#settingprompts

[s-soulwriter]

Physical Intimacy Prompts (for when words just aren’t enough)

Resting their head on their partner's shoulder after a long, exhausting day, they feel the warmth radiating from them, a silent promise of safety.

As they binge-watch their favorite show, one absentmindedly plays with the other’s fingers, the simple act of touch speaking volumes in the quiet moments.

Surprising their partner with a hug from behind, they wrap their arms around them, grounding them in a whirlwind of stress and chaos.

In the middle of a serious conversation, one gently kisses the other’s forehead, breaking the tension with a soft gesture of love and reassurance.

They intertwine their legs under a blanket, sharing a cozy night in, creating a warmth that feels almost electric.

With fingertips, one traces lazy patterns on the other’s back, a soothing rhythm that doesn’t require any words.

When one senses the other is feeling overwhelmed, they pull them into their lap, offering comfort through the simple act of holding them tight.

One cups the other’s face gently, thumbs brushing against their cheekbones, locking eyes for just a heartbeat longer than usual.

Falling asleep with their head on their partner's chest, they’re lulled by the steady sound of their heartbeat, a perfect lullaby.

Mid-conversation, one brushes a stray hair from the other’s face, using the moment to connect through soft, tender touch.

[dattrashprompts]

Plot & Setting #1

Ein junger Superheld nimmt zu seinem 18. Geburtstag eine Namensänderung vor. Die Tatsache, dass seine Gegner und auch die Zeitungen, die über ihn schreiben, ihn immer noch bei seinem alten Namen nennen, erschwert seinen Job nur und führen zu seiner Reihe erboster Leserbriefe, die er an die örtlichen Zeitungen schreibt.

-Konstantin

[magellanicpenguin]

A ghost town in the wild old west.

The sand-laden breeze kissed her cheeks like an old friend. She adjusted the reigns of her horse, who let out a raspy sneeze as he shifted on the hot earth. It echoed off the wizened buildings like the bones of a wooden skeleton rattling.

[superbataddicted]

Writer's Month 2019 Masterlist

By batzmaru65

All the Superbat fics, drabbles and experimental pieces I've written for the August event.

Day 1 Word Prompt: annoyance - Read D1

Day 2 Trope Prompt: hurt/comfort - Read D2

Day 3 SettingPrompt: Coffee shop AU - Read D3

Day 4 Trope Prompt: road trip - Read D4

Day 5 Word Prompt: sound - Read D5

Day 6 Word Prompt: kids - Read D6

Day 7 Word Prompt: sports - Read D7

Day 8 Word Prompt: colours - Read D8 - Revised and posted on AO3 - Read AO3D8

Day 9 Trope Prompt: time travel - Read D9

Day 10 Setting Prompt: dark AU - Read D10

Day 12 Word Prompt: dreams - Read D12

Day 13 Word Prompt: feelings - Read D13

Day 14 Trope Prompt: fairy tales - Read D14

Day 15 Trope Prompt: first time - Read D15 Revised and posted on AO3 - Read AO3D15

Day 16 Trope Prompt: soulmates - Read D16

Day 17 Setting Prompt: accidental baby acquisition - Read D17

Day 18 Word Prompt: poetry - Read D18

Day 19 Trope Prompt: mythology- Read D19

Day 20 Word Prompt: weird - Read D20

Day 21 Word Prompt: hope - Read D21

Day 22 Word Prompt: summer - Read D22 - Posted on AO3 - Read AO3D22

Day 23 Word Prompt: death - Read D23

Day 24 Setting Prompt: s superheroes/supervillains - Read D24

Day 25 Word Prompt: flowers - Read D25

Day 26 Trope Prompt: wedding - Read D26

Day 27 Trope Prompt: celebration - Read D27

Day 28 Word Prompt: family - Read D28

Day 29 Trope Prompt: height difference - Read D29

Day 30 Word Prompt: pining - Read D30

Day 31 Setting Prompt: there was only one bed - Read D31

[dattrashprompts]

06.12.

Setting

Beschreibe den Nikolaustag, aus der Sicht des Stiefels, der befüllt wird.

-Konstantin

[dattrashprompts]

20.12.

Setting

Du schreibst aus der Sicht einer Figur, die in einer Zukunft lebt, in der keine Feiertage mehr gefeiert werden. Durch die Tagebücher eines Urahns erfährt die Hauptfigur was Weihnachten ist und plant nun ein Weihnachtsfest mitsamt aller Traditionen. Wenngleich sie keine Ahnung haben kann, wie diese Traditionen eigentlich stattfinden sollten.

-Konstantin

[dattrashprompts]

19.12.

Setting

Beschreibe aus der Sicht eines Kindes/aus deinen eigenen Erfahrungen wie du erfährst/du erfahren hast, dass das Christkind/der Weihnachtsmann nicht existiert.

-Konstantin

[magellanicpenguin]

Aboard a vessel, such as a spaceship, in the far-off future.

“Captain,” the ensign mutters. It should have been a shout, but I hear it anyway in the strange silence of the bridge. I turn to his station to scold him, but the ensign was a moon awash in nothing, dark, waiting to be dragged into a sun.

“Yes, Ensign,” I say instead.

The ensign does not respond as he should, but his lips, large and blueberry plump, move soundlessly. He stares at his hands and the screens at his fingertips. His station is filled with blinking vermillion eyes, for all the unresponsive systems. They mar, too, the entire bridge, and each eye looks steadily at the captain’s seat. They blink blearily like the water ships do, lazily moored to a ground and buoyant on oxygen and hydrogen and the many minerals of the dirt. It is a misery, and so looking at the ensign’s station the steady blue light catches my eye.

“Ensign!” I shout, and he jumps. “Report!” The rest of the bridge crew, the few remaining to repair the central terminals, stop to listen, eager for news just as I am. 

“Sir,” he replies this time, “I managed to defragment the most recent sensor logs...” He wavers like a rope loose in the ocean, a cable drifting off a shuttle. The news is heavy for the young ensign, I recognize, but I do not have the patience to waste on his youth.

“Speak.”

“Sir. The spatial anomalies were tides from a Class 3 wormhole.”

The weight descends on my shoulders. I have not felt such a burden before, but I am used to bearing them, so I thank him with all the composure I can summon.

“The chronometers and navigation are priority one,” I speak into the ship comm. From the ensign’s moon-round face I shift my eyes to the alien nebula out the broad viewscreen window, monstrous clouds of candy floss against speckled black. 

I breathe. I breathe in the artificial, recycled air and pretend it is the morning draft of a lofty Kiulave peak, so that I may be the calm and the wise needed to guide this ship.

“Crew. We have traveled through a Class 3 wormhole or have ridden the tidal shifts and slingshotted away from our original location. It is vital to discover our current location and relative date. In the case that we are extraordinarily distant from an Astrania port, I and my command team will discuss on the open frequency, 231-447m. The text input will be live, active, and anonymous. Thank you. Captain Tiamat out.”

[magellanicpenguin]

A made-up fantasyland.

The song cradles me, like warm heavy quilts on a wintry night, or the gentle breezes in Summertime. Like a veil of golden leaves it descends on my head and shoulders, and like the green sprigs, climbs up my feet and blossoms. Oh, euphoria, such comfort and beauty, stuck between never wishing to wake and never wishing to close my eyes.

The trip turns bad. I’ve taken too much. 

The quilts leaden. The breeze heats. The leaves rot. The vine grows thorns, and they pierce my skin deep. Like mountaineers, they pick their way up my legs, leaving bloody bores.

But I will not leave.