jhelenoftrek:

mia-cooper:

joyful-voyager:

jhelenoftrek:

theshortywrites:

allthingshyper:

phantomrose96:

Prompt-based fandom events are when you really learn everyone’s colors like you’ll find the people who take the prompt “death” and come up with some smarmy ship-art of character A and character B walking over dead leaves while wearing scarves and drinking hot cider and then you’ll find the people who take the prompt “sunshine” and write how a bright glint of sunshine reflected off the barrel of a gun is the absolute last thing character A sees before taking a bullet to the chest

you can lead a content creator to water but you sure as fuck can’t make him drink

content creators, much like the elder gods, must not be given requests that can be left to interpretation, for the results bring madness upon the unwary

I’m looking at y’all, J/C writers. (@mia-cooper, @killermanatee, @jhelenoftrek specifically but not exclusively by any means…)

Who takes a prompt like “death” and writes about leaves? Honestly. That should be illegal.

@jhelenoftrek: I totally would.

But I’m such a softie the leaves probably wouldn’t even be “dead.” I’d probably describe them as “newly fallen” just to get around the whole idea of anything dying in the near vicinity of my lovelies.

And there would be a hot drink for sure, but probably not cider. Probably black coffee for her and a spicy chai latte for him. Chunky sweaters, I think, nice cable-knits. His and hers: Dark red and royal blue. Scuffed shoes and dark pants for him; knee high boots and warm tights and a gray wool skirt for her. The smell of wood smoke in the air.

A puppy. All oversized paws and liquid eyes and wagging tail, darting among the leaves (newly fallen) and tangling a long leash around their feet.

They’ve just come from Harry Kim’s engagement brunch. “It’s good,” he says, “that Harry has finally acknowledged how much she means to him.”

She hums in agreement. “And that she realizes what a fine man he is.”

The autumn breeze tousles the ends of her hair. She brushes the wayward strands away with her fingertips. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, glad his own hands are occupied with the warm chai and the puppy’s leash so that he cannot give in to the sudden urge to touch her hair, the familiar auburn now touched with strands of white that sparkle in the crisp autumn light.

“I have to admit I’m kind of surprised,” he says after a time. “I didn’t think Harry would ever give up space and settle planetside.” She gives him a sharp glance. “Not that I’m criticizing,” he amends. “She’s a wonderful person and I’m happy for them. It’s just … I honestly thought space was in his blood. I couldn’t see someone like that ever being happy to put his feet on the ground and keep them there. But he seems happy.”

“He certainly does. Deliriously so.” She sips her coffee. 

They walk silently along the cobblestone path for a moment. The puppy darts into the undergrowth and chases a chipmunk from its hiding place. 

“I suppose that when the right person comes along,” she muses, “even those of us who are born to that wanderlust might decide to come home to stay.”

His steps falter and then slow to a stop on the cobblestone path. She travels on for a step or two, then turns back to face him. 

“Including you?” he asks. 

He wonders if he can hear the echo of a question from a long time ago. When her lips quirk up in a lopsided smile, he knows that she can. He has loved that smile for more than a decade, and waited more than a decade for the answer that follows.

“Including me,” she says.

“Kathryn … “

The puppy flops down in the path between them and yawns extravagantly.

“Oh, we’ve worn him out,” she says. “Poor thing. Here, take my coffee.” She shoves her cup into Chakotay’s hand and scoops the puppy up in her arms. She nuzzles the soft fur of his belly and sighs. “Let’s get Junior here back to your place for a nap,” she says, as much to the puppy as to him. “Then we’ll make a fire in that beautiful fireplace of yours and talk.” When she finally looks up at him again, her eyes are so blue and bright and full they knock the breath right out of him. “Because I think might we have a lot to talk about.”

He can’t help the slow grin. To hide it, even for a second, until he can control his delighted surprise, he makes a show of shifting the coffee cup and the tea and the leash until he can offer her his arm. “I think you’re right,” he says. “A lot to talk about, and maybe something more to celebrate today.”

She cradles the sleepy puppy in one arm and slips her free hand into to his bent elbow. They meander down the cobblestone path together, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. A sudden breeze jostles the trees and a little whirlwind of leaves, newly fallen, flutters in their wake like a whispered benediction.

(Yeah, that’s what I might do with that prompt.)

Thus is the fluffy deliciousness I did not know I needed in my world right now. Thank you, @joyful-voyager!

(Now let’s see how @jhelenoftrek or @killermanatee or @littleobsessions90 can turn a fluffy prompt like “walking in fallen leaves with a hot chai latte and the one you love” into a litany of angst and despair that will make me reach for the wine.)

Oh, the things I could do with the beautiful starter story that @joyful-voyager​
has just gifted to us. Hats off, dear. You did a really super job, lovely thru and thru. But I won’t do what @mia-cooper asked. Because what’s above is a gorgeous sentiment and no
one needs to die before that wedding. 

We don’t need to read about
how he takes that same walk, alone, once the music and the dancing and the
celebration and the people – there are so many people – gets to be too much to
handle. He did his duty, after all. He did what she would have wanted. He witnessed
the lives of their two dear friends be joined together in perfect union. Isn’t
that enough? What more can they expect from a man whose own life was just ripped
apart. Certainly not to sit next to an empty chair and eat cake and pretend that
the future is something he even wants to be alive for anymore. 

He needs air.

But I’m not writing this. Because
we also don’t need to read about the crunching of thick snow, the way it sounds
just the same as it did when they were newly-fallen leaves underfoot two sets
of shoes (plus a puppy’s oversized paws) instead of just one pair of black
Oxfords. The same Oxfords that carried him from her memorial not two weeks
before. The same ones she helped him pick out – and made him try on – along with a meticulously
tailored suit. The ones he kicked off before he loosened his tie, laid her down
on the bed and showed her just how much she meant to him, would always mean to
him.

At least then his feet were
dry.

Oh look, I’m writing this. I’m so sorry because now his socks are soaked through with melted
snow. His skin, numb. As numb as his heart and mind, as frozen as one perfect moment in
time. God, there was so much wasted time.
How is it that the most important
part of his life ended up as fleeting as the snowflakes that now touch his suitcoat only
to melt away, forgotten. She touched him and disappeared just the same. They are indistinguishable from fallen tears, those snowflakes. Each one
different but carrying a beautifully unique kind of pain.

Is there anything but pain?

Unable to walk any farther he stops mere steps from where his
pup had once flopped down in pleasant exhaustion. Only then does he notice that
the underbrush is alight in red berries; cardinals swoop down to pluck at them,
unafraid, while a rabbit scurries to hide in the snowdrift. The chipmunk is still nowhere to be found. They, too, are all cold.
They, too, are fighting for survival, yet somehow find joy in the struggle. 

His breath condenses in the air. 

He watches it dissipate; becomes awakened in a way he cannot yet understand. But suddenly she is all around him. Her voice is in the birdsong; her laugh, in the wind. Her soul in a crimson feather lost to – but not yet overtaken by – the pure snow. When he stoops to pick it up, he’s assailed by memories of a red uniform, a red dress, her fire and passion and warmth. How could he have forgotten?

There is warmth.

Warmth follows him home where there is a flame in the hearth, a
dog lying across his frozen feet, a mug in his hand and her memory in his
heart. 

why must you torture me like this??