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+ All comments except fills should be posted anonymously.
+ All prompts should focus on TFA characters. You can't post OT or PT-only prompts.
+ One prompt per comment please.
+ You can request both kink and non-kink content
+ Crossovers, characters from the other media are allowed, but must relate to the 2015 movie in some way.
+ All prompt comments should begin with a pairing tag (eg Rey/Finn) or Gen for no pairing.
+ Use 'Any' when prompting for any pairing at all (eg Kylo/Any or Any/Any)
+ Anyone, everyone, no one? Use "Other." (e.g. Poe/Other)
+ Warn for common triggers, please
+ NO PROMPTS FEATURING CHARACTERS UNDER 18 IN SEXUAL SITUATIONS.
+ don't hijack other people's prompts.
+ prompts should not exceed ~250 words.
+ also, while this is not really a rule I can enforce, please try to limit yourselves to fewer than 5 prompts per page.
+ reposting prompts is currently not allowed.
+ no prompts based on real life tragic events. e.g: 9/11 au, concentration camp au, etc
+ PLAY NICE

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

…

The weaver of shrouds passes through Niima Outpost exactly once per year, shaking the dust from her unbound white hair before spreading out her wares for display. She does not deal exclusively in burial sheets, of course, her collapsible loom holds a half-finished bridal vein suspended between its strings, but on Jakku the dead are a much more stable market.

Rey – thirteen, now, going by those tallies on her wall, although her body remains as flat and sparse as a weedy flower pushing its way through a cracked-dry lake bed – sneaks closer to run her hands over the smooth cloth.

The colors are so bright, she thinks.

She wishes she could hear them, smell them and put them in her mouth to taste. This red would sound like a flag, or a fire, tattering in the wind, while this blue would smell like rounded stones hauled up from the bottom of a deep, sandy pool. This yellow would taste like fresh-sliced fruit, eaten off the blade of a knife, bursting and new and biting-sweet. This purple would roll like thunder.

“So are you looking or buying today, little steel-pecker?”

Rey glances up. Her hands pause over a shroud that is gray-pink like the morning sky.

The weaver is staring at her through dark eyes, puffing on the cigarra clasped between her thin lips. Rey knows what the woman must be seeing – burnt-freckled cheeks paled with dust, streaked with sweat, a mask half-pulled over her face, clothing the colors of midday sunlight and sand because that is what being a nobody in this place requires. Disguise, disguise, disguise, until one day you get so good at it that you disappear altogether.

But being a nobody is safer, not to mention cheaper. Color is a sumptuary luxury which the living cannot usually afford.

Then Rey snatches her hands away to wipe them on her dirty pants. Her thighs are bruised from scrambling through a narrow airshaft, and she frowns as she gives her answer.

“Neither. I’m not dead yet.”

…

She presses the scarf against her chest and watches it unfurl, all the way down to her feet, and then looks at General Organa again.

“You want me to have this?”

“I’d like you to have it,” the General corrects, standing with her hands clasped together. “It’s windy, where you’re going next. You may need it.”

Rey pauses.

The fabric is vine-silk, covered in a pattern like briers and flowers – clever threads of gold and silver have been woven through its deep green, so that the scarf glitters and sparks whichever way she turns it towards the light. Its color would sound like summer rain dripping off the leaves of a tree, would smell like fresh-turned soil and taste like – well. Rey does not have a great deal of experience with any of these things, and so she cannot be quite sure.

(“Neither. I’m not dead yet.”)

And she cannot accept this, Rey almost says, though the kindness of it squeezes hard around her heart because it is the first real gift she has ever gotten, but then remembers that she is traveling to a place of blue water and green islands and that she is not really a nobody, anymore.

Not quite.

“Rey?” the General asks. "Are you all right?"

After another moment of reverent hesitation, Rey takes the scarf up by its corners and throws it about her shoulders like a mantle in one spinning, weightless flourish. She smiles.

“Yes,” she says. “Thank you very much.”

…

This was gorgeous <3

Wonderful! I loved Rey's synesthetic impressions. All that wild desert imagery for the colours she couldn't allow herself, that meant death; and then the freshness flowing off the scarf, sensations she's unfamiliar with but are intensely alive.

WHAT THE HECK I LOVE THIS

OP

This is gorgeous! Thank you so much!

PROMPT POST #5 - CLOSED

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Fill: Spectral Hues

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