sen didn't run to the elezen's surprise. Sen had reached the door, then turned to look her in the eye, tears we were welling over - strong as she was to stand her ground she wasn't immune to feeling like shit while it happened, "I pray Althyk keep you, you'll need his strength to carry you through these changes as much as I have."

Madame Dubois was suddenly speechless.

Sen left, quietly shutting the door behind her.

[unbloomingmoonflower]

FFXIVWrite2023 Prompt 15: Portentous

The gradient of silver in her left eye was an ominous omen.

Ever since Shuri returned from the First, she noticed the flecks of silver that began to dot the sapphire hue of her left eye. She was born with differing eye colors, so she wasn't perturbed from the start. Yet the silver was beginning to become more copious, more obvious, and Shuri was beginning to question everything once more.

It began when Elidibus had taken over the body of her beloved Ardbert, one that angered both her and Estinien. Shuri was adamant to ensure Ardbert's body was laid to proper rest and that Elidibus was doing a grievous insult by inhabiting his body.

However, when they conversed, Elidibus was demonstrating an almost...fatherly act with her, as if he were her parent. It irritated Shuri, but something within her stirred. What was it that responding to the Emissary...

...with pure, unbridled hate?

The answer came from the lips of Elidibus himself, a portentous word as he lost the battle to her: "Lilith. Beware of Lilith."

Ever since then, her eye was slowly changing. As if the name had awoken something within Shuri, something that wanted to be free of its shackles.

Had Elidibus meant Shuri's unsundered self? The one that Emet-Selch spoke of? The one that he seemed to consider highly? Certainly not the same, if Elidibus' warning held true.

But what could a Xaela such as she do with little information and those who held it having been long gone?

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Sicktember #15

Prompt: Sick in an Inconvenient Place

Fandom/OCs: Navy Man OCs (Michael Ingram)

Words: 1330

Sicknario inspo: Standing, groaning, clutching head from this post and "that's quite the fever" from this post.

Author’s comments/background: Poor Michael. I feel like I pick on him a lot, giving him awful illnesses and putting him in embarrassing situations only for him to pass out all the time. But he's just so gentle and whumpable lol. One of these days I'll give him a partner. Maybe. Read his first story here. 

~~~***~~~

He had always dreamed of visiting the tropics, and at last his dream was coming true. The year was 1910, and the United States Navy had called select officers to convene and inspect their newest base in the tropical paradise of Hawaii, and Captain Michael Ingram was one among them. It seemed too good to be true. Yet when the ship had docked, he had been welcomed with open arms. His senses were boggled by the beauty surrounding him on the tiny, mystical island. It seemed he had left earth entirely and somehow landed in heaven. 

The days leading up to them making port had not been kind to the naval captain, however, and a nasty virus they had picked up somewhere was ravaging his crew. The ship's med bay was overrun with men complaining of "brain splitting" headaches, light sensitivity, vertigo, and a raging fever that had them either pouring sweat or shaking with chills by turns. The scariest part of the illness, though, was its sudden onset. A man could be fine and dandy at lunch and bedridden by supper, and there seemed to be few to no warning symptoms until the headache hit at full force. 

Everyone that has contracted it had recovered thus far, though there were a few close calls, but convalescence was unusually slow, leaving the men weak and exhausted for weeks, hardly able to do even half duty. Worry was gnawing at the captain, and he hoped some days in the tropical air would help clear his ship of whatever invisible, unwanted cargo it was carrying. 

The first day was the tour and inspection of the base which went as expected, though it did leave Captain Ingram wishing for a permanent posting here. A strategy and debriefing meeting was planned for the second day. That morning, too, went as usual. If the captain was a bit weaker, more sleepy, more achy during the meetings, he never noticed it, as he would tell the medical people later. It seemed at first to be a normal day at port. 

By the mid-morning, though, he began to feel something amiss. It seemed as if a lead weight was settling over his body and he had the overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep, which of course was impossible, since the meeting was planned for all day. Then a strange sensation started behind his eyes, a tightness and weakness, blossoming into a dandy of a headache in no time that left him squinting at the daylight. Soon he was nauseous and shaky, since any movement left him spinny-headed, and the light had him feeling almost blinded. A cold sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature began to work its way down his collar, and that's when he knew he was in trouble.

Yet all of this he kept to himself. What else could he do? Excuse himself from a meeting he was already attending, after reporting to his superiors that he was in good health only hours before? Unthinkable. So he sat, trying not to move his head, and speaking as little as possible, doing his best to keep his shaking to a minimum. 

Nothing stays hidden forever, though, and his undoing came when the men adjourned for the midday meal. Michael, eager to find a cold, dark room in which to pass the hour, stood too quickly, and a wave of pain flooded every inch of his head and cascaded down his spine. He gripped the back of the chair for dear life, or else he would have toppled over, but his free hand flew to clutch his head as a guttural groan escaped against his will. He felt hands on his back and arms and heard voices saying something, but his vision had all but grayed out and it was all he could do to cling to consciousness. 

There were too many people around him, too many people talking, and Michael only wanted a breath of air and silence. His mumbled protests seemed to be going unheard, and he thought he likely wasn't coherent. He desperately needed to get away, so he made a serious miscalculation: he let go of the chair, his lifeline, and tried to take a few steps. He had a split second to process his vision going from gray to black as his knees buckled beneath him out of nowhere before he knew no more.

~~~

He woke in a hospital bed in Pearl Harbor's medical ward to the feel of his face being sponged with a cold cloth. Yet consciousness returned to him sluggishly, so at first the sensation was detached from anything else. He made an involuntary noise, though, which elicited a response:

"Nice to have you back with us, sailor," said a woman's voice. 

This was a turn of events he had not expected, so he forced his eyes open, though it took great effort. 

A white cap with a red cross, blue eyes, red hair framing a pretty face. This was all he could take in before his eyes fell shut as he groaned again. 

"That's quite the fever you have. You've got all the officers in an uproar. You certainly know how to get attention, don't you?" said the nurse conversationally as she continued to sponge him off. 

In his near-delirious state he had trouble following what she was saying, but he thought he caught the gist of it, though he could think of nothing to say in response.

She seemed not to notice or mind his silence, and continued her side of the conversation easily. "And I can't think of a more inconvenient place to get sick. I'm sure you were enjoying your visit to the island. No one wants to see the inside of a sick bay, but especially not at a new port. Still, there are worse places to convalesce I suppose." 

As she spoke, he was checking in with the rest of his senses: A cool breeze danced across his skin, carrying tantalizing, delicious floral and fruity scents for which he had no name. Forcing his lids open again, he tried to look past the nurse, taking in gauzy curtains fluttering beside open windows filled with sunlight. If one focused on the window, it would be easy to forget that one was in a sick bay. 

At length a cup of water was pressed to his lips, and he drank it down eagerly. 

"Thank you," he said. His voice felt rusty. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious.

"My pleasure." The nurse pulled the cloth away at last as Michael felt himself starting to shiver. "I'm Helen, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Michael," he mumbled, belatedly realizing she would already know his name and everything about him, probably including what he looked like naked, since he had gathered that he was dressed in a hospital gown. 

She also pretended this was a normal meeting, though. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. You're not going anywhere for a while, not until we get that fever down, so I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other. But I'll take good care of you, never fear."

She winked broadly, and he couldn't help but smile. She had managed to make him feel at ease already, a task few medical personnel ever accomplished. She was good at her job… or else this fever was making him crazier than he realized. 

Conversation was proving to be difficult, though, and once more he was at a loss for what to say. He spoke the first words that came to mind after a sluggish pause:

"I look forward to getting to know you better, Helen." His eyes were already getting heavy with exhaustion, but he heard her laugh softly. 

"Get some rest, Michael. I'll be here when you wake."

After that, he knew no more.

[kybercrystals94]

Scraped Knees

By KyberCrystals94

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2023|Day 15|Prompt 15: “I don’t need you to help me, I can handle things myself.” | “I’m fine.”

Rating: G

Words: 739

Summary: Set directly after Season 1 Episode 3 “Replacements”

Omega waits until the ship falls almost entirely silent before she tries to sneak out of her new room. She practices the quiet footfalls she learned from following Hunter on Kamino, creeping down the dim hall to where she remembered Wrecker pointing out the med kit during his grand tour of the Marauder. Her knees burn where the fabric of her leggings rubs on the raw skin from where she fell following the Ordo Moon Dragon into its den.

After glancing up at the cockpit where Hunter has first watch, Omega carefully pulls the kit off the shelf and lifts the lid, setting it aside. She frowns as she stares into the messy array of medical supplies. Great. So much for being quiet, she thinks sourly. All she needs is bandages, and maybe some antibiotic ointment to prevent any infection. She begins her search, quickly finding bandages, but struggling to find the antibiotic. She is debating on how necessary the ointment is when a voice says above her, “What are you doing?”

Omega wishes she could deny the pathetic squeak of alarm that escapes her lungs before she clasps both hands over her mouth, dropping the bandages back into the chaos of the kit. Curses!

“Hunter,” she says, looking up at the Sargent. She isn’t sure if he meant to sneak up on her or not, but by the guilty look on his face, she suspects not. Omega scrambles to her feet. “Sorry. I just—sorry. Uhm…”

Hunter looks down at the med kit. “Are you hurt, kid?” he asks.

Omega’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, though she can’t decide if it’s more from being caught sneaking into the med kit or having to admit she’s hurt. Needing bandages for scraped up knees sounds so childish when compared to the injuries her brothers must’ve sustained over their lives as soldiers. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

Hunter gives her a look, and Omega can’t hold his gaze, averting her eyes to the shadows in the corner.

“Omega,” Hunter says gently but firmly, “in this squad, we do not hide injuries.”

“It’s not an injury,” Omega protests, “I just sorta scraped my knees up when I was crawling around in that cave on Ordo Moon. It’s nothing!”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Hunter says, picking up the med kit and nodding toward the cockpit.

Omega frowns, but follows Hunter, climbing into the copilot’s seat. She rolls up her leggings to expose the torn-up skin on her knees. Honestly, it looks and feels worse than it actually is, she knows; however, the expression on Hunter’s face when he kneels down in front of her to examine the damage for himself makes her eyes burn. He looks so…concerned. Over something so minor. Whenever something like this happened in the lab, Nala Se would tell Omega she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

“‘Mega,” he says softly, “You should have told us.”

Omega blinks, surprised by the nickname. She’s never had a nickname before…unless she counted being called kid…

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” Omega says. She sniffs and roughly rubs a fist over her eyes to hide the tears that come.

Hunter smiles at her, a small thing that is barely noticeable, but she sees it. “It’s never a bother to take care of our own, Omega. You don’t know how many bloodied scrapes I’ve cleaned up and bandaged over the years, for all our brothers, and they’ve done the same for me. And you’re one of us now, right?”

Omega nods. She doesn’t trust her voice to come out without wobbling.

“That means,” Hunter continues, starting to rummage through the med kit, “when you get hurt, no matter how small you think it is, you’ll let one of us know, right?”

Omega nods again.

Hunter works with practiced ease, and with a gentleness Omega hadn’t entirely expected from a soldier. When he is finished, Omega rolls her leggings back into place while Hunter puts away the med kit. When he returns, Omega smiles at him. “Thank you, Hunter.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Hunter says, ruffling her hair. “You’d better get back to bed.”

“Yes, sir!” Omega slides out of the seat. She walks back to her gunner’s mount room feeling lighter.

As she curls back up under her blankets, hugging Lula close, she decides that having brothers is even better than she imagined it would be.

END

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[a-drabble-a-day]

Prompt #15

Animals Against Humans

~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..~~..

Deep, in the deepest of the deep, a Council was summoned.

One by one, they arrived. Slowly, gradually, unhurriedly, they descended. To depths that would crush a terranean skull. Far, far beyond the limits of a human's fleeting, miniscule imaginings.

In circles they gathered. Their songs rising and falling. In unison, in contradiction. Family squabbles mingled with arcane debates, all blending within the cacophony of waiting, impatience, restlessness.

Then. Sudden silence, reverential. Not even a chirp from the smallest of calves.

The Eldest had arrived. 

A gargantua the size of a small mountain, altering the currents as they passed. All heads were bowed in veneration as the Eldest took their place.

The Council began. 

The Eldest held sway in the centre. Their song as old as time, as deep as the ocean, but as gentle as an eddy.

They heard the cries from the outer circles, from the younger ones with hotter heads. They heard the laments of the mothers, the despair of the fathers. They heard the waves upon waves of anger and indignation. The call to action. Now. Now. Now. Death upon the humans.

And then They called for silence.

Silence fell immediately.

My kin.

They said, a serene voice that pierced the soul.

My kin, be calm. 

I hear your cries and your anger. 

May it gladden your hearts to know that the time to act is indeed upon us.

The human world burns. They poison the very air they breathe. The very water they drink. The very soil upon which they grow their food. 

They have not a sanctuary as we do here below. 

The winds have torn through the lands, the rains have buried their cities, the sun has cracked their earth, and the oceans have risen.

We rise with the ocean. 

A deafening wave of fervent clicks and whistles washed over the gathered circles in frantic approval. 

Slowly, the circles unravelled with planned intricacy, pods breaking off and swimming with deadly precision.

From land, all over the world, frenzied reports broke out of giant shadows rising from the deep.

~~~~~~~~

[moonchaser-microfic]

Wiggenweld Potion

★ Able to sterilise and heal minor wounds.

★ Awakens a person from magically-induced sleep (and hence can cure Draught of Living Death).

Wiggenweld Potion - @moonchaser-microfic - wc : 971

The common room had been warm with laughter the night before.

Remus had told a story about a boggart pretending to be a girl’s crush and getting rejected. James did impressions until he fell off the armrest of the couch. Sirius was curled up like a cat in Remus’ lap, flicking jelly beans at James' head while Remus tried and failed not to laugh. Their warmth lingered even after they'd gone to bed, a dreamy haze in the dormitory that smelled like cinnamon and wet socks and the last remnants of a prank gone slightly wrong.

So James had smiled when he stirred first the next morning and turned over, expecting to bury his face into Moony's curls and press a kiss to Sirius' temple at the same time. Typical routine. He was the designated morning cuddler. Always had been.

He rolled over with a groggy hum, arm flinging over Remus' waist.

Still. Quiet.

James blinked, opened one eye, and leaned in. Remus looked peaceful, but very pale. His lips weren’t dry, but there was something off in the way his chest barely moved.

“Moony?” he whispered.

No response.

James frowned and pressed a kiss just below his ear, then one along the curve of his throat. Still no reaction. Usually, that’d get a sleepy giggle or at least a twitch.

“C’mon, sleepy wolf,” James murmured, lips brushing along old scars like a prayer. He kissed each one with reverence, the softest kind of ritual: shoulder, collarbone, knuckles. “If you sleep through breakfast again, Sirius is going to put toast in your hair.”

A groan behind him. “Don’t tempt me,” came Sirius' voice, still thick with sleep. He was tangled in the same bed, forehead creased.

James turned his head, voice quieter. “Something’s weird. He won’t wake up.”

Sirius dragged himself closer, peering over Remus' shoulder. “He’s breathing. Looks normal.”

“Yeah, but…” James leaned in and touched Remus’ cheek. “I kissed his entire collarbone. He didn’t even sigh.”

Sirius snorted. “That’s how you’re measuring responsiveness?”

“That’s how I measure love, Black,” James shot back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He stared at Remus' face, suddenly too still, and swallowed. “Maybe he’s having a rough morning. He gets those, right?”

Sirius nodded, yawning. “Full moon was two weeks ago. Maybe he’s just tired.”

“Maybe,” James echoed, but something cold and uncertain sat at the bottom of his stomach. They left Remus tucked in, Sirius brushing his fingers through his hair absently. James lingered by the door, glancing back once, twice, then followed Sirius down to breakfast.

But Remus didn’t come down.

Not for toast or jam or tea. Not even for a chocolate frog Sirius snuck from his pocket to wave at the staircase. Not when Peter started a food fight with a Slytherin. Not when someone let off a dungbomb and blamed Peeves.

James watched the stairs like they’d conjure him. By lunch, he was chewing his nails. By afternoon, he stood from the common room couch so suddenly that Sirius startled.

“Where’re you going?” Sirius asked, setting down his butterbeer.

“I’m going to get him,” James said, already halfway up the stairs. “Something’s wrong.”

Remus hadn’t moved.

Same position. Same softness in his expression. Like he’d drifted off mid-laugh and never quite found his way back.

James approached slowly this time. He whispered his name, then shook his shoulder, then pressed his forehead against Remus’ sternum.

“I don’t like this,” he whispered. “Please wake up. You’re scaring me.”

Still nothing.

He didn’t run, exactly, but the corridors blurred past until he was knocking on Professor McGonagall’s office door with the urgency of someone who had loved and lost and refused to let it happen again.

She was silent for a long time after James explained. Then she stood, nodded once, and said, “Wiggenweld.”

James blinked. “Wiggen—what?”

“It’s a restorative potion,” she explained, cloak already swinging as she led the way toward the hospital wing. “Very old. Used for magically-induced slumbers. I’ve only seen it needed once in my life.”

“But Moony’s not cursed,” James insisted. “No one cast anything on him—he just… didn’t wake up.”

McGonagall paused, her sharp gaze softening. “Some sleeps do not come from curses, Mr. Potter. Sometimes the soul is simply tired.”

Madam Pomfrey brewed the Wiggenweld herself. It shimmered faintly gold, like the first rays of dawn caught in a bottle.

James carried it himself, hands trembling the whole walk back.

Sirius was already there, curled up beside Remus in the bed, head on his chest. He looked up when James entered, eyes hollow.

James didn’t speak. He knelt beside the bed, one hand stroking Remus’ hair, the other lifting the vial to his lips.

“Come back,” James whispered. “Please come back.”

He tipped the potion in.

At first, nothing.

Then—a twitch of fingers. The softest furrow of a brow. A low, sleepy breath like wind in leaves.

Sirius gasped.

Remus’ eyes fluttered open slowly, golden-brown and glazed with confusion. “...James?” he croaked. “Pads?”

James made a broken sound and crushed him in a hug. Sirius practically climbed on top of him.

“Don’t you ever scare us like that again,” Sirius said, voice tight.

Remus blinked. “...was I asleep?”

James choked on a laugh. “For half the day, you dramatic sod.”

“Did I miss breakfast?”

“You missed everything,” Sirius said, but his hands were shaking as they cupped Remus’ face. “James kissed your entire body and you didn’t flinch.”

Remus blinked slowly. “...do that again?”

James laughed wetly. “Later. You just sleep normally now, yeah?”

Remus smiled faintly, the kind of smile you find at the end of a long fairytale, after the battle’s been won and the prince stirs in his tower bed and his friends are still there, waiting.

Wrapped around him like armor made of love and mischief.

[chocoblep]

#15: Curry

“You have to try the Hamsa curry,” Asana had said, leading him into a large, airy eatery named Mehryde’s Meyhane. She and Rhyle had just arrived in Radz-at-Han, and as they’d walked through the city they’d discussed what they would be doing–speaking with the alchemists and researchers here and at an outlying village called the Great Work. It was a possible lead as to the viability of getting him home where he belonged, though he was doubtful that this place would yield results. After all, it was better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed on most occasions.

The golden-scaled Raen sat with him at one of the smaller tables and, when the server came around, ordered two servings of the curry he’d agreed to try. They’d chatted, him asking her questions about this very colorful place, and her asking some of her own about his home. They were not particularly well-acquainted, but he felt somewhat safe with her. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of this establishment, and occasionally the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as someone passed too close to where they sat. Every time, his fingers itched toward his quarterstaff, which sat leaning against the table.

When the food came, he thanked the server, who shot him a dubious look that felt almost ominous. He turned his baffled expression on the plate in front of him, wondering what this meal had in store for him, and then on Asana, who had already dug in and was contentedly eating. She flushed happily, gesturing to his plate. 

“Try it!” she urged, food tucked in her cheek that she didn’t chew until after she’d spoken.

He picked up his spoon, flaring his nostrils to catch its scent. It was fragrant, but the scents he caught were foreign to him. Appetizing, but foreign. There was a sense of warmth radiating from the dish; so much so that when he lifted the first spoonful to his mouth, he blew on it before he took that first bite.

Rhyle nearly choked, spitting the bite back onto the spoon. His entire mouth burned. When he swallowed his own saliva his throat burned, and the air that entered his lips when he opened them to speak made everything even worse. Immediately he reached for his water, chugging a quarter of the glass, but even that didn’t relieve much.

“You okay?” Asana asked, blinking over at him with an innocent expression on her face as she chewed.

“It burns,” he managed, huffing out a hot breath in an attempt to ventilate his mouth. “Is it poisoned!?”

“No, it’s got some spice in it, but not poison.”

“Spice?” Rhyle questioned, and then Asana laughed.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, putting her spoon down, “You’ve never had spicy food before, have you?” She looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Rhyle was not amused, and stared at her with a deadpan look on his face to prove it.

“Goodness, I thought you were strong and could handle it,” she commented, and Rhyle’s eyes narrowed.

He was strong. He could handle the burning food. He’d just been surprised by it, that was all. Determined, he picked up his spoon again and took another bite. That burning sensation was back, but this time he chewed and swallowed.

The rest of the meal passed with Asana enjoying her food immensely and Rhyle eating mechanically, determined to defeat the burning curry. Asana explained a bit of the city to him and he listened, even if his eyes were a little mistier than normal and sweat beaded on his brow. The server, who caught a glimpse of him, swept in with a glass of milk and murmured, “on the house,” before leaving again, and Rhyle just stared at it.

“Milk helps,” Asana said, gesturing to the glass. He grabbed it, took an experimental drink, and arched his brows in surprise.

“Oh.”

“Better?”

“Yes.” Now he could identify a pleasant aftertaste on his tongue, much more unusual than anything he’d tasted, but not in a bad way. “And I have defeated the food.”

Asana did laugh at that. “Well, from where I was sitting, it looked like the food nearly defeated you in the process! I will tell them to go easy on the spices next time.”

Rhyle said nothing. To thank her for her insight would be to concede defeat, but to protest would be to invite it. No, he had to do this on his own and show that he was strong. When they left Mehryde’s Meyhane behind, Rhyle was filled with a new determination.

I will defeat all of the burning foods. Asana will know my strength.