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So I've a friend in need of prompts and I collect prompts like candy, even getting a ton of fic written to them besides being chronically behind.

So. Throw in prompts, write to prompts, comment on prompts, whatever pleases you.

  1. Canon (fandom or original)

  2. Character and/or pairing (optional)

  3. Prompt (can be text or image - detailed as you want)






PROMPT MASTERLIST



Text Prompts

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Date: 2015-06-04 12:31 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
A/N: Um... Go easy on this one because his head was hard to get into and it probably doesn't stand alone (remember the five scene fic I mentioned? These two are from it.)



“It's dark. Turn on the lights.”

“No one turned them off.”

Beauregard shook his head. He knew what he saw, and he knew what he didn't see, and that wasn't any form of light. No sunlight, no fluorescents or artificial source, no candlelight. Everything in this room was dark, darker than it should be, the kind of dark that meant danger and a criminal nearby. He braced himself, ready for the attack.

“Turn on the lights. Now. Let me see who I'm dealing with. Least you can do is face me honestly.”

“Dad, the lights are on. You just can't see that because you can't see anything,” the man told him, and Beauregard frowned. He lifted up a hand, turning it over, but everything in front of him remained black. That much seemed true, but it couldn't be right.

“I'm not blind.”

“It's hopefully temporary,” the voice went on, and he listened to its inflection, trying to determine the truth from the way it was spoken. “The doctors aren't sure yet, but they think that part isn't permanent. They're optimistic about your motor function and—”

“And the lies can stop any time now,” Beauregard cut him off, using the only weapon he had, his voice. “I don't have a son. So you can turn back on the lights and let me go. You sound like a young man, maybe mid-to late twenties, average height, probably average weight, though without you moving around I cannot tell for certain. I'd guess you to be one of the Nelson brothers. Now that I know that much, you can let me go.”

“Zut,” the other man said, and Beauregard remembered that tone, that inflection—so like the one he hated in his father's voice, but that was not his father. Too young for that, much too young. “They don't think the memory thing is temporary, though I think sometimes I'd rather you stayed blind than kept forgetting me. Just go back to sleep, Dad. Maybe when you wake up again, you'll remember.”

“Remember what? That I have a son that doesn't exist who has me locked in some kind of basement to torture me—and good use of the French, by the way, you know I hated my father and the way he used it, do you? How'd you—”

“Listen to the other things besides my voice. The faint hum of the ventilation system. The irregular beeping of your monitors. The smell of the disinfectant. Industrial grade. You would know—you made me memorize the difference between the different types of them when I was nine. As for how much you loathed Grandpa Villines—that's your poorest kept secret, and I still don't know why you made me learn French when you hate hearing it, but I always assumed it was part of your endless mantra of making me a better detective.”

Something nagged at the back of Beauregard's mind, and he reached for it, yanking it toward him with desperation and need and maybe even some hope. “Trace?”

“Yeah, Dad. It's me. I'm here. I've been here every day since you got shot.”

Date: 2015-06-04 06:31 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Oh, thank you. :)

These two fascinate me, but I was nervous about going into Beauregard's head because I've only seen from Trace and Emma's perspective and was afraid to tackle the brain damage part of things.

They have volumes worth of history for between the lines. You know me. :P

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