[OPEN] FIC PROMPTS

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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

( plurk fic. )

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index of things I've written on plurk. for my own reference!

DOCTOR WHO | 200 words

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All universes, he wants to tell them - every stream and line and point to point and star - everything's suffered. Somewhere, elsewhere, Amy is pounding down a New York sidewalk with her pockets full of diamonds and sirens shrilling behind her; elsewhere, she's masked and breathless over a surgeon's table, about to start her first incision; she's jam-mouthed and sticky or damp from rain or crushed bloody under a cement block and breathing his name, either of theirs.

There's always an elsewhere.

But. But - and there's always a but, lovely conjunction, he's never known a species that hadn't carried contradiction in them yet - but. He doesn't owe them justification. Perhaps it's easier. Perhaps it's a kindness: a raggedy man carrying straw in his pockets and up his sleeves. It stops being wonderful eventually. He knows it; he's heard it said before. (He doesn't like it, still.) Another life in another skin to the same two hearts.

It all stops.

Up on the glass platform, he stops by the ship's brightest console and leans there. He looks at the lights winking at him: their own universe.

He wants to be sorry. In a sense, he always has been.

SADGEAR | 100 words

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Sweat, iron, exhaust bitter on the tongue--fatigue enough that Agito's heel slips off the step as Kazu shoulders the rooftop's rusting door. One hand flexes open in the fall, and another turns sharply to reach it; blood twists, sticks between their fingers.

Their eyes flick to meet as if in mirrors.

"I hate this. Hiding. Shit--" It catches, aching, in his throat. His grip tightens. "I'm sick of it."

Agito says, "Get over it, bean king." Bitten contempt. "You don't get to be sick."

He jerks away and steps past, first to the open dark and the evening's rising breeze.

TALES OF THE ABYSS | 100 words

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Under the dark, eddying into sleep, he remembers a sonorous voice, syllables blurring over the years to stitch together in memory --



"This is no more your mask than Sync is your true name. Would you say that a plank owns the nail hammered through it? Listen. A replica can't possess anything in this world. Replicas were never meant to exist, and so the Score allots no objects for them to own, no place they may keep.

Do you see, Sync?

Do you understand?"



Perhaps he dreams it. Perhaps he doesn't. Either way: it is his only memory of warmth.

HOBO LESSONS | 100 words

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"All right, gettin' to the most important of street-livin' now! You listening?"

"Yeah!"

"First you gotta put up a fist. Holdin' it real tight!"

"Ummmm." A motion. "Like this?"

"I dunno... you really squeezin'?"

A pause, all thought, and five little nods, strung together in earnest succession. "Uh huh!"

"Now hold it out... careful, careful! Y'only wanna do this with friends you trust, got it? All right..."

A bigger hand reaches down. Gently, their knuckles bump together. His sinking glasses flash; he pushes them back as his grin breaks wide.

"Now that," Mister Noodle explains, beaming, "is called a hobro-fist!"

PANDORA HEARTS | 100 words

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Imagine it: a single Nightray grave. Massed, compact--for convenience's sake. Vanessa's mussed curls sunk and stitched into her brother's concave belly. Gold-shrouded Claude arched to nestle under his own wrist. He could have the older bodies exhumed, the mouldered withering limbs pulled from the sockets. Sawn apart. Heap them about their father's vestigial corpse, fitted to one box. Such a close-knit family.

And, in the neighboring grave, the last trueborn son.

"But you'd hate that, wouldn't you... being set apart. Really, you always fussed so."

Vincent laughs.



He wears magpie black to the burials, and bows his head to each.

D.GRAY-MAN | 100 words

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Seven years old (he guesses), body cobbled from branches and stewpot gristle (he feels), reeking of salt and week-old salmon (he remembers, he knows), he plants his feet on the shipdeck, squares his jaw. At the dock, sailors mill through their carrying and loading. Swarthy giants with scraped, grim accents and hidden knives--their grit and brine, at least, true to human nature.

Better than most.

"Here I am," he declares, "here I'm staying!"

Bookman rolls his eyes. A black sleeve whips out.



Hours later, he wakes trussed in a wagon hobbling into French countryside.

(They never speak of it again.)

YIN | 100 words

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Sovereignty, to me, lay always here: in the curl of your thoughtless, upturned fingers, skin fine as a girl's and your clean-pared nails--pale crescents which never seemed to grow out to claws. I slanted looks at them most in summer, I think, where their pearled graces seemed most impossible. The hands which would grow to sign treaties, scribe laws, offer pardons and maledictions.

It's winter now. The scepter's heavy--it glares, little lights; its metal bites at a touch. I imagine, often, carrying it to your old rooms through the dark. My shadowy, coiling hands nearly reflections.

Not yet close enough.

NOT FREE! ENOUGH | 100 words

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"Haru! You can't keep doing this--what if a clerk sees? Is that even comfortable? Ah, never mind! Come on, here--" There's a delicate splash, cloth raking water while the speaker flicks constant, nervy glances over both shoulders. "Hurry up and get back into these and we'll go, we've already paid for everything else, so--"

"Makoto."

"What now?"

"They're sinking into the water."

"You're wet anyway!" His brows cinch, his mouth a moue, all pleading. "You can wring them out, can't you?"

Haru levels him with a look. "Not with a fish," he remarks placidly, "swimming up through the left leg."

PRAY (FOR DIGNITY) PROJECT | 100 words

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His wrists crook; his shoulders flex in strain. Lowly, he says, "tighter," and the syllables flick roughened but steady between his teeth. Obedience, here, comes like a gift--silence, a sigh against his nape, and cool fingers straying down the line of his arm, knotting force into the rope that's caught his hands.

The knots twist tight; his pulse shudders under each jerk.

He breathes. The corners of his mouth curl as he leans back. Listens idly to a palm's tell-tale rasp down the wall, centimeters away. Watches a shadow fall, furling over him.

Under the dark, his laugh cuts short.

NONONOPLACEHOLDERGATARI | 100 words

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Fact: Some star patterns, though well-known, have yet to be recognised as official constellations; these are referred to as asterisms.
Fact: Vision is subjective; what one being sees might be wholly different to another's eye in dimension, proportion, illumination. No sight, no sky, can be shared.
Fact: Nor love, either.

It isn't, in the end, a matter of certainties--only of having spoken. Having named the stars. Breath threading after breath, lying hand-in-hand in the quiet grasses.

She does not dream, does not delude. If she has any weakness, let it never be this.

The offering's all there is. The asterisms suffice.