#pridewrite2022

Here they are! I'm pleased to share the official prompts for Pridewrite 2022. There's plenty of options, so, hopefully you have enough time to plan before June. 🌈✨️

(Alt text is attached to each image)

Summary:

In which Billy comes out to his teammates as transgender, attends his first Pride parade and ultimately decides it was worth the hassle

Hey y'all! Happy Pride month! Even though June is almost over, I wanted to write something for Pride. So this is a little cheesy, self indulgent one-shot of Billy getting some love and support from his teammates!

I'm also posting this for the following themes for the Pridewrite Challenge 2022: Parade (#pw8), Complicated (#pw25), Superheroes (#pw alt 28) Transmasc (#pw29)

I was going to do more stories for this challenge but June turned out to be a busy month and my fics always end up longer than I expect them to. But I'm happy to at least get something out for y'all!

This was partially inspired by all the wonderful trans Billy content I've been seeing on Tumblr recently, so thank you all for the lovely content!

Xie-wang doesn't sleep with a knife under his pillow. That would be insane; who would take the extra seconds to twist and fumble for something they need so immediately? Not to mention the risk of an attacker searching the pillow first and using his own blade on him, which he would absolutely deserve for being such a fool.

No, Xie-wang doesn't keep a knife under his pillow. He keeps poisoned needles in his hands.

Small ones, easy to manoeuvre, easy to hide. It wouldn't be any better to keep a blade in his hand than under the pillow, after all; any enemy attempting to attack him at night would see it and know, would target the weapon or have time to prepare for it. He'd only do such a thing as a decoy, and that would just get in the way.

But needles? No one will see them coming.

To make them a viable option he's had to train his body into a very specific kind of sleep since he first began his training to be an assassin. A careful, motionless sleep, so he doesn't risk stabbing himself. For security, it's small price to pay.

--

It is four years into Xie'er's life at Siji Shanzhuang, the first time Wen Kexing forgets his fan.

He notices this not because Wen Kexing makes a fuss but because noticing things is what Xie'er does. And because like recognises like.

He assumes that fact is also the reason why he was never asked to leave once he'd completely healed, and has never once been asked to swear fealty or accept discipleship. Instead he is allowed to wander the grounds as he wishes; the most anyone asks of him is if he can run an errand, or his opinion on new decorations. No questions, season after season. He even spends his days garbed in familiar pretty blues and whites that no one has ever demanded he take off.

Like recognises like.

So Xie'er recognises the way chronic survival shapes a life:

the way Zhou-zhuangzhu's pockets practically jangle with potions and antidotes, or how on good days he's somehow always the first to taste any food that reaches the table and on bad days he's the last;

the way that Xiang'er still takes an involuntary tiny step toward whatever direction her ge should be in whenever she's startled or threatened, before the conscious stance she takes at her husband's side;

the way Liu Qianqiao never turns her back on an unexamined corner of any given room, or how her idle fingers make perfect knots in any stray strip of fabric;

the way that Wen Kexing never so much as takes a bath without his fan in arm's reach.

Until he does.

Until they're ushered out of the dining hall to see Xingming make good on his boast that he can finally outpace Chengling at the signature swift-moving steps. They've only just hit the courtyard when Wen Kexing idly pats his sleeve, then his other sleeve, hands coming away empty, and gives a little laugh, quiet and to himself, turning back without a word to fetch his fan from the table inside.

Xie'er is the only one who even notices him slip away--ah, no, he's not; he catches Zhou-zhuangzhu paused as well to look thoughtfully back at the doorway for a brief moment before nodding and turning back to the group. Xie'er himself can't seem to do the same. He watches until he sees Wen Kexing re-emerge, sees his hand withdraw from his sleeve as he steps over the threshold again.

Xie'er almost lets out an undignified huff of disbelief. Even after that, the fool is going to simply keep it in his sleeve? Not hold onto it, not remind himself that the comforting weight of his weapon is still his to command?

Indeed, Wen Kexing seems entirely unaffected, the way he all but dances up to Zhou-zhuangzhu's side and leans into his personal space, only to be pinched affectionately by the latter. Kexing waves his hand imperiously at something Weining says, and then grins to follow it up.

Realising that he hasn't so much as taken another step and the group is pulling far ahead of him, Xie'er reminds himself to breathe and strides back into place. He does not look toward Zhou-zhuangzhu or his chattering wife; like recognises like, and he does not want to know if he was observed in his own observation. It happens unnervingly often, here at Siji Shanzhuang. Sometimes he wonders why he even stays with how irritating they can be about it.

No, he doesn't look over. He does, however, take stock of his own blades still strapped to his wrists, on impulse, and tries to imagine ever going without them. Impossible.

Wen Kexing is certainly a skilled weaponless fighter. And logically, of course, there are many skilled and trusted fighters here. Former assassins, ghosts--the sheer level of competence in this small group alone, the rest of the sect aside, could take on a small army, most likely. And further, why should they ever have to? This place is safe. As safe as anywhere Xie'er could imagine. Safer.

But how can even that be enough for Wen Kexing? To such an extent? Xie'er grinds his teeth, trying to let it go and failing.

Ever oblivious to his moods, or at least refusing to pay them heed, Xiang'er sidles up beside him and yanks on his arm, her hand closing unknowingly around one of Xie'er's daggers, pressing the flat of the sheath into his skin as she tugs. Strangely, his shoulders untense.

"Xie-gege, don't be so slow! I've bet so much on Chengling and you have to help me laugh at A-Ning when Xingming loses. Lai, lai, lai!"

Xie'er rolls his eyes but lets Xiang'er pull him out of his thoughts and into the evening's tomfoolery.

--

Later that night Xie'er sits on the edge of his bed, alone in the near-dark. Voices and a bit of music, followed by the faint scent of wood smoke, still float delicately to his open window from the main courtyard where the most reckless disciples occasionally stay up a bit too late drinking. Aside from them the pleasant hush of nighttime at Siji Shanzhuang falls soft in the corners of Xie'er's room, in the hall outside.

His muscles are pleasantly sore now from the spar Xiang'er talked him into after the dessert she'd also talked him into, and then the subsequent activities in her room with Xiao Cao which they had not needed to try very hard to talk him into. The back of his neck is still damp from the cloth he'd washed up with and the breeze from the window blows a chill down his spine. All in all, it's a perfectly ordinary night.

By the light of one candle, Xie'er turns a little glass vial this way and that in his hand. Inside it are poison-tipped needles.

How long he sits there he doesn't know. The voices outside grow dim; the moon glows brighter. The night noises of insects and frogs keep his controlled breath company. It's a perfectly ordinary night.

With shaking hands, Xie'er puts the vial down on the table beside his bed. A moment later, he gets up and takes it to tuck into his locked box. He blows out the candle. He lays down on his bed.

It's a perfectly ordinary night.

Hi everyone !

This is not exactly a fill, but @pridewrite​‘s prompt for Day 7 is 'Role model' and I couldn't resist. I don’t usually care much for youtubers and other content creators (they can be cool, but I don't follow them), but this lady here is the exception.

May I present you...

Jessica KELLGREN-FOZARD

I found Jessica completely randomly a few years back and never looked back. She is a content creator who specialises in vintage fashion (with tutorials!) She looks fabulous in her outfits and regularly posts new ones!

Per her own words, Jessica adds ‘vintage lesbian fabulousness to a life with disabilities and chronic illnesses’.

She discusses the previous subjects in her videos, mixing serious ones about her disabilities, some about queer history, and quirky ones with her wife Claudia and their cute dogs. These tow lovely ladies also had a baby last year, so you will also have videos about how they’re raising their kid as lesbian moms.

Here is her youtube chanel and here are a few of her looks

[Image Description] Three pictures: top left corner shows a close-up of a black pair of vintage shoes. Bottom left shows a portrait of a red-haired woman, Jessica K-F, who is tying the ribbon of her dress. Her hair is curled in a vintage style. Her dress is bottle green with black lace. Third pic on the right show Jessica’s entire outfit: green and black dress and black shoes. [End ID]

[Image Description] Picture of two women kissing: Jessica K-F and her wife Claudia. Jessica on the left is wearing a navy blue, short sleeved dress with soft pink roses. She has a rose in her red hair. Claudia on the right is wearing a raspberry-pink dress with sleeves that end above her elbows. Her black hair is falling over her shoulders. [End ID]

Heart/roses

I've been coughing up petals for years now

Choking on the thorns that line my throat

Love is love is love is love

They want to be soft

I still taste blood

My heart might not have beat in months.

My fingers drum against my collarbone-

Something rhythmic as a temporary replacement,

I think it died in there.

I line my mouth with roses to cover up the smell.

I flush my system with reassurances

I choose not to care

This too shall pass

I can be a whole person by myself

I don't need anyone else

I cut desire out of my tongue

Bleach the stains of others' touches off of my skin

Sexuality is

By definition

About others

At least a little bit

I choose not to care

I've never kissed a girl before

I choose not to care

I fill my ribcage with poetry

This is what I was meant to house

I learn not to care

I don't need a heart anyway

I turn to tin and rust

I rest

I wait

He was punk, wearing leather gloves and a jacket covered in patches. She didn’t do ballet anymore, but her immediate love of his whole aesthetic could not have been more obvious. Dove was struggling with something she would need more time to understand, but in the moment sheer adoration was the best she could muster.

She wanted the rocker look, the leather and the spikes, the confidence and presents that he radiated. Was he really that perfect? No, looking back Deven knew that little him was off by a few miles from the class we worked for. He had been scruffy, rough around the edges and in from them. But he was unlocking just what he had been missing at the time, he had been the pinnacle of masculine that he wanted but couldn't understand. The best he could do was score the dates he had.

Dove had dated him, Jonathan? Just John? It had been almost 15 years so Deven didn’t really remember him all to well. He did know his face though, and the shock of seeing his only ex at a concert was electric. It was seeing someone he loved once upon a time, but it hadn’t really been Deven, and he could see some new maturity in his gender idol. Deven was twice as old as he had been the last time they had met, and when they had it was more or less just a passing acknowledgement. He had become what little him wanted, the handsome man with a musical career and money, respect, class, and confidence. He had a beautiful fiancé too, and she was more amazing than his teen self could fathom.

Zandek was on the far side of the lake when he heard the teleportation, a sharp crackle that managed to travel all the way from the cottage and across the waters to his large, flat ears. It stood out well against the sounds he had grown used to while alone within the forest valley. The stillness of late summer had quieted the usual rustling of the trees, leaving it to the insects and birds to fill the air with their own melodies.

It was nearing evening, and he had just reached the treeline when the stark sound of magic drew his attention from his own song he had been humming. He stopped, taking a moment to readjust the entire trunk of a tree he had been carrying on his massive shoulder, and beamed as he heard the magic end with a light flourish. There was only one person he knew who crafted his spells with such embellishments, and him being here only meant one thing.

He set off quickly along the bank, moving as fast as he could without losing his grip on the tree trunk, a feat his eagerness made quite difficult. Less than two minutes later, Zandek had reached the path leading through a patch of wild shrubs and up to the cottage’s front door. It opened, and the small figure who emerged was barely out the door before she used her wings to leap into the air directly towards him. The blue kobold covered the distance between them before he even had time to set the log down. When she collided his chest and threw her arms around his neck (barely making it over his collarbone on either side) he let the trunk roll off his shoulder and thunderously crash onto the ground behind him without a second thought. What else could he do, of course, but wrap his own colossal arms around the person he loved more than anything else in the world after two whole months apart?