parsitive | Tiny promptfic fest

It feels like everybody I know is working their butts off on some huge ficathon or other and feeling that mid-huge-project itch. This is just a little party to leave prompts, request fic, write stuff, and roll around and squee without it needing to be super polished and without having to attach your name to it.

I also want to nod to OMGCP Heartbreak Fest, which is taking prompts right now. We don't want to steal from their pool of prompts, but if you come up with a really juicy angsty prompt, consider dropping it there instead!

In case no one's ever done this before:

Prompts should be OMGCP-centered. They don't need to feature Kent Parson, but they can't bash him. (Acknowledging his character flaws is different than bashing him)

Post prompts as replies to this post. The subject line should follow the format: Character/character, brief prompt. You can expand on the prompt (please less than 300 words) in the comment itself.

Post prompt fills as replies to that comment. Fills can be anything--fic, art, meta, filk, fanmixes, moodboards, fiber arts, you name it. Please link to NSFW images or videos instead of embedding them.

Do not hijack a prompt. Please post your own if something within a prompt inspires you in a different direction

Multiple people can fill a prompt. You can fill your own prompt. You can post your fills wherever you want. You can do this anonymously or under your own name.

This is a kink-friendly, non-judgmental, Parse-positive space, and it's actively moderated so don't be an ass.

Please warn for for common triggers or squicks (RPF, NSFW, noncon, dubcon, character death, underage--comment if there's something you want added to this list) or include "Choose Not to Warn" in your comment subject.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'd like to hear about how Kent uses music to cope. Especially Justin Timberlake's "Cry Me a River" and "What Goes Around Comes Around (here's the Tea).

Hey,

palateens, I'm not up to taking in new-to-me music right now but I hope you like it anyway.

Today is not a good day. It seems okay when Kent wakes up a little late, but by the time he has fished his breakfast ingredients out of the fridge, everything is falling apart. Somehow, when he put the eggs back in the fridge, two out of three of them ended up cracked--and the peach he was counting on to make his morning smoothie palatable is nowhere to be found. He rubs the eggy mess in his fridge around a little with a paper towel, grimly contemplating his next step.

He pays for his poorly blended smoothie with a far too chipper Insta selfie of him and the Village Green Juicery staff, hashtag saved my day, smiling blushy emoji. By the time he gets to practice, he's the kind of barely late that makes him feel anxious and guilty, but isn't late enough to get bitched out by the coaching staff. Jeff always thinks he's weird for feeling this way, but Kent would rather get yelled at, apologize, and get over it than feel like shit and have nowhere to put it.

Of course, then he has the worst practice of what feels like his entire career. It leaves him too awake and overheated and buzzing with the need to bleed every negative emotion out of himself. He hasn't cut in over a year, hasn't wanted to cut since...Jesus, at least since before the start of playoffs last March. But today it sounds like the only good thing in the world.

He laces up his sneakers, does his habitual spectacles-testicles-wallet-watch check to make sure he has all his shit, and does his best to avoid his teammates and get to his car as fast as possible. He slams the driver door, cranks the ignition, and taps his PIN into his phone. He takes a deep breath.
It feels like the first time Kent has breathed since opening the refrigerator door this morning.

He's cycling through his apps, looking for the meditation one--there's a halfway decent one minute meditation for anger he has bookmarked that is the only thing he can think of that might possibly take the edge off? It's unlikely, but it might. Anyway, his hands are sweaty and his thumb slips, opening iTunes instead.

And that's--a good idea, actually.

He puts the car in first and accelerates out of the parking lot, eager to get somewhere where his teammates can't hear him. He throws it into third out of the Iceplex and lifts his hand from the stick to spin his volume dial all the way up. He can feel his pulse pounding, but something's already shifting, and it feels more like the last breath of foreplay before really spectacular sex than the ugly mess it was a second ago.

The buzz of synth pushes into his gut, followed by drum machine claps. By the time the cymbal crashes at the top of the first chorus, Kent's body feels like a giant drum, beating the music through his shoulders, his abs, the balls of his feet. He pounds on the gearbox with his hand and lets the lyrics pour out of him.

There is absolutely no fucking imaginable way in which the Beltway is "on his way home." But that's the way he's going home anyway. As many times around as it takes.

Oh god, I love this. It's so grounded and real.

(and HI YAY YOU ARE WRITING FIC!

I, uh, might have cycled 1989 1.5 times at top volume driving home from school yesterday?

:D :D :D (thank you)

omfg this is beautiful! I love it, thank you <3

Thank you! <3

I love the detail in this, the way little things throw him, and how real that is to my experience of mental health.

Thanks! Little things for sure throw me, so I figured they would for Kent too.

Tiny promptfic fest

Kent (Gen), Music

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation

Re: Kent (Gen), Music, TW: self-harm ideation