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tigriswolf posting in

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Now it's time for the free for all!

Just a few rules:
No more than five prompts in a row.
No more than three prompts in the same fandom.
Use the character's full names and fandom's full name for ease adding to the Lonely Prompts spreadsheet.
No spoilers in prompts for a month after airing, or use the spoiler cut option found here.
If your fill contains spoilers, warn and leave plenty of space, or use the spoiler cut.
If there are possible triggers in your story, please warn for them in the subject line!

Prompts should be formatted as follows: [Use the character's full names and fandom's full name]
Fandom, Character +/ Character, Prompt

Have fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

cozy-coffee.livejournal.com

Any, any, when i was a child we had almost nothing; but on nights when we had fire, we felt very rich indeed. ( unknown quote )

From:

squidgiepdx

Stargate Atlantis, Evan Lorne/David Parrish, Unexpectedly getting something from Earth

From:

squidgiepdx

Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, Finally a day where they can sleep in

From:

squidgiepdx

Letterkenny, Wayne/Daryl, Moving Daryl in with Wayne

From:

squidgiepdx

Person of Interest, Harold Finch/John Reese, The first time they wake up together

From:

squidgiepdx

Any, Any/Any, An AU where person A and person B meet at a holiday party

From:

3am-moonlight.livejournal.com

Any, any, imagine that.

From:

cozy-coffee.livejournal.com

On a rainy, cold day, John Winchester prepares to go to war...with dust bunnies!

Curse their fluffy fluff and chubby tummy, soft floppy ears and dusty twitchy nose. They are everywhere! Under beds and in corners, behind the refrigerator, where an old doughnut lays and the doughnut only managed to roll under there because Bones was napping during breakfast. Otherwise the lovable puppy would have gobbled it up. The dust bunnies are evil creatures that make noses itch and twitch and wiggle. They must be hunted down.

Armed with; a broom and a dust pan, and his boys by his side, ready to provide backup should the dusty fight turn hairy, John slowly approached the evil cobweb of fluffy gray fluff. The bunny sits under the coffee table, lurking and watching…waiting to exact its evil dusty vengeance!

“Careful, daddy,” Sammy warns as he and Dean follow John as he slowly snuck up on the dust bunnies. “The bunnies are evil, like the dryer monster that eats only one sock and leaves the other.”

Dean kept a straight face, as did John, knowing Sammy was still young at heart and believed dust bunnies where evil. However, in the kitchen, watching her children and husband sneak up on a clump of dust whose only crime was making noses twitch and was a menace to a clean house, Mary giggled. Sammy shushed his Mommy sternly and gave her an adorable glare as he pressed a finger to his lips and hushed her.

Mary stifled her laughter, snickering softly as John pounced on the fluffy bunny. The bunny put up a fight—hopped out of reach of the dustpan, it wouldn't go to a dusty grave without a struggle and a tickle to John’s nose—but he got the upper hand and swiped the clump of fluff into the dust pan and deposited it into the trash.

“Daddy killed the evil dust bunny!” Sammy cheered as he and Dean gave their papa a big bear hug. Mary grinned as she joined her family. She hugged John, smiling proudly at her brave hero.

“You’re a hero, daddy!” Sammy grinned, cute dimples sparkled as he smiled brightly, and Dean beamed proudly, boasting, “You’re a badass, dad!”

Mary was going to scold Dean for cursing, but Sammy beat her to it by booping his big brother on the nose. Dean giggles and apologized for using naughty language, and when Mary kissed his cheek he blushed rosy red. While it might have been a chilly, winter day outside, inside the Winchester home, it was warm and cozy, merry laughter and sunny smiles.

(END)

From:

3am-moonlight.livejournal.com

Awww! That was adorable!

Thank you for the fill. :)

From:

3am-moonlight.livejournal.com

Any, any, hollow books hiding secrets.

From:

purplemoon3.livejournal.com

It's a stupid sentiment, maybe, but they share a history

-he ignores the ghostly chuckle of historians from a dead man, a man that he should have gotten to know better than the trio of assassin ancestors he could write goddamn door stopper biographies for but there was never time-

and he can't find it in him to let the woman go unremarked, unremembered. This, he thinks, is why he hates Abstergo.

–Templars the dead man growls, just behind his head, in a voice filled with danger and a foreign tone. Borgia.-

Shaun knows why he was in the alley. He was taking the fire escape to the roof, because it made sense, because for all that he sat at a desk he was still an Assassin. He choose to be an Assassin. He knew the risks. He doesn't know why she was there. A ghostly blip on his radar, red haired dyed mousy brown yet grayed out all the same as an unimportant, non-threat. Green eyes. He remembered she had green eyes, with a hazel ring around the pupil. He remembered because he'd developed a small crush on her when they'd taken opposite sides in morality debate over James the First, though she'd insisted on naming him James the Sixth, and the impact of his Daemonologie. He didn't know why she was there, so far from home, from her work in Paris. He'd been happy, and jealous, when she'd gotten the recruitment offer.

Not a lot of well paying positions for historians in the public or private sector. Well, not a lot both well paying and full time. Case in point: himself.

Clear as a bell, he remembers her voice, a startled query cut off by a bullet that was impossibly loud despite the silencer, and the shattering of glass as a camera hit pavement. He remembers his own surprise at the sound causing his body to still and land badly on the next roof.

-The dead man paces at his back, a stalking wolf, glazed eyes gleaming with queer light. Stay thy blade from the flesh of the innocent.-

She wasn't a threat. They'd killed her anyway, the tunnel vision of the Templars blocking out common sense as much as critical thinking, and because they'd had to pause and break up their search team to dispose of the body he'd been able to get away. To pull the dead man's hood around his face and hide in plain sight.

Where but for the grace of 'Becca, he would have been her. Dead, and the bottom of a river, wrists slit postmortem and forgotten.

But, that wasn't what Assassin's did. It wasn't what historians did.

-Hands, pale with death when they once blushed in life, guide his own as quick as anything. Who are we, the dead man whispers with wonder, who have been so blessed to share our stories like this? To speak across centuries?-

From:

purplemoon3.livejournal.com

And so the door opens. A spartan apartment greets him, little more than a cave with a view so perfect a n expensive, professional camera is still set up in the window. Pictures line the wall, hung up like clothes to dry, all of the same person. A young man, different clothes for different days, eating in cafes and riding a motorbike. He feeds ducks. He polishes a sword. He hotwires a Fiat.

More pictures, and despite the blur, he's seen enough fights in the animus to know it isn't a tournament match going on but a full on duel to the death.

It sends a shiver up his spine.

There's a mattress on the floor, and lack of pillows but a very suggestive laptop sleeping in pride of place. A painfully nostalgic stack of books spills across bedding the carpet. He goes and sits, springs creaking, but when he unfolds the device there's nothing. An operating system, yes, but no document folders, no internet connection, no games, and even the basic email program is void of a contact list he can use to let her mother know where to find the body.

-Dead fingers press against his eyes, push in with impossibly hot pressure, and the world crackles into focus.-

Shaun swallows back ineffective rage and looks at the pile of novels, of notebooks, and in the weak lamplight one looks... brighter. Old pages yellow

-Golden. Important.-

with age and a thick leather binding call to him. He picks it up, appreciating the texture, to dark imprint of a symbol he doesn't recognize by sight but weight. A branching shape, like a tree, or a minimalist bird, bordered all around with evenly spaced bumps. It feels important, like the Assassins' lambda or the Templars' cross.

The book itself, though, isn't nearly heavy enough.

Leather bindings crack, though the pages don't shift a bit, and an external hard drive stares up from its hiding spot.

When Shaun plugs it in to the laptop the whole computer changes, screen blanking, before the symbol that was on the false book appears against the black background with a notification of unopened mail. There is a text document written as though its part diary, part zoologist field journal. There's a file simply titled Challenge Record with a list of dates and times for decapitations going back all the way to 1256.

Later, much later, after a baby Isu presses a sword to his neck and Rebecca has gotten the go-ahead from Bill, he takes the laptop and walks into a bar. Glass bottles gleam in the low light and as a sharp eyes peer at him as the proprietor polishes a glass. Shaun clears his throat. Smoke drifts, second hand like an inescapable incense, through the room.

-Safety and peace. The dead man murmurers in sleepy contentment as recipes for drinks drift through his awareness like clouds in the sky.-

“Senior Watcher Dawson?”