Taking prompts!

[ratherastory]

Okay, flist. I'm going to try this cool new thing tonight called "actually writing." Crazy, right?

So, comment here. For every comment I will write you 100-500 words. Anything goes. Existing 'verses, new ideas, anything. Any fandom I have written in is fair game. For the record those are, in no particular order:

Supernatural (FPF and RPF)
Hawaii Five-0
Leverage
Teen Wolf
White Collar
Avengers & related characters (mostly MCU, but I have read some of Bendis' comics)
Cracked (Season 1 only, I have not been watching S2)
Burn Notice (though only the once)
Dresden Files (I am NOT caught up on all the books, so be nice about spoilers!)

If you happen to know of a show that I watch(ed) (or a book series that I read, for that matter), and you want to prompt me for that, feel free. I'll try to list a few shows I can think of off the top of my head (I watch a lot of TV, apparently):

Haven
Person of Interest
Grimm
Covert Affairs
Lost Girl
Elementary
Farscape
Firefly
The Pretender

Uh, that's all I can come up with right now. But yeah, improvise if you want. :)

:::ETA::: There have been a lot of requests for Fusion, but since all the prompts are pretty loose, what I will do is work on a separate instalment and post that instead.

Comments

[de-nugis.livejournal.com]

I'm going to be adventurous and ask for Elementary with Clyde somehow involved.

But if you'd rather stick to more familiar ground, anything Fusionverse is always welcome. Cas interacting with the cat or the dog?

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

Writing turtles is hard!

+++


“Someone’s going to report you to the SPCA one of these days.”

Clyde pauses, waiting to hear the rest of the conversation. The taste of lettuce leaf is fragrant in his mouth, crushed by his jaws and slithering wetly and deliciously down his throat.

“Report me for feeding healthy food to Clyde? I hardly think so.”

“Sherlock, you know I’m not against animal testing in general, but this is ridiculous--not to mention hazardous. You’ll feel pretty bad if he gets stuck down there and dies. Let’s face it, you don’t have that many friends that you can afford to lose one to amateur plumbing.”

Clyde decides to follow Sherlock’s example and ignore Joan. The lettuce leaf he’s been given as an incentive to crawl just a little further into this pipe is several times the size of his head, and as long as he gets to eat the entire head of lettuce that he spotted on the kitchen counter, he’s more than willing to crawl anywhere Sherlock would like him to.

A moment later Sherlock sighs. “Very well. But it will be entirely on your head if we don’t end up solving this case as a result of your well-intentioned admonitions, Watson.”

Clyde kicks his feet a little as he feels himself losing contact with the pipe, the remnants of the lettuce leaf still clamped firmly in his jaws, and he swiftly pulls his head into his shell, just in case something terrible is about to happen. His dismay is short-lived, however, when he finds himself deposited carefully back in his terrarium along with the coveted head of lettuce. He risks poking his head out just far enough to see Sherlock looking down at him with one of those changes in his facial features that Clyde has never bothered trying to decipher. Humans do strange things with their faces all the time, so it hardly seems worth the effort. Sherlock gives him a small tap on the shell.

“A deal is a deal, my friend, and you held up your end of the bargain. The lettuce is all yours.”

[thursdaysisters.livejournal.com]

SPN: Dean and Cain, over an open grave, having their last conversation/beer/kiss before the former must kill the latter.

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

Ugh, this was hard too. I don't know if I have a good grasp of Cain at all...

+++

Blood Cries Out To Me From The Ground

“You dig a pretty nice-looking grave,” is the first thing out of Cain’s mouth.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well, practice makes perfect. You want a beer? I brought a cooler.”

“Give the condemned man one last drink?” the question is wry, but the expression on Dean’s face tells him that the beer isn’t as unwelcome as his tone suggests. It’s mid-morning, and the sun is shining brightly, announcing another scorchingly hot day.

“Something like that.”

Cain accepts the beer, then sits heavily on the lid of the cooler. He doesn’t move to bring the bottle to his lips, just turns it around between his fingers, fiddling with the edges of the label. Sam used to do that, Dean thinks. It would drive him crazy, watching Sam ignore the beer in favour of peeling the label off the bottle in impossibly thin strips. He never thought he’d miss Sam’s little OCD tics, but watching Cain do it now, he can feel a familiar stinging pain in the vicinity of his heart. Supposing he even still has one--sometimes Dean has doubts about that.

“You’re thinking about your brother.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so Dean shrugs again. Cain isn’t even the first person to be able to read him like an open book. Dean just has an expressive face, sue him. It’s not like its rocket science to figure out what Dean is thinking about--ninety percent of the time he’s thinking about Sam anyway. That’s how he rolls, always has been, except for those decades in Hell, when he made sure not to think about Sam.

“So how long has it been, anyway?”

“We’re not talking about Sam.”

“I thought you’d want to. After all, I’m probably the only person who understands what it’s like to have a brother who’s got a direct line to Lucifer.”

“Yeah, well, that’s where we’re different. You killed your brother, I didn’t.”

“And you think your solution was better?” Cain sneers at him, and for a moment Dean is tempted to just end him right here and now, fuck the condemned man’s last beer, or whatever.

“I’ve seen Heaven, and it’s shitty. Not as bad as Hell, but I sure as fuck wouldn’t want to spend an eternity there.”

“And where do you suppose your Sam is now?”

“All right, enough chit chat. You’re not going to drink your beer, let’s get this done.”

Cain gets to his feet, and carefully balances the beer bottle on top of the cooler. It’s the same cooler Dean’s been dragging around since they were teenagers. It’s like the Impala, in a way: he can’t remember a time they didn’t have it. It survived car crashes and fires, it survived his going to Hell and then Sam’s going too. It’s seen them through the worst times and the best. There’s a metaphor in there, but he’s not willing to work that hard to find it. Cain is standing with his back to the grave, heels a scant few inches from the hole, watching him expectantly.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” he says, and Dean believes him. “How old are you now, Dean?”

“I lost track. After a while, it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

“Not after a few centuries, no. It makes no difference at all.”

The bone sinks into Cain’s chest as easily as a real blade. It’s always been frighteningly easy to use it to kill--and Dean has killed a lot with it. This time feels no different, even as Cain’s eyes roll back into his head. There are no poignant last words, and Dean is grateful for it. He’s always been shitty at goodbyes. He wrenches the bone free with a wet sucking sound, using his foot to shove the body into the grave.

When the grave has been filled in again he drains the opened beer bottle, then picks up the cooler and walks slowly back toward where the Impala is waiting for him, solid and gleaming in the morning sun.

[kinkthatwinked.livejournal.com]

How about a crossover between Supernatural and Firefly? You choose if it's slash, you choose the pairing, and you choose the plot.

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

This one got away from me. I posted it here.

[wolfling.livejournal.com]

Teen Wolf, Stiles and his Dad, a conversation over milkshakes.

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

His dad takes him out for milkshakes, which is probably the first red flag. There’s definitely something wrong, because they don’t have time for milkshakes. There are supernatural things exploding all over town, people dying right left and center, his dad’s job is on the line, for crying out loud, and here they are at the quaint little hipster Soda Shoppe that opened up a couple of months back and is trying very hard to look authentic, or whatever.

Maybe Stiles should have ordered a root beer float.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he challenges, pulling his straw out of his milkshake and jabbing it toward his father for emphasis.

“What? A man can’t take his son out for milkshakes? I thought you liked milkshakes.” Butter wouldn’t melt on his dad’s tongue, but Stiles isn’t fooled.

“I do like milkshakes, that’s not the point. One,” he starts ticking off points on his fingers, milkshakes are bad for you, they’re full of fat and you’ll clog your arteries. Two, we’re kind of in the middle of a supernatural crisis, so it feels a little weird to just go out like this. Three, you haven’t taken me out for milkshakes since I was, like, eight. So I reiterate: what’s wrong?”

His father looks sheepish, but he rolls his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. I mean, nothing’s… I wanted to, you know, talk. Without being interrupted. I figured here would be a good place to… it’s just that I wasn’t sure how to…” he pauses and scratches the back of his head a little, and Stiles resists the urge to lunge over the table and shake him until he spits out whatever is on his mind.

“Dad, whatever it is, you need to use words.”

It’s really hard sometimes to remember that this man is the Sheriff, even though he’s wearing his uniform, because right now he’s busy clearing his throat and fiddling with his straw.

“If you, uh, were involved with someone, you’d tell me, right?”

Stiles freezes, straw midway to his mouth. “Um.”

Now that he’s taken the first step, his dad appears to be going the in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound route. “Because, you know, I feel like I never really know what’s going on with you anymore, and there was all this--this stuff this year, and I know you thought I wouldn’t believe you, and part of it wasn’t your secret to tell, and I get that. I don’t like it, but I understand why you did it. But… I don’t want you to feel like there are parts of you that, uh, you have to hide. Because there aren’t. I mean, you don’t have to.”

“Dad--”

“I just… I remember last year, when I caught you out with Scott and Danny, and I remember what I said, and I was just mad that night because you were sneaking around. But if… I wouldn’t be upset, or mad, or anything like that. You know that, right?”

Stiles snorts. Only his father would tie himself up in knots over this. “I know that,” he says, and takes a sip of his milkshake.

“So… you’re not involved with Derek Hale, then?”

Stiles comes perilously close to snorting his milkshake through his nose. “What?” he sputters.

“I wasn’t trying to spy, but I saw you. The both of you, I mean. Outside the school the other night. I was on patrol.”

The night he kissed Derek and Derek looked at him like he’d lost his mind and then Stiles chickened out and sprinted back to his jeep and they’d never spoken of it again. Awesome. Of course his father would have been patrolling at that exact spot at that exact moment. If the ground could open up right now and swallow him, that would be even more awesome.

“We’re not. I mean, you did see, but we’re not. That is, he’s not. Interested, I mean. Totally unrequited,” he adds, and wishes he didn’t sound so bitter. “This isn’t exactly how I envisioned coming out to you.”

“Was it the milkshakes? Was that where I went wrong?”

Stiles sighs. “No, actually, the milkshakes were a pretty good idea, all told.”

When he looks up from where he’s been staring resolutely at the tabletop, he sees his father smiling at him, and in spite of himself, he smiles back.

[jennytork.livejournal.com]

Do we make specific requests?

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

Anything you'd like, really, bearing in mind that you're going to get a drabble or a ficlet. So if you make it too complex, well, it's likely not going to happen. :)

[harrigan.livejournal.com]

SPN FPF or RPF - your choice: crutches! (Sam or Dean or Jared or Jensen please.)

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

“Don’t you dare come near me with that thing!” Sam says sharply, voice rising about an octave higher with the strength of his indignation.

Dean leans in the doorway, casually twirling a Sharpie over the knuckles of the fingers of his right hand. Years of being bored in class have made him an expert pen-twirler, and even now, well over two decades later, he hasn’t lost his edge. He grins at Sam.

“Come on, Sammy, don’t be like that. You can’t expect me to leave a blank canvas like that unadorned, am I right?”

Sam mutters something mutinous under his breath about country hospitals and backward medical practices and why couldn't he have gotten a fibreglass cast, then glares at Dean hard enough to peel paint off the walls. Dean has to concede that having your leg encased in a plaster cast for the better part of an entire summer is the height of discomfort.

“I’m serious, Dean. It’s bad enough I have to have this on for months, I’m not going to have you drawing dicks and breasts on it on top of that! I swear to God, you try anything and I will hit you with my nice new metal crutches, and I guarantee I’ll make it hurt.”

Dean places a hand over his heart in what he hopes is a suitably dramatic gesture. “Sammy, you wound me! I was going to draw little hearts and write a get well soon note! Maybe include a phone number, so people will think chicks dig you. Besides, who else is going to sign your cast?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it as soon as the words have left his mouth, but there’s no way to take them back. Sam’s expression closes off, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Right,” he says stiffly.

Because, of course, what Sam heard was: Everyone we love is dead and it’s all your fault. And Dean can’t even blame him for having that particular mental filter these days, because Dean himself was instrumental in helping him put it in place, harping on for--what--two whole years about how Sam couldn’t be trusted and every decision he made was shit. He wasn’t wrong at the time, but he wasn’t entirely right either, and Sam has more than made up for all that. Except Sam himself doesn’t believe it, not after all those years of brainwashing. Shit.

Sam reaches for his crutches. “I’m going to get some air,” he says to the couch cushions, before struggling to his feet--foot--and nearly falling over as one of the crutches catches on the leg of the coffee table. Dean darts forward to, hell, catch him or something, but Sam finds his balance at the last minute, and jerks away with an exasperated huff and a roll of the eyes.

“Look, Sam, I didn’t mean--”

“I know,” Sam cuts him off. “I still want to go outside.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dean offers, even though he’s pretty sure that’s the last thing Sam wants. But he hasn’t been out of the hospital 24 hours yet, and he’s still shaky, and that makes Dean feel a little shaky too, if not quite in the same way. Not that he’d ever let on.

“Dean…” Sam starts, then hesitates, shooting him one of those irritatingly penetrating looks he gets when he’s being insightful. “Yeah, okay. You know what? Why don’t you take us into town for an ice cream?”

“Ice cream?”

“Yes. It’s blistering out there, I’m hot and I can’t take a proper shower for another few days, and I’d like an ice cream. Think of it as apologising in advance for all the times you’re going to be a dick about the fact that I’m in a cast for the whole summer.”

There’s no denying the logic there. Dean grins.

“Okay, Sammy, you got it.”

[ferrous-wheeler.livejournal.com]

Love the fusion 'verse, so how about something with Dean and Sam going to a fair but, unfortunately, there are clowns (yeah, a wee bit lame but it's been a loooong week and this is the best my brain can come up with ;p)
or/
Crossover between SPN and Grimm, characters and situation your choice :)

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

So many people have asked for Fusion without being overly specific that I'm going to simply lump all the requests together into a new instalment. Stay tuned! :)

[cordelia-gray.livejournal.com]

What a lovely thing to find on checking my LJ, something I do far too infrequently these days :)

Something Haven would be nice, to celebrate the series being renewed. Maybe a quiet moment with Duke and Audrey in the bar. Or Duke/Jennifer being cute. Or Duke and Nathan having to rely on each other in a dangerous situation. Any of these could be gen or shippy, up to you.

[embroiderama]

White Collar - sick-fic! (Yes, I'm shameless.)

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

Anything more specific than that? Or shall I just go wild?

[mdlaw.livejournal.com]

So I don't remember how you feel about mash ups but. ahem. Sam Dean and Farscape. m. Chiana with the boys would be a hoot. :)

[blackrabbit42.livejournal.com]

J2, wet. I don't care how. Could be a lawn sprinkler, a rainstorm, a dunk in the pool, shower-sharing, shooting a scene, whatever, your choice.

:)

[lavinialavender.livejournal.com]

YAY!!!

Fusion 'verse in SPN, please! Should I give you keywords too?

(Also should I talk to you about the AU 'verse I am creating within the Freak Camp world, whichis very, very much inspired by your Fusion 'verse and will be credited to you when I get around to posting it, and I want you to know so you don't feel like I'm ripping off your ideas? There are differences. I could tell you about the differences. Sam doesn't have mental health issues, for instance, and Dean's leg has pins, isn't fused.)

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

Keywords or a prompt would help, yeah. :)

And you know I am always happy to inspire other stories/art/creative endeavours! Have no fear on my account. After all, where would I be if not for the original material provided by SPN itself?

[bellatemple]

OMG YOU'RE WRITING, HURRAY! (Also, I'm sorry I never commented on that other post, I was having trouble putting thoughts into words and others seemed to cover the points on both sides of the question that I would have mentioned. I hope things have worked out for you at least a little!)

Anyway, PROMPT. In honor of me spending a week marathoning Leverage, I shall prompt you thusly: A crossover between SPN and Leverage. Maybe not playing on the Aldis Hodge connection (that would likely lead to sad Hardison and I prefer my Hardison in over his head yet gung ho), but the Mark Sheppard connection (or any of the many, MANY other guest stars in common) is fair game.

If you need more prompting than that, let me know and I shall offer more. And, hey, feel free to throw other fandoms in there iffin you like, too!

[quickreaver.livejournal.com]

No prompt (you've got a merry bunch to choose from, anyway.) Just lauds for writing and selfishly, for giving me something new of yours to read. Makes me so happy for you, lovely. NO LIE. :D

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

<3

I hope you enjoy the ficlets! :)

[zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com]

MCU! Do you do Captain America stuff? I'd love to see Steve/Bucky or Steve + Bucky, I'm just a crosshair / I'm just a shot away from you. Figure that could work just as well for Howling Commandoes era or Winter Soldier era.

:D???

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

The face is one he knows. In fact, he sometimes thinks he knows it better than his own. He has no time for mirrors, for the frivolous vanities of others. The only faces that matter are those of his targets and… this one. He dreams of this face, sometimes, when he’s alone in the cold and in the dark. They tell him that in cryostasis he cannot dream, but he knows this to be false, because dream he does.

He has the face in his sights, now, in the center of the crosshairs. His breathing is perfectly even, timed so that he can pull the trigger anytime he pleases. And then the target turns, and it feels as though those blue eyes are looking right at him through the lens of his ‘scope. His breath catches in his lungs as a half-formed memory surfaces, of a tiny apartment kept scrupulously clean, of the sound of wet coughing during a particularly bitter winter.

You’re all right, Steve. Sit up for me, it’s time for your medicine.You’re going to be fine, just sit up, now.

He pulls up just long enough for the target to move. The mission is aborted, his first failure in a long time. There will be hell to pay if he comes back without this kill. The fingers of his left hand ache and throb and burn the way they haven’t in a very long time, and he flexes them gingerly, the creak of metal loud in his ears.


The second time he’s sent out, he tells himself that he’s prepared. He’s dreamed about his enemy, the one they’ve told him about. In his dreams he falls endlessly, his enemy’s face above him, hand outstretched, perhaps to save him or perhaps to cast him down, it’s impossible to tell.

This time, he tells himself that he’ll be able to pull the trigger, but it’s a lie. He stares at the back of the blond man’s head, and the image twists and blurs, replaced with an older, sharper image of the same face on a different body. The same face grinning up at him with bloodstained teeth and a split lip, eyes flashing with barely contained passion.

You didn’t need to interfere. I had ‘em right where I wanted ‘em, Buck.

When he dreams of the unknown man again, the name he used rings loudly in his mind.

Bucky!

By the third time he’s sent against the American hero, failure feels almost inevitable. He goes through the motions of looking through his scope, of lining the crosshairs, but he doesn’t bother putting his finger on the trigger. This time, he lets Captain America come to him, sprinting up the stairs toward him. He runs, then, lets himself be pursued until he’s backed into a corner. He’s staring up, now, nowhere to go, nowhere to look but those blue eyes.

What happened to you?

I joined the Army.


“Remember who you are,” the enemy says, and he thinks maybe he’s never been the enemy.

I’m the enemy.

He doesn’t remember who he is but he remembers--Steve. Steve, the scrawny 4-H who followed him to Hell in order to pull him out again. He doesn’t remember his own name, but he remembers Steve. He remembers nights of too many drinks and not enough coal, of huddling together under the same blanket for warmth while Steve’s teeth chattered in his head and his breath rattled in his lungs. He remembers, just once, before he shipped out, the feeling of lips against his own, too dry and nervous and so right. He remembers pulling away, refusing to look at the hurt and confusion on Steve’s face. Steve, whose body never quite measured up to his heart, that enormous heart that he’d given up so easily to those he loved.

“Remember who you are,” Steve says again, locking eyes with him.

And Bucky remembers.

Crossover SPN/Person of intrest

[sagaluthien.livejournal.com]

What about that Dean's number came up?

[geckoholic]

Avengers. Bruce or Bruce and Tony, getting settled in the tower?

Orrrrr, Haven, Audrey can't sleep and keeps Duke company in the bar?

[morganoconner.livejournal.com]

Teen Wolf, Derek's reaction when Sheriff Stilinski acts all fatherly towards him one day.

[madebyme-x.livejournal.com]

I'd love to see Sam, Dean and Impala in your fusion!verse. Maybe Sam's having a hard time and he's finding comfort in some memories about the car. Or maybe Sam finds the Impala in storage somewhere and takes Dean for a drive.

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

So many people have asked for Fusion without being overly specific that I'm going to simply lump all the requests together into a new instalment. Stay tuned! :)

[leighannwallace.livejournal.com]

Any chance at all of getting a short addition to the Fusion verse? My favorite verse, ever.

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

So many people have asked for Fusion without being overly specific that I'm going to simply lump all the requests together into a new instalment. Stay tuned! :)

[context-please.livejournal.com]

Ooooh! I would love to have a Farscape one where Aeryn is jealous of Chiana and Crichton's weird BFF thing...

[theemiden.livejournal.com]

I'd love to see some Jess in the Fusion 'verse. Maybe Sam finding pictures of her or them together, maybe Sam telling one of your lovely townsfolk about her, maybe some girl who looks like Jess walks into the bookstore and he has a panic attack. I don't even care. I just want things. Very, very much.