[OPEN] FIC PROMPTS

[sharper]

I might as well put this to good use since it's here. Fic prompts! 'Cos gameplay's looking a little slow lately and I'm sorely in need of practice. Help me out, toss me a prompt? ♥ New requests are always welcomed!

WHAT I CAN [TRY TO] WRITE Chances of a decent product are highest with Air Gear, D.Gray-Man, Durarara!!, Pandora Hearts, Kingdom Hearts and Katekyo Hitman Reborn!. A good rule of thumb is anything I've played from, but for specificity's sake: Puella Magi Madoka Magica, 07-Ghost, Tales of the Abyss, Leverage, The World Ends With You, White Collar, No. 6, Code Geass, most young adult urban fantasies. . .

You can name characters, a setting, a scene, and/or a word or line to get me started. I'll see what I can do! (Note — I guarantee: words. I don't guarantee: quality of life for your eyeballs, post-reading.)

Anon comments are on, so you needn't log in if you don't have an account. :X

Comments

[searched]

(pssst this is Maddie psssst)

Sora/Rika/Kilik, the past. >)

PLACEHOLDER | an excerpt

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The rest of this is coming today, there's substantially less Rika than expected but it's already so long, so I'm just like. 8|

*

On a typical afternoon—

"A motorcycle. One of those curvy ones, all smoke-like, with a chrome finish or somethin'."

"Given the advance of technology, I believe we would outstrip current motorcycle designs within the decade. There would be nothing impressive about it in five years."

"All right. A dragon."

"Ridiculous."

"A duck."

"Are you proposing to have a duck inked into your skin?"

"Nah," Sora says. He flashes a grin wickedly sideways—just a turn of the head, and no more. An afternoon of racing tricks along the tower's burned any energy for more right out of them; they've flopped on its highest floor, side by side, to watch the clouds evaporate with the sunset. "Just wanted to see how many other words you got for 'ridiculous'. You been readin' the dictionary again?"

In spite of dignity and the certainty that he has nothing shameful on his side, Kilik reddens. It had been one particularly sweltering day in the summer when Rika had trailed back to the base to borrow their shower, slinging off her jacket in the corridor and working open the laces of her shirt as she went, starting with the knot at her throat. Caught in an open door, Kilik had reached for the first book on a shelf and stuck his face in it; he couldn't look up all afternoon until Sora came searching for him and found him in the middle of the Gs, trying to unravel some meaning out of geromorphism that wouldn't drag up the memory of slick skin.

But, as playwrights had it, that was long ago, and the memory was dead. "You would do well to read it yourself, Sora," he says. The metal is warm as skin beneath him; he stretches his fingers out and lets his eyes lid against all the sky's light. "It might, at least, be of some use later in your life."

"Aw, who cares about uses? A dragon would be fucking cool."

Impossible to guess from where the idea emerged, but there it lay: a tattoo is a cool thing, and Sora means to have it. What Kilik had imagined to be one of his passing fancies has only bloated over time into a monstrous fantasy. Sora has even taken to snagging books from the local library. Real books: pages swelling with jagged clockwork painted into dizzy images, intricate skeletons, coils metallic and serpentine. The base overflows with them as he pores over each in search of the perfect sign—and now, apparently, it's even begun to slip into his conversations, ink etched over every word.

Someone, however, must remind him of the practicalities. "A tattoo fades over time, Sora," Kilik points out, though he says it without harshness. Exhaustion's a pleasant pulse underneath his bones, the dim ache of accomplishment; his breaths have slowed to sleepiness, shallow as pulling smoke. Insofar as he might calculate it, this has been a good afternoon—though it's not a thing to tell Sora, who's shown a tendency both to mock scores and to keep obsessive track of the numbers. "Especially a larger one. Your dragon will grow patchy."

"You're cursin' my dragon tattoo with baldness," Sora says after a moment's impressed silence. "That's harsh, man."

"It would hardly be a problem if you removed your shirt less often during matches."

But Sora only laughs. "You out to crush all my hopes an' dreams in one day? Kilik—you're killin' me here."

"If you're beginning to dream of removing your own shirt," Kilik answers, dry as metal, "I am the least of your problems."

"C'mon, do I look like that kinda guy? I got better things to dream about." Abruptly, Sora bolts upright, fist to hand. "Hey! Maybe that's it."

"What is?"

"Hold on, I got a picture of it right here." Sora rummages through his pockets, all the laziness blurred out of his motions by inspiration. He turns, uncrumpling a page, and braces on a hand as he leans into Kilik's vision. His grin's bright enough to catch on. "This," he says. He holds up a glossy crumple of a pin-up model from one of his oldest magazines. Kilik actually recognizes it; it is one of the few they had Black Burn toss out on a day when only half the team attended a match, for fear that Rika could chance upon it and destroy the building in her ensuing embarrassment for dating such an idiot. Apparently their venture to get rid of the worst of Sora's collection had been less successful than calculated.

He looks at the page, then at Sora's face.

"Sora," he says. "No."

And so it goes.