#promptapalooza

[notsuchasecret]

56: “Are you flirting with me?” with Takeda/Ukai :3c

The party came to an end and with that the last of their original students were graduated. Gone on to bigger and better things. Gone. Ittetsu saw the last of the students out of the gym and on their way home, and that was that. He turned with a sigh to lock up the gym, only to find Ukai standing inside, staring at the expanse of lacquered wood.

“Ukai-kun?” Ittetsu asked.

“They’re really gone,” Ukai said. “I never doubted Yamaguchi, or Tsukishima, but the morons actually made it through high school.”

“Then what’s got you so upset?” Ittetsu asked.

“I’m not upset,” Ukai sputtered.

“It’s okay to miss them,” Ittetsu said. “I know I will.” Ukai looked at him at last, something akin to concern in his eyes.

“You’re not flirting today,” he said. Ittetsu felt his face heat. “Is something wrong?”

“Wha- what do you mean?” Ittetsu cried. “I’m not a flirt-” Ukai gave him a flat look.

“I thought maybe you were so focused on the kids that you didn’t want anything taking up your energy, so you never went beyond flirting. We both had higher priorities.”

“Are you saying the kids we have left aren’t a priority?” Ittetsu asked. “That’s not very coach-like of you, Ukai-kun.”

“No, no, they are, but now that we’ve got the genius duo on their way, I figured there was a little space to breathe. So. Why aren’t you flirting with me?”

“Maybe I’m tired of flirting and never having it go anywhere.” The words out of Ittetsu’s mouth before he could stop them.

“I get that,” Ukai said easily. “And I can see where my hesitance could be seen as resistance. But now that our shooting stars are all gone, it’s time to seriously consider my response. So, I’ll ask you one question, and your answer will decide my decision, okay?”

“What question is that?” Ittetsu breathed. Ukai stepped fully into Ittetsu’s space, caging him against the door to the gym and breathing the same air as him.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“What happens if I say no?” Ittetsu asked.

“Then I’ll leave you alone. We’ll have a strictly professional relationship, and nothing will change. We’ll focus on the kids, and that will be it.” Ukai was utterly serious, and that scared Ittetsu.

“And… if I say yes?” Ittetsu’s heart was beating too fast in his chest.

“Are you saying yes?”

“I might be.”

“If you are,” Ukai whispered, “and I really hope you are, then I would like to ask a follow up question.”

“What question is that?” Ittetsu asked.

“Can I kiss you?”

Ittetsu didn’t bother with answering. He just grabbed Ukai by the shirt collar and dragged him down for a kiss.

“I’m flirting with you,” Ittetsu said when they broke apart. “And yes, you may kiss me.”

Ukai laughed, a loud, brash, wonderful sound. Ittetsu felt he could spend the rest of his life riding on the joy that one laugh gave him.

So he did.

[sparklestarsandcards]

Funny Bone ~ A Foul Shrimp

"X'halas Jarogniew smuggles a single shrimp into Mahel Sudet's pocket."

She'd gone all day with it. Through sweltering sun barely held back behind overcast skies, through a little bit of gardening, through much analyzing of star charts and fussing over astroscope settings, right up into the night where it started to stink something fierce--its eminent odor wafting from her pocket and throughout the Garden's halls.  

When she thought nobody was looking, she took a whiff of her underarms but could detect no foul odor from there. Still, she was sure it was her person--or at least on her person.

With much worry etching into her forehead, she made for the one person she was certain could help her--and who would not judge. No, not Clover, though she was a close second, but rather a certain baker who often made 'kupo' noises.

He turned the moment she was up the stairs and through to the bakery, somehow the only one there--thankfully--and before a word could pass his lips she outright stated, "I reek," and could tell he was trying to not say anything untoward. "But it's not me!” Mahel protested, lifting an arm for good measure. “I don't know wha--"

Grant stepped forward and Mahel went a little wide-eyed. He moved with certainty and reached for her, or rather, her pocket, and slipping his fingers inside he rooted around for something as Mahel just blinked, staying still, until his hand retreated and at his fingertips a stinking, all too-ripe, shrimp dangled, filling the bakery with its all-day stench. Mahel fought a heave, back of her hand at her mouth, and Grant properly bagged it to discard it outside.

Somewhere in the Garden, Mahel thought she heard a laugh, but what she couldn't figure out was if Halas had meant to prank her--or simply offer her lunch.

*Halas’s shrimp gifting used with permission. *Writing of Grant done with permission.

[whoacanada]

for the fanfic trope mash-up, how about Royal AU + Poorly Timed Confession with zimbits? p.s. love your writing xx

ROYAL AU + POORLY TIMED CONFESSIONS + ZIMBITS

This is how it starts.

“Aww, bummer,” Chowder says, face buried in his phone as Bitty puts the finishing touches on a custard tart for his advisor’s birthday. “Canada’s King died.”

“Canada still has royalty?” 

“Not anymore,” Dex chirps.

“It’s not like he had any power,” Nursey wanders in and kicks out a chair beside Dex. “Just a figurehead. It’s all for show. Trudeau is still in charge.”

“It says they don’t know who the heir is — that’s kinda cool right? Someone’s walking around like a secret prince or something.”

“Well at the very least we’ll be in for some interesting media coverage,” Bitty adds. “’Hunt for the Secret Royal’ will be all we hear about for weeks.”

“Bitty,” Chowder spins in his chair and waves to get his attention. “You think Jack knows anything about this? He’s a history buff, I bet he’s all over it.”

“You know, I’ll have to ask him when he gets back from Vancouver,” Bitty offers, placing the last violet garnish and snapping a photo after he closes the push notification regarding the passing of ‘Canada’s beloved monarch, Laurent IV’.

Much later, Bitty will look back and think about how he really needs to pay more attention to current events.

The knocks come quickly, loud and forceful enough that Chowder rouses from the sofa. 

“—Whasat?”

Dex is already at the door, peering through the peephole warily.

“They look like Feds,” Nursey comments, watching from the kitchen. “They’re finally coming for you, Poindexter.”

“Fuck off, they’re Canadian Feds,” Dex corrects, face pressed against the door. “They’re wearing little maple leaf pins.”

“They invaded New England and they’re just cleaning up the ones they missed —“

“Is someone getting arrested?” Ollie comes running down the stairs behind Wicks.

“Probably if we don’t open the door.”

“Don’t open it! We don’t know what they want!”

“What are y’all hollering about, now?” Bitty calls down the stairs.

“We’re going to prison,” Dex calls back, recoiling from another round of hard knocks.

“You know we can hear you,” comes a muffled voice through the door. “We’re looking for Eric Richard Bittle? Is he here?”

“Definitely Canadian.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, shit, Bits,” Chowder laments. “Go hide they’re gonna arrest you!”

“No, we aren’t,” says the voice again. “We’re not arresting anyone.”

“Real convincing,” Dex chides.

“Look, this is not how we normally do this, okay? Please open the door, it’s a matter of national security.”

“Which nation? Show me a badge.”

The Haus falls silent while Dex apparently gets his answer.

“Well?”

Dex steps back and looks up at Bitty, who is still hovering by the stairs in his shorts and a Falconers’ championship tee.

“You might want to put on pants, Cap. Some nice Canadians with guns want to talk to you.”

Three minutes later Bitty is fully clothed when they open the door on two tall, suited men with earpieces.

“I’m Agent Harper, this is Agent Camden,” the first man introduces, then gestures to his clearly exhausted partner. “We’re here to speak with Eric Richard Bittle.”

“You’re speaking to him,” Bitty says cautiously. “What can I help you gentleman with?”

The two explain they’re agents of the Canadian government meant to bring Eric into protective custody, though they refuse to elaborate on exactly why.

“This is shady as hell, you can’t just take him to Canada,” Chowder stage whispers, and Camden sighs outright.

“We can’t say anything else because we were asked not to reveal details until you’re safely on Canadian soil. It’s a direct request from the Family.””

“The mob?” Wicks gasps.

“Oh, my god,” Harper drops his head. “Americans. No, the Royal Family.”

Bitty may not be the most intelligent person at Samwell — that title goes to the fourteen-year-old in his senior-level Calculus class — but he’s pretty darn sharp and his mama taught him to read between the lines better than anyone.

He reaches up and grips the ring hiding on a chain beneath his shirt.

“Can I call Jack real quick? I just need to grab my phone,” Bitty asks, already rising to retreat to his room when Camden holds up a hand.

“No need, we can pass along any messages.”

There it is, the confirmation Bitty was looking for.

From out of seemingly nowhere another Agent comes down the stairs with a box of Eric’s possessions, his laptop dangling several cords from the side, and he can only assume his phone is stashed in there among the mess.

“Hey! You can’t just —“

“You’ll get them back once we’ve determined there’s no evidence of tampering. We need you to surrender anything with an internet or bluetooth connection. External hard drives, etc. It’s a matter of national security.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Nursey interrupts, recording everything on his own phone, “We’re talking ‘Canadian’ national security.”

“What do you want with Bitty?” Chowder pressures.

“To keep him safe,” Camden insists again.

“Hold on!” 

A woman in a blue pantsuit comes bounding up the porch steps and in through the front door, waving at Harper to stop before running over, holding out her phone. 

“Here, he wants to talk to the Consor – oh,” she stops, seeing the rest of the people in the room. “Um, the… Bittle?”

“Right.” Bitty warily takes the phone and says, “Hello?”

“Bits!“

The relief Bitty feels is so palpable he thinks like his legs might give out.

“Oh, God, Jack? Honey! What’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry, we just landed and service is a nightmare— I’m fine, listen, trust me, I’ll explain everything once you get to Montreal. This is just complicated and we’re still trying to work out the details – You can trust the people we sent.”

“You mean the men in black stealing my stuff? Jack, they took my phone.”

“I’ll make them get you a new one. Just get here and I promise everything will be okay.”

There’s a rustling on Jack’s end and suddenly Bitty can hear Bob.

“Eric? Son, listen, some things have come up and I believe it would be, ah, safer to have you in Montreal for the announcement —”

“Bob,” Bitty interrupts, not missing the flash of panic on the blue-suited woman’s face. “Real quick question, are you the new King of Canada?”

The agents around Bitty slow to a stop and on the other end of the line Bob makes a noncommittal sound that’s the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

“Oh, good lord,” Bitty sighs. “Please put Jack back on.”

Some more shuffling and, “Bits?”

“Am I being kidnapped because your father is the secret heir to the Canadian monarchy?”

Jack is silent for a beat and Bitty fights the urge to panic.

“Bud, you’re not being kidnapped because Papa is the secret heir. You’re being kidnapped because ‘I’ am.”

[the-citrus-scale]

Prompt-a-Palooza

Word Prompts:

1. Blood

2. Angel

3. Demon

4. Gone

5. Mercy

6. Prey

Picture Prompts

Supernatural Weapon of Choice Prompts

1. Microwave

2. Wood Chipper

3. Iron Axe

4. Dynamite

5. Death’s Scythe

6. The Colt

Disney Character Prompts

1. Tinker Bell

2. Cruella De Vil

3. Robin Hood

4. Aladdin 

5. Captain Hook

6. Prince Phillip 

Harry Potter Spells Prompts

1. Obliviate

2. Aguamenti

3. Muffliato

4. Reducto

5. Episkey

6. Ascendio

[tagnoob]

August in Review

The Site

It was Blaugust and Promptapalooza this month.  I participated a bit in the prompt thing, though not very much.  I kept myself busy elsewhere.  There was plenty to post about without additional prompts.

August means some sort of Blaugust

Belghast, who set the whole thing up, has a summary post about the event up with links out to everybody’s prompt post.

I did, however, stick closer to…

[whifferdills]

Idk why but all your fics give me a really cozy feeling. Even the weird ones. (Maybe especially the weird ones.) That said, I am still waiting for that Rory/TARDIS sequel. (Preferably explicit.)

i wrote something and i don’t think it’s what you want but that’s what i got and i’m gonna put the gavel down on Sequels To This Fic from here on out. the story’s done, i can’t do anymore, please feel free to ask for something else.

but thank you for the words in re: cozy, i do strive for that, i’m glad it lands home for you

Rory/Amy, Rory/The TARDIS, ~1k words, this isn’t sexy it’s just a character piece sorry, Parentel Guidance Rated: Spicy, for Adult Themes, dubcon, emotional distress, etc

So it's 1936 and Rory Pond is sexually haunted by a spaceship.

He's also married to a woman absolutely miles out of his league, and they're trying for another bouncing baby whatever, and being a nurse from the future is complicated in a mostly-positive way, and generally the 30's in America have less of everything except syphilis and economic turmoil. There's a lot going on. Just, right, one of the things is: he's still got the TARDIS in his head.

Not all the time, not overmuch. Subtle enough he just thought it was stress, bad memories, the situation of it all. And the first incursion, a soft warm white-noise of a dream that left him sweating icicles and rock-hard upon waking up in their unheated midwinter flat, just sort of faded into the background. Amy was there, and she was warm, and having another nightmare. He curled up next to her, carefully angling his weird erection away, and tried to fall back asleep. Just a strange night. Out of many strange nights, all in a row.

(In the morning he wanted to say something and Amy looked like she wanted to say something and together they collectively said nothing at all.)

The second time, he woke up with a raging hard-on, in the middle of the night, and he left the warm cocoon of their blanket pile to stand at the window, the one single window, facing the brick wall of the adjacent building, and waited: shivering, teeth chattering, perfunctorily jerking himself off. Something about lights, and wires, and a warm welcoming buzz. Vroop vroop.

(She was writing a book, a children's book, and he loved that she was writing, because she was always creative, always talking, and then she wasn't, because their lives were a shitshow and then 1930s America happened and it was heartbreaking and absolutely understandable, what she went through. But she was making and talking and she was happy, after a fashion, and in his books that was just about one of the best things to happen.)

The third time, he knows. It's not a memory, not a bad dream. It's weird, capital-W Weird Stuff. The neutrons are temporally enfuckulated, or however the Doctor would phrase it; a complicated concept simplified for an alien child. Plus some white lies, probably.

New York is belligerently stumbling into spring and he's standing by their one window, the snow turning to dirty slush on the street below, watching Amy sleep. A presence in his head, and a tented-pants twinge in his nether region, and his hands clenched tight on the windowsill. Paint flaking off, the cold-air draft dragging past his wrists.

"Could you not," he says softly. "Please."

From inside his head, like an ear-worm song, he hears an apologetic vroop vroop.

It's 1937 and it's less cold all the time, which is the main thing. They have a new flat, with a furnace; Amy's book has sold enough to lead to another handshake contract - which is bonkers, considering it's 1937, and it's terrifying because so much could go so wrong, and his wages aren't exactly paying the rent, but he is so, so proud of her -

It's 1937 and it's a Tuesday and Rory is awake and cleaning the dust off the breadbox and it's 11 AM and quite nice out and everything inside him suddenly clenches up. A euphoric wave washing over. He knows, he knows what this is.

Amy's at the typewriter and she stops, hands ready-alert hovered over the keys. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"Digestive...issues?" he lies, and immediately feels bad about it.

"You know you can talk about it. Whatever it is. Yeah? We're in this together." She stares at him, and through him, and she's scared but steady and he falls in love all over again.

"Just been thinking about. You know. Before."

"With the Doctor."

"Right."

"And the internet and three Tescos in walking distance and fewer recent major wars and/or plagues. And the sexism was more cloaked. And the clothing - "

"And the TARDIS," he blurts out.

She hums and goes a bit faraway, like she does sometimes. And then she starts typing again, with a smile like she's trying very hard to be positive. "Would be nice, wouldn't it? I think about that a lot. Time travel, I mean, away from here."

He wants to say,

No, not like that, the TARDIS is a literal thing inside my brain and genitals

but that wouldn't be right, would it. That's not a discussion he wants to have. So he nods, and smiles, and shrugs, and goes back to dusting. He keeps dusting until he has to leave for his shift at the hospital.

(She reads out a passage from what she's just written, and it's good and it's her and he is in awe of this woman. So impossibly strong and clever and infuriating and brave. She kisses him goodbye, as he leaves for work, and he carries that with him into the medieval torture-chamber of a hospital where he's not half as helpful as he'd like, or want. It's something, it's way more than nothing.)

It's 1938 and Rory shakes himself out of an unwanted erotic dream. He drags himself out of bed, and he watches his wife sleep. Swing-shift, he's only up about an hour early. The sun's coming up, light filtering through the curtains in their one of three windows.

"Don't," he says softly. "Please. Unless you can take us out of this, to the moon or something. In the future."

He hears, or feels, a quiet vroop vroop noise, and feels a rush of faintly-apologetic optimism, and then it's gone. And it stays gone. 1938, the rest of their lives together, on their own, for better or for worse. Fingers crossed.

He slips back into bed, shucking off one strata of the blanket pile because it’s the season where you can have too many layers, depending, and holds Amy as she works through a dream. A good one, he hopes. He wraps himself closer around her and just breathes, as in-tandem as possible.

[porcupine-girl]

Congrats on one million! I'd love to see a scene from one of your CP docs from the non-narrators POV, like when Bitty sees jack for the first time in Here come the Dreams, etc.

Oh hey, this one is easy because I've actually got it lying around! Soon after I wrote that fic I needed to get a few of the scenes from Bitty's POV out of my system, but I never really finished it so it never made it to AO3. But here's what I've got!

Oh, gosh.

Eric tries not to stare. It's hard, though, because Jack Zimmermann is one of the most beautiful men he's ever seen. Jack Zimmermann has a jawline that could cut glass, cheekbones that could cut his jaw, and an ass that you could bounce his cheekbones off of. Jack Zimmermann has also just walked into his cafe.

He's not particularly starstruck; it's not the first time he's been this close to the man, although maybe the first time without two helmets blocking his view. Jack is an incredible hockey player, one of the best of their generation, no doubt—and Eric knows from experience that he's exhilarating to play against. Maybe the fact that he has played against Jack is why he doesn't react like he would if, say, Sidney Crosby walked in—it's a lot easier to see someone as a person and not a celebrity when you've actually done the thing they're famous for with them, before they were even famous for it (well, before he was as famous for it as he is now).

But he'd want to stare at Jack Zimmermann even if Jack were a schoolteacher or a scientist. Hell, he could be a garbage man and Eric would find it hard to look away.

Eric reminds himself that he'll get to look his fill when Jack gets to the front of the line and focuses on the customer standing in front of him.

"Dude," Lardo mutters as soon as Jack is out the door, "were you just flirting with Jack fucking Zimmermann?"

"Oh, hush." Eric gives her a friendly shove. "That was not flirting. That was just chirping. Y'know, you hear about how he's so awkward, but he recovered pretty quick."

"You do like a guy with a dry sense of humor," Lardo says with a smirk.

"Oh my goodness, Lardo! I do not flirt with every hot guy who comes into the shop! I'm sure he's straight anyhow."

"Yeah, straight or deep in the closet," Lardo agrees ruefully. "Either way, he's definitely enough eye candy to go around."

Eric definitely does not say how charming he finds Jack's accent, or how unprepared he was to see such icy blue eyes when they're not obscured by a hockey mask. Lardo has enough chirping material as it is.

—

Lardo mercifully waits until there are no customers in the shop to start in on him this time.

"So. Jack Zimmermann remembered you. That's interesting."

Eric rolls his eyes. "Not this again."

"Just sayin'," she says with a shrug and a smirk, "when he said that thing about Georgia not liking pride flags, his eyes didn't go to the rainbow flag. They flicked right up to that one there." She points to the blue, purple, and pink flag above her head. "Not many straight pro athletes would even know what that means."

"Larissa Duan, that evidence is so flimsy you couldn't wear it in public without being arrested for indecency. And anyhow, even if by some chance he were queer—closeted, remember? NHL? Like he'd risk any of that to flirt with some random baker."

She just shakes her head. "You don't see how he looks at you when you're not looking, Bits."

He pauses in his restocking of the scones to give her an incredulous look. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, he's not being lewd or anything, but… he looks. It's kinda sweet."

Eric is relieved when a customer comes in right then, so that he has an excuse to get out of this ridiculous conversation.

—

"I, um. I saw this and it, uh, made me think of you. I thought you'd like it."

It takes Eric a moment to realize what's happening—Jack is handing him a book. Jack… bought a book for him.

Oh dear lord, Jack Zimmermann bought him a book because he just happened to see it and it made him think about Eric.

He finally gets his brain into gear enough to take the book, thanking Jack as he does.

Once it's in his hands, he sees it's a cookbook. A baking cookbook, specifically. Does anything baking-related make Jack think of him? He stares down at it for a few seconds. It's old. Really old. He flips it open and sees the publication date—wow.

"Wow." He flips a few pages and glances through a recipe, then another. "Oh, gosh, look at this!" He pages through it a bit more. It's not just an old baking cookbook. It was written with wartime rationing in mind. It's directly related to conversations he and Jack have had. "Oh my goodness."

When he finally manages to look up, Jack is fidgeting a bit, a light blush on his cheeks—is he worried Eric won't like it? Well, Eric certainly can't let that stand.

"That's so sweet of you, Jack, thank you. I love it."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he's embarrassed. I love it came out breathier than he'd intended, and his mouth had been far too close to saying something similar but entirely different.

This is not going to help his crush on Jack at all.

—

There's actually someone I'm interested in. But my career is definitely in the way of pursuing that at the moment.

Oh no.

Eric clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut. This is stupid; he asked Jack about his love life specifically so that Jack would tell him about women he's seeing. He asked for this, thinking maybe it would help him put a lid on this crush of his. He can't go getting jealous now that it's happening.

He can be a good, supportive friend.

- Oh! Really? 
- Tell me about her. Gosh, when do you have time to meet someone, anyhow?

There's a long pause, and Eric can't help imagining the long, gushing text Jack is probably composing, all about how she's the most beautiful woman he's ever met, and funny, and smart. Good, supportive friend. Good, supportive friend. Good, supportive—

I don't even know if they'd be interested, even if my job weren't an issue.

Eric stares at his phone for a second, eyes wide and unblinking.

Then he throws his phone all the way to the other end of his bed.

That text could not have said what he thinks it said. It didn't. It couldn't.

He gingerly stretches out and picks the phone back up. He can barely make himself look; what if he really is just imagining things?

What if he's not?

When he manages to look, it's still there.

I don't even know if they'd be interested.

Eric goes back and reads over the last few sentences they've sent each other.

Why would Jack say that? Eric said her, there's just no way that Jack would casually change the pronoun without thinking about the implications. Nobody uses they to refer to a specific person unless a) that person uses that pronoun themselves, b) the speaker doesn't know the person's gender or pronouns or c) the speaker is trying to hide the person's gender—and when the person they're speaking to has just referred to the same person using the pronouns for one gender, it's not really hiding at all. It's being coy. It's plausible deniability.

It's possible, of course, that Jack is interested in someone who uses they as a pronoun, or who is androgynous enough that he's not sure what pronouns they use. An NHL star being interested in someone who's nonbinary would be nearly as big a news story as his being interested in a man, so if that's the case, he's trusting Eric with a pretty big secret. Eric would think he'd be a little clearer about it if that were the case. You don't just go tossing that kind of thing into a conversation.

Which leaves intentional coyness.

[blackholeofprocrastination]

Hello friends,

I’ve really been struggling with writer’s block in a big way. I can’t seem to focus on one idea long enough to finish it or if I do finish it I can never get it to a place where I feel comfortable sharing it or posting it. I’ve decided to give myself a little push to try to get over some of my hangups about my writing and to maybe get some of my writing mojo back.

For the next few weeks, I am going to clear EVERY. SINGLE. PROMPT. out of my inbox. Currently there are 22 prompts in total gathering dust, some dating back as far as 2016/2017 🙈(don’t judge me too harshly good people of the internet). 

It is my mission to fill all 22 by the end of the month!

Some may be drabbles or ficlets... others slightly longer. I’m just going to lean in, let the muses take over, and try not to judge myself too harshly with the end results. 

To the more prolific set of writers out there, 22 may not sound like much, but to lil ol me who has posted ONE fic to ao3 in the last TWO YEARS (a fic, might i add, that i wrote in 2016 and only did a minor rewrite to in 2021) this is going to be a STRUGGLE.

Wish me luck.

[bokunoirozine]

Week 11 prompt - Who wishes they lived in a video game, and what game would it be? 

@writingoverashe on twitter -  “Bakugou secretly wants there to be a Cooking Mama face off so he could beat her in a match”  💪🔥💯 

Chosen and drawn by our AMAZING contributor @1a-lchemist!!! Check out those EXPRESSIONS!!! 😍💖

[centaurianthropology]

I maaaaay have a statement mostly written with intervening bits from Sims and Martin circa mid-season 1. So yeah, I am so up for a statement-a-thon. I'd love to read what other people come up with.

Would anyone be interested in a fic-challenge-thing involving writing fan-statements for Hallowe’en?

[geraskierfanficprompts]

@juststarsandthemoon okie so here the thing my ocd was CONVINCED that if I didn't have as many prompts as I had days on this site, that everything would go to shit and we'd all die But I think... That maybe... I can just... Skip a few days here and there to prevent burnout... And HOPEFULLY... No catastrophic mass unfollowing happens where you're all mad at me for not doing daily uploads Hope you guys enjoyed the first ten prompts in promptapalooza, as it's all the promptapalooza you're gonna get, and I'm gonna continue prompts at my own time and stop swamping myself down. Of course, given how gay I am, once I get back into the swing of things, it'll probably still be near-daily uploads, but if I'm not up for it one night, I just... Won't do it. And it's fine that it doesn't match the same number as long as I've been here, and it's fine if it's not once a day, I just have to keep telling msyelf that Big thanks for @bakewrite for trying to tell me it was okay from the very beginning lol Anyways yeah prompts again soon :)

[notsuchasecret]

Blood orange - kagetsuki

Kageyama’s hair was like charcoal silk, spread out on the pillow case. His face was flushed with sleep, his lips parted and his breath soft. His eyelashes fluttered as he dreamed. Kei watched him for a moment, his edges blurry and soft until he reached over to the nightstand for his glasses.

The early morning light streaming through the window painted Kageyama’s skin gold. He was completely nude, Kei knew, but he was covered from toe to navel by Kei’s sheets, leaving only the beauty of his well-muscled torso and shoulders exposed. Kei went hot, remembering how that torso and those shoulders had stained red with a flush, how those hands that lay so sweet and open on the pillow and on Kageyama’s stomach had gripped the sheets, had gripped Kei’s hair. Kei trailed his own hand over Kageyama’s shoulder, feather-light, then drew his hand away again.

Kei noticed the very moment Kageyama shifted from sleep to wakefulness, if only because he was watching for it. It was a stirring of breath, a scrunching of brows, a slight twitch of the hand. Kei watched Kageyama’s eyes slide open, then shut and open again. He squinted at the ceiling, and frowned.

“No, this isn’t your room,” Kei said, his voice low and soft and stained still with sleep. Kageyama looked at him, and, miracle of miracles, he smiled.

“I noticed,” he said. He stretched, luxurious, and smiled wider. “You’re still here,” he said.

“I’m still here. This is my room, after all.”

“I know that,” Kageyama said with a scowl. “I just thought-”

“You thought I would leave you after last night,” Kei finished for him. “You thought I would fuck you and dump you, that that was all I wanted.” Kageyama nodded. “That’s what I thought too.”

“But?”

“But I saw you this morning, sleeping in my bed, looking so beautiful in the dawn. And I changed my mind.” Kei forced himself to keep eye contact with Kageyama, to not run away from this. “Something changed last night, and we can’t pretend it didn’t.”

“What if I want to pretend?” Kageyama whispered.

“Then you’re a bigger coward than I pegged you for,” Kei said with a smile.

“I don’t want to pretend,” Kageyama decided.

“I know you don’t. I don’t either.” Kei reached out and trailed his fingers along the dip of Kageyama’s collar bone. “I don’t want to pretend this is anything less than what this is.”

“And… what is this?” Kageyama sounded hopeful, but guarded, like he was waiting for Kei to snatch away something beautiful that he had only glimpsed and wanted desperately. But Kei was in a giving mood, not a taking one. So he crawled over until he was perched above Kageyama on his hands and knees. He lowered himself slowly until he was pressed on top of Kageyama from shoulder to shin, their foreheads resting together and their lips inches apart.

“This is whatever you want it to be,” Kei said.

Kageyama didn’t answer, not in words. But Kei didn’t need words. Not for this.

[sparklestarsandcards]

Treasured

I have learned to treasure the intangible. That feeling of heart-fluttering in a quiet morning catching him still sleeping, back towards a wall in the darkened room, subtle sun streams slipping past dark curtains, trying to tease him awake and towards ovens calling to be filled with baked goods, his hair somewhat tousled along with bed sheets that were too heavy or too warm or too in the way as he's kicked them aside, one fallen to the floor, and maybe his brow is pinched as a dream has him or maybe his face is blissfully serene, and somehow his bangs still cover that side of his face as if they know the trauma that had taken place there and want to be a shield. The steam from my cup rises into the air and perhaps I could set it aside and climb across the buoyant mattress to smooth back his hair and stir him to the waking world, but perhaps I could also just stand in the doorway, admiring--breathing in our world, the peace of it in our shared vulnerability.

I have learned to treasure the intangible. Have you seen the way N'theya can wield a net and scoop up gophers? I remember the beaming grin she had, the joy on her little face as Melon became a new charge of hers and how I helped to put it there.

I have learned to treasure the intangible. The opportunity to help Clover with her stacks of tomes, her boxes of books, or even hauling fresh fruit upstairs to the cafe. These small moments of conversation that start between us, stemming from a shared love of the same sorts of things, slowly getting to know the hard-working mother before me.

I have learned to treasure the intangible. Though quiet, Fenris is a force, and it is clear why he earned the title 'Big Red.' Sitting downstairs on a shop night having tea and learning tidbits of who he is and where he's come from, building connection.

I have learned to treasure the intangible. Like every night I sit downstairs as the shop is open and patrons come and go and in between helping them I turn to a familiar face, a Lalafell with a big hat that cannot hide her expansive knowledge.

I have learned to treasure the intangible. Making pizza and failing, bees buzzing about, Mide with his broken Eorzean trying his best to keep his people fed and taken care of. Our new maid on her conquest to vanquish dust spriggans.

I have learned to treasure the intangible. Shiro and his crossed arms, Illy and her cheery greetings, Crow and his snark, his ceaseless teasing, Roxanne and the way she moves about the cafe, Halas and his pocket-shrimp, Saraana and her confidence, and all the others, even the patrons, the way they laugh and talk and bustle, the way they enjoy life.

I treasure the intangible. I treasure my connections. My workplace is more than that, it is home, and my friends more than that--they’re family.

[whoacanada]

PART TWO -- Zimbits, Royal!Jack AU

PART TWO -- (Prompt: ROYAL AU + POORLY TIMED CONFESSIONS + ZIMBITS )

Part One Here

They land and pull into a private hangar with more black SUVs, more agents, and, blessedly —

“Jack!”

Bitty nearly trips over his feet getting out of the plane and crashes hard against his boyfriend’s chest.

“Honey?” Bitty points defiantly at the red coat of arms painted on the tail of the jet. “Explain. Now.”

“Bits, I didn’t know anything about this before a few days ago,” Jack apologizes, turning pink. “I swear I wasn’t keeping this from you on purpose.”

“I’m pretty sure Nursey was on the phone with the State Department when we left,” Bitty cautions as they’re waived into another car. “Just so you know what’s coming.”

“We’re aware, sir,” replies another agent Bitty doesn’t recognize. “It’s been handled.”

“Oh really? And my finals?”

“Handled as well.”

Bitty clicks his seatbelt and turns to Jack, who has fallen guiltily quiet beside him.

“You had time to tell everyone else but me?” Bitty huffs, looking out the window as the small motorcade departs, weaving through unfamiliar streets.

“I had nothing to do while you were in flight so I tried to fix as much as I could to make this less stressful.”

Bitty gives up some of his irritation when he feels Jack take his hand.

“I’m still mad at you for sending secret service agents instead of just coming yourself.”

“Lapin, it took an entire country to keep me from you.”

It takes a moment for Bitty’s brain to catch up with his heart because the line is clearly rehearsed but it still makes him swoon.

“Did you come up with that yourself?” Bitty chirps, trying to regain composure. “Which one of these suits prepped that apology for you?”

“Surprisingly, that one came from my brain,” Jack says, flashing a pleased if hesitant smile. “You still mad?”

“Tell me the truth,” Bitty says softly, lacing their fingers. “Then we can discuss how I feel.”

Jack takes a breath and Bitty watches the way the streetlights dance over his tired face.

“This is everything I know . . .”

There isn’t a castle or palace, just a federal building; albeit an old, stately one. And on the fifth floor of that building, Eric Bittle is just ripping into one Robert Zimmermann.

“How are you not king?” Bitty questions. “You’re his father, you made Jack, so how is he the successor?”

“I abdicated in ’75,” Bob explains, taking a glass of water from Alicia. “It was the only way I could play. I changed my name, gave up any rights to any titles or property — and thank God I was half decent on the ice or who knows where I’d have ended up — but the result is that I have no legal claim to the throne.”

“What does this mean for Jack? If you voluntarily abdicated, shouldn’t that remove him from the line of succession?”

“Normally, yes, but there’s no one else of blood left. I didn’t have any siblings, my father was an only child, so Jack has as much a claim as anyone. Now, if Jack ascended, he could reinstate me and step aside, but that’s only if Jack agrees to be crowned in the first place.”

“Did you ever expect this? Did you know?”

“No, and not in the way you think,” Jack is perched on the edge of his chair, hair unkempt and tie loose around his throat. “Papa always called me his little Hockey Prince but I didn’t think he was talking in a literal sense. Who would? Crisse, Bits, I’m not King material.”

“You’re a great leader,” Bitty defends reflexively, though Jack waves off the compliment, standing to pace.

“This wouldn’t be an issue at all if there wasn’t an arcane constitutional stipulation that ownership of all properties and holdings in the name of the ‘Monarchy’ will revert if there’s no natural-born ruler,” Jack rubs his eyes and groans. “No one ever amended the documents so if we don’t step in a good chunk of Canadian land will end up being owned by England again. If ‘I’ don’t step in.”

“Trudeau has called me ‘three’ times today,” Bob adds apologetically, “and I will be god-damned if we lose Banff to the Windsors.”

“It’s not on you, Bobby,” Alicia counters. “You literally gave up your right to be defensive.”

Bitty turns back to Jack, who has stopped to look out the window only to be immediately shooed away by an aide who quickly closes the curtains.

“Jack?”

“All I have to do it take the title long enough to amend a two-hundred-year-old treaty and then we can just dissolve the monarchy,” Jack tugs the knot out of his tie and falls back onto the couch beside his father. “That’s easy enough. Right?”

“You could abdicate as well,” Alicia offers. “Let them keep hunting for another heir. It could take years, or days, this doesn’t have to fall on your shoulders, Jack.”

“I would be the most hated man in Canadian history,” Jack explains, leaning his head to rest on the couch back, staring at the ceiling. “I have to do it.”

“I never wanted you to be in this position,” Bob apologizes vehemently. “I’d never even considered the possibility.”

“What about the Falconers? Can Jack still —” Bitty realizes a hair too late that Alicia is making an aggressive slashing motion across he throat.

“I watched a Knight’s Tale with you at the Haus, right?” Jack laughs sharply. “Remember that scene where the prince is trying to joust and no one will face him?”

“No more hockey,” Bob says, pained.

“Can I talk to Eric in private?” Jack says, lifting his head. “Please?”

The room clears quickly and Jack’s parents follow soon after with parting hugs.

Bitty’s never felt so unsettled in his entire life.

“Jack,” Bitty starts when they’re finally alone. “I don’t understand, where does this leave me? Why am I even here?”

Jack makes a pained sound and tugs Bitty close.

“Bits, you’re not going anywhere — this doesn’t change anything between us.”

“I respectfully disagree, hon.”

“We just can’t do things like we planned,” Jack says sadly, taking Bitty’s hand. “It’s going to be different for a while. Harder.”

“Alright,” Bitty breathes, trying to keep himself together. “I understand.”

Bitty pulls off his necklace, his ring, chest aching with the effort, and hands it to a bewildered Jack.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Bitty can’t find the courage to look up from his feet, he knows he’ll just start crying. “It’s one thing for you to be the first out hockey player, this is something else entirely.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack questions, voice cracking. “Are you. . .  breaking up with me?”

There’s a brief rush of anger that Bitty tamps down when he finds Jack looking down at him with an expression of abject devastation.

“You’re not breaking up with me?” Bitty clarifies, trying his damnedest to figure out what is going on.

“What? No! Crisse, I’m not breaking up with you!” Jack hands back the ring and pulls Bitty toward him. “Bits, I still want to marry you.”

“It's just…I thought…you’re going to be a King now, for real, or a Prince — can we even get married?”

“That's why Papa wanted you here for the announcement,” Jack takes his hands. “You may have to give up your US citizenship but if we’re legally married before I take the throne you’ll have rights, a title.”

Bitty balks for more than a few reasons, not the least of which was he had convinced himself their relationship was over not a minute prior.

“Honey, I can’t even keep the boys in line half the time, I can’t rule a foreign country.”

”That’s not what —“ Jack drops his head and laughs. “You don’t have to do anything. You remember telling me how when you were five you were obsessed with The Little Mermaid, and your parents told everyone you wanted to be Prince Eric? Then you realized years later that it was only because you wanted to fall in love with a handsome prince? Now both of those things can happen. Papa’s working out the specifics with some of the historians but you'd get a title. Only if we’re married, though.”

“How dare you use that against me,” Bitty tries to argue, though he really isn’t that upset when Jack steals a quick kiss.

“This is a trick,” Bitty whispers before Jack kisses him again. “A deplorable,” kiss, “terrible,” kiss, “shotgun wedding of a trick.”

“As it stands, your official designation would be ‘Prince Consort’,” Jack teases, nipping at Bitty’s jaw. “But unofficially, you’d be the Lord of my Heart.”

Bitty can’t fight the laugh that bubbles in his throat.

“Was that too much? I went too far.”

“Shut up, Jack,” Bitty breathes, leaning into the contact as Jack tries to worm a hand under his shirt to tickle his stomach. “Mama is going to murder you if we get married like this.”

“I have guards, now,” Jack counters. “I’d like to see her try. Besides, they’re already on their way. MooMaw, too.”

Bitty stills, thinking through the logistics of getting his family to move so quickly.

“How much time did you have?”

“Well, I am going to be a King,” Jack chirps, burying his face against Bitty neck. “Need to make sure my Prince is taken care of.”

“Need to make sure your ‘Prince’ is even a Prince,” Bitty murmurs.

“Will you marry me?” Jack asks softly, still hiding his face against Bitty’s neck. “Officially? Probably in a room downstairs with more government officials present than family. It won’t be romantic but —“

“If I divorce you later do I get half of Canada?” Bitty interrupts, lacing his fingers in Jack’s hair to tug at his scalp lightly. “You obviously would keep Quebec but I really think I want Ontario.”

Jack stills and Bitty doesn’t know what reaction he’s actually going to get before Jack replies, “Of course, that should go without saying. Though do you think we should live so close if we separated on bad terms?”

Bitty presses a kiss to Jack’s hairline, distracting him.

“Oh, honey, of course I’ll marry you. Even if it’s only a huge distraction so you can dismantle an outdated Canadian institution and save your national parks.”

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

Bitty nudges Jack’s face up and plants a kiss square on his lips.

“I’m completely exhausted,” he whispers. “I’m exhausted and my boyfriend turned fiancee is long-lost royalty. I haven’t even finished school and I’m going to be a Prince. I don’t have the energy to freak out about this right now. First, let’s get my parents here, and the priest, then we can discuss crippling panic attacks and life changes we’re not prepared for.”

“Crisse, I love you,” Jack pulls himself up and crushes Bitty in a bear hug. “And if it helps at all, I think I might be able to get Beyoncé to attend the coronation.”

Bitty smiles at the thought.

“Oh, honey, one step at a time. You’re the King of Canada. Not god.”

[belghast]

Changing A Fandom

Changing A Fandom - This morning I talk about the one thing I would change in my chosen fandom, which is the first prompt of #Blaugust2020 #Promptapalooza

Morning Folks! Today represents the first day of what will hopefully be 31 days of writing prompts to hopefully give you some ideas as we ease into this “low key” Blaugust event. As a result I have recruited a bunch of other bloggers to help me share the prompts with you, and since I made this thing up… I get the honor of kicking things off. For those who have not been following along at home,…

[tagnoob]

Promptapalooza and Writing a Blog Post

Promptapalooza and Writing a Blog Post

This Blaugust is Promptapalooza where we spend the month chasing a series of daily prompts… if we so desire.  I opted in, but only for the minimum effort, which meant writing about the prompt I had drawn on the day it was due.  Mission accomplished.

August means some sort of Blaugust

It isn’t that I am against any of the other prompts on the list, but I am not sure I really have anything to add. …