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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
For a man who could, in theory, command lightning, the rain was winning.
It was a fine, persistent drizzle, the kind that felt more like a state of being than a weather pattern. It had been falling for three days, turning the floor of Germany’s Black Forest into a slick, sucking mire. Every leaf on every branch was bowed under the weight of water, and the air itself felt heavy and damp in his lungs. Harry was soaked through. His magically-warmed cloak was fighting a losing battle, and a single, cold trickle of water was currently tracing a path down his spine.
He was also, to his profound and growing irritation, very hungry.
He lay on his stomach, mud seeping into the knees of his trousers, his wand held with the tense stillness of a sniper. Twenty yards away, a fat, brown rabbit was twitching its nose, blissfully unaware of the wizard who had been trying to catch it for the better part of an hour.
This should be simple. In the war, if they’d needed food, a quick Summoning Charm, a Stunning Spell… but here, in the deep, ancient magic of the forest, his spells were acting strangely. The first time he’d tried to summon the rabbit, the charm had veered wildly, ripping a chunk of moss from a nearby tree instead. His second attempt, a silent Stunner, had overshot by a foot and blasted a fist-sized hole in a rotted log.
He was overthinking it. He was Harry Potter. This was one rabbit.
Taking a slow breath, he cleared his mind, focused his intent, and whispered, “Stupefy.”
The bolt of red light was perfectly aimed, silent, and lethally fast. It was also, he realized a fraction of a second too late, far too powerful. He had put six years of Auror training into the spell, the muscle memory of a hundred life-or-death duels. The spell didn’t just stun the rabbit; it hit the creature with the force of a charging rhino. There was a faint *pop* and a puff of fur. When the light faded, there was nothing left but a dark, scorched patch on the forest floor.
Harry stared at the spot for a long moment, then slowly lowered his wand. He pushed himself up, his entire body aching with a frustration so deep it felt like a physical illness.
He could Apparate to Munich and be eating a hot meal in less than a minute. He could summon a House Elf from the Potter accounts. He could check into a magical inn and forget this whole miserable endeavor. But his pride, a stubborn, bitter thing, wouldn't let him. He had chosen this. He had chosen to walk away from the world that had almost killed him, to prove that he could exist outside of it, on his own terms. And here he was, a few months in, defeated by a common woodland creature.
He wasn't arrogant. He knew, intellectually, that there were skills he didn't possess. But the raw, visceral reality of his incompetence was a shock to the system. He could survive a Killing Curse, but he couldn't survive a week of rain.
He abandoned the memory of the rabbit and stumbled towards the small, makeshift shelter he’d constructed—a crude lean-to of branches that was, he now saw, shedding water almost as effectively as the trees themselves. Inside, his pack was damp, his bedroll was damp, and the small fire he’d managed to start earlier had been reduced to a pile of hissing, blackened sticks.
A wave of pure, childish fury washed over him. With a wordless shout, he pointed his wand at the pathetic fire and unleashed a torrent of bluebell flames. The spell, meant for a hearth, erupted with violent force, consuming the damp wood in a roar of magical fire and blasting a wave of heat and steam back into his face. He staggered back, shielding his eyes, his ears ringing.
When he looked again, the fire was gone. The ground where it had been was a circle of blackened, glassy earth, and the rain was already sizzling on its surface.
He stood there, panting. The silence of the forest rushed back in, seeming to mock him. He hadn't just failed to start a fire; he had sterilized the very ground where a fire might one day burn.
He finally let out a long, shuddering breath and sank down onto a wet log, dropping his head into his hands. The anger drained away, leaving behind only the cold, heavy truth. His power, as immense as it is, is the wrong tool for this job. He is a master of the wrong craft. Alone, soaked, and hungry, he finally admitted to himself, "I don’t know what I’m doing."
He didn’t know how long he sat there, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, the cold seeping deep into his bones. The forest had returned to its dripping, indifferent rhythm. It was in this quiet that he heard the new sound.
It was a rhythmic, grinding *thump… scrape… thump… scrape…*
It was not the sound of an animal. It was heavy, unnatural. Harry’s head snapped up, his hand instinctively going to the wand by his side. He pushed himself into a crouch, every Auror instinct screaming. He scanned the dense, dripping woods, his eyes piercing the gloom.
The sound grew closer. *Thump… scrape…* And with it came a faint, rhythmic sweeping. Through the gnarled black trunks of the trees, he saw movement. Something large and pale was navigating the forest with an unnerving agility. It wasn't walking. It was hopping.
A giant, grey stone mortar, big as a bathtub, was bounding through the trees. Inside it, a figure stood. An old woman, propelling the vessel with a huge stone pestle that she used like a punting pole. In her other hand, she held a long, ragged broom, and with each hop of the mortar, she swept the air behind her, magically erasing any track she might have left.
Harry remained frozen, hidden behind a mossy log. He had never seen or read of anything like this. This was not the clean, structured magic of the Ministry, nor the twisted, hateful magic of the Death Eaters. This was something older, wilder.
The mortar came to a halt twenty feet from his position. The woman inside did not seem to have seen him. She was looking with disgust at the glassy, blackened circle of earth where his fire spell had failed. She sniffed the air, her long, hooked nose twitching.
“A lot of noise,” she rasped, her voice like stones grinding together. “A lot of smoke. And for what? A scared rabbit and an empty belly.”
Her head snapped in his direction, her eyes, small and black as polished river stones, locking onto his hiding place with an unnerving precision. There was no hiding from her. Slowly, Harry stood up, his hand still resting on his wand.
She was ancient. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, her skin pulled taut over sharp cheekbones. A few wisps of grey hair escaped a dirty headscarf. When her lips peeled back in a sneer, he saw that her teeth were not teeth at all, but filed, grey nubs of iron.
“You have the stink of other places on you, boy,” she said, her gaze sweeping over him, from his soaked cloak to his muddy boots. It was not a question. It was a verdict. “And you have the clumsy hands of a child playing with his father’s tools.” She gestured with her chin towards the scorched earth. “You wound the forest, and for nothing.”
Harry felt a flush of defensive anger, but it was quickly extinguished by the sheer, undeniable authority radiating from the woman. He was a mess. He had failed. She was merely stating the facts.
“I…” he started, but his voice caught. What could he say?
“You were hunting,” she stated, her eyes glinting with a dark, predatory amusement. “And now, I am hunting. And you, little wizard, have just scared my prey halfway across the forest with your light and your noise.” She leaned forward on her pestle, the stone mortar creaking. “That is an inconvenience. And I do not like to be inconvenienced.”
She looked him up and down again, a long, slow appraisal, like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. Harry stood his ground, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had faced down dragons and dark lords, but this felt different. This was not a battle of power, but an ancient judgment he was already failing.
“You will make it right,” she said finally. It was not a request. It was a command. “My hunt is ruined. So you will do. You will come to my house. You will work off the debt.”
Before Harry could process the demand, she slammed the pestle into the ground. The mortar shot forward, closing the distance between them in a single, terrifying hop. It landed directly in front of him with a heavy, earth-shaking *thud*. The old woman loomed over him, a grim smile on her iron-toothed mouth.
“Get in, boy,” she commanded.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Charles had done some wedding planning consultations in some strange places -- in a hospital, at a chef’s table in the middle of evening service, in an FBI interview room -- so outside the Sackler Wing in the Metropolitan Museum of Art wasn’t completely ludicrous. In fact, he was maybe a little charmed that his latest client wanted to meet him in a public place, instead of throwing all his wealth at Charles in an ostentatious display, like so many of his peers did.
Still, there was no mistaking the elegant figures of Sebastian Shaw and his fiancée, Emma Frost, standing apart from the tourists and the security guards and the people who visited the Met on their lunch hour. Charles was belatedly glad that Raven had refused to let him go out the door in his customary tweed jacket with elbow patches.
“Mr. Shaw, Ms. Frost,” Charles said, stretching out his hand. “Charles Xavier. How do you do?”
“Mr. Xavier, I’ve heard so much about you,” Shaw said, shaking his hand firmly.
Charles smiled politely, and offered his hand to Frost as well, who shook his hand briefly and with some delicacy. “And of course I’ve heard of you. May I congratulate you on the completion of MacTaggert Wing?” The MacTaggert Wing was a terrible Brutalist monstrosity grafted onto the Sinclair Gallery, but it didn’t seem the time to air his architectural opinions.
“All due to my lead architect, I assure you,” Shaw said. His tone was warm, but there was something about him that Charles found unsettling. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? You have quite a reputation for knowing just what a bride wants.”
Charles smiled in Emma’s direction. “We do our best,” he said. She gave him a polite smile, something artificial but pretty enough, but when she looked at Shaw out of the corner of her eye, it transmuted into something a little more real, more graceless and giddy and true.
“Well, perhaps we ought to start with the big picture -- how many guests were you thinking?” Charles asked, following Shaw and Emma into the closed-off Sackler Wing.
“Seven hundred,” Shaw said promptly.
Charles did not raise his eyebrows, but settled for saying, “That’s going to be challenging in terms of event space, but I’m sure we can make something work.”
“Could you do it in this space?” Shaw asked.
Charles looked around the gallery housing the Temple of Dendur, trying to do some mental calculations even with half the room obscured in white plastic and scaffolding. “In a room this size? Certainly. But I must be honest with you, Mr. Shaw, space like this is going to be hard to come by on such relatively short notice, and will almost certainly delay your desired wedding date.”
“You misunderstand,” Shaw said, smiling in his unsettling way again. “We don’t want to get married in a place like this. We actually want to get married here.”
Charles opened his mouth for a moment, and then shut it. “Mr. Shaw, please understand that I want to make this day everything the both of you want, but there are some limits.”
“Oh, if it’s access you’re worried about, it’s not a problem,” Shaw said breezily. “My firm is renovating this wing. I’m certain it can be made available for our use before the re-opening.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Charles said, hoping his smile adequately concealed his anxiety.
***
“Seven hundred guests. In the
Metropolitan Museum of Art
. In a wing that is the process of being renovated, so who knows when it will actually be ready. You may as well just set me on fire now and get it over with,” Charles moaned to Raven.
She put a cup of coffee down in front of him, and he took a sip. It was terrible -- Raven’s coffee was always terrible -- but he couldn’t really face life without more caffeine and so he drank it anyway.
“It’s our big break,” Raven said. “We’ve done pretty well until now, but this is going to open so many doors for us, Charles.”
Charles put his head down in his arms. “I just want to make people happy,” he said.
“If it doesn’t work out, you can always go back to living off your trust fund and sleeping with Tony Stark.”
“Ugh,” Charles said. “I thought you forbade me to sleep with him.”
“I did, and for your own good,” Raven said. “So don’t screw this up.”
“
Ugh
,” Charles said, and drank his coffee in misery.
***
Shaw secured some kind of terrifying pass for him to get into the Sackler Wing whenever Charles wanted, even though it was closed to the public and security made terrible faces at Charles when he first showed the card to them. Inside, the scaffolding had seemingly bred like rabbits -- what were they even
doing
-- and there were people in hard hats who didn’t seem to be working so much as pointing at things vigorously and talking a lot.
“You can’t be in here,” someone said behind Charles, voice authoritative and sharp with German consonants.
Charles clutched his pass in his hand, and turned around to explain himself, and then utterly failed to do so, because the man behind him had stern eyes and sterner cheekbones, and wore his perfectly tailored suit as easily as breathing. “Er,” Charles said.
The man looked completely unimpressed. He had an iPad in one hand, with which he made a short shooing gesture. “This wing is closed for renovations,” he said dismissively. “I don’t know how you got in, but you need to leave.”
“You don’t understand,” Charles said, finally recovering himself enough to drag his pass up into the man’s line of sight. “I’m supposed to be here. I’m Charles Xavier--”
“I don’t care if you’re God Almighty,” the man interrupted. “Out. Or I’ll have you escorted out.”
“Wait,” Charles said. “Please listen to me, I’m a wedding planner--”
The man looked heavenward and then seized Charles by the elbow. “I really don’t care--”
“--and I’m working for Mr. Shaw,” Charles finished, feeling as if he’d run out of breath all at once.
The hand on his elbow tightened, and the man drew him just a little closer, staring at Charles as if he could verify this information if he looked intently enough. Charles was so close he could smell the man’s aftershave and see the suspicious narrowing of his eyes. “There’s one way to solve this,” the man said finally. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and Charles heard the phone ring on speaker.
“Yes?” came the voice of Sebastian Shaw.
“You have a wedding planner?” the man said flatly.
“Oh, yes. Xavier. He should be down there sometime today.”
“What for?” the man demanded crossly. “You’ve been married three times already. Don’t you know how to do it by now?”
“Lehnsherr,” Shaw said, but it wasn’t exactly a chastisement. “Some things are better left to professionals.”
Lehnsherr’s once-over of Charles made his opinion of Charles’ profession abundantly clear. “I won’t have outsiders underfoot in my renovation.”
“I’m sure Mr. Xavier will be perfectly cooperative,” Shaw said, and the way he said it made Charles feel infinitely filthier than any time spent in Tony Stark’s company, which was really saying something. “Play nice.”
Lehnsherr hung up then, which Charles thought was pretty ballsy for a subordinate, but Lehnsherr didn’t look remotely concerned. He did let go of Charles, although he had the gall to straighten Charles’ lapel just so. “You’ll wear a hard hat at all times,” Lehnsherr said. “I’ve no intention of being sued for liability just because you didn’t want to muss your hair.”
Charles looked at him in disbelief, and then took a deep breath. “Look, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Perhaps we could get a cup of coffee and--”
“Mr. Xavier,” Lehnsherr said coolly, using polite social distance like a lance, “I have neither the time nor the inclination. Be here if Shaw says you must, but stay out of my way.” He turned away, the heels of his shoes clicking across the gallery floor.
“Well,” Charles said to himself, “this is going to go very well indeed.”
***
Charles had every intention of staying out of Lehnsherr’s way, except that it quickly became evident that he couldn’t rely on the past layout of the Sackler Wing for the wedding. He only had two months to pull off the most elaborate wedding of his career, and he didn’t have any time to lose.
And because Charles hadn’t gotten to where he was without knowing a thing or two about how to butter someone up, he went back to the Sackler with two coffees in hand from a coffee shop run by an Austrian couple, put on a too-big hard hat and went off in search of Erik Lehnsherr.
Lehnsherr had blueprints in one hand, his iPad tucked under his arm, and had clearly just finished conferencing with a group of men who were departing, presumably to do his will. He spotted Charles and his mouth creased into an unfriendly line, but Charles persevered.
“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles said, offering a smile that Raven had told him had probably saved him from being punched any number of times. “If I could have a few moments?”
Lehnsherr’s eyes narrowed, but he sniffed the air instead, and said, “Is that from Elsa’s?”
Charles handed a cup to him, and Lehnsherr took one long, appreciative sip, and then said, “Five minutes.”
“Right,” Charles said, and looked out over the gallery, obscured by plastic and scaffolding and god knew what else. “I -- do you suppose I could have a copy of those blueprints?”
It was possible that both the coffee and the smile were working, because Lehnsherr only frowned severely and said, “You wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
“I may not have your extensive training, Mr. Lehnsherr, but surely I can divine a layout and electric outlets,” Charles said, fighting to keep a smile on his face.
Lehnsherr took another thoughtful sip of coffee. “And if you make a critical error, what impact will that have on the wedding?”
Charles bristled at the insinuation.
“This is no place for amateurs, Mr. Xavier,” Lehnsherr said. “I’ll give you the blueprints on the condition that you don’t let your arrogance prevent you from asking questions.”
“My
arrogance
?” Charles said, genuinely taken aback.
“Your naiveté, perhaps,” Lehnsherr allowed, and the cool disdain in his voice raised all of Charles’ hackles. “You swan into my renovation and demand the fruits of six months of my labor, confident that you can visualize and understand what I’m doing with no formal training whatsoever?”
Charles licked his lips once, and took a calming breath. "You wouldn't be the first man to find no value in my work, but I assure you that I take both it and my clients' happiness very seriously."
"Happiness," Lehnsherr echoed, as if tasting the word in his mouth and not being entirely certain what to make of it.
"Please, Mr. Lehnsherr," Charles said softly.
Lehnsherr abruptly handed Charles his coffee. "Give me your email address," he said, bringing up his iPad. His long fingers tapped on the screen for a few moments. Without looking up, he said, "And call me Erik."
***
Raven coordinated the wedding dress shopping, thank the good lord. Charles had only once gone to an appointment with one of the exclusive bridal designers in the city, and the experience had been full of so much terribleness and crying and violently ugly couture that Charles had henceforth assigned himself to only bargain basement shopping if the bride so desired. His TJ Maxx skills were pretty astonishing, if he said so himself.
The Shaw-Frost wedding was, happily enough, not the only event on their plate, which boded well for the continued success and growth of Xavier Events. There were three other, smaller weddings coming up, a bar mitzvah in a month, and an imminent retirement party that was already making Raven hyperventilate.
“He’s eighty-six and just
now
retiring from Columbia,” Raven said. “Who does that?”
“A man who clearly enjoys his work,” Charles said, punctuating his words by scribbling down a few more notes on his preliminary catering menu. “In another life, I think I might have done the same.”
“You certainly dress for it,” Raven said, but it was an old, affectionate jibe that Charles paid no mind. She stopped typing on her laptop, then, and looked at Charles pensively. “Do you wish you had?”
There was a note of uncertainty in her voice that he hadn’t heard in quite a while.
“Raven,” Charles said, reaching forward to cover her hand with his, “I’m happy right where I am, with you, working together. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.”
She smiled, and Charles did her the favor of pretending that her eyes weren’t watery, and that he was being entirely truthful.
***
Charles had planned his mother’s second wedding, mostly because there was no one else to do it, and he’d read a few magazines and decided he could handle it.
Also, it had made his mother smile, which she did rarely, even in the company of her fiancé.
It had been a small wedding at the mansion in Westchester, and his mother was so weak from the chemo that she had to sit during the whole ceremony. Charles had picked out her dress, which mostly camouflaged how thin she’d grown, and the wig was a good approximation of her formerly lustrous golden curls.
Charles remembered the mistakes -- the cake had been dry, the food not as good as he’d hoped -- but he remembered most how truly happy his mother had looked when she’d said her vows.
She’d died six months later, and his stepfather had followed two years after that, and left Raven and Charles alone together. Charles had been planning on Oxford, but he couldn’t leave Raven behind. He’d gone to Columbia instead, and their business had been hatched during his first year. A degree in genetics would have been all very well and good, but the first time Charles saw a bride beam at a wedding he had planned, he could only see his mother in her smile. After that, genetics could hardly compare.
***
Hank and Alex were young, but tremendously talented, and just as a few people had done Charles a good turn while Xavier Events was getting off the ground, Charles wanted to nurture their fledgling catering business. Also, they made a salmon appetizer that was like a mouth orgasm every time Charles ate it, so he figured it was a good bet.
“I think you’ll like them,” he assured Emma. “We’ll be doing a tasting menu today so that you can make some decisions. If you don’t care for them, we can use one of the approved caterers, but I think they’re worth persuading the Met to let us use them.”
Emma nodded, and Charles tried not to sigh. She didn’t talk very much, and Charles worried that she either had no opinion or was suffering this exercise mutely. He didn’t like either possibility.
Hank and Alex had come through once again, though, and had even prepared extra salmon.
“No, really, you have to try this one, I insist,” Charles said, pushing it Emma’s way.
She tried it, and her eyes went wide, fingers fluttering in front of her mouth like she would say something if it wouldn’t require her to talk with her mouth full.
“I know,” Charles said, waggling his eyebrows before popping the salmon in his mouth and making a really indecent noise that made Hank go red in the face.
“I don’t know,” Emma said, looking doubtfully at all of the demolished sample plates. “What should I pick?”
Charles looked at his notes. “Well, you liked the salmon, obviously, but I think the mushroom and the liver pate will be good accompanying hors d’oeuvres.” He looked up again, and Emma’s mouth was twisted into an unhappy frown, even as she twisted her engagement ring with its ludicrously large diamonds on her finger.
“I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” she said, voice low.
“Well,” Charles said carefully, “what about what you want?”
She looked even more miserably indecisive, and Charles could tell it was going to be a very long afternoon.
***
Lehnsherr --
Erik
, Charles reminded himself -- looked distinctly displeased to see him.
“You’re not the city inspector,” Erik said shortly.
“I’m afraid not,” Charles said lightly, handing Erik a coffee from Elsa’s. “Late, I take it?”
Erik looked so fantastically grim and murderous that Charles would laugh if he didn’t think that Erik would strangle him for it. “Forty-five minutes late, and everything’s waiting on him. That man is the devil,” Erik said savagely, and sipped his coffee with a scowl.
Charles tried very hard not to watch the line of his throat as he swallowed, and failed miserably.
“I assume you didn’t come here just to bring me coffee,” Erik said.
Privately, Charles thought a little thanks wouldn’t go amiss, but he said mildly, “I had a question about the fountain, actually. Do you think I could put lights in the water?”
“No,” Erik said instantly.
“You didn’t even think about it,” Charles accused.
“I don’t need to think about it, because you’re not doing it.”
Charles straightened to his full height, which was unfortunately still a head shorter than Erik. “Look, I understand that you may be in a bit of a mood--”
“A mood?” Erik said, all silky threat, too close and looming.
Charles lifted up his chin. “You heard me.”
Erik narrowed his eyes. “I thought you promised Shaw you were going to be cooperative.”
“And I thought you promised him you were going to
play nice
,” Charles shot back.
There was a sudden clatter of sound from the gallery entrance, and they both looked over to see a red-faced man in a bland suit -- and judging by all the sour looks from the rest of the workers, he could only be the overdue city inspector.
“I’ll think about it,” Erik said, and started to walk toward the inspector.
Charles had to hustle to catch up to Erik’s long-legged stride. “Does this mean you’re really going to think about it, or are you just going to blow me off?”
“Charles,” Erik said, voice pitched for his ears alone, “When I blow you off, you’ll know it.” He handed Charles his empty cup then. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and then left Charles behind to greet the city inspector with a cool smile that managed to disguise the part where Erik probably still wanted to have the man drawn and quartered.
Charles stood there for a few moments, still holding the two empty coffee cups, before he decided that regrouping was the order of the day.
***
“He is an unmitigated
ass
,” Charles ranted a few weeks later.
“What did the famous Erik Lehnsherr do today? Tell me everything,” Raven said, which might have been sarcasm except that she was pouring them both extremely generous glasses of wine and had never disguised the joy she took in Charles’ social flailings.
“I asked him a perfectly simple question about ventilation and the fire alarm system--”
“Why do you need to know that?” Raven said suspiciously.
Charles lifted his chin with righteous anger. “That’s exactly what he said, and where does he get off criticizing my ideas? Just because a person has some creative passion in his soul doesn’t make him
wrong
.”
“Okay, I might actually have to go with Lehnsherr on this one.”
“Traitor,” Charles said, and took a sip of wine that was really more of a gulp.
Raven put her feet in his lap. “I’m just saying, remember Mrs. Schwartz’s thing with the candles--”
“I thought we agreed never to talk about that again,” Charles huffed.
“Right,” Raven said cheerfully. “So, in conclusion: Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t want you to burn down the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Also, you want him real bad.”
“I most certainly do
not
,” Charles said, completely horrified.
***
So far, that morning, Charles had fielded no less than six phone calls from Emma Frost, all in regard to the wedding cake, and so he was not precisely at his best when he arrived at the Met for his appointment with Shaw’s security expert.
“Oh my god, are you
smoking
in here?” Charles said, horrified by the scruffy man in plaid lingering outside the door to the Sackler Wing. “Put that out
at once
, this is a museum, what are you thinking?”
The man looked completely bemused by Charles’ outrage, but obediently stubbed out the cigar on the back of his shoe.
“Now you’ve made me late,” Charles muttered, and looked around in vain for someone who probably had impossibly broad shoulders and a terrible suit.
“You Charles Xavier?” the man said.
Charles looked at him suspiciously. “Yes?”
He held out his hand. “Logan. Mr. Shaw sent me here to go over things with you.”
Charles shifted the bag in his hands and decoration samples to free himself to shake his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Logan,” he said.
“Just Logan,” he said. He gave Charles a look up and down. “Nice purse,” he said.
“
I beg your pardon
,” Charles said, all of his outrage back.
Logan grinned then, and it was surprisingly charming even though Charles knew that meant Logan had just been fucking with him.
“So, walk me through this shindig,” Logan said, pulling the door open and ushering Charles through -- with a hand on the small of his back, good Christ.
As it turned out, Logan had some admittedly excellent suggestions about crowd control in between horrifying Charles with off-handed comments about snipers.
“Really, Logan, I don’t think anyone’s going to assassinate Mr. Shaw,” Charles said firmly.
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met him, right? Ain’t nobody who’s met him that hasn’t wanted to kill him.”
“He’s getting
married
,” Charles said defensively.
“For the fourth time. Like I said.”
“What are
you
doing here?” Erik said from behind them, sounding very cross indeed.
Charles and Logan turned. “I’m supposed to be here, as you’ll recall,” Charles said, affronted.
“Not you,” Erik said, stepping close. He looked down at Charles and his lips quirked into something that verged on disappointment. “You didn’t bring me coffee today?”
And it was completely stupid -- Charles had only started bringing coffee to sweeten Erik’s disposition a little, to at least associate Charles’ visits with something he liked. It was social bribery, and therefore there was no good reason for Charles to feel guilty at having let Erik down.
“I--I thought I might be able to persuade you to come out for coffee with me. After we’re done here,” Charles said, the invitation out of his mouth before he could think better of it.
Erik’s gaze was considering, and then he looked sharply at Logan. “That doesn’t explain what Shaw’s pit bull is doing here.”
“Just doing my job, Lehnsherr,” Logan said, giving him a smile that was all teeth.
Erik’s lip curled, and Logan’s frankly terrifying grin got wider, and Charles was honestly worried that violence was a real possibility. He touched Erik’s elbow to get his attention. “We’ll be done in about ten minutes. Can you spare me some time then?”
Erik didn’t shake him off, surprisingly enough. “Ten minutes,” he said, and then aimed one last glare at Logan before stalking off in the direction of some of his employees.
Charles and Logan watched him go, and then Logan let out a low whistle. “You some kind of miracle worker?”
“I’m happy to say I’ve been called that on occasion, but I don’t see how it applies here,” Charles said.
Logan let out of a huff of a disbelieving laugh. “Lehnsherr wouldn’t spit on a man if he were on fire.”
“Yes?” Charles said uncertainly. “By which I mean, I agree with that assessment entirely.”
“I’m just saying,” Logan said, tilting his head in Erik’s direction -- Erik, who was still watching them even as he talked to a foreman.
“He’s just worried I’m going to burn the museum down,” Charles said.
Logan snorted. “Sure he is.”
***
Erik came back precisely ten minutes later and chased Logan away, before escorting Charles out of the museum. It was a crisp autumn day outside, and a beautiful morning for a walk.
Erik didn’t say much as they walked, but he was looking at the buildings as they passed with an assessing eye, before coming to a stop outside Elsa’s.
“Oh,” Charles said. “We could go someplace else if you wanted. I only -- it was just clear. That you liked it.”
“And you pay attention to what people like.”
“I wouldn’t be good at my job if I didn’t,” Charles said wryly.
“How does a person even become a wedding planner?” Erik said, claiming a table and ordering them both coffee and something else in low, angular German without looking at the menu.
Charles raised an eyebrow but forbore commenting on Erik’s presumption. “Perhaps you ought to tell me how you become an architect.”
“I earned my Masters of Urban Design from ETH Zurich,” Erik said. “And then I came here.”
Charles smiled encouragingly, but Erik didn’t seem to feel the need to elaborate. Their order came then, coffee cups and some sort of cookies on twin stainless steel servers.
“And do you enjoy it?” Charles asked, before taking a bite of one of the cookies. He made a shocked, indecent noise at the combination of almond paste and raspberry and chocolate.
Erik’s eyes lingered on his face. “It’s satisfying.”
Charles sipped his coffee to wash the crumbs down. “Am I allowed to ask you terribly clichéd questions, like what your favorite building here is?”
“The Citigroup Center,” Erik said blandly.
“Oh dear god
why
,” Charles said, entirely unable to help himself.
But clearly, Erik was having him on, because his mouth twitched into something that suggested a smile. “Not really -- that thing is as ugly as sin.”
Charles kicked him lightly in the foot. “I was about to think terribly of you.”
“Will you think terribly of me if I tell you that my favorite is the Chrysler building?” Erik asked, something a little more intimate, almost confessional in his voice.
“Everybody says that.”
“Doesn’t make it less true,” Erik said, and handed Charles the little plate of cookies off his own tray.
“Oh, I couldn’t, those are yours,” Charles said, still a little astonished that his plateful had disappeared so quickly.
Erik pushed them into his hand anyway. “You may as well. I have to get back to the museum.”
“So soon?” Charles said, and nearly winced at how plaintive he sounded.
Erik put a crisp twenty on the table and stood. “We’re getting down to the wire, as I’m sure you’re aware. Unless you don’t want the Shaw wedding to go as planned.”
“Please don’t say things like that, it does alarming things to my blood pressure,” Charles scolded.
Erik brushed his fingers against Charles’ shoulder. “See you around, Charles.”
“Until then,” Charles said reflexively.
Charles thought for approximately five seconds about taking the rest of the cookies home to Raven, but he was sure they wouldn’t be as good at the end of the day, so really, he had no choice but to eat them.
***
The Pennington wedding was over, as was the retirement party, which was good, because the Shaw-Frost wedding went from minor shitshow to DEFCON HOT FUCKING MESS in the space of ten minutes.
“Emma,” Charles said carefully, refraining from making any stabbing motions on the phone, “What brought this on?”
“Everyone’s going to accuse me of being a gold-digger,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how much I -- it doesn’t matter. That’s what they’re going to say, isn’t it?”
Charles sighed. “They may, but there’s nothing you can do about tongues wagging. People will say what they want. The important question here is, what do you want? If you say you’d rather have a small wedding with family only, I will make that happen.”
“Even after everything you’ve done?” Emma asked doubtfully.
“Even then, if it’s what you really want,” Charles said. Something was niggling at him, though, and so he said, “I don’t think it’s the potential gossip that’s bothering you, is it?”
“What?”
“Emma, it’s normal to be nervous,” Charles says, trying very hard to sound soothing and not patronizing. “Weddings, no matter the size, are a nerve-wracking business. Why don’t you take the weekend to think it over?”
There was silence at the other end, and then a noisy exhale. “You’re right. I’ll just -- I’ll call you on Monday.”
“I look forward to it,” Charles lied neatly, and resigned himself to a weekend of waiting on tenterhooks.
***
“What do you mean, you don’t know what she wants?” Raven demanded. “That’s ridiculous. You know what everyone says about you?”
“That I’m abnormally patient while my sister is haranguing me?” Charles said, rubbing his temples in a slow, circular motion.
“
They say
,” Raven ground out, “that it’s like you’re fucking
psychic
and you always know what the bride really wants, even if she doesn’t. Charles, you’ve got to pull it together.”
“I’m trying!” he snapped. “It’s not that I don’t understand how important this is for us, Raven. I just can’t get a read on her, for some reason.”
“Maybe you’re distracted,” Raven said flatly. “Maybe if you spent a little less time making doe-eyes at Erik Lehnsherr and a little more time listening to Emma, you’d have this figured out.”
Charles took in a sharp breath and counted to ten, and then said evenly, “You really think you’re one to talk about distractions of a personal nature, Raven?”
She went red, not a pink, embarrassed blush but an angry, blotchy red. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare, Charles.”
He could make a case that Raven had nearly cost them a lucrative catering contact when she’d taken up with Hank and then, just as abruptly, broken his heart, but he held his tongue.
“I’m going out,” she said after a tense, terrible moment, and Charles didn’t call after her.
***
He met Emma for breakfast on Monday morning, and over coffee and a passable soufflé, he made small talk until he thought they were ready to tackle more emotional topics.
“Tell me, what non-wedding things have you been up to in the last two weeks?” Charles asked.
Emma dabbed at her lips. “Work, mostly. I handle a lot of contracts for the city -- that’s how I met Sebastian.”
Charles rested his chin on his hand. “Swept you off your feet, did he?”
And there was that smile again, the one that Charles had been waiting to see. “I didn’t -- I didn’t used to think that really happened. That you could just meet someone, and -- you know.”
Charles didn’t know, exactly, but he’d seen enough people in love -- and enough people who were close enough to round up to being in love -- that he recognized the signs. But he also recognized something else. “I hope you’ll forgive me an intrusive question, but how did Sebastian propose?”
Emma twisted the rather overdone ring on her finger. “He -- he came into the office, actually. I thought he was just taking me to lunch, but he proposed.”
“Heavens, in front of all your coworkers?” Charles said, taking care to keep his tone light. But a public workplace proposal said two things to Charles -- one, that Sebastian Shaw had been confident in her reply, and two, that Emma hadn’t really had a chance to think it over in private before accepting.
Emma’s smile faltered. “It was a joke around the office -- that he was just trying to sweeten me up for the contracts to go through. It shut everyone up when he proposed.”
But Charles would lay money that it hadn’t shut up Emma’s doubts. No
wonder
she was dragging her feet now.
“Emma, if you still want to make changes to the size and scope of the wedding, we can do that. But I think you need to do something first.”
“What’s that?”
“I think you need to have a talk with Sebastian. A real talk, about all of thing things you’ve been pushing aside. I know you love him, but you’ll never rest easy until you get everything out in the open.”
Emma opened her mouth, presumably to protest that she hadn’t been suppressing anything, and then shut it. And that didn’t surprise Charles at all, because it was what he’d known from the beginning -- Emma’s edges might have been blunted by emotion, but underneath it, she was sharp and smart and he knew she’d pin Sebastian down the first chance she had. She’d just needed a little nudge.
“Call me after you’ve talked,” Charles said, laying his napkin next to his empty plate. “And good luck.”
***
Charles ended up back at the Met, because either he was totally fucked or this thing was still going forward, and if it was going forward, he needed to go over reception service with Hank.
“You promised me you wouldn’t freak out,” Charles reminded him.
“I’m not freaking out, I’m wondering how we’re going to coordinate that many servers,” Hank said, carefully wiping his glasses off in a bid to demonstrate that he was not freaking out when he so obviously
was
.
Something gently tapped against Charles’ head -- when he looked back to see what it was, Erik was holding a hard hat that he had apparently just thunked against Charles’ skull. “I wasn’t actually joking when I told you to wear one of these,” he said gruffly, settling it on Charles’ head. He tossed the other to Hank.
“My brain is already soft,” Charles muttered. “I don’t see that getting clobbered is going to hurt me, at this juncture.”
Erik’s eyebrows rose. “How’s that?”
"I may have just talked Emma out of going through with the wedding," Charles said.
“She’s going to go through with it,” Hank said, and then to Erik, “Charles is basically the bride whisperer. It’s like he can read their minds.”
“Bride whisperer,” Erik repeated flatly, but he looked very much like he was trying not to laugh.
“Stop talking, Hank,” Charles suggested, scowling. He turned back to Erik, and said, “Can I test the sound equipment this afternoon?”
Erik shook his head. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”
Charles would have tugged at his hair if it weren’t currently covered by a hard hat. If he couldn’t get it done today, he’d have to push back his meeting with the DJ, which was going push another six things back, and rescheduling was going to be almost impossible. Not to mention,
they only had five days until the wedding
.
A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. “Charles?” Erik said, eyes narrowing in something like concern.
“He’s just going to hyperventilate,” Hank said helpfully.
“That happened
once
,” Charles said, but took a few deep breaths anyway. And then his phone vibrated in his pocket. When he took it out, there was a text from Emma.
“Something up?” Hank asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and still looking nervous in general.
“The wedding’s on,” Charles said slowly, not entirely able to believe it.
“Bride whisperer strikes again,” Hank said reverently, and Charles felt totally justified in smacking him upside his hard-hatted head.
***
Charles waited until the workers went home for the evening, and then managed to slip into the Sackler Wing. He didn’t even have to flash his badge -- a security guard who was obviously on his way out for the night recognized Charles and waved him through.
He was in luck, because the door to the newly installed sound booth was open. There were plenty of wires all over the place, but Charles had worked with AV setups more chaotic than this. At least this sound booth was clearly state-of-the-art, and not dodgy wiring held together with duct tape and a prayer.
The door to the booth clicked shut behind him, and Charles jumped, startled.
“How did I know?” Erik said wryly. “I tell you not to do something, and you do it anyway.”
“I’m on a schedule,” Charles said. “And you told me not to do it this afternoon, which is why I am here when normal people might be thinking about a nightcap.”
“I told you not to do it
today
, which actually still includes now,” Erik said, tone disapproving.
Charles turned sharply to look at him, and promptly lost his footing on some of the wiring. He pitched forward and saw what looked like a very important cable being ripped out of the wall, and that was when there was a terrible noise and everything went dark.
There was the click of the door handle, and then a scuffling noise like a push. “We’re locked in,” Erik said, his tone clipped.
Charles dug out his phone, momentarily filling the sound booth with some light. “No signal. You?”
Another flash of light and a disgusted noise. “Not this far into the interior of the museum. Especially not this corridor.”
“
Bugger
,” Charles said feelingly, and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.
***
Surprisingly, Erik didn’t actually castigate him for getting into this mess, but he did tell Charles to shove over so that he could sit down next to him.
Which was fine, because Charles was plenty capable of castigating himself. “Why do I do these things to myself? I could be doing any one of the approximately six billion items on my to-do list, but no.”
“Or you could be sleeping,” Erik said.
Charles scoffed. “Please. There’s no sleeping a week before a wedding like this.”
It was completely dark in sound booth, but Erik’s assurances of proper ventilation and the warm press of Erik’s body all along his left side went a long way toward preventing any panic attacks. All his senses had to focus on was the steady movement of Erik’s breathing and the increasing rasp of his voice.
“Do you even like this wedding?” Erik asked suddenly.
Charles squirmed a bit, his backside starting to go numb. “Like it?”
There was a pause while Erik thought it over, and then he said slowly, “Is it the kind of wedding you would want?”
Charles snorted. “Oh good lord, no. Weddings like these are about public spectacle, about demonstrating power and wealth.”
There was a hum of agreement from Erik. “I’ve been to all three of Shaw’s previous weddings. They were all like this, a gaudy circus.”
Charles’ lips twitched into a smile he knew Erik couldn’t see, but could probably hear in his voice. “Watch whose work you’re calling a ‘gaudy circus,’ Erik.”
“If you’re implying anything about the refurb on this wing, I’ll have you know that I had to design under some very strict parameters not of my own choosing,” Erik said coolly.
Charles reached over to pat Erik’s knee in consolation, but misjudged and ended up sort of feeling up his thigh. It was distressingly well-muscled and suggested Erik probably ran a fair amount. “I knew that. But there are still parts of you in it, aren’t there? The columns on the side and the glasswork, I thought.”
Erik was silent for a long moment. “How did you know?”
“You’re a man who loves the beautiful details and the sleekness of the Chrysler building. There’s nothing of Shaw’s overwrought aesthetic there.”
Erik seemed to relax a little, body settling more comfortably against Charles. Which was just as well, because it was distinctly on the chilly side inside the sound booth, cool air being over-efficiently pumped into the room. He was entirely unable to prevent the shiver that wracked his body -- Raven had often called him a delicate, climate-controlled flower, which was unfortunately pretty accurate.
“Cold?” Erik asked. Charles was uncertain whether he was being patronized, but Erik just said, “Here, let me--” and then wrapped one warm arm firmly around Charles’ shoulders, pulling him closer still.
“Really?” Charles said skeptically. “I’m not a girl, you know.”
Erik’s breath teased at his ear. “I’m quite aware.”
In the rearrangement of their bodies, Charles hadn’t exactly let go of Erik’s thigh -- and in fact, his grip had slid further away from Erik’s knee, to the point where if he moved his hand just a little more, he’d have incontrovertible evidence that Erik was most definitely not a girl, either. Charles swallowed, feeling like his throat had gone dry.
“Charles,” Erik murmured, his lips -- oh god -- brushing Charles’ ear, and Charles couldn’t help the thready sigh he made, the shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Erik froze against him for one terrible moment, and then he deliberately licked the curl of Charles’ ear before taking the lobe in between sharp teeth, and the moan that Charles made at that couldn’t leave anyone in the booth with any doubt that he was ripe for the taking.
The next moments were madness, a blur of sucking kisses against Charles’ too-sensitive neck that left him gasping before Erik relented and pressed their lips together, and that made things more out of control, not less, and all he could do was open his mouth to Erik and suck on his tongue and make more of those terribly unmanly gasps when Erik nibbled at his lips and tried to press their bodies closer still. The angle was awkward, though, and giving him a bit of a crick in his neck, so the only answer -- obviously -- was to raise himself up on his knees and swing one thigh over to straddle Erik’s lap, and,
oh
, there was his proof that Erik wanted him very much, indeed.
He ground his hips down in Erik’s lap, moving his hips in a tight, slow circle that had Erik gasping against Charles’ mouth for a change, and he was hard and hot against Charles, still in that damnably sleek suit that Charles wanted nothing more than to wrinkle up, even if he couldn’t see it. Erik evidently felt likewise, because he made short work of the buttons on Charles’ cardigan before pulling it off and shoving his hands up Charles’ shirt to skate over his ribs and rub against his nipples. “Oh god,” Charles breathed, and he was just at the right height now to learn forward to learn the strong slope of Erik’s neck with his lips, and felt Erik push his hips up when Charles lingered on the tender patch of skin under his ear.
And then Erik was scrambling to open their belts, like he couldn’t
wait
, and Charles obviously couldn’t wait either, because he kept rubbing against Erik even though it was obviously impeding Erik’s progress toward getting their trousers open, and Erik said something low and impatient in German, before succeeding in dragging Charles’ waistband down and getting a good handful of his ass through what Charles belatedly realized were not his everyday underwear.
“It is a crime that I can’t see these on you,” Erik said vehemently before yanking them down.
“Could turn on your phone,” Charles said, popping the button on Erik’s trousers and undoing the zip with triumph, before raising himself up on his knees again so that Erik could lift his hips enough for Charles to shimmy everything out of the way.
Erik growled something in reply, and Charles didn’t care what it was, because Erik curled his large, square palm around the both of them and all Charles could do was clutch at his shoulders and ride his lap while Erik stroked them together. They were both already a little slick, but Charles pulled Erik’s hand up to drag his tongue wetly over Erik’s palm and fingers before pushing it back down, and Erik said, “
Fuck
, Charles,” before stroking them together in earnest.
And since Charles was the precise opposite of subtle when there was something he wanted in bed, he writhed shamelessly to meet the exploring finger that Erik was drawing down from the small of his back, and Erik only pulled it away to press it against Charles’ lips, and Charles sucked his finger in, going down on it like he would go down on Erik’s cock if they only had the room to maneuver, and then Erik drew his hand away and let his spit-slick finger rub against Charles’ hole before gently pushing in. Or at least, he probably meant to go gently, slowly, except that Charles moaned and thrust back greedily, and Erik ground out, “
Liebling
, the things I want to do to you--”
“Oh god,
fuck me
,” Charles begged, and he didn’t know how he’d ever been cold, not with Erik’s hand wrapped around them and his finger tapping out a maddening rhythm against Charles’ prostate, their skin hot and damp with sweat where it touched around their rucked-up shirts.
Charles reached down to touch Erik’s cock, to feel the heft of him, and moaned against Erik’s lips, “I want this, I want all of this,
Erik
--”
“Later,” Erik promised, voice a gritty rasp. “Later,
Schatz
, I’m going to open you up so slow and give it to you--”
“
Yes
, oh, oh
god
,” Charles gasped out, forehead resting on Erik’s shoulder as he came all over Erik’s hand, shuddering when Erik slowly fingered him through the end. “Ah -- no more, let me--”
Erik eased his finger out, and Charles swept his hand through his own come and wrapped it firmly around Erik’s cock, stroking him quickly. He thought Erik was close, so Charles murmured in his ear, “You will, won’t you, you’ll fuck me so well you’ll
ruin
me for anyone else, I’ll only want you--”
Erik gripped his hips hard, then, shaking apart in Charles’ grasp.
Charles slumped forward in Erik’s arms, both of them trying to catch their breath. “Good lord, Erik,” Charles said eventually, still feeling dazed.
Erik just ran his fingers soothingly up and down Charles’ spine, and then after a time, he said, “I bet you can sleep now.”
Charles made a dissatisfied noise. “I’d love to, but there’s hardly any room.” That, and he was loathe to move from the warmth of Erik’s embrace.
Erik shifted a little in the dark, and then said, “Here, between my legs--”
“Erik, darling, I told you, we really don’t have room for
that
.”
“To sit, Charles,” Erik clarified, sounding very much like he was rolling his eyes. “And lean back -- there.”
“Are you comfortable?” Charles said doubtfully.
There was a small flash of light as Erik checked his cell phone. “We have six hours until the first crew comes in,” he said, stealing Charles’ cardigan and shoving it behind his back. “Get some sleep.”
“Mmm, all right,” Charles said, and dropped off before his brain could offer any opinions on the wisdom of the past hour.
***
Erik nudged him awake the next morning, and Charles blearily opened his eyes to the artificial glow of Erik’s cell phone. “Come on, let’s make ourselves presentable,” Erik said, his voice a low rumble.
“I don’t think I’m going to look like anything except shagged rotten in a closet,” Charles muttered, but made an effort to drag himself away from the warm of Erik’s chest and tried to put himself together. He was deeply thankful that Erik had taken off his cardigan early in the proceedings, because it was going to hopefully hide the apocalyptic disaster that was his shirt, which they’d evidently used to mop up the night before. “What time is it?”
“Half-six,” Erik said, squinting at his phone.
“Okay,” Charles said, taking in a deep breath. “This is not terrible. I can make this work. No panic attacks, no hyperventilating.”
“I thought you were joking about that,” Erik said, concerned.
“Mostly,” Charles admitted. “But I make no promises for Saturday morning.” He ran his hands through his hair, aware it was probably a lost cause. “How do I look?”
Erik tilted the phone in his direction. “Like you were shagged rotten in a closet,” he said, and pulled Charles close for a thorough kiss. “When can we do it again?”
“If the closet part is optional, I have--” Charles scrolled through the calendar on his phone. “An hour, starting at 5:30.”
“An hour?”
“It is the
week before the wedding
,” Charles said, trying to be patient but failing completely. “It’s that or nothing today, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I’ll take it. It seems I have a few promises to keep,” Erik said, and the tone in his voice made Charles shiver in anticipation.
“I look forward to it,” Charles said, and banged on the sound booth door, calling for the work crew to let them out.
***
“Okay,” Raven said, juggling her phone and three to-do lists and her handbag. “One bridesmaid crisis down, probably another three to go. How was your last meeting with the DJ?”
“Sean will be fine,” Charles said, carefully carrying the sample centerpiece into their offices. “Where are we with the photographers?”
“Official or unofficial?” Raven said, eyes a little wild. “I can’t believe we’re doing a wedding that actual newspapers want to cover,” she marveled.
“The first of many, let’s hope,” Charles said, trying to be cheerful even though he wanted to sleep for three days straight, preferably in Erik’s bed.
Charles’ phone buzzed then, with a text from Erik:
I’m starting to think you’re an incubus.
He turned away from Raven to answer, because he knew very well that he had an impossibly self-satisfied smile on his face.
Why, Erik, anyone would think you didn’t appreciate my commitment to preparation.
He’d managed to track Erik down for an incendiary quickie in the middle of the afternoon the day before, when he’d had one appointment over early and another delayed, and basically yanked Erik into his office, locked the door, and said, “I’m ready, get in me now,” and watched Erik’s eyes go dark and crazy with lust.
I’m full of admiration for your attention to detail, Mr. Xavier. I suppose I won’t be seeing you again until the wedding?
Charles smiled regretfully at that.
What I wouldn’t give for a spare hour or six today, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’ll see you tomorrow.
“Okay, seriously, if you are sexting that architect right now I am going to kill you,” Raven said, but since she didn’t actually sound angry about it, Charles just stuck his phone in his pocket and went to help her with the newest snag in the hotel reservations.
***
The reception was almost over, and Charles felt, well, triumphant and
destroyed
and so tired that he was actually edging toward giddiness. Probably drinking straight out of a champagne bottle was not going to improve matters, but Charles figured he deserved it.
The wedding party was gone, as were the majority of the guests. At this point, Charles just wanted to kick all the stragglers out, manners and reputation be damned.
“What are you still doing here?” Erik asked, looking as devastatingly delicious in his tuxedo as he had all night.
“Part of the job,” Charles said. “I have to stay until the end.”
“Where’s your sister?”
Charles took another swig of champagne. “Gone to, er, assist the caterer with something I don’t want to know anything about, I think.”
“Ah,” Erik said. And then he held out a hand. “Dance with me?”
Charles looked at him dubiously. “It’s charming that you think I can even stand at this point.”
“I had wondered,” Erik said, all smug innuendo, and Charles snorted in response and accepted the hand up.
He let Erik lead, mostly because Erik was taller and of the two of them, could actually be trusted not to navigate them into a table, which was more than Charles could say of himself at this point. Also, there was something very nice about being able to just to lean into Erik and just
be
, for awhile.
“Come home with me,” Erik murmured in his ear.
“I really might fall over dead,” Charles warned him.
Erik laughed a little at that, and then pressed a terribly tender kiss to Charles’ neck. “If you don’t come home with me, this will make the first of Shaw’s weddings where I didn’t get laid.”
“I’m fairly certain I saw at least three unattached bridesmaids,” Charles said, fighting down a smile. “You’re not telling me a disheveled wedding planner will do, are you?”
“
Schatz
, I’m not settling,” Erik said, and kissed him, slow and deliberate and wonderful.
Charles looked him in the eye, feeling a little shaky but also deeply, irrationally
sure
, remembering Emma saying,
I didn’t used to think that really happened, that you could just meet someone--
“Help me politely kick everyone out, and then take me home,” he said.
“With pleasure,” Erik said, a sharp smile filling his face.
***
“Charles, leave it,” Erik said sternly.
“But--”
“You promised,” Erik said.
“It’s only the
opening of your own firm
,” Charles said sarcastically. “I can’t believe you want me to just sit back and have Raven do everything. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it is actually my job to do these things, and furthermore, I’m really quite good at it.”
“Which I am not arguing, but you promised.”
“Fine,” Charles said, sulking and fiddling with his cufflinks. “I’ll be uselessly decorative on your arm, as promised, and not deal with any one of the twenty things that are bound to blow up in Raven’s face.”
“Which she can handle, and I wouldn’t call your decoration useless,” Erik said, and kissed him. “Call it an anniversary present to me, if you like.”
Charles blinked at him. “A few days late, aren’t you?”
Erik sighed, sounding less exasperated and more fond. “I’m counting from the wedding, which was the first time you actually let me be a gentleman and feed you and put you to bed.”
Charles felt his face flush. “Oh. Well. Anniversary present it is. Just let me--”
“
Charles
.”
“All right, all right. Let’s go win you some new clients, shall we? By which I mean, of course, that I’m going to be charming in their direction and you’ll be terrifying, and they’ll fall all over themselves to give you their business.”
“Is that really how it works?” Erik said, brow furrowing.
“Trust me, darling,” Charles said, beaming. “Haven’t you heard? It’s like I can read people’s minds.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
How you turn my world you precious thing
You starve and near-exhaust me
Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you
I move the stars for no one
You’ve run so long
You’ve run so far
Your eyes can be so cruel
Just as I can be so cruel
Oh, I do believe in you
Yes I do…
Padfoot dragged the boy down the tunnel, jaws holding fast even as he struggled. He dug his teeth in, tasting blood—some part of him registered, absently, that the boy was innocent; that he shouldn’t be involved in any of this. But he had Wormtail in his pocket, and Sirius had waited far too long for this opportunity. There would have to be some collateral damage.
The Weasley boy flailed, hooking his leg around a clump of roots. Padfoot growled, heaving—there was a sickening snap.
The boy screamed.
Padfoot ignored it.
The rat, the rat—kill the rat—
He hauled the boy all the way to the Shack, dragging him up the stairs, to the room with Remus’s old cot. He was very pale now, and moaning, one leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. Padfoot didn’t release him until they’d reached the middle of the room, and the boy scrambled back, going for his wand—in an instant, Padfoot was on him, wrenching the stick from his grasp.
And then he was human, and for the first time in twelve long years, he had a wand again.
“
You!
” The Weasley boy gasped, face contorting in pain as he dragged himself further away. Sirius allowed it, stepping back into a shadowy corner of the room.
“Quiet!” He hissed, sharply, pointing the wand. The boy’s mouth snapped shut. He was shaking.
Sirius waited, head cocked, listening…
After a few moments, the cat darted into the room, hopping up onto the cot. It settled down and curled into a ball, purring loudly and clearly very satisfied with its work. The Weasley boy watched it, brow furrowed in confusion—then his face twisted in horror, as the door to the room burst open and Harry dashed through with his wand raised high. His other friend followed behind him, her wild mane of hair flying around her shoulders as she ran.
They caught sight of their injured friend immediately, rushing towards him.
“Ron—are you okay?”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Not a dog,” the Weasley boy—
Ron—
hissed through gritted teeth, face white with pain. “Harry, it’s a trap—”
“What—”
“He’s the dog—he’s an Animagus—”
Sirius stepped out of the shadows, slamming the door shut, lifting his stolen wand.
“
Expelliarmus!
”
The two teenagers’ wands flew out of their hands, landing neatly in Sirius’s palm. He took a step forward, eyes fixed on Harry, drinking him in. It was the first time he’d seen his godson as a human—his eyes were just as Sirius remembered. The exact same shade of green as Lily’s.
“I thought you’d come and help your friend,” he croaked, throat raw and dry, “Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run for a teacher. I’m grateful…it will make everything much easier…”
There was so much to say—so much to do—but he couldn’t get distracted…
Abruptly, Harry’s features contorted with hatred—a rage so deep and blinding that it erased all traces of Lily and James from his face. Sirius had never seen either of them wear such visceral hate.
Harry took a step forward, hands balled into fists; his friends held him back.
“No, Harry!” Cried the girl, eyes wide with terror. But Ron stood, using Harry’s shoulder to haul himself up, shouting,
“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”
Sirius’s heart twisted in his chest. It was exactly the sort of thing that he would have done for James.
“Lie down,” he said, gently, “You will damage that leg even more.”
The stubborn boy didn’t listen, gripping Harry’s shoulder so tightly that his knuckles went white. “Did you hear me?” He demanded, voice pitching up in desperation, “You’ll have to kill all three of us!”
“No…” Sirius murmured, baring his teeth in a feral grin as he stared at the quivering lump in Ron’s pocket, “Only one will die tonight.”
“Why’s that?” Harry demanded, attempting to shake off his friends, “Didn’t care last time, did you? Didn’t mind slaughtering all those muggles to get at Pettigrew—what’s the matter, gone soft in Azkaban?”
Sirius felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. Of course—of course he
knew
what the world thought of him, what they all believed…but it was different to stand face to face with his best friend’s son, and realise that the child had likely spent his whole life believing that it was Sirius who had deprived him of his parents.
(But he’s not wrong, is he? It was you, wasn’t it—you who convinced them to trust Peter, you who assured them that it would be safe…)
“Harry!” Gasped the girl, “Be quiet!”
But Harry didn’t listen. Instead, he howled with rage, screaming,
“HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!”
The boy lunged forward, suddenly, and before Sirius could raise any of the wands he’d stolen Harry’s hand was around his wrist, forcing them away, fist colliding with the side of Sirius’s head—they fell backwards, into the wall—his friends were shouting, Harry was punching, Sirius was struggling to regain control—but he was so weak, after months of nothing but scraps and stray rabbits, he couldn’t—he had to—
Sirius had a hand around Harry’s throat, frantic and reeling, hissing feverishly,
“No—I’ve waited too long—”
Suddenly, Harry’s friends were on him, kicking and pummelling, wrenching his arms away. The wands slipped from his grasp; Harry dove after them; the cat was hissing; everyone was shouting; Sirius was flailing, trying to fight off the two teenagers that had suddenly decided to attack him.
“Get out of the way!”
Harry’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. His friends both scrambled back, snatching their wands off the ground. Ron dragged himself onto the cot, clutching his broken leg.
Harry walked towards Sirius slowly, wand raised, eyes full of hate. Sirius watched him, panting.
“Going to kill me, Harry?”
The boy stopped, hovering above him, wand pointed straight at his chest. His hand was steady, though his voice shook.
“You killed my parents.”
He looked
so much
like James.
“I know,” Sirius said, voice cracking, “But it’s not what you think—if you knew the whole story—”
“The whole story?” Harry stared at him, green eyes flat with rage, “You sold them to Voldemort. That’s all I need to know.”
“You’ve got to listen to me,” Sirius begged, “You’ll regret it if you don’t—you don’t understand—”
“I understand better than you think,” Harry snarled, voice trembling, “You never heard her, did you? My mum…trying to stop Voldemort killing me…and you did that…you did it….”
Sirius swallowed, thickly, opening his mouth to speak—but before he could utter a word, something had pounced on him, a warm weight settling on his chest.
The cat.
Sirius stared at it, dumbfounded. After a moment, he prodded at the creature, trying to push it away.
“Get off.”
But the cat dug its claws into his shirt, pricking his chest, refusing to budge. It stared up at Harry with its big, yellow eyes, as though daring him to try anything. His friend with the wild hair released a stifled sob, pressing her hand to her mouth.
Harry glared at the cat, murderously, wand still aimed straight at Sirius’s chest. Sirius waited, hardly daring to breathe as the seconds ticked by—wondering if this was it. If this was how he would go.
In a way, it would almost be poetic. He had failed to protect James and Lily; it was fitting then, wasn’t it, that their son should be the cause of Sirius’s own death?
But the rat…the rat…
Nobody moved. Sirius stared up at Harry, and the seconds continued to pass. The rage was still there in his eyes, burning. But beneath it there was something else—something soft and afraid and unaccountably good.
James—Lily—
Sirius began to close his eyes.
And then, abruptly, the sound of footsteps came from downstairs. The girl began to scream at once, shouting,
“WE’RE UP HERE! WE’RE UP HERE – SIRIUS BLACK –
QUICK!
”
The footsteps thundered up the stairs; the door burst open with a flash of red sparks; and—and—
Moony
.
Time slowed around them.
He was older. Much older—no longer the gangly youth of their early twenties. Still just as tall, of course, but his hair was now streaked with grey, and there was a weary slump to his shoulders, as though he had just set down the weight of the world. His face was lined with age, creased around the forehead and the eyes, jaw a bit squarer, dusted with stubble. There was a new scar on his right cheek, just beside his ear.
He was beautiful. Achingly, painfully beautiful.
Oh, love,
Sirius thought, through the haze in his mind,
You’ve grown up without me.
He was aware, vaguely, of Remus scanning the room, assessing the situation, sharp eyes darting just the way Sirius remembered from when he was trying to work out some complicated problem. He heard, distantly, the spell as Remus disarmed Harry, though he hardly processed the word because his voice—his
voice
—
“Where is he, Sirius?”
It took everything in him not to crack, not to throw himself at Remus’s feet.
Say it again,
he wanted to beg,
Say my name again.
He struggled, for a moment, with the torrent of emotion, trapping it behind the thick wall of ice that he had so carefully constructed. Eventually, he managed to lift his hand, pointing wordlessly at the Weasley boy’s pocket.
“But then…” Remus frowned, brow furrowed, lip poking out as he thought, “…why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless—” His eyes widened, stifled emotion swelling behind them, “Unless
he
was the one…unless you switched…without telling me?”
Sirius didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he nodded, gaze never wavering from Moony’s eyes.
Suddenly, Remus’s voice was there—inside Sirius, inside his mind.
Show me.
And Sirius did, wondering if he was going mad—replaying the memories, the night he’d convinced James and Lily to switch their secret-keeper.
“But Padfoot,” James said, brow furrowed in concern, “I thought we were agreed?”
“I know, but this is better, can’t you see?! No one will ever suspect Wormy!”
Lily’s voice—later that night, when they’d told her—“Like a double bluff! It’s brilliant!”
Sirius held Moony’s gaze, begging.
I’m sorry,
he thought, desperately,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
“Professor,” Harry said, stepping forward, and the word sent a shock through Sirius.
Professor?
Had Remus been here, at Hogwarts, all this time? But—no—where had he gone on the moons? The shack was always empty.
Harry was still speaking, asking, “What’s going on—?”
But as he spoke, Remus stepped forward, eyes still locked on Sirius. He reached down, gripping Sirius’s shaking hand in his long, scarred fingers, pulling him to his feet. And then Sirius was in Moony’s arms, crushed against his chest, fingers twisting in his robes.
“
Sirius
,” he breathed, so quietly that no one else could hear. He spoke the name like it was something precious, something powerful, something dangerous. Like it was a spell, or a prayer.
“I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” The girl screamed, shrilly. Remus broke away, turning to face her.
“You—you—”
“Hermione—”
“—you and him!”
“Hermione, calm down—”
“I didn’t tell anyone!” The girl (Hermione?) cried, furiously, “I’ve been covering up for you—”
“Hermione, listen to me, please!” Remus interrupted her, raising his voice, “I can explain—”
But now Harry was shouting, fists clenched, confusion replaced once more by rage.
“I trusted you!” He shouted, voice cracking, “And all this time you’ve been his friend!”
“No,” Remus said, something like guilt twisting in his face, “I haven’t been—I thought—but now…just let me explain—”
“NO!” Hermione cut him off, screaming, “Harry, don’t trust him,
he’s
the one who’s been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too –
he’s a werewolf!
”
At his side, Remus stiffened. The room went deathly silent as all three children turned to stare at him, with looks of open horror across their faces.
“Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione,” Remus said, after a moment—voice steady, though slightly strained. “Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have
not
been helping Sirius get into the castle, and I certainly don’t want Harry dead…” He grimaced, briefly, “But…yes. I’m a werewolf; you’re right about that.”
Over on the cot, Ron moved as if to stand—but he quickly collapsed, a strangled noise of pain escaping from his throat. Remus started towards him, eyeing the broken leg with obvious concern, but Ron shuddered back.
“
Get away from me, werewolf!
”
Remus froze, as though he’d been slapped. After a tense moment of silence, he turned back to Hermione.
“How long have you known?”
“Ages,” Hermione murmured, chin jutting forward defiantly even as she trembled, “Since I did Professor Snape’s essay…”
Professor Snape?
Sirius wondered if he had misheard—surely they weren’t talking about
Severus
Snape?!
“He’ll love that,” Remus replied, coldly, “He only assigned that essay because he wanted someone to work it out…Did you check the lunar chart and realise that I was always ill at the full moon? Or was it the boggart that gave it away?”
“Both,” Hermione breathed.
Remus laughed, humourlessly.
“You’re incredibly clever, Hermione, I’ll grant you that.”
“I’m not,” Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, “If I’d been a bit cleverer, I’d have told everyone what you are!”
“But they already know,” Remus replied, evenly, “At least, the staff do.”
Now Ron spoke up, voice betraying his shock as he asked, “
Dumbledore
knows you’re a werewolf, and he still hired you? Is he mad?!”
Sirius was beginning to rethink his
“only one will die tonight”
plan.
“Some of the staff thought so,” Remus replied, “He had to work very hard to convince certain teachers that I was trustworthy—”
“AND HE WAS WRONG!” Harry began to shout again, “YOU’VE BEEN HELPING HIM ALL THIS TIME!”
Harry pointed at Sirius—he was so
angry;
they all were, and Moony was
right there,
and Peter…
Sirius crossed to the cot and sank down onto it, burying his head in his hands. It was too much—it was all too much. He’d been a fool to leave Azkaban, a fool to allow the gutting claws of emotion back into his heart, a fool to think he could
do
this—
But he had to, he
had to,
he’d come so far—
The cat jumped onto his lap, purring. Sirius tried to breathe, to focus on nothing but the vibrations emanating from the soft bundle of fur.
“I have
not
been helping Sirius,” Remus snapped, losing patience, “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain. Look—”
He lifted the three wands in his hand, tossing them one by one back to their owners.
“There,” Remus huffed, putting his own wand away, “You’re armed, we’re not. Now will you listen?”
Harry scowled, stubbornly. “If you haven’t been helping him, how did you know he was here?”
“The map,” Remus explained, “The Marauder’s Map. I had it in my office—”
“You know how it works?”
Remus waved a hand. “Of course I know how it works; I helped write it. I’m Moony—” Sirius’s heart clenched as he said it, “That was my friends’ nickname for me at school.”
“You
wrote
—?”
“The point is, I was keeping an eye on it this evening, because I suspected that the three of
you
might try and sneak out of the castle to visit Hagrid before his hippogriff was executed. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
He began to pace, tugging anxiously at the sleeves of his robes.
“You might have been wearing your father’s old cloak, Harry—”
“How d’you know about the cloak?”
“The amount of trouble your father got up to under that cloak…” Remus tutted, dismissively, “The point is, invisibility cloaks can’t hide you from the Marauder’s Map. I saw you cross the grounds and enter Hagrid’s hut. Twenty minutes later, you left Hagrid, and set off back toward the castle. But there was somebody else with you—a fourth person.”
“What?” Harry interrupted, again, “No, there wasn’t!”
“I couldn’t believe it,” Remus muttered, half to himself, “I thought the map must be malfunctioning. How could
he
be there?”
“No one was with us!” Harry insisted.
“And then I saw another dot, moving towards you, labelled
Sirius Black
…I saw him collide with you; I watched as he pulled two of you into the whomping willow—”
“One of us!” Ron interrupted, frowning.
“No, Ron,” Remus paused his pacing, turning a steady gaze towards the boy, “Two of you.”
He walked towards the boy on the cot, looming over him.
“Do you think I could have a look at that rat?”
Ron blinked. “What?” He shook his head, “What’s Scabbers got to do with it?”
“Everything,” Remus replied, a note of desperation creeping into his voice, though he was clearly trying to keep it steady, “Could I see him, please?”
The rat squirmed as Ron withdrew it from his robes, trying frantically to escape. But the boy held him fast by the tail; the cat on Sirius’s lap stood, hissing a warning.
“Why?” Ron asked again, holding the rat closer to his chest as Remus stepped forward, “What’s my rat got to do with anything?”
“That’s not a rat,” Sirius heard himself saying. His eyes locked on the terrified rodent—
finally.
“What d’you mean—of course he’s a rat—”
“No, he’s not.” Remus spoke firmly, “He’s a wizard.”
“An animagus,” Sirius croaked, “By the name of Peter Pettigrew.”
For a moment, everyone fell silent. Then,
“You’re both mental—”
“Ridiculous—”
“Peter Pettigrew’s
dead
!” Harry shouted, pointing at Sirius, “
He
killed him twelve years ago!”
“I meant to,” Sirius growled, eyes locked on the rat, “But the slimy little bastard got the better of me…not this time, though!”
He lunged forward, sending the cat flying and Ron reeling backwards, screaming as Sirius’s weight landed on his broken leg.
“Sirius, NO!” Remus shouted, and suddenly the other man’s hands were around his shoulders, dragging him back, “WAIT! You can’t do it just like that – they need to understand – we’ve got to explain—”
“We can explain afterwards!” Sirius roared, fighting to break from Moony’s grip. He was so close—so
close—
he could almost taste the blood—
“They’ve—got—a right—to know—everything!” Remus was panting, using all his strength to hold Sirius back, “Ron’s kept him as a pet! There are parts of it that even I don’t understand! And Harry—you owe Harry the truth, Sirius!”
Abruptly, Sirius sagged back. He couldn’t deny it—Remus was right. He owed it to Harry to explain what had really happened on that horrible night. He owed him much more than that.
“Fine,” Sirius said, through gritted teeth, “Tell them whatever you like. But make it quick, Remus. I want to commit the murder I was imprisoned for…”
“You’re nutters, both of you,” Ron said, white-faced and shaking, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”
He attempted to stand, but Remus whipped out his wand, pointing it straight at the rat that was still clutched in the boy’s fist.
“You’re going to hear me out, Ron,” Remus said, “Just make sure you hold onto Peter while you listen.”
“HE’S NOT PETER, HE’S SCABBERS!” Ron shouted, fighting to shove the squirming rat back into his pocket—it was no use, Wormtail was wriggling desperately as he tried to escape, and Ron nearly toppled off the cot.
Harry rushed to his friend’s side, steadying the other boy and shoving him back down onto the mattress. He turned to Remus, saying flatly,
“There was an entire street of witnesses who saw Pettigrew die.”
“No—that’s just what they
thought
they saw!” Sirius snarled, “What he made them think…” His eyes hadn’t left Peter for a single second.
“Everyone thought that Sirius killed Peter,” Remus said, slowly, “Even—” He broke off, swallowing. Sirius didn’t have to ask what he’d stopped himself from saying.
Even me
.
“But…” Remus took a breath, continuing, “The Marauder’s Map never lies. And I
saw
Peter’s name on the map tonight, Harry—he’s alive. Ron’s holding him right now.”
Harry and Ron exchanged a disbelieving glance; Hermione spoke up.
“But Professor Lupin…Scabbers can’t be Pettigrew…it just can’t be true, you know it can’t…”
“Why not?” Remus asked, in the sort of voice he used to use at his study sessions when he was trying to help a first year work out a problem for themselves.
Professor Lupin
.
“Because…because people would
know
if Peter Pettigrew was an animagus. We did animagi in class with Professor McGonagall. And I looked them up when I did my homework—the Ministry of Magic keeps tabs on witches and wizards who can become animals; there’s a register showing what animal they become, and their markings and things…and I went and looked Professor McGonagall up on the register, and there have been only seven animagi this century, and Pettigrew’s name wasn’t on the list—”
She said all this very quickly, as though she were delivering a report in class. Remus began to laugh, and for a moment Sirius’s eyes darted away from the rat, because—
Oh.
He had nearly forgotten that sound.
How had he nearly forgotten it?
“Right again, Hermione!” Remus said, “But the Ministry didn’t
know
that there were three unregistered animagi, running around Hogwarts right under their noses.”
The rat in Ron’s fist let out a piercing squeak, and Sirius’s eyes snapped back to it immediately. He couldn’t afford to get distracted—not until Peter was dead.
“If you’re going to tell them the story, then hurry up, Remus,” he snapped, “I’ve waited twelve years, I’m not going to wait much longer.”
“All right…but you’ll need to help me, Sirius, I only know how it began…”
Suddenly, a loud creak came from the other side of the room; everyone whipped around to stare. The door had somehow come open on its own.
Remus frowned, striding over and poking his head into the hall.
“No one there…”
“This place is haunted!” Ron yelped, somehow even more pale than he’d been a moment before.
“It’s not,” Remus said calmly, still frowning at the door, “The Shrieking Shack was never haunted…the screams and howls the villagers used to hear were only ever me.”
He pushed a hand through his curls, brow furrowed in thought. Then,
“That’s where it all starts – when I became a werewolf. None of this could have happened if I hadn’t been bitten…and if I hadn’t been so reckless…”
Sirius’s heart twisted, painfully, in his chest.
Same
old
Moony
—always finding a way to take the blame, to make everything his fault.
“I was very young when I was bitten. My parents…didn’t take it well. There was no cure in those days—the potion that Professor Snape has been making for me is a very recent discovery. It makes me safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I transform…I’m able to curl up in my office, a harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane again.”
Ah,
Sirius thought,
That’s why the shack’s been empty.
He tried to imagine the wolf, majestic and regal, with its glowing golden eyes…he tried to picture Remus, trapped inside, curled up alone. Hating himself. Transforming back, with no one there to help him.
“Before the Wolfsbane potion was discovered, though, I turned into a monster once a month. It probably should have been impossible for me to come to Hogwarts—most parents don’t want their children exposed to dangerous creatures.
“But Dumbledore thought differently. He decided that so long as we took certain precautions, there was no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to attend the school…” Remus sighed, heavily, looking over at Harry, “I told you, months ago, that the whomping willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The truth is that it was planted
because
I came to Hogwarts. This house—” he gestured, weakly, to the room they stood in, “—the tunnel that leads to it—they were built for my use. Once a month, I was smuggled out of the castle, into this place, to transform. The tree was placed at the tunnel mouth to stop anyone coming across me while I was dangerous.”
Sirius listened, eyes locked on Peter, feeling as though he were drowning in memory. All those mornings in the hospital wing, staring down at Moony’s bruised and battered frame—nights in the Forbidden Forest, wild and joyful and free…
“My transformations in those days were…terrible. Turning into a werewolf is a very painful process. I was locked up, separated from humans to bite…the wolf took its frustration out on itself. The villagers heard the noise and the screaming and thought they were hearing particularly violent spirits. Dumbledore encouraged the rumour…Even now, when the house has been silent for years, the villagers don’t dare approach it…”
Remus swallowed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “But apart from my transformations, I was the happiest I’d ever been. For the first time in my life, I had friends, three wonderful friends. Sirius Black…Peter Pettigrew…and, of course, your father, Harry—James Potter.”
Sirius had to force himself to breathe, had to remind his heart to keep beating.
“Now, my three friends began to notice my frequent disappearances. I told them that I was sick—when that didn’t work, I tried to avoid them, to brush them off. I was terrified of what would happen if anyone found out—terrified that I would be forced to leave the school, or that these three friends…the first friends I had ever truly had…that they would think I was a monster.”
Remus released an unsteady breath. Sirius dug his fingers into the cot beneath him, to keep his hands from shaking.
“But my friends were stubborn. God—so stubborn. And infuriating, and clever…they figured it out, like you, Hermione. But they didn’t look at me like a monster.”
His voice was thick with emotion now, though he managed to keep the words mostly steady. “Instead, they…they did something for me, something I would have never thought to ask of them. Something to make my transformations more bearable. They became animagi.”
“My dad too?” Harry asked, quietly.
“Yes,” Remus told him, smiling sadly, “It took them the better part of three years to work it out. Your father and Sirius were the cleverest students in the school, which was lucky, because the animagus transformation can go horribly wrong – one reason the Ministry keeps a close watch on those attempting to do it. Peter needed all the help he could get from James and Sirius, but in our fifth year, they finally managed it. They could each turn into a different animal at will.”
“But how did that help you?” Hermione asked, perplexed.
“They couldn’t keep me company as humans, so they kept me company as animals,” Remus explained, “A werewolf is only a danger to people. They snuck out of the castle every month under James’s invisibility cloak, and transformed…Peter was small enough to slip beneath the willow’s attacking branches and touch the knot that freezes it. Then they’d slip down the tunnel and join me. Under their influence, I became less dangerous. My body was still wolfish, but…I had a bit more control, over my mind.”
Sirius couldn’t take much more of this—the memories were choking him, crawling down his throat, stealing his breath. “Hurry up, Remus,” he growled, keeping his eyes fixed on Wormtail.
“I’m getting there, Sirius, just hang on…” Remus took a breath. “There were so many possibilities, now that we could all transform. Pretty soon we were leaving the Shrieking Shack and roaming the Forbidden Forest at night – Sirius and James were big enough animals to keep a werewolf in check. We probably discovered more about the forest than any other students in Hogwarts history…and that’s how we got our nicknames, which we used to sign the Marauder’s Map. Sirius is Padfoot. Peter is Wormtail. James was Prongs.”
“What sort of animal—?” Harry began to ask, but Hermione spoke over him.
“That was still really dangerous! Running around in the dark with a werewolf! What if you’d given the others the slip and bitten somebody?”
Sirius felt a strange, dizzy sense of déjà vu. For a moment, it wasn’t Harry’s bushy-haired friend standing before them, but someone else—a tall, willowy girl, with long blonde hair and a quiet laugh and fiery determination in her eyes.
“A thought that still haunts me,” Remus said, snapping Sirius back into the present. His voice was thick with guilt, “And there were certainly times when I feared the worst…but we were young, thoughtless—carried away with our own cleverness.
“Of course, I sometimes felt guilty about betraying the trust that had been placed in me…Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, even Dumbledore—none of them had any idea that I was breaking the rules which had been set down for my own and others’ safety. They never knew that I’d led three fellow students into becoming animagi illegally.”
Sirius frowned—
that
was a bit of a stretch. He seemed to remember Remus trying to talk them
out
of the idea…that had happened, hadn’t it?
“But I always managed to forget my guilty feelings every time we sat down to plan our next month’s adventure. And I haven’t changed…” Now Remus’s voice had grown bitter, sharp with the self-disgust that Sirius still remembered from some of his darker moods.
“All this year, I’ve been…
battling
with myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an animagus. But I didn’t do it. Why? Because I was too selfish. I didn’t want an investigation, didn’t want my lycanthropy revealed…I had broken so completely from the wizarding world, I couldn’t imagine life with the Ministry breathing down my neck. I told myself that it didn’t make a difference, that I didn’t owe it to anyone—that my freedom was all I had left…” He laughed, a bitter, joyless thing. “I convinced myself that Sirius was using some sort of Dark Arts he had learned from the death eaters to get into the school, that being an animagus had nothing to do with it…so, in a way, Snape’s been right about me all along.”
“Snape?” Sirius asked, abruptly, tearing his gaze away from Peter to frown up at Remus. That was the third time he’d mentioned Snivellus’s name. “What’s Snape got to do with it?”
“He’s here, Sirius,” Remus sighed, “He’s teaching here as well.” He glanced over at Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
“Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought very hard against my appointment to the Defence Against the Dark Arts job. He’s been telling Dumbledore all year that I can’t be trusted. And he has his reasons…you see, Sirius here played a trick on him which nearly killed him, a trick that involved me—”
“It wasn’t—” Sirius shook his head, throat tight, “
Moony
—”
“Don’t—” Remus pressed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head. Sirius fell silent, heart turned to stone in his chest as he watched Remus take a shuddering breath.
“Severus was very interested in where I went every month,” Remus said, in a flat, clipped voice. “We were in the same year, you know, and we…didn’t exactly get along. He—he hated James, in particular, especially once things with Lily…anyway, Snape developed a sort of…obsession…with figuring out my secret. Followed me around for all of our fifth year. And one day, Sirius…told him. How to get past the willow.”
Sirius remembered it. He remembered it all very well—he had spent quite a bit of time reliving this particular memory, in Azkaban.
Still, the pain was just as fresh.
“Snape tried it, of course. Came down the tunnel on a full moon. I—” Remus broke off, sharply, sucking in another breath. “I’d have killed him, if it hadn’t been for James.” He turned to Harry. “Your father saved Professor Snape – dragged him out, risking his own life in the process…but not before Snape saw me transforming. Dumbledore forbid him to tell anyone, but from then on he knew…”
“So that’s why Snape doesn’t like you,” Harry said, frowning, “Because he thought you were in on the…trick?”
“That’s right,” spat a cold, familiar voice, from the wall directly behind Remus. As they all turned, Severus Snape pulled off James’s invisibility cloak, pointing his wand directly at Moony.
Sirius leapt to his feet at once, moving forward. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin; Hermione screamed.
“I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow,” Snape sneered, tossing the cloak aside, “Very useful, Potter, thank you…” His black eyes glittered like beetles, triumphant.
“You’re wondering, perhaps, how I knew where to find you?” A sharp, cruel smile crept across his face, “I’ve just been to your office, Lupin. You forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful along. And very lucky I did…lucky for me, I mean. Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running along this passageway and out of sight.”
“Severus—” Remus began to speak, but Snape didn’t let him finish.
“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re helping your
old
friend
Black into the castle, Lupin, and here’s the proof. Not even
I
dreamed you would have the nerve to use
this
old place as your hideout—”
“Severus, you’re making a mistake,” Remus insisted, desperately. “You haven’t heard everything—I can explain—Sirius isn’t here to kill Harry—”
“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” Snape hissed, as if Remus hadn’t even spoken, “I’m
very
interested to see how Dumbledore takes this…He was quite convinced you were harmless, Lupin…a
tame
werewolf—”
“You fool,” Remus curled his hands into fists, voice low and angry, “Is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?”
BANG!
Without warning, thin cords burst from the end of Snape’s wand, binding Remus completely and sending him toppling to the ground. Sirius shouted, enraged, and lunged forward—only to find Severus’s wand pointed right between his eyes.
“Give me a reason,” Snape hissed, “Give me one reason to do it, and I swear I will.”
Sirius froze, glaring murderously at the man across from him. He had no idea how Snape had wormed his way into Dumbledore’s good graces—but as far as Sirius was concerned, the greasy bastard was still a death eater.
He
was the only one who deserved to be in Azkaban.
“Professor Snape,” Hermione squeaked, stepping forward hesitantly, “It—it wouldn’t hurt to hear what they’ve got to say, w-would it?’
“Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension from this school,” Snape spat, “You, Potter, and Weasley are out-of-bounds, in the company of a convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your life,
hold your tongue.
”
“But if—if there was a mistake—”
“KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!” Snape bellowed, eyes flashing wildly, “DON’T TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”
Hermione fell silent, recoiling. Snape’s eyes returned to Sirius.
“Vengeance is very sweet,” he breathed, with a deranged smile, “How I hoped that I would be the one to catch you…”
“Oh, save the fucking theatrics, Snivellus,” Sirius growled. “As long as this boy brings his rat up to the castle—” he nodded to Ron, “I’ll come quietly…”
“Up to the castle?” Snape’s smile grew, sickeningly, “I don’t think we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the dementors once we get out of the willow. They’ll be very pleased to see you, Black…pleased enough to give you a little
kiss
, I daresay…”
No,
Sirius thought, cold dread bleeding like ice into his veins,
No—not now—not when I’m so close—
“You—you’ve got to hear me out,” his voice had gone ragged, “The rat—look at the rat—”
But the horrible, triumphant glint in Snape’s eye only gleamed brighter.
“Come on, all of you,” he ordered. With a snap of his fingers, the cords binding Remus flew into his open palm, “I’ll drag the werewolf. Perhaps the dementors will have a kiss for him too—”
But before any of them could move, Harry had dashed across the room, blocking the door with his body.
“Get out of the way, Potter, you’re in enough trouble already,” Snape growled, “If I hadn’t been here to save your skin—”
“Professor Lupin could have killed me about a hundred times this year,” Harry said. “I’ve been alone with him loads of times, having defence lessons against the dementors. If he was helping Black, why didn’t he just finish me off then?”
“Don’t ask me to fathom the way a werewolf’s mind words,” Snape hissed, “Get out of the way, Potter.”
“YOU’RE PATHETIC!” Harry shouted, “JUST BECAUSE THEY MADE A FOOL OF YOU AT SCHOOL YOU WON’T EVEN LISTEN—”
“SILENCE!” Snape screamed, “I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!” He glared at Harry, hatred shining in his eyes, “Like father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck; you should be thanking me on bended knee! You would have been well served if he’d killed you! You’d have died like your father, too arrogant to believe that you might be mistaken in Black—now get out of the way, or I will
make you.
GET OUT OF THE WAY, POTTER!”
In the next instant, three voices shouted at the exact same moment,
“
Expelliarmus!
”
The three combined spells hit Snape with such force that he flew backwards, slamming into the wall and sliding down to the floor. He slumped, unconscious; a trickled of blood slid from beneath his greasy hair.
Sirius blinked in shock—then looked around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, all of whom had their wands raised and identical expressions of surprise on their faces.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Sirius said, hoarsely, “You should have left him to me…”
Harry didn’t meet his eye, looking instead at Snape’s wand—which had flown all the way across the room, landing on the bed beside the cat.
“We attacked a teacher…we attacked a teacher…” Hermione was muttering, anxiously, colour drained from her face as she stared at Snape’s limp form. “Oh, we’re going to be in so much trouble—”
On the floor, Remus was struggling madly against the cords. Sirius knelt, untying him, and as he straightened he rubbed his arms where the rope had cut into them.
“Thank you, Harry.” He said.
“I’m still not saying I believe you,” Harry responded, quickly.
“Then it’s time we offered you some proof,” Sirius stood, “You, boy – give me Peter. Now.”
Ron drew back, clutching the rat to his chest.
“Come off it,” he protested, weakly, “Are you trying to say he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on
Scabbers
? I mean…” He turned to his friends, beseechingly, “Okay, say Pettigrew could turn into a rat – there are millions of rats – how’s he supposed to know which one he’s after if he was locked up in Azkaban?”
“You know, Sirius, that’s a fair question,” Remus agreed, brow furrowed as he turned to look at him. “How
did
you find out where he was?”
Sirius stuck his hand into his pocket, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper and smoothing it, carefully. They all craned their necks to look—it was the photo from the
Daily Prophet,
with the entire Weasley family smiling and waving madly.
“How did you get this?” Remus asked, taken aback.
“Fudge,” Sirius replied, shortly, “When he came to inspect Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there was Peter, on the front page…on this boy’s shoulder…I knew him at once…how many times had I seen him transform? And the caption said the boy would be going back to Hogwarts…to where Harry was…”
“My God,” Remus breathed, eyes darting between the rat in the photo and the one clutched in Ron’s fist, “His front paw…”
“What about it?” Ron asked, defiantly.
“He’s got a toe missing.” Sirius said.
“Of course,” Remus shook his head, “So simple…so
brilliant
…he cut it off himself?”
“Just before he transformed,” Sirius said, tightly, “He…
lured
me, made sure there was a crowd—let me disarm him, so that it seemed like
I
was the one attacking. Shouted at me…the whole time, I had no idea that he’d already set the time-delay spell. And then it was too late…”
“Didn’t you ever hear, Ron?” Remus asked, “The biggest bit of Peter they found was his finger.”
“Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat or something! He’s been in my family for ages, right—”
“Twelve years, in fact,” Remus cut in, quietly. “Didn’t you ever wonder why he was living so long?”
“We—we’ve been taking good care of him!”
“Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?” Remus asked. “I’d guess he’s been losing weight ever since he heard Sirius was on the loose again…”
“He’s been scared of that mad cat!” Ron nodded, accusingly, at the creature, which was still curled up and purring on the cot.
“This cat isn’t mad,” Sirius said, reaching out a hand to scratch behind its ears. “He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever met. He recognised Peter for what he was right away. And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. I had no idea why he was helping me…then I realised that he knew what I was after, and we’ve been working together ever since…”
“What do you mean?” Asked Hermione.
“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t,” Sirius explained, “So he stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower…as I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside table…” He shook his head, turning bitterly back to the rat, “But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for it. I understand he left blood on the sheets…probably bit himself…faking his own death had already worked once…”
“And why did he fake his death?” Harry asked, suddenly, “Because he knew you were about to kill him, like you killed my parents!”
“No,” Remus tried to explain, “Harry—”
“And now you’ve come to finish him off!”
“Yes, I have,” Sirius growled, eyes locked on the squirming rodent.
“Then I should’ve let Snape take you!” Harry yelled.
“Harry,” Remus said quickly, “Don’t you see? All this time we’ve thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and Peter tracked him down – but it was the other way around;
Peter
betrayed your mother and father – Sirius tracked
Peter
down—”
“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Harry screamed, “HE WAS THEIR SECRET-KEEPER! HE SAID SO BEFORE YOU TURNED UP, HE SAID HE KILLED THEM!”
He was pointing right at Sirius, that same burning anger returned to his eyes.
“Harry…” Sirius breathed, voice breaking, “I as good as killed them.” He swallowed, forcing the words from his throat, “I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as secret-keeper instead of me…I’m to blame, I know it…the night they died, I didn’t even—I went to the house for a different reason, and when I got there it was…” He paused, trying to remember how to breathe.
“I—I realised what Peter must’ve done…what
I
had done…”
Sirius turned away, unable to look at Harry any longer.
“Enough of this,” Remus cut in, gently, “There’s one certain way to prove what really happened. Ron,
give me that rat.
”
“What are you going to do with him if I give him to you?” Ron asked, tremulously.
“Force him to show himself,” Remus replied, “If he really is a rat, it won’t hurt him.”
Ron swallowed, hesitating—before finally,
finally
stretching out a hand, and passing over the rat. It squeaked and writhed horribly, desperate to escape, but Remus had it in an iron grip.
“Ready, Sirius?”
Yes, yes, yes.
Sirius had plucked Snape’s wand from the cot, and he approached Remus, eyes locked on Wormtail the entire time.
“Together?” He breathed.
‘I think so,” Remus answered, gripping the rat even more tightly. “On the count of three. One—two—THREE!”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Italics = Boscan
Working their booth for the second time was a lot easier than the first. Things went incredibly smoothly, and she had a lot more confidence both in her performance and in her audience. They were received spectacularly well, even better than they had the first night. In fact, several people had rushed straight to her tent, without need for Lyra to try to draw them in to hear her tell the origin story of the festival again.
It was incredibly flattering, and she and her spirits had all had a good time. Crux in particular was thrilled that he had a willing audience to listen to his tales about the Celestial Spirits. Lyra was also pleased, and apparently feeling incredibly inspired. The normally laidback spirit had gone on for a while about her many new song ideas that she intended to compose, inspired by their time.
She wasn’t the only one feeling rather inspired either. Cana had also been moved, though for an entirely different reason. Clearly overjoyed and feeling rather frisky, Cana had told her in no uncertain terms that she fully intended to hunt down her own ‘Boscan Bon-Bon’ both for a little fun and to see if she could find a different room for herself so theirs would be open for Lucy, should she decide to bring Farron back.
According to her friend she even had a back-up plan for seducing one of the guys from Blue Pegasus if that didn’t work out, which Lucy had tried to tell her was highly unnecessary, but Cana had been insistent. Her friend was also insistent on lending her some birth control, which she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or just grateful for seeing as she hadn’t thought to bring any herself.
It was rather silly of her, and something she made a mental note to fix in the future. After all birth control in this life was just as easy as it had been on the magical side of her previous life, and maybe even easier. After all the tablets in this life just needed to be ingested and lasted for forty-eight hours, they didn’t require any concentration or magical energy the way contraceptive spells did, and tasted a heck of a lot better than any of the potions alternatives had too.
Even better, the birth control in this life was a hundred percent effective and also prevented any sort of sexually transmitted diseases. They were honestly a bit of a miracle to her way of thinking, especially since they were also fairly cheap and readily available now that she was away from the upper class who’d always sneered at such things, claiming that birth control encouraged promiscuity.
That was stupidity she didn’t even like to think on frankly, especially since the hypocrisy of it all was galling. The way everyone utterly disregarded and sneered at bastard children while also refusing to take the birth control that would stop that sort of thing was the absolute height of stupidity. It made her even more grateful that she’d managed to escape, both her father and that life, which would’ve more than likely driven her insane.
It was a thought she’d voiced to Cana, who’d grimaced in distaste and explained she’d never understood the prudish sexist customs of the upper class. It wasn’t all that surprising considering Cana was probably the most open woman she’d ever met, but it had been nice to have someone to complain to who agreed with her wholeheartedly, even if she had gotten teased a bit about her own virgin status and encouraged to let Farron take care of that for her.
The absolutely wicked look the other woman had shot her when he showed up at their booth so the two of them could hang out during festival hours had her giggling for several minutes, even after they’d left the vicinity. Luckily Farron didn’t seem to mind and had even chuckled a bit himself, the sound deep, rich and utterly enticing.
“Your friend seems like the supportive type,” he noted as the two of them meandered through the festival. He’d offered her an arm, and she’d gladly taken it, more than willing to hold on to him, but also glad she wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally being separated from him by the crowd.
“She is that,” Lucy acknowledged with a wry smile.
“She’d fit right in, in Bosco,” he told her with an amused grin, “No doubt you’ve heard, but we Boscans tend to be a little more open about that sort of thing.”
“I had heard,” she acknowledged with a smile of her own, “Will you tell me about it?”
Farron looked at her for a long moment, his baby blue eyes surprisingly calculating as he searched her face for something. She tried to project back the true, open curiosity she felt for the subject, figuring it would be interesting to hear about it from the Boscan point of view.
Whatever he was looking for, he apparently found it because he nodded, and slowly began to tell her more about Boscan culture. It was fairly clear that he started with the more vanilla aspects of the culture, things that would be more palatable for someone who’d grown up in Fiore that might be a bit outside the norm, but not too extreme.
It included things like how they greeted one another with kisses, on the cheek or forehead or even on the lips depending on the individual, for friends, family, and lovers alike, as well as how they were a fairly physical culture in general. He also talked about how they sealed things like promises with kisses, and how it was an incredibly large and important part of their culture. They even had several special traditions based around kissing, including the famous Boscan Kissing Chocolate.
It was something she’d always been terribly tempted to try. The secret of how it was made was closely guarded by its producers in Bosco, the recipe apparently considered one of the countries national treasures. According to what she knew it supposedly tasted different depending on if you ate it alone, or shared it with a partner, and would even vary depending on the partner. Sharing though wasn’t quite the right word for it, because just as the name implied, you were supposed to kiss while using it. More specifically you were supposed to let it melt on your tongue and let your partner lick it off.
There was something incredibly intriguing and sensual about the idea, an opinion she was all too happy to share with Farron, especially since she wanted to know if he’d tried it. It turned out he’d tried it several times, and while he did his best to describe the experience for her, he also told her it was something she really had to experience for herself.
After that he seemed to open up a bit more. He still cast her looks every once in a while, that made her feel like he was looking for a reaction of some sort from her, but he did move on to more of what she wanted to know.
It turned out that Boscans had a very free idea of sex and sexuality, even more than she ever would’ve imagined and had what she could only really liken to extensive sexual education classes. She’d been a little shocked to learn that these classes were even hands on, and included losing your virginity to someone.
They were pretty much required classes, ones that started when a person turned sixteen. The classes themselves were one on one with a special instructor called a Sudepah, who helped guide the teen through exploring both sex and sexuality in a controlled environment.
If she was completely honest with herself, her first and most immediate thought had been revulsion. She couldn’t imagine requiring people to have sex, it honestly sounded utterly repulsive to her, a violation of human rights. It was basically condoned rape, letting an authority figure take advantage of someone under their care, something she never, ever would’ve accepted.
Farron must’ve seen it in her face, despite her best efforts to hide her thoughts, because he politely went on to explain some things for her. It turned out it wasn’t as bad as she was originally thinking it was. For one thing, the Sudepah wouldn’t touch the student unless the student explicitly asked to be touched, and the student in question got to choose, not only their Sudepah, but their partner when it came to exploring the more physical aspects of intimacy.
Rape in Bosco was actually considered one of their most severe crimes and punishable by death, no exceptions. Pedophilia was also punishable by death, no one was allowed to touch children who had yet to complete their classes with a Sudepah, and that death was one that was purposefully drawn out and excruciatingly painful.
These classes also tended to last quite a while, so most students didn’t tend to lose their virginity until they were at least seventeen and often times even eighteen or nineteen depending on when they started and how quickly they progressed. The pace of the classes was entirely up to the student in question.
The fact that the classes existed at all meant that there was no such thing as underaged sex in Bosco outside very, very rare occasions. There were less than a handful of cases per year because students knew all they had to do was complete the classes and then they were free to pursue their desires as much as they pleased.
It also meant that safe and consensual sex was practically drilled into the entire population, which was a huge plus. The whole explanation did make her feel quite a bit better about things, though she did still have some questions, questions Farron seemed surprisingly delighted to answer for her.
“How do you ensure the Sudepah don’t take advantage of the children?” she asked him, unable to keep the slight frown off her face, watching him intently, “It’s very easy to manipulate children that age to warp their ideas of what’s acceptable and what isn’t, especially when it comes to sex and intimacy. How do you stop the Sudepah from grooming the children in the ways they desire, rather than in ways that are best for the children?”
It was a question that had been bothering her since the idea of Sudepah had been explained to her. As someone who’d been rather badly screwed over by authority figures herself in her previous life at right around that age, she knew how terrible it could be. Even in this new life with most of her past emotions and traumas washed clean by death she still hadn’t quite fully recovered from it all.
“You speak as if you weren’t close to the same age as those children,” Farron pointed out shrewdly, his eyes intent on her face.
“Because I’m not,” she told him with a shrug, clearly surprising him, before carefully explaining, “A child that is. I haven’t been a child since my mother died when I was twelve. There are certain traumas and experiences that a person can’t live through without no longer considering themselves akin to their peers.”
“I can see that,” Farron murmured clearly thoughtful as he studied her face, though he thankfully didn’t press the issue. She wasn’t a big fan of lying to anyone, and this was the closest she could comfortably come to the truth without divulging everything, something she certainly wasn’t about to do to a near stranger.
“As for the Sudepah, the position is greatly revered throughout Bosco. They are some of the most highly respected people in our country, akin to the priests of Minstrel in some ways,” he explained patiently, “They go through rigorous training, and are put through intense physical and mental examinations by lauded experts. They also have their position reviewed every other year to ensure nothing has changed and they’re still doing their due diligence.”
“We have, admittedly, had trouble with Sudepahs like the kind you’re no doubt imagining in the past,” he admitted, honestly, “But we do our best to crack down extremely harshly on such things. That and the children are also advised in advance what their Sudepah is and isn’t allowed to do. Any allegations made against a Sudepah are always taken extremely seriously and children are encouraged to report even the most minor of infractions.”
“And you don’t get false reports?” she asked curiously, unable to help herself. She was well aware that things could work both ways, and thanks to her experience with Sirius and the death eaters after the war both willing and unwilling, knew how easily it was to see a person’s life completely ruined by false charges.
“We do, but thanks to truth spells and the like such matters are always sorted extremely quickly, and there are severe punishments for purposefully trying to ruin someone in such a way,” he explained easily, watching her with clear interest in his face, “Though misunderstandings and accidents are quickly forgiven on both sides.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” she noted, unable to keep the approval out of her tone, something he clearly noticed as he offered her his own pleased smile.
“We do try, though there are a few things that slip through the cracks, we do our best,” he told her, both humble and extremely proud of his country, that he clearly loved dearly, “Do you have any other questions?”
“I do,” she admitted, a little hesitantly, unsure if she was bothering him. She was doing her best not to be rude, but felt like she might unknowingly be anyway despite her best efforts, “If you don’t mind? I’m afraid some of them are probably rather vulgar.”
“Not at all,” he assured her, clearly delighted, his handsome face lit with a bright, approving smile, “Ask away.”
“What do you do about women who prefer women?” she asked bluntly, seeing no way around it, “Unless they use a toy of some sort, traditional ‘loss of virginity via penetration’ isn’t really possible.”
“All preferences are taken into account,” he assured her seriously, not offended in the least, “By our standard, loss of virginity is defined as sharing mutual orgasm with one another, no penetration needed.”
“All preferences?” she prompted, “Even those who just flat out don’t like sex?”
“Those people never graduate from their classes with the Sudepah, because all classes that require hands on physical interaction are voluntary,” Farron explained casually, “It means that while they can still become an adult in all other ways, sexual contact for them is expressly forbidden unless they go back and graduate.”
“You said sexual contact with those who haven’t completed their classes with the Sudepah is considered pedophilia and illegal,” she pointed out shrewdly, earning a rather fierce grin from Farron.
“That’s absolutely right, anyone who touches someone who hasn’t completed their Sudepah classes is made to regret it,” he told her, utterly remorseless. It was an attitude she appreciated, and wholly approved of.
“Bosco sounds pretty amazing,” she admitted honestly, “I’ve always wanted to visit. Though now I’m curious what happens after you graduate from Sudepah lessons? Are you just free to approach whoever about sex?”
“You’re more than welcome to ask anyone you like, though it’s best to ask if they’re promised first,” he explained patiently.
“Promised? Is that like engaged?” she asked, hoping to clarify.
“For all intents and purposes yes. Basically, it’s an agreement to be exclusive unless the two of you agree to share and approach someone together. Telling a Boscan you’re promised ensures they back off right away,” he told her, with a nod, “No always means no, but it’s especially true with people who are promised because the legal repercussions are even more extreme if you try to push.”
“Then I suppose the legal repercussions for trying to push someone married are even worse?” she hypothesized, thoughtfully.
“That’s right,” he agreed, with a slight smile, “Marriage is considered almost holy in Bosco, and divorce all but impossible, mostly because unlike here the only reason to get married is for love, physical attraction and sex aren’t really factors at all.”
“What about children?” she asked curiously, “You don’t marry for children?”
“Not necessarily,” he told her with a thoughtful frown, “Bastards don’t have quite the stigma attached to them in Bosco that they do here, and so long as the mother can prove who the father is, both parents are responsible for raising the child, though those kind of disputes rarely ever happen considering birth control is widely accepted in Bosco and taken by both parties. Unwanted children are incredibly rare, and those that are born are usually immediately adopted out very quickly.”
“And money?” she prompted, still curious about Boscan marriage, which honestly sounded almost too good to be true, “Do you not have gold diggers in Bosco?”
She’d suffered through numerous proposals after the war ended, people trying to get their hands on her money, or share some of her fame. Unfortunately for them she’d left all her money to Teddy, Hermione, and the Weasleys and had, had absolutely no intention of marrying anyone without extreme testing beforehand to ensure they were with her for the right reasons.
“Unfortunately, that seems to be a universal problem and one we haven’t solved yet,” Farron admitted wryly, “There are power hungry, greedy people in Bosco too, though I like to think we’ve made things easier when it comes to avoiding such things, taking children and sex out of the equation when it comes to things people usually use to manipulate others with.
“I suppose nothing’s perfect,” she acknowledged, with a laugh, “Though it does sound quite a bit better than things here.”
He smiled at her, clearly pleased at the admittance as the two of them continued to walk slowly around the festival, pausing here and there to admire the things that caught their eye. Both of them had found treats to munch on, Farron nibbling at some candied nuts, while she sipped at her freshly squeezed raspberry lemonade.
“So, if I want to have sex with someone from Bosco do I just go up and ask if they’re promised?” she asked unable to help her curiosity as she took a sip of her sweet, fruity drink.
“That’s right,” Farron agreed clearly amused at the question, “And if they say no you ask them
Would you like to share pleasure with me?
”
“Share pleasure?” Lucy interpreted carefully, dusting off her rusty language skills. The language of Bosco was very similar to Spanish from her last life, the same way Minstrellian was similar to French, and Fioran to something like a mix between Japanese and English.”
“That’s right,” Farron told her, his tone impressed as he watched her with curious eyes, “
Do you speak Boscan, my lady?
”
“
Only a little bit,
” she told him in the same language, her attempt clumsy compared to the smooth roll of his words. She’d always found accents rather attractive, and probably the only reason for her crush on Oliver Wood from her last life. Farron’s accent and speaking in his native language was no exception.
“Still rather impressive,” he mused, eyeing her with clear appreciation in his gaze, “Especially, for a Fioran.”
“Thank you, I think,” she told him, amused.
“I meant no offense,” he assured her, quickly, “Only that most Fiorans don’t particularly care to look outside their own country and when they do it’s usually to Minstrel.”
“Fair enough,” she agreed, knowing he was absolutely right. A lot of people from Fiore, especially the wealthy, tended to be rather insular and elitist, the same as the magical community from her last life had been.
“Thank you for answering all of my questions, I know some of them must’ve come across rather impolite,” she told him, figuring she might as well get it off her chest, feeling it was rather important to say. She’d found she really did rather like Farron, and not just because of the way he looked.
He’d been incredibly patient with her, answering all her questions, polite, and seemingly incredibly easy-going. Something about him had just seemed to click for her in the same way she’d clicked with Cana, Mirajane and Bickslow from Fairy Tail.
“No, thank
you
for keeping an open mind, even when some of my answers initially repulsed you,” Farron told her, his eyes intent and the words surprisingly sincere, “You asked questions and heard me out, you didn’t shut me out or assume I was some kind of sex crazed barbarian. I appreciate that.”
“You really shouldn’t have to thank a person for common courtesy Farron,” she told him honestly, “It was my pleasure to learn more about your country, and just because your ways are different from the ones I grew up with doesn’t necessarily make them bad or wrong.”
“If only more people thought that way,” he voiced wistfully, an almost fond look on his face as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the intimate gesture brining a surprising heat to her cheeks, “It would make life so much simpler. No, I think what you did was rather special Lucy.”
She wanted to protest that, but she knew as well as he did that people could be closed minded bigots. After all, between Jude and the Dursleys she’d grown up with them in both lives. It really was unfair sometimes; how awful people could be.
“Thank you,” she told him as sincerely as she could, unsure exactly how to respond but hoping her words were adequate, “That’s sweet of you to say.”
“I think I’d like to visit Bosco someday,” she told him, into the silence that followed her words, as Farron watched her with amusement and gentle understanding on his face as she carefully changed the subject.
“I hope you do,” he answered with a smile, “I think you’d quite enjoy it, and that the people there would quite enjoy you as well.”
“Enjoy me?” she asked, thoroughly amused by the way he’d worded it.
“Blondes are rare in Bosco, and Blondes with eyes like yours are rare period, we like beauty in all forms, but rarity is a beauty all its own,” he told her with a smile, “Everyone will approach wanting to share pleasure with you.”
“But you’re blond,” she pointed out with a laugh, “Does that make you rare and popular too?”
“What do you think?” he asked with a teasing smile, something slightly wicked about it that sent a thrill of desire through her and had her smiling easily back at him.
“I think you probably are rather sought after, though whether that’s for your looks or tongue I don’t know,” she flirted back lightly.
“I do have a very talented tongue,” he admittedly mischievously, eyes dancing with laughter, the innuendo clear in his voice.
She’d honestly meant the way he spoke, not anything more explicit, but the way he said it, had her throwing her head back with delighted laughter. The two of them spent quite a while happily bantering and flirting up a storm. She found the more she spoke to him, the more she liked him, thus she didn’t protest at all when he carefully guided her into a few dark corners to steal kisses.
Each kiss was sweet, and tender, enough to steal her breath away. His hands were careful, and respectful and he never, ever pushed her, letting her take the lead more often than not. He was honestly utterly delightful and she as the night wore one she wondered if she might not end up rather grateful for Cana’s gift of birth control after all.
She honestly hadn’t had that much carefree fun with another human being in a long time, probably not since before her mother died, and she enjoyed it quite a bit. The atmosphere of the festival and the companion at her side, more than she honestly could’ve ever hoped for when Cana had decided to drag her along on this job.
It was close to the end of the night, only about forty-five minutes from the time she was supposed to go back and meet Cana at their tent. She’d been wandering around with Farron for hours, delighting in his company when she spotted it. It was a small booth, tucked a little way back from the others, clearly selling magical items, a few lacrima, some enchanted jewelry, and a handful of weapons. However, what caught her attention was the familiar magic hovering around one of the cases.
She didn’t waste a second dragging her amused but willing companion over to the booth, her heart galloping in her chest at the feel of that magic. It was Celestial magic without a doubt, the feel of it ingrained on her psyche, and decently strong at that, which meant the vendor was selling keys.
She didn’t doubt they were silver keys, probably the kind that had several copies of them floating around here and there, as finding a gold key for sale was like finding a priceless antique at a flea market, not impossible but not likely either. Still they were fairly rare, and she was eager to see what the vendor had.
Normally she wouldn’t be so quick to add more members of her family, especially since she didn’t feel like she’d spent enough time getting to know Libra yet, but she’d also made a promise to Romeo to teach him a bit about Celestial Spirits magic if she could. She hadn’t been able to do it yet, as she didn’t have a Key she could gift him, unwilling to part with any of her beloved family members, so she’d been on the lookout for something new.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been easy, Magnolia, despite being home to the Fairy Tail Guild, only had a couple magic stores, ones that weren’t all the impressive. She’d already scoured both to no avail. While she hadn’t thought to look while she was in Crocus she probably should’ve considering how much bigger the capital was. However, it seemed luck was on her side.
It didn’t take her long to lock on to the keys, which were laid out on the display case, each clearly well taken care of and polished to a shine. None of them were particularly rare, but that didn’t matter considering it was probably better to get Romeo one that would be easy to summon rather than something rare. It was especially important since he wasn’t going to pursue Celestial magic seriously and she didn’t want him something that someone else might try to take from him now that she knew that was also a possibility.
“What do you think Padfoot?” she asked absently as she looked over the keys on display, “Any opinions?”
“They all look decent, for the runt, right?” he asked his head popping out of her shadow to peer over her shoulder, clearly startling both the vendor and a few of the other patrons. Farron also looked a bit startled, though he recovered quickly and unlike some of the others didn’t look frightened at all.
“That’s right,” she affirmed, ignoring the looks she was getting from the people around her, as Padfoot quietly snickered in her ear, extremely amused at having startled the humans around, “Though I would’ve thought you would choose Canis Minor right off the bat.”
“The Nickola line isn’t much of a dog line,” Padfoot told her with a huff, clearly a bit disdainful of the other canine constellation, “He always takes up a really weird form, and is a bit odd in general.”
“So, go for one of the others?” she asked, eying the other two, “Ursa Minor or Pavo?”
“I didn’t say that,” he friend backtracked immediately, “Runt might like the weirdos for all I know.”
“You’re no help,” she grumbled at him, earning an indignant huff from the canine, who promptly disappeared back into her shadow, no doubt going to sulk about it.
She looked over the keys carefully for another minute before finally heaving a sigh, as she remembered getting her own first key. It was a special moment and she wanted it to be special for Romeo too. She just wasn’t sure how to do that. It would’ve been so much easier if Romeo was there to choose, but considering he was all the way back in Magnolia and no doubt asleep at home that wasn’t an option.
Normally she might just wait until the next day, and call him, but then there was a chance someone else would buy the key he wanted before she could pick it up for him, especially since she had to work tomorrow night and wouldn’t be able to come until the day after. She probably could send Cana, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to give the other woman proper directions back to the stall, since she wasn’t entirely sure where they were in the first place. She didn’t want her friend to spend half her night looking for the place. Really there was just one thing to do if she wanted him to have a choice.
“How much for all three?” she asked the vendor with a sigh, quietly resigning herself to getting two new family members.
A part of her was excited for it, but another part was a bit concerned. She wanted time to bond with all her spirits and never wanted them to feel as though she was neglecting them. It meant she probably shouldn’t allow herself to look for or pick up any more keys for at least a few months while she got the new members settled in a bit better.
“Are you sure miss?” the vendor asked, eyeing her, clearly unsure from her casual attire that she might not be able to afford his prices.
“I’m sure,” she informed him flatly, “None of these silver keys are all that rare, the Canis Minor line in particular is incredibly easy to get ahold of, and shouldn’t actually be all that expensive.”
“A hundred fifty thousand jewel for the lot them miss,” he told her dismissively.
“You’re joking,” she countered, her tone flat and bored, glad despite everything that as the heiress to the Heartfilia line she more than knew how to bargain with people, “Canis Major sells for twenty thousand at most. Do you always try to rip off your customers? I’ll pay you seventy-five thousand.”
She made sure to say the last bit in a voice that carried a bit, making those around her murmur. A couple of them even set down the items they’d been looking at, clearly wary, making the vendor grit his teeth in frustration, though there was a new respect in his eyes as he offered, “A hundred and twenty-five thousand, Canis Minor is common true, but the other two are a little rarer.”
“Ninety thousand,” she countered, “They’re rare, but not that rare, and everyone knows Pavo is only good for changing the color of things. You can do the exact same thing with a color changing magic wand and those are only worth thirty thousand jewel at most, plus unlike Pavo they don’t take magic from the user.”
She wasn’t usually the type to put down the magic of her keys, as she truly felt all of them could be useful, but in this situation, it was best to be as disparaging as possible. Plus, what she said about Pavo wasn’t exactly true. Yes, the Peacock could do color changing magic, and that was what that particular constellation was most known for.
In fact, according to her mother, when she was young Pavo had been really popular among women who could use magic, because back then color changing magic was far rarer and more expensive. It was how she’d gotten her hands on her own copy of Pavo, though Layla had given that key away long before Lucy was born, to a famous designer in Minstrel because the peacock spirit she’d had, had wanted to be involved in fashion.
However, the real ability of Pavo lay in their disguise magic, able to make a person look like anyone they pleased, to allow their user to pass unnoticed in crowds at times where being invisible would be a hindrance. After all being invisible didn’t make a person intangible, and sometimes it was better to blend in rather than to disappear entirely.
It wasn’t a well-known ability for the key though, mostly because most summoners were selfish and didn’t bother to ask, assuming the common knowledge was the extent of the Spirit’s abilities. It was their loss honestly, and she could imagine Romeo having a lot of fun with it, if he could get over the association of peacocks being a more girly animal and picked that key.
She hadn’t technically lied to the vendor either, telling him ‘everybody knows’ rather than stating outright that, that was what the spirit’s abilities were. It was a bit of misdirection she was honestly rather proud of, as she could say under truth spell that she hadn’t lied.
“A hundred thousand jewel,” the vendor told her firmly, pulling her from her racing thoughts, the firm look in his eye letting her know he wouldn’t budge on this, “And not a jewel less young lady.”
“Agreed,” she told him immediately, offering up her hand. The two of them shook on it, and she immediately went for her purse. A hundred thousand jewel was nothing to sniff at honestly, and more than a month’s worth of rent, but luckily, she’d done well enough during her work days from her story telling that she had more than enough, quickly handing over the correct amount to the vendor and accepting the keys.
She didn’t bother to stow them away in her purse, but instead allowed everyone who might be watching and thinking about stealing from her get a good view as she very obviously popped them into requip space. They would be completely safe there, as everyone knew no one but the mage who put them there could pull things out of requip space.
“That was rather impressive bartering,” Farron told her, offering his arm to her as they moved away from the stall, reminding her of his presence.
“Thank you,” she offered demurely, “Sometimes it pays to be the daughter of a businessman.”
“I see,” he acknowledged with a nod, “And you used requip magic too? I didn’t think Fioran mages taught that to everyone the way they do in Bosco.”
“They don’t,” she admitted a little startled, “I had to learn it on my own, because I wanted to protect my keys. You say everyone learns in Bosco?”
“Everyone who’s a mage,” he told her with a grin, “It’s one of the first things they teach us, because unlike here a lot of the Guilds in Bosco have formal attire and they want us to keep it on us at all times, and be able to change at a moment’s notice.”
“Sounds like a pain,” Lucy acknowledged with a huff, “I still haven’t figured out how to change my clothes while they’re still on me and I’ve been trying for years. Though I am finally able to store quite a bit in my requip space.”
“I’ve heard it’s harder for people whose magic is heavily aligned to a single thing to learn other magics, though the trade-off is of course that those who are only aligned to that single thing are far better at it than any generalist could ever hope to be,” Farron told her thoughtfully.
“That makes sense,” she acknowledged a little fascinated by the new information, “According to my mother’s stories the women in my family have always been heavily aligned to Celestial Spirit Magic.”
“Speaking of magic, I do have to ask, that being from before, Padfoot you called him? Was he using shadow magic?” Farron asked a light frown on his face.
“And if he was?” Lucy challenged keeping her tone light, though she felt Padfoot bristling in the shadows, her fingers moving automatically to the place where she tended to requip her keys, brushing her fingers along the edge of the dimensional pocket.
She knew that a lot of people thought Shadow Magic was evil, mostly because it was a magic a lot of Dark Guilds had tried to use in the past, both successfully and unsuccessfully. It didn’t help that, much like in her story of the Origin of the Celestial Spirit Realm, people tended to be naturally afraid of the dark. It gave them a prejudice that was hard to argue with.
Shadow mages were right up there with Seith mages as the type of magic users ordinary people feared the most, though at least Shadow mages weren’t illegal anywhere, unlike Seith Mages who were banned in a couple countries including Bosco if she was remembering correctly. It was all rather tragic, and reminded her of the three spells that had been termed Unforgivable in her last life.
All three had actually been intended for good things, but had been twisted by people who sought power for their own gain. The Imperius was meant to stop people who meant to harm themselves or others, to literally pull them back from the edge if necessary. The Cruciatus was a shock that was meant to jolt a patient’s heart back into rhythm if it fell out of it, and could also be used as defibrillation. Avada Kedavra was meant to humanely euthanize farm animals who were meant to be slaughtered and eaten.
However, all three had fallen into the hands of people who had seen what they could do to humans, and who had subsequently used them enough that it became a dark trend of sorts, so much so they had to be outlawed and deemed unforgivable.
“Don’t worry,” Farron assured her, his voice careful and gentle as if speaking to a frightened animal, his eyes calm and careful as he studied her face, “I bear no prejudice against Shadow Mages. I only asked because my brother is a Shadow Mage and fairly young still. There are so few of them around that aren’t from Dark Guilds that it’s been hard to find him a teacher.”
“Padfoot?” she asked gently, unwilling to give up his secrets without permission, even if her gut did say Farron was telling the truth. His secrets were his own after all, and certainly didn’t belong to her just because she happened to hold his key and contract.
“It is Shadow Magic,” Padfoot agreed, his voice coming from over her left shoulder though it was clear he hadn’t bothered to actually emerge from the shadows to speak, probably not wanting to alarm all the citizens around, “If your brother is truly a shadow mage, you must be aware that it is a very dangerous magic to experiment with on ones own. He’ll need an experienced teacher lest he become lost or consumed by those who dwell among the shadow world.”
They didn’t have too much more time to talk, as they had to head back to the tent where Cana would be waiting for them, but the time they did have Farron grilled Padfoot about all he knew about Shadow Magic. It was clear the man was incredibly curious, but from the furrow in his brow and the anxious look in his eyes also rather worried. She couldn’t blame him Shadow Magic truly was some of the most terrifying out there, not just for its abilities, but how it could easily turn on a mage if they didn’t use it correctly.
Once they rejoined Cana at the tent, Farron bid them a hasty goodbye. He was extremely apologetic about it, but explained that he felt it would be best to contact his father as soon as possible to let him know what he’d learned about Shadow Magic. They’d known before that it was dangerous, but hadn’t realized it was quite that bad, and so felt the need to warn his father right away.
She’d of course immediately assured him it was fine, and waved him away. He went, though not before dropping a sweet kiss on her lips and asking if she’d be willing to meet up again on her next day off. She’d been more than happy to agree, and they’d gone their separate ways back to their hotels.
Despite the rather abrupt ending she’d still been feeling rather giddy about the night she’d had, and the time she’d spent with the handsome Boscan. It had been enough that she hadn’t even been bothered about Cana’s teasing, the other woman having witnessed the whole thing.
The next day she’d drawn in an even bigger crowd than the days before. Apparently, word had gotten around and everyone wanted to hear the origin story. It was more than a bit flattering, and also incredibly gratifying that she could share a bit of the legacy her mother had left her with other people.
Cana had been ecstatic, crowing about how she’d been a hundred percent correct bringing Lucy with her on this job, because both of them were raking in the cash. It had all been extremely profitable for both of them so far, and had more than made up for the job she hadn’t even gotten paid for with Natsu.
Despite their success however, she’d actually found herself more than a bit impatient for the night to be over, so she could meet up with Farron again. The more she thought about it, the more she was very sure that she’d like to explore some things with the handsome Boscan, or share pleasure, as he apparently called it.
The whole thing had honestly made her a bit distracted, though thankfully none of her audience members seemed to notice. Cana certainly did though, and had made sure to tease her, not that the other woman really had room to talk. She’d apparently found a nice Boscan of her own, one with pretty green hair and heterochromatic eyes that she was having the time of her life with.
She was also more than happy to share all the details, the two of them giggling over him and Farron for several hours together, trading information back and forth and Cana trying to give her all sorts of tips and tricks about sex.
It was honestly kind of amusing, but also fairly helpful in its own way. She hadn’t actually had a whole lot of experience when she died, since she’d only been eighteen. She’d had a grand total of two lovers at that point, Neville, who had been the person she’d lost her virginity too in a ‘thank god we’re alive’ thing after the battle at Hogwarts when she was seventeen, and Blaise Zabini.
The former Slytherin had just happened to be who she coincidentally hooked up with after she got drunk off her ass the day she realized she wasn’t going to live much longer. Zabini had turned out to be a generous lover, and they’d hooked up several times after that, both aware there would never be any sort of romantic relationship between them. She’d learned a lot from the experience, especially since he’d been more than willing to try anything she wanted, but that still paled in comparison to the amount of sex Cana had apparently had already in just this one lifetime.
When she’d asked why the other woman was so free with her body, both with sex and with alcohol, Cana had gotten surprisingly serious, and told her that you only live once. The card mage was a full-on believer in living every day like it was your last, a sentiment she could certainly understand given she had died at the same age she was now in her previous life.
It was honestly rather odd to think that if she managed to keep herself alive, and she didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t be able to, for six more months she’d make it to her nineteenth birthday and would have officially lived longer in this new world than she had in her old one. Thinking back, it was honestly a bit of a miracle she had even managed to live that long in her previous life, this one, despite some of the adventures she’d had, was almost tame in comparison.
It was a gift she didn’t ever intend to overlook, and she fully intended to take Cana’s advice about living in the moment. If Farron didn’t ask her tonight, then she fully intended to pull up all her Gryffindor courage and ask him herself. She was a modern woman after all, and there was no reason for her not to do the asking.
She even made careful preparations with a happy Cana’s help, putting on some nice gold and royal blue lingerie that helped her feel sexy, powerful, and confident, and dressing up in her nice, tight leather pants, that she knew showed off her curves nicely, along with some sexy strappy heels and a white and green halter top. Cancer even helped her with her hair and make-up again, the crab spirit looking partially amused and partially appalled at helping her get ready to go seduce a man.
Honestly, the preparations might not have even been all that necessary. Farron had made his interest pretty clear with the kisses he’d shared with her the evening before, but dressing up gave her an extra boost of confidence. Enough so that she was able to smile coyly at the handsome Boscan when she saw his eyes rake over her form when they met up at the tent, clearly giving her a thorough and appreciative once over.
“You look good,” he told her admiringly, his blue eyes warm with desire.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she told him with a laugh, though she truly meant the words. He was wearing another one of the open shirts that showed off his tattoos and the rippling muscle of his chest, this one in a dark blue that brought out his eyes. He’d paired it with dark brown leather pants that clung nicely to his thighs and hips, along with a single sapphire drop earring in one of his ears. His golden-brown hair was half up, half down, pulled back to show off that sharp planes of his face, though a few strands from his bangs still hung rather appealingly over his forehead.
“I brought you a gift,” he told her, holding out a small neatly wrapped parcel, “To make up for running off on you yesterday.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” she told him, hesitantly accepting the small package as he pressed it into her hands.
“It’s also a thank you for the warning about shadow magic. You may have saved us a good deal of trouble. My little brother is a bit of a miscreant, but he’s also very precious to us, and we wouldn’t have wanted something to happen to him due to our ignorance over the matter,” he responded seriously.
“That was all Padfoot, not me,” she answered, a little uncomfortable with his sincere gratitude, the same way she always had been, both in this life and the last. She simply wasn’t used to being thanked for anything, and it was always a bit disconcerting when it happened, even if it was also strangely gratifying when she felt she’d done something that truly deserved such thanks.
“Unfortunately, I have no clue what to get for a Celestial Spirit,” Farron admitted, completely unphased with the idea of thanking her oldest friend, which made her already high estimation of his character rise a few more notches. Most people would’ve discarded her words, because of the view of Celestial Spirits as tools or lesser beings, but apparently Farron was different.
“Just thanks is more than enough,” Padfoot chimed in from where he was watching in her shadow, voice a little gruff, clearly a little touched by the gratitude directed his way.
“Then thank you very much Padfoot of the Celestial Realms,” Farron told him with a polite, sincere dip of the head.
“You’re welcome Farron of Bosco,” Padfoot answered, the words surprisingly formal for her usually mischievous spirit.
“Lucy, I’m going to explore the fair on my own today, enjoy your time together,” her canine friend told her quietly, the revelation startling her quite a bit. Yes, if she did get the chance to have sex with Farron tonight she’d fully expected Padfoot would make himself scarce to give her some privacy and probably to enjoy the festival. She never would’ve dreamed he would leave her alone with Farron far beforehand.
It was an immense gesture of trust for the Boscan mage, as Padfoot didn’t trust anyone really to properly look after her. Hell, he didn’t even trust
her
to properly look out for herself, and only rarely left her side to give her privacy, and he never went far. Farron had clearly made a good impression, not just on her, but on her canine companion as well.
“Have a good time,” she told him, a little faintly, still trying to process the idea that Padfoot was leaving her alone with someone, “Try not to make too much trouble.”
Her only answer to that was a mischievous doggy grin that flashed white against the shadows cast my the tent, before his presence disappeared entirely. A little baffled she turned to Farron, who had waited patiently through the whole exchange.
“Are you going to open it?” he asked her teasingly, gesturing to the package still in her hands.
“Oh, sure,” she responded startled, hands automatically moving to do as he’d asked before even fully processing the request or remembering that she’d originally not intended to accept the gift he’d given her.
Once the ribbon was untied the wrapping came away neatly to reveal a slender bar. The writing was in Boscan, which took her a second to decipher, and she almost would’ve thought she’d interpreted wrong if not for the nice picture on the front of the wrapped bar depicting a delicious looking slab of chocolate and some cocoa beans.
“Is this what I think it is?” she asked, excited despite herself.
“You said you wanted to try it right?” he teased lightly, a pleased grin on his face, obviously delighted with her reaction.
“Where did you get this?!” she demanded, turning the bar over in her hands and admiring the packaging, which was far fancier than she’d ever seen on a bar of chocolate before, with gold leaf and embossing on thick high-quality paper.
“I’m actually staying at the Boscan Embassy here, and they had some,” he admitted, a little hesitantly, searching her face for some kind of reaction.
“The Embassy?” she repeated slowly, her thoughts running a mile a minute as she processed what that meant. Only nobles and high ranked diplomats from other countries were allowed to stay in their respective Embassies. Studying him he certainly had the poise to be a noble, articulate and charming as he was, but something about him told her that wasn’t all he was.
“You look awfully young to be a diplomat,” she told him calmly, “Did you graduate early?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Farron told her clearly amused, “Though how old exactly do you think I am Lucy?”
“Twenty something,” she told him with a shrug, unbothered, “Early to mid-twenties would be my best guess. I suppose I’ve just always thought of ambassadors as old and wrinkly.”
“I’ll have to tell me father you said so,” Farron told her with a delighted laugh, “He’s an ambassador too actually, and you’re very close I’m twenty-six.”
“I’m eighteen if it matters,” she answered, figuring she might as well be honest with him, suddenly aware that by his standards she might not actually technically qualify as an adult, since she’d never been to a Sudepah,
“You’re very mature,” he told her, clearly a bit surprised though he didn’t look too put off thankfully.
“I’ve been on my own since I was twelve and my mother died,” she told him honestly, “I raised myself after that, so it’s not really that surprising. You said your father was an ambassador too?”
“That’s right,” he agreed accepting the subject change with grace, clearly well aware that he shouldn’t press or offer sympathies, which really wasn’t all that surprising now that she knew he was a diplomat, “His name is Arman Pradesh, and I’m Farron Pradesh.”
She eyed him with surprise for a few seconds, taken aback by the sudden trust he was showing her, and the information he’d given her. Arman Pradesh was a famous name even in Fiore. The man was supposedly an incredibly talented diplomat and on top of that he also had a rather tragic story. His wife and baby son had been killed in an explosion during a diplomatic trip to Pegrande, and left him and his eldest son alone. In the memory of his wife, the generous ambassador had gone on to adopt several children, because she’d always wanted a large family.
It was a story she was rather familiar with thanks to her studies as the Heartfilia heiress, and she realized belatedly that she actually had heard Farron’s name before in conjunction with being an ambassador. He was actually rather famous himself, having graduated university at the age of seventeen and become a decorated and valued ambassador to the Boscan Royal family less than a year later.
He was apparently someone incredibly impressive, but more importantly he’d clearly decided she could be trusted with the information. She debated for a long moment, because she hadn’t even told Cana, who was probably her closest human friend, what her last name was just yet. However, she was a firm believer in quid pro quo, and her name wouldn’t mean nearly as much to a Boscan Ambassador as it would to Cana or anyone else from Fairy Tail who were bound to have heard of her considering the Konzern owned the rail lines.
“It’s nice to meet you Farron Pradesh,” she told him, going through the motions of a curtsey, despite not wearing the skirt necessary for it, rather grateful that the gesture had been drilled into her from a very young age and didn’t feel at all awkward despite her lack, “My name is Lucy Heartfilia, of the Heartfilia Konzern.”
“Heartfilia?” Farron repeated, clearly taken aback, “You’re the runaway Heartfilia heiress?”
“I would hardly call myself a runaway, considering I am of legal age and have been for months now,” she told him, a little warily, “Though I am a little surprised you’ve heard of me.”
“You ran away when you were younger though correct?” Farron told her with a slight frown, “We ambassadors were warned to not harbor you if you happened to try crossing the border.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t try to visit other countries,” Lucy mused aloud with a sigh, “Though I never would’ve suspected Jude would put up such a fuss over it.”
“Jude?” Farron repeated looking thoroughly confused.
“Ah, my sperm donor, though I suppose you could call him my father if you really wanted to,” she told him, unable to keep the sneer off her face.
“I take it you’re not on very good terms then,” Farron mused looking a cross between concerned and amused.
“You could say that,” she answered with a shrug, “Though now that I know a little more about Boscan culture I wonder if you would’ve offered me political asylum if I’d pleaded my case to you.”
Unsurprisingly, considering he was the youngest ambassador to ever grace the halls of an Embassy Farron was very quick witted, and it didn’t take him long to put the pieces together. His face immediately darkened as he turned concerned eyes on her and demanded, “Did Jude Heartfilia rape you Lucy?”
“No,” she assured him immediately, “No, what he wanted to do was sell me off to the highest bidder in an arranged marriage so
they
could rape me, that and he didn’t protest in the least when they harassed me in front of him, despite being underage at the time.”
Farron looked both appalled and sickened at the thought of it, plainly furious on her behalf. It was rather touching, that he looked so incredibly angry for her sake. She couldn’t ever remember anyone getting so worked up for her before, not outside Ron, Hermione, and Sirius, and Farron was nearly a stranger to her.
“We in Bosco are aware that arranged marriages are allowed in other countries,” he told her though he looked extremely revolted by the mere thought of it, “But they are illegal in Bosco, and certainly illegal to put on a minor. I would hope that we would’ve done the best we could to save you from that fate. At the very least I promise you I would’ve tried.”
“Thank you,” she told him, sincerely touched by the heartfelt declaration, gently resting her palm on his forearm, “It means a lot to me that someone, anyone would’ve tried to help me, though in the end I did manage just fine on my own with the help of my Spirits.”
“What did you do?” Farron asked, clearly trying to calm himself down and change the subject a bit.
She indulged him, telling him all about the travelling she’d done as she gently tugged him with her, guiding him around the festival. The only thing she really left out was her brief stay on the deserted island, not wanting to hint at her possession of one of the legendary crystal keys.
Farron listened intently, asking questions, and making all the right noises as she told him about her experiences. He was a fantastic audience and more than once she nearly found herself telling him something she probably should keep to herself. It was really no wonder he was considered such a fine diplomat if he was able to coax information like that out of whoever was speaking seemingly without effort.
Her talk about her time on the run kept them occupied for several hours, enough so that she nearly forgot all about the Kissing Chocolate he’d gifted her, right up until after they’d eaten dinner together and he asked if she wanted any dessert. Luckily, she’d stored it in her requip space and was able to pull it out, offering the bar back to him.
“Would you care to show me the proper way to eat this?” she asked teasingly waving it at him.
“I’d be delighted,” he told her with a clearly amused grin on his face, gently plucking the chocolate bar from her fingers, and carefully unwrapping it. Watching him she noted he had, rather elegant hands, long fingered and dexterous and her mind briefly wondered what it would feel like to have them on her skin, as he gently broke off a piece of the chocolate and offered it to her.
She attempted to take it from him, only to have him pull it back, a teasing smile on his lips as he lightly scolded, “Ah-ah Lucy, open wide for me.”
Surprised, but more than willing she did as asked opening her mouth, and letting him feed it to her. Just as instructed she allowed the sweet confection to melt on her tongue. It was wonderful chocolate, sweet and rich in flavor, but nothing particularly special, or it wasn’t right up until Farron pressed his lips to hers.
Gently he coaxed her lips open with his skilled tongue, and swiped it across her own, sending a burst of flavor across her tongue. It was sweet, minty and cool, along with a hint of something else she couldn’t begin to describe but tasted utterly exquisite. Her hands came up automatically, one reaching for his shirt lapel and the other tangling in his soft golden-brown hair, holding him to her as she pressed her mouth eagerly to his, chasing the flavor and the sensation both.
She felt his lips curl upwards under her own, and felt her own smile forming in response, utterly delighted that the chocolate had lived up to its promised splendor. Heat curled in her belly at the sensation of his lips, the taste of the chocolate, and the sizzling attraction she’d felt for him the moment she clapped eyes on him during her first day exploring the festival.
“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured against her lips, his voice husky and soft, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine.
“And do you like strawberries?” she teased a little breathless, her heart racing in her chest as she peered into his gorgeous blue eyes.
“I love them,” he told her honestly, desire written plainly on his face.
“Then, would you care for another taste?” she asked, peering down at the chocolate he was still holding in his hands pointedly.
“I would gladly taste you Lucy, over and over and over again,” he answered, his voice low and sultry, as he broke off another piece of chocolate. She immediately opened her mouth, ready for him to feed her again, but this time he popped it into his own mouth, keeping his lips parted teasingly as he stared her in the eye, clearly daring her to come take it from him.
Lucy however, was a former Gryffindor and never one to back away from something she wanted, learning forward eagerly to recapture his lips with her own, savoring the taste of him and the chocolate as it passed between them, as she explored his mouth slow and leisurely, allowing their tongues to dance and twine together sensually, in a way that made her whole-body flush with heat.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt desire quite like this before, not even with Blaise, who had been an immensely skilled lover himself. It was more than enough to make up her mind about what she wanted from the incredibly gorgeous man, who seemed able to set her ablaze without even touching her apart from a few sensual kisses.
“If you like the way I taste Farron,” she murmured between kisses, “Then
will you share pleasure with me?
”
The Boscan phrase fell easily from her lips, thanks to her practice with Cana, both of them giggling up a storm over the words, though she was grateful now for being able to say them without stumbling, especially as she could see Farron’s eyes as the pupil blew wide, desire written all over his face.
“I would be delighted to share pleasure with you,” he told her the words filled with sincerity and desire, “simply show me where you’d like me Lucy, and I’m yours.”
“Mine hmm?” she asked pleased and more aroused than she’d ever remembered being before, “I look forward to seeing what a man from Bosco can do Farron. Please educate me.”
The grin he gave her in response was enough to make her entire body come alive, clearly aching for his touch, and she knew then and there she was in for a long night, and she couldn’t be more delighted by it.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The money she gets from the last bounty goes towards more hospital bills. Jet splits the difference. They both live off of the expired food in the freezer for two days, and they both get sick, and they both suffer through it all without complaining because neither of them really have anything to say.
Spike wakes up on Tuesday.
-
He opens his eyes slowly, readjusts. Then he looks at her, sitting curled in on her herself on the hospital seat, and he looks pale and strange and still kind of dead and he says in a throaty voice, “Jesus, Faye, I never took you for a cryer.”
His blood has dried underneath her nails. She will never unlearn the fear he taught her by leaving.
She scrubs her eyes. “I'm just so disappointed. I thought you were really dead.”
Spike laughs - then he doubles over, pained, and starts wheezing.
Serves you right
, she thinks, and then Jet is standing in the doorway, looking at Spike with shadows under his eyes and a stunned, earnest smile he makes sure to get rid of before he walks in.
-
They’d found him before morning broke and hefted him back onto the ship together. Jet could have done it alone and they’d both known it, but he’d let Faye take some of the weight. He’d probably known that she needed it, then.
Her legs hadn’t shook like she’d worried they would, and Jet hadn’t said anything about whether he was dead or alive like she’d wanted him to. Spike had hung between them heavily as they walked, hung there and bled.
“Go fish,” he says. He stifles an obnoxiously big yawn into his shoulder.
Faye curses and picks up another card. Still no luck. “Can’t we play something interesting?”
“Faye, nobody wants to play poker with a cheat.”
“A notorious cheat,” Jet adds, frowning down at his own hand.
She scoffs. “You guys are just afraid of getting your asses beat.”
Spike eyes her over his cards and says, mouth twitching, “Twos.”
“God
damnit
!” she hisses, and throws the card at his face.
-
The nurses keep nagging at Faye for smoking and giving cigarettes to the sick patients. Normally she and Spike have a strict no sharing policy when it comes to - well, anything, but he looks like shit and Faye is nothing if not a philanthropist, and none of this is
normal
, anyway.
“Geez, when do you get out of here already?” she asks, slouching in her seat to kick her feet up on the bedside table. “If I get one more lecture I’m gonna start bringing my gun in here.”
Spike lights up a cigarette and inhales, and Faye sees it, every tiny motion of it from the flick of his thumb to the slow part of his mouth, and turns sharply to face the window.
“Maybe I’ll stay here,” he says. He taps the ash into the bedside vase with the ugly fake flowers in it and tucks his other hand under his head. “Three meals a day, a decent bed, a nurse to walk me three feet to the toilet. Not so bad, is it?”
“You’re not the one paying for this sad little holiday,” Faye says, looking at her nails.
The hospital bed creaks when he sits up. “Guess you’re right. I’d pay you back some day if I didn’t know it’d all end up going to waste.”
He smiles at her, a bit tired looking, but not the kind of tired he used to be. Faye would know; she’s been expecting that old look in his eyes to come back any day now, been looking for it hard enough.
He passes her the cigarette and she closes her eyes and takes a long, long drag.
“You owe me,” she says. “You don’t even know how much you owe me, Spike.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“You know, most friends don’t act like debt collectors.”
She gives the cigarette back to him and looks out the window again. She hates Mars, intimately, more than anywhere else she’s ever been.
“I’m not sure we are friends,” she says.
All of Faye’s friends are dead. Jet and Spike are just some drifters she drifted with and Ed was like the pet she never wanted - and even
she
didn’t bother to stick around for a goodbye.
“We should change that, then,” Spike says, quietly.
She turns to him, surprised.
There’s something different about him since he came back, something she can’t put her finger on, and it’s more apparent now than ever. It’s like he’s here -
really
here.
He passes the cigarette back again, watching her with a teasing quirk to his mouth, and in a cloud of smoke asks, “So?”
So
, Faye thinks.
She clucks her tongue. “I’ll think about it.”
-
She and Jet hit a few small bounties over the next few days. They get enough cash for some food and a decent bit of fuel, but not enough for one of the Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppies up for adoption she knows he’s been keeping an eye on online.
They’re on their way from the police station to the hospital when Jet says, abruptly, “He’s different, isn’t he.”
There’s no tone to it. It’s just a statement of fact -
hot on Mars, isn’t it
.
“Yeah,” she says, shrugging. It's true, but she still isn't quite sure how.
Jet rubs the back of his neck with his good hand and sighs.
“Looks stupid as hell in that hospital gown, too,” he says, shaking his head. “Man, when are we gonna get off this rock?”
“
Yesterday
would have been too late,” Faye says, and kicks at a stone.
-
Two more days ‘til they can get the hell out of dodge. Jet is off catching up with some old cop buddy and Faye blows all her money from the last bounty at the races and then visits the hospital alone, because there is nothing else for her to do, not in this entire damn galaxy.
She catches Spike in the process of climbing out of the hospital room window.
“This place is worse than prison,” he explains, straddling the windowsill.
She rolls her eyes, arms crossed, and mentally calculates their distance from the Bebop. Five minutes if they hurry, and then maybe she’ll never have to smell the old-soup stink of hospital corridors again in her
life.
“I thought you wanted to
stay
,” she reminds him.
He climbs the rest of the way out the window and disappears. She follows him, dropping herself from the ledge onto a bed of red Martian dirt.
“You know, a two story drop is a really good way to reopen your stitches, genius,” she tells him when she lands.
He doesn’t look any worse for wear - looks better now than he has since it happened. Looks like himself, only moreso. He offers a hand out to her.
“I’ve come back from worse,” he says with a shrug, and pulls her up to standing.
-
They get back to the ship. Spike showers and Faye sits alone at the table with a bottle of beer and calls Jet a total of 13 times before it becomes clear that he’s not going to answer and that they’re not going to take off any time in the immediate future. Go figure.
Spike wanders in a little while later, finally out of that stupid looking hospital gown. He’s wearing his yellow shirt and what Faye knows are the only pair of pants he owns that aren’t caked in blood, and watching him walk to the refrigerator and start rifling through it like everything is okay again makes her feel grateful in a way she hasn’t been since she was someone else entirely.
“Hey,” he says, pulling out a bottle, “you guys bought booze.”
He knocks the cap off by hitting it against the countertop that way Jet hates, and then he climbs onto the couch from behind to sit beside her.
She offers her bottle out. He clinks it against his and they sit like that for a while in silence, drinking.
“Does it still hurt,” she says, picking at the label.
He turns to her, his expression between a smile and a grimace. “Like hell.”
She looks back at him for a moment, then she takes a bigger drink than she knows she ought to and puts the bottle down on the table.
“Spike -” she starts, and then doesn’t know how to say what she wants to, doesn’t even know where to start.
She turns to him, grabbing at his shirt with impatient hands, yanking at the buttons in the middle until it hangs open and she can see the clean white newly-applied bandages over his stomach.
Her heart is racing. Her hands are sweaty and cold.
“Faye,” Spike says, and he doesn’t even look surprised about her doing this. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m alright.”
This is not the time for it, but there will never be a time for it and Faye is tired of waiting for something to jump-start her life. She grabs Spike by the neck and kisses him hard, painfully hard, and after a moment his hand creeps into her hair and she makes a sound, soft and surprised.
As much as it scares her, she’s never been equipped to deal with this whole new life alone. Neither is he.
They part. Faye puts her face in Spike’s shoulder, and he spreads a hand, light and then firm, across the small of her back.
“I know,” he says, lowly, reassuringly.
They sit that way for a while, close and quiet. Spike rubs circles onto her back and warms the back of her neck with his breath, and - why shouldn’t she get to have this for a little longer? She's got nothing but time.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Kyo stood still, trying to collect himself in the moment as the near Greek god like man before him gave him an offer he'd be stupid to refuse but his words found their way out before he could stop them, "Well considering I just arrived, I'd like to atleast get my stuff situated first," he gave a soft laugh, trying to not make things more awkward then what he already had.
He thought I was deaf, I stared so hard at this man he thought I was deaf,
the words jumbled up in his brain as the muscled man offered a hand out to take his bag from him, "let me help you get settled, then we can have some fun. Nothing beats a nice walk by the lake before sunset to make sure none of the campers decided to drown one another. Or even worse, the counselors."
The red tint of his ear lingered, kyo couldn't understand what had gotten into himself. Hes usually the most composed person he knew of his friend group and is now a bumbling mess infront of a man he'd known for five minutes. It was embarrassing, yes the man was attractive to say the least but to be in such a chokehold after a few short moments was worse then a puppydog.
Pull it together Kyo
, he scolded himself before shooting the other an appreciative smile, "While I do appreciate the offer, I think I can handle this on my own. You can go on a head and I'll catch up before tonight's puppy dog. I'm sure they could uses all that extra man power you got there to keep the fire going," a finger followed up and down the males body in emphasis of his muscles that made Tengen smirk.
While Kyo tried to give the man an out the other just stared at him an awed and curious expression, "Nah I'm better off in here with you instead of Grumpy one and Grumpy two, for a summer camp full of kids they sure picked two very non-peoplely counselors between Obani and Tomioka to be the coordinators of fun. Though it's better than Shenazagawa, the kids would be literally beating each other to a pulp if that we're the case," Tengen laid to his side on sad exuse for a bed across from Kyos own as his voice continued to fill the room, "Soooo...Why did you decide to become a counselor this year? I haven't ever seen you around before."
Mitsuri
, that was the one true answer and everything he had owed to her. He wouldnt nearly be as far in his cooking career if it hadn't been for her encouragement, even when he felt like giving up.
"Mitsuri has a way with words, though all it took was a please and her batting her eyelashes at me to turn me into the mushy sucker I am and she knows it," he tailed with a half laugh but the white haired male looked slightly puzzled at his answer. The look on his face change once more to something that resembled jealousy if Kyo didn't know any better , "So you came because you're in love with a taken woman? Odd but commendable. I hate to burst your bubble but I would try someone a little more avalible like Shinobu or literally anyone else if you value your life."
Thats when a real laugh left the blondes lips which made the others eyebrows furrow even farther forward, "what's so funny? Do you have a death wish?"
"The fact that you think I'm in love with Mits, God Obani would have buried me in the bottom of a revine years ago if that was the case, if not worse." He sat edge if his bed, open duffle now splayed at his feet with clothes and toiletries spilling over as he continued, "I grew up with Obi in our small countryside town. Mits came into our lives as teens and made the biggest impact known to man; making Iguro Obani smile. I would never get in the way of that, though she is my best client," he finished off and the look of -well- something akeen to jealousy washed from the others features.
"You know, speaking of Uzui, how did you come about being a counselor now that you've got my backstory," Kyo encouraged as he began unpacking his things and placing them on the creaky bed.
"We're Neighbors," Tengen said plainly but with a smile, "Mits has always been sweet and Obani...as creepy as he can be has real heart for that girl and I envy it sometimes. But to answer your question she also asked me nicely and I couldn't say no to puppy dog eyes and the menacing glare from over her shoulder even if I wanted to."
"Glad to know Obi has that effect on everyone still but I'm glad to know they're safe with having a neighbor like you around,"
since you're built like a Greek God
threatened to spill from his lips but luckily his mind had enough self preservation to not let it.
Though those ruby red eyes played curious, egging him to continue, "Oh yeah, what makes you think they're so safe with me Kyo? Who knows, maybe im the big bad wolf and you just don'tknow it yet," he put his hands up to imitate claws and a growl that just made them both laugh and Kyo shook his head, "Hardly. I don't know, you just seem like the type of person who would protect the people he cares about. While trust is earned, I try to give the benefit of the dount that Mits and Obi know good people."
Kyo shrugged his shoulders before sliding the duffle under the bed. Tengens voice filled the room once more, "Bold assumption for someone you've known for five minutes but I like it, shows you got heart."
Kyo couldn't help but to let his gaze meet crimson as he gave a soft smile, "I belive in the goodness of people till they show me otherwise which I guess means, don't prove me wrong Uzui Tengen and we won't have any problems."
Before he knew it a large hand was stuck out infront of him as Tengen reached out, "You have a deal then, Kyoujurou Rengoku."
And thats when the faint knock turned into a giant thud hit their door back to back.
Looking to each other, puzzled, a tuft of black blue hair followed by red and yellow stacked three high in a dog pile of body parts were laying in the door way of Cabin 7. The red head in the middle spoke in an slight anguished tones as he tried his best, "Rengoku and Tengen Sir...We we're tasked to tell you..."
A manic laugh and snort from below bellowed out as a surprisingly deep voice interjected, "Foods done you old farts, last one to the the fire is a rotten bores head."
The black haired boy struggled from the bottom to escape the pile as both the red and yellow haired boys looked beat and groned at his movements, "I don't care what we are...as long as it means you stop trampling us every ten minutes like a fleash covered bowling ball," the yellow hair boy grumbled as he rolled off the top and laid flat out, joined with the red head beside him, "I'll second that."
"Suit yourself wimps, I'm getting smores from the pretty lady losers," and the black haired kid was gone before they knew it. The other two let out a sigh of relief.
"You kids okay?" Tengen was the first to ask getting the response of, "Yeah," and "My spleen hurts" in tandem that made him laugh.
Knocking his shouldersto a very concerned looking Kyoujurou, Tengen shook his head, "Told you things around here were going to be interesting."
Boy was he right.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
1.
There was a flash, then a gust of wind, making Kiritsugu throw his arm up to shield his eyes from the flash of whiteness. Irisviel took a step back, clutching Avalon to her chest, as the newly summoned Hero stepped forward.
"...Arthur Pendragon?" Irisviel said. The man smiled, thinly.
"No," the Hero said. His eyes slid upwards, meeting Kiritsugu's.
The swords appeared before Kiritsugu was ready, and the man lunged, slamming into the barrel of a gun Kiritsugu managed to use to block. Irisviel screamed but the man charged again, lunging forward and raising his sword.
"Stop!" Kiritsugu said, and the command spell bound him. The man's eyes widened as he staggered onto the ground.
"My love!" Irisviel ran toward him. Kiritsugu breathed.
"Iri, stay back! That man is not King Arthur!"
"What?" Irisviel whirled around to the man still bound in one position. Kiritsugu coughed and stood, clutching his arm.
"Iri," Kiritsugu said, and he pushed himself upwards.
"I think that man is my son."
*****
When a Master and Servant are truly compatible, they know things about each other without even speaking. Circuits aligned. Shared memories become common knowledge, and Kiritsugu understood that the man standing in front of him would be future family.
"You understand quickly," Archer said. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching Kiritsugu warily. "You must also understand why you need to die."
"You blame me for your fate," Kiritsugu said. It wasn't a question. Archer spread his hands.
"I place the blame squarely on myself. However, killing you would be the most expedient way to fix things."
"If the fire you speak of comes to pass, I promise I will not help you," Kiritsugu said. Archer smiled, thinly.
"You'll forgive me if I have my doubts," Archer said.
Irisviel held her hands to her chest, worried. The two men regarded each other - a father and son, ostensibly, though she couldn't quite wrap her mind around it.
Please don't hurt him
, she prayed, silently. She could see the man's fingers twitch, as if about to conjure another sword out from thin air.
"I've decided not to kill you," Archer said, finally, and the tension in the room relaxed considerably. "You were going to waste another command spell anyway, and doing so would leave us at a considerable disadvantage. It would be best if we were the ones to win the Grail, after all."
"Thank you for your consideration," Kiritsugu said, dryly.
"Well. If you win, the world would have no reason to keep around a Guardian like me, now would it?"
"I suppose not," Kiritsugu said. His fingers were itching toward the holster of his gun.
"You are my Saber-class Servant?" Kiritsugu said.
"It would seem so," Archer said.
"But you seem more like an Archer," Kiritsugu said.
"Well. I suppose I could technically count as an Archer, among other things."
"You've fought in a Grail War before?" Kiritsugu said. Archer sighed.
"As a mage, yes. Not as a Servant."
"I see." Kiritsugu didn't take his eyes off him.
"You know," Kiritsugu said. "With the white hair, I would have thought you'd be Iri's."
"I can see how that would be misleading."
Iri doesn't survive, does she
? Kiritsugu thought. He let the words remain unspoken. Irisviel tugged on his arm.
"My love," Irisviel said. She glanced at Archer, frowning. "That man makes me uneasy."
"I know, Iri. But we'll just have to deal with it."
"Is he going to hurt you?"
"He promised me he won't."
"But after the war--" Irisviel started, but Kiritsugu pressed a hand on her shoulder.
"We will deal with it when the time comes."
*****
2.
Daybreak came, and Kiritsugu took Ilya out for a walk. Irisviel looked out the window and rubbed her arms, glancing back at Archer, who was sitting heavily on the couch.
"So...Saber...?"
Archer glanced up.
"It seems that Kiritsugu wants me to pretend to be your master. Are you okay with that?"
"It is an excellent strategy," Archer said. "By working separately, our enemies will not know where to attack. But I'm sure he's already explained as much."
"Yes." Irisviel rubbed her arms.
He frightened her, the heft of his body large and ominous, taking up entirely too much space in the delicate confines of the room. Her eyes traced an invisible path from the broadness of his shoulders to the severe angles of his face, and she shivered, despite herself. Archer glanced up and met her eyes.
"What is it?" Archer said. Irisviel yelped and the door opened, Ilya bounding into the room.
"Mama! Mama!" Ilya said.
"Ilya! You shouldn't be here!" Irisviel said, but Ilya jumped into her arms.
"I beat Kiritsugu counting walnuts!" Ilya said, and she glanced over Irisviel's shoulder.
"Hello," Ilya said. Archer smiled.
"Ilya, don't bother him," Irisviel said, but Ilya was already sliding out of Irisviel's lap, making her way cautiously to Archer.
"Are you Saber?" Ilya said.
"I am," Archer said. Ilya's eyes were wide and she leaned forward on her little arms.
"How come your coat doesn't cover your back?" She was looking at Archer's red coat, which stopped halfway down his chest.
"It wasn't made that way," Archer said.
"Don't you get cold?" Ilya said.
"Not particularly," Archer said.
"Mama," Ilya said. "Can't we get Mr. Saber a better coat?"
Irisviel glanced back at Archer again, and was surprised to see a small smile on his lips. "I suppose we'll have to," Irisviel said. Ilya clapped her hands.
Strangely, Archer did not seem to mind playing with Ilya. Irisviel watched as he squatted his large body over the child-sized tea set, waiting patiently as Ilya poured him make-believe tea and showed him the rest of her stuffed dolls.
"Here," Ilya said, and she tied a ribbon around Archer's wrist. "I made you a bracelet."
"Oh? This is very pretty."
"You like it?"
"Very much so."
"You're very good with children," Irisviel said, after they tucked Ilya into bed. Archer stood, glancing back at her.
"That surprises you?" Archer said.
"You seemed so harsh. I wasn't expecting it."
He fell silent. Irisviel wondered if maybe she offended him, but Archer just shrugged nonchalantly.
"Well," he said, after a long moment, "she is my sister, after all."
*****
3.
Kiritsugu left for Japan a day ahead of them. Irisviel understood: it was to maintain the ruse that she was Saber's master. She still couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment, however.
"It will be fine," Kiritsugu said. He kissed Irisviel on the cheek and offered her a weak smile. "I will see you soon," Kiritsugu said. "I know you will be in good hands."
Behind her, Archer nodded, and Kiritsugu hefted his bag, heading out the door.
The plane ride to Japan was long and uncomfortable, and though Irisviel had always looked forward to flying, the fact that she was seated next to Archer instead of her husband somewhat dampened her enthusiasm. "Do you like riding on planes?" she asked once, in an earnest attempt at starting conversation, but Archer just shrugged and replied with a curt, "I don't dislike it," and effectively shut down any notions Irisviel had at having an amiable travel companion.
They arrived in Fuyuki airport without fuss or fanfare, Irisviel craning her neck at the throng of people walking around her.
"Miss Einzbern?"
Archer was frowning at her. Irisviel smiled.
"I'm sorry, Saber! I've just never been in an airport, before. And please call me Irisviel or Iri, Miss Einzbern is much too formal!"
Archer didn't say anything, just turned and walked in front of her.
He walked fast. His strides were long and Irisviel struggled to keep up beside him, practically jogging as she looked around for the baggage carousel.
"There it is!" Irisviel said, but as she reached for her bag Archer intercepted it, deftly.
Irisviel glanced up. Archer took their luggage without a word, glancing back once, and slowing his pace to let her catch up beside him.
*****
"I've never been in the city before," Irisviel said.
They were driving in a car, Irisviel looking out the window while Archer sat beside her, not saying anything. Irisviel pressed her face up against the angled glass and watched the buildings whiz by, delighted. "I hope we can at least walk around before the fighting starts," Irisviel said. "We've come all this way, it would be a shame not to."
"That would be unwise," Archer said. He crossed his arms. "We are in the middle of a war. Walking around the city would only make you a target."
"I suppose you're right." Irisviel sagged into her chair. "It's just I've never been outside the castle. I suppose I got a little excited - I was looking forward to going outside."
He looked at her with quiet interest. Irisviel smiled.
"I was born to be a tool for the Holy War," Irisviel said. She folded her hands in her lap, shyly. "Kiritsugu told me about the outside world. He showed me pictures and videos. I was never allowed outside until now, I guess I just got a little excited....but please don't trouble yourself over me! I understand the risks."
Archer sighed and rapped his knuckles on the back of the partition, signalling the driver.
"Stop the car," Archer said. Irisviel glanced up.
"Saber?"
"If it's a choice between sitting through more stories about your hard upbringing or going outside, we may as well go for a walk. I'm not in the mood to listen to more sob stories."
"Really?" Irisviel's face split into a grin.
"You are lucky I feel sorry for you," Archer said, and he stepped outside and opened her door.
*****
The sea was beautiful at night, and Archer watched silently as Irisviel laughed and tore off her shoes, running barefoot onto the damp sand and splashing in the water.
Like a little kid
, he thought, and she squealed and twirled a little in the moonlight.
"This is wonderful!" Irisviel said, and her hair whipped around her face, catching moonlight with each silver strand. "It's so much fun to walk around town and see the sites with other people. I've had so much fun today, Saber!"
"Hm."
"Saber. Do you like the sea?"
"I don't have particularly strong feelings about it," Archer said. Irisviel twirled.
"That's too bad. I suppose it's because you're a man, you wouldn't have any romantic feelings about it."
"Perhaps you can take your husband and ask how he feels, as well."
"I couldn't do that," Irisviel said. "It would only hurt him," and Archer looked up, surprised.
"Kiritsugu is someone who finds happiness painful." Irisviel smiled, gently. "I've tried to help him as best I can. But maybe I've been too sheltered."
Archer looked up, suddenly.
"Irisviel," he said.
"An enemy servant?"
"It would seem so."
They looked out past the cliffside, tracing the signal.
(They met Lancer at an abandoned warehouse. They were about to fight when to everyone's surprise, Archer leapt up onto a storage unit and sent a barrage of arrows flying toward Lancer. It surprised him and he could barely keep up; he used both spears to block the throng of arrows shooting at him until he was finally forced into a retreat, Iskander laughing heartily at the sight while Gilgamesh - the real Archer - crossed his arms and looked visibly annoyed.
"What kind of Saber shoots
arrows
?!" Kayneth raged, and Kiritsugu and Maiya shared a surprised and puzzled glance, Maiya setting down her gun and Kiritsugu cautiously lowering his scope.)
******
4.
He had been ordered to keep watch on the roof. Silently, Archer squinted his eyes and looked out into the inky darkness, almost certain he could see traces of Caster's mana bleeding out from the horizon.
He really doesn't care, does he?
Archer thought, and while Irisviel objected to Kiritsugu's decision to leave Caster and that serial killer boy unchecked, Archer privately agreed with his Master's decision. "Let someone else deal the blow," Archer had said, and Kiritsugu nodded, quietly.
Strange: Archer had never thought he and Kiritsugu would be so similar.
There was a sound, and Archer turned to see Kiritsugu stepping onto the balcony. Assuming his Master had something to say to him, Archer started to move from his position, stopping only after he had realized Kiritsugu was staring heavily out into the darkness. Evidently he had forgotten Archer was there.
"If I decided to abandon everything and run away right now," Kiritsugu said. "Iri, would you come with me?"
He was talking to Irisviel. Sensing a private moment between husband and wife, Archer shifted from his perch; he was about to leave when he heard Irisviel speak.
"You could never run away. You would never forgive yourself for abandoning the Grail. You would kill yourself," Irisviel said, and Archer wondered if that were true. "I won't let you fight alone, I'll protect you. Saber will protect you. And Maiya...she'll protect you, too."
Later that night, Archer watched as Kiritsugu crept through the hallway, feeling his way through the dark and finding himself in front of the door to Hisau Maiya's room. Kiritsugu knocked. Maiya opened the door.
"Maiya."
"Yes?"
"I need you," he said, and he pushed against her, kissing her hard and pressing her body against the wall.
Archer turned away, slipping into spirit form and keeping a respectful distance. It wasn't any of his business, after all.
He found himself drifting toward Irisviel's quarters, where she sat hunched on the edge of the bed. She saw Archer approach and lifted her eyes.
"Oh, Saber." Irisviel smiled. "Just when I was starting to feel lonely. Come in."
Archer nodded and stepped inside.
*****
The ambient light in Irisviel's room was a warm orange; unlike the rest of the castle, which was cold and harsh, Irisviel's room had a decidedly more feminine touch. He looked around and saw embroidered pillows and soft blankets, and a basket of knitting sitting inconspicuously in the corner.
"Is everything all right?" Archer said. Irisviel nodded.
"I'm fine," Irisviel said. "Although I think the strain of the war is starting to take its toll."
She smiled weakly at him. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair hung limply over her shoulders, and Archer frowned, despite himself.
"You should try to sleep," Archer said, but Irisviel shook her head.
"I don't think I can," Irisviel said. She smiled. "Perhaps you can keep me company?"
"I was under the impression that I was not a very good companion," Archer said.
"I think I can make do," Irisviel said. She patted the spot beside her on the bed, scooting over.
Neither of them had mentioned Archer's identity. Ever since Archer's assassination attempt at the summoning, neither Irisviel nor Kiritsugu openly acknowledged Archer's past. "A life without Iri," Kiritsugu had said, "I would rather not think about it." He thought of Kiritsugu and Maiya and tried to push it out of his mind.
"Kiritsugu told me he found a new base of operations," Irisviel said. "I heard we're going to move there soon."
"It seems unwise to leave the stronghold of the castle," Archer said. "From what I understand, the new base lies in the middle of a battlefield. I'm not sure it is the safest place to keep you."
"The Tohsakas and the Matous have long kept their strongholds fortified in the middle of the city. It is only the Einzberns who keep their castle far away."
"Fair enough," Archer said. Irisviel smiled. Archer watched as she pushed back a loose strand of silver hair, tucking it behind her ear.
"You know, it's funny," Irisviel said, and he could see the simple line of her neck where her fingers lingered, the curve of her shoulder from beneath her nightdress. "I feel so at ease with you, Saber. In a lot of ways you remind me of my husband."
"How so?" Archer asked. Irisviel smiled.
"You're both stern, taciturn men. But you're both very kind." Her smile waned. He could see her eyes start to dim a little.
"Where is your husband?" Archer asked, quietly. Irisviel lifted her eyes.
"He's doing important things right now."
"He hasn't been staying with you?"
"I told you," Irisviel said. "When things get too close, Kiritsugu finds them painful."
She was sitting close to him, and in the warm orange light he could see the softness of her body beneath her nightgown. Her eyes were gentle. There wasn't a trace of self-pity in her voice.
"Do you have a wish, Saber?" Irisviel asked. Archer hesitated, searching for his words.
"I only wish to help your husband," Archer said. "If the Grail is indeed omnipotent and can grant any wish, it will be no problem for it to save the world. If that's the case, the world will have no need for a guardian such as myself."
"So by saving the world, you'd be saving yourself."
"That is a way to put it," Archer said. Irisviel looked up at him with worried eyes.
"You've suffered, haven't you?" Irisviel said. Archer shook his head.
"No more than necessary," Archer said. "I did what I thought was for the greater good. Unfortunately I was mistaken."
"That sounds lonely," Irisviel said, and she reached forward to touch his hand.
The brush of her fingertips startled him. He hesitated a moment before pulling back his hand.
She fell asleep on the edge of the bed, her head pressed up against the pillow by the headboard. Quietly Archer draped a blanket over her and switched off the light. He could hear her breathing softly as she slept. For a long moment, he stood over her and watched the tidal movement of her breath, the slow rise and fall of her belly underneath the blanket, thinking about how her fingers brushed against his knuckles and wondering when it was the last time anyone had touched him like that. It bothered him that he couldn't remember.
The next day, Archer drove her to their new stronghold, and Maiya showed them the house - an old and battered mansion, sinking in at the middle and falling into disrepair.
"Madam," Maiya said, and she handed Irisviel the keys.
"Maiya," Irisviel said. "Can you give the keys to Saber?"
And Archer's frowned deepened when he saw Irisviel fumble a little with her hand.
*****
5.
Their fight with Lancer took an unexpected turn.
Archer hadn't anticipated it; his eyes widened slightly as Lancer took his spear and drove it into his own chest, falling to his knees. A geas fluttered; he could hear the sound of gunshots being fired at Lancer's Master.
Behind them, Irisviel retched. She doubled over on her knees, one shaky fist to her mouth.
"Iri?" Kiritsugu turned.
"My love." Irisviel's face was pale. "How could you? Lancer was a decent man, he didn't deserve to die like that."
"I had to kill both Master and Servant. If the Servant survived, he could have contracted with someone else. It was the quickest way to end things."
"You agree with this?" Irisviel said. She looked at Archer, expectantly. "Saber?"
"There is no difference between killing with honor and just plain killing," Archer said, and he hesitated. "Death does not make those distinctions and neither should we."
"Saber understands, Iri." Kiritsugu's face was pinched. "This is the way I do things." Irisviel clasped her hands to her chest, agonized.
"What happened to you?" Irisviel said. "You can't do evil out of a hatred for evil, everything will turn out wrong!"
"I will make sure the blood I spill in Fuyuki is the last blood humanity will ever shed," Kiritsugu said. "If that means bearing all the world's evil, I don't care."
A car pulled up behind him. Maiya opened the door.
"Maiya," Kiritsugu said. "Take Irisviel home tonight. I need to confer with my Servant."
"Of course," Maiya said. She looked over toward Irisviel, whose face was stricken. Pale. "Madam?"
Irisviel glanced back at the two men behind her, before reluctantly climbing into the car.
******
6.
It was just a few hours before daybreak, and the sky was already beginning to lighten. Archer watched as Kiritsugu lit a cigarette, covering the tip with his hand and inhaling, deeply.
"Well, Saber," Kiritsugu said. He wouldn't look at him. "Do you have anything you want to say to me?"
Archer rubbed his neck, frowning. "I think you could have prepared her better," Archer said.
"I'm not talking about Iri." Kiritsugu turned his back toward him, looking out at the sky. "Do you have anything to say about my methods?"
"Not at all," Archer said. He spread his hands. "That was a very efficient kill. I couldn't have thought of a better plan myself."
"Then you understand. You know why it had to be done."
"Of course," Archer said. "You are simply waging battle using only the most appropriate methods at your disposal."
"And what do you think about Iri?" Kiritsugu said. Archer hesitated, searching for his words.
"I think Irisviel has been lucky enough up until now not to experience war."
Kiritsugu exhaled, tapping the ash from his cigarette and watching the plume of smoke drift into the sky.
"Do you want to get a drink?" Kiritsugu said.
******
The bar they went to was quiet; only a handful of patrons and the sound of clinking glass and the ambient noise of the television in the background.
"It seems I wasn't a good father to you. It's hard to apologize for things you haven't done yet, but I probably wanted to protect you. I should have told you more," Kiritsugu said.
They were talking about Archer's past. It's the first time either man has truly acknowledged it - the strange quirk of the Grail that brought together Father and Son and stuck them on the same side. "You are not to blame," Archer said. "As I've said before, it was the stupidity of my youth that got me in this position. I can see that you and I share a similar mindset."
"I think I would have enjoyed working with you on the battlefield," Kiritsugu said.
"Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Master, but I was under the impression that this was a battlefield."
"Of a kind," Kiritsugu said, and he nursed his drink. Behind him, there was a couple playing pool. Archer watched quietly as the man hovered over the woman, wrapping his arms around her waist and guiding her hand. "This is where you aim," the man said, and he knocked the ball effortlessly. The girl squealed, delighted with the effort.
"I never told you about Shirley, have I?" Kiritsugu said. Archer tilted his head.
"Shirley?" Archer said. Kiritsugu smiled.
"My start of darkness," Kiritsugu said, and he gave a bitter laugh. "The Hero's origin story."
Archer set down his drink. "I should like to hear it," Archer said. Kiritsugu smiled.
The hours passed as Kiritsugu talked. Around them, the bar crowd grew thin, the general din of people quieting to a lull. Archer listened as Kiritsugu told him about Shirley and his father, the mercenary Natalia. "I loved her like a mother," Kiritsugu said, and he stared at the ice in his drink, clinking in his glass. "I killed her for the greater good."
"I would have made the same decision," Archer said, and he could imagine it, the weight of the Stinger, the explosion of the airplane cracking the sky.
"Master," Archer said, and he hesitated. "There is something I've been meaning to ask you."
"What is it?" Kiritsugu asked. Archer frowned.
"What were you doing with Hisau Maiya?"
Kiritsugu made a sharp sort of sound, something like a laugh, but more harsh. Bitter.
"So you saw," Kiritsugu said, and he tossed back another shot. "And here I thought I was being careful. I take it you don't approve?"
"It isn't any of my business what you do, but you and I both know Irisviel isn't long for this world. Wouldn't it be prudent to wait just a little longer?"
Kiritsugu slammed down his glass and looked at him sharply.
"Do not speak about Iri that way again, Saber."
Archer held up his hands. "I meant no disrespect. I only endeavor to understand," Archer said. "We are in the middle of a war and you're using the opportunity to have a fling with a subordinate. It doesn't seem like you."
"No," Kiritsugu sighed. "I suppose it does not."
Archer watched as Kiritsugu swirled his glass, silently. There were dark circles under Kiritsugu's eyes and his face suddenly looked more gaunt. Pale.
"She is a distraction," Kiritsugu said, finally. "Maiya, I mean. She keeps me from feeling the things I shouldn't."
"And what would that be?" Archer said. Kiritsugu smiled.
"Misery and regret," Kiritsugu said. He swirled his drink, thoughtfully. "Someday, I'll have to betray Iri and let her become the Grail. I can't let my personal feelings for her get in the way of that. Every time I sleep with Maiya, it helps me prepare, a little bit." He took another drink.
"It helps me get used to hurting her."
Archer sighed and shook his head, crossing his arms.
"With all due respect, Master, that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."
Kiritsugu grinned, then tossed back a shot. "My Servant calls me out," Kiritsugu said. He swirled the glass in his hand, thoughtfully. "I suppose I need that, every once in a while."
"Hm."
"Thank you for being with her," Kiritsugu said. "Iri, I mean. I know she depends on you."
"Of course."
"Should she need anything else...." and Kiritsugu hesitated. "It would not bother me in the least if you slept with her."
Archer's eyes widened. "I am not going to sleep with your wife!" Archer said.
"I am only saying, if she is in need of comfort--"
"Then I'll go find
her husband,
" Archer said. And then, to drive home the point, "
Father
."
Kiritsugu winced a little at that word.
"How are we doing?" the bartender said. Archer and Kiritsugu looked up.
"I think we need another drink," Kiritsugu said.
*****
7.
The battles raged. Archer kept confusing the other Servants and Masters.
"What kind of Saber uses a bow and arrow?"
"Why is he using magecraft? He isn't a Caster!"
"He uses everything else but swords!"
Iskander found it funny. "A man of many talents!" Iskander said. "I should have liked to have you at my side on the battlefield. You are an exceptional bowman, young Saber!"
"He's
supposed
to be a swordsman," Waver hissed. Iskander laughed, clapping his shoulder hard and making Waver stumble.
"You are deliberately confusing the enemy," Kiritsugu said. Archer nodded.
"A common strategy. I take it you approve?" Archer said.
"Of course. Although I would be lying if I said I wasn't interested in seeing you actually use a sword."
"Would you, now?" Archer said, and two swords manifested in his hands as he whirled and blocked the on-coming blow from Berserker, leaping and jumping into the fray.
"A dual wielder," Kiritsugu said, and Archer grinned, letting his swords dissipate. "Impressive."
"I aim to please, Master."
******
8.
Irisviel was lying on a summoning circle. It was only just enough to augment her mana, which was growing dangerously thin. Archer watched darkly as Kiritsugu stood over her, his face a perfect mask, as he asked his dying wife to give him Avalon before he left.
"I'm so glad you came to see me," Irisviel said, and Avalon rose in a golden haze out from her chest, which Kiritsugu took from her, silently. "Thank you," Irisviel said. "You've shown me all the happiness the world has to offer."
Archer leaned against the wall, eyes trained on the floor as Kiritsugu rose and stood to his full height, tucking Avalon under his arm.
"You should give her a proper goodbye," Archer said, as Kiritsugu walked past him. "You will regret it afterwards if you do not."
"We're close to our goal, I can't let myself waver now."
"You won't forgive yourself," Archer said.
Kiritsugu hesitated, then glanced back at the door.
Irisviel was lying with her hands resting on her chest. Her eyes were closed. Silver strands of hair glinted in the soft glow of mana surrounding her.
Archer saw the bob of Kiritsugu's adam's apple swallow, thickly.
The thread of Kiritsugu's self-control snapped, and he went back inside, hoisting Irisviel up into his arms and holding her, tight. He pressed his cheek to her forehead and murmured a thousand apologies as Archer quietly and discreetly stepped outside. "I've sacrificed everything," he could hear Kiritsugu saying. "My wife. My daughter. My family...." He thought of the battle to come and looked out into the sky above him, the pale streaks of sun and soft white clouds.
"Are you ready?" Kiritsugu said, when he was finally finished. Archer nodded and uncrossed his arms.
"Always," Archer said. Kiritsugu nodded, tucking Avalon under his coat.
*****
9.
The final battle started quickly.
"Faker," Gilgamesh said, and he stepped forward, the plates of his armor clanking as he moved. "What right have you to step on my planet? Your continued existence offends my eyes."
Behind him, the Gates of Babylon opened, the tips of all his weapons slipping through pools of golden mana. Archer smirked, crossing his arms.
"Did you know, King of Heroes, that I was better suited to be an Archer?"
And a thousand blades appeared behind him, matching Gilgamesh's weapons like reflections in a mirror.
*****
Kiritsugu was winning the fight; Archer's reality marble distracted him.
"Wha--"
Kirei's blade drove deep into the muscle of Kiritsugu's back. Kiritsugu staggered, but not before he shot three bullets into the tangle of Kirei's magic circuits, incapacitating him. Archer ran toward him and finished the blow.
"S-Saber."
"Quiet," Archer said. He shoved his hand into the wound. Kiritsugu sighed, contentedly.
"It seems that we have won, Saber," Kiritsugu said, and he closed his eyes.
*****
This is what Archer saw.
A vision of fire. A little boy screaming. A city engulfed in flames.
You have done well Guardian. What is your wish?
He saw a thousand lives snuffed out like the light of a dying star, a little girl shot to death.
The wet cave of a scream, Kiritsugu's hands choking Irisviel.
You have amused me, Guardian. Tell me your wish. I shall grant it, just this once.
He still had the ribbon Ilya had tied around his hand.
******
Kiritsugu's eyes cracked open. Above him, a thick rectangle of yellow light fell on his eyes, and Kiritsugu raised a hand, shielding his face from the sunlight and pushing himself upright. The Grail was corrupt. A billion lives versus two lives of his own family - the choice, he knew, was very clear.
"Forgive me, Master," Archer said, and Kiritsugu looked up. "I already made your wish for you."
He was carrying Irisviel. Quietly he set her down beside Kiritsugu; she stirred against him, breathing softly.
"As it turns out, there is no way to save the world," Archer said. "In the field of battle, justice is decided by whoever is the victor. The world can't be saved by self-sacrifice and useless martyrdom. But I suppose I learned that the hard way."
"What did you do?" Kiritsugu said. Archer smiled.
"I found a way to end myself," Archer said, and Kiritsugu could see the outline of his body starting to fade, torrents of mana rising through the air.
"If you stayed with your family, you will never raise me. And that stupid idea of a Hero of Justice will never be born."
*****
10.
They moved to Fuyuki City in the aftermath of the Grail, staying in the old mansion that had served as their base of operations. The mansion was surprisingly habitable, Archer having fixed the majority of it before the end of the war.
Irisviel and Kiritsugu don't talk about him much. The man who would become a guardian, unable to save anyone in life or in death, but who somehow managed to save three lives in the ruins of the war. "Do you think Mr. Saber will come back to visit me?" Ilya will ask sometimes, and Irisviel will offer her a small smile and tell her, who knows?
Now Ilya was running through the hallway, sliding open the rice paper door and kicking off her shoes. "We're working on a project!" she yelled, because she was young and excitable and everything she said needed to be projected at topmost volume. "Kiritsugu, I'm bringing over my friend!"
"Who is your friend?" Kiritsugu asked, and he stopped in the doorway, surprised.
Shock of red hair and bright hazel eyes, Kiritsugu stared at Emiya Shirou long and hard in the face.
"This is Tatsuya," Ilya said.
"Hello," the boy said. And the little boy blinked as Ilya ran past him, laughing and smacking him on the arm.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
[podfic] "Your body or mine?" - Chapter 1 - Koschei_B - The Magicians (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
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tip: "uchiha sasuke/uzumaki naruto" angst kudos>10
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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warning
:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
M/M
Fandom:
The Magicians (TV)
Relationship:
Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Characters:
Quentin Coldwater
Eliot Waugh
Margo Hanson
Alice Quinn (The Magicians)
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe Brakebills AU
Hedge Witch Eliot Waugh
Brakebills Student Quentin Coldwater
Implied Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn
Minor Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Jake "Hangman" Seresin
Bodyswap
Top Quentin Coldwater
Quentin Coldwater's Oral Fixation
Found Family
idiots to lovers
Idiots in Love
Rivals With Benefits
Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians)
Podfic
Podfic Length: 1.5-2 Hours
Language:
English
Collections:
Pod_Together 2025
Stats:
Published:
2025-09-04
Words:
29
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
2
Kudos:
2
Hits:
48
[podfic] "Your body or mine?"
Koschei_B
Summary:
Eliot Waugh got kicked out of Brakebills right after coming back from South which means he wasn't there to greet one Quentin Coldwater.
Brakebills Student Quentin Coldwater meets Hedge Witch Elit Waugh and somehow that makes all the difference.
Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Details
Length:
01:31:36
Size:
55.1 MB
File type:
MP3
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on archive.org
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Credits
Text:
"Your Body or Mine?"
Author:
OfTheDirewolves
Podficcer:
Koschei_B
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Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The text message was simple. An address, and a time. Daylight hours, and not in Bludhaven, so Jason had showed up in civilian clothes with only one hidden gun.
Jason looked down at the text, and up at the building at the address. He was starting to feel slightly underdressed.
“Jason?” Tim called out before Jason could shoot a quick text to Dick asking him what the hell he was doing, and Jason turned to see the kid hovering on the courthouse steps, looking as confused as him. “Where’s Dick?”
Jason looked at the kid and back at the message.
“I don’t know,” Jason said finally, pocketing the phone and heading for the steps, “But I guess we’re going to find out.”
The courthouse wasn’t full, but there were various groups milling around, including a couple in white dresses laughing with their witnesses. Dick was in the aisle, flitting from bench to bench in that uniquely graceful frenzy he always fell back into when he was nervous. He stilled when he caught sight of Jason and Tim, and his face brightened in a blinding grin.
“You guys made it!” Dick beamed, darting forward to pull them both into a hug. Jason tolerated it for two seconds before he twisted free, leaving the baby bird at Dick’s mercy. “You’re…early.”
Jason had a sinking feeling in his stomach, a knot of emotion he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t know if it was dread or anticipation, and he didn’t want to find out. “Why are we here, Dickhead?” he said instead, scanning the courthouse, “You finally decided to tie the knot with one of those redheads that follow you around?”
Dick ignored the jab entirely. “We’re here to finalize the adoption paperwork,” Dick said cheerfully.
Jason and Tim stared at him.
“…The what now?” Tim asked weakly. Dick merely tugged them closer to the front of the courthouse.
“Wait,” Jason said, his throat dry, “Dick. What?”
“The adoption paperwork,” Dick repeated, still bouncing from foot to foot, “It took me a couple of weeks to sort through the legalities, but it’s finally sorted. I get two new brothers!” He thrust out the papers in his hand.
‘Jason Peter Grayson’
one of them said.
‘Timothy Jackson Drake’
the other stack said.
“You’re joking, right?”
Tim was scanning the hall like he was looking for the camera crew. Jason, however, was staring at Dick’s too-manic, too-fierce grin with dread pooling in his gut.
“Dick,” Jason said quietly, “What the hell.”
Dick’s smile didn’t waver.
“
Dick
.”
“We talked about this!” Dick said, his eyes widening—but Jason had clued into that little trick years ago, Dick was never as innocent as he pretended to be, and Jason crossed his arms and glared. Dick deflated. “We talked about this,” he said, quieter, “You said I could adopt you both.”
“Neither of us thought you were
serious
.”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Dick blinked at them, “Of course I want to adopt my little brothers!”
“Does Bruce know about this?” Tim asked, still suspicious.
Dick blinked at him. “Well, I hope so,” he said, “Because he got me half the paperwork.”
“Dick,” Tim said flatly, “I
have parents
.”
Dick winced imperceptibly.
Oh boy.
Tim caught the expression, and grabbed the papers in Dick’s hands. Tim’s pile was a lot thicker than Jason’s, and Jason watched the kid’s face pale as he flipped through them.
“Dick,” Jason said, his voice low, “What happened?”
Dick made a face before it smoothed over to blank, fingers twitching like they wanted to curl into fists. “Let’s just say his parents weren’t as unopposed to the idea of transferring guardianship as you might’ve expected.”
“
What
.”
Dick gave a half-shrug. “It’s ‘temporary’,” he put air quotes in, “Like they’re ever going to come back and take it.” He didn’t sound the slightest bit surprised.
Tim had half-collapsed into one of the benches, reading over the paperwork again.
“You knew about this,” Jason said flatly, “You—
Bruce
knew about this. That his parents didn’t want him. And did
nothing
about it.”
“I’m not Bruce,” Dick said sharply.
Jason gave a half-barking laugh, “And thank god for that.” Dick offered the second set of papers to Jason. “You’re really serious? I’m an adult.”
“It’s an easy way to get you legal documents,” Dick said, leaning against Jason, “And besides, don’t you want to be my brother?” Dick pouted at him. Jason shoved him off, pretending like the warmth inside of his chest wasn’t filling him up and drawing a giddy smile onto his face.
“
Fine
,” Jason snapped, taking the seat next to Tim to rifle through the paperwork and hunt for where he needed to sign.
Tim, who was staring at physical evidence that his parents had shuffled him off to the first person who asked.
“Baby bird,” Jason said softly. Tim made a small, choked sound, and when Jason put a hand on his shoulder, Tim twisted and practically flung himself at Jason. Jason held him tight, his heart squeezing at the muffled sobs. “
We
want you, Timmers,” Jason said hoarsely, “Screw them. You’re a part of our family now.”
The kid shuddered, and clutched Jason tighter, more frantic, as though Jason would ever let go. Dick hopped over the bench to get on the other side of Tim, and fit them both into a hug, squeezing Tim between them.
“My little brothers,” Dick murmured, holding them, “I love you both so much.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Peter knows Tony doesn’t forget on purpose, and he knows that Tony means well with his concern. But, the man has to deal with the fact Peter
isn’t
a hero, and is in fact, a vigilante. If all he gets is a broken nose after a long night of patrol, Peter considers himself lucky.
A lot of vigilante things were lost on Tony, such as bad PR. Sure, the Avengers get some bad PR, but never J. Jonah. Jameson style, but then again, Spider-Man always had the best pictures, because Peter Parker gave them in for a bit of extra money.
There was some things you learn when you’re in Peter’s line of business, and that is, how to calm down a rape victim, how to help a lost child who doesn’t want help, who to punch harder than the rest, who are first time thieves, and that sometimes things like “don’t pull the knife out” is a rule best ignored, (unless it was somewhere
bad
bad).
You know Tony’s too far gone from the vigilante line of work, when it’s
Pepper Potts
, who tells Tony that a broken nose is the least of Peter’s worries, even though she too freaks out about it.
Rubbing the bridge of his permanently bent nose, healed, and snapped back into place yet again, Peter sat with the other Avengers, desperately trying to ignore Tony, who was ranting about new updates to Peter’s suit.
Should I make a new suit? My own, so that way Tony won’t have to get updates, and I won’t need him updating the suit, and making it more difficult to just... work.
“ — and... are you listening to me?!” Tony screeched, eyes wide, and Peter snapped back to the present.
“What?” Peter hummed, glancing at an amused Bucky and Sam, and a slightly disappointed Steve. Clint merely sipped his drink, and Natasha raised an eyebrow, Bruce sighed watching them, and Thor was confused.
“Peter, your nose was broken!” Reasoned Tony, border lining hysterical.
Thor was officially confused, “but having a broken nose is a normal part of combat.”
Peter raised a hand, and gestured to Thor, “yes. Thank you, thank you, Mr. Thor!” He nodded and crossed his arms, “see? A broken nose is normal, Mr. Stark.” Thor was usually confused about most customs, but for once he had a right. Peter is
technically
a warrior, and since Asgardians start training in early teenage years, and some even younger, broken noses were common, and Thor was allowed to be confused.
Tony scowled, “well it shouldn’t be!”
Peter rolled his eyes. It took everything in him to keep calm and not lose his mind, nor let out the darkest part of himself out. “Mr. Stark, I get stabbed nearly every other day, I’m fine — ”
“That’s another thing!” Reasoned Tony, annoyed, “why aren’t you coming here to get stitches! I worry about you!”
“So does Daredevil, and so did Aunt May.” Peter assured, swallowing as he thought of his Aunt May; dead. Because of him. “Yet, you don’t, or didn’t, see them freaking out.”
It fell tense at the mention of the boy's Aunt. May had been a lovely woman, and had died due to helping Peter cure the villains from alternate dimensions. Peter had been torn up about it, and had gone rogue for a while.
Tony crossed his arms, and sighed, saying in a calmer voice, “what did May think about you hanging out with Daredevil?”
“The same thing she thought about me hanging out with you,” Peter reasoned, “she didn’t get it, but so long as you were helping me, she didn’t care. But, she liked Double D more.” Shrugged Peter, smirking as Tony began to stutter. The memories always hurt, but they were layered with bittersweet feelings.
“What – ?!” The only way Peter could describe the noise Tony made was the “lipstick in my valentino white bag?!” vine. “She liked Daredevil more?!
Daredevil
?!”
“Yep,” grinned Peter. He stood, “anyways. I’m gonna go take a nap, I was out until four last night.”
“You’re meant to be in for midnight,” sighed Tony, running his hands through his slowly greying hair.
Peter shrugged, “and Daredevil says two in the morning. I stay out until three. Four was me pushing it.” He smiled, “see ya, guys!” He walked off down the hall.
1) Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.
Bucky was in the corner, nervous and tense. There were people loitering all about, and talking with each other. It was filled from one wall to the next. Tony had insisted on a party to celebrate The Avengers, celebrating The Heroes. Bucky didn’t see himself as much of a hero, more like the guy who The Avengers had to take in.
Everything was too loud, too much, it clouded his ears. The lights were a bit too bright, but the loud footsteps and the louch clashing off pots from the kitchen were giving him a headache. He was about 10 steps away from said kitchen, and the scents were a bit too much for him.
Peter was suddenly in front of Bucky, as if sliding from the shadows, and asked softly, “what’s wrong?”
Bucky stared in shock, eyes wide. Where did he come from? Did he just appear from thin air? But, thinking about Peter having more powers gave him a headache, so he quickly squashed those thoughts.
“Just a lot of people,” whispered Bucky, shoulders up to his ears. He couldn’t help it, it was too much, and he felt on edge. Was it the fear that someone would attack them, or is it the fear that
he
will attack others? “And, call it a gut feeling, but something feels wrong.”
Bucky expected Peter to laugh at him, to wave off his concerns. But, to his shock, Peter blinked, and frowned, “okay. Okay... I’m keeping an ear out, alright? If there’s danger, I’ll let you know, and we can deal with it together.”
Bucky looked at Peter properly, and saw something in his eyes. Bucky was unsure what it was, but it was something that silently screamed Peter understood. “It’s so loud... there’s too many people. Peter — ”
“Can you listen?” Peter asked suddenly.
Bucky thumped his head against the wall, thoroughly annoyed with Peter’s advice. That wasn’t advice! That was pointing out the obvious! Bucky can
only
hear.
“No,” Peter said, interrupting Bucky’s spiral. “
Really
listen. Pick one sound and listen to that.” Peter kept talking, eyeing Bucky who was getting paler. “It’s okay if you still hear the others — but only
listen
to one.”
There were loud footsteps, the cutlery was ringing, the music was pounding, and the chattering was overlapping. A chef dropped a platter, causing a loud clatter, at the same time Peter cleared his throat.
"There’s a grandfather clock with a second hand that skips every third tick, just down the hall, about five minutes from here." Peter said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
What the fuck?
"I uh — I can’t go that far," Bucky stammered, surprised at Peter’s comment. Could the seventeen year old hear that far? How? How did he learn? He tried to pick out a noise, "but, there’s sizzling from a frying pan."
Peter tilted his head to the side, as if listening and then smiled. "In the kitchen."
"I guess so." Bucky closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose.
Peter backed away from him, just a few steps, and Bucky relaxed, feeling less crowded. "Tell me about it."
It took Bucky a few minutes to listen, the gasp of someone dropping a glass breaking his concentration. "It’s... a pan?" Bucky had no idea what Peter was trying to ask of him; it’s just a pan. Everyone knows what a pan is. And, the kid is a genius, that’s obvious! Even Thor would know, and Thor was lost on a lot of things.
"Is it stainless steel? Iron skillet? Copper?" Peter prompted, voice soft and patient. "What does the way it echoes sound like? Focus on it, Bucky."
"... iron skillet," he decided.
"Is the oil fresh, or dirty?"
Bucky was thinking, and tilted his head. He strained, trying to listen. How would he hear though? He sniffed slightly, smelling something salty, but it was new from the sound of the sizzling, "fresh."
"And how does the oil sound?"
Bucky listened, "first, it’s butter. And, it’s harsh and sharp?" It sounded much like high pitched, hissing and popping.
"Good." Peter smiled, "last question: what is being cooked in the pan."
Bucky tilted his head and looked at Peter confused. It sounded thick, and solid, but not hard. It sounded a bit jiggly. How was he meant to know what was being cooked? He turned his head, and eyed the food on the buffet table. Cheese, crackers, sandwiches, salad, shrimp, "steak!"
Peter nodded, and sat back against one of the tables. Bucky didn’t really register it, his head was still tilted, carefully listening. What else could he hear? Smell? After a few minutes, Peter asked, "how's your hearing?"
"Wha — ?" Bucky jerked his attention back to Peter, and his eyes widened. "How’d you learn to do that?" Asked the man in amazement. Everything was back to normal, a peaceful, background loud noise. His hearing will
never
be as good as Steve’s, what with him being given the knockoff serum, but his hearing was still higher than average.
“Daredevil,” Peter said, tone gentle. He sounded so fond, so calm and at ease. “When my senses kick into overdrive; when my senses said there was danger, when there wasn't any; when I could smell the burning meatloaf; and the laundry detergent next door; Daredevil and my Aunt May would spend hours lying on the ground next to me, trying to comfort me, one through something she didn’t understand, and one who did understand too well.” Peter reasoned, shrugging slightly, as if it was no big deal. As if, Peter hadn’t revealed the guy who sends people into comas was apparently one of the most gentle guys around. “Double D taught me how to bring myself back into the present...”
Bucky smiled, realising that this seventeen year old boy had just shared something extremely personal, “thank you. For helping me.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” assured Peter, waving a hand. “Look, there are no weapons allowed in here. But, I’ll keep an ear out.”
Bucky grinned, “thanks.” That did relax him, the kid could sense danger, better than he could.
Steve slid over to them, arm wrapping around Bucky gently, “hey. You okay, Bucky? You seem tense.”
“I was. But, Pete helped.” Smiled Bucky, and sipped his drink. Water. It tasted normal too, no longer did it feel dry, or heavy.
Steve looked to Peter, who had pulled out his phone. “Thank’s Peter.”
Peter looked up and smiled, “no problem.”
“How are you enjoying the party?” Asked Steve, making friendly conversation with Peter. It eased Bucky’s mind even more, lulling into a sense of nothingness almost, able to just move with the wind.
“Ugh,” groaned Peter. “I hate it, like why am I here?”
“Because, you deserve to be here,” Bucky reasoned, “you’re a hero.” That will never be a doubt in his mind. Peter is a hero, he looks out for the little guy, and helps the Avengers.
“No, I’m not a hero,” shrugged Peter, he sounded casual, but the sneer on his face was telling.
Bucky eyed Peter’s pressed black suit, and shiny black shoes, with a blue, plaid tie that he was sure Peter said belonged to his Uncle Ben.
“Nobody knows who I am, either,” reasoned Peter, gesturing with his glass.
“Doesn’t matter,” assured Bucky, waving a metal hand. Of course it didn’t, Peter was still a hero. “You are a hero.”
“Are you seriously making me have that stupid discussion again?” Asked Peter, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I am
not
a hero, and most see me as a vigilante, but in my eyes, I’m just a guy who doesn’t like bullies and I have a great power, so I have a great responsibility; I’m just a guy doing what I think is right.”
“Still a hero,” insisted Steve.
Bucky could appreciate where Peter was coming from, but the fact of the matter is; Peter is a hero, not a vigilante. Sure, he’s friends with Daredevil, but he’s friends with more Avengers, he’s being trained by The Avengers and he works with The Avengers. Vigilantes work outside of the law, and some get violent, Peter doesn’t do that.
“Right,” sighed Peter, “well I...” He trailed off, eyes wide and his back straightened.
Bucky frowned, “Peter?” What was wrong with him? Suddenly, it hit him like the freight train he fell off of, “Spidey Sense.” He whispered under his breath, and his panic was about to come back in ten folds.
Steve went to reach out to Peter, who moved forward in front of Bucky, and lifted his left hand. Someone had thrown something at Bucky, the former assassin realised, and Peter, who had a beautiful lack of self preservation skills and a hero complex the size of the galaxy, automatically shielded Bucky, and tried to block it, gasping in surprise as a dagger stabbed straight through his arm.
A bit shocked, Peter lowered his arm, and automatically grasped the butt of the knife with his right hand.
Bucky stared, “Peter, don’t move everything is gonna be okay — ”
But, Peter seemed to be in trance. He pulled the dagger out quickly with a hiss of pain.
Steve hissed with him, “bud — ”
Looking in the direction the knife had come from, Peter saw a posh looking man that was clean cut, yet very muscular, with a slight darkness about him, hand still up after the throw.
He seemed to be a little bit surprised that a knife in the arm had not given a bigger reaction.
The surrounding area had fallen silent, guests of a random variety were watching in shock, staring at this boy who hadn’t even blinked.
Yeah, you and me both,
Bucky thought, watching Peter.
“This is the problem with throwing your only weapon...” Peter addressed the man, glancing to the other guests as if teaching them a lesson in class, the red stained dagger in his hand, “you need to be damn sure you don't miss.”
The man stepped back, raising his hands and looking around for help, maybe a team. He must have realised he was alone, and he looked worried back at Peter, to the boy he had chosen to throw a knife at. “Um, look kid...”
“Because if you miss,” Peter continued, as if the man hadn’t said anything, as he stepped closer, a blank look on his face, “the other man has it.”
“I... I... didn't mean to...” The man started, before he decided to bolt from the teen.
Peter merely chuckled, and threw the knife. There was a satisfying gasp as the knife hit the bastard in the back and he fell to the ground writhing in pain.
The guests jumped and backed up, staring the unassuming boy down.
Bucky gaped and looked over at Peter in shock. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?! That’s Peter! Since when was he good at throwing knives? Did Natasha teach him? Clint? And, since when is he okay at maiming?
“I thought they checked everyone for weapons here.” Whispered Steve in horror, eyeing the knife, pale.
“Apparently not,” Peter drawled as he picked up his forgotten drink of water, and downing it in one gulp.
Steve reached out to have a look at the bleeding forearm, but was shaken off. “Come on, Peter... you’re bleeding pretty bad.”
Peter rolled his eyes, as if it was a mere inconvenience and picked up a large white napkin from the table, tying it around his arm and showed the makeshift bandage to the two with a bored, “happy now, Captain Rogers?”
“Not really, no.” Steve said, boring holes into Peter’s skull.
Peter merely stared back at Steve and Bucky, “we speak nothing of this to Mr. Stark, deal Sergeant Barnes?”
Bucky thought that was fair, given the fact Peter just saved his life, “deal.”
2) Sam, T’Challa and Rhodes
It was a little team exercise. Nothing too big. It was on the lower end of the Avengers Priorities. Sam, T’Challa and Rhodes had agreed upon working together, to see if they could do this without any help, and to also hang out with T’Challa, who didn’t visit as much as they wished.
They were looking for a male, white, about six foot. He was balding with faint wispy grey hair, with a long nose, blue eyes, and was severely overweight, nearing sixty. It was a simple park, with kids all around, and the guy was apparently a paedophile. Callum Thompson, the file said his name was.
Like they said, he wasn’t a big blip on their radar, but as said; team exercise.
They had come in disguise; T’Challa in stereotypical clothing from Wakanda, a long sleeved black Ankara, with silver emblems around the neck and long black pants and brown sandals; Rhodes was in a loose, long sleeved grey shirt, and loose pants that covered his leg braces, with black shoes, and wore a hat and sunglasses; then finally was Sam, wearing a red, short sleeved shirt and blue jeans, with trainers and a hat and sunglasses.
“See our guy yet?” Asked T’Challa, back straight.
“No,” sighed Sam, looking around.
Rhodes tapped his foot, “maybe we should have, I don’t know... sat on separate benches, seems a bit weird for three guys to just
be
here.”
“Yeah, well — ”
“What are you guys doing here?” Came a teenage voice, making the three jump and turn. There stood...
“Peter,” sighed Sam, relaxing. No, the brat didn’t scare him - okay, maybe just a little bit. “What are you doing here?” He asked, noting the boy wasn’t in uniform, but instead in a science pun shirt, with a jacket, blue jeans and sunglasses, and a hat.
“Same as you, I’m guessing.” Peter mused, eyeing the three, taking a seat next to Sam casually. “Or well, I heard at least.”
“Heard?” Asked Rhodes, confused.
“The walls are thin at the Compound,” smirked Peter, calmly. “That, and you
are
in Queens; I don’t remember giving you permission to be here.”
“We don’t need permission,” scoffed Sam. Permission? What’s this kid on about? If they needed permission it’d be from Director Fury, (or the UN for Rhodes since the Accords were in an iffy place, but most ignored it).
“We kind of do, and we
did
get it from Director Fury,” T’Challa assured, looking at Peter. That was enough permission.
Scoffing, Peter looked forward, his arms crossing, “congrats, you’re thinking like Avengers. But, Queens is
mine
, this is
my city
, and I haven’t given you permission to be here.” He said, voice a bit deeper and slightly gravelly, and Sam would deny it to his grave that he felt threatened. “Callum Thompson, right?”
“Right,” hummed Rhodes, desperately holding back a shiver that wanted to creep down his spine.
Peter kicked his leg up, crossing it over his other leg, and hummed, “right. Here’s the plan; Mr. Wilson go hide, you’re the threatening one here. Colonel Rhodes, do you have a wheelchair?”
“What? On me?” Asked Rhodes confused, looking over to the boy. What’s this kid playing at? “Yeah, in my back pocket — no of course not!” He whisper-hissed.
Peter raised a calm eyebrow. He pulled out a phone and began typing, and muttering under his breath, (reciting what he was typing), “hey Wade, need a wheelchair like yesterday. Queens. 34th and 56th. Queensbridge Park. And, send.” He looked to the others, “five minutes.” He said, fingers showing five.
T’Challa knew Peter was smart, but he wasn’t following. He frowned, “Peter, what are we doing? What’s happening? Why does James need a wheelchair?”
“Well, your majesty,” Peter bowed his head, respectfully. “Because, you and Colonel Rhodes are gonna pretend to be my gay Dad’s, and Sam is gonna hide. I mean; one paraplegic father and another who speaks broken English isn’t much of a threat. And, I look about fourteen on a good day, which is Thompson’s age range for picking kids.”
His phone buzzed suddenly, and he looked down at it with a pleasant smile. He opened the messages, and suddenly his smile turned feral in a second, “if you have com's use ‘em. I’ll be back in a second, Colonel Rhodes - come with me.” He stood without waiting, walking off.
“Who’s Wade?” Asked T’Challa, watching as Rhodes followed the boy with hesitation and confusion. Surely, he wasn’t the only one lost? Yes, it’s true Peter wasn’t like the rest of the Avengers, and yes the boy hung around other “vigilantes”, but who is Wade? Has there ever been mention of a Wade? At that thought, T’Challa voiced it out loud.
“Uh, no,” said Sam, seriously thinking. He couldn’t think of one instance where a “Wade” was brought up. “I know about Daredevil; he’s Peter’s first friend. The second is Jessica and I guess Clint? But, Wade? Don’t know a Wade.” Sam knew more of Peter’s friends than Tony did, purely because Tony was too disconnected from Peter’s vigilante life. And, sometimes Peter gets so excited about certain things he just
had
to share.
“Jessica Jones?” Asked T’Challa in shock. So, the guy who makes people vegetables, and the woman who is an alcoholic. And Clint.
“Yeah man, kid swings around,” joked Sam.
Meanwhile, Rhodes and Peter rounded a corner and froze. There in the darkness, shrouded by shadows, was a man in a shirt, with a skull and large jacket covering guns. And, there was a cute dog next to him.
“I messaged Wade, not you Frank,” mused Peter, smiling.
“Well, ya got me kid,” came “Frank’s” gargled voice.
Fuck no,
thought Rhodes in distressed. “I-I’m sorry, i-is
that
The Punisher?”
Please, let it be some fucked up hallucination.
“Yep,” smiled Peter, as if there wasn't a mass terrorist in front of them. Instead, he began to happily pet the dog, and muttering about how “cute you are Max, yes you are, yes you are!”, and itched just behind its ears.
“But, I did ask for Wade,” Peter said, looking up to Frank in confusion.
Don’t say that, you’ll just piss him off!
Rhodes thought, a tad bit hysterically.
“Yeah, and he got it for you. But, I was closer, figured you wouldn’t mind if I drove in on behalf of Wade.” Frank said, and suddenly held his hands up, “that being said, ‘m leavin’.”
Rhodes blinked, because; holy shit. The
fucking
Punisher looked
nervous
. He looked tense and worried that Peter would do something. W-was Peter
that
territorial over Queens? From the way The Punisher held himself; shoulders tense, eyes never leaving Peter; it sure seemed that way!
“Nah, if you got business I’ll turn a blind eye. Just leave a Mr. Callum Thompson to me and the others.” Peter said with a shrug and a smile.
Frank grinned, “you got it, kid. Good luck.”
That grin does not belong on his face,
thought Rhodes, eyes wide. He seemed so
normal
, like any other guy, almost like Bucky.
“Thanks!” Smiled Peter, giving one last pet.
Frank nodded and walked away, disappearing into darkness almost, with Max following.
“Kid, you’re friends with
The Punisher
,” stressed Rhodes, scrubbing his hand down his face.
Peter nodded and shrugged, “yep. He was the second friend I made in this line of work.”
“Yeah, it’s clear he’s your friend if he knows who you are.
And
, you aren’t calling him “Mr. Castle”,” said Rhodes. Peter did that with everyone; he used titles out of respect, “Mr. Stark”, “Dr. Banner”, “Colonel Rhodes”, “Sergeant Barnes”, but never has Peter used their first names.
Peter blinked and smiled, “it reminds him too much of the Marines. And, he’s my friend and he gained my trust and I have his.”
Rhodes blinked, back straightening slightly at that. Peter’s happy and obvious voice filled his mind, swirling tauntingly;
he gained my trust and I have his.
What the...?
D-does the kid not trust
us
? Have we not gained it?
“Let’s go!” Continued Peter, as if he hadn’t just made Rhodes rethink his entire life. “Sit in the wheelchair, and I’ll push you out.”
Rhodes silently fell onto the chair, limp, “okay...”
“Let’s go!” Peter pushed the chair forward, and walked on.
Sam eyed Rhodes and Peter who were walking over, and stood up. “Give a com to James and Peter, I’ll be over there,” he waved vaguely in the direction of a bench, walking off. Rhodes looked shell shocked, and it made Sam a bit nervous; what happened?
Peter set Rhodes next to T’Challa, who silently watched Rhodes in worry, handing over two com's.
Taking it silently, Rhodes shook his head at T’Challa’s concerned look, and watched Peter push his com in.
Peter took off his glasses, hat and jacket, and sat. “Right, I’m gonna get a coffee, and when he comes I’m gonna
accidentally
spill it on him. I’m gonna be all apologetic, and hopefully he falls for it. If he does, I’ll point to Colonel Rhodes and T’Challa to say you’re my Dad’s. Then, I’ll come and ask for permission. Story is, you two have shopping to do. Track my phone, and follow after me ten minutes later.” He grinned, “understand?”
“You’ve really thought this out.” Hummed T’Challa, eyeing Peter warily. What was this kid doing in his spare time?
Peter’s grin turned feral, “yeah. I have.” He pulled out the com, and handed it to T’Challa.
Rhodes watched Peter, who perked suddenly. “What?”
“Callum coming up in twelve. Getting coffee.” Peter stood and walked off with ease.
Rhodes breathed out, seeing Peter walk away.
He doesn’t trust us.
“So, who’s Wade?” Asked T’Challa, looking to Rhodes. It had been on his mind since bringing it up with Sam, and hopefully Rhodes saw who “Wade” was.
Rhodes shrugged, “no idea. Wade didn’t show up...
The Punisher
did.”
“What?” Sam gaped, his voice coloured in disbelief. No. Surely not. The Punisher is a terrorist and a criminal, and Peter’s just
hanging around
him?
“Apparently, The Punisher was Peter’s second friend in all this,” Rhodes said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I don’t think Peter trusts us.”
“Why not? Aren’t you his team?” Asked T’Challa. It made no sense; why wouldn’t Peter trust The Avengers? The boy works in the team well, and he has their backs and they have his, surely that warrants trust? Not to mention, Tony really loves the kid.
“I don’t know why, I just...
know
. He calls The Punisher
Frank
, no Mr, no Sir, no nothing, just
Frank
! And, The Punisher knows Pete’s identity. And he said, and I quote, “he gained my trust and I have his”!” Rhodes stressed, dragging his hands down his cheeks.
Sam’s voice came through the com's, tense, “heads up, Peter’s spotted Callum.” He couldn’t believe he was thankful a paedophile had appeared, and Peter was
interacting
with him. Just thinking about Peter being friendly with Frank Castle, The Punisher, a terrorist and a murder, was a sickening thought. And, Peter
trusting
The Punisher more than The Avengers was a terrible feeling. Why did Peter trust Castle and not them? What did The Punisher do to gain Peter’s trust, for Peter to be able to call the man “Frank”?
Rhodes glanced over and glared slightly behind his glasses. “Gross,” sneered War Machine, seeing Peter all flustered, and apologising profusely to Callum Thompson, trying to clear off the burning coffee from the guy's white shirt.
Thompson was trying to calm the boy down, smiling and cooing over him. Peter looked like he was calming down, and smiling, relaxing.
T’Challa took off his sunglasses, and wrapped an arm around Rhodes, much to the man’s discomfort, but leaned into T’Challa. Right, they had a part to play, Peter’s gay Dad’s.
“Can you see?” Asked Rhodes, smiling up at T’Challa.
T’Challa smiled back and nodded, “yes. Peter’s pointing to us, and is currently walking over.”
“Who, Thompson or Peter?” Asked Sam through the com's.
“Peter,” answered T’Challa.
Said boy was in front of them with a smile, “I think I’m gonna drown him. Ten minutes, remember? Smile, and nod.”
Rhodes obliged, and nodded with a smile, “you don’t drown people.”
“Double D would be proud of me,” reasoned Peter, with a smile.
T’Challa smiled back, “but we wouldn’t. Be safe.”
“Fair warning, if you don’t make it in time, I’m gonna
nearly
kill him.” Peter warned, as he hugged the two, “see you in ten.” He turned around and walked away, waving to the two.
Sam sneered, watching Peter and Thompson walk off, the elder running his fat fingers through the boys brown soft curls. “He’s walking away,” said Sam, pulling out his phone. “Tracking them now.”
Rhodes looked to T’Challa, “how bad was it?”
“Sickening,” reasoned T’Challa, shaking his head. “I have no idea how Peter could look Thompson in the eyes, and play the part of a naive teenage boy.”
Rhodes pinched the bridge of his nose, “ten minutes. That’s all. Ten minutes.”
“I don’t know if I can wait ten minutes,” Sam said, tapping his foot.
“Five minutes,” Rhodes said, cracking his fingers. “We’ll go in five minutes.” He pulled at his fingers.
Peter was like Tony in a lot of ways. He was a genius, a nerd, and an orphan on all accounts. If this was Tony, what would he do about all of this? If that was a teenage Tony, he’d... have been recording and secretly called the cops. He’d have used a sly tongue to get out of the situation.
Peter didn’t have that sort of charm.
“Peter’s moved down a back alley,” Sam said, voice tense, breath catching.
T’Challa stood, “yeah, no let’s go.”
Rhodes stood, abandoning the wheelchair, and ran off. T’Challa was right behind him, with Sam following close behind with his phone out. Was Peter okay? Small, little Peter, a teenager, orphaned, alone, with a paedophile, down a back alley, without help or back up. They said ten minutes, they left five minutes early. Would they make it in time? Would they save Peter before Thompson did something terrible?
Why didn’t they stop hin? He’s just a kid. They should have stopped him, should have saved him, oh fucking god — !
They turned the corner down the back alleyway, where Peter’s phone stopped. They expected to see something
gruesome
, of Thompson
feeling
the teenager up, and the boy to have possibly frozen up, or hopefully fighting back, but this? This wasn’t that.
Thompson was pinned against the wall, and Peter was wailing on him. Thompson’s face was all bloody, nose broken, and smashed in, jaw disfigured and broken, teeth splayed out on the floor, and blood splattered all over the wall, and two swollen, black eyes.
“Peter!” Gaped Rhodes, heart dropping to his stomach.
Jesus fuck,
thought the man in horror.
Sam stared, “i-is Peter gonna kill him?” His stomach churned, watching as Peter didn’t let up.
T’Challa swallowed, “n-no?” Though, he was unsure; Peter didn’t look like he was going to stop anytime soon.
“NEVER. TOUCH. KIDS. AGAIN.” Roared Peter, slamming his fist into the man’s face each time. Suddenly, the man went down, limp and Peter backed up, chest heaving. He tilted his head, “damn, he’s still alive.”
Rhodes thought back to The Punisher quickly, of the casual way they talked, and the way Peter and The Punisher trusted each other. And, suddenly he remembered; Peter hung out with Daredevil.
The way Peter held himself, with bloody, split open knuckles, and panting with large muscles, tense and jaw set. It was like he was a real fighter. He looked over at them, “what? What are you staring at?”
“You, Peter,” Sam started, eyeing the boy as if he’d never seen him before. “What was that?”
“That was me beating up a paedophile; I thought it was obvious.” Reasoned Peter, shrugging as his knuckles slowly healed in front of their eyes. The skin was stitching itself together, and Peter let his fists relax. “I’m currently not in uniform, so I can get away with it. But, even when I
am
in uniform, I hit them the hardest.”
Sam moved forward; Peter’s a hero. Not someone who beats up people. Even if they are paedophiles. “Peter, back up man.”
Peter blinked, “what? Dude, I’m not gonna kill him!” He said, horrified, nose scrunched up and sneering. “Just beat ‘em into a coma.” He smiled suddenly, “I do it all the time.”
“But, that...” T’Challa stared at the man, feeling sick and a bit woozy. “Why?”
He was a paedophile yes, but this was different. Why beat him until near death?
Peter’s smile fell, feral or genuine, his sneer wasn’t there, his horror gone, and a blank gase fell in his eyes, lips straight, and his entire face slack. He looked conflicted for a moment.
“Peter?” Asked Sam, calmly. He couldn’t fathom why Peter would beat someone into a coma.
“We all have terrible backstories,” mumbled Peter. “Us vigilantes I mean.” He sighed and seemed to go slack. “I was seven, and he was sixteen, turning seventeen.”
T’Challa, Sam and Rhodes went slack.
Oh.
No, not Peter... please, not Peter Parker.
“We speak nothing of this, and we don’t bring it up...” Peter trailed off, swallowing back saliva. And, possibly vomit.
“Was the guy put away?” Asked Rhodes, a protective feeling coating his chest.
“Yeah,
was
,” Peter said, stressing the word “was”. “He got out when he turned twenty one. I was eleven.” He frowned, “I told uh. I told my friends, when I met them at the age of fifteen - after homecoming.” He took a deep breath, focusing on his story, “Daredevil broke each of his fingers, and Deadpool shot him in the head. Delivered him on a silver platter.”
Deadpool too?
Rhodes thought in shock, eyes wide.
Peter shrugged, “like I said; let’s not talk about it.” He crossed his arms, “I beat the shit out of paedophiles for that personal reason. Welcome to the real world.”
Welcome to the real world, huh?
That’s a bit harsh, but that seems true though from the looks of Thompson, from the sound of Peter’s story.
Peter stared them down, an impassive look on his face, “don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
3) Wanda, Vision and Natasha
Vision was shooting at any stray robot that got too close, choosing to use his powers on objects of mass destruction rather than living people; even if they
were
Hydra. He stood on a rooftop, with Wanda to his back, her fingers moving and twisting, as she shot magic streams at any Agents that got too close.
Hydra had decided to attack with their newest weapon; it had been a leftover energy source from The Tesseract which had been kept, harnessed, improved and used; thus the robots.
The brains of this operation was a doctor; Doctor Konstantin Sidorov. He was a young Russian man, with slicked back black hair, and dark brown eyes with gaunt white skin. Where he was, they had no idea, but what
was
known was that the power source never left his hands. So, until The Avengers got it back, there would be no stopping it.
“Uh, did you guys say the guy behind this was young? Black hair? Skeleton like?”
Came Peter Parker’s voice over the com's, Spider-Man, the youngest person here.
“Yes, have you found him?”
Came Steve Rogers voice, Captain America, the leader of The Avengers.
Something changed in Peter’s voice suddenly, he sounded less playful and more serious, hard and tense.
“29th and 7th, between The Dollar Store and Pizza Slice. Smells of cigar smoke, and old pennies, hearts weak, skips a beat, and lungs choked and full of tar. Hungry, hasn’t eaten in the last twenty four hours, and currently living off caffeine, a bit of whiskey and water.”
Vision blinked, the energy from the stone in his head faltering. Peter had rattled it off like it was second nature, like it was nothing, listing off a grocery list. How could Peter even
hear
all that? And, did he say “smell”?
“I’m on it Cap,”
assured Peter.
“No, I’ll send Sam over,”
Steve said, tone stern.
“Stick to saving civilians.”
Peter sighed,
“yes sir.”
Vision frowned, it sounded like Peter could have handled it. But, then again, Peter is the youngest. Understandable.
There was a sharp gasp, and Vision turned, seeing Wanda frozen as a Hydra Agent had grabbed her arm. Her eyes were wide, her body slack and her face pale, shaking. Her eyes filled with tears, and Vision frowned. All this Agent was doing was touching Wanda.
There was a sharp gun sound, and the Agent went down. Vision looked over, seeing Natasha climbing up on the rooftop and rushing to them.
“What is happening?” Asked Vision, confused as he looked to Natasha for guidance. He glanced around, noting there were less robots and Agents.
“Wanda’s going into a flashback, or shock,” Natasha said, as she took hold of Wanda’s shoulders, forcing her down, “Wanda, can you hear me?”
Wanda let out a sobbed noise of distress, and tore herself away from Natasha, “Нет, не трогай меня!"
Frowning, Natasha looked to Vision, “Vision, focus on keeping the enemies away, while I focus on Wanda.”
Vision nodded, he could do that, even though the screams and sobs of his beloved tore apart his nonexistent heart. He raised up, allowing the stone in his head to consume him, the anger he felt was multiplied, and it hurt —
“I got it!” Came a young voice, and Vision realised it was Spider-Man.
The teenager landed in a crouch between Hydra and Vision, facing the enemy, and turned to Vision, his voice serious much like before. “Take care of Wanda, I got these clowns.” He cracked his knuckles and neck, and looked to the crowd of robots and agents.
“Spider-Man, I don’t think it wise allowing you to fight them alone,” Vision said, conflicted. He wanted nothing more than to move over to Wanda and hold her, to calm her down, her cries distracting him. But, Spider-Man was the youngest, and there are too many, it’s an unfair advantage given to Hydra, pinned against Peter.
“Right now your girlfriend is having a PTSD induced panic attack,” Peter said knowingly. “You need to calm her down before she becomes a danger to herself, and others if she decides she feels threatened.”
Well, Vision couldn’t argue with that. Nor did he have time to question how Peter knew what Wanda was dealing with. “Very well,” nodded Vision, floating over to Wanda. He landed, and knelt.
Wanda was curled up, her back pressed against the dirty wall, and her knees to her chest, and arms wrapped around them, her face buried in said knees. She was terrified. She was muttering in Sokovian, and there were tear tracks racing down her face.
The sounds of Peter fighting had fallen into the background, like white noise, and all Vision could focus on was his crying girlfriend and Natasha, who was whispering “it’s okay” repeatedly.
Moving forward, Vision gently held Wanda, who seemed to try and shrink back. “Now, now, my love. It’s only me, Vision. Your boyfriend.”
But, still she thrashed in his hold.
Vision didn’t know how to calm her, and looked to Natasha, “what do we do?”
“I don’t know, she’s not responding to anything,” shrugged Natasha, thinking. She tried to remember all the conversations Sam had given them, since he was the designated Therapist. At the time they seemed silly, and nobody had listened, but looking back on it, it seemed less stupid now.
Natasha tried to think who had listened, and remembered Peter. The youngest of The Avengers. He had been sitting next to Tony, patient as ever, fingers intertwined in front of him, and had given Sam his undivided attention. A few times he picked up a blue ballpoint pen, and wrote down a few notes in his small, Spider-Man themed notebook.
Was Natasha’s (at the time; bored) memories playing tricks on her, or did Peter contribute a few techniques as well, offering advice. Did Sam ever take the advice to see if it worked? She had no idea. Maybe she’s making it up; after all PTSD, panic and anxiety attacks, they were quiet adult, and hard to stomach and calm down. Peter
is
just a child.
A child who swung around New York, hung around a few vigilantes and was friendly with The Avengers, but a child nonetheless.
“How’s it going?”
Tony asked through the com's.
Natasha pressed down on the earpiece, “Wanda is down. Vision and I are with her, and Spider-Man has our backs.”
“Does he need help?”
Tony asked, voice tinged in panic and worry.
Peter scoffed,
“no, this is an average
solo
Monday for me.”
The “solo” word was stressed, and emphasised on, as if saying this whole fight was a walk in the park, and Peter could handle it without help. It was like he was threatening Tony, telling him
if you come, I’m gonna beat you up
.
“Yeah, but Spidey — ”
Tony tried, desperate and worried.
“Stark, I can handle this!”
Snapped Peter, and he sounded angry, and pissed off.
Natasha nor Vision, or really
anyone
, had heard Peter snap at someone. Not even thugs, and bad guys, not even aliens, he was so polite, and sounded putout sometimes, but not
angry
. Not pissed off. Not like he was about to lose his shit, and beat Tony up.
“If he can’t Tony, I’ll step in,” promised Vision. After all, it was bringing up some conflicted feelings.
“Well, you don’t have to, because I just finished!”
Vision looked up, away from a shaking Wanda, to see Peter stood in the middle of a sea of broken robots, and beaten Agents. Victorious.
“Spidey signing off,”
Peter said, turning off the coms, ignoring the protests of the others.
The boy's attention turned to Vision, Natasha and Wanda. He walked over, and knelt opposite Wanda, giving her space. “Mr. Vision let go of her, Mrs. Romanova, Mr. Vision please back up and let Ms. Maximoff breathe.”
Vision didn’t want to, he wanted to hold onto her and never let her go. But, Peter’s voice was firm and calm, and Vision did want Wanda to calm down. So reluctantly, Vision let her go, and he and Natasha moved away.
Peter didn’t move. He just watched Wanda for a moment, watched as her breathing was laboured, and strained, the salty tears falling fast, and her sobs shaking her chest.
“Hey, your name is Wanda Maximoff,” Peter started, voice firm and steady. Calm, and patient, yet a bit loud due to the fighting noises in the distance. “You’re The Scarlet Witch, and you’re from Sokovia. You are currently sitting on a rooftop in Brooklyn between 56th and 87th, it’s three in the afternoon, and you are not alone. I am Peter Parker, also known as Spider-Man, I’m from Queens, and I’m your teammate. There is also Vision, your boyfriend, who is a humanoid android, and Natasha Romanoff, also known as The Black Widow, she’s from the Soviet Union, and is your friend. She was with Hydra, like you, but escaped, like you.
“The date is Monday, June 1st, 2025. It’s been a year after the battle with Thanos, and we won. It’s been eleven years since you were last in Hydra, and you escaped. It’s currently cloudy out, they’re a light grey, with a ten percent chance of rain, but it’s rather humid still, with no winds. Your friends, The Avengers, are currently fighting bad guys, who aren’t here with you.”
And so, Peter repeated what he was saying again. And again, and one more time, before Wanda looked up from her knees.
She had finally registered what was being said, and eyed the boy in front of her. He still had his mask on, but he was sitting at a distance. “P-pe-peter...” She gasped, air entering her throat and lungs in a cold, sharp, stabbing pain.
“Hey Wanda,” nodded Peter. “I need you to do me a favour; I need you to name five things you can see.”
Five things I can see?
Thought Wanda, as her eyes frantically danced around.
Think logically...
“You,” she said, “uh, V-Vision, N-Natasha,”
that’s three. Two more...
“Uh... th-the clouds, and uh, the cement... roof?”
“Good,” nodded Peter. “Can you name four things you can touch?”
Wanda frowned, and her hands went out, unable to think. “My coat,” she said, her fingers crinkling the leather. “The gravel,” she felt the roof, which was gravelly, and rubbed her fingertips down. “Uh...” She looked around, and paused, seeing Peter’s hand out. It was welcoming, but he kept it back still. He was inviting her, yet not pressuring. She took his hand, feeling the thick spandex and black ridges - right he recently changed his uniform, fitting in more with the vigilante side rather than the hero side. “Your hand, and uh... your suit?” Was that a cheap shot?
“Great. What’s three things you can hear?” Asked Peter calmly.
“You,” Wanda said, automatically. “Uh, the fighting.” She said, hearing the punches and breaking of bones and metal. “And uh...” What else? There was nothing else, how could there be? “Uh... oh! The fluttering of a bird!” She said, hearing the faint wings batting from a flying bird.
“Right!” Smiled Peter, “now two things you can smell?”
“Burning,” she said, smelling the burning from a few broken robots. “And, uh your suit.” She said, sniffing slightly. Peter’s suit had a certain spell, of dyes and web fluid, it was hard to describe, but he had a scent. Probably because the suit was new.
“My suit is a weird one, but okay,” mused Peter. “Now, one thing you can taste?”
Wanda frowned, and stuck her tongue out, hoping to grasp
something
when she tasted, oh... “my tears.”
She was more coherent now, and noticed Vision and Natasha watching her and Peter with surprise and confusion. “Wh-what...?” She asked, her breathing ragged still, coming down from her attack.
“Wanda,” said Peter, gaining her attention. “I need you to breathe in for four seconds through your nose.” He said, and Wanda didn’t question, just did.
She counted silently, but realised Peter was counting verbally.
“Hold for seven seconds,” Peter said, before counting again, and Wanda held her breath, as instructed, “and exhaled for eight seconds out your mouth.” Again, he counted and she let her breath out, relaxing and loosening.
“Repeat,” Peter said gently, and began again.
Her breathing evened out, and she began unwinding, relaxing until Tony’s voice came in through the com's.
“Shit, the doc got away in a car! He’s heading your way Vision, Wanda, Nat!”
The sound of a car driving entered their ears, and Peter merely looked up from the wall. None of them could catch it in time, as the doc had already turned a corner.
Wanda slouched, “I’m so sorry...” She whispered, and held herself, “I had a panic attack, it’s my fault, I — ”
“It is not your fault,” warned Peter, shaking his head. “I can’t stand warehouses, and fuck trains.” He said, seriously. “Now, calm down, and let’s meet with the others. We’ll get him next time.”
Vision saw Peter hold Wanda’s hand out to him, and Vision took it, helping her up. She fell into his arms, and he caught her, shooting Peter and Natasha a worried look.
Peter waved the worry off, “she’s tired, and thirsty, needs a bit of food, painkillers, and sleep. Probably feels a bit sick too.”
Natasha looked at Peter confused, “how did you know what to do? And, how are you so sure that’s what she’s feeling now?”
“It’s how myself, and others feel when we have them; I do come across a few on patrol. And, I calm down rape victims all the time,” Peter shrugged, making the three pause.
Wanda looked over, “rape victims?”
“Well, yeah.” Nodded Peter, “it’s common on patrol. The guy touched you, and it triggered a flashback.” Shrugged the boy, and slouched, “are you okay, Wanda?”
Wanda hesitated. Is she? Yes. She nodded. She felt okay actually, as she realised Peter knew how to ground someone.
“Jeez,” came Bucky’s voice, making the group look up to see; Tony, Rhodes, Steve, Sam, Bucky, Clint and Thor, (Bruce had firmly said it was not a “Hulk Needed Mission”). “What happened to that guy?” He asked, jabbing a metal thumb to a Hydra Agent.
They turned, and Natasha turned a bit white, seeing the guy's face smashed in a bunch of times. His jaw was broken, his lips split, and nose bent horribly, and split, while his eyes were swollen shut, and bleeding from his head.
Wanda swallowed, “did... did I...?” He was unrecognisable.
“Maybe I did?” Mumbled Vision, “the stone really did gear up and I could have...?”
Peter scoffed, “it’s not like I killed him.” He said with ease, making everyone look at him in shock. He turned to them, and frowned, “what? That’s the bastard who grabbed Wanda, and made her go into that panic attack! I just put him in a coma,” shrugged the teenager. “If I
wanted
him dead, he’d
be
dead.”
Natasha, Vision and Wanda stared at Peter, confused and shocked. What the fuck...? Rhodes and Sam didn’t look bothered, or well, they did but not
shocked
, and Steve and Bucky didn’t seem surprised. Tony was laughing, as if he didn’t believe it, while Thor just nodded.
Peter shook his head, “anyway, the doc...?”
“Yeah, drove off,” sighed Tony, and Wanda realised; Tony didn’t believe Peter beat the guy black, blue and red. “No idea what car, the plate, nothing.”
“It was a black Chevrolet, 2022 Malibu sedan; 29/36 MPG city/highway and 15.7 CU.FT. Max cargo. Max available horsepower is 250.” Peter prattled off without missing a beat, “good engine, but the back left tire is a bit flat, while the exhaust pipe rattles and gives off smoke, and the back left light is busted. Plate number is K8A-1BG.” He pointed, “took a left down 56th and 9th, and drove for five minutes, turned right, drove for ten, then left, and drove for three. Lost him after that, so check surveillance footage.” He shrugged, “the car’s his I think, couldn’t smell any hot-wiring, and I could hear the keys jingle.” He turned to the group, “does that help?”
“How did you
know
that?” Asked Natasha, “we got up and looked, you glanced.”
“I looked into the window of the opposite building, since the reflection for the car showed up on it...” Said Peter, confused, “why is that so shocking?”
“Because, that was a second... and hearing and — ” Continued Wanda, waving a hand.
“Wanda, I’m Spider-Man,” Peter said, sternly. “It’s what I do, and I’m fucking good at it.” Nodded the teenager, “I’m just not good at the
life
part.”
4) Tony, Bruce and Thor
Everything had gone to shit. Quick.
Peter had gone out on a mission with Thor, the God of Thunder, Dr. Bruce Banner, The Hulk, and Tony Stark, Iron Man.
And, currently Tony felt like shit. It was his plan, and he fucked up, massively.
It was a Hydra Base, the same one that Doctor Konstantin Sidorov had worked in, with left over traces of Tesseract Magic. You’d think Doctor Sidorov would have ran, and left the place, but no Doctor Sidorov was a
fucking idiot
who ran back to the Hydra Base, hiding behind Agents and Robots.
Tony hadn’t expected that play, he had thought it was a mainly empty Hydra Base that Fury had wanted him to scope out. The plan was to go in with a team, and get clues, and plans, and possibly destroy the place, and maybe save some prisoners. With Bruce and Thor were back on Earth, had been for a while now, and he wanted to spend time with them, and he wanted to spend time with his kid, so he invited all three.
And, maybe... just maybe... he wanted to show Peter that he was a hero, not a vigilante. Peter always sneered at the word “hero”, as if it was poison, as if it was an insult. It was disheartening to Tony, it hurt. It was painful to hear Peter say he was a “vigilante”. Well no, correction; Peter doesn’t say that. Peter says; “I don’t really consider myself a hero, but I don’t consider myself a vigilante either, however I use it to get to the point quicker, and it's something others see me as since I work outside of the law, and I keep my face hidden. But, in my mind, I’m just a guy doing what I can to help people”.
But, Tony wanted people to stop seeing Peter as a vigilante. The boy was trying to be more intimidating, after all, the kid didn’t seriously beat up that Agent. Wanda must have lost control, or Vision must have gotten angry. Totally fine and normal. Not Peter beating the guy up. Peter had to have lied, fibbed, trying to make himself seem more dangerous than he was, or trying to keep Wanda and Vision safe, even though Peter didn’t
need
to.
Tony knew Peter, and Peter wasn’t dangerous. He was a teenager, who lost his entire family, and going through a rebellious stage.
However, if you asked Thor, he would say Peter was probably the most dangerous member on the team. He was a terrifying force to be reckoned with, with a dark, murderous intent in his eyes if he was pushed too far. Peter was a worthy warrior, and a monster.
He’s seen Peter in action, in fights and planning. He’s seen Peter, he’s seen Spider-Man, he’s seen him with The Avengers, and he awaits the day the boy loses his cool, and punches someone in the face, killing them.
The God could see a deep, dark anger in the boys eyes. He could see through the tense muscles, and large arms, he could see through Peter’s clenched fists, and straight back. He could see through Peter’s calloused knuckles that never fully healed, nor went back to baby smooth, he saw it in those used to be doughy eyes, now a dark glare.
Thor knew the truth; Peter was fucking terrifying and was a vigilante, but he was still a hero, and probably was just trying to find the right side, and position. (Hopefully theirs, they would never win if Peter turned evil.)
Bruce thought Peter was a genius, in his mind it was no secret. The boy was clever, a whiz, smart. He was the best. And, while Thor had voiced his thoughts to him privately, Bruce had gently disagreed.
Peter was a real sweetheart. He helped little old ladies cross the road, he got cats from trees, and did back-flips for fans. He wasn’t dangerous, nor murderous. He was gentle, and lovely. Not angry.
The boy had smooth lines, and gentle hands that would fluff up every dog's fur, and scratch behind cats ears, his eyes were welcoming and friendly, and Hulk always felt calm around him.
He was like an excitable puppy, trying to please everyone and learn everything. He jumped around with a lot of energy, and spoke in vines and memes with Shuri from Wakanda. He hung around his best friend and built Lego's, and took his girlfriend out for dates to murder sights.
Peter wasn’t rebellious, nor dangerous. He just liked to help everyone, he didn’t like to inconvenience people; that’s not so strange, especially not for people like Peter, who was a rare case.
But, this was where Tony fucked up, and the three saw Peter how they perceived him; rebellious, dangerous, and sweet.
The plan had been to scope the area out, and for Hulk to come out if it got dangerous, and for Peter to remain in the background and watch, and for Tony and Thor to collect anything that might be needed.
That didn’t happen.
“He’s getting away,”
Thor yelled, eyeing Doctor Sidorov who was running to an opening, which seemed to lead to an office.
Tony looked up from his position, too far away from the office,
“shit.”
Hulk was currently out, the robots were larger than expected, and Hulk was the perfect body and size to deal with them. Thor was currently taking down the robots of normal size, and Tony was making his way over while fighting the Agents. And Peter —
“Going after him!” Peter called, loudly, as he didn’t have his com's on, (for some reason - Tony needed to talk to him about that). He swung over to the office, much to Tony’s shock.
“Spider-Man, no!” Yelled the billionaire, but Peter didn’t listen.
They couldn’t see what happened, but all they heard was a loud explosion, of something hitting the wall, which cracked and splintered. The building had shook with the force, and the two men watched in horror as the ceiling in the office collapsed in a heap of grey concrete.
Tony’s eyes widened, and his heart dropped in horror. Agents and Robots ran, and fled. It was a good idea to run for them, since Tony and Thor were now distracted.
“Spider-Man!” Yelled Tony, rushing over. He pressed down on his com's, “Spidey? Can you hear me?” He asked, voice choked and worried, tearing up.
Suddenly, the com's switched on, “Mr. Stark?” Peter’s choked voice came through, full of dust and rubble.
“What were you doing?!” Tony snapped, terrified. “Thor, we need to get him out — ”
“I can get out myself,” assured Peter. He groaned though, and sniffed, “you need to go and get Hulk, and calm him down.”
Tony turned to Thor, who looked unnaturally pale, and walking over. “Thor, go get Hulk, I’ll get Peter out.”
Thor nodded, “I’ll be back.” He spun Mjölnir and flew off.
Tony knelt at the rubble, “right; I’m going to pull up the rubble, you ready?”
Peter let out a deep breath, “look, I think I might have broken my ribs...” He said, voice strained, “so this is gonna hurt.”
“What was you thinking?!” Tony asked, in hysterics as his face plate flipped up, and dragged his hands down his face.
Peter didn’t respond, which panicked Tony.
“Peter — ”
“It doesn’t matter what I was thinking,” grumbled Peter, upset and angry.
Tony began trying to pick up the rubble, “it does! So that way we don’t have to go through this again!”
“Is Mr. Thor and Dr. Banner back yet?” Tried Peter, and the rubble shifted suddenly, making Tony fall back.
“Uh, no?” Tony frowned confused, how did the rubble move? “Are you moving?”
Peter went quiet, “maybe?”
Tony let out a deep breath through his nose, “okay. Stop moving. I’m going to start pulling up the rubble, and you need to stay still. You don’t want to hurt yourself anymore than you already have.”
“Mr. Stark, I'm fine!” Assured Peter, voice tense. “Please, just give me a moment.”
“A moment?! You don’t have — ”
Thor came back, holding Bruce up, who was in a baggy shirt, and tracksuit pants, “Bruce is back!”
Bruce nodded, “where’s Peter?”
“Under the rubble,” Tony said, looking at Thor. He was panicking, his kid was under there, and Tony had no idea what had compelled him to rush into the fight headfirst without a solid plan, nor back up. “Thor, you need to — ”
There was a shaking, and grating noise coming from the rubble, and they turned to see it shifting. The concrete was lifting up, slowly but surely, hands peaked out, pushing up. Peter was slowly coming into view, standing up, holding the concrete above him, as if it weighed a little more than he was used to, like when Tony tried to lift weights that were heavier than his usual.
Peter threw the concrete to the side, and stumbled forward. He held his sides, breathing deeply, and whimpering slightly. He fell to his knees, “Doctor Sidorov got away.” He looked up and fell forward, and Thor caught him.
“Man of Spider’s — ”
Peter clung to Thor’s large arms, “Mr. Thor, it hurts so bad.”
Thor frowned, and nodded, “I know; you were crushed by a building.” He had seen Peter push off the concrete, and he didn’t know how much the concrete weighed, he didn’t really
want
to know.
“Nah, that’s normal. I mean, the memories hurt.” Peter panted, and lay on his back, “I’m gonna lie here.”
Bruce knelt, and took the boys head, “Peter, we’re gonna call Cho and — ”
“No!” Yelled Peter, his mask eyes widening in horror. “No hospitals!”
“It’s not a hospital,” assured Tony, kneeling down. He went to take off the boy's mask, to make sure his head was okay, but Peter’s hand shot out, grabbing Tony’s wrist.
“That’s a no-no.” Groaned Peter, not letting Tony’s wrist go, “we don’t like that...”
“Pet — ”
“All of you stop saying my name! I have a Secret Identity,” reminded Peter. He sounded so annoyed.
Tony scowled; one day he won’t
have
one. None of The Avengers have a secret identity, the world knows who they are, and what they do. “Fine, but you need help. Cho can — ”
“No hospitals,” Peter said, again, voice weak. “Call Claire...” He then promptly passed out.
Claire?
Bruce frowned, “lift him up, get him to The Quinjet, I’ll call this Claire person...” He had no idea who she was, but she was probably on Peter’s phone, right? Right.
Thor gently lifted him up, and carried him to the jet, with Tony and Bruce close behind him.
Peter had denied professional medical help, and had lifted concrete off his back which weighed about fifty tons, and refused to take off his mask. Tony calls that rebellious, denying help, going against orders, trying to prove a point, or being more adult. Thor called it dangerous, he didn’t need the help, he could handle anything thrown at him, he was fine, the boy was a threat. Bruce called it sweet, not wanting to inconvenience them (which is ridiculous), wanting to keep people safe, and wanting people to stay calm.
Thor set Peter down on a stretcher, strapping him in, and Bruce pulled out Peter’s phone from one of the suit's many hidden pockets.
It was a black, blackberry phone bold, scratched to fuck from the rattling of keys, and possibly second hand, with a few keys missing, and a screen which was cracked like a spider web.
Tony winced, “that is terrible. Why’s he not using a Stark Phone?” He asked, looking to Bruce in confusion, as he moved over, putting the jet in autopilot, and taking off.
“I don’t know,” sighed Bruce, opening the phone. It needed a password. Shit. “Password...”
“What?” Asked Tony, as he sent a message to Cho,
Hey Cho, get medical ready. Peter’s ribs are broken.
No matter what Peter said, he was getting the boy to medical, and would call this Claire person.
“Peter has a password, and I have no idea what it is,” said Bruce.
Thor thought, and thought of everything Peter liked, “try Star Wars, Lego's — ”
“It’s a number code,” Bruce said, waving a hand.
“Try uh,” Tony snapped his fingers, “I know his code, we was in the lab once, and Peter’s hands were covered in oil, so I had to put it in! One nine seven, seven one two. It’s Star Wars; 1977 December.”
Bruce typed it in, “no.”
“What?!” Gaped Tony, and shook his head. “Try zero zero zero, zero zero zero,” he offered, and Bruce typed it out.
“Nope.”
“Okay, now try zero zero zero, zero zero one,” continued Tony.
“Okay, I’m not trying every number,” sighed Bruce, thinking.
“Five seven eight, zero three four,” came Peter’s slurred voice, making them look over. He was looking at them weakly, “can I pass out again?”
Thor nodded, “of course, but what are those numbers in reference to?”
“Nothing, just a random string of numbers,” said Peter, as if it was obvious, before passing out
again
.
“Did our talking wake him up?” Asked Thor, confused.
“What, so he just has a password that isn’t a reference to anything?” Asked Tony, confused. “What?” That didn’t make any sense, how could Peter remember that?
Bruce typed it in, “we’re in.”
The man went to the contacts and frowned, reading the contact lists, scrolling down.
B.
🍕
Black Cat
💰
Black Widow Y.
🧀
Blade
🕶️
Daredevil
👿
Deadpool
🍁
Guy In The Chair🪑
Gwanda🩰
Ham🐷
Hawkeye C.🏹
Hawkeye K.🟪
Hero of Harlem⛓️
Human Torch🔥
Iron Fist☯️
Michelangelo🟧
Moon Knight🌑
Noir
⬛
Nurse🩹
Private Investigator🥃
Scary Lady🫀
She-Hulk🟩
SP//dr P.💻
Stan L.👁️
Sorcerer Supreme🪄
Sunflower🌻
Terri Lee (NYPD)🕵️♀️
The Professor🦼
The Punisher🐶
Three🛹
Two🕸️
Venom📰
Wolverine🚬
Work🥱
Blinking, Bruce looked to Peter as if he had never met him before. Who are these people? How does Peter know them? And, how come Peter has a direct link with the NYPD? It made no sense. (And, since when is Peter friends with Jennifer, his cousin? Since when?!)
He went onto Peter’s messages, since everything was in code names, he had to find one that mentioned “Claire”. And, he got lucky.
It was a few contacts down, (he had scrolled past
Daredevil
,
Guy In The Chair
, and
Noir
, and he scrolled past a few group chats;
Team Red
,
Vigilantes Assemble!
,
Multiverse Meeting
, and
Spidey Protection
), there was the name Claire in a message to
Nurse
, which read;
you love me really, Claire
.
Bruce clicked on the contact, and waited as it rang, the phone to his ear. Was this a burner phone? It would make sense, considering all the names were vigilante names, or names that linked with working outside the law. (Who is Two and Three? And, who’s B.? And, Scary Lady? And, Michelangelo seems like the only normal one there!)
“Spidey, it better be good,”
came an annoyed female voice.
“Who am I kidding? Today’s date did not go as planned, and Luke is currently talking to Danny - sometimes I feel like I’m third wheeling.”
“Uh, yeah no this is Bruce Banner... the Hulk?”
Claire fell quiet, before saying,
“is Peter okay?”
“He says he has broken ribs, and he said no hospitals and to call you. We’re taking him to the compound and to medbay, we just thought if you was free, seeing you there might — ”
“Calm him down,”
Claire said in understanding.
“I’ll be there shortly, and I’m bringing two of his friends,”
she warned before she hung up.
Bruce blinked and looked over at Tony, setting Peter’s burner phone down. “I’ve figured out why Peter doesn’t have a Stark Phone.”
“But, he
does
!” Insisted Tony, “I’ve seen it, I put a passcode in — ”
“That’s a burner phone,” Bruce explained with a weary smile, gesturing to the phone. “Nearly every single name on there I can link with a vigilante.” He looked to Tony, “who do you think “
Work
” is?”
Thor looked over Bruce’s shoulder, and shrugged, “call them?”
Bruce looked at Tony, who nodded. This was a breach of privacy, but Bruce was incredibly curious. So, he called “
Work
”, and Tony’s phone rang, making the two look at him. Tony looked down at his phone to see Peter’s name pop up, (technically it was “
Peter Back Up
”).
“Oh, I’m work...” Tony mumbled, upset. He didn’t have a codename? His wasn’t Iron Man, nor did it have a meaningful emoji like the others. This was a yawning face.
Tony snatched the burner phone, and went onto “
Work
” notes, and read out loud, “
a contact for The Avengers
. What, so we all just share one contact on his phone?” He set the phone down, annoyed.
“Don’t worry, he’s friends with Jen and I had no idea,” sighed Bruce, pinching his nose.
Thor took the burner and read through more. “I’m surprised he has the wizards personal number, and Wolverines...”
“Yeah, a direct link to the NYPD, a link to the X-Men, and another to The Fantastic Four,” Bruce hummed, “and one to us; The Avengers.”
“Peter does get around,” mused Thor, impressed by their youngest. “Hey, what’s “
I Fucked Up
”?” He went on the group and snorted, seeing a few questions and answers of a legal variety. “Never mind, your cousin is in so I think it’s a legal team.”
“We’re landing,” Tony said, feeling numb. He hadn’t heard what Thor nor Bruce had said. Why was his contact so mundane? Why did he not know Peter had a burner phone?
The Quinjet landed, and opened, and Thor and Bruce moved, allowing Paramedic’s to move Peter onto the stretcher, and allowed them to push the boy into the Compound. Tony noticed a black woman who he never met before, rushing with them, and barking out orders and commands.
Tony, Thor and Bruce followed, rushing down the hall close behind the boy, and following them to Medbay, which they were locked out of.
Cho and mysterious woman who must be Claire got to work, as Peter lay perfectly still. And, outside was Clint, and two mysterious men; one was a black man, tall and muscular, with a beard, and a bald head; the other was a smaller white man, with sandy blond hair and —
“You’re Daniel Rand,” Tony said, eyeing the blond, who looked up confused. “You’re the co-CEO of Rand Enterprises...”
Daniel nodded, smiling, “you’re Tony Stark. The genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Also known as The Merchant of Death.” His smile turned a bit cold, as he looked towards the medbay.
Tony’s stomach dropped; he had tried so hard to scrub himself clean from that former title, and yet here it was, being thrown in his face.
“What happened?” Asked the other guy, arms crossed, and face serious.
“We was after a Doctor, and he was escaping. Peter rushed up, and something exploded, and he got crushed,” Bruce said, clicking the bones in his fingers.
“And, nobody went with him?” Asked Daniel, pissed and annoyed as he rounded on the three. “What?! Can you not — ”
“Danny,” said the guy, “calm down. Not many people can work with Peter’s ideals.”
“Frank can, and Frank is The
Punisher
,” reasoned Daniel.
Clint spoke up, “yeah, but The Avengers don’t work with Peter often. So, they aren’t used to Peter running in to stop the bad guy and saving people, and someone having to go with him as backup.”
The other guy nodded, and looked to Tony, Thor and Bruce, “Peter throws caution to the wind if it means getting the bad guy, and helping people. If he works in a team, one person goes and keeps him safe, or continues with Peter’s idea if Peter falls behind.”
“What, this is
normal
?” Asked Tony, jerking a thumb in the direction of Peter.
Daniel scoffed, “no. If it was with any of us, he wouldn’t have been hurt.” He crossed his arms, and frowned, “maybe I should...” He raised a glowing fist, but Clint stopped him.
“You know what he’d say,” mused Clint.
“Don’t waste your powers on me, I’ll be fine,”
the three men mocked fondly, and laughed lightly.
The black man looked at the three Avengers, “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Luke Cage — ”
“Hero of Harlem,” Bruce said, eyeing the man. He looked to Daniel, and realised;
we’re meeting two of Peter’s vigilante friends - The Iron Fist and The Hero of Harlem.
Luke nodded, “yes, I am.”
Daniel sighed, “Daredevil is gonna be furious when he finds out Peter had to lift a building off his back.
Again
.”
Luke grimaced, “don’t remind me of the Vulture. I hate that guy.”
“Who doesn’t,” grumbled Clint, crossing his arms. “I thought you and Claire were on a date,” he said, looking at Luke.
“I was, but Danny crashed it,” huffed Luke, glancing to Danny.
Daniel held up his hands in peace, “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, really I am, I just wanted to hang out and — ”
“And, Peter’s going to be fine,” Dr. Cho said, making them look over. “He just needs to rest, and we re-broke his ribs so they’re healing properly.”
Clint relaxed, “thanks Cho. I’ll shoot a message Devil’s way.”
Daniel snorted, “he will call and panic.”
“He’ll do that when he finds out anyway,” Clint said, waving a dismissive hand.
“May we see him?” Asked Thor, tone worried and tense. He had no doubt Peter would be alright, but to see and make sure is another thing.
Cho held a hand out, welcoming, “of course.”
The group moved in to see Peter, wrapped up in bandages and hooked up to wires, and
awake
. Claire was next to him, brushing his soft hair from his eyes.
“You caught a good one, didn’t you, honey?” She asked, voice soft and gentle, barely heard by the others. “Really taking after your big brothers now, aren’t you?”
“Which part, having buildings falling on me, or being a bit insane?” Asked Peter, voice soft and tired.
“Both,” mused Claire.
Peter looked up, as if registering them for the first time, and lit up like a Christmas tree. His eyes were shining, and his smile was wide. Tony and Bruce relaxed and smiled back at the boy, and Thor grinned. Daniel and Luke however, held concerned gazes, with Clint talking outside on the phone.
“Danny, Luke,” greeted Peter with a grin. “Good to see you dumbasses.” He laughed lightly, relaxing, “hi Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner, Mr. Thor.”
That brought a stuttering halt to the three Avengers, not noticing Luke and Daniel moving over to Peter, talking to him gently. Peter called them “Claire”, “Luke” and “Danny”. Not even “Daniel”, “Danny”, a nickname. That hurt most, that this guy got a nickname, rather than “Daniel”, seriously?! He’s at that level with these guys, yet not them?!
Rhodes had told Tony about Peter and Frank, also known as The Punisher, and he hadn’t believed him. But, Rhodes' voice came filtering in;
he gained my trust and I have his
.
It made no sense; why wouldn’t Peter trust them? They treat him as an equal, they help each other out, and Peter helps them. And, Tony really loves him, like a son. But, there was no Mr, not Sir, no nothing, just
Luke
and
Danny
! No, Ms. no Ma’am, just
Claire
.
Peter
trusting
these vigilantes more than them was sickening. What did they do to gain Peter’s trust, for Peter to be able to call them “Luke”, “Claire” and “Danny”?
Tony moved over, “so... these are your friends?”
Looking up, Peter nodded, “yeah.”
“And, Claire is your nurse?” Asked Tony, slowly, as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
Claire snorted, and stood up, “I feel like I’m babysitting vigilantes.” She held a hand out, “Claire Temple.”
Tony took hold of her hand, “Tony Stark.”
Claire nodded, “I know who you are.” She shook his hand, and let go, “good to meet you.”
“Does anyone have my phone?” Asked Peter, grumbling under his breath as Daniel’s glowing fist was on Peter’s ribs.
Bruce handed over the burner, “this one?”
“Yep,” he took it, and began typing. “Thanks.” Peter was typing away and relaxed, “right, fixed.”
“Fixed what?” Asked Tony, glaring slightly at Luke, who was running his fingers through Peter’s hair.
“Made a new passcode,” shrugged Peter. He relaxed, and sighed, “I’m going to go back to sleep. If that’s okay?” He asked, looking at Claire.
“I’m not stopping you,” assured Claire, nodding.
Peter smiled, relaxing, “thanks Claire. Sorry for interrupting your date.”
Claire grinned, “Danny got to us before you.”
Peter laughed, “ha!”
Tony looked between Claire and Peter, as Claire’s soft, yet no bullshit voice entered his mind;
I feel like I’m babysitting vigilantes.
He didn’t correct her, how could he? Peter’s first reaction was “call the vigilante nurse”, and to do what he thought was right, and had expected Tony or Thor to join Peter in his silent plan, much like the vigilantes would have. They had failed. Peter had gotten out of it all himself.
Peter wasn’t an Avenger, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a hero. Just, a bit less legal.
Clint’s voice came singing in, phone still to his ear, “Daredevil’s gonna ground you Pete!”
“MOTHER FUCKER!”
5) Nicholas Fury
Nicholas Fury had seen a lot of things in his life, and was used to the unusual. A billionaire dying from palladium poisoning? That’s fine. A man frozen for years in ice and surviving? Cool, (pun not intended). A lesbian friend who came from space, with a cat that was actually an intimidating alien? Totally normal. Spider-Man is actually a teenage kid without a family, and trauma which weighed more than Fury’s failures? That is where Fury drew the fucking line.
When he met Spider-Man years ago, he was expecting to debrief a young man who was probably going through marriageable troubles, or possibly struggling to find a job, and worrying about feeding a child. Not, a boy who made one too many Star Wars references, and didn’t even have a driver's licence, more worried about whether or not he was getting into college. (It had been an Avengers Mission gone right, and Spider-Man was there, bleeding out. Of course, the boy hadn’t checked the room, and had pulled off his mask, and passed out, and Fury proceeded to yell at the team for an hour, because that was a child and they willingly threw said child into danger.)
(He then learned that Spider-Man wouldn’t stop, and he’d go out there in a ski mask if he had to. Fury quickly backed off, and allowed the boy to continue.)
So, seeing Peter Parker for a debrief after yesterday wasn’t as shocking as the first few times. Nor was his tense nervousness. (Though Fury will always be amazed at how quickly Peter healed. Seriously, one day, and Peter’s healed and better.)
Peter was always nervous, always tense, always respectful, and honestly, he could be a little shit at times, but it was why Fury liked the kid. Nobody really had the guts to call Fury out on stuff, and nobody snarked at him, not really, not like Peter, so in that regard, Fury held Peter to a high opinion.
“Wanna tell me what happened yesterday?” Fury asked, fingertips pressed into the cold metal table as he leaned over it.
The metal table didn’t look special, except it
was
. Shuri had heard Bucky complain to Steve about the meeting table, and about how easy it is to break when they were angry. It happened after missions, or during briefs and debriefs, something particularly bad happened, or was happening, and one of them lost their cool, smashing a hand down on the table. So, Shuri had made the table completely out of vibranium, so when they slammed their hands down, it hurt them more than it hurt the poor table, and was still standing a year down the line. (They thought it was a waste of vibranium, but Shuri thought it was hilarious.)
Peter shrugged, and simply said, “I miscalculated.”
Fury blinked and shrugged back, mockingly, shaking his head, “you miscalculated? What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” sighed Peter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought Mr. Stark or Mr. Thor would have followed me in, and they didn’t. I miscalculated my judgement.”
What a weird thing to say. Did the boy expect one of them to follow him through the flames of destruction from Point A to Point B? Apparently, yes.
“I rushed in to stop Doctor Sidorov who was escaping, and a big robot attacked, and shot a blast at me. I dodged, it hit a wall, and the ceiling caved in. I thought someone would follow me, and back me up to either continue on, or to fight with me. I was wrong, and miscalculated who I could rely upon for help.”
“Or, maybe you didn’t tell them your plan,” Fury said, sarcastically. “Or, you said you had it.”
“I always do that, yet the others help me.” Huffed Peter, rolling his eyes, annoyed.
“Others”? Fury wasn’t sure who these “others” were, but if he had to guess, it would be these vigilantes the boy hung around. Fury isn’t stupid, nor naive, The Avengers might miss the glaring facts, but Fury doesn’t.
He sees the way Peter sneers at the word “hero”, as if it was an insult rather than a badge of honour, as if he was smelling and tasting pure poison. Fury knows that if Peter has to be called something, he prefers the term “vigilante”, he relishes when J. Jonah. Jameson slanders him and calls him a “menace” in the news. While Fury secretly wishes, he doesn’t cling to hope that Peter will be an Avenger, he knows that Peter will go down the vigilante route.
“Well, these aren’t your vigilante buddies,” scowled Fury. He couldn’t believe he had to remind Peter of this, he thought the boy knew the difference at the very least.
Peter scoffed, “I know that, trust me. If they were, I wouldn't have needed my ribs to be re-broken.” He placed his hands on his hips, “alright Captain Blackbeard. What else do you need to know?”
Fury thought; there wasn’t really anything else. But, he could always ask again. “Would you ever consider being an Avenger?” He asked every once in a while, on the off chance that Peter would agree.
The teenager snorted, “no way in Hell.” He sniffed, rubbing his nose, “look, you’re not the first to ask, and you certainly won’t be the last. But, the answer will remain the same; no.”
Fury sighed, “I didn’t think you’d change your mind.” He walked over, “but, we need to know if you can work in a team.”
“Of course I can,” scowled Peter. He sounded so offended. “I just happen to work better alone, or with like... Team Red.”
Fury blinked,
what? Team Red?
What’s Team Red, how come he’s never heard of Peter’s other team? “Team Red?” He asked, and realised he sounded a bit idiotic, just
repeating
what Peter said.
Peter blinked, “yeah?” He drew the word out, confused.
“Okay, I’ll bite; what’s Team Red?” Fury sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated not knowing, and honestly, he was unsure if Peter should be hanging around this “Team Red”.
Just because he knows Peter would never be an Avenger, didn’t mean that he had to like who the boy hung around. He cared for Peter, and was secretly concerned about who the boy was friends with. (He had once sent Natasha out to follow Peter, to keep an eye on him, and to make sure he was okay, but Peter somehow always shook her off.)
“Not
what
,
who
,” Peter said, voice affronted with Fury. “It’s my team, we bust down Trafficking Rings, sometimes in the middle of operation, and — ”
“Right, but who does Team Red
consist
of?” Asked Fury, waving his hand, looking annoyed.
Blinking, Peter’s back straightened, “friends.” He said defensively, “the people who
actually
trained me.”
“Stark said he trained you — ”
“Yeah, that’s what he
said
, it doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth. Or, he thinks he’s training me at least,” shrugged Peter. “Before I met Team Red, my knuckles were smooth, like newborn baby smooth. And, then I told them to train me like they were trained.” He pulled off a glove, and showed off his knuckles, rough and callus with use, thick and chapped in some areas, but was in the middle of healing. “Now they’re never smooth.”
“You think that’s a good thing?” Asked Fury, concerned. Who were these guys?
Rolling his eyes, Peter pursed his lips, “it means I’m doing
something
right.”
“Or, maybe they’ve used and ruined you,” offered Fury. Maybe it was a low blow, going after the ones who had trained Peter. Even he knew, logically, none of The Avengers had sat down and trained the boy, and any training done, they went easy on him. (The only one who didn’t hold back was Thor, and that was the only time Peter learned anything, and it was the only time Peter didn’t have to hold back as much.)
Peter’s brown, used to be a cute doughy eyes, grown into cold brown eyes, hardened into a harsh glare. “I think you should be very careful about what you say right now, Director.”
Okay, too far,
Fury thought. He stared Peter’s glare down, but Peter didn’t waver. The boy held the glare without fear. “So, who is in Team Red?” He asked again, hoping to move away from the conversation.
“Me,” Peter said, tone quipped.
It fell silent, Peter’s face blank, with Fury giving a blank look back.
“And?”
Peter smiled, amused, “well, we’re called Team Red, and I hang around vigilantes. Tell me, who else wears red in my line of work.”
Surely not
, thought Fury in silent horror. The worst part is, Peter didn’t seem like he was joking. “If you’re on about — ”
“The coolest Mother Fuckers in the multiverse!” Called a voice of pure delight, and immaturity. “Sorry Mr. Samuel L. Jackson,” bowed the man in red and black leather, and decked out with guns and katanas, and
Hello Kitty
stickers, holding a green smoothie, “I know that’s your line.” He winked at Fury behind his mask, making the black man scowl back.
Deadpool.
Peter sighed, and facepalmed, “what are you doing here, Wade?”
“Came to get you, baby boy!” Cooed Wade, pinching Peter’s cheeks.
Peter waved a hand, whacking Wade’s hands off, “how did you even get
in
here?!”
Fury crossed his arms, “he’s got a good point; how did you bypass the security?”
Wade looked over with wide eyes, as if confused. “No idea! The Author just wanted a bit of Team Red, and so did I! So, here we are!”
The Author?
Thought Fury in confusion. Who’s “The Author”? Another vigilante? A God? An all powerful omnipotent being? He looked to Peter, hoping for some form of answer to his silent question, and all he got back was a bored gaze.
“Parker,” scowled Fury, “what is The Author?”
“Wade knows, and that’s all that matters,” sighed Peter, sounding just as exasperated as Fury felt. “Wade, you said “we”, did you bring — ?”
“DaddyDevil?” Asked Wade with amusement, “yep!”
“I slept with you
once
,” came an annoyed voice, “one time! And, I regret it everyday!”
Fury stared at the newcomer,
Daredevil
, dressed in a red one piece with horns, and billy clubs at his side.
This is Team Red?
He thought, keeping rather calm on the outside. But, on the inside...? On the inside he was panicking!
Fury’s mind was swirling;
Team Red consists of; Daredevil, a near myth due to the little amount of information on him, and lack of photographic sightings, a man who punches people into comas and was known as “The Man Without Fear”; Deadpool, an insane mercenary, whose criminal record was as dirty as they come, had a murder charge longer than anything Fury had seen, and was called “The Merc With A Mouth”; and Peter Parker, Spider-Man, a teenager who tried to help everyone and was the sweetest kid around, and went by the other name of “The Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man”.
How did they get anything done? Their fighting styles, and personalities didn’t match, and yet they did not seem to care, and apparently, in Peter’s eyes, it was the right match, and seemingly made the perfect team.
“Hey Double D,” smiled Peter, waving his hand in a one swipe motion, “how ya doing?”
“Fine,” sighed Daredevil, and was slouching. “Just, come on, we need you.”
Peter’s back straightened up, face flat, “what’s wrong?”
Fury looked at Peter in shock, his eye widening. What the...? Peter’s voice was different, more strict, and stern. Fury’s heard Peter’s voice on Avengers Missions, it’s playful, calm and teasing, but this was serious, a sense of urgency, and professionalism.
What did Team Red do that warranted such a reaction?
Thought Fury in confusion. He really should be stopping this, especially now that he knew Team Red consisted of two of the most dangerous individuals known to mankind.
“Child Trafficking Ring in Hell’s Kitchen,” Daredevil said. “Wade messaged you, but you didn’t respond.”
“Shit,” cursed Peter, quickly pulling out his phone from one of his many hidden pockets. He opened it and threw his head back in despair, “shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t see — ”
Wade waved a dismissive hand, “don’t worry about it! We came to get you so we can bust down the Ring!”
“And, you left those kids to suffer?” Asked Fury, placing his hands on his hips, unamused.
Scoffing, Wade said, “no way! I grabbed Daredevil, and here we were in the Compound!” He assured, as if Fury was the dumb one.
How did that work?
Fury looked to Peter, who was more focused on the Child Trafficking Ring part of the conversation.
“So, we going?” Asked Peter, without missing a beat.
Fury frowned, “no, hold on — ”
“Director,” scowled Peter. “Whatever you want isn’t important, and taking down a Trafficking Ring is.” He said, hand up. “Okay?”
“But — ”
Peter scoffed, a deep scowl on his face, “what? What else do you need, we’ve talked about the whole... Doctor Sidorov thing.”
Daredevil’s head snapped around to Peter, “that reminds me; you got crushed by a building.
Yesterday
.”
“And, you came to collect me for a job.
Today
,” shrugged Peter, calmly.
Wade looked between Peter and Daredevil, “are you gonna be okay, Pete?”
Peter nodded, “yeah, I’ll be fine!” He crossed his arms, “not to mention, I like always go out after an injury.”
“I feel like I should stop you,” hummed Daredevil.
“You should,” scowled Fury, unimpressed. “You two are aware that Spider-Man is a teenager.” He gestured to Peter, whose face was on show.
Deadpool and Daredevil looked at Fury, blankly, and silently.
Fury didn’t shuffle, but he scowled. He felt like he was being silently judged, and threatened, he didn’t doubt Wade or Daredevil would attack him if they felt it necessary. They were larger than him, and were violent individuals, and if Peter was friends with them, there was a chance Peter could be just as violent.
“We know,” assured Daredevil, crossing his arms, tone bored. “And yet,
we
aren’t the ones who dragged him to Germany, without telling him what he was fighting for.
We
didn’t blackmail him, and
we
didn’t kidnap him.”
Wade put his hands next to his face, and stage whispered to nothing, looking directly at you, “he’s talking about Stark! That being said, this isn’t a Stark Hate Fic, this is just pointing out a fact!”
Fury frowned, and looked at what Wade was looking at; it was a wall, with nothing on it. “Who are you talking to?” He asked, confused, and scowling.
“The readers,” said Wade, raising a hand. “I just thought it was important for them to know this isn’t exactly an Anti-Stark fic, we just don’t
love
what he did to Peter, because everything Red said is true.”
Peter frowned, “Mr. Stark didn’t kidnap me.”
“He coerced a minor - you, Peter - to cross country lines, without the explicit permission of your guardian - your Aunt May. That's child abduction. And, since he took you out of the country, not just the state, he violated the Hague Abduction Convention. And, then he coerced a minor - again you - under the age of 16 - you were 14 - to partake in armed conflict which is a war crime. And, made you a child soldier, Peter.” Daredevil said annoyed, “he blackmailed you, and bribed you.”
Fury looked to Wade, who was jumping on the tips of his toes in joy and excitement, clapping his hands together.
Peter fell silent and looked down, shoulders dropping and sighing, “yeah I know.”
“And,” Daredevil looked to Fury, “
we
aren’t the ones who ignored him for two months.
We
aren’t the ones who fail to protect him; that’s your Avengers.”
Fury fell silent, as he thought back to Natasha’s assessment of Tony.
Personality overview. Mr Stark displays compulsive behaviour. Prone to self-destructive tendencies. Textbook narcissism. Recruitment assessment for Avenger Initiative. Iron Man? Yes.
Tony Stark not recommended.
Ultimately, there was a line in the sand, and Tony Stark had crossed it. He was so far past it, he could no longer see the line. It was a dot.
Fury scowled to himself,
I should have listened to Natasha...
“Look,” said Peter, hands up in “peace” motion. “Can we focus?”
Wade nodded, and pointed to Peter, “baby boy’s right! We need to go!”
“See? Children in a Trafficking Ring in Hell’s Kitchen,” scowled Peter, as he pulled his mask from one of his pockets, and pulling it on over his face. “Let’s go.”
Daredevil sighed, and nodded, “let’s go.”
Peter looked at Fury, “I’ll see you later?” He shrugged, not sounding bothered if they didn’t see each other again, and walked out, next to Daredevil, and Wade squealed, skipping off after them.
What just happened?
He was meant to be getting a debriefing about the mission that failed yesterday, and instead he found out Peter’s team consisted of two unstable men. Men, as in older than him. Not two teenagers.
Fury walked silently, and slowly moved into the main room, head down facing the floor. He saw most of the Avengers sitting around on the sofas, watching a movie;
Rush Hour
. The group was small, and consisted of Natasha, Bucky, Steve, Rhodes and Tony.
“Stark,” called Fury, making Tony lookup.
“One-eyed Willy,” greeted Tony, nodding with a smirk.
I can see the resemblance to Stark
, Fury thought, slightly amused. Peter and Tony had the same sarcastic humour, but unlike Tony who at the end of the day listened to Fury, if Peter didn’t agree, he would say it.
“You’re on leave for a while,” Fury said, with a no bullshit tone.
Tony raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly, “a vacation?”
“No,” Fury hummed, correcting him. “More like, I’m thinking about what Natasha said years ago when we hired you. And, I’m taking in account some new information. You’re on leave until I figure out if I want you here, or if I want to fire you.”
Now
that
got everyone’s attention, making them look over in shock, eyes wide.
“What?” Asked Tony, voice hushed.
Fury raised one eyebrow, “you heard me. After all; Peter Parker was 14 when you took him to Germany; blackmail, bribing, child abduction, Hague Abduction Convention, Geneva Conventions, and using Peter as a soldier, those are war crimes and criminal offences.”
Tony stared, gaping, “what?”
“You heard me Stark, you’re on leave until further notice,” Fury said, crossing his arms.
“Where is he now?!” Tony asked, eyebrows raised, moving up on the seat. “Peter can vouch for me — !”
“He did,” assured Fury, crossing his arms with a nod, “he vouched for you, and he confirmed it. So, I’m currently reevaluating Natasha’s assessment.”
“Where is Peter?” Asked Tony, eyes wide.
Fury glanced at Natasha, who was staring at Tony with shock, Steve was glaring slightly at Tony, Rhodes was gaping in surprise, and Bucky was looking down. Fury looked back at Tony, “Spider-Man is on a mission with Deadpool and Daredevil, taking down a Child Trafficking Ring in Hell’s Kitchen.” He nodded, “I’ll leave you to your movie.”
Fury turned and walked off, going through a door, and the last thing he heard was Rhodes saying to Tony, “you kidnapped him?”
+1) Everyone
Avengers Assembled!
Two words sent from an anonymous number, which was clearly Fury’s number, which sent the Avengers into a frenzy. There hadn’t been an “Avengers Assemble” since Thanos, and here they were, getting another call.
They had rushed into the meeting room, all coming from their own personal lives to figure out what had happened.
The Avengers consisted of; Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Vision, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner, Thor, Scott Lang, Stephen Strange, Shuri and T’Challa.
Carol was off-world still, and The Guardian’s of the Galaxy were taking care of an alien attack on Xander again. Hope Pym still disliked any Stark, and so refused to come, but wished Scott good luck. Stephen didn’t
want
to come, but Wong assured him he could handle the Sanctum. Loki was happy throwing plays in New Asgard, and Valkyrie was
ruling
New Asgard much to Loki’s annoyance. Peter wasn’t there, because Fury didn’t have a way to contact him.
Fury and Maria Hill walked in, and looked at The Avengers surrounding the table, and moved to the front.
“You’ve been Assembled,” Fury said, eyeing Tony, who looked down. He had yet to decide if Tony should come back permanently or not, but the only reason he was here is because of the mission itself. “Doctor Konstantin Sidorov has been spotted.”
That got everyone's attention. Even Stephen, Shuri, T’Challa and Scott looked over in surprise. They had heard the complaining from the others, about this one Hydra Doctor that constantly got away.
“Where?” Asked Steve, crossing his arms, leaning forward.
“Queens,” Fury said.
Their minds flashed to Peter Parker, who lived in Queens. Teenage, emancipated Peter Parker, who owned a cheap apartment, in a run down apartment building which was owned by a Mr. Ditkovich, all stationed in Queens.
“Doctor Sidorov was seen near a Trafficking Ring. It’s a low sorta area, not well known. It seems like a normal place, a restaurant, but I believe the operation is under the building.” Fury said, pressing his hands to the table.
Bucky slammed his metal fist down on the vibranium table, and it rattled under the pressure, but not cracked, and Shuri grinned - at least her vibranium table was steady.
“We should head down,” Tony said, nodding to himself. “And — ”
“We can’t,” Rhodes said suddenly, making them look at him. “Peter’s protective of Queens.”
Clint grinned, and looked between them all.
“He’s protective?” Asked Steve, confused, looking at Rhodes.
Rhodes shook his head, “you didn’t see it. You didn’t see the way The Punisher backed away from him. If we’re gonna go to Queens, we have to ask him.”
“And, Peter deals with Trafficking Rings all the time,” said Bruce suddenly, leaning forward.
Wanda nodded, “he would know what to do, and how to best deal with it.”
Tony sighed, “I’ll call Peter.” He pulled out his phone, and the contact list showed up in front of him, as it appeared in the air like a hologram.
They watched as Tony scrolled past
Spidey-Boy
and moved to
Peter Back Up
. They shot him a confused look, and Tony waved a dismissive hand, “it’s his vigilante number.” He pressed the contact, and waited, but not for long.
“Mr. Stark? What’s wrong?”
Came Peter’s voice, though there was a seriousness to it, with still clear playfulness and joy, his voice muffled, as if he was munching on something.
“Pe — uh, Spider-Man,” Tony greeted, “what are you doing?”
“Eating pizza,”
mused Peter.
“They were late, so I didn’t need to pay full price.”
“What?” Asked Wanda, confused, getting sidetracked. Peter’s eating pizza? Not paying full price?
“Well my friend always says: “Forgiveness is divine, but never pay full price for late pizza.””
Tony shook his head, getting distracted. He had to pull the conversation back. “Spider-Man, we need to get into Queens, Doctor Sidorov is there, and hanging around a Trafficking Ring,” explained Tony to the phone.
It fell silent, and tense.
“Peter?”
“Sidorov is around a Trafficking Ring in Queens?”
Peter asked, voice blank, and strained.
Tony wanted to fall back into assuring the boy, of “everything will be okay”, of “you did your best”, but stopped himself. He can’t do that. Or, he won’t. That’s not something Peter would appreciate, nor would he be okay with.
“Yeah,” sighed Tony.
Stephen spoke up, “Peter, if I may; I could open up a portal for you? Bring you here so we could discuss?”
“Do it, Stephen.”
There’s
another
one
who had first name privileges...
Stephen nodded, “of course.” He nodded to Tony, who hung up, and the sorcerer stood.
Clint smirked, “look at you guys.” He mused, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, “finally treating Peter how he’s meant to be treated.”
“And, how’s that?” Asked Sam, confused, with a scowl. Didn’t they treat Peter as they usually treated him?
“As a vigilante,” Clint said, as if it was obvious. And boy, was it. Peter’s a vigilante, not a superhero.
The orange, sparkled circle appeared, opening up, and Peter walked in with ease. He was tense, as he turned around and waved, “see you guys later.”
“See you later dude!” Called a male skater voice.
“Bye Peter!” Said another, sounding nerdy.
“Later man!” Yelled a third, sounding deep.
“Talk soon!” A fourth spoke, sounding calmer than the others.
Stephen closed the portal and said, “I’m sorry, where those turtles?”
“Nope,” said Peter, a bit too quickly, as he pulled off his mask, and looked at Fury. “Which Trafficking Ring?”
“It’s under a restaurant,” said Fury, crossing his arms and shrugging.
Peter blinked, and drawled, “do you have the slightest idea how little that narrows it down?” He crossed his arms, “do you know what these people look like? As in, outfits, tattoos, markings — ?”
“They had tattoos on their fists... like blood.” Fury said, shrugging, “does that help.”
“The tattoo’s coloured?” Asked Peter, raising an eyebrow.
Fury thought, where they? What difference does it make? But, it must make one. “Yes, they had it coloured in blue.”
Peter frowned, “why would Doctor Sidorov go and work with The Bleeding Fists?” He asked, confused, as he looked over to Thor. “Is there a possibility to harness The Tesseract into a form of power, or to ingrain it into things and people, or — ?”
“So it’s in people’s systems?” Asked Thor, eyebrows raised, “yes. But, it’s finicky and difficult. Yet, it's possible.”
Peter scowled, “right... The Bleeding Fists are a Trafficking Ring organisation around Queens. I’ve been going after them, but it seems I’ve missed one. You’ve met the Bad Blues...” He looked up, “look, this won’t be easy.”
“We can handle it,” assured Natasha, arms crossed on the table, looking up from under her eyes.
Peter raised an eyebrow, “if you can handle a Child Trafficking Ring, who’s eldest has always been seven, in which the kids I’ve saved are usually bleeding from places kids
shouldn’t
be bleeding from, and now is wanted for God-Magic-Mutation Experiments, I’ll eat my mask.”
It fell deathly still and silent, besides Clint, who stood and counted his arrows. He was in, and it was clear, he’s dealt with this before.
Natasha nodded, “I can handle it.”
“If you can’t,” Peter said, looking to the people at the table, a lot calmer than before. “Leave now. You will not be judged, nor mocked. I was fifteen when I first dealt with this, and I couldn’t handle it. I had Daredevil and Deadpool to help me through it before, during, and after. I won’t be holding your hand before or during. But after, I will...” He blinked, “so, last chance; stay or leave.”
Again, it was tense.
Scott slowly raised a hand, “I-I don’t think I can deal with that.”
“That’s fine,” promised Peter. “Mr. Lang is benched, anyone else?”
“Shuri, I want you to stay here,” T’Challa said, much to Shuri’s offence.
“What?! No way! I want to help — ” Tried Shuri, scowling.
T’Challa looked at Shuri and said, “no! That’s final!”
“Then you stay here too!” Shuri tried, much to T’Challa’s annoyance, but he must have noticed her look. She would stay if he stayed; protecting each other from a real, true, disgustingly vile evil.
“Fine.”
“Mr. T’Challa and Ms. Shuri are benched.” Peter nodded, looking around.
“Me too,” Bruce said, raising a hand. “I don’t want The Hulk to come out.”
Peter nodded, “wise choice.”
“I don’t think I could stomach it,” Stephen admitted, looking down.
“And, that is valid,” promised Peter. “Stephen and Dr. Banner aren’t coming.” He looked around and his eyes landed on Wanda. “Ms. Maximoff, can you control your magic?”
Wanda blinked, recoiling in shock. Peter had always defended her, always assured her that everything was okay, was always on her side to tell her “things happen”, and now he seemed like he was against her? “Uh, maybe...?”
Peter shook his head, “I can’t do with a maybe; it’s a yes or a no. Can you control your magic?”
Wanda shrugged, a bit helpless, “I don’t know!”
“Ms. Maximoff, if you can’t control it, you’re not going,” warned Peter, tone final.
“But,” tried Wanda, upset and hurt, “why?!”
“Because, this is Queens. You’re in
my
neighbourhood,
my
home,
my
city, and there are kids’ lives on the line!” Peter yelled, furious now and demanded attention, demanded respect, and silently told them not to question him. “People die on my watch all the time, but that’s on me! If I let another super,
especially
an Avenger into
my
city, specifically one who can’t control her powers, and that Avenger kills a bunch of people, that is on me, and something I could have prevented!” He snapped, teeth clenched, and suddenly, he was being brutally honest. “So, Ms. Maximoff, if you think you are going to lose control, you aren’t going!”
The fight left Wanda instantly, and she nodded. Fine. Fine, she won’t go. Hero Peter is sweet and kind, Vigilante Peter meant business.
“Ms. Maximoff stays,” he nodded. Peter looked at Tony, eyes hard, “you bring your suit, but you don’t wear it until I say so. We don’t need you to make a racket.” He turned to Steve, “I’d rather you didn’t bring your shield, but you need to; but don’t throw the shield. Thor, don’t use lightning from the sky, okay? You could set the place on fire. We’re aiming to harm and maim, but not kill. Everyone understand?”
Agreements filtered through the air, and Peter nodded, “good! The place is called
Outback Steaks
.” He looked at Stephen, “think you could portal us there?”
Stephen grinned at the boy, “of course.”
Tony hadn’t known what to expect, but a normal looking restaurant wasn’t one of the things. The restaurant was tall, with a glass penthouse, as people filed in. There was a large banner on the building which read
Avengers Appreciation!
, with streamers.
It
was
the anniversary of the Avengers first Assembling, but Tony hadn’t expected this. Especially since it was linked with a Child Trafficking Ring which teamed up with Hydra Nazis.
“Gross,” grumbled Bucky. “The fact they’re celebrating us while doing
this
.”
Peter scoffed, “
please
. That’s why they’re doing this.
Thank you Avengers, for staying up in the Compound and not coming after us.
” Peter laughed bitterly, in a mocking voice. “
Thank you Avengers for causing more destruction, it gives us more alien weapons.
” He looked to the Avengers, “everyone celebrates this day for The First Assemble. They celebrate because you never come out to help the little guy. Makes our job harder.”
Clint winced looking over, “harsh Spidey.”
“Whatever, they have the right to know.” Peter was knelt on a crane that they were all on, opposite the restaurant, and he tilted his head, “The Bleeding Fists have a private elevator entrance from their penthouses to the Ring below.”
“Didn’t count on having an audience.” Mused Clint, as Peter and him jumped onto the closest building.
Tony and Steve shared a look, and followed as quietly as possible, while Vision floated after him. Thor took hold of Natasha, and spun Mjölnir, following and Sam took hold of Bucky, flying with Thor.
They landed on the penthouse and looked in; it was full of people, and guards, with people who had tattooed bloody knuckles. The place was guarded from one wall to the next, and Natasha saw Doctor Sidorov moving across the room, and entering the kitchen.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” scowled Peter, tense and angry.
Steve thought and nodded, “right, we should try and dress like guests, and go after Sidorov.”
“The elevator is behind the kitchen,” hummed Peter. He eyed the door, silently.
“Right, see?” Steve said, gesturing to the boy, “and, we can say we’re here for the...
buying
.” He threw up in his mouth a bit at that, not wanting to play a part of the system, even if it
was
an act.
Peter shook his head, “no somebody got kicked out.” He said, looking away, and paused in his searching.
Tony frowned, “there’s gotta be someway to get in — ”
“Hold on,” Peter said, holding a hand up, “get a load of how the waiters are dressed.” He said, pressing a finger to the window. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in outfits, costumes, much like The Avengers and Vigilantes with black bow ties. “It’s in poor taste but it can't be that easy.”
They shared a look, and glanced at Peter confused, and then to Clint, to see if the teenager was serious - Clint was listening to the boy with seriousness, like one would look to a leader, and they realised Peter was serious.
They were moving through the restaurant, with Peter carrying a serving tray, while Tony, now in costume, and Steve pushed a large cart, and Vision was holding a wine menu, and Natasha held food menus, with Thor following from behind a few minutes later with a desert cart, and Sam and Bucky were holding serving trays, and Rhodes held a tray of wine glasses.
“It’s that easy,” mused Peter, sighing. “Gosh, I sound like Noir...”
Who is Noir?
The group made their way to the kitchens in two teams, and walked into the large room, the doors shutting behind them, as Thor’s team slid in.
“Hey!” Came a gargled voice, making the group pause with wide eyes.
There stood a buff guy, his arms crossed, with two thin guards at either side of him.
“Whatcha got in there?” He asked, teeth on show.
Thor slowly put his fists up, and Peter gently put them down, “oh! Just your typical stuff,” assured the boy. The vigilante stepped forward, gesturing, “liver, hard cheese, barley duke sandwiches.”
Steve put his hands up, and Natasha pushed his hands down.
Peter shrugged, “nothing unusual.”
“Well, that’s good,” grinned the guy, “glad to know you’re prepared. Right through there,” said the buff guy, gesturing to the opposite door. “Have fun.”
The group continued their walk, clustering together.
“Oh, they are dumb,” grinned Tony, throwing his bowtie.
Thor looked at Tony and Steve, and looked at Peter.
“They are so dumb!” Agreed Rhodes, throwing her bowtie, as it landed on Thor’s tray.
Thor looked down to it, confused.
Peter shook his head, laughing nervously, “uh. No. No, he knew.”
Sam looked over quickly, “what?”
“He knows,” hissed Peter quietly, nodding his head. “Come on, let’s just continue with the plan. But, be aware they know we’re here. They just don’t know how, or when, we’re getting to the lower floors.”
“Thank God someone has good hearing,” Bucky said, looking at Peter. He always knew Peter’s hearing was good, just never knew
how
good Peter’s hearing was.
They continued down the hallway, and Peter waved them to hide in a room, while he jumped to the ceiling. They hid and watched Peter crawl up to a large office, which had two guards outside, staying hidden.
A guy, well built with slick back hair, (Mr. Big Boss they dubbed him), walked with purpose down the hallway with Doctor Konstantin Sidorov at his side. They walked past the two guards and disappeared into the large office. As they passed, the doors shutting, the guards were webbed up, mouths gagged.
Peter webbed their eyes, and whispered creepily, “sleeeeeeep.”
The Avengers rushed over, and Tony opened the doors, and Peter gestured to look around. Tony scanned the room, his red lights landing on the large, yellow painting.
“It should be right here,” Tony said, humming.
Thor leaned up on the desk, and Vision looked up to the picture, with Bucky in the middle of it. Peter leaned on the column against the wall, looking to Bucky, who admired the painting.
“What a beautiful painting,” Bucky complimented. “I love the use of pink.”
“It’s red, Buck,” said Sam, laughing slightly. He waved his hands, eyes amused, “colours. Not his strong suit!”
Bucky slammed his metal hand into the painting and pulled it apart, tearing it to pieces, “it’s pink!” He glared, and clenched his fist seeing an elevator.
“Actually it’s dark pink to red.” Mused Peter, as he slammed his foot at a panel in the elevator, opening it, and they jumped down the elevator shaft.
They landed silently, or as quietly as they possibly could. But, Peter was as quiet as a mouse, landing on quiet feet, bending with his legs.
He waved them forward, and sneaked over quietly. The Avengers followed as quietly as they could. They peered out from behind the wall, and the group grimaced.
In the middle of the room, there were ten five-year-old's; two boys and three girls. They were skinny, and covered in dirt and grime, with their rags falling down their bony bodies.
Natasha threw up in her mouth, seeing as the clothes on the females were clearly meant to be skimpy, and slutty, their rags stopping a bit too short.
Steve grimaced, “okay so — ”
“Rogers,” whispered Peter, sneaking over. “I want you to go and shield the kids. Romanoff, back him up, and cover the kids. Get them out and use the elevator.” He turned to face Clint, “Clint go up on the rafter and aim to the doors. Don’t let anyone escape. Stark, Thor, you two focus on the Big Boss, get him down, but no electricity. Vision, Rhodes, Barnes, focus on the Agents. Wilson, get the ones in the rafters and back up Clint. Understood?”
Nobody seemed to want to argue with Peter, but they did want to question.
Rhodes frowned, and whispered, “and what are you doing?”
“I’m going after the Doc.” Shrugged Peter, and looked to Steve and Vision. “When Rogers gets the kids to the elevator, Vision is going to call the police, specifically Terri Lee. Tell her Spider-Man called.”
“Vision, Rhodes, Barnes, go in first, and Rogers and Romanoff next, get straight to those kids. Stark, Thor, go after Big Boss next, Clint and Wilson, get up there now, and only join once the chaos starts. When I thwip a web, that’s when we start.”
Peter didn’t bother waiting to see if they understood, he was already off, sneaking in the shadows.
Sam looked over to Clint, who jerked his head, and walked off. Sam sighed, and followed, the two slipping into the darkness, and quietly climbing up the stairs.
Bucky, Vision, and Rhodes, moved forward, with Steve and Natasha coming up behind them, and finally Thor and Tony.
Thwip
.
Right, time to get a move on.
Vision and Rhodes rushed forward, flying out, and Bucky took up behind them, pulling out a sniper.
Bullets went flying, and bodies fell in pain, but Steve and Natasha’s main focus was the kids. The two ran forward, eyeing the small group who were sobbing and shaking. Immediately, Steve rolled in front of them, holding up the shield, as the bullets bounced off said shield.
Natasha knelt to them and smiled gently, “hey, wanna get outta here?”
Vision turned to see a few Agents rushing to the elevators, and saw arrows embedded into their legs and knees, just as Natasha, and the kids rushed onto the elevator, with Steve shielding them from behind.
I have to call Terri Lee...
Vision realised, frowning.
Sam’s wings went out, shielding Clint from the Agents shooting, and looked to Clint. “They get on the elevator okay?”
Clint pulled back another arrow, and aimed down from the rafters, “they’re fine.” He glanced over, and frowned, “Peter’s going ham.”
Sam turned and his wings slammed into the Agents, knocking them off the rafters. He looked down and frowned, seeing Peter throw relentless punches. He turned to Thor and Tony to call them to help, but didn’t. Yes, Peter seems to be gunning to kill the doctor, but that didn’t matter really, because Peter isn’t going into this as a hero, but as a vigilante.
But, even so... is Peter okay with killing people, even as a vigilante?
Tony was blasting his Repulsors, but the Big Boss was dodging. Somehow. It wasn’t like he was skinny, but he was
rolling
like a ball. Thor slammed Mjölnir into the Big Boss’ side, and watched as he flew into a wall, weightless.
“Nice hit,” hummed Tony, eyes wide.
Thor shrugged, “twas easy.”
Tony held up his hand, and fired a Repulsor, hitting the Big Boss in his chest. He wasn’t that difficult now that he was pinned between Thor and Tony, and the tall wall. He was laughably easy, the only thing that seemed to be causing any trouble was the Agents.
Steve and Natasha sneaked the group of children down the hallway, and out into the emergency exit. They slipped through the door, and rushed down the abundance of metal stairs. Natasha was leading them, and Steve was behind them, ready to shield the kids in case any of the Agents decided to chase after them.
Natasha looked out from the back door, and led them out, “come on.” She whispered, holding the door open.
Sobbing and sniffing, the kids walked out.
Steve shared a look with Natasha, and shook his head,
I can’t do this...
Natasha looked over and paused, going pale. She swallowed, staring at the smallest boy who was bleeding from a place where he
shouldn’t
be bleeding. She looked at Steve,
neither can I.
A thought landed on their minds;
how could Peter deal with this?
“Vision, go out and pull the fire alarm in ten minutes!” Called Peter, dodging a stray bullet, which allowed Doctor Sidorov to run in the opposite direction of Peter. Standing up, no longer caring of the bullets, Peter yelled out, in the darkest voice the teenager had ever mustered, low and gravelly, as if he gargled nails, broken glass and rocks, “get back here fuckface!” He ran after Doctor Sidorov without a second thought, disappearing behind a wall.
Ten minutes,
thought Vision.
Rhodes looked over, “am I the only one thinking this is the most chaotic mission we’ve ever seen?”
“I was thinking Spidey’s gonna kill the guy,” Sam called, his wings shielding him and Clint, while Clint shot a few arrows into Agent's legs, sending them tumbling down.
Clint said nothing, more focused on his mission at hand, but he hummed.
Bucky frowned as he shot a few Agents in their shoulders, “Spidey wouldn’t kill anyone!”
“Debatable,” called Tony, dodging a fist the Big Boss threw at him. (How did Big Boss even get out from between him and the wall?) He didn’t know Peter anymore, but even he knew, there was every chance that Peter would kill someone.
Thor channelled a bolt of lightning through his mere body and hammer, and shot it at the Big Boss, not blinking as the Big Boss went down,
hard
. “Boss is down!”
“I have not been allowed to pull the fire alarm until ten minutes have been up!” Called Vision, he frowned, wondering when Detective Lee would get there.
Steve couldn’t watch as Natasha comforted the small child who was bleeding. His stomach churned uncomfortably, and twisted painfully, as he felt vomit creep up his throat.
Natasha was knelt on the ground, hugging the small boy, who was sobbing, his shoulders shaking.
“Detective Lee, put your hands in the — ” Coming to a stop was a tall woman in heels, and a purple suit and skirt, dark, curled hair which was dragged into a low ponytail and dark skin. “Oh my gosh,” she gaped at the boy, and turned to Steve. “What happened?!”
Steve hesitated, then explained to the best of his ability.
“Five minutes!” Peter’s strained yell echoed.
Vision knew Peter was talking to him, but it was weird. Why was Peter shortening the time?
“Everyone start leaving, besides Vision!” Ordered Peter, “grab Big Boss, Stark!”
Tony swallowed; Peter wasn’t giving him any professional title, it had been happening the whole mission, but it still didn’t make him feel okay.
Thor grabbed Big Boss, and rushed off, followed by Tony, as Clint shot arrows at any Agent that got too close.
Bucky and Rhodes went and personally guarded the elevator, while the Agent's number dwindled from injuries.
“Sam, go!” Called Clint, and Sam didn’t wait, he flew up the elevator shaft. Clint rushed off from the rafters.
“So, Spidey is down there and dealing with this,” Detective Lee sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at the kids and smiled softly, “would you like to drive in a few police cars with us?”
The skinniest girl frowned, “can we press the sirens?”
Lee smirked and winked, “of course.”
How can any officer be calm?
Vision was counting, tense, despite not being a human. Clint was the first of the shrinking group to leave, followed by Bucky and Rhodes. Peter had not come out; why?
There was only three more minutes left until he had to pull the fire alarm, and yet Peter wasn’t here. Where was he?
Natasha and Steve silently watched as one of the officers calmed the bleeding boy down with professional techniques.
The door swung open and out stumbled Tony and Thor, the two dragging the limp boss.
Lee stared at the guy, and then grinned, “Mr. Dawson.” She walked over and nodded at Tony and Thor, “good work men.”
Vision flew through the walls, as it was now one minute until he had to set off the fire alarm.
Natasha and Steve walked off to the opposite building, watching the restaurant, with Tony and Thor at their sides. They saw Sam, Clint, Bucky and Rhodes exit the building, the two airborne heroes flying the non-flying heroes, and frowned. Where’s Peter?
The fire alarm went off suddenly, a loud blaring noise. They watched as Vision flew through the building to join them.
Vision lowered, and stood on the building, “has Peter arrived yet?” He asked, watching as people rushed out of the building.
Tony slowly shook his head, “no. Did you see him?”
Vision shook his head and whispered, “no...”
There was a sea of people rushing out of the building, and as the last group of people ran out, Vision noticed red flames licking out of the windows. When did the fire start?
Steve paled, and perked up, “is... is Peter still in there?”
Natasha frowned, “I don’t know...”
“I’m not,” came Peter’s dark voice, making them turn around. Peter slammed Doctor Sidorov into the wall of the roof entrance. “You have pissed me off.”
Doctor Sidorov smiled, his face bloody and broken, “well, you've caught me Spider-Man.” He patted Peter’s hand, which was gripping the Doctor's collar. “You can take me in.”
Peter’s eyes glared, and laughed bitterly, “no. No, see... you’ve been fucking around, and you went into
my
city.” He sneered, “you’ve gone too far.”
Tony frowned, “Spidey — ”
Clint frowned, “not now, Tony.” He could see something that The Avengers couldn’t see, but what?
Doctor Sidorov frowned slightly, “come on now, Spider-Man. It’s just a bit of fun.”
Thor frowned and looked between the two, before noticing another figure. A small female, in a leather jacket, and long black hair, just watching from the side and sipping on alcohol.
Peter shoved his face into Doctor Sidorov’s face and pulled his mask off, snarling with a dark smile, his nose broken, and his bloody teeth on show. “Nah,” smirked Peter. “You’re not gonna do this again.”
Steve paled, and turned away quickly in realsation, as a yell sounded from Peter, and a loud sickening crack echoed the place. Steve looked over, seeing Peter drop the limp Doctor Sidorov.
Clint sighed, “damn. Knew he had to send a message, but... just damn...”
Peter took a step back, and looked down, his hands clenching, panting. “I don’t remember giving you permission to be here, Jessica.”
“Wade was worried,” the female said, walking over and ignoring the Avengers. She had her hands up in peace. “You killed someone.”
Peter frowned, “I didn’t kill him.”
Jessica Jones,
they realised in silent surprise. They weren’t shocked, Peter was friends with every vigilante known to mankind, but it was still a surprise to see her.
“You sure?” Asked Jessica, not amused, as the boy looked over. “He looks dead to me.”
“He’s in a coma, probably will be on life support. If he dies after — ”
“You still killed him,” Jessica interrupted.
“No... he’ll die if they take him off life support. He’s just a vegetable.” Snapped Peter, turning to Jessica. “He deserves it...”
Jessica sighed, and looked at Peter, “Peter...”
Rhodes carefully watched, and frowned, his heartbreaking ever so slightly as a tear trickled down Peter’s cheek, and his chin wobbled slightly, breathing sharp.
“Peter,” frowned Jessica.
Peter gently buried his head into her neck, “just call 911...”
“Doctor Sidorov will live, and will be fine,” assured Director Fury, watching Peter carefully. “No thanks to you.”
“And yet, thanks to me, Hydra will think twice before coming into Queens. And, I stopped the bad guy.” Peter said, without a beat. He wasn’t facing them, he was staring at the door, back to the group, and arms crossed, leaning on the table.
“Peter, you nearly killed him,” said Fury, tone stern. “I’m not going to pretend that you aren’t a vigilante, but at the same time, you went in there with the Avengers — ”
“No,” Peter said, sternly. “They went in with me. I went in as a vigilante.” His head lowered, “if you Avengers wanna let Doctor Sidorov get away again, that’s fine, that’s on you. But, the moment he went into Queens, it became
my
problem. He became
my
responsibility. And, unlike you, I gotta make sure people know not to fuck with my city.”
T’Challa and Shuri shared looks, tense. T’Challa had seen Peter lose his cool, but this was different. Doctor Sidorov
could
die, but it’s more likely he’ll be in a coma for the rest of his life.
Unlike Callum Thompson, in which Peter beat the man up as a punishment, and due to a personal vendetta, Doctor Konstantin Sidorov had gone
into
Queens, and it was a threat to Peter’s city, this was a warning. This was an ending. Konstantin Sidorov’s beating and the burning restaurant of
Outback Steaks
was a message to anyone who thought they could go into Queens and get away with doing shady activity. It told people that Spider-Man would get you, and he wouldn’t be friendly.
Wanda swallowed, and pulled at her fingers. “If you was going to hurt him, why couldn’t I come?”
“Because innocent lives weren’t killed, nor sacrificed.” Peter said, without missing a beat, as if he wasn’t bothered that he could have upset Wanda.
Wanda swallowed, she would never get used to that. She liked Hero Peter, he was sweet, kind, friendly, he did what was asked, and comforted everyone, but then again... hadn’t it been Vigilante Peter who had calmed her down from a PTSD flashback? Vigilante Peter was vicious, mean, a monster, and yet was one of the most helpful people around. Hero Peter sugar coated, Vigilante Peter was brutally honest.
Vision held her close, “that was a bit harsh, Peter. I mean, you did burn the building.”
“I waited until everyone was out,” assured Peter. “Wouldn’t have lit the damn thing if there were innocent people in.”
Bruce pursed his lips, “and are those kids okay?”
“They’re fine,” Natasha assured, voice a bit blank and haunted.
Tony stared at Peter’s back. He looked at the muscles, he looked at the spandex that hugged the boy's arms and back, built like a fighter. “Peter... you know what you did was bad, right?”
Peter said nothing, “ask Scott.”
“What?” Asked Tony, confused.
“Scott, was what I did... bad?” Peter asked, not looking over.
Scott was silent, and small, his mind was clouded with thoughts of Cassie. What if that was Cassie in there? What would have happened? Anything. If the Avengers had gone, who knows who would have gotten hurt, who knows who would have lived or died, but it wasn’t. It was Peter. Peter Parker, who went into this as a vigilante, and if it had been Cassie, Scott felt safer knowing that Peter was out there to save his daughter. “In my mind,” Ant-Man finally said, “as a Father not a hero, Doctor Konstantin Sidorov got exactly what he deserved.”
Peter gestured to Scott, “and that is how parents will feel.”
“Not all,” Sam said, sternly.
“No,” agreed Peter. “But most. Aunt May nearly took a tire iron to Skip's head. Uncle Ben stopped her. Daredevil and Deadpool tortured and killed him.”
Rhodes sighed, and looked down. That was proof of Peter’s and Scott’s statement, people who do this to kids deserve it... and parents, some at least, felt the same.
“Peter...” Started Bucky, unsure if he could even continue, even ask what he wanted to ask. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times, like a gaping fish.
“Just say it Bucky,” Peter drawled.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to be a hero?” Steve tried, instead. Stepping in on behalf of Bucky.
Peter’s body tensed and coiled, “no.”
Thor raised a hand, trying to calm his comrades, “now, Peter knows what he’s doing. We cannot push him. He is doing more good down there, than he is up here.”
“You’re acting like the righteous hand of God!” Snapped Fury, slamming his fist down onto the table, ignoring the numb pain that seeped into his hand. It was times like this that he wished Doctor Strange was here to talk the boy down, to reason with the boy, but with the news that Peter had won, Strange stayed at The Sanctum.
It shook and rattled, and yet Shuri couldn’t grin about the stability of her design.
Peter scowled, “no, I’m not!” He snapped out with venom, “I’m just the devil that you forgot!” He turned, and slammed his hand down on the table.
The table shook, rattled, and then horrifyingly, the vibranium table split underneath his fist, cracking and falling to the ground in two, from the mere force of Peter’s strength.
Shuri’s heart dropped; there goes her table.
Peter’s hand clenched. If he was in pain he didn’t show it. “I’m not sorry for what I did,” he said, tone blank. “I’d do it again. But, we’re clearly not on the same page. Don’t you get, I’m a vigilante. If it’s to do with Queens, it becomes
my
responsibility, which switches it from Avengers Business to Vigilante Business, which means I will treat it as such, I will treat it like how it’s meant to be treated, as vigilantism!”
The teenager stood with his back straight, “and until you can accept that, I am done doing Avengers Business.”
Clint looked up and smiled, “hey Pete.”
Peter looked at Clint, eyes hard and annoyed, “what?”
“They know, they just don’t wanna accept it,” Clint explained, tone gentle and smiling slightly.
Peter frowned, and nodded, “I’m going out. Gonna see Double D.” He looked at Fury, and nodded, “and this is me, done.” He turned and walked out, the doors shutting down behind him.
They watched him and frowned. They knew, of course they knew, how could they not? They just hated it, Peter was meant to be the best... but, maybe he was? He wasn’t tied down to SHIELD, nor to the government, he worked outside the law and saved as many people as possible.
It was just difficult to remember, to accept. It was one thing to see the boy in action, yet a whole other thing to see him in his element. It was jarring. It was hard. But... Peter Parker is a vigilante, not a hero. And they knew that.
After all, it was Peter who got the job done. Not them, not the heroes. But Peter Parker, Spider-Man, not a hero, but a vigilante.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Shouta tucked his face into Hizashi’s chest. He clawed at the loose fabric of his husband’s t-shirt. The faint thump-thump of his heart under Shouta’s calloused fingers soothed him, but the noticeable slips of his mind undercut any comfort he was being given. Each blasted card that Kurogiri pulled from the little box and tacked, glued or taped around the whole of Japan was another memory, thought or skill that slipped between Shouta’s mental fingers. His thoughts were being scattered in real time and it was horrifying. His mind felt like a war zone, shells exploding around him with sharp shrapnel shooting off in each direction and all he could do was sprint away to hide. Only for him to be shaken to his core and to have to start all over again.
Frowning, he tried to remember why… this was all happening. He knew he’d done it to save his kids… But some part of him whispered that this
specifically
was some form of a punishment for him and Hizashi. But… as more sights were tacked up in some office building, Shouta couldn’t for the life of him remember what he did to earn them
this
. He nuzzled his pounding head into Hizashi’s collar bone.
“‘M sorry,” He mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”
The normally soft lips of his husband felt a touch scratchy from how chapped and roughed up they were. A cold hand tapped his forehead. Asking for a report in. He could do that.
“‘M okay, ‘Zashi. But, I’m sorry.”
Shouta’s boney pillow sighed, before sliding one hand out from around him and signed a quick, ‘Not your fault’ before tucking its way back around his shoulders.
Shouta melted into the slow circles massaging his shoulders. He closed his aching eyes only to jerk back from the sudden oppressive light that flooded a few of his new sights. Shouta waded his way back to Hizashi and his expression made Shouta pretty sure it was his turn to speak.
He wasn’t sure what… oh right.
“Okay. It’s not my fault.” He didn’t really believe it, but he did trust his husband. If Hizashi said it wasn’t his fault, he’d have to take his word on it. Shouta felt himself smile in response to Hizashi’s small smile. It was more of a grimace on both counts but this whole situation was kind of sucky. More so than normal.
… Or at least Shouta was pretty sure it was a touch worse. If this wasn’t a bit abnormal…. Shouta wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. Which was incredibly selfish of him. Putting all of the remembering on Hizashi wasn't fair. Focusing on his husband, he should make sure Hizashi was okay, he looked sad.
“You okay, love?”
His husband's face broke into a more genuine smile. It was a touch sad and lopsided but it crinkled his green eyes and showed the little gap between his front teeth. Shouta loved it, and brought a finger up to trace the smile lines that cut into his husband’s cheeks.
“I love you.” Shouta whispered. He might not remember everything, but he remembered that much. He’d always remember that much. And he wanted Hizashi to know it before everything was gone, and Shouta was ripped away.
Hizashi mouthed them back before kissing Shouta’s forehead. He hummed in response, letting the deep sound rumble in his chest like he was a cat purring. Leaning into the cat vibes, Shouta also nuzzled and rubbed his cheek against Hizashi.
Hizashi’s shoulders shook under Shouta’s cheek and soft breaths peppered his forehead as his husband laughed at him. Shouta glared only to realize that his face was not directed at Hizashi at all. He would shift to look up but that sounded like too much work only to show his dissatisfaction at being laughed at.
Shouta dropped the plans to glare at his husband. Half because he was lazy and very happy in Hizashi’s arms, and half because…. It was suddenly really fuzzy as to why he was grumpy at him in the first place. Shouta moaned as his headache ratcheted higher as more sights were added. Tears pricked at his eyes as he clambered closer to Hizashi’s chest. He felt
awful
and everything was confusing and it felt like he was falling into an endless pit.
Hizashi would catch him. He was the only one who ever could catch Shouta when he fell. Wait… that wasn’t right… there was … Nemuri. Right, she’d been able to help in the past. And there were flashes of light blue with puffy clouds…. The sky?? The sky could catch him… in the past? That didn’t sound right. Shouta shook his head, it didn’t make any sense.
Nothing made sense. He wanted to ask for clarification, but asking sounded really stressful. Once he’d asked his math teacher a question. She’d been patient but it had taken forever for him to understand. The whole class laughed and it was embarrassing. He’d rather just ask Hizashi later to clarify things, he was always good at explaining what the teachers said after the fact in a way that Shouta could understand. And then he wouldn’t have to waste the teachers time, or have the class laugh again.
“Can you explain the lecture to me later?” Shouta whispered. “I’m a little confused.”
Shouta felt, more than saw, Hizashi slowly nod. He also tightened the hug around him, which was really nice, and Shouta let out a happy sigh. “Thanks, you make everything better.”
Mentally drifting, Shouta felt a bit like a jellyfish in the open ocean. His head throbbed in the rhythm of the bell contracting, pushing him…. Somewhere. He felt like he was tumbling around being battered by the waves in his own brain. It was wildly unpleasant.
“I don’t want to be a jellyfish anymore, there are too many waves.” Shouta groaned. “It all makes my head hurt.”
Hizashi choked on a sob. Shouta frowned, turning to his husband. He was crying.
“Are you okay?” Hizashi bit his swollen and split lip before shaking his head. Tears beaded at the corners of his pretty green eyes, making them look like dewey spring leaves. Shouta wiggled up and kissed the few stray tears off his temple. The small smile that pulled at the edges of Hizashi’s abused lips made Shouta feel he’d won first place at the sports festival.
He… might have won that already? Things were getting
really
fuzzy.
“I think I’m losing things again.” Shouta felt dazed, maybe he won the sports festival but got a bad concussion? “Did I… hit my head?”
Hizashi shook his head and brushed his fingers gingerly through Shouta’s fringe pushing it back. He kept his cool palm against Shouta’s hot forehead, which felt heavenly. Leaning into the touch, Shouta watched as Hizashi’s eyes briefly dilated before becoming a pin-prick. It was very brief before evening out. It was fascinating, Shouta secretly wanted to watch it again, but his mind clicked into place, letting him focus briefly.
“Right. I’m getting a stupid amount of new sights.” Shouta grunted as he snaked a hand up to try to dig his nails into the buzzing cacophony that had burrowed into his mind. If he scratched deep enough he might be able to pull the ever present throbbing
awareness
of the locations, letting his mind have a moment's peace. Just as Shouta was feeling the bite of pain in his temple and his fingers felt a little wet, Hizashi snapped a hand out to move his hand from his face.
Shouta’s fingers were coated with blood. And the sight stole his focus for a very brief moment before all the other rooms and locations swirled around his mind making it hard to connect to the view of Hizashi sitting up, grabbing an already blood stained towel and wiping the blood off his hands. None of it felt real.
Shouta didn’t feel real anymore. He was just a faded photo, worn down by the elements, all his colours muted and running together.
“Sorry,” Shouta slurred out, his face strangely numb. “‘S my fault.”
The cool fingers of his husband's hands caressed his cheeks, prying Shouta’s head back. His neck cricked forcing Hizashi’s wrecked face to be in full view. Shouta ignored Hizashi mouthing ‘Not your fault. Never your fault’. Instead, he focused on the scab on his split lip. His focus narrowed in on how puffy and swollen Hizashi’s cheek was, how his glasses had a crack in them over the purple-black bruised eye.
Shouta used a single finger to trace the edge of the deep bruising over Hizashi’s cheekbone.
“Love, what happened to you?”
Hizashi removed the finger from his cheek and kissed it, before guiding it down to the front of his wrinkled and stretched out t-shirt. Shouta twisted his fingers up into the thin fabric.
‘I fought for you and I lost.’ he signed quickly.
“I am sure you did your best, I’m proud of you.” He closed his eyes with a groan, wishing he could shut out his vision. “Head hurts.”
‘I know.’ Hizashi signed, his face dripping with pity. ‘I wish I could offer you something to help.’
“No drugs?” Shouta couldn’t help but feel a small bubble of hope pop when Hizashi shook his head.
Watching silently as Hizashi just looked up at the ceiling from where they had been laying, Shouta let himself fade further. It was hard to fight the foggy confusion that was rolling around in his mind. But he knew he needed to try harder when Hizashi started to silently cry.
‘I’m sorry’ Hizashi’s eyes flicked over as he signed to Shouta.
“S’not your fault.” His voice was airy, as fake and floaty as he was, but he kept scrambling to try to focus on his husband, specifically his moving hands. He needed to be there for him.
‘It is my fault. It is all my fault.’ Hizashi’s face crumpled with emotion as he curled into Shouta’s side. He just wrapped himself around the silently sobbing man.
“Then, I forgive you.” He whispered as he massaged the base of Hizashi’s skull.
Whimpering as more sights were pulled out and tacked to a wall, Shouta felt himself trip and fall into the crevice that had split his mind in two. The vice grip on his temples finally split his skull open and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could deal with the pain. Hizashi slid his fingers between Shouta’s and squeezed.
Out of nowhere, Shouta had a moment of clarity and the horror of what was happening filled him to the brim. His mind was muddled and in disarray to a degree that made him nauseous. And being aware of it happening was a genuine nightmare. He wanted to let go and forget everything, but at the same time he couldn’t keep himself from grasping at the rocks and roots along the cliff's edge. He didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not ever. Not without his husband.
“I can’t do this again. I don’t want to lose my mind.” He sobbed.
Hizashi guided Shouta’s head to tuck under his pointed chin. A soft melody, that Shouta deep down knew he should recognize but didn’t, vibrated Hizashi’s chest. The song soothed the anxious creature that threatened to tear Shouta from the inside out. But the beast still lurked just behind his ribs.
“I… I was going to tell you something. But… I can’t remember. I can’t
remember.
” Shouta grabbed at the back of Hizashi’s shirt. “
Why can’t I remember?
”
‘Tell me later’ Hizashi mouthed before continuing his humming. Shouta was about to let himself be soothed by the lilting melody before pushing himself back from his husband. He fell off the edge of the thin futon and the ground was cool even through his thin clothes.
“No!” He regretted the loss of the warmth wrapped around him and the look of shock on Hizashi’s injured face (How did that happen? When did that happen? Who hurt him?... Had
he
done it?) “This was
important
. I needed to say it now. Before… before something really bad happened. But I can't
remember
.”
Shouta dug his fists into his forehead, trying to massage away the deep pain that had taken refuge in his head. It didn’t work. His mind flooded with the new location of a single man sitting in a cage. He looked lonely. It triggered a half formed thought in Shouta.
“Visit me.”
Hizashi’s eyes flicked all over Shouta’s face, confusion painted thick over the injured skin. His hand cupped Shouta’s cheek and his eyes dilated before becoming a pin prick, before evening out. Shouta wanted to ask how he did it, but the question was lost under the swirling thoughts that pushed their way forward. It was like the sun pushing through the clouds on a stormy day.
“I’m losing it, again.” he felt the words cascade out of him, not even sure where they came from, nor where they were going. He felt like a conduit for whatever his brain wanted to say, and he was in no shape to even try to stop it. “Bad. I’m so fuzzy and lost and confused and this is so much faster than last time. It’s
terrifying
. I want it to be okay and trust that I can be fixed like last time, but ‘Zashi…. I don’t know if I’ll survive this. I might not die, but G-d, love, I can barely focus and I don’t know if I’m even real anymore. I don’t know if I can be real again.”
Shouta focused on the bruises on his husband's face and continued in a hushed tone. “I think I hurt you… at least once, I’m not sure, and I don’t want to hurt you again. If I
ever
attack you, I want you to leave me. If I end up a vegetable or so confused I need constant care… just let me go. I don’t want to drag you down. Put me in a home. I don’t want to hurt you in any way, but if I … disappear… I can’t promise whatever is left of me won’t hurt you, so please, leave. I give you permission. Move on, find someone who can support you in the ways you need. If I can’t lift you up anymore, find another who can. I want that for you, okay? Promise if I start to drag you down, you’ll let me go.”
Shouta’s breath hitched as his eyes flooded with tears. “But… I’m… I’m also selfish. So… Visit me from time to time? Maybe… on my birthday? That’s all I ask. I don’t want whatever is left of me to be lonely, but I need you safe and happy
more
.”
Hizashi’s small over plucked eyebrows pinched in anger. He shook his head before dragging Shouta over the tangle of sheets on the futon, to be flush with his chest. Hissing through his teeth, Hizashi snarled. One arm hooked under Shouta’s side and Hizashi’s fingers clawed at his back. It was insanely possessive, and even Hizashi’s hand shook with frustrated possessive energy as he signed awkwardly with a single hand near their heads, refusing to let go with the other.
‘Never
. I will never promise that. I married
you
.’ His finger jabbed into Shouta’s shoulder, it bordered on painful. He continued to all but stab Shouta with his finger each time he signed ‘you’. ‘I said I would stand shoulder to shoulder with
you
. Thick and thin. Sickness and health.
You
and me. Anything could come my way and I will not break that promise.
You
make me happy. I love
you
. I am not going to dump you off to the side just because things get a little hard.’
“This isn’t just hard,” Shouta whispered, “this is impossible.”
‘I dragged you back once, I can do it again.’
Shouta furrowed his brows. “I… don’t remember that. But if you can’t do it… I want you to know it’s okay. I’m okay if you need to move on. I love you, and want what is best for you.”
‘You are what’s best for me. I’m not going to let you go.’ Hizashi’s hand shook. Shouta grabbed it, using his thumb to rub soothing arcs over the bruised skin peaking out from the ace bandage.
“Love, I’m
drowning
.” Shouta felt the oppressive pressure of the sights on his brain, it felt strangely warm like the friction of the sights over him gave him a fever. “This… this is faster and… hotter than last time. It’s cooking my brain. I’m just fried rice up there. And I think it's full on burning at this point. I… I don’t think I’m going to be able to come back from this one. At least… not all of me.”
Shouta found himself panting like an overheated dog. He felt clammy and overheated as sweat pooled over the dip of his spine on his lower back. The metallic bite of the smell of blood filled his nose before hot liquid ran out of his nose and down his cheek.
A sense of doom filled him as he was only tentatively aware of flashes of what was happening around him. Life became more like a slideshow with a few frames. Hizashi kneeling next to him. His husband gently dabbed blood off Shouta’s lip. A moist towel on his forehead. An offered chipped cup of water to his lips.
His head was full of cottony fluff and he wanted so deeply to just hide away from the horrible pain that surrounded awareness. But something in him nagged that he needed his husband to promise him… something.
“Promise me, ‘zashi.” He slurred out, his tongue felt full of cement. He didn’t even know what he wanted, but he knew it was important. “Promise.”
Hizashi looked conflicted and just flicked his eyes back and forth between Shouta’s. It was just long enough that Shouta was about to mentally let go, disappointed, when Hizashi leaned forward and slid both his hands into view.
‘I promise I’ll always love you and I will do anything I need to be by your side.’
Shouta only barely was aware of Hizashi's lips on his own. He smiled to himself. Hizashi’s promise helped lull him into the soft nooks and crannies that were hidden deep in his mind. Hizashi kept his promises, so he won’t be alone.
As he sank into a hazed out maybe-sleep, Shouta’s mind itched at Hizashi’s words. Even though they were sweet and incredibly comforting, he couldn’t help but feel that they were the wrong ones.
+++++
Hizashi tucked a loop of black hair behind his husband’s ear. The vacant, tattoo, scar covered face was gently cradled in one of Hizashi’s hands. Using a damp towel, Hizashi rinsed the snot, blood and tears off Shouta’s blank face. Hizashi traced the now clean lines etched and inked into his husband’s face. Pressing the back of his palm into Shouta’s sweaty forehead, Hizashi frowned. Heat radiated off his skin, the apples of his cheeks red with fever.
He’d have to keep an eye on that.
It had taken Shouta
hours
to fully fade. The number of sights slamming through his brain grew perfectly in proportion with how out of it and confused he got. The conversations varied from totally incomprehensible to cycling back to the same exhausting points as Shouta forgot again and again that they’d already talked about it.
It wasn’t Shouta’s fault this was happening. Shouta loved Hizashi a lot, and wanted to make sure he knew it and said it
hundreds
of times. He probably said some version of ‘I love you’ more in the last four hours than the man had verbally said it in the past fifteen years. He was too tired to cry over it again, but knowing that there was a chance that Shouta’s last words to him was ‘Are you okay? I love you’ felt special and precious. It was so Shouta, even feverish, confused, and having a horrible bloody nose, he was checking in with him.
Over and over they went over it all, Hizashi tried to stay patient through it all, but at times he was less than charitable. Especially when Shouta begged and pleaded for Hizashi to leave him since he was now a
burden
. That Shouta somehow was going to
drag him down.
That Hizashi would somehow be happier to just up and leave him.
There was no way in h— that Hizashi was going to leave Shouta. Not now, not ever.
Hizashi silently scoffed as he rolled his eyes at the memories. Shouta was self sacrificing to a f—ing fault, even as he sank deeper and deeper into the confused soup that was his mind. It hurt to watch his normally hyper-aware, intelligent husband stumble through the same questions and conversation points over and over. The points progressively became more disjointed, but Hizashi knew immediately what part of the horrible spiral they were in even if it was a few seemingly nonsense words. It ripped him to shreds how Shouta would apologize for being in pain, for suffering this all, not even being sure what was going on but somehow convinced it was his fault. It was hell watching Shouta fade out mid sentence or suddenly stop crying, the confusion clouding his eyes even further as he forgot why he was upset in the first place.
It was also frustrating that sometimes he’d latched onto an
insane
idea and wouldn’t let it go. For a good twenty minutes Hizashi had to argue with Shouta about how they didn’t leave the oven on and that their cat (which they didn’t have) wasn’t in danger of dying from the apartment burning down. Shouta tried to ‘get up to check’ only to flop gracelessly back onto the futon, unable to fully control his body at this point from how mentally detached he was. He’d started to sob uncontrollably and accused Hizashi of not caring about their cat. Which gutted Hizashi, and he’d been able to get Shouta to calm down by faking a phone conversation. He’d told Shouta it was Nemuri and mimed putting a phone to his ear with a granola bar. Shouta was confused that he couldn't hear her, but Hizashi had quickly lied and said it was a bad connection, but she could hear him.
Something about the way that Shouta readily trusted Hizashi’s lie twisted his gut. He felt like he was taking advantage of his husband’s confusion. But he also really needed Shouta to stop freaking out about an imaginary cat.
Shouta however, didn’t notice Hizashi’s conflicted feelings and mumbled out half sentences to Nemuri to check. At some point the mysterious cat had somehow morphed into ‘his children’ and how they were hellions and would burn the apartment down if they weren’t monitored. Especially the ‘zappy one’ and the ‘green one’, but keeping an eye on the ‘blasty boy’ would be good, as he “had anger issues but was a good kid deep down”. It was cute, and incredibly depressing. Even this scrambled Shouta was worried about his class.
A small portal grew next to the futon that the two of them were tucked up on. The evening dose of meds, a simple meal of fried rice, a bowl of thin broth, some slices of bread and some bottles of water slid out on a tray. Hizashi hooked up Shouta’s IV port to the pain meds. Shouta had already been a non responsive floppy puddle, but what little tension was left in him left as the drugs hit his system. Hizashi couldn’t help but be glad that Shouta was getting some sort of relief through this whole thing, even if it was just chemicals making it go away. Shouta had said over and over that his head hurt, so morphine might be a bit of an extreme choice, but it’d for sure make him not suffer. As the drugs slowly dripped into Shouta’s arm, Hizashi used the small package of bandages provided to patch up as many of the scrapes and deep scratches covering Shouta’s face and arms. His husband kept trying to dig at his skin, like he could personally scratch out the sights. All that actually came of the effort was some pathetic wrassling of Shouta every few minutes and a lot of bloody fingers and towels.
Once the IV was basically empty, he detached it. He then manhandled Shouta up into a slumped seat against the wall. With a gentle hand, Hizashi opened Shouta’s mouth and put the pills one by one on the center of his tongue. He then closed his mouth and held the bottle of water up to Shouta’s lips. He did end up swallowing all of the pills, but not before drooling half the bottle onto his already gross shirt.
Hizashi sighed as he wrangled the limp man out of the shirt. Shouta started to shiver, quickening Hizashi’s pace to the small quarter bath tucked behind a curtain in the corner of their glorified closet. There were no alternative clothes, but he could at least hand wash the shirt so it would be cleaner for his husband once it dried.
The bar of soap kept slipping out of his hands as he tried to scrub the shirt down. Hizashi wasn’t sure if it was just the nature of soap being slippery or how much his hands were trembling. The soap popped out from between his fingers again, this time escaping to the floor. Hot rage shot through him as he threw the sudsy shirt into the sink, it made a satisfying wet splat. His silent frustrated scream was nothing more than an airy breath as Hizashi stomped in frustration, slamming wet fists against his hips and thighs over and over again.
He caught himself on the edge of the basin sink as he tried to gather the wild emotions that tore through him. He sniffed back tears as he half watched the sink start to fill with the lukewarm water, since the shirt now blocked the drain.
It wasn’t fair. This all wasn’t
fair
. Hizashi was trapped in a nightmare that just kept getting worse, and worse, and somehow even
f—ing worse
. He wanted to help Shouta, but couldn’t
do
anything.
He couldn’t even clean a simple f—ing shirt. It was full of rust covered stains and would likely take hours to fully dry.
With a sigh, Hizashi pressed all his flyways against his ratty hair. His wet hand at least kept the small clump of hair that kept falling in his eyes out of the way for now. He should try to wash himself down at some point, but first he needed to finish with Shouta’s shirt. Picking it up, Hizashi was transfixed as he watched the water swirl down the drain. The bubbles caught the light just enough to shimmer with iridescent rainbows. It was such a normal thing, something that Hizashi would normally totally ignore, but something about the sight mentally pacified him.
Rinsing the shirt, Hizashi felt laser focused to the way the water cascaded down the powder blue cotton, the triangle of water forcing the suds off the fabric and down the drain. The soft sounds of the water flowing and the light gurgle of the drain forced the negative little voice in the back of his mind to be silent. He leaned towards the stream of the lukewarm water rushing over his normally cold fingers, the tingling warmth spread up his hands and to his elbows. Hizashi didn’t want to think too hard about the weird peace he’d found, but couldn’t help being a bit confused by it.
The strange and sudden pause to the cacophony in him didn’t end as he shut off the water. Nor did it stop when he started to wring the shirt out. It was cathartic as the fabric stretched under his hands, the water splattering into the sink. Hizashi felt a strange mix of feeling too grounded and floating as he spread out the wet shirt over the edge of the sink. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there and watched the blood stained blue shirt drip onto the ground, but by the time he turned to return to his husband the small dripped puddles had morphed into a full wet line on the floor.
The feeling of being disturbingly calm didn’t leave as Hizashi crossed back to kneel next to Shouta. He did however feel a distant twinge of emotion as he frowned. His husband had fallen over, no longer leaning against the wall, he was instead a limp mound half pressed against the wall. His cheeks were bright red, a stark contrast to the ghostly white skin and the black lines of tattoos. His milky eyes were half lidded and meandering aimlessly around the room. A soft pained whine accented each of his quick tempo of staccato breaths. His arms twitched and trembled in front of him as his nose started to slowly bleed again.
The whirlwind of emotions slammed back into Hizashi. As he started to hyperventilate and hot tears started to slice down his face, Hizashi had the distant thought that the peace must have been the eye in his emotional typhoon. He reached his shaky hands over Shouta’s tattooed chest, his fingertips ghosting over the patches of curled hair.
Hizashi wasn’t sure how to help whatever this was. He could try to go and right Shouta’s mind, but his efforts would be broken down faster than he could fix it. He’d already done his best to protect the little oasis they’d made in his husband’s mind, but the tent was smashed to bits in minutes and the memories were spread out under the storm of sights slamming into everything. The screaming was back, and it was nightmarishly unorganized and damaged. He didn’t stop doing regular checks and doing what he could, but staying for too long in his husband’s mind gave Hizashi a splitting migraine and the first time he’d tried to help he almost passed out from the pain.
Holding the stained towel to Shouta’s bleeding nose with one hand, Hizashi petted back Shouta’s sweaty hair with the other. His one guess as to what was happening was some serious form of extreme quirk exhaustion.
As a hero, his main training for quirk exhaustion was ‘get them to the hospital ASAP’ and as a UA teacher it was ‘get them to Recovery Girl, then be ready to then go to the hospital ASAP’. Quirk exhaustion was different for every quirk and was extremely messy. Specialists were regularly needed to be involved in resolving the issue, and keeping the external symptoms from causing harm to themselves or others. Hizashi frustratingly knew exactly why his husband would be suffering from quirk exhaustion. This wasn’t like when his student, Ikeda-kun, had keeled over apropos of
nothing
, mid English class and started having a glittery glow pulse out with his heart beat. Hizashi had found it shocking for the quiet support course student to just fall to the floor unconscious, but followed his training and lugged the kid to Recovery Girl, stat. He had also participated in the discussion with the kid when the teachers learned that he’d been trying to use his illusion quirk to create semi-corporeal copies of himself to double his productivity the week before the sports festival. It had been a shock and it took the teachers and doctors a few days to collect the information and get the kid to confess to the overwork.
Here and now with Shouta, there didn’t need to be an investigation. All that Hizashi needed to think of was the number that pounded at the back of his mind like a sickly mantra.
Seven hundred and fifty four.
Seven hundred and fifty four.
Seven hundred and fifty
f—ing
four.
And five hundred were added in less than a ten hour period. The first two hundred had been accumulated over months and left Shouta’s mind an absolute mess. So, of course, tripling the use of his quirks in such a short time would lead to a rebounding, crippling form of quirk exhaustion. It was also scrambling his head more than it already had been. Hizashi would move mountains for his husband, but all that he could do was hold Shouta’s hand every few minutes and off load the tiniest fraction of the strain on his brain. Hizashi slid his hand into Shouta’s and made a quick process of the inventory. He mentally scrapped, clawed and dragged as much of the overwhelming sensory input into his own mind.
Some of his husband’s mental pain slipped into the transfer and felt like a gut punch to Hizashi. It wasn’t audible, but Hizashi could’ve sworn he could have heard the screeching howls of his husband. Looking down through his cracked glasses at the slumped and limp man, HIzashi bit his lip.
He needed to slip into Shouta’s mind here soon, it had been… an amount of time. Too long, he’d spent too long having his weird peaceful breakdown over the sink. He needed to go in, but the idea of seeing first hand the damage… Hizashi wasn’t sure he could do it again. It might crush him.
Hizashi slowly shifted Shouta into a more comfortable position on his back, tucking him under the thin sheets, he hoped that would help tame the soft shivering. Brushing the dark hair back, Hizashi kissed the grey faded ornate eye that sat right in the center of Shouta’s forehead. It was one of the largest eyes, its iris was a spiral, and geometric lines branched out from the thick edges. Something about knowing that Shouta chose that eye to watch over their apartment warmed his chest. It was one of the sights closest to his actual eyeline and Shouta told him previously that he mentally was drawn to those ones more subconsciously. It was probably something about being used to having standard human eyes and subconsciously expecting to see from that area, as opposed to a location like the back of a calf or the inside of his wrist. Hizashi kissed the eye just to the side of his nose, which was watching over Shouta’s classroom. Cupping Shouta’s cheek, Hizashi checked the two sights that were the most important to Shouta.
Their apartment held a sleeping Nemuri, curled up on the couch. She’d come in hours ago and cried herself to sleep after she’d gone through and watered the plants and dusted a few of the shelves. Hizashi earlier had waited with bated breath as she got incredibly close to the sight. She however missed it and instead sat on the edge of their couch and started to cry. It made his heart ache seeing the bandages peeking out from under the edges of her shirt.
Hizashi wished he knew what exactly happened when the heroes raided the apartment. But knowing Nemuri was physically fine was the only positive in this whole mess. He had stabbed her, sure, but he still cared about her.
Switching his focus, Hizashi mentally watched the dark classroom. It was late, and no one was in Shouta’s classroom. The rows of desks and chairs were in perfect order, the room was immaculate, showing the care and diligence that Shouta’s homeroom class had. The only thing that was a bit odd was the teacher desk. It… looked like a shrine. Flowers, little knick-knacks and papers filled the whole top. There was a basket absolutely full of paper cranes, with strings of them cascading over the edge of the wicker basket and down the side of the desk. Little post-it notes covered the various things, likely giving credit to whoever left each little gift. There was also a beautifully hand painted image of Shouta in full eraserhead gear front and center.
The kids must have finally started mourning the loss of their teacher. Which was reasonable, it had been months. And yet, something about it hurt Hizashi to see. And from what Hizashi had seen, they also had yet to be reassigned to a new teacher, with a rotation of the other UA teachers taking the homeroom period. Nedzu likely kept it that way on purpose as the students, only after months of their teacher being missing, were beginning to mourn. From the stories from his husband, and his first hand experience, Hizashi doubted that reassigning Shouta’s hell spawn a new homeroom teacher right away would’ve been wise.
Hizashi was about to slip his hand away from Shouta’s cheek, when the door to the classroom cracked open, the safety lights from the hallway streamed in, half illuminating the desk-turned-shrine.
Creeping into the room was a familiar green haired teen. He was tip-toeing and looking over his shoulder like he was expecting to be caught. Midoriya must not see or hear anything, as he relaxed, slipping the door closed. The kid ambled into the mostly dark room and rolled one of the student chairs over to the desk at the front. He scrambled up into the chair and lifted his knees up and hugged them. From this angle, Hizashi couldn’t read Midoriya's lips, but it was obvious that the kid was talking.
It was also obvious the kid was crying from the way the moonlight made the tear tracks over the freckled cheeks shimmer.
Hizashi wished he knew what the kid was saying as he gave the painting a watery smile, but the sights didn’t include sound. Hizashi watched as the kid loosened from the curled tight ball and leaned back into the chair. The ex-hero smiled as he watched the kid’s head bob up and down as he slowly fell asleep. He didn’t know how Midoriya broke into the school late at night, nor what might happen when the kid was caught, but it was all cute, if not more than a bit sad.
Only a few minutes after the teen fell asleep, Bakugou of all people, walked in. There might not be any sound, but Hizashi couldn’t help but laugh at the huge visible sigh he heaved. It was like the blond teen was personally offended at the sight of the sleeping Midoryia. Which seeing first hand the headaches their weird messy relationship had created for his husband, might be the case.
Expecting Bakugou to kick the sleeping Midoryia awake, Hizashi was pleasantly surprised when the teen instead slowly started rolling the chair out and slowly shifted Midoriya into a piggy back ride. Hizashi had honestly never seen Bakugou be so gentle. The teen slowly lifted Midoriya up and started to walk out, only to pause and turn back, red eyes locking onto the painting. The words were clear as day on the kids lips from this angle.
“Come back soon, Sensei, They need you.” Bakugou hesitated before adding, “I need you.”
With that the kid turned and left the classroom. The only sign of the late night escapade was the singular chair left out of place.
Hizashi slipped his hand away from Shouta’s cheek, his own view of his husband filled his awareness. He’d left his friends, his students, his coworkers, everyone to find and help Shouta. He would never regret his decision, but a dull hollow ache filled him knowing that he was so far from all of them. Unable to comfort the crying Nemuri, and out of range to provide some guidance to the lost students. Instead all he could focus on was keeping Shouta alive until help came for the two of them.
Shouta’s pained gasp and blind anguished eyes shook Hizashi out of his stupor. His nose had started to lazily bleed again. It was likely past time for Hizashi to slip into Shouta’s mind and try to right as much of what had been obliterated under the stress. He’d only have a handful of minutes before he’d be overwhelmed himself, but it was the only thing that might help Shouta from totally collapsing under the weight.
Laying down, only half of him on the thin futon, Hizashi slid his thin fingers between his husband’s trembling ones. He let himself fall into the chaotic hell that would be his husband's abused mind.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Nightclubs were a huge phenomenon in the 1940s. They popped up all over America from grand scale to hole-in-the-wall venues. Orchestras played lively jazz and swing music while cocktails were poured and people danced their hearts out.
Jolie’s
was one of those big venues. Top performers of the decade crooned on that glittering stage as well as the occasional up-and-comer. It was the trendiest nightclub in the Brooklynn area and that’s where I found myself with the stranger named Marcus Danvers. Marcus, I had come to find, had a passion for Big Bands and champagne. Who would’ve thought? As we sat at our cramped little table drinking bubbly, he pointed out to me all the instruments and could name every song the band played. When we did hit the dance floor, Marcus proved to be a good dancer. It was evident that he was nervous, but I could tell he was having a good time. I was too. It surprised me. I hadn’t had fun in so long. I had found myself smiling more often as Marcus looked down at our feet, counting out the steps to an easy jitterbug.
There was still that part of me that was wary. Something inside me was against this fun. It said leave, return to Howard’s and stay there until he finds a way to get you home. I couldn’t go out dancing in 1943! Ludicrous! I didn’t deserve to have fun when my best friend, the man I had loved so much, was either dead or dying! I didn’t deserve to have fun in a foreign setting filled with potential lives I could ruin.
Fuck it. Fuck it all.
Howard said he didn’t know if I would ever be going back.
I
don’t even know if I will ever be going back. My life before I fell into Howard’s garden is nonexistent. I’m not the person I was before I touched the Time Stone. In these past few days, I have become a different person. I could start over; be the Macie Mitchell I always wanted to be instead of the Poison I was forced to be. A weight had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders. I was free. Free from the pain and the hurt and the disgust I felt inside my soul. When I look in a mirror, I wouldn’t see an ugly monster, I would see a beautiful mutant. I would be the sweet, yet “quite intimidating” woman Marcus revealed he thought me to be.
Marcus and I clumsily danced for a few hours. He drank as much champagne as times we were on the dancefloor and I could tell it was going to his head. His pale complexion became flushed and he had to sit down for a time. I didn’t mind. I know new enough basic steps to move from partner to partner. I was having a ball. I don’t think I had ever had so much fun.
As the crescendo of an Andrews Sisters song ended, the beginning of a Rodgers and Hart ballad started. I knew it instantly as I was spun around by another faceless soldier. I lost my grip on his hand and then my balance. Before I hit the ground, a pair of hands gently surrounded my waist. I stiffened instantly.
“Whoa there! Don’t go fallin’ for me now,” a man chuckled. I turned around and found myself looking up into a pair of icy blue eyes. James Buchanan Barnes cocked his head in slight surprise when he saw me. No doubt remembering me from the alley. “Well, if it isn’t the mysterious lady doctor.”
I tried to find words, but they escaped me. James Barnes smiled and took my hand, tightening his other arm around my waist. We didn’t say anything. We just danced, swaying to the melody of “Where or When”. I looked everywhere but at him. I tried to find Marcus, but it was too crowed in the club.
It seems we stood and talked like this before
We looked at each other in the same way then,
But I can’t remember where or when.
“Kismet,” he finally said.
“Excuse me,” that finally got my attention.
The clothes you’re wearing are the clothes you wore.
The smile you are smiling you were smiling then,
But I can’t remember where or when.
James Barnes grinned, “Kismet. Fate. It was destiny that caused you to help Steve before and now it’s fate that we are here dancing together. In this crowded club of all places? Funny, isn’t it?”
Funny? I knew it wasn’t fate. I didn’t believe in fate or destiny. You made your own choices in life. It was my choice to help the boy who turned out to be Steve Rogers. That wasn’t fate. I choose to go out dancing. That wasn’t destiny. But I didn’t choose to be dancing with James Buchanan Barnes. That was unexpected. Kismet… But why not? Maybe all of this was my preordained destiny. Kill my sister, kill my father, join the Brotherhood, kill loads of people, join the X-Men and become a good guy, get kidnapped, watch my best friend as he slowly died…
I looked up at James Barnes and sent him a disgustingly sweet smile. “You tell all the girls that?”
Some things that happened for the first time,
Seem to be happening again.
“Only the pretty ones.”
And so it seems that we have met before
And laughed before
And loved before,
“Really now? So, you’re saying you could use that line on any pretty girl in here and she’d be putty in your arms?”
“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?”
But who knows where or when.
“Oh my god,” I muttered. “You’re a real piece of work.”
“Well, you got to be a little upfront to get what you want in life.”
“You know, I’m a little dizzy from all the dancing.”
I pulled myself away from the man I had thought so much of when I was growing up. That’s the thing about meeting your heroes…sometimes they aren’t quite the people you imagine them to be. I didn’t say one more word to James Barnes. The feminist in me raged. Sometimes I forgot what era I was in. Women here were not treated the same way as they were in 2008. We were still thought of as the lesser gender; only good for household work and bringing up the children. But hey, if you have a pretty face, you could be a secretary or a nurse. I was stomping out of the nightclub before I even realized I was doing it. My autopilot was telling me to flee. I didn’t worry about my bag. There was nothing really in it Howard couldn’t replace.
It was chilly outside. Mid spring. By the time I was on the sidewalk, I realized that, since I left my purse, I had no money to use for a cab. Groaning, I began walking. There had to be a free phone around somewhere I could use.
“Hey! Hey, Doc Lady!” I kept walking. My pride would not let me turn around and face the man I walked out on. The sound of his feet hitting pavement grew louder as I came to a stop at a corner. James Barnes came up next to me panting. “You walk fast, sweetheart,” he chuckled.
Sweetheart?!
I growled and booked it across the street. James Barnes called out to me again. When we were outside a café, I whirled around, “What do you want?”
“Hey now, don’t flip your wig.”
“What do you want,” I asked again, crossing my arms.
“Look, I’m sorry, for what I said,” his shoulders hunched as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Then why’d you say it?” James Barnes looked stumped. It was like I had been the first woman to run off on him. “You can’t just treat women like damsels – like – like – meat. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”
“Something like that,” he muttered. “Again, I’m sorry. I’m shipping off soon and I just got caught up, ya know?”
“No. I don’t.”
I started walking off when I felt James Barnes grab my elbow. His hand was warm against my cold skin. I just yanked away. “Whoa,” he backed away with his hands up. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you.”
I rubbed my arms. For some reason, I couldn’t look at him. “I just – I don’t like people touching me without my permission,” I confessed slowly.
“Can I take you home,” he asked with sincerity in his voice. “It’s cold out and looks like you don’t know where you’re going.” He was right. I had no idea where I was. Howard’s mansion was outside the city limits, but I wasn’t sure which way to go or how long it would take me to get there. Lost and alone in an unfamiliar place. Story of my life.
I accepted the soon-to-be war hero’s offer. He even extended his arm, but I declined to take it. I already put up with dancing and I didn’t want to touch him again. Touching meant familiarity and familiarity meant getting close. Dancing was close enough. Despite my brain screaming at me, I did not want to get to know the man who would perish in the war, no matter how handsome he was, because in the end, he would die, and I knew I couldn’t change that. It was so odd, walking next to a dead man. He looked so young and happy. James Buchanan Barnes had these lovely lips that turned up in a perpetual little grin and his eyes were bright and full of exuberance. It made me sad to think that he would eventually pass into history.
We didn’t talk until he flagged down a cab when we were back near the club. It was still in full swing but James Barnes did not look back in longing once. He could have gotten me the cab and that would’ve been it. But he slid in next to me, perfectly content in leaving at that moment. My lack of conversation did not deter him. James Barnes told me his entire life story (one I already knew from my comics and history books). He mentioned growing up in Brooklyn and his relationship with Steve, his parents and sister, basic training and being promoted to Sergeant. I listened more intently than I thought I would. His voice was soft, and I could hear the admiration he had for those closest to him. On that ride I learned that James Barnes, if anything, had a genuinely good heart.
As the cab pulled up to the gate of the Stark mansion, my companion was gawking out the window. “You live here,” he asked incredulously.
“More like crashing temporarily,” I replied as I got out of the cab.
He leaned over, head out the door, “So – uh – then are you and Howard Stark…?”
I snorted. “No! Howard Stark and I are
not
that. He’s…” I thought about what he was to me for a moment. Definitely not a lover. No. I was never attracted to the suave performer type. He was certainly not a captor and he didn’t treat me like a lab rat. Sure, sometimes he looked at me like I was crazy, but he took me in with ease. He helped me get used to life here. He was there when I woke up screaming and he was there when I shut down. “…he’s a dear friend.”
James Barnes looked, dare I say, relieved. “So, if you’re not – an item, just friends, he wouldn’t mind me asking if I could write to you?”
That caught me by surprise. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I got people to write to and all, but I want to get to know you. I’ve wanted to since that day in the alley. It doesn’t have to be personal! Just the little things.”
“Little things,” I whispered to myself. I gave James Barnes a sad smile. “I don’t think you’d like the little things.”
“Just give me a chance, sweetheart. I’ll only keep pestering you. I know where you live now.”
I don’t know why I gave in. Maybe it was his smile or the way he bit his bottom lip when he asked me a question or maybe it was the annoyed harrumph from the cab driver. I got a pen from the driver and wrote my name and address on James Barnes’ hand. This man, this historical figure, a man I shouldn’t have ever met, wanted to get to know me.
If you don’t let people in, your life will become something not worth living.
Logan, of all people, told me that. I did tell myself I could start over. I owed it to myself and to those I left behind. I wanted to be someone better than I used to be when – if – I eventually got back. And, I may never see him again, but James Barnes might just be the salvation I needed.
“There’s your chance.”
“Macie Mitchell,” he muttered with another grin on his face. The cab driver revved the engine and I stepped back.
“Goodbye, James Barnes.”
The cab pulled away before he had even closed the door. My mind felt cloudy as I walked through the side gate and up the path to the mansion. I had to knock on the front door a few times before Mr. Jarvis opened it. He didn’t seem surprised to see me shivering in the cold sans purse. With no questions asked, I marched right down to Howard’s lab.
“I want to meet Doctor Erskine.”
Howard was testing out his latest experiment for the Allies when he jolted. A bullet hurtled towards him and hit the slab of glass protecting him. It got lodged about halfway through as a string of spider web-like cracks disfigured the surface. “Damn,” he muttered.
“Did you even hear me,” I asked, rolling my eyes.
“Dollface, wasn’t it your idea to stay a ghostly partner? Something about space and time or however you so expressively put it.”
“Butterfly Effect,” I muttered dismissively. “It’s different now, Howard.”
“What changed your mind? Was it a soldier,” he laughed.
“What – no it –” the image of James Buchanan Barnes smiling crossed my mind, “what if I was brought here to help? Maybe I’m not supposed to sit around and do nothing.”
“You do things,” Howard waved his hand at me lazily. “You go through my files. You patch me up after my experiments.”
“That’s not good enough anymore. Howard, I want to help. Please. Let me meet Erskine. Between history and the files you give me, I know everything about Project Rebirth. I can be an asset.”
“Macie…are you sure? There’s no going back from this.”
I took in a shaky breath, “Yes. My mind is made up. Screw history. I’m doing this.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Shepard had never expected a long life. But out of all the ways she could have died until now, this was probably the most humiliating way to go.
It was a sort of cruel irony, that with all the faith she’d ever placed in humanity, in
people
- and all that had been gained because of it - that she finally lost her life because of her unshakable belief that people, in general, were good. But as she lay in her own blood, unable to even blink, she wasn’t sure why she’d ever expected anything else of that
fucking
Templar. She really hated him, for making her final thoughts one of such disappointment in the human race.
She also hated him for not making a better job of finishing her off. He could have quite easily executed her with a stab to the heart or a headshot; leaving her to bleed out was cowardly, and leaving her paralysed, with an overwhelming sense of helplessness as she awaited her death, was cruel. She could still hear the battle raging on around her, could hear people dying, alone and scared, and there was absolutely
nothing
she could do about it. She could only listen, as her vision blurred and her mind became foggy, and try in vain to move her stiffened limbs.
“Shepard?” she was sure she heard a voice call in the distance, but that couldn’t be right; she could dimly recognise it as a woman’s voice, but she didn’t
know
any women here, least of all any who would want to help her. “Shepard!” the voice called again, more desperate now, and she felt hands on her, pushing her body so she now lay face-up and looking on at what was, in that moment, the most beautiful sight in the world; a terrified-looking Asari in mage robes.
“’Ee-ara?” she managed to croak, somehow forming the smallest of smiles on her frozen lips.
“Shepard!” Liara exclaimed, a small amount of relief breaking through on her face. “By the Goddess, what’s happened to you?!”
She tried to say ‘long story’, but it just came out a garbled string of syllables, and Liara’s face clouded again as she looked her over. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I—it’s okay,” she said, reassuring herself more than Shepard. “I saved one medigel for emergencies - and if now isn’t the time to use it, I don’t know what is.” She rummaged around in her pack, pulling out a familiar sachet, and gently pushed aside the fabric of Shepard’s clothes, tentatively inspecting the wound. “I… well, this isn’t so bad,” she said, a little surprised. “You aren’t run through; it’s just caught your side. Why are you lying here? I’ve seen you walk with worse than this.”
Shepard would have glared if she could; did Liara think she’d just chosen to lay down in the street rather than deal with her injuries? “Ala-is!” was the word she formed, and Liara frowned at her. “
Ala-sis
!” she repeated, more forcefully, and realisation dawned on Liara’s face.
“
Oh
,” she said. “Some sort of paralysis reagent?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that should wear off soon enough. Do you… still want me to use the medigel?” Liara asked hesitantly, looking at her precious supplies - Shepard had taught her a little too well, it seemed. “One grunt for yes, two for no.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Alright. Here,” she said, quickly plucking some more supplies from her pack and applying a makeshift dressing to the wound, bandaging tightly around her waist to apply pressure to her injury. “The city’s a mess; we need to get to safety. Sorry about this,” she said, gripping her under her arms and pulling her to her feet; Shepard’s knees buckled under the weight of herself but Liara had her, hoisting her up onto her shoulder, and Shepard could feel the faint buzz of Liara’s biotics as she carried her.
What Liara lacked in brute strength she made up for in sheer grit, and she managed to haul her Commander safely out of the city and to the Wounded Coast before her legs threatened to crumble beneath her. Even then she persevered, and Shepard could practically hear the scream of her muscles as she carried her, with heavy breathing and laboured steps, further along the coast. Shepard would have shouted at her to stop if only she could have formed coherent words, but as it was Liara didn’t rest until they’d reached a cave along the coastline; she dropped Shepard to the floor before sinking down next to her, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her brow.
“By the Goddess,” Liara said between shaky breaths. “You’re a lot heavier than you look.”
“’anks.”
All in all, it took a little over an hour for Shepard to regain full functionality; gradually she was able to wiggle her toes, then feet, then she was able to push herself up into a sitting position, though doing so felt as draining as fighting a Thresher Maw. Her words were one of the last things to come, and when she could finally speak properly it was with a hoarse voice and stiff tongue.
“We need to get back,” was the first thing she said, and Liara looked over at her friend as though she’d gone insane.
“Why?”
“The city,” she said, keeping it succinct whilst sentences were still a struggle. “We need to help, need to—”
“Shepard; the city is lost,” Liara cut in, placing a hand on Shepard’s forearm. “I’m sorry, but there’s no saving Kirkwall.”
“We can try.”
“You can barely sit up straight; how are you going to save an entire city?”
That was true, but the paralysis potion was wearing off by the minute; surely it was simply a case of walking it off. With a disproportionate amount of effort she hoisted herself up onto her feet; her legs felt like jelly, but she still managed to put her hands on her hips and stare Liara down.
“See?”
“Congratulations; you can stand,” Liara said, sounding distinctly unimpressed; she exhaled slowly through her nose before trying once more to persuade Shepard. “Please, just— sit down and let me have another look at that injury.”
“I’m
fine
, I just—”
“You’re not fine!” Liara snapped, jumping to her feet too, and Shepard was momentarily taken aback by the anger in her tone. “Goddess, why do you always have to be—” she began, but then cut herself off abruptly as she glared at her feet. When she spoke again it was with a voice that shook with suppressed emotion. “I haven’t seen you in months. I thought you were dead,
again
. And then I find you, and you don’t even care! You don’t ask how I’ve been, you don’t even say hello; all you want to do is want to run off and play the hero!”
The words were like a physical blow to Shepard, knocking all the fight out of her and leaving her guilt clawing at the wall she’d built in front of it. She was right, of course. Here was her friend, who she’d feared lost for so long, and she’d barely looked at her twice; there were people to save, adventures to be had, and all else had paled in comparison to that. Commander Shepard: soldier, hero, shitty friend. They’d probably engraved that on her tombstone back in the Milky Way.
“Hello,” Shepard offered, which was a terrible way of apologising, but it seemed to soften Liara ever so slightly. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been living in a cave,” she said pointedly, nodding in the direction of a tattered bedroll and a worn-out fire.
“You’re an archaeologist; I thought you loved caves.” Liara shook her head as a small, humourless laugh escaped her lips, and Shepard cursed her inability to maintain a serious conversation. “I’m sorry. I know people here must’ve been…”
“Unspeakably cruel?” Liara finished the sentence for her. “You know, it was weeks before anyone even spoke to me before attacking. When he did he wanted to bargain with me for riches like I was some genie from a lamp. Then he tried to set me on fire.”
She didn’t really know what to say that; whatever she had experienced in the Circle surely must have paled in comparison to how Thedas reacted to a blue woman, and she didn’t trust herself not to be glib once more. There was only one way she could think to respond; she stepped forward, arms outstretched, and Liara didn’t hesitate in stepping forward too, ducking to rest her head on her shoulder as they embraced. There was no need for words in that moment; it was enough just to hold each other and to be reassured that the other was real, and that they were finally no longer alone.
“I’m sorry,” Shepard eventually repeated, because there was really nothing else she could offer. “I really have missed you,” she added, just about able to keep the crack out of her voice - but she owed it to Liara to be serious just this once. “I was so worried that I’d never see you again.”
“I missed you too,” Liara mumbled. “And I worried. I know it can’t have been easy for you either in the Circle.”
“Well, it wasn’t a bundle of laughs, but at least… wait,” Shepard paused as she relinquished her grip on her friend, brow furrowing as her brain caught up with Liara’s words. “How do you know I was in the Circle?”
“I met a friend of yours on Sundermount about a month ago. Thankfully he didn’t try to kill me on sight.”
“My friend?” Shepard repeated, baffled. Until tonight there had only been one person in the whole of Thedas she might have counted as such, but then he’d tried to kill her; clearly he didn’t share her sentiment. “You don’t… surely you’re not talking about Cullen?”
“No,” Liara said, and though Shepard wasn’t surprised her heart sank regardless. “His name was Anders.”
“
Anders
?!” Shepard repeated, unsure what to feel at that revelation. She’d suspected he hadn’t even bothered to look for Liara; the fact that he had ought to have made her feel grateful, but he’d hidden the discovery despite her palpable fear for her friend. Of course, mere hours ago he’d proven himself capable of much worse than a lie of omission. “How did that possessed bastard manage to—no, you know what; let’s do this properly,” Shepard stopped as she realised she was getting too far ahead of herself, and her legs were beginning to shake. With a sigh she sank down onto the ground once more, gesturing for Liara to sit beside her. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
And so she did. She told her of her escape from the Deep Roads, which had lasted significantly longer than Shepard’s; by her calculation she was already at Wildervale by the time Liara emerged. After that, there were a lot of humans who tried to kill her, none of whom survived their encounter with the Asari. But whilst she could deal with stray soldiers and the ever-changing weather, the thing that really threatened her was the lack of a solid food source. There was only so long she could scavenge from the outskirts of towns, and raiding caravans would just bring unwanted attention; starving, she’d taken a risk, and snuck into the Dalish camp on Sundermount one night.
She’d been caught by the Dalish in her raid, but Shepard was pleasantly surprised when the story took a turn for the better at that. Apparently whatever suspicion the Dalish had for humans did not extend to Asari, and rather than be scared of the blue woman they were fascinated, inviting her into their camp as a guest and sharing their resources with her. She’d had a brief respite with the elves, learning of their culture and explaining her own to them; they’d also told her, much to Liara’s relief, that Shepard was still alive, though they had no idea where she’d gone after escaping the clutches of some Templar.
Then Anders had appeared, as he’d accompanied Hawke and the clan’s old First on a mission, claiming to know Shepard and to be working towards her freedom, and that should have been the happy ending right there. But things were never that straightforward. Hawke’s mission had gone south, resulting in a dead Keeper and clan of pissed-off elves who made the fatal error of fighting the Champion in their grief. Liara had survived the madness, barely, and Anders had instructed her to lay low until the time came when he could assist Shepard to freedom. And so he’d left her on the Wounded Coast, alone once more, with regular packages of food and books and the same vague promises he’d made to Shepard about the other’s safety. His last package had come that evening, with a clear, ominous message that Shepard would be free that evening, and that Liara should look for her ‘once the dust settled’.
“And that’s how I found you,” she finished. “I couldn’t wait, so I headed for Kirkwall as soon as I got the message. I was just trying to figure out how to get into the city discreetly when I saw the explosion; no-one gave me a second glance after that.” She smiled, but Shepard didn’t return it; she’d been growing gradually more uneasy as her story had unfolded, and now her stomach was an awful twist of knots she’d never loosen. Liara’s smiled faltered as she sensed her discomfort. “You seem troubled.”
“I should have come for you,” Shepard mumbled. “You’ve been out here all alone, and I’ve just been fucking around in the Circle. I had a way out of the Gallows; I should have just used it, phylactery be damned.”
“You had no idea where I was,” Liara said soothingly. “Even if you did, you would have led the Templars directly to me.”
“So? We could have fought them. I
should
have fought them, but all I did was—”
“Shepard,” Liara interrupted her, placing a hand on hers. “I’m fine now. I’m with you.” That still didn’t reassure her; there were few places in the universe less safe than Commander Shepard’s side. “So, what about you?” Liara continued, clearly trying to distract her. “The Dalish said you escaped the Templar who captured you. How did you end up in the Circle?”
“By not killing that
fucking
Templar the moment I met him,” she grumbled, as Liara arched an eyebrow at her.
“That sounds personal.” Shepard grunted but said nothing, but still Liara persisted. “What happened?”
Shepard groaned, distractedly toying with her braid as she thought back to her first meeting with the Knight-Captain. It seemed like forever ago now; she might have guessed back then that their acquaintance would end with him trying to kill her, but she never would have thought she’d feel so
betrayed
because of it. “I ran into a Templar who’d been ambushed by Tal-Vashoth along the Wounded Coast, saved his stupid life. Turned out to be the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, and he repaid me by corralling me into the Circle. I mentioned you in passing, and he tricked me into thinking you were being held at the Gallows. I ran directly into his trap.”
“Smart. But catching mages is his job.”
“He was the one who did this to me,” she said severely, indicating to her injured side. “The fucking Knight-Commander ordered my execution, and he barely hesitated. I saved his ass,
twice
, and all I got for my trouble was yet another scar.”
“Yes, but again, he’s a Templar. He’s just another enemy on a battlefield; why are you so bothered by it?”
“Because I thought he was better than that,” she snapped, surprising even herself with her anger. She groaned again, just to clear the lump in her throat, as she pulled out the phylactery from her breast pocket and glared at it. What a wonderfully empty gesture
that
had turned out to be.
“You liked him,” Liara surmised.
“He was alright. For a Templar,” she shrugged, and Liara rolled her eyes. “Here,” she said, brandishing her phylactery at Liara. “You should have this. In case we get separated again.”
“This… is a phylactery?” Liara asked, inspecting the little glass vial with great interest, and Shepard nodded as Liara took it from her. “Anders said this was why you couldn’t just escape. How did you get it?”
“I got given it.”
“By your Templar friend.”
“He was not my
friend
,” Shepard bristled. “Friends don’t stab friends in the back. Or flank.”
“
Shepard
,” she chastised, in a tone oddly reminiscent of Shepard’s mother. “You haven’t seen your wound properly. I have, and it’s not deep - not at all.”
“What’s your point; that he’s a bad shot?”
“That I don’t think he intended to kill you.”
That gave Shepard pause. She hadn’t given too much thought to the fact that she was still alive; her brushes with death were so frequent that they were almost mundane by this point. But now Liara mentioned it, it was rather surprising that he hadn’t managed to kill her at such short range. She tugged at the fabric of her shirt - she had refused, point blank, to wear mage robes for the past few months - pulling it up so she could get a proper look at her injury. She bit her lower lip as she peeled back Liara’s dressing, skin tender as the bandages tugged at the wound, and it might not have been fatal but it certainly wasn’t great; eight inches long and one deep, blood already clotting to try and knit the skin together. Chakwas could’ve sewn it up in a heartbeat, but without stitches it was going to be damn ugly when it healed.
“He may not have wanted to kill me,” she said slowly, pressing the bandages back down with a wince. “But he left me bleeding out and paralysed in the middle of a burning city. He obviously didn’t care too much about whether I lived.”
“Fine,” Liara sighed. “Be stubborn and angry if you want. But it sounds to me like you ran across the one decent Templar in all of Thedas.”
“Whatever. It’s irrelevant now; I’m never going to see him again, and good riddance,” she said, trying to convince herself that was true, though it sounded weak even to her. Because, in all honesty, she was going to miss him. She hadn’t sought him out all those times in the Circle just for information or to annoy him; she’d done it because - as Liara had seen in an instant - she had liked him, had enjoyed his company. But right now it was easier to be angry with him. The alternative was worrying about his fate in the wreckage of Kirkwall; with the way Meredith had looked at him, fury contorting her into someone that barely seemed human, rioting mages were probably the least of his concerns. “We really should go back,” Shepard mumbled, more to herself than to Liara.
“What do you think you can do there?” Liara asked, but there was no anger in her tone now; her voice was soft, almost pitying, and somehow that was worse.
“I don’t know,” Shepard said, frustrated beyond belief at her lack of options. She couldn’t even walk to the city right now, let alone fight a horde of Templars, and the chaos had been raging for several hours now. But she still wanted to try. “Just…
something
. The Templars ordered some Rite to kill all the mages there - we can’t just let that happen.”
“You can’t save everyone,” Liara said quietly. “We learnt that at Thessia.”
Shepard knew there was no accusation, no resentment, in those words; she only meant to remind of the fact she was human, with human limitations. But they still hit hard. “Thank you, Liara, for reminding me of my abject failures. Feel free to bring up Virmire whilst you’re at it.”
And Tuchanka, and the coup on the Citadel, and the thousands of bodies that had littered the streets of London as they’d fought in their final push. “You know that’s not how I meant it,” Liara said, her voice swimming through the images Shepard’s mind was currently flashing at her. “Thessia and Virmire weren’t your fault, and neither is this.”
“I could have stopped Anders earlier today - I had the opportunity to kill him, but—”
“But you didn’t, because you always give people a chance. And overall, that has saved more lives than not.”
Shepard wasn’t at all convinced by Liara’s math, but she was too tired to argue the point any further; she rubbed her eyes, desperately trying to dislodge the image of fire engulfing Lowtown. “Then what do you suggest, T’Soni?” she asked, forcing herself to look ahead once more.
“Going home.”
Home
. It was strange; now she was back with Liara home should have felt closer than ever, but in reality it had never seemed further away. She barely even understood where they were right now; parallel universe was the explanation Shepard had finally settled on, but she wasn’t a scientist and had no idea whether that was actually correct. And if it was, how were they supposed to cross universes? They didn’t even have electricity.
“Great. Any bright ideas as to how?”
“We’ll figure something out. You always figure something out, Shepard,” Liara said with a smile, and the faith she placed in her even now was a little unnerving. “But, first thing’s first - you should rest. Tomorrow we’ll move on. I’ve been doing as much reading as I can, and I think Tevinter might be a good place to start.”
“A land of abominations, slavery and blood magic. Sounds fun.”
“And the best wine in all of Thedas, apparently.”
“Well, if that’s the case, what are we waiting for?”
Liara chuckled, briefly turning from Shepard to root through her small pile of belongings; she pulled out a roughspun blanket which she handed to Shepard, then set about lighting a fire. Shepard pulled the blanket around her shoulders, curling up against the comfiest looking rock in the cave before she finally gave into exhaustion and allowed her eyelids to flutter closed.
That night, she dreamt of a burning city, and of golden curls stained with blood.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Ace laughed as Marco spun him around, the blond following along to keep leading and making sure to gently guide him through the steps on the music they were dancing to.
He always liked dancing with Marco, it made him forget the world in a way that he used to only have with his parents and brothers. It felt like he was a teenager again, dancing with his mother in the kitchen to Latin music from her home country. Or standing on the feet of his dad at his uncle's wedding and laughing the whole time.
Dancing had been a large part of his life in the Portgas-Gol household and it was the first thing that stopped once his dad got sick. The cancer was aggressive and before long the larger than life man who had been dancing with his wife and children at every moment was laid in bed, given months to live as they all had to watch him rot away.
It had taken a long time before Ace had even been willing or able to dance again. He hadn't felt like it when his dad died, and even less so when his mother's grief almost took her away too. She was never quite the same and every memory he had of them seemed tainted by the memories that came after. Which is why dancing had been so hard, he hadn't wanted to start it up again for the longest time and not even his younger brothers offering to go with him had him changing his mind.
Until college, until he went away from home (not that it had been home, even if it had been the house he grew up in) to study and to get away from it all. He had been eighteen, studying to become an engineer, when he met Thatch (who had been Marco's brother) when the other man was his roommate in the dorms.
They hit it off well enough and before long he had a friend when he hadn't had anyone except his brothers for so long. The conversation on parents had happened at one point and Ace had to admit he had been drunk and just shared the whole story. Thatch didn't say anything, but he did give Ace the details on a dance studio on the other side of town, "My big brother goes there, he couldn't dance for his life but he loved doing it anyway. It's more freestyle then anything else, but I have been told it's fun and a way to just let go. You don't have to do anything with it. But don't think about it too hard, alright, Ace?"
The card stayed in his wallet for a long time, he didn't know what to do with it and while he wanted to go and look, he was scared of what would happen once he arrived there. So, he waited, until one night he had nothing to do and figured it couldn't get any worse then this.
Inside the club were large wooden floors and mirrors. A lot of people were in there, from all kinds of backgrounds and obviously with all kinds of dancing styles too. It seemed refreshing and new in a way that Ace hadn't believed he needed. But he kept to the side, not feeling up to dancing but wanting to see what happened all the same.
Everyone of those in the club were laughing and joking, being paired off at random it seemed as soon as music started to play. He didn't know how it happened, until he saw an older lady in a wheelchair holding a hat in her hands which she used to pull names out of. He was intrigued and moved closer. Seeing more than one person looking at him, a nod or a smile being send his way.
"So, you going to join or not, newbie", the older man asked when he stood next to her.
Flushing bright red, Ace stammered a few times before asking how it all worked. Finding that Elder Nyon had been the founder of the club back in the 50s when there hadn't been anything like this around. She liked to dance but as someone who didn't want to gain anything from it the other clubs weren't meant to be. She just wanted to have fun and that was still the staple of the club even now.
Pointing at a couple of the dance floor, she mentioned, "You put your name in the hat and I pull two names each time the music changes. You can dance however you want but it's nicer to be together and just let the music guide you. Be warned that I don't match up a girl and a boy each and every time."
Shrugging, he mentioned not minding, telling her he used to dance with his mom and his dad, as well as his brothers. Gender didn't really matter, but he did want to enjoy dancing again.
Ace didn't add his name in that night, but he did stay and watched. Writing down his name for the next time and grinning a little at the thought of coming back.
The first time he did dance was with Marco, the blond stepped forward as soon as his name was called, grinning as he held out his hand to Ace. Whatever Thatch had said about his brother didn't appear to be true as Marco was a great dancer, leading Ace through the steps and allowing him a way to clear his head without feeling guilty because of it. Merging into the crowd once they're turn was over and Marco still hadn't let go of his hand, "I take it you're Thatch's friend?"
Blinking, as he hadn't known this was Marco, but found that Thatch had talked about him some time ago. Marco agreed that at first he was a terrible dancer, but he loved doing it so that was easily solved. He shared with Ace that he loved being here, that he had a busy job at the hospital but dancing always managed to take his mind off of things. He wasn't always here when the club opened, but he tried to come each time he had a free night.
They talked some more, before Ace felt the release of some of the tension he had been feeling when it came to dance. He was enjoying himself and that had been quite a while since he'd been able to do that.
Marco hadn't been there the next couple of times, which lead to Ace finding and meeting new people. He talked and danced with someone called Deuce who was a paramedic and Isuka, who was a cop. There were others he danced with, but none of them made quite the impression as Marco or the other two.
When Marco appeared again, Ace wasn't even surprised to find them paired up again. Laughing the whole time and forgetting the world around him until their song ended and Marco kept a hold of his hand as they dissapeared into the crowd. The blond was blushing a little, "Want a drink, on me?"
After the club closed (because it wasn't an actual dance club they closed at 11 PM each night), Marco lead Ace to a cafe not too far away from the club. Grinning the whole time and telling Ace how much fun he had. Mentioning that he had never had a partner like that and there was this easy chemistry he didn't have with a lot of people.
"It doesn't have to mean anything -yoi. But I wanted to see if there could be more between us, if you want to that is", Marco asked and Ace needed a moment to come to terms with it all. Eventually agreeing to another date, but obviously showing that he wasn't wholly convinced.
Their next date was before Marco's shift and his afternoon lesson. Marco was already there and he looked relieved to see Ace arrive. It was clear that their last date didn't give him the impression that Ace wanted a repeat. Sitting down across from Marco after ordering a Mexican hot chocolate, he sighed softly, "It's not that I don't want to go on a date with you, Marco, I want to make that clear..."
He hesitated, before sharing why he had ended up at the club in the first place. What it was that dancing had once meant to him and how it had been spoiled by the losses he had to learn to live with. Explaining that it wasn't Marco's fault and he did like the other man a lot. But he just didn't know how to feel about having something so positive tied to something that had been negative for so long.
Marco was very understanding, aopogizing for thinking that Ace didn't want to be with him and eventually telling him to take it slow and see where they would end up at.
--
Ace laughed as Marco spun him around, the blond following along to keep leading and making sure to gently guide him through the steps on the music they were dancing to. For so long dancing had been very contraindicative in his head, but ever since meeting at the club and starting to date, Ace knew that things could change.
Marco made sure that this change did happen, helping Ace each and every time to just let go and enjoy the moment. They were very compatible and enjoyed it each and every time. Others had seen it too, so when all of the sudden they started to arrive together and hand in hand, the whole club had been so happy for them.
Thatch had also been over the moon when he saw Ace at his father's place after he and Marco were dating for three months, being introduced to the family and thanking Thatch as it had been his idea that brought them together too.
For all that dancing had been special in the Portgas-Gol household, Ace found himself enjoying it even more in the Portgas-Newgate household after he and Marco got married. A new chapter and a new meaning to dancing through life. One he was certain he wouldn't be able to go without.
Swaying gently in the kitchen, he leaned up to press his lips to Marco's, "Thank you... For showing me how to love dancing again."
Marco just ginned widely, before he pulled Ace close and kissed him more deeply. No words were needed, but he knew just fine what Marco meant by that and how his husband would be there to show him more amazing things as this new chapter progressed.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Mako startles from sleep gasping, skin salty and sticky with cold sweat. He jolts upward, shoulders heaving.
He presses fingers to his eyelids and tries in vain to chase away the ghosts of his parents from his retinas with the pinpricks of light caused from applying too much pressure.
The smell of burning flesh has filled his mouth and nostrils and he sputters. It lingers in his lungs. It's been eleven years, eleven years since everything was ripped apart but the nightmare still slithers in his brain night after night and controls him. Sometimes, he is where he was to begin with, eight and crouched behind a bin, shoulders hunched as he watches the scene through the gaps between grimy fingers. Other times, he is his mother, his father, wearing their faces in the only way he can acutely remember, blackened and slack-jawed. This night was worse than usual; he was
him
, the firebender with cold and merciless eyes. Tonight he killed them and ignored their pleading and enjoyed it, laughed as he extinguished the light from their irises.
The sound of laughter pounding away in his head is unbearable. He throws off the covers and tumbles out of his pallet because he needs to do something, any to make it stop. He steals a glance at Bolin before he leaves the room. His brother is sprawled out on his stomach, wetness pooling on the pillow under his open mouth. In his sleep, Bolin seems so defenseless and childish and young. Still innocent, somehow. His antithesis.
Mako can't explain why this makes his chest hurt so much, braced with all this emotion and affection for his brother.
Mako forces himself to look away because he's not sure he can feel so many conflicting emotions at once; love and hate, shame and pride, emptiness and feeling are all spilling over the brim. His body is going to collapse upon itself if he doesn't get out of here as quickly as he can, so he snaps out of it and flees.
The practice room is deserted and dark and cool. He allows himself a moment to inhale, exhale, and then he's at it, stiffly going through all of his firebending forms. He arcs his leg in a high kick and sends forth an angry burst of fire that overwhelms the sheen of the moonlight that has bathed the walls. Even when he uses his bending as catharsis, he still makes his movements precise because he's seen the destruction fire can wreak. The rawness of firebending is something he works so, so hard to control. Control is who he is, all he's got besides Bolin. Honestly, he thinks, firebending doesn't usually seem like the enemy. He can lose himself in the rigidity of pro-bending rules, can allow himself to feel pride over his skill and a match well-won. But tonight, it doesn't help, doesn't cut through the twisted mess inside him. Tonight, it only represents what he's afraid he is possible of becoming. He's going through the motions like he usually does and he's trying to make himself see the beauty and warmth of fire but it's impossible right now, he can't. All he sees in the fire he creates is the same gold yet icy hue that carved out the eyes of the man that took his parents' lives.
Mako stops, drops his shoulders, chews his lip. Do his eyes ever look that way? Does Bolin ever notice? The cackling has filled the room now, reverberating off the walls. When he sucks in a breath, it is shaky and rattling. He grits his teeth and gets back to practicing, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't chase the laughter away.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"Spock. What the hell are you doing?" The good old doctor was beyond tired, tired of everyone's bullshit.
The first officer stood in Leonard's room messing with his food replicator.
"As you can see doctor, I'm attempting to reprogram the replicator. As it stands you drink on average eleven and a half standard sized cups of coffee in a five day period. This is in fact extremely unhealthy and could lead to many health issues, including but not limited to heart-"
"I'm a doctor of course I know the side effects. No need to warn me."
"But coffee is not a proper means of nourishment. As a doctor you should be more careful."
McCoy let out a long exasperated sigh, God damn this Vulcan was gonna be the death of him.
"Like I've said, I know already. And I couldn't give two damn loads of crap about it. It's my damn health. I'm the doctor here not you. So stop worrying you pointed little ears about it."
McCoy was about to blow, this was the 4th time Spock had come at him for his coffee addiction. At this point it wasn't only Spock, Jim had also banned him from drinking any during senior officer meetings. And two weeks ago Uhura started snatching his cup whenever he put it down, she would then proceeded to act as if she had no idea what was going on.
"It would be illogical to not have concern over the chief medical officer's well being. Especially given that he seems to not care about it himself."
"Get out!" Spock ignored him and went back to working.
"I'ma bring Jim to drag your ass back to the bridge." Bones turned heading for the door.
"The Captain in the one who gave me permission and access to your room."
"Why that little-" the doors closed behind him cutting off the rest of his unprofessional rambling.
McCoy marched his way through the ship, scaring a few ensign in the process. Finally he reached the turbo lift fuming, when the doors opened to reveal their captain relaxed in his chair, McCoy was furious.
"JIM!" Said man practically fell out of his seat.
"Holy shit! God damn. Bones what's wrong?"
"What's wrong is you let Spock mess with my shit! He's tearing apart my replicator!" McCoy clenched his fists holding back the urge to punch that anxious smile right off of Jim's face.
"I let him because you're being unreasonable, Bones listen. Everyone here has become a little concerned with your coffee addiction. You've been putting off sleep and running solely on caffeine for what feels like weeks now." Damn it why did Jim have to be reasonable.
"That doesn't excuse the unwanted guest who's refusing to leave me room."
Jim sighed "okay fine, how about I call Spock back. Only. If you get some damn sleep and promise to cut down to one cup a day." Of course he'd turn this into a bargain, and one the Bones didn't very much like. "Do we have a deal?"
"Fine. Deal." McCoy grumbled out stomping all the way back out.
On his way back to his room Spock stopped him in the hallway.
"Doctor. I hope that you are aware of the fact that I will be regularly monitoring you to make sure you don't break the captain's promise."
"What the hell Spock. Are you gonna start sleeping with me to make sure I go to bed?" The doctor joked poking the other lightly in the shoulder.
"If necessary." Spock said completely serious and walked away leaving a quickly reddening doctor standing like an idiot in the hallway.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Just like that, the first week of the kids’ vacation in Liyue went by in a flash.
Ajax (and by extension Rex Lapis) took them on a tour around Liyue, from the legendary book collection of Chang the Ninth all the way in Qingce Village, to the grandiose interconnected basalt columns of Yaoguang Shoal and its impressive view of Dragonspine.
Ajax would herd them as he always did, carrying them when they got too tired, sharing their enthusiasm, and making sure they weren’t causing trouble with their excitement. Rex Lapis, in turn, acted as their tour guide, providing answers to any and all questions and always knowing where they could go next.
It accidentally became a little tour of the Archon through his lands, and wherever they went, they were welcomed with open arms and bright smiles; a byproduct of traveling with the god.
There was not a single moment of rest, and Ajax wouldn’t have it otherwise. It had been
so long
since he’d managed to keep his siblings hyper enough, to the point that they woke up every morning bustling with energy and ready to see what the day brought them. Every day was a day of exploration and adventure, and every night was a night of excitement, of wondering what the next day held in store for them.
Ajax hadn’t smiled for so many hours straight since… he didn’t know.
Maybe this was the first time.
The kids were all smiles and curious eyes. Teucer amassed a collection of toys and other trinkets, procured from even the most obscure of corners of the land courtesy of Rex Lapis knowing Liyue like the back of his hand. Anthon and Tonia weren’t short on purchases, either. Ajax had no idea where any of them were going to fit all their souvenirs to take back home, but he was more than willing to buy extra bags if necessary.
When the traveling frenzy passed, the kids decided they wanted to take a day off of moving around and simply stay in the palace to laze about without any responsibilities, and Ajax was more than happy to indulge them. Rex Lapis informed the staff of the fact the kids would be around, and to keep an eye on them to make sure nothing bad happened (not that anything would, but it was better to err on the side of caution – the god had claimed).
So with the day off decided, Rex Lapis managed to wrangle Ajax into lazing about in bed for an extra two hours that Ajax still had no idea how he pushed through without combusting on his spot.
After a peaceful breakfast, a Qixing secretary appeared to request Rex Lapis’ aid in some routine matters, and so Ajax found himself with a whole day entirely to his own.
He went to look for Xiao, obviously. What was Ajax supposed to do with his free time if not try to coax a spar out of him?
“Young Master,” the Adeptus sat slightly straighter when he saw him approach, cleaning his jade spear atop the parapet of the training field. The Millelith guards were doing their routine exercises to the side, and Ajax walked up to Xiao while looking at them before giving the Adeptus his whole attention.
“Ah-” he managed to hide a wince. “You can just… call me Childe. It feels weird to hear you call me ‘Young Master’.”
“... Master Childe,” the Adeptus corrected, and Ajax decided to give up on that. “You have quite the fortunate timing.”
Ajax blinked, caught off-guard. “Did something happen?”
Xiao shook his head no, and Ajax relaxed a little. “Nothing of the sort. But I have to admit I’ve been wanting to ask you some questions, and it has been proving difficult to get a hold of you lately.”
Oh. Yeah, fair enough. “Questions?” he asked, intrigued, taking a seat on one of the wooden crates stacked nearby. The Adeptus had questions for him?
Xiao nodded. “I’m still thinking about the… Abyssal energy.”
Right, Ajax figured it was to be expected. Rex Lapis
had
mentioned how it compared to the resentful energy emanated by the remains of enraged gods. Not to mention, last he’d seen Xiao, he’d come to make sure he was alright after eating some Abyss taint.
Ajax had never actually explained to his face outside of saying it was good food, so it made sense that the Adeptus still had questions about it.
“What do you want to know?” he encouraged, leaning back on his hands propped slightly behind him on the crate.
“Am I wrong in concluding this Abyssal energy you… eat,” the Yaksha began, clearly trying to find his words. “...is the same thing we recognize as the corrosive qualities of Abyssal beings?”
Ajax nodded, trying not to be surprised by his sharpness. “It’s the same thing, yeah. Some just weaponize it.”
“Are you certain it is alright for you to consume it?” Xiao’s brows furrowed, apparently still not sold on that point. “Forgive me for doubting your word on this again, but if it can be used to corrode other beings, then is it truly safe to be used as power by someone not originally born in the Abyss? Does it truly not harm you when it… enters your system?”
Ajax hummed, thinking over how to explain this one. “Do you think it harms the Abyss monsters?”
Xiao blinked. “Pardon?”
“Do you think the Abyss beings who possess these corrosive qualities are harmed by the energy?” Ajax rephrased that.
“I… do not believe so, no,” Xiao shook his head no, confused. “It is a part of them, after all.”
“It’s the same for me,” Ajax started from there. The Adeptus gave him a mildly surprised yet still lost look. Ajax shrugged. “I was down there for three months; that’s too much time for me to
not
have to accept the Abyss as part of me. Sure, it hurt at the start, since it was a foreing harmful energy entering me,”
hurt
was a bit of an understatement, but oh well. “But not anymore. When I say I’m a monster of the Abyss, I mean that very literally. I just don’t look like one.”
Xiao looked down at where he’d paused in cleaning his spear, absorbing his words.
“Then… This means the Abyss forcefully transforms all those who enter for an extended period of time into creatures of the Abyss,” the Adeptus murmured, comprehending.
“More or less, yes,” Ajax nodded to that. Nobody is
forced to,
but, well, is there really any other choice? “If I wanted to, I could also be corrosive like a rifthound. I just choose not to because it feels gross.”
“I see…” the Adeptus nodded, looking like he understood. His shoulders seemed to relax a little. “Then it is just like any other energy to you. Like you said, you can obtain power by absorbing it. Incredible.”
“I take it that means the same can’t be done with the… uh, the resentful energy?” Ajax asked. “The thing you’re tasked with cleansing, as the last Yaksha.”
“Resentful energy, yes, product of the festering malice of fallen gods,” Xiao hummed, returning to the mechanic movements of cleaning the fine jade of his weapon. “You are correct: it cannot be absorbed as power. At the very least us Yakshas could not perform such a feat.”
“Why?” Ajax couldn’t help but ask. “Is it because of the energy itself? It has to be, right? Because it can’t be that
you
specifically or the other Yakshas couldn’t do it, that wouldn’t make sense. I can control Abyss energy, and you’re way more powerful than I am.”
“Unlike Abyss energy, which seems to respond to all creatures of the Abyss; resentful energy responds to no one,” Xiao explained, eyes on his spear. “It is, after all, corrupted energy of fallen gods. This means it is the gods’ original powers, festered by rage and malice, poured into the world through their corpses. No matter how corrupt it is, it is still their energy at heart, which means it will respond to them only.”
“Which means you can’t force it to obey you, or, like, absorb it like I do with Abyss taint,” Ajax hummed, catching on. Xiao nodded.
“To a certain extent. Strictly speaking, it
can
be absorbed and used as power, as seen in the numerous monsters infected with it; it just requires them to relinquish control over their bodies to it, and it ultimately eats them up from the inside," a brief pause of consideration. "So it is not something we would think of doing. It certainly does not help that it clashes against my nature as an illuminated beast.”
Now
that
threw Ajax for a loop. “What?”
“The fallen gods’ wrath was directed at Rex Lapis and his adepti,” Xiao elaborated, moving the spear in his hold to clean the underside. “Energies can identify other energies and discern their origins. It is how I caught on to the fact you had something to do with the Abyss, and how most common humans cannot do so as easily.”
“Because you have Adepti powers,” Ajax guessed.
“Because my energy is that of an illuminated beast, yes,” Xiao nodded. “In the same way I could sense you have Abyss energy in you, the resentful energy of the fallen gods can sense I have adeptal energy in me.”
“Ah. So it’s angry with you,” Ajax realized. Xiao let out a tiny scoff, most likely at his unceremonious wording.
“To oversimplify,” but he nodded nonetheless. “It rebels against me due to my nature as an adeptus, and it harms common humans due to their general lack of energy. Vision holders are less affected by it, but only by a small amount.”
“Okay- but-” Ajax began, paused, thought it over. A million ideas were running through his mind. “What would happen if
I
were to absorb it?”
“Absolutely not,” Xiao was quick to shut him down.
“Hypothetically speaking! Come on, humor me this; we’re talking in hypotheticals here,” Ajax didn’t
pout,
but it was a close thing. “I’m not an adeptus, and neither am I a human anymore. What happens when resentful energy comes into contact with Abyss energy?”
Xiao paused in his cleaning, his face one of slight irritation, but looking like he was actually thinking it over. Ajax’ knee was bouncing in mild excitement.
Because- This could be game-changing!
“Supposing you were to invite the resentful energy within you,” Xiao began, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. His voice was wary, but his eyes were calculating, actually taking the question seriously. “Then… “ he trailed off, brows furrowing even more. “Would the Abyss energy in you fight the resentful energy?”
“I’d think it would,” Ajax nodded, giddy.
“Then, if your Abyss energy was more powerful than the resentful energy…” Xiao began, but then shook his head no quickly, his expression souring. “No. I know where this is going – this is far too dangerous.”
“Oh, come on! You know this would be the breakthrough of the century if it works!” Ajax insisted. “Besides, what terrible thing could happen if we try? One hilichurl worth of miasma isn’t going to kill me. You’ve been doing this for eons and yet look at you! You don’t look too bad to me.”
“I take an extremely strong remedy to combat the resentful energy, and I am an
Adeptus,
” Xiao frowned, giving him a dangerous look of warning. “This is not some small matter for you to experiment with.”
“But think about it! What if it
does
work?” Ajax pushed on. “If I could absorb resentful energy without anything bad happening to me as a result, not only could I help you cleanse the land without you having to add to your already monumental toll, but I could even take it off you!”
Xiao’s eyes flashed with something for an instant before he scoffed and averted his gaze, turning his body slightly away from Ajax. “No. You have no idea how dangerous it is, this ludicrous plan you’re proposing.”
“But is it, really? Listen to me,” Ajax jumped off the crate and moved so that he was facing Xiao once again, even if the Adeptus continued to look elsewhere. “I know how to neutralize violent energies within me.”
That made Xiao snap his head towards him, frown still set in place but eyes widened the slightest bit. Beneath all the disbelief, Ajax was elated to find the faintest glimmer of
hope.
“How do you think I survived the Abyss energy making a home in me?” he continued. ”I had to rely on Irminsul roots until I learned how to neutralize the energy myself, and then I took care of it until it was fully associated with my body. Even if the resentful energy turned out to be stronger than mine, worst case scenario, I could just neutralize it and expel it by force. Best case scenario?”
Ajax leaned down slightly so that he was level with the Adeptus.
“I could neutralize it and turn it into raw power for myself,” he couldn’t help the grin. “And then you’d be free of it. It’s a win-win situation. Don’t you think it’s worth trying?”
Xiao continued staring at him for a moment before slowly averting his gaze, his eyes holding a faraway look in them, like he was turning the matter over and over in his mind.
But there was no longer disbelief in them; only hope and doubts.
“If… If we are to try this idiocy,” Xiao began, careful. “Then… We ought to inform Rex Lapis beforehand.”
Ajax blinked, confused. “Why?”
Xiao shook his head no slightly, his grip of his spear tight. “I am not implying he can lord over what stupid things you choose to do with your body,
but,
he
is
your soulmate and he
will
level Mt. Tianheng if something happens to you.”
Ah-
Considering how Rex Lapis reacted to every remotely inconvenient thing that happened to him, then yeah, Ajax could imagine he’d be pretty upset if he got himself corrupted with miasma.
“You are loved.”
…That, too. Ajax would be pissed if something like that happened to his siblings. They should probably inform him of the idea, at the very least.
“Yeah, fair enough,” he nodded after a second of silence. “Let’s go see if he’s done with the Qixing.”
Xiao blinked. “Right now?”
Ajax frowned at the Yaksha, chastising. “Yeah? What do you wanna do, continue suffering? Let’s go!”
By some divine luck, they found Rex Lapis leaving the meeting hall where the Qixing members were gathering their papers, likely getting ready to leave as well.
They dragged him off to the side, and Ajax explained his idea quickly and concisely, even if Xiao felt the need to preface it with the fact it was a reckless and stupid idea.
Rex Lapis regarded them with a perfectly neutral expression throughout the entire explanation, listening closely to everything they had to say. Once Ajax was done, the god brought a hand to his own chin in pondering, and retired to his thoughts for a second to process everything he’d just heard.
“If this does work, it would indeed be the breakthrough of the century,” the god hummed, serious yet intrigued, then regarded them both. “Where were you planning to try this?”
Xiao made a face. “I- My Lord? Forgive me, but- I was expecting a lot more resistance, given this is… your soulmate…”
Rex Lapis hummed, short and simple. “But I trust Ajax will not dive into danger without knowing he can make it out. If anything, he knows his siblings would worry if something were to happen to him, now that they are here.”
“Exactly!” Ajax nodded. He knew it was a low blow, but given he was actually confident in his chances on this one, he evaded it without problems. He wasn’t actually planning to get hurt this time.
“Then if he is certain the chances of something bad happening are low and the chances of success are high, why would I not trust him?” the god concluded, and boy did it fill Ajax with warmth. “In the off-chance that something bad does happen, I am here to deal with it. Besides,” he looked at Xiao in particular. “I know you would not let any harm come to him. If you are considering it, then it means the probabilities of this being a success are indeed high.”
Xiao nodded, looking down with some leftover doubts. “I… think so, yes.”
“Then go with my blessings, and be careful,” Rex Lapis simply said. “I would accompany you, but I’m afraid there are some small matters I must finish settling here first. However, I might be able to catch up with you in a couple of hours.”
“Right,” Xiao nodded again, a lot more determined this time around. He shot Ajax a glance for a second before returning his attention to the god. “We will be in Dihua Marsh.”
Rex Lapis nodded. “Good luck.”
They made it to Dihua Marsh in a little less than an hour thanks to Xiao’s Anemo powers.
Ajax was all but vibrating from excitement. He had to admit that, for all that he made a point to hook Xiao in with the idea that he’d be freed of his suffering, Ajax did have far more selfish reasons for this.
Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t lie to the Adeptus: he did think he could help relieve him of the accumulated resentful energy in him. But in Ajax’ book, that’s just a plus.
If this worked, then that would mean Ajax would essentially have the powers of fallen
gods
at his fingertips, ready to be consumed. The Abyss in him that lived to get stronger was absolutely thriving off the mere idea.
He would get to become stronger, and help free Rex Lapis’ land off the threat of miasmas at the same time.
When Ajax found out his soulmate was Morax, one of the many things he’d been saddened to lose was the ability to help his soulmate that he’d been thinking he’d have when (if) he met them. But since his soulmate had turned out to be literally the strongest of the seven Archons, the only way Ajax could’ve possibly ever helped was by not causing more problems. He couldn’t have provided anything. If he could defeat a monster, then so could Rex Lapis, because Rex Lapis was
infinitely
stronger
than him.
But if this worked?
If this worked then Ajax could physically take matters into his own hands. He would have an ability that the god did not have, and use it to actually help him in a tangible, meaningful way. Not only him, but his people as well.
He would be
so useful,
and Ajax thrived off of being able to be of use. Because if not, he felt like he wasn’t doing anything worthwhile. It made him anxious. Maybe it was a byproduct of having to be active to survive in the Abyss, to carry his own weight so that Skirk wouldn’t have to provide for the two of them all on her own; but that’s how he was now. He had to be doing
something,
and up until now, aside from maybe helping with the Abyss stuff that came up recently, he’d been doing practically nothing.
Maybe now he could finally help in a way that he felt was useful. That
he
felt, because something told him that if he were to share these thoughts with Rex Lapis, the god would tell him that he didn’t have to be
useful,
or something. Ajax didn’t know why, he just had a feeling that’s how the other would react. Because-
Ah-
Right, because someone didn’t have to be useful to be loved. Right- Ajax certainly didn’t expect his siblings to ever try to be useful to him. They were ‘useful’ to him simply by existing.
It was weird, to imagine someone simply wanted him to exist.
But that’s what his life had turned into, apparently, and for all that it was new and confusing he actually had no complaints about it.
It was… nice.
Xiao found them a small hilichurl encampment with only a handful of members that was drawing resentful energy from deep beneath the marsh, and he explained to Ajax how the energy was freed upon defeating the creatures. As far as Ajax cared, it was basically the same thing as with the Abyss energy. Normally, when Xiao was the one doing the extermination, the energy would rise and cling to him, adding onto the accumulated toll that he already carried. So to prevent the energy from going to him instead of the now intended target, Xiao would stay out of the battlefield to oversee the operation.
As far as Ajax was concerned, it just meant this encampment was his’ to raze.
So he did.
Delighted in being able to exert some of his pent up energy, he dove into the fight like a fish to water. The handful of hilichurls and samachurls were no match for his Hydro blades, and they were reduced to black miasma in no time.
As he would with Abyssal energy, then, he went from vanishing corpse to vanishing corpse, dragging it all to him and absorbing it like breathing in air.
Resentful energy was… interesting, Ajax decided.
Unlike Abyss taint that felt crispy and fermented, resentful energy was a lot more… tart, if that made any sense. It was a lot more volatile, more like breathing in smoke rather than thick toxic water.
It left a vaguely bitter taste in the roof of his mouth, but it wasn’t
terrible.
Moreover, just as he’d suspected, the resentful energy from only a handful of hilichurls and samachurls was nothing against his massive reserves of Abyssal taint. With only a bit of his concentration and a deep breath of clean air, he commanded the powers dormant within him to overtake the new, foreign energy. In just an instant, the corrosive energy of the Abyss dispelled the lingering malice of the resentful energy like a slap to the face, forcing it to submit and neutralize. Then, like a ravenous wolf,
devoured
it completely until it was nothing more than raw power to add to the Abyss taint.
In a weird way, it gave him the same sensation of drinking bitter coffee. The taste wasn’t particularly pleasant (to him), but it wasn’t
disgusting,
and in the end it only left you with a kick of energy in your system.
It was
great.
If it wasn’t for the bad taste and the fact it did take some effort and concentration to assimilate (no matter how small), Ajax would become addicted to this thing.
Xiao materialized in a flurry of wild Anemo among the all-but-vanished corpses with him, giving them a cursory look with a slightly surprised expression before turning to Ajax fully.
“How is it?” he asked, dregs of worry surfacing in his voice.
“Tart and bitter,” Ajax mused, exhaling the deep breath of air he took in to expedite the process. He felt the Abyss taint settle again, content with the meal.
“Tart… and bitter?” Xiao gave him a dumbfounded look.
“Yeah,” Ajax just nodded.
“I… did not know resentful energy had a
taste,
” the Adeptus frowned, then shook his head. “No matter. How is it, actually?”
“Like I said, tart and bitter. Nothing else,” Ajax huffed. “I told you it would work.”
“It- Did it actually work?” Xiao’s eyes widened. There was a brief pause, as if he didn’t believe it fully or hadn’t processed it yet. “Did you- Did you absorb it? Do you feel any discomfort at all?”
“Everything’s peachy,” Ajax assured. “It wasn’t anywhere near enough energy to pose a threat to me. So long as I don’t absorb, like, a
massive
amount of it all in one go, I should be fine.”
Xiao stared at him for a second before looking down, perplexed.
“It worked,” the Adeptus let out, comprehension dawning on him. “It actually worked. That means…”
His gaze slowly rose back to Ajax, cold yellow on blue.
Ajax made a show of licking his lips and rubbing his palms together.
“Gimme your energy,” he chuckled, reaching for the Yaksha’s hands.
“Do not-!” Xiao began, instinctively moving away. “Do not absorb it all at once, it is
eons
of accumulated-!”
“I know! Gimme your hands, Xiao, I know my limits,” Ajax insisted, snatching the others’ smaller hands in his own.
Xiao made no move to pull away, even if he gave him a look between wanting to believe and wanting to be safe in his disbelief, all of it nestled in a cradle of hope and fear.
Ajax closed his eyes and got to work.
Rex Lapis found them half an hour later, Xiao on his knees on the grass and Ajax just standing in front of him, breathing in the clear air of the marsh to facilitate his absorption. Just like he’d promised, he didn’t take all of it at once. Far from it. If he had to take a guess, he only snatched like a tiny portion of it – Xiao did have
a lot
of resentful energy clinging to him.
Going by his reaction, though, it was clear he had only ever experienced the energy increasing, and never
leaving him.
For his part, the Abyss taint had all but settled with a happy humm inside of him by the time the Exuvia descended in a golden light, Rex Lapis stepping down to his side.
Ajax had taken what might’ve been like ten times the amount of energy he originally got from the encampment, give or take. His body was doing good, and he felt invigorated from the extra energy in him. He felt
powerful.
It was great.
If he had to guess, he could probably take more in one go than just that, but by that point it might be a case of
Xiao
needing a moment to recover from the sensation rather than Ajax needing more time to process the energy.
He did feel the tiniest bit tired, though. But in a good way. In the same way he felt after a training session, his body tired from the exercise but happy with the improvement.
“Is everything alright?” Rex Lapis asked, brow furrowed more in confusion than worry, sparing a look at Xiao on his knees with his head lowered. Clearly, if the god had expected to arrive at a scene like this one, it had been Ajax the one he’d thought he’d find crumpled down. Ajax couldn’t blame him.
“Yeah,” he nodded, golden eyes returning to him. “I think he’s just processing the new feeling.”
“New feeling…?” the god hummed, appeased, but still slightly confused. Ajax nodded again.
“I mean, has he ever felt the resentful energy
leave
him?” he pointed out.
Rex Lapis made a face like he understood the situation, before seemingly processing belatedly what that truly meant and looking at Ajax with his eyes slightly widened.
“It worked?” the god asked, the tiniest bit surprised.
“It did,” came Xiao’s slightly shaky voice as the Adeptus slowly but surely stood up. His face was a mixture of relief and disbelief born of surprise, looking down at his hands. “It worked.”
“Then, this means…” Rex Lapis began, but trailed off. His eyes were
bright
as they looked between Xiao and him, settling on the shorter one. “You can be free.”
Xiao slowly looked up at his Archon, cold yellow eyes shining with a million different emotions Ajax didn’t even want to begin trying to decipher.
“I can be free,” he echoed, tiny, breathless.
There was a beat of silence before Rex Lapis caught Xiao in his arms, holding him tight, and another second before the Yaksha seemed to snap out of his shock to return the embrace.
The scene hit Ajax with all the suddenness of someone realizing what this
really
meant, for the two of them.
Xiao had been carrying this burden for
eons.
This was the very same thing that had taken his
fellow Yakshas.
And now, suddenly and with seemingly no warning, the possibility existed that he could be free from it. And it was no longer a matter of maybe, but of when.
He
was going to be free.
It was going to take a bit, but it was going to happen. It was a certainty.
The enormity of the situation made Ajax feel a little breathless, too.
He was brought out of his thoughts by Rex Lapis turning to look at him, still holding Xiao tight, and gently pulling him to the hug with one arm.
Ajax, in a bit of a shocked silence, let himself be dragged into the now group hug, registering with no small amount of surprise how one of Xiao’s arms timidly (but fiercely?) came to hold on to his clothes as well.
It was silent, but he could
feel
the Yaksha trembling between him and Rex Lapis, and his big brother instincts kicked in just in time for him to hug them both as well.
Rex Lapis held them tighter.
“Thank you,” Xiao muttered, barely audible. “Thank you…”
Ajax closed his eyes and hid his face in Rex Lapis’ shoulder.
When they returned to the palace, Rex Lapis gathered some of the adepti in one of the halls of the private wing to break good news to them.
There were some Ajax had never seen before, and others that he did recognize. Ganyu was there, obviously, she was the only one who shed some tears from the emotion; and the old lady he met in the Harbor during his initial excursion with Rex Lapis was also there (Madame Ping?).
While the Adepti were having their heartfelt moment of celebration, Ajax took care of explaining to his siblings to one side of the room (because the kids had found them and trailed after them, and none of the adepti looked like they minded their presence, so they were allowed to be in with Ajax). The kids kept their voices quiet as they marveled at the ocasion, understanding that this was a big thing and that it was also a good thing, but also that they didn’t really understand all that much.
They were a bit more focused on quietly exclaiming-
“You’re so cool, Big Brother!”
“Yeah! Only Big Brother could do something like this! He’s the bestest!”
…and things of the like.
Ajax gathered him in his arms for them to giggle with giddiness, and it was in that position that the Adepti walked up to him to thank him on behalf of Xiao.
It was a lot of entirely too solemn congratulations and thank-yous, and Ajax tuned out most of it as he replied with slightly sheepish chuckles and deflections, unsure how to take any of it.
It was late in the day by the time the Adepti left, and Xiao took his leave as well saying something or other about going to break the good news to someone else.
With only the five of them left, then, Rex Lapis called for dinner to be served, and the kids took that as their cue to begin their enthusiastic retelling of what they did during the day.
Ajax let their cheerful voices smooth over the tingling warm sensation in his stomach from the previous round of praises, and fell into his usual role of listening and adding commentary when necessary.
Ajax hadn’t exactly been
dreading
the moment he and Rex Lapis were left alone in the god’s chambers after bidding goodnight to his siblings, but he did steel himself when the Archon rounded on him as soon as the door closed behind them.
But when Rex Lapis all but tackled him in a tight hug, Ajax was still unable to hold back a small punched-out chuckle. It was a good thing the other couldn’t see just how fast heat rushed to his face from the proximity.
“Ajax, Ajax, Ajax…!” the god murmured in his ear, like a prayer, and it was only thanks to his rigorous Fatui training that Ajax’ legs didn’t give in immediately. His hands did shoot to hold on tight to the fine silks enveloping him. “Thank you, my dearest, thank you…!”
Ajax didn’t
whine,
but- “S-Stop!” mortified at the stuttering, he hid his face in the god’s shoulder. “Not you, too…”
“Oh, what did we do to deserve you…?” Rex Lapis wondered out loud, holding him even tighter. It was so
warm.
“That’s- Okay, that’s a big much, I’m not that grand-” Ajax tried, but-
“Ajax, I don’t think you realize how
monumental
this discovery of yours is,” the god pulled back just enough to look at him. The raw relief and gratefulness in his expression shot Ajax’ heart to his throat. “Do you have any idea how many Yakshas were lost to karmic debt from the resentful energy?”
Ajax swallowed his heart back down, unable to look away from those Cor Lapis eyes. “No…”
“I summoned forty eight – of them, we estimate that around forty four were lost to resentful energy corruption alone,” the god revealed. Ajax froze. “Six, possibly seven of them were killed by their fellow Yakshas, who had gone mad with fear. Of the three that did not die due to karmic debt, one perished at the hands of Abyss monsters in the Chasm, another died in battle against a god, and the third disappeared centuries ago, never to be seen again,” Rex Lapis recounted, pain flashing in his golden eyes for a second. “Xiao is our only survivor in the mortal realm.”
Ajax didn’t know what to say.
He had only ever heard of the strongest five of the Yakshas. He knew, logically, that there had been more, but-
“By the time we had discovered means of stalling the effects of karmic debt, it was too late for too many of them,” Rex Lapis continued, somber. “And most methods outright did not work on some. The only reason Xiao has survived for so long, aside from his own strenght, has been nothing short of a miracle – Barbatos can soothe him through music, even if marginally, something which did not produce any effects on most of the others. The remedy which he takes to suppress the effects of the resentful energies did not work on over half of them, and the potency was enough to nearly kill a handful of others. Even with all these impossible odds stacked in his favor, it was only a matter of time before he, too…”
Rex Lapis trailed off, a wavering sigh leaving him. Ajax’ chest seized.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if…” the god mumbled, looking down at a random spot on Ajax’ neck. He shook his head. “I have watched far too many people leave us behind far too early into their lives. Of the few that remain, Xiao is among those who have been with me the longest. To lose the last of my Yakshas to the toll
I
placed upon them, knowing nothing I ever did to try and prevent this fate
worked,
I… am not certain I would’ve taken it well.”
Cor Lapis eyes returned to him. Ajax held tight to the silks.
“But thanks to you, he can now be freed from his suffering,” the god smiled, fragile, molten gold poured directly on Ajax’ heart. “He will get to live the long life he deserves, he will get to see Liyue
finally
free of resentful energy once his duties are done, he will get to be
free.
Ajax, neither him nor I have words to properly articulate how
thankful
we are to you. To your willingness to help. To your hard-earned powers that
allow you
to help. Thank you. Thank you…”
Rex Lapis burrowed his face in the crook of his neck, repeating his thanks like a mantra, and Ajax brought his arms up to wrap around the god’s shoulders. He felt him melt into the embrace, and it was all Ajax could do not to break down crying from the overwhelming emotions he couldn't even begin to parse.
He was
helping.
He was being useful, in a way that his Fatui and Abyss-conditioned mind could comprehend and accept.
It was like a huge weight was lifting off his shoulders.
His Abyss powers were useful for something other than bloodshed.
It was refreshing. It was new. It was-
“-dumb! What do you mean I don’t know how to use these powers, Master? You’ve seen how much I’ve improved! Sure, maybe I can’t beat you yet, but that’s because you’re too strong!”
“It’s not about strenght, you stupid boy! It’s not about how hard you can use the taint to hit something, but
how
you use it. Medics can’t possibly claim to ever fully comprehend medicine until they learn how to poison others with the same herbs that heal.
Knights like you, boy, cannot claim they know the sword until they learn how to use it to defend instead of kill.”
“But what am I supposed to use these powers for if not to become stronger? To survive? I am defending
myself,
aren’t I?”
“That’s up to you to figure out.”
In hindsight, Ajax could now see what Skirk had meant. She used her Abyss taint to survive, to become stronger; but she also used it to
teach
him how to do the same. She used it to help
him
survive, help
him
become stronger.
Ever since he left the Abyss, all Ajax had used his taint for had always been to continue growing stronger. To survive. He had used it to rise above his peers in the Fatui, to earn himself a seat among the Eleven.
Sure, it had been used to keep his siblings safe by allowing him the freedom of a high rank to come and go as he pleased, to have plenty of money to buy them gifts; but it had been collateral. First and foremost, his Abyssal powers had always been used to continue moving forward, to continue improving.
To fight.
Even as of late, when the Rift King had appeared in Inazuma and the rifthounds had been terrorizing Wolvendom; he’d used his powers for battle. It had saved the wolves of Andrius but, again, that had been collateral.
This – taking resentful energy off of Xiao and converting it into power – was the first time Ajax had ever used his Abyss powers for something other than violence.
This time, the collateral had been him gaining power.
Maybe Skirk had been right.
Maybe these powers he had grasped and forced to cooperate with him- maybe everything he had learned down there just to keep himself alive; maybe it was useful for something else other than survival.
Maybe Ajax could be useful, could
help,
in a way that his Abyss monster comprehended it.
Maybe there could be more than just his reputation as a Harbinger that allowed him to stand tall and proud at Rex Lapis’ side.
Maybe-
Maybe…
Maybe Ajax being a monster of the Abyss was
good.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Two days out from Boros, River throws the first fit she's had in ages. She screams and kicks and breaks things, she babbles on and on about ‘Two by Two’ and ‘Hands of Blue’ and when Simon gets too close to her with a smoother she strikes out and leaves scratches from her nails all down the side of her brother's neck.
Simon says things like 'sorry' and 'she didn't mean to break that' and 'it won't happen again, Captain, I promise.' Jayne says really unhelpful things like 'no you ain't' and 'yes she did' and 'gorram it, where the hell is Kaylee, it's her turn to cook the grub.' Mal just tries to ignore the whole thing.
He tries to ignore the howling coming from below decks when they go to land on Boros too, can't for the life of him figure out why the girl don't want them to land but there's cargo down there to be gotten and it'll fetch a pretty price on Whitefall when Patience hears about it. Provided the damned fool woman don't shoot him again.
"You're coming with me," he says and Simon's eyes widen with fear. Boy don't get off the ship much at all, it would be a titch disturbing if it weren't for the fact that he's still a refugee. "Don't start," Mal warns when the other man goes to speak. "You keep that mouth shut and you come into town, we'll stop at the doctor's and see if they have anything you can use." Granted Boros is a small outer rim planet, but the way they've been going through smoothers, it'll be damned likely that they'll need a new stock right away.
Simon swallows and in a corner of Mal's brain he watches the motion with interest. "Right," Simon stutters. "Let me… I'll just… Go get my bag," and he runs off. Mal rolls his eyes heavenward and waits. He's prettier than he has any right to be, brainier than he has any right to be, and completely insufferable.
"The Doc, huh? I wouldn't have thought you'd go for the pretty boy," Zoe smirks at him from the catwalk and Mal studiously ignores her stare and her words in favour of bellowing for Simon to hurry the hell up.
Small is an understatement when it comes to Boros. Small usually means ten thousand, twenty thousand people, an entire colony. Boros has maybe five thousand at max. "I don't understand," Simon says, voice quiet in the street. "Are the people here sick? Or afraid of visitors?" Mal shakes his head.
"Just too far out for most," Mal says. They stop in the medical facilities and Mal lets Simon stock up on a bit before he heads his doctor off at the pass and pays the irritated looking clerk.
"Come on, Doc," he says. "We still have to meet up with our supplier, arrange pick up of the cargo and get the hell off this rock by sunset."
"Why sunset?" Because you look real pretty in the moonlight and I think I might kiss you, Mal thinks.
"I get squirrelly, I get stuck on land longer than a day," Mal lies and shoves the door of the bar open. Simon stumbles behind him in the sudden dark after being in the bright sun all day. They take a booth in the corner and Mal settles in to watch the door. Simon sits and twitches his fingers on the table. Mal's eyes track Simon's tongue when it darts out to wet his lips.
"You alright there, Simon?" Mal asks. Simon blinks at him.
"What?" he asks.
"You're getting a mite bit worked up sitting there, there a problem I should be aware of?"
"Um no, just," Simon pauses, frowns and shakes his head. "No. I'm just nervous, this is taking an awfully long time, isn't this taking an awfully long time?" It's probably the cute befuddled thing that finally gets to Mal, he never could help himself when the pretties got all turned around and confused. He leans forward and catches the back of Simon's neck, pulls him gently until Simon is practically stretched across the table and then kisses him. It's not the best as kisses go, the angle is awkward, Simon is startled and the man at the table next to them hollers about something or other. Behind the bar something breaks. But when Mal lets go and Simon sinks back into his chair, the anxious look is gone, replaced by a stunned wide-eyed look that Mal vows to put back on that face the minute they get back to the ship.
"Did you just kiss me?" Simon asks.
"Yes, and I plan on doing it again later, when we get back to the ship. I plan on doing a whole lot. That seem like an idea to you?" There's a small, pleased smile at the corner of Simon's mouth.
"Hold that thought," Mal orders him and then everything goes to hell. Mal can't rightly say what happened or the order it all came in, but one second the Martinez brothers walk in, the next second the law walks in behind them and the Martinez brothers pull their guns.
Someone spots Mal, someone shouts something, someone else is there suddenly at his elbow trying to cuff him and Mal looks over at Simon in worry because it would be that the one time he finally decides to take something for himself, the world comes to a gorram end.
It's like it was all a dream. Simon’s looking at him, head cocked to the side in a funny way that Mal's seen on River a time or two when the girl says something that makes Mal's insides shiver a bit in fear and then two steps to the left and Simon's snapped the neck of the man holding Mal to the table.
There's screaming and crashing and a gun goes off, Simon is in the middle of it all and people who come near him are flying like ragdolls in a way Mal's only ever seen at a demonstration on Shadow that time years and years ago when a dojo had stopped by for supplies and then something crashes on his head. Typical.
He comes to and without opening his eyes he knows he's on Serenity. Course, could have something to do with the way Zoe's shaking him.
"Captain, Mal, you need to wake up now," Mal shoves his eyes open and stares at her.
"Don't," he argues, he doesn't need to be up now, his head feels like he's been in a fight, why the hell does he need to get up? Zoe raises an eyebrow and Mal reckons most of that was out loud.
"We don't know what's wrong with Simon," she says and when Mal turns his head the Tam siblings are sitting on the second cot in the med bay. Simon is staring down at his hands, cut and bleeding, River is wrapping them and murmuring nonsense to him. She's glaring daggers at Mal.
“Two by two, always," River says and not for the first time Mal wonders how Simon got River out of her hell so easily.
"Wasn't easy," River answers his unasked question, head cocked to the side. "He had to get out first to get back in." Mal's insides shiver a bit in fear
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Las 80 Rupias
Capítulo 3.- ¡Atrápalos a todos!
Monto acumulado: 11 Rupias.
Todo inicia en la siempre tranquila escuela Gaming. Ahí, Jimmy y sus amigos estaban pasando una clase de computación "completamente normal" con su gran profesor: Aiden Pearce de Watch Dogs.
Aiden.- Bueno, niños. Hoy les enseñare a hackear la web privada del gobierno.
Zelda.- Oiga profesor… ¿Eso no es ilegal?
Aiden.- No se preocupen, si siguen mis consejos nadie los descubrirá.
Jimmy.- ¿A quién se le ocurre poner a uno de los mejores hackers del videojuego como profesor de computación?
Aiden- Si tienes algún problema puedes ir a quejarte al director.
A Jimmy se le vino la imagen de Tabbu a la mente, recordando la primera vez que se lo encontró.
Jimmy.- ¡No!... Digo, no hay problema alguno. Al contrario, me encanta la idea, adoro Watch Dogs.
Aiden.- ¿Qué es Watch Dogs?
Jimmy.- Nada, olvídalo.
Aiden.- Bien, niños, enciendan sus computadoras y sigan las instrucciones. Sean cuidadosos, si los descubren probablemente acaben en la cárcel y yo no me haría responsable.
Así todos encendieron sus computadoras con relativa facilidad… bueno, casi todos.
Link.- ¿Cómo se prendía esto?
Ganondorf.- Jajajajaja eres un tonto, Hylian. Llevamos años con esta clase y aun necesitas que te la enciendan.
Bowser.- Típico de los debiluchos, jajajajaja.
Zelda.- ¡No lo molesten!
Samus.- Tú ignóralos, Link, yo te la enciendo.
Link.- Gracias, Samus.
Mientras la rubia, encendía la computadora de su amigo, Zelda observaba algo sonrojada y avergonzada.
Zelda.- Eh… Samus…
Samus.- Tu tampoco puedes encenderla. ¿Verdad, Zel?
Zelda.- Sí…
Jimmy.- ¿Qué acaso no tenías la Trifuerza de la sabiduría?
Ganondorf.- Jajajajaja que tontos.
Bowser.- Si, dan pena.
Cortex.- Eh… señor Ganondorf… Bows… ¿Necesitan que les encienda la computadora?
Ganondorf.- Si, encender esto es casi imposible.
Bowser.- Te lo agradecería mucho, cerebrito.
Jimmy.- Pero si es solo apretar un botón.
George.- ¡Listo! ¡Ya acabe!
Todos voltearon a ver a George, quien por lo visto había ignorado por completo la discusión de sus amigos y ya había terminado su trabajo. El profesor Aiden se acercó a ver el trabajo de George, viendo como efectivamente había hackeado los sitios web del gobierno.
Aiden.- Bien hecho, muchacho.
Samus- Yo ya casi acabo, adoro esta clase.
Pero el profesor se dio cuenta de que alguien estaba sentado sin trabajar, y por una vez no se trataba de Crash Bandicoot.
Aiden.- Señor Chief… se puede saber por qué no trabaja.
Master.- Yo soy un guerrero, no necesitó esta tonta clase. Por algo tengo a Cortana en mi casa.
Así era, Master Chief estaba sentado de lo más calmado, sin siquiera haber encendido su computadora. Por supuesto, esto enfadó al profesor de computación.
Aiden.- Señor Chief, o se pone a trabajar o se va con el director.
Master.- No pienso trabajar y no puede obligarme a ir con el director.
Aiden.- ¿A no?
El profesor saco una especie de celular y se puso a pulsar botones. Todos en la clase lo observaron con curiosidad.
Jimmy.- ¿Qué hace?
Master.- ¿Va llamar a mi madre?
Aiden.- Mejor aún.
Repentinamente, Master Chief se levantó de su silla y se dirigió a la puerta, ante la mirada confundida de todos sus compañeros.
Master.- ¡¿Qué ocurre?! ¡No controlo mi cuerpo!
Aiden.- Señor Chief, acabo de hackear su traje de Spartan y ahora yo lo controlo.
Master.- ¡Imposible!
Aiden.- Quizá podrías hacerlo si le prestaras atención a mi clase. Ahora vete al Subespacio.
Master.- ¡No!
Pero Master no podía detenerse. Pese a sus quejas, continuó caminando sin control alguno y salió del curso.
Jimmy.- ¿Subespacio?
Link.- Si, así le decimos a la oficina del director Tabbu.
Yoshi.- Es un lugar tenebroso, nunca quisiera ir ahí.
Jimmy.- Dímelo a mí.
Recuerdos de Jimmy…
Tabbu.- ¡Quien osa molestar al supremo director Tabbu! ¡Amo de esta escuela!
Jimmy.- ¡Ahhhh! ¡Otro bicho raro!
Tabbu.- ¡Oye mocoso ¿A quién crees que llamas bicho raro?! ¡Soy tu director!
Jimmy.- ¿Usted es el director?
Tabbu.- ¡Arrodíllate ante tu director!
Jimmy.- ¡Si señor! ¡Lo siento! ¡No me mate!
Tabbu.- ¿Qué deseas?
Jimmy.- Solo quería inscribirme en esta escuela.
Tabbu.- Bien, los niños necesitan estudiar.
Jimmy.- Pero me robaron mi dinero y…
Tabbu.- ¡Primidos!
Unos bichos raros salieron de la nada, agarraron al niño y le quitaron todas sus cosas de valor.
Tabbu.- Listo, considérate inscrito.
Jimmy.- Gra…gracias… señor.
Fin de los recuerdos…
Jimmy.- Sip, lo recuerdo perfectamente.
Link.- Me imagino.
Mario.- Ho quasi senza dialoghi in capitoli.
Jimmy.- Mario, no hablamos italiano y no podemos entenderte.
Mario.- Autore sciocco, parlo miei giochi normali.
Entonces, Zelda pasó al frente de la clase con algunos papeles en sus manos y llamó la atención de todos.
Zelda.- Bueno, todos presten atención, tengo un anuncio de parte de la dirección. Por lo visto el colegio quiere promover las actividades extracurriculares y decretaron que todos los alumnos del colegio están obligados a realizar alguna actividad extra, después de las clases normales.
Bowser.- ¡No! ¡No pueden obligarnos!
Zelda.- Si tienes algún problema quéjate con el director.
Bowser.- Adoro las clases extracurriculares, aprender es de lo mejor.
Link.- Oye, Zel. ¿Qué clases hay?
Zelda.- Pues, su rey del curso repartirá unos volantes con todas las clases a las que pueden inscribirse.
Dedede.- No, me da flojera. Tú entrega los volantes.
Zelda.- ¡¿Flojera?! ¡Para empezar usted debería estar dando este discurso!
Dedede.- Me da igual, yo soy el rey del curso.
Zelda.- Fuego de Din.
Luego de que Zelda queme al Rey Dedede con su hechizo mágico, este acepto gustoso el entregar los volantes. Luego sonó el timbre de recreo y como de costumbre, los Mario Bros aplastaron a Jimmy.
Link.- Vaya, Jimmy, hay muchas opciones.
Mientras caminaban por el patio con sus amigos, Link parecía bastante emocionado mientras veía el folleto de las clases extracurriculares.
Jimmy.- ¿A cuál entraré?
Link.- Déjame ver… ¿clases para matar zombis?
Jimmy.- Ni loco.
Link.- ¿Clases de guerra?
Jimmy.- ¡Jamás!
Samus.- ¡Se ven geniales! ¡Yo le entro!
Link.- ¿Clases para controlar Pikmins?
Kirby.- ¿Pikmin? ¿Qué es eso?
Jimmy.- Son unos bichitos que parecen zanahorias y…
Kirby y Yoshi.- ¡Cuenten conmigo!
Jimmy.- ¡Los Pikmin no se comen!
Link.- Clases para salvar Hyrule… Creo que entrare a esta
Jimmy.- ¿No hay alguna clase normal?
Link.- Déjame ver… Clase para científicos, Clase de control de Hadou, Clase de Psinergía, Clase para pilotar naves, Clase de infiltración, Clase de asesinato, Clase de crianza Pokémon, Clase para invadir el mundo…
Jimmy.- Un minuto, repite lo que dijiste.
Link.- ¿Clase para invadir el mundo?
Jimmy.- No, clase de crianza de Pokémon.
Link.- Ah, eso.
Jimmy.- Esa es la clase perfecta para mí, me inscribiré.
Kirby.- ¿Estás seguro? Según me contaron no era una clase fácil.
Jimmy.- Tu descuida, será pan comido. Yo ya gané las ligas Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, Sinnoh y Tesselia, con remakes incluidos. Además estaba ya con seis medallas en la Liga Kalos cuando llegue aquí y mi 3Ds desapareció.
Link.- Bueno, Jimmy, entonces vamos a inscribirnos.
Todos.- ¡Sí!
Así los diferentes alumnos de la escuela Gaming se inscribieron en las distintas clases que habían: Jimmy se inscribió en las clases de crianza Pokémon; Link en las clases para salvar Hyrule; Kirby y Yoshi en clases para controlar Pikmin; Mario en las clases para rescatar princesas; Bowser en clases para secuestrar princesas; Samus en clase de guerra; George en clase del manejo de la ira; y Ganondorf… pues clase para invadir el mundo. ¿Qué esperaban?
…
En estos momentos, Link caminaba emocionado junto a Zelda, quien lo acompañaba a sus clases, ya que por ser la "Princesa del curso" no tenía la obligación de inscribirse en las clases extracurriculares.
Link.- ¡Esto va ser genial! ¡Salvar Hyrule es mi especialidad!
Zelda.- Claro que si Link, estoy segura de que lo harás bien.
Link.- Más que bien, dudo que alguien me pueda igualar en esto. Soy único después de todo.
Zelda.- Si, tienes razón. No todos tienen la Trifuerza del valor y la espada maestra de su lado.
Link.- ¡Sí! ¡Ya quiero que empiece!
De esta forma, Link y Zelda llegaron al aula.
Zelda.- Buena suerte, Link, diviértete mucho.
Link.- Gracias, Zel, así lo hare.
Zelda.- Vendré por ti a la salida para que nos vayamos a casa.
Link.- De acuerdo, te veo luego, Zel.
Luego de despedirse de Zelda, Link abrió la puerta con confianza. Pero adentro encontró algo que no esperaba: adentro había un montón de Links, de todos los tamaños y sabores, aunque solo de un color, pues eran todas las encarnaciones que el héroe de Hyrule había sufrido a lo largo de la saga de juegos The Legend of Zelda.
Todos eran bastante parecidos salvo por algunas pocas diferencias, como la edad, el tamaño, algunos rasgos de la cara y el hecho de que algunos de ellos eran más cabezones y de un aspecto más caricaturizado.
Link.- ¡¿Hermanos?! ¡¿Qué hacen todos ustedes aquí?!
-Oh, al fin llegaste, Link del Tiempo.
Así era, para diferenciarse entre ellos cada Link se denominaba según su respectivo título, siendo el que conocemos nombrado como “Link del Tiempo”.
Link.- ¿Qué está pasando aquí?
Link del Crepúsculo.- ¿Qué más, enano? Nos obligaron a tomar clases extracurriculares.
Link Minish.- Así es. Y por coincidencia todos nosotros escogimos la misma clase. ¡¿No es genial?!
Link Cuádruple.- Creo que es obvio que todos escogeríamos esto.
Link de los Vientos.- Aun así, creo que es genial que estemos todos juntos.
Link del Crepúsculo.- Yo no. No quiero perder tiempo con mis hermanos menores.
Link Celestial.- Venga, Crepúsculo, no te lo tomes tan a pecho.
El Link del Tiempo no lo podía creer, no se esperaba que sus hermanos se hayan inscrito a la clase… Y mucho menos espero lo que ocurriría a continuación, un búho salió de la nada y se le quedo mirando a Link.
Link.- ¿Señor Kaepora? ¿Usted es el maestro?
Kaepora.- Así es, Link. Dime, ¿quieres tomar asiento para iniciar la clase?
Y así la clase de Link comenzaría con un laaaaaaaaaaaaaargo dialogo con el maestro Kaepora Gaebora.
…
Mientras tanto, Jimmy caminaba rumbo a su propia clase. Decir que estaba contento era decir poco…
Jimmy.- ¡Esto va ser totalmente fácil! Me conozco todo sobre Pokémon: estadísticas base, diferencia de género, ventaja de tipos, nivel de evolución y hasta grupo huevo. ¿Qué podría salir mal?
El niño entró en su clase con bastante confianza. Lo primero que noto fue que Green, la chica con la que siempre discutía, también estaba ahí.
Jimmy y Green.- ¡¿Qué?! ¡¿Tu aquí?!
Green.- Creo que te equivocaste, Jimmy. Esta es la clase de Pokémon, no una clase de como producir dinero falso.
Jimmy.- ¡Que no era dinero falso! ¡Era dinero de mi mundo!
Entonces una tercera persona hizo presencia. Era alguien a quien Jimmy conocía muy bien, al menos a su versión del videojuego. Se trataba de Red, el entrenador Pokémon más fuerte de todos, protagonista de la primera generación.
Red.- ¿Y él quien es, Green? ¿Lo conoces?
Green.- Claro, Red, es un amigo de mi curso.
Jimmy.- ¡¿Amigo?! ¿Desde cuándo?
Green.- Ven, Redy, vamos a sentarnos.
Red.- Claro, Green.
Y así, Green se llevó a Red del brazo hasta su asiento, mientras que Jimmy la observaba irritado.
Jimmy.- Esa fastidiosa.
Pero Jimmy noto que era observado por un sujeto alto y de bata blanca. Era el famoso profesor Oak.
Oak.- Oye tú, muchacho.
Jimmy.- ¿Sí?
Oak.- ¿Eres un chico o una chica?
Jimmy.- ¡No me va decir que es igualito al del juego! ¡Soy hombre!
Oak.- Ah bueno, pues ve a sentarte.
Jimmy se fue a sentar y miro más atentamente a sus compañeros de clase. Estaban todos y cada uno de los portadores de la Pokédex, o Pokédex Holders de la saga Pokémon, sin excepción alguna. Estaban: Red, Green y Blue de la primera generación; de la segunda estaban Gold, Silver, Cristal, Eco y Lyra; también Bruno y May de la tercera generación; además de Leon, Barry y Dawn de la cuarta generación; de la quinta estaban Lucho, Liza, Rizzo, Nancy y Matis; estaban Kalm y Serena en representación de la sexta generación; y también estaban todos los protagonistas de futuros juegos de Pokémon lanzados después de la publicación de este capítulo.
Oak.- ¡Hola! Bienvenidos al curso Pokémon. Mi nombre es Oak, pero las personas generalmente me llaman Profesor Oak. Aquí los humanos y Pokémon vivirán juntos, se ayudaran, jugaran y pelearan lado a lado, uno con otro. Pero esto no quiere decir que yo lo sé todo acerca de los Pokémon, hay aún muchos secretos por ser explorados. He estado investigando acerca de ellos, para descubrir sus secretos, así que bienvenidos a la clase de Pokémon.
Jimmy.- ¿Dónde he visto ese discurso antes?
Oak.- Bueno, iniciaremos esta clase con algo simple.
Lucho.- ¿Qué cosa?
Oak.- A ver… ¡Blue Oak pase al frente!
Blue.- Sí, abuelo.
El entrenador se levantó de su asiento con una expresión arrogante y fue con el Profesor Oak.
Oak.- Saca a uno de tus Pokémon.
Blue.- ¡Yo te elijó, Growlithe!
El nieto del Profesor Oak sacó una de sus Pokéball, de la cual invocó a un cachorro de color naranja.
Growlithe.- Grow, Grow.
Oak.- Quiero que me digas de memoria todos los ataques de tu Growlithe.
Blue.- Eso es fácil, Growlithe sabe Mordisco, Rugido y Ascuas.
Oak.- Bien, puedes sentarte. Green Leaf, lo mismo. Saca a uno de tus Pokémon y dime sus ataques.
Green.- Claro profesor. ¡Sal Abra!
Así comenzó lo que parecía ser un trabajo sencillo. Green saco a su Abra y dijo que su único ataque era tele transportación, por lo que volvió a sentarse.
Pero Jimmy estaba en problemas, él no tenía ningún Pokémon. ¿Qué iba a hacer cuando lo llamen?
De esta manera paso el tiempo: Red presento a su Charmander, Lucho a su Zorua, May a un Torchic, Kalm a un Froakie y ya era el turno de Jimmy.
Oak.- Bueno, señor Jimmy, saque alguno de sus Pokémon.
Jimmy.- Eh… profesor… yo no tengo ningún Pokémon.
Oak.- ¡¿QUÉ?!
Cuando dijo eso, todos los del curso vieron a Jimmy con sorpresa, como si fuera lo más extraño del mundo. Por un minuto, todos veían a Jimmy murmurando entre ellos, haciéndose todos la misma pregunta:
Oak.- Sí no tienes ningún Pokémon… ¡¿Qué rayos haces en la clase de Pokémon?!
Jimmy.- Lo siento profesor, no sabía que eran obligatorios.
Oak.- Pues lo siento señor Jimmy, pero este es un problema grave. Ya no puedes cambiar de clase porque todas las demás están llenas, y sin un Pokémon reprobaras mi clase. Debes de conseguir algún Pokémon.
…
Así, tanto Jimmy como Link tenían sus distintos problemas:
En su clase, Link estaba tan distraído con la presencia de sus hermanos, que fue totalmente opacado por ellos y quedo último en las calificaciones. Por lo que cuando Zelda vino a recogerlo, vio a un Link sin ánimos y totalmente deprimido y acabado.
Mientras que Jimmy… Bueno, resultaría imposible creer que a alguien sin algún Pokémon le vaya bien en una clase de Pokémon. Por lo que Jimmy quedo al último en las calificaciones, ambos estaban deprimidos… y eso que apenas había pasado un día de clases extracurriculares.
Al llegar a su casa Jimmy tuvo suerte, ya que su papá se había adelantado al espíritu culinario de su mamá y había pedido una pizza. Por lo que la familia de Jimmy estaba sentada en la mesa, comiendo algo normal, por primera vez en un largo tiempo. Claro, que el niño aprovechó para contarle a sus padres todas las desgracias que le habían ocurrido.
Jimmy.- Y eso fue lo que paso.
Mamá.- ¿Y todo eso solo por no tener un Pakomin?
Jimmy.- Se llaman Pokémon mamá, no Pakomin.
Mamá.- ¿No era ese dibujito que mirabas en la tele del dinosaurio amarillo?
Jimmy.- No mamá, eso es Digimon.
Mamá.- ¡Claro! Esa de robots que tanto te gustaba ver.
Jimmy.- Eso es Medabots.
Mamá.- ¿No era la del niño que usaba patines para pelear contra monstruos?
Jimmy.- Casi, eso era Monster Rancher.
Mamá.- ¿El de los trompitos que votaban dragones?
Jimmy.- Eso era Beyblade, ni se le parece.
Papá.- Pokémon era esa del niño que tenía a esa rata amarilla y a cada rato le gritaba “Puchachu, yo te elijo”.
Mamá.- ¡Ah, claro! Esas criaturitas tan lindas, justo ayer estuve hablando de eso con las vecinas.
Jimmy.- ¿A qué te refieres, mamá?
Mamá.- Lo que pasa es que su hijo quería una mascota y ellas me dijeron que el mejor lugar para conseguir uno de esos Pokémon y capturarlo es un bosquecito que está a las afueras de la ciudad. Creo que lo llaman Bosque Verde.
Jimmy.- ¡Eso es! ¡Capturaré mi propio Pokémon!
Papá- ¡Sí! ¡Vamos hijo capturemos un Jynx!
Jimmy.- ¡No quiero un Jynx!
Papá.- Pero…
Jimmy.- Qué no. Será mejor que llame a la caballería.
Jimmy se acercó al teléfono y marco un número, en unos pocos segundos, alguien contestó.
Jimmy.- Buenas tardes, señora. ¿Se encuentra George?... aha… aha… si, espero.
Al poco rato George contesto el teléfono.
George.-
Hola, Jimmy
.
Jimmy.- George ven a mi casa. Iremos al Bosque Verde, a capturar un Pokémon.
George.-
Iré en seguida. Puedes aprovechar para estrenar algo que recién instale en la base, solo toca el botón que encontrarás ni bien entrar
.
Jimmy.- Entendido, George.
Jimmy colgó el teléfono y luego de golpearse la cara contra el cuadro para entrar a su base, encontró un gran botón rojo y lo pulso.
…
Mientras eso ocurría, Crash dormía tranquilamente en su casa cuando un sonido lo despertó violentamente.
Crash.- ¡Uaaaaaaaa!
Entonces Crash vio un artefacto raro en el suelo que no dejaba de encenderse y apagarse, era una especie de alarma.
Alarma.- ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Jimmy los necesita a todos en su casa! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
Crash.- ¿Wow?
Y mientras tanto, Kirby y Yoshi comían apaciblemente en Chunky Burger, aunque el mesero no parecía tan contento como ellos.
Kirby.- ¡Danos más!
Mesero.- ¡Ya van comiendo como cuarenta hamburguesas cada uno!
Yoshi.- No se preocupe, señor, nuestros estómagos dan para más.
Mesero.- ¡Lo que me preocupa no son sus estómagos! Es su billetera. ¿Tienen para pagar?
Entonces sonó la alarma y ni bien la escucharon Yoshi comenzó a correr asustado por el local.
Alarma.- ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Jimmy los necesita a todos en su casa! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
Kirby.- Tranquilo, Yoshi, no es nada grave, es solo que debemos ir a casa de Jimmy.
Yoshi.- Bueno, entonces vámonos.
Mesero.- ¿Y quién va pagar la cuenta?
Kirby y Yoshi se miraron por unos segundos y acto seguido se señalaron mutuamente.
Kirby y Yoshi.- ¡Él!
Y mientras tanto, en un pasillo del colegio, Master Chief estaba noqueado después de haber recibido un par de "Buenos consejos" por parte de su director. Y podría jurar que la muerte se lo estaba llevando, y no estaría tan equivocado, pues estaba siendo arrastrado por Death Jr (Protagonista del juego de PSP), el cual curiosamente pasaba por ahí y el director le había dado un par de rupias para que se lleve a Master a su casa y así no ensucie el pasillo. Claro, eso fue hasta que llego la alarma.
Alarma.- ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Jimmy los necesita a todos en su casa! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
Ni bien escucho eso, Master se levantó de golpe totalmente recuperado, sorprendiendo a Death Jr.
Master.- Jimmy me necesita. ¡Energías recuperadas! ¡Ayudaré a mi mejor amigo!
Death Jr solo miraba confundido como Master salía corriendo a quien sabe dónde.
Y mientras tanto Link estaba sentado en el techo de su casa bastante deprimido, cuando sonó la alarma.
Alarma.- ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Jimmy los necesita a todos en su casa! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
Link solo la vio y sin decir ninguna palabra se levantó, y aun desanimado, caminó para llegar a casa de Jimmy.
…
Lo mismo ocurría en diversos puntos de la ciudad, todos los amigos de Jimmy eran llamados para ir a su casa y todos ellos estaban listos para responder el llamado. Para sorpresa de Jimmy, el primero en llegar fue Link.
Jimmy.- Hola, Link, bienvenido.
Pero el Link que había entrado parecía más muerto que vivo. Estaba bastante deprimido, entro a la casa con la cara larga y sin decir ninguna palabra se fue a sentar a un rincón.
Jimmy.- Muy bien, Link… ¿Qué paso?
Link.- Nada.
Jimmy.- ¿Tiene que ver con las clases extra? Creí que estabas contento con tus clases de cómo salvar Hyrule, después de todo tu eres el único héroe de ropajes verdes, portador de la Trifuerza del valor, capaz de salvar Hyrule.
Link.- Te equivocas.
Ni bien dijo eso Link estaba aún más deprimido, acurrucado en el rincón con una depresiva aura azul rodeándolo.
Jimmy.- ¿Qué?
Link.- Mis hermanos también se inscribieron a las clases.
Jimmy.- ¿Hermanos?... ¡¿Tienes hermanos?!... ¿Acaso te refieres a Abril?
Link.- ¿Quién es Abril?
Jimmy.- Olvídalo, pero volviendo a la pregunta… ¡¿Tienes hermanos?!
Link.- Si, somos bastantes.
Jimmy.- ¿Y cómo se llaman?
Link.- Todos nos llamamos Link.
Jimmy.- ¡¿Todos se llaman Link?! Muy bien, ahora sí que lo he visto todo.
Link.- Bueno, en realidad no son mis hermanos de sangre.
Jimmy.- ¿Entonces?
Link.- Verás, mi familia tiene una extraña tradición: se la pasan buscando a niños con un gran potencial, que hayan sido elegidos por la Trifuerza del valor. Una vez que los encuentran los adoptan como sus hijos y los visten con los ropajes verdes del antiguo héroe. Yo por ejemplo vivía en el bosque Kokiri antes de que me adopten.
Jimmy.- Quien lo hubiera pensado.
Link.- Una vez que nos adoptan se dedican a entrenarnos para convertirnos en héroes y así defenderemos la ciudad en caso de alguna emergencia. De esta manera cumplen su misión de evitar que la Trifuerza del valor sea usada para el mal. La familia de Zelda es bastante parecida, por eso ambas familias son bastante cercanas y todos los Links nos llevamos bien con todas las Zeldas, o casi todos.
Jimmy.- Pero si todos se llaman Link… ¿Cómo se diferencian?
Link.- Pues a cada uno le dan un título según sus características. Como yo soy el único que puede usar la ocarina del tiempo me dicen el héroe del tiempo, mi hermano mayor fue el primero y le dicen héroe de Hyrule, mi hermano menor tiene la batuta del viento y le dicen el héroe de los vientos.
Jimmy.- ¡Claro! Las distintas encarnaciones de Link… Oye, pero esos son muchos Links. ¿Cómo le hacen para criarlos a todos?
Link.- Pues a cada Link le asignan alguna criatura para que cuide de él y se encargue de guiarlo y criarlo, como una conciencia. A mí me asignaron un hada llamada Navi, mi hermano mayor tiene una especie de espíritu llamado Fay, otro tiene una twily llamada Midna, otro un sombrero llamado Ezero, entre otros. Solo los Link más experimentados están sin ningún protector.
Jimmy.- Los protectores de la Trifuerza del valor… Vaya, Link, tu familia es rara.
Link.- La tuya también.
Jimmy.- Cierto, aunque hay algo que no entiendo.
Link.- ¿Qué?
Jimmy.- ¿Por qué estas deprimido?
Link.- ¿Qué no lo ves? Después de que mis hermanos y yo fuéramos a esa clase me di cuenta de que no soy único. Ninguna de mis habilidades es exclusiva de mí, hay muchos otros como yo, soy solo uno del montón.
Jimmy.- Venga, Link, sabes que eso no es cierto, eres único.
Link.- Dime una sola cosa que me diferencie de ellos.
Jimmy.- Eh… tienes… ¡La ocarina del tiempo!
Link.- Se la preste a mi hermano.
Jimmy.- ¿Tu hermano toca?
Link.- ¡Todos tocan!
Jimmy.- Tranquilízate amigo. Créeme, tu eres único.
Link.- Yo no lo creo así.
Jimmy solo se quedó mirando al deprimido Link, ya no tenía fundamentos. ¿Acaso había algo que podía hacer el héroe del tiempo y ningún otro Link pudiera hacer? Si, era el más conocido y el que en más crossovers había aparecido, pero todas sus habilidades estaban niveladas con las de los otros Link, solo variaban en historia, aspecto y armas.
Justo cuando se preguntaba y estaba a punto de hablar, el timbre de la casa sonó y Jimmy tuvo que ir a abrir.
Jimmy.- Ya debieron llegar los demás.
Cuando Jimmy abrió la puerta, uno a uno entraron sus amigos: Crash, Kirby, Ribbon, Zelda, Master Chief, Yoshi, Samus, George y… ¿Green?
Jimmy.- ¡¿Green?!
Green.- Hola, ¿qué cuentas?
Jimmy.- ¿Cómo que "Hola ¿Qué cuentas?"? ¡¿Qué haces en mi casa?!
George.- Yo la invite.
Jimmy.- ¿Tú la invitaste?
Green.- Creo que el término correcto sería decir que él me contrató.
Jimmy.- ¿Contratar?
George.- Así es, me puse a pensar y llegue a la conclusión de que nosotros solos no vamos a poder capturar ni un resfriado. Por lo que quizá necesitemos ayuda de un entrenador experimentado.
Jimmy.- ¡¿Y por qué ella?!
George.- Es la única entrenadora de nuestro curso y es con la que mejor te llevas.
Jimmy.- ¡¿Desde cuándo?!... Un minuto… ¡¿Cuánto le pagaste?!
George.- Cinco rupias.
Jimmy.- ¡¿Qué?! ¡Ahora solo nos quedan seis rupias!
George.- Corrección, dos rupias, gaste cuatro rupias para comprar cuatro Pokéball. ¿O en que pensabas capturar al Pokémon?
Jimmy.- ¡No es posible!
Green.- Mira niñito, te guste o no tu amigo contrato mis servicios, así que. ¿Quieres que te capture un Pokémon o no?
Jimmy.- Está bien.
Green.- No te escucho.
Jimmy.- ¡Está bien!
Green.- ¿Qué dijiste?
Jimmy.- ¡Dije que está bien!
Green.- Así me gusta, ahora entremos, Jimmycito.
Una vez adentro Jimmy les explico a todos la situación y decidieron ir al Bosque Verde sin objeción alguna.
Jimmy.- Bien, antes de partir voy a tomar lista.
Jimmy comenzó a leer el papel con la lista.
Jimmy.- Zelda.
Zelda.- Presente.
Jimmy.- Master.
Master.- ¡Presente, mi gran amigo!
Jimmy.- George.
George.- Presente.
Jimmy.- Samus.
Samus.- Aquí estoy.
Jimmy.- Crash… ¿Crash?... ¡Crash!
Ribbon.- Está durmiendo en tu sillón, Jimmy.
Jimmy.- Lo que sea, Ribbon.
Ribbon.- Presente.
Jimmy.- Link.
Link.- Ñe.
Master.- ¿Qué le pasa?
Jimmy.- Larga historia, pero mejor continúo con la lista. Kirby… Un minuto… ¿Dónde están Kirby y Yoshi?
Entonces, la pregunta de Jimmy fue respondida cuando unos ruidos se escucharon de la cocina. No había que ser un genio para deducir que pasaba.
Jimmy- ¡Salgan de mi cocina ustedes dos!
Jimmy fue a la cocina y sacó a Yoshi y a Kirby, que no conformes con vaciar el refrigerador… pues se tragaron el refrigerador entero.
Yoshi.- Lo siento…
Kirby.- Fue idea de Yoshi.
Yoshi.- ¡No es cierto!
Jimmy.- Da igual. Siguiendo con la lista, Green.
Green.- Presente y lista para todo.
Jimmy.- Desgraciadamente.
Green.- ¡¿Qué dijiste?!
Jimmy.- Yo no he dicho nada. Mejor continúo con la lista, papá… Un minuto. ¡¿Quién anoto esto en la lista?!
Y el padre de Jimmy se apareció prácticamente de la nada, respondiendo al llamado de la lista.
Papá.- ¡Totalmente presente, mi querido hijo! Sera una gran casería de padre e hijo
Jimmy.- Papá… ¿Qué haces vestido así?
Ahí estaba el padre de Jimmy, con un traje bastante parecido al de los caza bichos de Pokémon, el cual para colmo le quedaba bastante pequeño. El traje inclusive venía con un sombrero de paja y una red para capturar insectos.
Papá.- Es el traje que usaba en mi juventud para cazar insectos.
Jimmy.- ¡Y tú qué crees! ¿Que los Pokémon fueron creados basándose en las cacerías de insectos que hacia su creador?
Papá.- Eh… sí.
Jimmy.- Además, no vendrás con nosotros.
Papá.- ¡Pero yo quiero ir!
El padre comenzó a hacer un berrinche mientras los miembros del club lo observaban con una gotita en la frente.
George.- No creo que haya inconveniente con que vaya, además que necesitáremos un adulto por si las cosas se ponen feas.
Jimmy.- Esta bien, vendrás con nosotros.
Papá.- ¡Yupi! ¡Todos al auto!
Zelda.- ¿Tiene auto?
Papá.- ¿Tú qué crees? ¿Qué voy al trabajo a pie? Claro que tengo auto.
Y así todos ingresaron al auto, bastante emocionados por la aventura que tendrían, (Excepto Link que no estaba muy emocionado). Y se dirigieron al Bosque Verde para capturar un Pokémon.
…
Una vez dentro del bosque, todos se sorprendieron al ver lo grande que era o la gran cantidad de Pokémon que tenía. Al ver por la ventana la enorme variedad de criaturas que habitaban en el bosque, estaban listos para cumplir con su misión.
George.- Muy bien, el territorio es bastante amplio.
Master.- ¿Enserio? No lo puedo creer, este bosque gigante es bastante amplio. Nótese el sarcasmo.
George.- ¡Déjate de sarcasmos y escucha el plan!... Como decía, debido a la extensión del terreno, creo que lo mejor será separarnos en grupos.
Ribbon.- ¿Separarnos?
Crash.- ¿Ah?
George.- Así cubriremos mayor terreno. Además como solo tenemos cuatro Pokéball, nos dividiremos en cuatro grupos elegidos al azar.
Zelda.- Así es, tengo doce papeles con el número de grupo. Cada cual sacará uno y el papel decidirá quién va con quién, ten, Link, saca uno.
Pero Link estaba en el piso deprimido y todos lo observaban extrañados. Zelda se acercó a él, entre confundida y preocupada.
Zelda.- ¿Link?
Link.- Pónganme con el que sobre y listo.
Zelda.- Link…
George.- Bueno, saquemos los demás, ya después sacará Link.
De esta manera se dividieron en cuatro grupos, separándose, yendo cada cual en una dirección distinta por el bosque, para así abarcar terreno y atrapar un Pokémon. En el primer grupo estaban Zelda, Master Chief y Papá; en el segundo estaban Ribbon, Samus y Link; en el tercero se encontraban Crash, Kirby y Yoshi; mientras que el cuarto estaba conformado por Jimmy, George y Green.
Jimmy- George… La próxima vez que tengamos que dividirnos en grupos, no serán escogidos al azar, yo los escogeré.
Green.- ¿Acaso tienes alguna queja?
Jimmy.- Más de una queja, Green.
Green.- Pues que sepas que yo tampoco estoy tan feliz de estar en tu mismo grupo.
George.- Vamos, muchachos, no es momento de pelear.
Green.- ¡Él comenzó!
Jimmy.- ¡No es cierto!
Green.- ¿Qué acaso quieres pelear?
Jimmy.- No me tientes, ladrona.
Green.- ¡¿A quién llamas ladrona?!
Jimmy.- ¡A la que me robo todo mi dinero el primer día de clases!
Green.- Da igual, era dinero falso.
Jimmy.- ¡Que no era dinero falso! ¡Solo era dinero de mi mundo!
Green.- ¡No me salgas con esa tontería de otro mundo!
Jimmy.- ¡No es ninguna tontería!
George.- Oigan, tranquilos.
Jimmy y Green.- ¡Tú no te metas!
Con el grito que dieron provocaron que George se vaya para atrás del susto y acabe chocándose con un árbol. Preocupados, se acercaron a su amigo para ver si estaba bien.
George.- ¡Auch!
Jimmy.- Lo siento, George.
Green.- ¿Estás bien?
Pero entonces debido al impacto con el árbol, una especie de gusanito pequeño con un aguijón en la cabeza cayó desde la cima. Jimmy estaba feliz por finalmente haber encontrado a un Pokémon.
Jimmy.- ¡Genial! ¡Un Pokémon! ¡Voy a atraparlo!
Green.- Un segundo Jimmy, eso es un Weedle, lo que significa…
Entonces otro Pokémon le cayó en la cabeza a Jimmy. A diferencia del gusanito, este parecía ser más bien una especie de capullo dorado.
Green.- Sip, eso es un Kakuna, su siguiente fase es…
Jimmy.- No se necesita ser la experta en evolución para saber que lo que sigue es…
Y un grupo de Pokémon con forma de abejas salió volando del árbol con una expresión no muy amistosa. Jimmy y sus amigos se quedaron inmóviles al verlos, ya sabían lo que eran, puesto que después del Kakuna viene el…
Todos.- ¡Beedrill!
Los Pokémon abejas comenzaron a perseguir a Jimmy, Green y George quienes corrían desesperados, intentando evitar sus picaduras. Sin embargo George no era tan atlético como sus amigos, por lo que se tropezó con una piedra.
Jimmy.- ¡George!
George.- ¡Auxilio!
Pero antes de que Jimmy o Green puedan ir a ayudarlo, todos los Pokémon abeja rodearon a George y comenzaron a atacarlo con sus aguijones.
Jimmy.- ¡Noooo!
Pero justo cuando cualquiera hubiera pensado que este sería el final de George: un montón de pelos comenzaron a salirle, su tamaño comenzó a incrementarse considerablemente y solo Jimmy y Green sabían lo que estaba por ocurrir.
Green.- Parece que sus clases extracurriculares para controlar la ira no le sirvieron muy bien que digamos.
Así era, George se había transformado en un gorila gigante. Los Beedrill miraban desconcertados, esta no se la esperaban. El Beedrill más valiente fue en un intento de atacar a George con sus picotazos venenosos, pero al gorila gigante le basto con una manotada para aplastar al Beedrill como si fuera… un insecto.
Jimmy.- Muy bien… no es lo que tenía en mente pero… ¡Capturaré a Beedrill!
Green.- ¡Es hora de trabajar! ¡Ese Beedrill está débil! ¡Es tu oportunidad de capturarlo!
Jimmy.- Lo haré.
El niño comenzó a revisar sus bolsillos y se dio cuenta de un pequeño detalle que se le había pasado por alto.
Jimmy.- Eh… Green… ¿Tú tienes la Pokéball?
Green.- No, la tenía…
Jimmy y Green.- ¡George!
Jimmy.- George, amigo. ¿Puedes arrojar la Pokéball?
El gorila gigante solo gruño y se fue corriendo por el bosque mientras Jimmy, Green y los Beedrill lo veían desaparecer entre la maleza.
Green.- Esto es tu culpa.
Jimmy.- No es cierto, es tu culpa.
Entonces todos los Beedrill se voltearon a ver a ambos niños con una mirada de odio. Si antes ya estaban enojados, ahora emanaban pura rabia.
Jimmy.- ¡Corre!
Green.- ¡Aaaahhhh!
Y así los dos niños tuvieron que salir corriendo perseguidos por los Beedrill, quienes no se darían por vencidos hasta clavarle un aguijón.
…
Mientras, en otra parte del bosque: Kirby, Crash y Yoshi caminaban en busca de un Pokémon para capturar, aunque también pensaban en algo más, algo bastante importante… Al menos para ellos.
Kirby.- Vaya que tengo hambre.
Yoshi.- Yo también, no comí casi nada antes de venir.
Crash.- Ahihi.
Kirby.- No sé qué dices, Crash, pero estoy de acuerdo contigo.
Yoshi.- Genial, somos tres amigos, de los cuales uno no puede hablar y estamos cansados y hambrientos en un terreno hostil. ¿Dónde habré visto eso antes?
Crash.- ¡Allst!
Kirby.- Bueno, lo que importa es que debemos encontrar un Pokémon, y mientras más rápido lo hagamos, más rápido volveremos para cenar
Yoshi.- Bien dicho… ¿Pero qué clase de Pokémon debemos conseguir?
Kirby.- Pues tratándose de Jimmy, seguro un Pokémon que sea grande y poderoso.
Yoshi.- ¿Dónde encontraremos alguno de esos?
Crash.- ¡Wow!
Crash estaba apuntando a una especie de Pokémon: Era bastante grande comparado con lo que habían visto antes, aunque por el momento, dormía apaciblemente y no parecía tener intenciones de despertar en un buen tiempo. Era un Snorlax, uno de los Pokémon más fuertes, raros y resistentes.
Kirby.- Bien, Crash, este es el Pokémon perfecto para Jimmy.
Yoshi.- Esta dormido… ¿Le arrojo la Pokéball?
Kirby.- No, primero hay que debilitarlo.
Yoshi.- ¿Y cómo haremos eso?
Kirby.- Me lo tragare.
Crash.- ¿Aha?
Yoshi.- ¿Puedes tragar algo tan grande?
Kirby.- Lo intentaré.
Kirby abrió su boca y comenzó a absorber con toda la potencia que tenía, aunque el Snorlax apenas se movía.
Yoshi.- ¡Vamos, Kirby! ¡Tú puedes!
Crash.- ¡Wiiiiiiii!
Kirby.- ¡Lo lograré!
Kirby comenzó a absorber con mayor potencia, nunca antes vista e increíblemente logro meterse al Snorlax en la boca.
Yoshi.- Lo lograste.
Kirby (Con la boca llena).- Absorberé su poder.
Kirby se tragó al Snorlax quien salió para afuera y tenía un sueño tan pesado que ni se dio cuenta de que lo habían digerido.
Yoshi.- Bien hecho Kirby, ahora tienes su poder.
Kirby.- Si… pero me siento raro… algo… cansado…
Ni bien dijo esto Kirby se durmió al lado del Snorlax. Efectivamente había copiado el poder del Pokémon.
Yoshi.- Kirby… ¿Kirby?... ¡Kirby!... ¡KIRBY!
Yoshi ya se estaba desesperando y por más que le gritará, Kirby no se movía ni un centímetro.
Yoshi.- Crash, Kirby se durmió y… ¿Crash?
Pero Crash estaba durmiendo junto a Kirby y al Snorlax, bastante cómodo y apacible.
Yoshi.- ¡Noooooooooooo!
Y el dinosaurio comenzó a correr en círculos totalmente desesperado.
…
Mientras eso ocurría, en otro rincón del bosque: Zelda y Master Chief caminaban guiados por el papá de Jimmy. Aunque Master parecía bastante confiado ante el hombre que los guiaba, Zelda tenía unas cuantas dudas.
Zelda.- Oiga señor… ¿Está seguro de lo que hace?
Master.- ¿Qué no lo ves, Zelda? ¡El padre de Jimmy es un genio!
Papá.- Así es, muchacho. En mis épocas nos divertíamos bastante capturando insectos. Tengo experiencia en esto.
Zelda.- Pero los Pokémon no son todos insectos…
Papá.- Es lo mismo, también capturaba a las ratas que se entraban en mi casa.
Master.- Hablando de ratas, ahí hay una.
Los tres levantaron la vista y vieron a una especie de rata amarilla, sentada en un árbol y comiendo una manzana. Se encontraba totalmente relajada, con una sonrisa arrogante, como si se tratara de la mascota principal de alguna franquicia multimillonaria en varios medios.
Zelda.- ¡Es un Pikachu!
Master.- Pues si es un Pokémon hay que capturarlo.
Zelda.- Tienes razón, hay que ser sigilosos y lo conseguiremos.
Papá.- ¡Vamos a por él!
El padre de Jimmy cargó con toda su fuerza y embistió el árbol, causando que el Pikachu caiga violentamente contra el suelo. Pero mientras el Pokémon estaba confundido intentando procesar lo que acababa de pasar, el padre de Jimmy no perdió el tiempo y se le abalanzó encima.
Papá.- ¡Lo tengo! ¡Lo tengo!
Zelda.- ¡Lo va asfixiar!
Papá.- ¡Te venceré!
Pikachu.- Pikaaa. ¡Chu!
El Pikachu comenzó a generar tanta electricidad que el papá de Jimmy quedo rostizado, por lo que el Pokémon eléctrico pudo salir de su agarré.
Pikachu.- Pika.
Zelda.- Señor… ¿Se encuentra bien?
Papá.- Esto no pasaba con los insectos que capturaba.
Master.- ¡Tu! ¡¿Cómo te atreves a atacar al padre de mi mejor amigo?! ¡Ya verás!
Y el Master Chief saco una especie de metralleta, dejando al Pikachu con una expresión de sorpresa y terror. Ante esta situación, el Pokémon decidió hacer lo más sensato… correr para salvar su vida.
Pikachu.- ¡Pika!
Master.- ¡Vuelve acá!
Y el Pikachu, apenas escapaba del tiroteo al que Master Chief lo sometía. El Pokémon escapaba de la lluvia de balas con una agilidad sorprendente.
Zelda.- ¡Oye tú! ¡Queremos capturarlo no matarlo!
Zelda rápidamente uso su magia para curar a Papá y ambos siguieron a Master Chief, quien a su vez persiguió a Pikachu hasta el interior de una cueva oscura.
Master.- Maldición, ese Pokémon se metió a una cueva.
Papá.- ¿Se nos escapó?
Master.- Aun no.
Master saco una especie de granada y la arrojo al interior de la cueva donde lo siguiente que se oyó fue una explosión.
Master.- Bien, Zel pásame la Pokéball, seguro que ahora el Pokémon saldrá debilitado y lo capturaré.
Zelda.- Ten, por si el Pokémon sigue vivo.
Master se preparó agarrando la Pokéball cual si fuera granada, lista para dispararla en contra del roedor eléctrico. Aunque para su desgracia, lo que salió de la cueva no era un Pikachu… era un Onix: una serpiente gigante de roca. El cual estaba naturalmente furioso porque alguien había arrojado una granada a su hogar.
Zelda.- ¡Un Onix!
Master le arrojo la Pokéball, sin embargo el Onix rápidamente se liberó a los pocos segundos. Naturalmente, se enojó aún más, pues no solo habían destruido su casa, sino que también lo habían intentado capturar.
Master.- Oye Zelda, tú que eres la lista… ¿Qué se supone que debo hacer ahora?
Zelda.- ¡Correr!
Papá.- ¡Vámonos de aquí!
Y así el grupo escapo por el bosque, perseguidos por un Onix enorme y cada vez más enfadado.
…
Mientras eso ocurría, en otro sector del bosque, el grupo conformado por: Ribbon, Samus y Link caminaban por el bosque. Aunque no se podría decir que caminen muy alegres que digamos, sobre todo por uno de los miembros.
Samus.- ¡Por favor, Link! ¡Ya basta!
Link.- Tú no sabes lo que se siente, Samus, tú eres única, en cambio yo soy solo uno del montón.
Samus.- ¡Deja de decir tonterías! ¡Tú eres único!
Link.- Yo no tengo nada que me haga único.
Samus.- ¡Claro que sí, idiota! ¡Deja de auto compadecerte!
Ribbon-. Oigan, calmémonos un poco.
Samus.- ¡Silencio, Ribbon! ¡No puedo dejar que ninguno de mis amigos se menosprecie de esa manera!
Ribbon.- Pero, Samus. Link se siente mal, creo que lo mejor será dejar que se calme y concentrarnos en atrapar al Pokémon de Jimmy.
Sin embargo Samus no le hizo caso ya que continúo insistiéndole a Link.
…
Pero mientras eso ocurría, en otra parte del bosque, Jimmy y Green al fin se habían librado de los Beedrill.
Jimmy.- Vaya, que poco falto.
Green.- Y que lo digas, creí que nos atraparían.
Jimmy.- Y ahora estamos perdidos. Sin Pokéball y sin George, creo que no capturaremos ningún Pokémon
Green.- Tu descuida, tu amigo contrato mis servicios antes de volverse el rey del bosque. Por esa razón me veo obligada a ayudarte y prometerte que para cuando salgamos de este bosque tú ya tendrás un Pokémon
Jimmy.- ¿Hablas enserio, Green?
Green.- Claro que sí, ya hasta puedo ver al Pokémon venir hacia nosotros.
Pero entonces se escucharon unos gritos y de un arbusto salieron corriendo Zelda, Master y Papá.
Papá.- ¡Corre, hijo!
Jimmy.- ¿Papá? ¿Qué está pasando?
Los tres se pasaron de largo, dejando confundidos a Jimmy y Green. Ambos voltearon confundidos y vieron acercarse a un Onix totalmente furioso.
Green.- Creí que con los Beedrill sería suficiente.
Jimmy.- ¡Vámonos de aquí!
Todos comenzaron a escapar como pudieron. Jimmy y Green ahora corrían junto a Zelda, Master y el Papá. Mientras que el Onix devastaba todo a su paso para alcanzar a sus víctimas.
Zelda.- ¿Dónde está George?
Green.- Por ahí, dando una vuelta
Jimmy.- ¿Por qué nos persigue un Onix?
Zelda.- Díselo a Master Chief.
Master.- Yo que iba a saber que esto pasaría.
Jimmy.- ¡Master!
Master.- Tu descuida, amigo, lo detendré.
El Spartan se dio la vuelta, para sorpresa de todos y corrió hacia el Onix disparándole con todo lo que tenía. Pero el Onix, mas enojado aun, le dio un lanza rocas y lo mando a volar a quien sabe dónde.
Jimmy.- ¡Perdimos a Master!
Papá.- ¡Estamos muertos!
…
Pero mientras ellos corrían por sus vidas; Ribbon, Samus y Link habían decidido sentarse un rato para descansar. Sin embargo un Rattata se aprovechó de eso y comenzó a saquear la bolsa de armas de Link para ver que podía encontrar, sorprendiéndose de que la bolsa parecía no tener fondo y estaba repleta de diversos artículos e items.
Ribbon.- Link, hay un Pokémon hurgando tu bolsa.
Link.- No importa, mis hermanos tienen bolsas iguales.
La expresión desanimada y apagada de Link fue la gota que colmó el vaso para Samus, quien inmediatamente se levantó de su asiento y sujetó al Hylian de la túnica.
Samus.- ¡Reacciona de una vez, Link!
Link.- No molesten, no veo por qué deberían preocuparse por alguien que no es único.
Samus.- ¡¿Quieres saber por qué nos preocupamos por ti, grandísimo idiota?! ¡Pues porque eres nuestro amigo! ¡No me importa cuántos Link hayan, para nosotros tu eres único!
Link.- Pero…
Samus.- ¡Tú eres el Link que ha apoyado a Jimmy desde que entro a esta escuela! ¡El que ha sido mi amigo desde primaria y el que nos inspiró a crear este grupo con el único objetivo de ayudar a un amigo! ¡Ese es el tipo de cosas que te diferencian de los otros Link! ¡¿Por qué no lo ves?!
Link.- Yo…
Ribbon.- Lo que dice Samus es cierto, Link, sin ti quizás no estaríamos aquí.
Link.- ¿Enserio?
Pero antes de que Ribbon o Samus pudieran responder, unos gritos se escucharon a la distancia. Al voltear a ver pudieron encontrarse con Jimmy, Green, Papá y Zelda aun escapando del Onix, y lo peor de todo era que se dirigían justo hasta ellos.
Ribbon.- ¿Y eso?
Jimmy.- ¡Corran!
Antes de que Link pudiera reaccionar, Samus lo empujo contra un arbusto, y acto seguido tanto ella como Ribbon echaron a correr junto a Jimmy y sus amigos, seguidos por el Onix. Este último se pasó de largo al aun desconcertado Link que continuaba tirado en los arbustos.
Samus.- Al menos logre salvar a Link.
Ribbon.- ¿Dónde está Kirby?
Jimmy.- Pues aún no lo hemos encontrado.
Samus.- ¡Eso no es lo que debería preocuparte! ¡¿Qué diablos le hicieron a ese Onix?!
Zelda.- ¡Master Chief le arrojó una granada!
Samus.- Sip, es un clásico de él, no me sorprende.
Jimmy.- ¡No importa si es un clásico o no!
Papá.- ¡Vamos a morir!
Ribbon.- Eh, amigos… les traigo malas noticias.
Green.- ¿Cuáles?
Ribbon.- Llegamos a un lugar sin salida.
Todos.- ¡¿QUÉ?!
Así era, habían llegado justo a una pendiente que se encontraba demasiado escarpada como para treparla, mientras que en el otro extremo había un rio, el cual tampoco podrían cruzar. De esta manera, el grupo de Jimmy ya no tenía escapatoria, y el Onix no podía evitar dejar escapar una sonrisa de satisfacción al ver cómo había acorralado a su presa.
Ribbon.- ¿Qué haremos ahora?
Papá.- Muy bien, yo soy el adulto aquí… ¡Por eso es su deber protegerme!
Jimmy.- ¡Nada de eso! ¡Papá, vete a luchar con esa cosa!
Papá.- ¡No quiero!
Jimmy.- ¡Hazlo!
Papá.- ¡No!
Pero el Onix se acercaba lentamente al grupo, saboreando su victoria y rugiendo a aquellos que se habían atrevido a arrojar una granada contra su hogar. El grupo de Jimmy estaba asustado sin saber qué hacer, pero Green dio unos pasos al frente.
Green.- Atrás todos, yo me encargo.
Zelda.- ¿Qué quieres decir?
Green.- Pues que antes de convertirse en un monstruo gigante, su amigo me contrato. Por lo cual debo de encargarme de este tipo de situaciones. ¡Sal, Bulbasaur!
Green invoco a un pequeño Pokémon de color verde con un bulbo creciendo en su espalda. El Bulbasaur se preparó para el combate, pero el Onix no se veía para nada intimidado, de hecho estaba bastante confiado.
Jimmy.- ¡Vamos, Green! ¡El tuyo es de planta! ¡Tienes la ventaja!
Green.- ¡Pero ese Onix tiene mucho más nivel!
Samus.- Entonces yo ayudaré.
La chica revisó su mochila y sacó un dispositivo extraño, acto seguido lo activo y fue rodeada por su clásica armadura. Ahora Samus estaba dentro en su traje de poder.
Green.- ¡Bulbasaur, usa Hojas Navaja!
Y la batalla comenzó, Bulbasaur intento arrojarle sus Hojas Navaja, pero el Onix lo esquivo escarbando y atacando desde debajo de la tierra. Está técnica tomó a Bulbasaur por sorpresa y lo sacó volando.
Samus aprovechó la distracción y logro darle un disparo cargado, sin embargo no era muy efectivo, a diferencia del Lanza Rocas del Onix el cual resulto ser súper efectivo en contra suyo. La chica de la armadura fue golpeada por una lluvia de rocas y cayó de espalda.
Jimmy.- Que raro, creí que el tipo roca era débil contra el tipo acero.
Samus.- ¡No soy un Pokémon!
Pero el Onix regresaba al ataque, por lo que Samus tuvo que reaccionar rápido para esquivarlo.
Jimmy.- ¡Rápido, Samus! ¡Usa misil!
Samus.- ¡Que no soy un Pokémon! ¡Y si lo fuera tu no serías mi trainer!
Sin embargo, el Onix logro embestir a Samus con toda su fuerza, mandándola a volar contra una roca y dañando su armadura. Bulbasaur intento ayudarla con su Látigo Cepa, envolviendo a Onix con sus lianas. Pero el Pokémon tenía un muy alto nivel, por lo que fácilmente noqueó a Bulbasaur arrojándole varias piedras encima.
Bulbasaur y Samus habían perdido la batalla. Ahora el Pokémon se volteó hacía los demás, dispuesto a atacarlos. Al ver la situación, Jimmy y Zelda se pusieron en posición de combate. Sin embargo, sabían que no tenían oportunidad contra el Onix, ya que Zelda no tenía mucha experiencia en combate y Jimmy no tenía poderes.
El Onix se lanzó al ataque, todos estaban resignados a ser golpeados por sus ataques de roca. Sin embargo, cuando estaba por llegar con su oponente, una bomba llego de la nada y le exploto en plena cara. Todo el mundo observó confundido lo que acababa de pasar.
Green.- Pero, ¿qué fue eso?
Jimmy.- No será…
Entonces el Onix se volteó para ver quien lo había atacado y se sorprendió por lo que vio: era Link.
Todos.- ¡Link!
Link.- ¡Oye tú, lagartija de piedra! ¡Deja en paz a mis amigos! ¡Ellos son la única cosa que me diferencia de mis hermanos! ¡No dejare que les hagas nada!
Jimmy.- ¡Link! ¡Amigo, volviste!
El Onix miraba a Link con rabia, por lo visto no le había gustado en lo más mínimo que le hayan arrojado una bomba y lo hayan insultado. Aun así, Link no parecía intimidado, de hecho observaba al Pokémon con una sonrisa confiada en su rostro.
Link.- ¡Si quieres atacar a alguien pues ven por mí!
El Onix no espero más y guiado por su ira, fue a embestir a Link con todas sus fuerzas. Pero aún con todo esto, el Hylian todavía mantenía la calma. Sus amigos, por otro lado, estaban bastante preocupados.
Zelda.- Su espada no será suficiente contra el cuerpo de esa cosa.
Ribbon.- ¡Link está en problemas!
Jimmy.- ¡Link, corre!
Pero Link no se movió de su sitio. Al ver que la embestida de Onix estaba a punto de llegarle, solamente saco su Ocarina y comenzó a tocar una canción.
Papá.- ¿Qué está haciendo?
Y justo cuando el Onix iba a completar su embestida… Link desapareció como por arte de magia. El Onix, al no poder detenerse, cayó en lo que había detrás de Link: un rio. De esta manera, literalmente al pobre Onix se lo llevo la corriente. Todo el grupo estaba sorprendido por ello y es acto seguido, cuando Link reapareció junto a Jimmy.
Link.- ¿Están todos bien?
Zelda.- Pues gracias a ti.
Jimmy.- ¿Y qué me dices, Link? Ya no estás deprimido.
Link.- No, ya no. Ya he comprendido lo que me hace único, gracias, Samus.
Samus.- Pues por algo son los amigos.
Ribbon.- Aunque no todo fue un final feliz, Jimmy. No pudimos atrapar a tu Pokémon.
Jimmy.- Si, esto seguro me traerá problemas mañana.
Papá.- ¿Qué vas a hacer, hijo?
Jimmy.- Bueno, desde el principio sabía que no sería una misión fácil, pero al menos lo intentamos. A lo mejor y podría presentar a Samus como mi Pokémon.
Samus.- ¡Ni se te ocurra!
Jimmy.- Aunque… ¡No quiero tener que ir a rendirle cuentas al director!
Ribbon.- Ya viste lo que le paso a Master.
Jimmy ya se estaba resignando, lo había intentado, pero no consiguió capturar a ningún Pokémon. Esto le traería malas calificaciones en sus clases extracurriculares y lo más seguro es que el director Tabbu le dé uno de sus castigos severos. El niño ya había perdido toda esperanza, pero Green se le acercó.
Green.- Bueno, Jimmy, no me queda de otra.
Jimmy.- ¿A qué te refieres, Green?
Green.- Pues verás: si la gente se entera que fallé en conseguirte un Pokémon a pesar de que George ya me había pagado por adelantado, mi reputación se iría por los suelos y ya nadie va querer contratarme. Por esa razón… toma esto.
La entrenadora Pokémon sacó una Pokéball de su bolsillo y se la pasó a un bastante sorprendido Jimmy. El niño no se esperaba esto y no sabía que decir. Sostuvo la Pokéball que le había dado Green y la observó de cerca, todavía le costaba creer lo que acababa de pasar.
Jimmy.- Green… no me digas que esto es…
Green.- Te lo dije, no te dejaré salir de este bosque sin un Pokémon.
Jimmy.- ¡Genial! ¡Tengo un Pokémon!
Todos.- ¡Sí!
Link.- ¿Y que Pokémon es, Jimmy?
Papá.- Que sea un Jynx, que sea un Jynx.
Jimmy.- ¡No es un Jynx!... ¿O sí?
Green.- Pues supongo que no lo sabrás hasta que no lo convoques.
Jimmy invoco al Pokémon que había en el interior de la Pokéball y salió…
…
Más tarde ese día, en la casa de Jimmy…
Jimmy.- ¡Rápido, Papá!
Papá.- ¿Cómo? ¿Aún tiene hambre?
Jimmy.- Es incansable, no ha dejado de comer desde que llegó.
Ahí estaba el nuevo Pokémon de Jimmy: Un pequeño gusanito de color verde que se encontraba zampándose todos los platos de comida que podía. Se trataba ni más ni menos que de un Caterpie.
Jimmy.- ¿Enserio es necesario que le dé tanta comida?
Papá.- Recuerda que está en crecimiento.
Mamá.- Hijo. ¿Cuál era la condición para que te deje tener mascota?
Jimmy.- Que lo alimente y lo cuide bien.
Papá.- Bueno, ya tenemos un nuevo miembro en la familia.
Caterpie.- ¡Ñyo!
Jimmy.- Aun así, siento como si me hubiera olvidado de algo.
…
Y mientras tanto en el Bosque Verde… Un niño con un traje futurista salía del rio, estaba bastante sucio y algo golpeado: era Master Chief.
Master.- Bitácora de Master Chief: al fin logre escapar de esas abejas. No sé en qué parte del bosque estoy o cuánto tiempo he pasado aquí, pero aún tengo que capturar un Pokémon para Jimmy.
Entonces Master vio adelante suyo y encontró una escena algo peculiar: Yoshi corría desesperado de un lado para otro, mientras Crash y Kirby dormían apaciblemente junto a un Snorlax. Pero esto no era todo, pues al fondo se podía ver a un gorila gigante persiguiendo una parvada de Pidgey.
Master- Bitácora de Master Chief: este sitio es más raro de lo que parece.
Continuará…
Monto Acumulado: 2 Rupias
Y en el siguiente episodio: es hora de que en la escuela de Jimmy se celebre uno de los festivales favoritos de los alumnos: la gran competencia de Rescata a la Princesa. Mario está bastante emocionado por participar, pero quizá eso cambie cuando se entere de que cierto alumno nuevo de otro curso también participará. ¿Quién ganara la competencia? ¿Cómo se las arreglará Jimmy para hacerse con las rupias del premio? Todo esto y más en el siguiente episodio: "El Rescate de la Princesa".
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
He can’t hear her screams – their father built the cage too well for that – but he can see the desperation in her eyes as she slams against the glass repeatedly, the words ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Let me out’ trapped in the steel cage with her. He sees her shaking form – sees the way she slowly breaks, cracks forming in her very soul, sees the tears that fall as she pleads with them to just
open
the door
.
Klaus has a terrifying moment of clarity where he wonders just how much like dad Luther was.
He doesn’t try to break past the giant like Allison does, or glare daggers like what Diego was doing. He knows just what he’s capable of, and he knows that he is no match for the supposed leader of their ragtag group. If even Allison – the one person Luther was most likely to cave to – could not sway him, and Diego – who was the only one who dared to challenge Number One – couldn’t stop him, then he – scrawny, cowardly,
weak
– stood no chance.
So when Luther shepherded all of them upstairs, he left with them, all the while the silent screams of their sister echoed in his head. The cage – because that is what it is – is soundproof, but he’s always been able to hear what others could never hear, so he hears the cries that tears themselves from her throat, her palms slamming ineffectively into the reinforced glass.
He thinks, vaguely, of a dark mausoleum, deformed beings clawing at him, and what little resolve he dredges up within him hardens.
He lingers at the back of their entourage, fading into the background like he always did. Diego stormed off first in a fit of anger as he was prone to do. Luther, distracted by Allison and her fading strength, doesn’t notice when he slips away completely, too intent on bringing the love of his life back to her room where he can play nursemaid to her.
He doubles back down, years of living on the streets allowing him to slip past even Pogo. He opens the door to the basement quietly, just a little crack, wide enough for him to squeeze through before he closed it behind him, looking down the long hallway to where the steel cage stood.
Through the glass, he sees the moment when Vanya notices him. She stands up and slams against the glass almost instantly, and it’s all he can do not to get lost in his memories.
Taking a shuddering breath, Klaus clears his mind of the thoughts of the mausoleum – a feat he’d never thought was possible, with how the ghosts were always hovering just over his shoulder - and focuses on Number Seven, the little sister that needed him right now. He crosses the distance to the cage easily and steps up towards the door, meeting Vanya’s desperate gaze squarely. He makes a gesture, and after a few seconds, she takes a deep breath and complies, taking a few steps backwards.
Klaus eyes the metal wheel, frowning slightly. The metal looked strong, and he doesn’t think he can actually move it, not when it took
Luther
to open it previously.
It was almost enough to make him give up right there and then, but then he looks at Vanya once again, at the thinly veiled hope in her eyes – which were red and puffy – and he sighs. Rolling his shoulders, he grips the wheel with both hands, bracing himself as he pulled.
Gritting his teeth, he felt the metal shift a little, but it wasn’t enough. Panting, Klaus tries again, wiping his palms against his pants. He braces himself at another angle, pulling with all his might.
“That’s not going to work.”
He slips and falls to the ground then, his head cracking painfully against the metal. Groaning, he presses a palm to the side of his head where he can feel a bump forming. He spies Vanya’s concerned look through the glass and waves it off, looking to the individual standing off to the corner.
“Are you going to help or just stand there looking pretty?” He snapped irritably.
Ben rolled his eyes, “I can’t touch anything remember?”
Klaus hissed, heaving himself upright. “You punched me in the face earlier.” He grumbled, giving the metal wheel another once over.
“Yeah well, that was probably more on you than me.”
Klaus sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. That punch had likely shocked Ben more than it had him, and Klaus knew that if his brother could do that earlier, he would have punched him in the face every time he started doing something stupid. The fourth Hargreeves growled under his breath and shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He recalled the elder Hargreeves’ words back at the salon, about how he had so much more potential than what he was currently capable of. (He studiously ignored the memory of Reginald’s soft sigh and his quiet ‘you were my greatest disappointment’)
Closing his eyes, Klaus forced himself to recall the moment when Ben had punched him in the face. He forced himself to remember when he’d gone through withdrawal, his mind clearing up so quickly that the screams all came rushing back at once. He pushed past those ghosts, focusing instead on the anger that had risen within him back then, a pulse in his gut as he accessed his power unconsciously.
His eyes snapped open and he placed his hands on the wheel once again. Directing a look at Ben, one more serious than he had ever been, he said, “Help me with this.
Now
.”
He ignored the hesitant shuffle as Ben came closer, focusing on the power he could now consciously feel swirling in his gut. His hands started glowing, and as they did, so did Ben. A quick glance at the disbelief on Vanya’s face told him that she could see Ben’s outline through the glass, and a grin spread across his face, mirrored by his favourite brother.
“On three.” Ben commanded, his glowing hands gripping the wheel as well.
“One, two, three!”
They heaved, and slowly, they felt the wheel turn, screeching as the mechanism – old and rusty from years of disuse – moved. The two of them turned the wheel as much as they could, and Ben’s corporeal form vanished when the wheel turned loose, though the sixth Hargreeve remained where he was.
Klaus ignored the exhaustion that suddenly seemed to spread throughout his limbs, focused on turning the wheel completely. When it hit the end with a clang, he huffed in victory. He placed one foot on the metal wall beside the door and pulled, the steel door groaning open.
Vanya was out of it before he’d even gotten the door fully open. He slid to the ground tiredly, leaning against the cage as he tried to catch his breath.
“Why?”
Klaus looked at his sister, who was crumpled on the ground, shaking and trembling so violently it looked like she was going through withdrawal. She stared up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, a mix of suspicion and hope warring within.
He had meant to say something else, a quip, some inappropriate joke,
anything
else really. Instead, what came out was, “I know what it’s like to be locked up in a cage.”
Vanya blinked at him, surprise washing away the tinge of distrust that he hadn’t even realized was on her face. He sighed and looked away, closing his eyes and fervently wishing that he hadn’t just blurted that out. He hadn’t told anyone (apart from Ben, but Ben didn’t count because well, it was
Ben
) and he doubted that anyone in the family knew what his special training had been. (Not when he remembered the envy that burned in Number Two’s eyes whenever dear old dad had announced that he was getting special training, or the way Number One had shut him down with a patronizing tone when he’d begged his brother to tell dad to
stop
.) He hadn’t told anyone about the mausoleum, and he never wanted to. For all that Ben disapproved of his drinking and drug-taking habits, his brother had always looked at him with understanding whenever he managed to shake himself free of the haunting memories, obliging in providing a distraction as much as he could while incorporeal.
His eyes snapped open when he felt a weight collide into him, sliding to the side with a soft oomph before he caught himself. Looking down perplexedly, he felt the edges of panic rise up within him.
Because Vanya was
hugging
him.
Vanya
, was hugging
him
.
She sniffed, and he was suddenly made aware of the tremors that shook her body. He looked up at Ben for help, to which the other man just shrugged nonchalantly, giving him a mischievous smirk, “What are you waiting for? Just hug her back man.”
Klaus cringed internally, but he slowly placed his hand around her, patting her back slowly. The action drove her to bury her face within his shirt even more, her sobs growing louder as she clung onto him even more tightly. He could feel the wetness from her tears seep into his shirt, but for all that his siblings thought he could never keep his mouth shut, he remained silent then, allowing his sister to break down in the privacy that the basement offered.
Pressing his lips together, Klaus unconsciously drew her in a little more firmly. He didn’t know how to comfort someone, didn’t know how to deal with being vulnerable since he actively tried to avoid feeling that way. But for
this
moment, he would try his best to be what Vanya needed, even if he was the poorest candidate. Because all he’d wanted back then was for
someone
to open the door and let him out. All he’d wanted was for someone to reach out and comfort him and tell him that it was okay, to soothe the fear pounding within his mind instead of looking at him with clinically cold eyes and shutting the door in his face.
So just for this moment, he could –
would
– be the anchor that Vanya needed.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
He was in a labyrinth, winding and strange. The hand in his was cold, small. It was shaking. He tightened his grip, keeping his pace even. A little farther.
“It’s not fair,” the faintest hint of a voice said from behind him. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” he replied, levelly. “I’m working on it.”
Left. Right. Right. Duck. Left. It was a familiar problem-solving routine. The path changed each time, but you could figure it out from the way the light cut in through the walls. The pattern was clear, so inherent he wondered that none of them could see it.
There.
A bright white, seeping through the walls. One more turn and they were facing the source. A black door, gleaming with pinpricks of brilliant starlight.
“Here,” he said. The figure he was leading stayed silent. He kneeled, bringing his face closer to theirs. “This is where you are meant to go,” he said, and released their hand. There was neither sympathy nor bitterness in his tone. It was a declaration of fact.
“I know,” they responded. They took a hesitant step forward, glanced back. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No,” he said, softly. “No, I can’t do that. Go on.”
“I’LL TAKE IT FROM HERE.”
~ ~ ~
“My Lord?” Drumknott said, his hand on Vetinari’s shoulder as he snapped back to awareness. The clerk removed his hand quickly, his face impassive. “Someone to see you, My Lord,” he said.
“Yes,” Vetinari said, clearing his throat. “The Captain, I assume? Send him in.” Drumknott bowed slightly, ducking out into the other room.
He had been lucky to find Drumknott, he thought, and not for the first time. Wonse had been… subservient, but not very clever. And while it had once been easier to hide his necessary bouts of inattentiveness, it was so much better having a secretary who could schedule around them.
“Sir,” Captain Vimes said, coming into the office at attention and locking his gaze just over Vetinari’s head.
“Please sit, Captain,” Vetinari said. Their usual opening moves, as practiced and familiar as any Thud gambit. Vimes did not sit.
“I was asked to get your input on an ongoing case,” Vimes said. Vetinari raised an eyebrow. The overlap between people who would want such a thing and people who could convince the Captain to request it was vanishingly small.
“And what assistance did Lady Sybil believe I could provide?” he asked. There had been an explosion at the Ramkin estate earlier, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. The estate had been locked up tightly enough his spies had trouble getting eyes on it, which was.
“She thought you might have some insight into who could have murdered her,” Vimes said, clearly busy convincing himself he hadn’t heard what he’d just said. Vetinari stared at him. Vimes, for once, met his eyes.
“I had been led to believe there had been no deaths in the explosion,” Vetinari said slowly. He smothered a trace of uncertainty that tried to wriggle into his expression. He would
know
if Sybil was dead.
“Er,” Vimes said. He let his gaze slide off to the corner again. “She did talk to me after the fact, so to speak. Which is to say… er, I’m not sure she’s
all the way
dead.”
“Undead?” Vetinari asked. He flexed one hand into a fist beneath his desk, the only breach of his control he would allow for the moment.
“I don’t… I don’t think so, sir,” Vimes said. “Perhaps it would be easier if you saw for yourself.”
Vetinari considered the options. If she was a ghost or ghoul, her tether would be quite strong and she wouldn’t be able to travel. A vampire or zombie would have more mobility, but would be recognizable as undead even to someone as deliberately fae-blind as Vimes. However, now was not a good time for him to leave.
It’s Sybil
,
he thought.
“Very well,” he said aloud, standing. Surprise flashed across Vimes’s face - he clearly hadn’t expected Vetinari to agree. It was rare that he left that Palace, after all. “Lead the way.”
~ ~ ~
Sybil was in her parlor, drinking what must have been her tenth cup of tea that day. She wasn’t particularly thirsty, but neither did she feel full or tire of the taste. And it had been a trying day. Her staff had been polite, if awkward, and willing to bring her tea and scones. But they stopped short of advice, preferring to simultaneously believe that their Lady was ready for burial and upstairs, inconveniently requesting tea.
There was a discreet knock, and Willikins stepped inside.
“My Lady,” he said with a half-bow. “The Patrician is here to see you, with Captain Vimes.” Sybil felt a flash of hope. If anyone would know what to do, Havelock would. She should have asked the Captain to bring him here - but of course, he had anyway.
“Send them up,” she said, setting aside the newspaper.
Captain Vimes walked into the room and she gave him a distracted smile, looking behind him to-
She heard the teacup break against the ground, which was about when her mind told her she’d stopped holding it.
“Havelock?” she asked, tentatively. The being behind Vimes took a step forward and she flinched. He stopped immediately, going to one knee.
“My Lady,” he said, and he sounded the same, despite the terrible gauntness to his frame, the unhealthy pale tone of his face. “I was very sorry to hear of your death.” Vimes glanced at him in apparent surprise.
“What’s happened to you?” Sybil said, quietly. “Your face…”
A sequence of emotions flickered across his expression, too fast and too muted for most to read. But Sybil was not most - she had known Havelock for years, seen him at parties, watched him at diplomatic functions, talked with him on late night rooftops. So she saw the surprise, the calculation, the concern, and the resignation as he felt them and set them aside in turn.
“It is the True Sight,” he said calmly. “You are a spirit now, My Lady, and see things as they are unless you wish it otherwise.”
As he said that, there was a ripple in a direction that had previously remained resolutely still, and he appeared normal again - a thin man in black, kneeling at her feet. She reached one hand out slowly, gingerly, and brushed her fingertips against his face. It was cool, as it always was. She felt the skin there flex beneath her finger.
“What are you?” she asked. Vimes, now behind him, shifted uncomfortably.
“A spirit, like you,” Vetinari replied. “To explain fully would take too long, I fear, and leave our Commander even more unhappy than he is now.”
“I’m fine,” Vimes said gruffly, his eyes darting around the room. Sybil set her other hand on Vetinari’s cheek, bracing his face between her palms. For just an instant, he let her - relaxed into the grip and closed his eyes. Then he pulled back, stood smoothly.
“I do not know who would have moved against you,” he said solemnly. “But I will send my clerks until I do.”
“See?” she whispered. The world was still shifting, shadows gathering around Vetinari and tucking themselves up against his robes. “He looks out for me. Always has.” Vetinari’s expression softened, and he gave her a slight smile.
“And you, me,” he said softly.
A flash of memory - Havelock, torn from her grasp. Soldiers at a party, blood on the floor of the Assassin School’s dance hall. A figure twisting at the end of a rope.
“Always,” she murmured.
Vetinari drew Vimes aside to the window, glancing back at her.
“Stay with her,” he said in a low tone. “She is… vulnerable now. I will go and set my clerks to looking into the motive you need. I will return for her.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Vimes said, chin upturned in defiance despite his apparent agreement. “But I have a case to solve.”
“Very well,” Vetinari said. “I’ll move quickly.” He was gone in a flicker of shadow.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Lucy didn't really know when it started, but if she had to make an educated guess, she'd say it'd been somewhere around the end of the Grand Magic Games.
She hadn't noticed the difference instantaneously; they had been separated shortly after, after all. But ever since then, Natsu had been….different.
It started off small, like all things did.
It was in the way he'd never leave her side, the way he'd take a subtle step in front of her whenever he sensed danger. Never enough to be obvious, but enough to shield her from harm should it be necessary.
It was in the way half of his attention was always on her, noticeable in the way he was instantly by her side should she so much as give a soft gasp. Lucy remembered one instance where he'd been right in the middle of a brawl with Gray, yet when Lucy wasn't paying enough attention and misstepped, Natsu had still been there to catch her before she could fall.
His arms had been a warm presence around her waist, his gaze level with hers as he double checked to make sure she was alright while simultaneously ignoring the shit out of a still-fuming Gray and it'd probably been in that moment that Lucy noticed.
Natsu had grown insanely protective of her, to the point where it must have become almost instinctual to him.
And to be perfectly honest, Lucy didn't know what to think of it.
Nor did she know what to make of the insistent beating of her heart whenever she caught him in the act.
Natsu, to his credit, didn't really seem to be aware of his actions either.
At least she assumed he didn't, because there was no way he'd just pull her shivering body into his and hug her close if he'd at least been aware of his actions...right?
They'd been on a mission, having split up into three groups to gather intel. Happy and Carla; Natsu, Erza and Wendy; and Lucy and Gray.
That last one, for some reason, had Natsu protesting
a lot.
When asked why, however, he gave nothing more than a huff and a childish pout, followed by some BS about Gray only slowing Lucy down.
Lucy didn’t have to know him as well as she did to know that was a blatant lie.
She’d let it slide though, not naive enough to assume Natsu might spill if she pressed him enough. Besides, with the way Gray instantly went for the attack after that snide little remark, Lucy didn’t think she’d be able to get a word in edgeways.
After getting the two quarreling friends off each other - with just a little coaxing from Erza - Gray and Lucy set off towards the village at the bottom of the mountain. They’d split up initially, covering a lot more ground and questioning a lot more people in half of the time, but after a little mishap involving Gray losing his clothes at the wrong place and Lucy getting hit on one too many times, they decided to finish up the last stretch together.
That was, however, when the snowstorm hit.
Lucy felt the change instantly; the ice creeping around the back of her neck thick enough to make her mistake it for Gray’s magic if she hadn’t known better. With a soft hiss, Lucy cursed herself for deciding to wear a skirt and short sleeves that day as she curled in on herself, rubbing her shoulders in a vain attempt to get warm.
“Maybe we should head back,” Gray stated, after only one look at her.
“G-good call,” Lucy agreed, not so stubborn that she couldn’t recognize the fact she was at a clear disadvantage here. She wasn’t as frost-resilient as her exhibitionist of a partner, you see. Might as well stop now before it got any worse.
Only it did get worse. A lot.
"I'm sorry, Lucy." Gray shrugged off his shirt, gently tugging Lucy towards him by the arm as he helped her slip it on. "I can't really be of much help here."
Lucy could only nod, her lips almost frozen solid. She wanted to tell him that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault. She knew that just as Natsu ran hot like a furnace, Gray ran like ice, so there really wasn't anything he could do. Gray, however, was obviously still beating himself up over it.
"Y-you know," Lucy started, trying her hardest - and miserably failing - to sound optimistic. "I-if J-Juvia saw t-this, she might j-just kill me."
Gray cracked a smile. "I won't tell if you won't."
"D-deal."
"Lucy!"
At the sound of her name, Lucy looked away from Gray’s awkward smile and turned to face the source of the noise. Without even realizing it, they’d already been nearing the meeting point, and faintly, Lucy could make out the figures of both Wendy and Erza standing atop the shallow mountain, as well as the duo of cats hovering right beside them.
Natsu, on the other hand, was already barreling down the hill, using the momentum of the snow to slide right through and quicken up his pace. Lucy barely had time to blink- barely had time to
breathe
before he came crashing into her, arms wounding around her and lips at her ear, grumbling about ‘stupid Gray’ and whatnot.
“N-Natsu,” she breathed, the cold materializing in front of her face as she spoke. She was still shivering, even with the living furnace currently doing his best to hug her as close as humanly possible. His brows were furrowed, pinched together in what could be either annoyance, concern or poorly suppressed rage; possibly all three. If Lucy didn’t know any better, she’d say he’d been worried.
“Good for nothing popsicle,” Natsu muttered, growling mainly to himself and blatantly ignoring the noises of protests coming from their insulted friend. “Can’t even keep an eye on you- get rid of this.”
Without waiting for her confirmation, Natsu yanked Gray’s shirt off her body, unceremoniously throwing it back at his face and leaving her in just the top she’d been wearing when the trip had started. She felt the increasing number of chills creeping up instantly, but just as fast as they’d come, they were replaced by the feeling of flames licking up her body as her fire dragon tightened his grip on her shivering form, pushed her face further into that ever-present scarf of his and amped up the heat; enough to make her feel like she was melting and on instinct, Lucy snuggled up further into his warmth, not even thinking of the possible implications or how this may or may not look like to others.
“You really oughta start wearing thicker clothes,” Natsu commented, walking her back to where Wendy had set up the fire.
“D-don’t-” Lucy shivered again; Natsu only pulled her closer. “Don’t want to hear that f-from someone who w-wears sandals all the t-time.” She’d have commented on his outfit of choice a few years back, which consisted of just a vest with his chest on full display, but the bastard had gotten rid of that set ages ago, so sandals it was.
Natsu grinned, sitting her down close to the fire yet refusing to let go. He sat down right behind her, pulling her smaller form into his and allowing her to continue using him as a makeshift heater. Lucy closed her eyes with a sigh, falling back into whatever he offered and if this kept up, Lucy thought she might just be able to doze off like this. But then he did something unexpected.
The feeling of warm, soft lips making contact with her temple had her freezing all over again for entirely different reasons this time, and on instinct, Lucy stiffened, her eyes wide and confused as she tilted her head up to stare back at Natsu.
What she found didn’t make her internal crisis any better. He was staring at her with a soft look, all form of caution or his previous annoyance thrown to the wind. It was just him and her; just them, and when he caught her looking, his smile softened even further.
“Don’t scare me like that, Luce,” he told her. A statement, not even a whisper, and it was in that moment that Lucy
really
had to remind herself that this was
Natsu
and that he probably didn’t mean anything by it, probably thought that overly touchy concern and soft looks like that were just a thing friends did; that she had no place looking into it the way she was.
….right?
“So….Aquarius, huh?”
Lucy stiffened, having been right in the middle of slipping a shirt on, her arms still raised comically above her head, when he’d popped the question. After their meeting with Brandish and the subsequent embarrassment that had followed, the two of them had ended up at her hotel room; Happy having gone off to check on the others in the meantime, leaving them all alone.
Natsu had respectfully turned his back until she’d at least been wearing a bra and underwear (Lucy didn’t mind if he saw her in at least that much considering he’d seen her in far less countless times before). He’d been oddly quiet the entire time, and Lucy had felt that something was off, could read his moods no matter how hard he tried to hide it, only she couldn’t put her finger on
what.
Now, however, it should’ve been clear enough.
Lucy tugged the rest of her shirt over her head and down her body. “What about her?”
“Don’t do that, Lucy.” Natsu turned to face her, something odd in his eyes, something almost...hurt. “You get this sad look on your face every time she’s mentioned, sometimes even downright jumpy.”
“I…” Lucy sat down on the bed, pants forgotten at the sudden turn this conversation had taken. “Have I?”
“Lucy,”
Natsu stalked closer and she straightened up, her body tense. She didn’t know why she was so anxious, this was Natsu after all, yet the fact of the matter remained that the closer he got, the more she wanted to hightail it out of there and by the time he’d crowded in on her space, Lucy really was ready to jump.
Natsu rested his weight on the bed, hands on either side of her legs and essentially caging her in. His eyes, usually so expressive and sometimes even childish, scanning her face as if she were an enemy on the other side of the field until it softened. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”
And Lucy couldn’t help it, couldn’t help the way her vision became blurry, the way the words clogged up in her throat and her heart burned inside her chest. As irrational as it was, she didn’t want to confirm nor deny his suspicions, but by the way his eyes grew wider for just a fraction of a second, Lucy figured her reaction had been enough of an answer.
“It’s…” Lucy swallowed, trying her hardest to prevent the tears from spilling. She refused to look at Natsu, choosing to watch her fiddling hands instead as she struggled to find the correct words. “It’s complicated.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was soft. Gentle, almost, but the irrational streak of anger she felt at his question was one she’d fought long and hard to keep to herself for as long as she possibly could, simply because deep down, she
knew
it wasn’t fair on him, on
anyone
but, well; that did it, then.
“Because you left!”
Natsu visibly recoiled at her outburst; at the sudden harshness of her voice. She was still caged in, still at his mercy, but just then, the positions were switched. And while Lucy knew she should stop here,
knew
that whatever came out of her mouth next would bring nothing but unnecessary hurt,
she just couldn’t stop.
“I was all on my own,” Lucy started, her eyes on her favorite salmon-haired goofball but her mind on an entirely different place. “All of you were gone and I was all out of magic power and...and the only way to save everyone was to….to-”
Well, so much for holding back the waterworks.
Lucy honestly thought she’d cried and grieved enough in his year of absence, figured that’d been enough time to get over Aquarius’ sacrifice but once again, she was proven wrong. The tears she’d been fighting back so valiantly since the start of this conversation spilled over, her vision going blurry along with them, but it didn’t matter anyway because all she could see were Aquarius’ final moments, playing over and over on constant repeat. The pain she felt then, it seemed, was the exact same as the pain she felt now.
Natsu leaned back, his hands hovering awkwardly over the sheets as he stared at her, obviously uncomfortable. Fights and riots he could handle, but the sight of his best friend crying? That was a different story.
Lucy, however, wasn’t finished.
“I had to give up her key!” She cried, finally spilling the truth she’d so dreadfully kept to herself ever since his return. “I had no choice! It-it was the only way and...but then- but then you
left
and I… I just-”
Something guilty took place in Natsu’s eyes, but before Lucy had the chance to think too much about it, he’d reached out and pulled her in, his arms a solid presence around her as she sobbed into his shoulder.
And she hated it; she really did. Lucy didn't like this feeling of helplessness, didn't like being considered
weak.
It was especially daunting once you took note of the fact she was surrounded by powerful people.
Lucy wasn't oblivious to the opinions of the public. Her Sorcerer Weekly days had especially put it into perspective; the talk of her just being Fairy Tail's pretty face had been at their highest then, after all.
The comparison to Juvia, to Erza. How Mira had also modeled for Sorcerer Weekly yet was way more powerful than Lucy could ever be; how she just slowed Natsu down, how Lisanna or Evergreen or Cana or
anyone
would've been a much better fit for the team than her and her keys. She'd heard it all.
She'd heard it all and she thought it was bull. Lucy knew her worth, knew she was strong in her own way and that every one of her friends, her
family
would back her on this. But she also knew that first impressions lasted a long time, and hers, admittedly, hadn't been the best.
So she kept fighting. Lucy kept her head high, her smile sharp, and her attitude friendly. There was no time to waste on petty opinions such as these, yet sometimes...sometimes it got too much. With Aquarius gone, Lucy had felt as if her whole world had crumbled, had felt as weak as the public imagined her to be.
It hurt.
It hurt
so much.
And he
hadn't been there.
"We'll get her back, Lucy." Natsu promised, his arms tightening their hold around her. He dipped down, face nuzzled against her shoulder; whether to comfort her or hide his face from her view, Lucy didn't know. "I swear to you right now, we'll get her back."
And all of a sudden, she was tired. Tired of her outburst, tired of crying, tired of being mad at him about something that really had been out of his control. She slumped into his hold, her hands coming up weakly to rest against his back.
Lucy sniffled. "That was the plan anyway, you doofus."
Natsu grinned. "Of course it was."
Later, he'd tell her about Igneel.
Lucy felt horrible.
It'd been a little after she'd turned back to normal that Natsu pulled her aside.
Lucy didn't remember much from her time as a yokai, not much other than the weird slithery feeling in her legs, maybe. But from what she'd been told, it hadn't been very pleasant.
Natsu told her she'd been weirder than usual and annoying to fight, while Aquarius made it a point to mention her apparent lack of clothing during her transformation, much to Lucy's own horror and embarrassment.
But after meeting up with the rest of the group and getting rid of that yokai lady, Natsu had been oddly quiet.
At first, Lucy had just chalked it up to exhaustion, but that was stupid. She'd seen him tired countless of times, each time more frightening than the other yet he never fell silent. Natsu had the tendency to push himself to his utter limits even when it wasn't necessary, coming back with that irritating, yet lovely boyish grin of his and a half-assed apology for scaring Lucy out of her wits. Sure, he'd pass out right after, but even then her firecracker managed to get some last few words in. Never once had he been silent.
Never once until now, that was.
They walked through the caves as a group, with Lucy and Aquarius in the front because the mage had opted to cling to her spirit the same way a child would to their mother. She'd missed her
so much,
she really couldn't help herself and for once, Aquarius didn't seem to mind the clinginess either. She hadn't made an attempt to drown Lucy yet, which was already a good sign, but sometimes, when she thought Lucy wasn't looking, she'd watch her with the softest, most tender smile and the blonde didn't know whether the sting she felt was from happiness or heartbreak.
Instead of thinking about it properly and settling her feelings of guilt like an adult, Lucy chose the cheater's way out; distraction. She glanced back at the rest of the group, having planned to start whatever random topic with the first person she saw, that person most likely being Natsu but when she finally turned, she found him all the way in the back of the group.
He had his arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes focused on the solid rocks kicking away at his feet, all by himself and locked up within his own mind.
Lucy let go of Aquarius immediately.
"I'll be right back," she gave as only explanation, sliding past Erza and Gray, and then Wendy and the cats, her worry for Natsu overriding her joy at seeing Aquarius again at that moment.
Her fire dragon was stupid; that much was a given. He was loud, obnoxious, didn't think about his actions nor his words and he
especially
didn't know of a little thing called 'personal space'. He was an absolute disaster, but as contradictory as it sounded; he was a smart one, too.
Sure, he didn't understand stuff like emotions and was slow to pick up on basic math, but he was perceptive. Just like she was able to read him like a book, he was able to read her when it counted. Natsu was the type to pay attention to everyone around himself but only spoke up whenever he deemed there was room for a stupid remark or badly-timed joke in order to lighten the mood.
Most of the time, at least. Lucy had to give credit where credit was due, of course, but there had also been plenty of times where he'd just been too clueless to realize that
no, Natsu, now is not the time to start a fight.
He was, in one word, a walking contradiction.
A walking contradiction that, much to her chagrin, had an absolutely
horrible
habit of keeping his own troubles to himself. The revelation of what happened to Igneel had proven as much, as had the secret of E.N.D. and all of this is what ultimately had her worried because a silent Natsu meant a troubled Natsu and a troubled Natsu hardly had any interest in what happened to himself.
His most rash decisions had been made under pressure, after all.
The sound of her footsteps, apparently, had been enough to alert him to her presence because just before she reached him, Natsu looked up. "Lucy. What's wrong?"
He looked puzzled, his head tilted in a way that was almost childlike and plenty adorable. That was another one of his traits, the childishness he'd apparently never grown out of.
"I should be asking you that, I think." Lucy easily fell into step next to him, noticing that there was quite some distance between them and the rest of the group and she had to wonder if he'd slowed down his pace like this the entire time. "You're thinking too loud."
Natsu's lips curved, trying for his usual goofy grin but all she saw was the way his eyes flickered to the left for just the tiniest of moments and honestly, she knew him too well.
"You're imagining things, Luce. I'm perfectly fine!"
"No you're not, you've been silent this whole time."
"Well, you know, I haven't eaten in a while and-"
"If that were true, I'd have heard you complaining this entire time, Natsu, quit lying."
He sighed then, the stern tone in her voice apparently enough for him to give up on trying to convince her. "Why aren't you with Aquarius?"
"Because my best friend is being an idiot," Lucy scoffed.
Finally, Natsu stopped walking and Lucy, in turn, halted her pace along with him. She was about to open her mouth again, drill him on why he looked so down, so
guilty.
The Natsu she knew never went a moment without that stupid, cocky grin of his. He
thrived
on the thrill of a fight and as such, was always looking out for one, even at the expense of their group because if he had to challenge one of his friends to a fight then damn it,
he would!
So having him this quiet, this….thoughtful. Staring at Lucy like she had the power to break him was just wrong, all sorts of wrong.
But before she could speak on it, she felt his familiar heat crawling up her body as he grabbed her hand, his thumb slowly moving over her skin. "I haven't seen you this happy in ages," he confessed, dark eyes focused on their joined hands and Lucy was
speechless.
She could read him, even
prided
herself on her ability to read him but right now? Lucy had
no idea
what the hell this man was thinking.
"Natsu…"
"It's a good thing," the thumb caressing the back of her hand stopped moving, his fingers turning her hand over to shift over her palm instead. "You really did weird me out a minute ago. I don't mind fighting you, but not like...that."
It wasn't hard to figure out what he was talking about. Her short-lived time as a yokai, the terrifying moment from which she remembered absolutely
nothing
and could only trust upon what she was told.
"I didn't...I didn't know how to-
damn it."
He cursed in irritation, the movement of his fingers momentarily stopping but Lucy just squeezed his hand in part encouragement and part
wonder,
urging him to go on because she realized that, for once,
Natsu was actually attempting to tell her how he felt.
Lucy was sure she was going to die today. If Selene didn't show up within the next ten minutes to finish the job, she was sure someone else would.
"I tried fighting you," he said, brows pulled together. "I figured if talking to you didn't help then I'd just have to deal with the curse the usual way but...but then you'd scream and call for me and I just
froze,
I-"
He looked at her then, watched her stunned face, the dirt on her cheeks, the tears in her clothes. He studied the rat's nest her hair had turned into, the shine of her eyes and before Lucy could even bother to say something, could try to understand what in the hell he was getting at, Natsu cursed again.
"Damn it, Lucy, I told you to stop scaring me like that," he grumbled, his hand - the hand that was still holding hers - moving up to his face to nuzzle against her palm and yes, Lucy really did think she was going to die today.
There was something so soft in his eyes, so
gentle
and he-
He cared. He cared way too much. Natsu was insanely protective of his friends, so protective that he'd move Heaven and Earth just to ensure their safety. He was a little self-sacrificial in that aspect, likely due to his upbringing but
damn it,
this felt different. This felt so, so different and Lucy did not know what to make of it, nor did she know what to think of the insistent pounding against her ribcage.
He was her fire dragon, her silly bundle of chaos, her daily walking migraine. Lucy considered him hers in the same way she thought he considered her as his, but now….
Now she wasn't so sure they were on the exact same wavelength.
Ignia, it seemed, just had a way of pushing Natsu's buttons in all the wrong ways.
"I'm gonna kill him," Natsu growled, his fists already alight with fire.
Lucy stood next to him, dumbly blinking out in front of her and honestly, this was getting embarrassing. Natsu just kept throwing curveball after curveball, too rapid for her to properly keep up which led to her reacting to his actions much slower and it was just unsightly.
She hadn't done anything with the realization she'd had that day in the cave, too much of a coward to act on it or even straight out ask him upfront because there was always that one
possibility.
She'd misinterpreted his actions for romantic interest once before and that day had been humiliating, bad enough for her to lie awake for the following three nights. Lucy didn't want to risk it happening again, thank you very much.
Only...Natsu was making it
insanely
hard for her to work around it this time, with his ever-changing behaviour and continuous words and acts that she was
certain
he didn't even think twice about yet had her heart wishing it could explode from the inside out.
Like right now, for example, because the reason he was so pissed at Ignia was...because….
"Lucy, was it?" The fire god dragon drawled, his smirk a dangerous one and
so much
unlike Natsu's that it was jarring. Natsu's grin felt like home, as chaotic and dysfunctional as it might sometimes be. Ignia's grin had her fighting the urge to call for Loke or Capricorn to wipe that grin off.
"I didn't catch it the last time we met, but you really are a looker, aren't you?"
Hell, on second thought, she might just kick him in the face herself.
"The hell did you just say?!"
….If Natsu didn't get to him first, that was.
Ignia rolled his eyes, essentially ignoring the shit out of her fuming dragon - something which
definitely
wouldn't end well - in favor of keeping his eyes on Lucy in a way that was almost….predatory.
She had dealt with creeps before, of course. Had been forced to do so from a way too young age so she sadly had experience in the matter, but Ignia was different. He looked at her as if he wanted to consume her in a way that was all too literal and it made the fact that it was just her and Natsu standing before him way too real.
Lucy believed in Natsu's strength, believed in their combined strength especially. She didn't often fear for their lives when it was just the two of them, and even when she did, she'd keep fighting until the very end because that's just who she was. Lucy was stubborn, had been told so many times and she was
proud
of it too. She refused to cave regardless of the situation, a principle she'd stick by...and yet…
Ignia was one of the god dragons, one of the gods they'd been requested to hunt, one of the gods that had failed to be taken down in
over a hundred years.
Not only that, but he claimed to be Igneel's son; a man that had raised Natsu into the unstoppable force that he was today, a man that had knowingly and willingly raised an actual
demon
into her idiot of a firecracker she admittedly held a little too much affection for.
Lucy felt she couldn't be faulted for being a little on edge around this guy.
So she ignored his advances,
tried
to ignore Natsu's loud and annoyed growls and took a step back from the other dragon in front of them.
"Star dress…" she swallowed. "Aquarius." Because one way she knew how to counter fire was with water, and considering Juvia wasn't present right now either, she would have to do.
Ignia, however, clearly took it the wrong way. He whistled low, the sound echoing through the empty valley the three of them stood in, eyes trailing over the newly exposed skin and it was then that Lucy realized that while her intentions had been well thought out, the fact that Aquarius's dress was basically a swimsuit had escaped her.
"I like the new look-"
"That's it!"
"Natsu,
don't!"
But it was too late. Natsu had lunged long before she'd been able to finish her sentence and before she knew it, she was watching Ignia block and hold off Natsu's attack with just a single turn of his wrist; his predatory eyes still locked on Lucy.
The chills were worse than before now.
"Why's he so heated?" Ignia asked, almost
bored.
He shoved Natsu back harshly, sending him flying and Lucy had only that split second to call for Aries to cushion his fall, her heart still pounding in her chest. "You guys dating?"
"What?"
Lucy screeched, her face impossibly red - because obviously that's what you
did
when faced with almost certain death; be embarrassed - as she tore her eyes away from where Natsu had fallen and whipped her head back to face Ignia at impossible speed. "Of course not!"
The thing is, Natsu chose that
exact moment
to answer Ignia's question with a definite, albeit loud
"YES!"
Followed by a confused, and maybe slightly offended "Wait, what do you mean 'of course not'?" And
that
was probably the moment where Lucy's heart
and
soul had just about given up on her.
“What do you mean ‘yes’?!” Lucy countered, definitely not in hysterics.
“Wait you guys
aren’t
dating-”
“ARIES!”
“I’m sorry!”
In the midst of the chaos and Lucy’s not-so-discreet emotional breakdown, Natsu was just staring at her incredulously, looking as if he’d just realized something himself and oh god, oh god,
was this actually happening?
“I can’t believe this,” Natsu muttered, more to himself than to her.
Apparently, it was.
"Come on, princess," Ignia drawled, having chosen her frozen stupor as the exact moment to reappear because frankly, Lucy had momentarily forgotten he even existed. "See what I mean? Clearly you guys aren't working out, you can do much better than him."
And that's when Lucy got mad, when she got
furious.
The nerve to even
insinuate
that Natsu,
her
Natsu wasn't
enough
for her was enough for the blonde to see red. Because sure, he's an idiot, and
sure,
he had indirectly been the cause of many misfortunate events in her life but he would
always
be one of the best things to ever happen to her and Lucy would stand by that fact until her
deathbed.
"No," she responded, just as Natsu was getting ready to attack again. "I absolutely
can't."
Lucy reached for her keys, temporarily pushing the current issue of her ambiguous relationship status aside - something which they would
definitely
be talking about, by the way - in order to pinpoint her focus solely on their current enemy. The sooner they could get out of this with all their limbs still intact, the sooner they could figure out whatever the hell just went down between them.
"Open, gate of the lion, Leo!"
It seemed that Lucy hadn’t been the only one that had felt a talk was necessary, because as soon as the opportunity arose, Natsu had pulled her with him and dragged her into an empty room.
He’d been quiet this entire time, hadn’t said a word when they’d finally gotten away from the
infuriating
fire god dragon; hadn’t said a word when they’d met up with the rest of the group and hadn’t said a word when Lucy dared to ask him if everything was alright. He’d just been silently fuming, staring out in front of him, deep in thought, with steam - literally and figuratively - rising from his shoulders.
That last part was what tipped Lucy off on the fact that his current silence was
a lot
different from that day in the cave.
It wasn’t until they’d found a quiet little motel that he finally spoke up. Erza had just barely finished checking in before he’d snatched one of the keys and dragged Lucy off to what was apparently his room now.
The door had shut behind them for only a millisecond before he turned, arms crossed over his chest. “You didn’t think we were together.”
It wasn’t even a question, but a statement; a statement likely born from all that time he had spent silently pouting to himself. A statement that, much to Lucy’s chagrin,
also
had her cheeks flushing insanely red at an embarrassingly quick speed.
“You thought we
were?!”
she replied, her eyes wide with disbelief. Disbelief which was
entirely
warranted, if you asked her.
"I thought it was pretty obvious, yeah."
"Well, it
wasn't!"
"How was it not?" Natsu asked, looking at her as if
she
was the one not understanding the most basic of things right now and dear God, Lucy knew Natsu could be dense sometimes, but this was just on another level.
"I- okay, okay, for the sake of my sanity; how long have we been together?" She paused, rethought her words. "According to you."
Natsu blinked owlishly, the answer coming to him almost too easily. "Since you got that award for your novel."
"Since I-
that long?!"
"Yes!"
"You never showed interest in me!" And at this point, even Lucy was aware she was reaching. He
had
shown interest in her, she'd realized it herself. Only it had been much later than expected and Lucy herself hadn't fully wanted to believe it either in fear of getting her hopes up.
"I never- Lucy,
what?!"
Natsu, to his credit, seemed to catch on to her bullshit. "Do you see me spending time with- getting
jealous
over any other girls like this?!"
"I thought that was you just being overprotective!"
"Lucy, you are
literally
on my mind
all the time."
She groaned, covered her face, paced the floor.
"I know!"
And she did, she really did. She'd become a little suspicious of his behaviour in the past, but only after the Grand Magic Games had it become blatantly obvious that Natsu would put
everything
on the line should her safety ever be at risk. It had stumped her at first, even led to a solitary moment of sheer panic that wasn't unlike the one she was experiencing right now.
Back then, however, she had justified his behaviour as being leftover trauma from watching her future self get killed right in front of him. Natsu was stupidly loyal; a moment like that was sure to scar him for the rest of his life. It could have been literally anyone in her place that day and Natsu would've gone on to protect them.
At least, that's what she had told herself.
But
this? All
of this? This was different. Natsu wasn't just being protective, he was being
caring,
was looking at her as if she held the whole world and could destroy it just as easily.
Lucy was ecstatic, but she was also so,
so
terrified.
"Luce," she looked up, startled to find that in the midst of her internal crisis, he'd easily crossed the distance between them and was now standing directly in front of her. Instinctively, she wanted to jump back, mainly because she didn't think her overworked brain could handle him being this close and she was probably at high risk of spontaneously combusting, but before she could try and make her escape, Natsu had trapped both of her hands in his. "Look at me."
Mainly out of panic, Lucy did the exact opposite. She stubbornly closed her eyes and shook her head. "No!"
"Are you serious-
Lucy!"
"I'm not going to-
what are you doing?!"
At the feeling of soft lips lightly pressing against her knuckles, Lucy's eyes shot open wide, effectively coming face to face with the one person that had her heart doing somersaults far too often these days.
Natsu stared up at her, his lips curled into that soft, boyish grin she had never once been able to resist. "Made you look," he smiled and it was at that moment that Lucy decided this man held
way
too much power and that she might be a lot weaker to his charms - charms she didn't even know he
had
- than initially thought.
"I-" This couldn't be happening, there was just no
way.
Lucy had dealt with a lot in her life. Periodical harassment just because she happened to be born into a wealthy family, rivaling guilds trying in vain to take down the behemoth that was Fairy Tail, a timeless war, a raging, murderous dragon. Lucy could and had dealt with all of that; had stood tall and proud during it all because she had never once been alone during that time. She'd always had her friends, her family, her spirits; had always had their unwavering support.
Which was nice and all, but apparently all of that could
not
compare to the sneak attack that was her best friend taking the next step- the best friend that Lucy had
admittedly
had a raging crush on for an embarrassingly long time and it
showed
because one look at those set of dark yet sparkling eyes rendered her weak to her damn
knees.
"You drive me absolutely
crazy,"
Natsu began, his eyes, once again, on their joined hands. "You do the weirdest, most reckless stuff sometimes and I don't know how to react."
"Hypocrite," Lucy breathed.
He chuckled, met her eyes for a split second. "Guess so. It's usually because of you though."
"Half of my attention is always on you, Luce. I worry when you're not near me; I worry when you
are.
I don't like it when you're sad, absolutely
hate
it when you cry or get hurt, I just- I wasn't kidding when I said you were on my mind all the time." He looked away then, almost bashful.
"You're blushing," Lucy realized, her mind admittedly working a bit slower than usual due to the multiple bombshells currently being tossed her way, but the way Natsu's cheeks tinted pink was undeniable. He was feeling it just as bad as she was.
Her little comment, however, only served to make the color to his face worse. "You're in no position to talk," Natsu grumbled. His eyes, so captivating and expressive only moments before, avoiding hers at all costs. "I still don't understand how you didn't think we were together."
Lucy bristled. "You could have just said it straight!"
"Why?"
Natsu visibly cringed at the thought. Right, he hated talking about stuff like this. Honestly it was already a miracle they'd even come this far. "Seriously, how much more obvious could I have made it for you?"
"Well, if
talking
wasn't an option, you could at least have made an effort to
show
me in a way that isn't so damn cryptic-"
"Fine!"
Before Lucy fully realized what she'd said, what she'd
insinuated,
Natsu's hand had slid into her hair and pulled her in; their lips meeting in a firm kiss that cleared up
everything
she had apparently misunderstood about their relationship.
Natsu kissed her like he was drowning; like she was the last breath of fresh air he would ever get and her heart had
stopped.
This was Natsu, her best friend, her fire dragon,
her Natsu
and he was coming dangerously close to sucking her damn soul out via a
kiss.
Death by liplock.
Seemed fitting.
Natsu pulled back, his hands holding her face, his eyes one, maybe two shades darker than before, looking just as breathless as she felt. He scanned her face, the lips he'd just
devoured
and Lucy figured that okay, she still wasn't in the wrong for this one, but god
damn
had she wished she'd realized it sooner. They could've been kissing like this for
ages!
"Probably should've done that a lot earlier," Natsu admitted all of a sudden, looking a lot more sheepish than he had any right being.
"Yes," Lucy gasped, still trying to get her brain back on track. "You definitely should have."
"So….just to clarify. We actually
are
together now, right?"
Lucy smacked him over the head.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
So, like, okay. Eddie is a little bit high but definitely not high enough to be hallucinating.
He’s making out with Steve Harrington. Or, if Eddie is honest, Steve Harrington is making out with
him.
Steve Harrington is hitching him up by the waist, his hands big and warm against Eddie’s bare skin, and gently pulling Eddie down to his thigh. Steve Harrington is sliding their mouths together over and over again, tongue slickly smart against Eddie’s own. One of Steve’s hands trails up Eddie’s side, over his ribs and up his spine, in order to grab him firmly by the back of the neck.
Then Steve brings his hand to Eddie’s hair and
pulls,
slowly. Firmly. Eddie’s knees buckle completely without his permission, and he lands a little more firmly on Steve’s thigh, and he can’t even be embarrassed because he’s too busy moaning into Steve Harrington’s mouth.
Moaning.
Him, Eddie Munson.
This is stranger than the monsters. This is stranger than— than— Eddie can’t even find a second thing to compare this to, because Steve is still kissing him and it still feels so fucking
good.
Oh, shit, but it feels good, and Eddie tries his best to kiss Steve back just as smartly as Steve is kissing him but he doesn’t think it’s working. He thinks he might be a little bit bad at it.
He just can’t
focus.
Eddie’s made out with people before, kind of. A little. High or drunk off his ass at a party two towns over, trading drugs for cash in someone’s back room or backyard. It was always fine. A way to pass the time.
It was never like
this,
holy shit.
“Oh, fuck, Steve,” Eddie says, and his voice comes out strange. A little too high, a little too breathless. It shocks him. It sends some weird jolt through his stomach and hips, like,
that’s me?
Steve just laughs and kisses him more. Eddie can feel the huff of hot air, damp and humid, in his open mouth. It makes him shiver.
Eddie shoves his tongue into Steve’s mouth in response, because he wants to— like, fucking— he wants to climb
inside
Steve Harrington, or something. He wants to get as far down Steve’s throat as he can, except that isn’t right, that’s
bad kissing etiquette,
and that can’t be enjoyable for Steve. He’s got to make this enjoyable for Steve.
Pulling his tongue back, Eddie tries to collect himself and goes in again. But that’s not quite right, either; he’s got a bad angle. Their chins knock together and it doesn’t hurt Eddie but maybe it hurts Steve. Shit, Eddie is fucking this up.
Steve pulls Eddie away from his mouth by his hair. It makes Eddie’s vision go blurry. He winds up gasping into the open air and staring at Steve Harrington’s slick mouth. At his charming smile.
“Relax,” Steve murmurs. “Relax, Eds, I’ve got you.”
Eds,
Eddie thinks, baffled.
What the fuck.
And then he just has to kiss Steve Harrington again. Because what the fuck? What the fuck. What the fuck? The whole night has been a fever dream. The whole fucking
week
has been— this week where Steve Harrington has been looking at him with focused eyes, has been eating popsicles in genuinely insane ways— Eddie needs to kiss him or he’ll die. He’ll fucking die, that’s what it feels like.
He dives back in, mouth already open, tongue already out, and Steve huffs. Turns Eddie’s desperation into something warm and close and
good.
Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s waist. Their bare chests are pushed together tight. He almost wishes Steve was wearing a shirt. Just so he could have something to cling to.
It’s only
almost
a wish, though, because Steve’s skin is smooth and hot and turning Eddie the
fuck
on.
Suddenly a little bit frantic, Eddie shoves himself into Steve because he’s just not sure what else to
do.
But he pushes too hard, or maybe Steve wasn’t braced for it, because Steve’s head knocks back into the brick of his house and Eddie pulls away with a panicked noise.
“Ow,” Steve says. His hair is ruffled and his lips are wet with spit. Eddie thinks Steve’s got spit down his chin, too, and that’s definitely Eddie’s fault.
“Oh, shit, I am so sorry,” Eddie says, horrified with himself. And he’s talking about Steve hitting his head, and his apparently awful kissing technique, and also some other third thing he should probably be apologizing for but can’t think of right now.
Steve stares at him for a moment, just as unreadable as he’s ever been to Eddie, then smiles. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, understanding and kind. It makes Eddie shake and shiver and want to fucking
die.
“It’s fine, man,” Steve tells him.
Eddie’s stomach falls out his ass.
Man.
Not
Eds
or even
Eddie,
like he’d used just a second ago.
“Hey, woah,” Steve says, and he pulls Eddie back in. His arms are bare and strong, thick in that way Eddie’s been thinking about for weeks, ever since he saw Steve shirtless and ripping a monster apart with his bare hands. “What’s that face for, Munson?’
Eddie stares at him, baffled. Their chests and hips and thighs are pressed tightly together. They’re so close he can feel Steve breathing, the in and out of his bare stomach against Eddie’s own.
“What, are you embarrassed?” Steve asks. “Because I, like, bonked my head? Dude. Shit happens.”
“Don’t call me dude right now, Harrington,” Eddie says sourly.
He thinks Steve will probably laugh. Snort and shake his head, grinning that grin that’s not quite mean but not quite nice either. It's a hot fucking expression but Eddie doesn't want to see it, not like this.
Except Steve doesn’t. Steve looks at him, face calm and thoughtful— hadn’t
that
been a trip and a half, when Eddie first realized that Steve is a
thinker,
is an
introspective person—
and then Steve nudges their noses together.
“Baby,” Steve says. Eddie’s heart
thumps.
“It’s alright. I promise it’s fine.”
“Say that again,” Eddie blurts unthinkingly. And then he commits to it, despite the humiliation, because that’s what he
does.
Commits to incredibly embarrassing shit and makes it fucking work for him. “Say it… Say it again.”
Steve Harrington— King
fucking
Steve, basketball star, swim captain, and
monster killer
Steve Harrington, what the fuck is going
on—
seals their mouths together. His lips are plump and soft and confident.
“Baby,” Steve whispers.
“Oh,
fuck,”
Eddie moans, and then dives back into Steve.
He kisses Steve frantically, twisting his head and body, trying to squirm as close as possible. The weed is still buzzing softly under his skin, making Eddie feel hot and slow and tingly. He shoves his arms back around Steve’s waist, low on his back, thinks about trying to grab his ass but decides against it because he can barely focus just doing
this.
Just kissing and wiggling against Steve’s body. Just running his tongue against Steve’s. He’s going out of his fucking head with it.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” Eddie says, gasping, because Steve is, he
is,
and they need to kiss forever, what the fuck is Eddie doing? What the fuck is he even
talking about?
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, tilting his head and coming back for another kiss.
“Shotgunning,” Eddie pants, baffled, and squeezes his legs against Steve’s thigh.
Steve laughs. He pulls away from Eddie’s mouth and starts nibbling at his neck, lips and teeth and tongue, and Eddie wants to fucking— like— cry or something because it feels so good.
He bites down hard against Eddie’s neck. Eddie bites his own lip because he feels like he’s going to explode.
“Well I had to do fucking
something,
Munson, you weren’t taking the fucking hint,” Steve tells him.
“What the fuck are you calling me Munson for,” Eddie says, tipping his head back so Steve can kiss further down his neck.
Go back to Eddie,
Eddie thinks but can’t quite say.
Go back to Eds. Call me baby again, fuck me for even thinking it.
Steve licks a long stripe up his neck, sweeping Eddie’s still-dripping hair over his shoulder. He sucks Eddie’s earlobe into his mouth, fiddles with his earring with his tongue.
“Sure, Eddie.” Steve twirls the stud with his teeth and Eddie fucking— has a seizure or something. He
shakes.
“Baby,” Steve says again, and Eddie isn’t, like,
proud
of it but he whines.
“Ears, huh?” Steve says, dragging his lips up the shell of Eddie’s. Eddie hadn’t even known he would like that, what the fuck is
happening.
“I can work with that.”
Aimlessly, Eddie thinks,
please, yeah,
before there’s a sudden sound from behind him and his whole body freezes.
Everything stops. Eddie’s heart, his lungs. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t fucking blink. The brick of Steve’s house and Steve’s stupid pale face swims in front of his eyes.
They’re outside. They’re at the party with Argyle and Robin. Jonathan and Nancy.
What the fuck is Eddie
doing,
what is he doing, what is he doing, what the fuck is
Steve Harrington doing—
“Breathe,” Steve murmurs. “Breathe. It’s fine. I can see them, Eds, I’m looking right at all of them, and it’s fine. We’re okay. Take a breath, we’re alright.”
Eddie clutches at Steve’s bare waist and tries to follow his directions.
Breathe,
Steve said, so Eddie does.
We’re alright,
Steve told him, and Eddie tries to believe it.
“What are you doing, Harrington,” Eddie says. His voice is too soft to sound mean. Too confused to sound accusing.
Steve sighs. Pulls Eddie in for something that’s almost a hug and then starts untangling their limbs.
“You want pizza?” Steve asks. “I want pizza.” He steps to the side, out from under Eddie’s body, and the night air is suddenly cold against Eddie’s bare chest.
Eddie’s heart drops right down into his stomach acid, where it gets, like, fucking
boiled.
That’s the only explanation for why his chest suddenly hurts so bad. For the way his throat suddenly feels tight.
But then Steve snags Eddie’s hand, tugging until Eddie’s hand is tucked into the curve of Steve’s bare waist, and suddenly Eddie could fucking fly. Could sing a hundred fucking ballads.
What are you
doing,
Harrington,
Eddie thinks. He doesn’t say it, though. Not again. It hadn’t been the right thing to say— Steve pulled away after. Eddie had fucked up, fucking dumb as shit like he always is.
He holds Steve’s waist and tries to feel like he’s not clutching at it.
Mustering every bit of his courage— and Eddie fucking
has it,
he has a
lot
of it, he deals meth on the weekends and he’s fought monsters and he isn’t a
fucking coward—
Eddie finally turns around. Looks out at Steve’s yard and the people in it.
Robin and Argyle are still laying in the grass, off in their own universe, staring at the stars. Eddie glances at them nervously then looks away, trying to breathe normally.
The loud thud had, apparently, been Nancy and Jonathan Byers accidentally tipping over a tiny table for drinks next to their chair. No big deal. But they’re
looking
at Eddie: glancing over, then at each other, and back over again. Eddie rolls his shoulders back and straightens his spine before he realizes, wait. No, they’re looking at
Steve.
Somehow that’s worse. He’s not sure why it’s worse, but it is.
Eddie huddles in a little closer to Steve, tucked just slightly behind his shoulder, his hand still on Steve’s waist.
Like, sure, Eddie fought monsters with Nancy Wheeler. He had an absolutely horrible fucking two weeks with her and the Party and Robin while he was hunted by the police, and— and
whatever.
Whatever. That doesn’t really matter. That’s not important right now. Those horrible two weeks aren't important.
Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers are
Steve’s,
is what Eddie is trying to get at; they’re Steve’s people. Eddie has no clue what he’s supposed to do right now. How Steve is going to work this. What he’s supposed to say, if he’s supposed to say anything at all.
Maybe Steve does this all the time, brings guys to his house and kisses them against the wall by his pool where everyone can see. Maybe Steve’s never done this before and they’re both going to get run the fuck out of town.
Eddie doesn’t really think Byers or Nancy would snitch like that. Not really. But he just doesn’t fucking
know.
And then Steve— Steve fucking. He tugs one of Eddie’s arms, then the other, wrapping them around his stomach until they’re walking while Eddie hugs him. Eddie blinks rapidly, feeling struck stupid, like Steve smacked him over the head with something, and then tightens his grip. Rolls with it, because the alternative is letting Steve go and he is
not
doing that. He’s stupid but not that fucking stupid, thanks.
“You guys hungry yet? I’m thinking pizza,” Steve announces when they’re closer. Eddie leans a little over his shoulder.
Byers and Nancy stop pretending not to stare at Steve and just gawk at him outright.
Steve gives them a beaming smile, beatific and a little smug, and Eddie’s heart twists in his chest like larvae-filled eggs. Or something.
It’s gross, is what Eddie means.
“Pizza,” Nancy Wheeler says, squinting. She’s tapping her fingers on Byers’ leg, a quick rhythm that looks a little irritated. “Were you planning on
pizza
this whole night, or is this an impulse buy? Because it would be really
irresponsible
if it were.” Wheeler pauses, then adds as an afterthought, “Financially, I mean.”
Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie stares between him and Wheeler, baffled. Is he the pizza? Is that what they’re talking about?
“Yes, this was the plan, Nance. Ask Robin; the whole reason we threw this party was so I could… order pizza.” Steve bares his teeth at her.
“Okay, relax,” Byers interjects.
Steve and Nancy both huff.
Eddie chews his lip nervously, wondering if he should let go of Steve and go lay down by Robin and Argyle.
“Of course it’s fine if you… order pizza, Steve. We would never have a problem with that.” Byers stares up at Steve with Wheeler on his lap, his eyes big and genuine. Steve stares back at him, softening slightly, and Eddie thinks bitterly that Byers has stupid hair. Really fucking stupid.
“It just would’ve been nice to have known you were going to order it tonight,” Nancy Wheeler says. She throws her hands up, scowling like Steve's purposely... Eddie doesn't know. Kept some big secret from her, maybe. Lied to her or something. But then she seems to catch herself. She blinks a couple times, kind of fast, and then starts laughing— either at Steve or herself, Eddie doesn’t know.
He is, like, so fucking confused.
He’s even more confused when Steve starts laughing, too.
“What, you wanted to help me pick the toppings?” Steve says. He’s full of good humor, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed. Eddie wants to fucking bite them, sink his teeth into the meat of him.
What the fuck is wrong with him, holy shit.
“Yes!” Wheeler wheezes back, overcome with giggles. She’s fucking tearing up and Jonathan starts laughing, too. “I didn’t know you were going to put—” she glances at Eddie. Eddie smiles at her, his
Freak
Munson
smile, the big and bold and flashy one.
“Anchovies
on it!”
Fucking anchovies. Wheeler’s just called him anchovies.
“Okay, I am at least, like, fucking pineapple,” Eddie complains.
“You can be whatever you want, Munson,” Steve says, condescending like he is sometimes. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”
“Not even Nancy,” Byers agrees, and fine.
Fine.
Eddie starts laughing, too.
Eddie has this weird, vague hope— he’s not calling it a fantasy, or a daydream, because that would be insane— that he’ll get to sit on Steve’s lap while they eat.
He doesn’t, of course.
Robin Buckley beats him to it.
After Steve and Nancy’s weird fucking showdown, Steve goes inside, orders pizza, then drags another pool chair over so that they can sit by Nancy and Byers. He pulls Eddie down next to him and they sit pressed together, their wet jeans rubbing and bare arms brushing, while Wheeler and Byers try to explain something convoluted about… housing development?
They’re investigating something. It’s on the edge of town, further out than even the trailer park, and Eddie never wants to see another fucking monster again so he mostly tunes them out.
It’s thirty minutes until the pizza guy rings the doorbell. Steve stands to get it and they all shuffle inside, Nancy and Byers going to retrieve Robin and Argyle from their prone positions in the grass.
Eddie just kind of… stands and watches them do it. He’s not really sure what to do with himself.
Does he pretend he wasn’t just making out with Steve Harrington?
No idea what you’re all talking about, get off my ass, pass me another slice of pepperoni?
Does he brazen it out?
They all head inside before Eddie can figure out what to do, which is typical. Eddie panicking and hesitating while life happens around him, passing him by while he’s stuck in one spot.
He follows them inside. What the fuck else could he do?
And there’s Steve, in the warm yellow lights of his weirdly empty home, boxes of pizza on the table. Hefting plates down from cabinets. Robin shakes herself and then goes to help him. After a moment, Nancy Wheeler walks over, too, pulling down cups. Finding napkins.
Argyle is leaning on Byers, grinning, and Byers is shaking his head, looking endeared.
Eddie fidgets. He shifts from foot to foot, tugs on his hair. Wishes, suddenly, to be wearing a shirt.
They all grab plates and slices of pizza and troop into the living room. They find their spots again; Wheeler and Byers on the couch, Argyle on the floor, Steve in his recliner.
He bites his lip. Hesitates.
Before Eddie can muster up the courage to go to Steve, sit on the arm of his chair or— if he’s really fucking bold, if he digs deep and finds that
Freak Munson
energy— on Steve’s lap, Robin swans past him and flops onto Steve. He catches her without so much as blinking.
He wraps her up in his arms, still bare-chested, and those puckered scars on his sides glimmer in the living room light. Robin tucks herself in, her shoulder under his armpit, her nose near his neck. Her eyes are still bloodshot. She goes to town on her slice of pizza; she almost finishes it off in two bites. Robin holds the last of the slice out to Steve, who takes a sloppy bite of it. Sauce goes down his chin and Robin cackles, then swipes it off with her fingers. She stares down at her dirty hand, confused, before wiping it on Steve’s jeans. Steve just rolls his eyes at her.
It makes Eddie feel…
It just makes him feel. That’s all.
Instead of sitting on Steve’s lap, Eddie sits next to Argyle on the floor. He dodges Steve's eyes by ducking his head and focusing on his pizza; Steve is trying to silently tell him something, but Eddie doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to figure it out. He tries to not stare at Steve and Robin, sprawled out so comfortably he thinks they must sit like this all the time. He doesn’t look at Wheeler and Byers, either, sitting shoulder to shoulder and sharing a plate. It’s balanced between both their knees.
Someone, somehow, started a record when they came in. Probably Steve. It skips and scratches, stutters over the same phrase.
And my baby leaves— my baby leaves— my baby leaves.
“You need to smoke some more, man,” Argyle drawls from Eddie’s left. “You’re making an absolutely tragic fuckin’ face right now.”
Eddie opens his mouth. Shuts it again.
“Yeah, probably, man,” he sighs.
But before Eddie can stand up, go find his weed and his shirt and his dignity, Steve says, “Alright, Robs. You’re the light of my life, but get up. This is Eddie’s spot.”
Eddie freezes. His cheeks get hot, then hotter, until he thinks he must be glowing apple red. The pounding of his heart turns faster, twisting excitedly in his chest like a wriggling puppy.
Eddie’s spot.
Fuck.
Half covering his face with his hair, Eddie stares up at Steve and Robin.
Robin looks high as all hell, eyes red and drooping a little, and she mouths to herself for a moment before gasping. She claps her hands over her cheeks, like she’s mimicking Munch’s
Scream,
and says, “Oh my God! Oh my God, I am so sorry.” And then she’s
diving
out of Steve’s lap.
“Oh, shit, Munson, sorry!” Robin apologizes again, tripping over herself and landing on her ass. She spills pizza onto the carpet and scoops it up, wincing. Dimly, he hears Byers and Nancy snickering.
Eddie watches her, baffled, beating back an odd swelling sensation in his chest.
Steve grins at Robin, like he’s trying not to all-out laugh, then turns to Eddie. His eyes go liquid, smooth and shiny. “You coming up here?”
Somehow, Eddie climbs to his feet. It feels like his legs are a bunch of blocks precariously stacked together. Like he could collapse at any moment. He clutches at his plate of pizza like he would a life-raft in the ocean.
“You don’t actually have to sit on my lap,” Steve murmurs, sweetly and just to Eddie, once he gets close. “I just… You were looking pretty blue.”
“I was not,” Eddie denies, even though he very definitely was. He’d felt, like, fucking heartbroken about sitting on the floor.
Before Steve can argue with him, or change his mind, Eddie flops down on top of him. His arms and legs kind of go everywhere, flailing, but Eddie just makes it into a big show. Just to save face. He’s leaning further and further into the performance, into
Eddie the freak
and he can’t quite stop it. Doesn’t think he
wants
to stop it— if he does, he won’t do anything at all.
Sprawled on Steve’s lap, he glances around the room nervously. They’re all ignoring him, too high or drunk to care about anything except eating. Or, at least, they’re pretending like they are.
Eddie picks up his pizza and accidentally squishes the cheese around. Sauce gets on his fingers and he holds up his hand, disgruntled, like
look at this shit
. He’s still on Steve’s lap trying to look comfortable. It’s probably not working— he’s holding his spine so stiffly he thinks it might snap.
From behind his shoulder, Steve gives a little huff. Eddie glances back nervously and discovers that Steve’s shaking his head a little, something warm on his face. He reaches out with a napkin and, gently, grabs Eddie by the palm. With one long swipe, he cleans the sauce off Eddie’s fingers.
And then Steve kind of… doesn’t let go of his hand. Which is fine. Better than fine. Great! Eddie is down to hold hands. He's the world's best handholder, or whatever. Or he could be. Or something.
When Steve starts to massage his hand, thumb pressing hard into the meat of Eddie’s palm, Eddie’s spine goes loose. With one last glance around at everyone, Eddie thinks,
fuck it.
He tips his head back onto Steve’s shoulder. Tries to relax his abdomen.
They are both still, still,
fucking still
shirtless. It’s great. It’s the best.
Eddie’s dick is fucking hard.
It’s not a surprise, exactly, because that had been the best kiss of his life and
Steve Harrington
is currently shirtless and pressed along his back. It’s just embarrassing, is all. To be hard in front of everyone. He’s shirtless and in wet jeans, so there’s not much
camouflage
happening. It’s not that obvious, not yet, but if he gets harder it’ll be easy to spot. Not that Eddie thinks they’re looking— none of them are, they’re all occupied with their pizza and each other— but
he
knows. Eddie knows.
It makes his heart race in his chest. Determinedly, Eddie grabs his pizza with his other hand, because like fuck is he making Steve let go of him, and takes huge bites of it. Really hams it up, tries to make it funny, because there’s no
attractive
way to eat food like this. He wishes, distantly, that there were. That Steve would look at him, doing something so normal, and think
wow.
But there’s not and he knows it, so Eddie tries to make it entertaining instead.
He’s good at entertaining people. At making them look at him. He can make Steve look at him, too.
“You’re a clown, Munson,” Steve says, smile in his tone, and that’s not
quite
what Eddie had been going for, but. Close enough.
Steve doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hand. Eddie takes, like, great fucking pains to not move away.
Slow, tight circles are pressed into Eddie’s skin. They’re calm and consistent, and Eddie lets the last of his weight rest fully on Steve. When Steve digs his thumb into Eddie’s palm, getting at some sort of knot, a low throb pulses through Eddie’s hips. It’s like his dick and hands are directly linked.
“Shit, Harrington,” Eddie murmurs, turning his face into Steve’s shoulder. His nose is almost touching Steve’s neck and Eddie tries not to squirm. He’s overwhelmed by feelings; embarrassment, affection, a strange type of skin hunger that he can’t quite stifle.
Steve’s bare chest against his back is setting him on fire. He wants more of it. He wants more of it
now.
“Shit, Harrington,” Eddie says again. And then the words tumble back out of his mouth, like he’s been hit with a truth spell. Irrepressible and vulnerable and so completely
wrong,
because Steve hadn’t wanted to talk about it before. Why would he now?
But, like an idiot, Eddie murmurs, “What are we doing?”
Steve straightens up. Eddie can feel his back bend, stiffen, and hates himself.
Fucking idiot,
Eddie thinks.
You’re so fucking stupid, Munson. You’re so fucking stupid.
The thoughts come on so fast they’re like flood water rushing through him, but after the initial flinch Eddie shakes himself.
Shut the fuck up,
he thinks.
When Steve responds, he’s so slow and calm about it Eddie almost misses the words.
“I didn’t answer earlier because I thought you knew,” he tells Eddie. His voice is so fucking warm; Steve is such a warm person. Homey and comforting like a fucking bonfire. “I thought you were teasing me, man. You really don’t get it?”
“No,” Eddie says, and his voice breaks a little. He clears his throat to try and cover it up, but the damage is done.
Steve nudges his nose along Eddie’s hair. His lips shove against Eddie’s forehead hard enough that it’s not really a kiss. It can’t really be anything else, either.
“I’ve been flirting with you for, like, weeks. Eds, I gave a popsicle a blowjob just so you would look at me— and you
didn’t,
by the way. It was humiliating.” Steve clunks his cheek against Eddie’s head in a gentle reprimand. “I literally faked weed virginity. Robin had to come up with the plan. I’m such a mess about you, dude.”
He just—
says
all of this. Here on the recliner with Eddie in his lap, at this lame-ass party where everyone might hear him. Byers and Nancy and Robin and fucking Argyle are, like, three feet away.
There's music playing, giving them a little bit of privacy, but still.
Still.
Eddie almost wants to laugh. Fuck, but Steve is so fucking brave and he doesn’t even seem to
realize
it. Bold as brass tacks, that’s what his Uncle Wayne would say, and Eddie’s never known what the fuck his Uncle Wayne meant by that but maybe now he does.
“I, uh. Did not know any of that,” Eddie says, a little belatedly.
“Well, it’s true,” Steve says, and Eddie can feel him shrug against his bare back.
This whole night ranks in the
Top Five Fucking Weirdest Nights of Eddie Munson’s Life
and it’s not even midnight. It’s, like, ten.
“Great,” Eddie says, baffled.
Eddie chews his lip and tries to re-process the last few weeks. Tries to re-categorize his and Steve’s interactions in his mind.
When Steve greeted Eddie with his beaming smile, hugging him with his nose pressed to Eddie’s temple, that was because Steve liked him.
Likes
him. Steve heckling him at DnD sessions was flirting. Steve staring at him with hooded, dark eyes, wearing Eddie’s vest like it had always belonged to him… Steve, with that blue popsicle in his mouth. Steve fucking Harrington, shoving Dustin off a couch just to sit next to Eddie.
A sigh from Steve breaks him out of his thoughts.
“Alright,” Steve says, his tone wry and strange. Full of some dry, gallows humor that Eddie has only heard from him a couple times before. “Lay it on me, man. I promise I won’t get mad.”
“What?” Eddie says. “Lay what on you?”
There’s a moment of hesitation. For the first time the whole fucking night, Eddie gets the impression that Steve is working himself up. Digging deep and planting his feet.
“Just… whatever it is you need to say. You know.” Steve lets go of his hand and leans to the side a little, so they can see each other's faces fully. Eddie is still on Steve’s lap but, suddenly, Steve feels like he’s on the other side of the room. “You’ve been real quiet, is all I’m saying.”
Every thought Eddie’s ever had flies out of his brain. Escapes through his ear holes, or something. He spins in Steve’s lap, overturning his empty pizza plate. He’s not-quite straddling Steve, now, but he can’t register that— he’s caught in a strange panic, a sensation like sand or water slipping through his fingers. Like Steve is slipping away from him.
“You’ve gotta know I’m obsessed with you,” Eddie blurts. “Like, all the time I’m… I’m thinking about you, you know?”
“How the fuck would I know that,” Steve sputters. “You barely look at me! I mean, Eds,
Eddie,
I am fucking thrilled to hear it, you don’t even know, but— you kept your cards pretty close to your chest, dude.”
Eddie opens and shuts his mouth. Memories rewinding like VHS tape: Steve reaching out, Eddie pulling away. Averting his eyes. Trying not to laugh too loud, too long, at the stupid-funny jokes Steve came out with. Mocking Steve, occasionally, just in case. Just to cover his tracks.
He’d just been trying to… Eddie doesn’t have a ton of genuine friends. Lackeys and DnD minions and people he deals to on the odd weekend, sure. But a friend like Steve? So genuine and steadfast and steady?
Eddie had tried so, so hard not to make Steve uncomfortable. Not to fuck up a good thing. Until this moment, he’d been pretty proud of his efforts.
“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, mentally reviewing all the times he had, apparently, rejected Steve without even knowing. Fuck, but in hindsight some of those accidental rejections had been downright
mean.
“I didn’t know, man,” Eddie tells him. He’s desperate for Steve to believe it. “I really didn’t, I swear. I wouldn’t have done… most of the shit I’ve been doing if I did. You’ve gotta believe me.”
“I believe you,” Steve says. Eddie nervously meets Steve’s eyes, but Steve doesn’t look mad. Doesn’t look resentful or anything. Mostly, he looks relieved, and like he sort of wants to laugh. “I believe you, baby, it’s alright.”
Baby,
Eddie’s earned back the word
baby.
It’s better than
dude
or
Eddie
or even
Eds.
It’s so flattering, so tender, that it makes Eddie shiver.
“Dudes,” Argyle calls, and immediately Byers, Nancy, and Robin are hissing
shut up, oh my God.
Steve and Eddie freeze in perfect unison.
“What?” Argyle defends. “They just look like they need more weed, dudes, I’m trying to be a
pal
here. Like, you know. Get everyone
vibing.”
“Wow,” Steve says, and his voice is louder than it’s been. He’s talking to the whole room, his voice defensively wry. “Well, this is just… humiliating. I thought the music was, you know. Loud enough you couldn’t hear us.”
“We turned it down,” Robin says. “Sorry.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie sees Steve staring at her. Eddie looks nervously between Byers and Nancy. They’ve got guilty looks on their faces and matching apologetic grins. Argyle looks fucking cooked— eyes red and hair frizzy.
At his back, he can feel Steve start shaking. A jolt runs through Eddie and he shifts, concerned, but realizes Steve is only laughing.
“Of course you fucking turned it down,” Steve says, stomach heaving. Eddie can feel it against his naked side, feels their bare skin brushing.
Helplessly, Eddie grins. He couldn’t contain it if he tried.
“Fuck, Argyle— yeah, man,” Eddie says. He shakes his head, still laughing. Steve leans up and forward into Eddie’s side, slinging his arms around Eddie’s waist. He buries his head into Eddie’s shoulder, absolutely cackling. “Give me the fucking blunt.”
Steve keeps laughing and Robin follows him into hysterics. He rocks Eddie side to side, clinging, and Eddie tips his head back in order to push his forehead against Steve’s temple.
Argyle holds out two blunts, one half-smoked and the other freshly rolled. “Keep these, dudes,” he tells them. “I’ve got, like, four more rolled.”
Eddie stares at Argyle, baffled, while Byers throws his hands up and Nancy pinches her nose in order to hide her smile.
“Shit, man,” Eddie says, shaking his head. The motion rubs Steve’s hair against his cheek. “Pizza delivery must pay super fuckin’ good, huh?”
“It doesn’t, that’s the thing,” Jonathan Byers says. “I don’t know how he fucking does it.” He’s got this look on his face, like he turns this over in his head on sleepless nights. Like an irrational part of him thinks Argyle might be some sort of magic, and able to summon blunts at will. A weed wizard.
“I grow it, man,” Argyle says. “I thought you knew that.”
“How the fuck would I know that?” Byers asks, an echo of Steve.
Robin and Steve keep cackling. Nancy shakes her head and Eddie leans back against Steve, accepting the blunts and the lighter Argyle offers him.
Eddie puts the lit blunt between his teeth. He breathes in. He basks in the hot burning, the slight fuzzing of his limbs, the feeling of Steve’s naked skin pressed against his own.
Steve’s hands slide across his stomach, calluses catching slightly at the hair on Eddie’s lower belly. His fingers stroke back and forth, just above Eddie’s belt.
Fuck,
Eddie thinks.
Fuck.
He twists a little. Holds the blunt up to Steve’s mouth.
Steve grins at him, white toothed and mischievous, his eyes twinkling. He takes the hit like a champ, no coughing in sight.
Fuck,
Eddie thinks for a third time.
The six of them end up sprawled on the floor, puffing and passing. Eddie and Steve hoard their two blunts like gold, refusing to share with Robin.
“I haven’t smoked in ages,” Steve defends. He passes the blunt to Eddie, out of Robin’s reach.
“These were a gift,” Eddie says, leaning away when she tries to snatch it.
Argyle and Jonathan ignore them. They’re staring up at the ceiling like there’s something cool up there, like it’s not just stucco.
“Fuck you both,” Robin whines, and Steve cackles.
They lock eyes and Steve raises one corner of his mouth, then one eyebrow. Robin shakes her head at him like he’s said something.
“That was a pathetic joke,” Robin tells Steve. “Genuinely terrible.”
Steve grins lazily. “It was fucking funny and I’m the funniest person you’ve ever met.”
Eddie watches them in awe. Considers, briefly, that the Upside Down gave them powers, somehow, and that they can communicate telepathically. But, then again, probably not; they’ve been like this for as long as Eddie’s known them.
Steve and Robin are freaks, they have the freakiest symbiotic relationship Eddie's ever seen. It's majorly funny.
Robin shoves Steve’s shoulder and Steve tugs her down, smacks three kisses across her forehead, cheek, and chin, and Robin strokes his hair for a moment. And then she turns to Nancy like nothing happened, babbling a blue streak about— the Dewey decimal system?
Whatever.
Steve is flat on his back and Eddie wants to be, like, on top of him. But that would be weird probably, so he does the next best thing— he lays down right beside Steve and tosses a leg over Steve’s hips.
He shuffles until their legs are twined together, Eddie’s hips pressed flush to Steve’s waist. A lazy, hot throbbing starts back up in Eddie’s hips— a pulse, pulse, pulsing that echoes his heartbeat.
Eddie is so high he feels fuzzy, feels like he’s swimming through air. Every puff of Steve’s breath ripples across him like water.
In response to the feeling, Eddie shifts, then shifts again. He restlessly strokes his fingers down Steve’s forearm, and Steve catches his hand. Brings it to his mouth and kisses Eddie’s palm, easy as anything.
The feeling of it, Steve’s mouth against Eddie’s hand, buzzes across Eddie. When Steve drags his lips up, toward Eddie’s fingers, a strange noise bubbles up in Eddie’s chest. He swallows it down and watches Steve with wide eyes.
Steve brushes his mouth up, puts a kiss on each of Eddie’s knuckles. And they’re not… like, they’re not
small
kisses, either. Steve’s teeth scrape slightly, hook on Eddie’s skin, and every so often he bites down. He drags his tongue across the pad of Eddie’s finger and Eddie can’t help it— he moans. It comes out of him,
fu-uck
, like he’s been hit.
It’s quiet, at least. Hopefully no one heard it but Steve— they’ve got the music back on, turned up loud, and he and Steve are a few feet from everyone else anyway.
Slowly, Steve rolls so that he’s on his side, too. Eddie’s leg is still hitched over his waist. It pulls their hips tight together. He can feel the metal button of Steve’s jeans low on his stomach.
Eddie shifts, trying to get closer, hoping that Steve doesn’t notice the fact that he’s hard even as he hopes that he
does.
They’re nose to nose. Steve stares at him, pupils blown wide from smoking. His lips are slick and red. Eddie bites his bottom lip and doesn’t look away. Couldn’t if he tried.
“Hey,” Eddie tells him, because he can’t think of anything better.
Steve responds by raising his eyebrows up then down very fast, a goofy sort of wiggle paired with a close-mouthed grin. It’s charming. Eddie is fucking charmed.
“Hey yourself,” Steve says back, sliding closer.
Just like that, Steve is kissing him again. Kissing Eddie like it’s easy, like he can’t help himself.
Eddie hooks his fingers into Steve’s belt loops and
pulls.
He’s too eager, too clumsy, and they more or less crash together, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind.
“Yeah, baby,” Steve says. He wraps a hand around Eddie’s thigh, which is still hitched over Steve’s hip.
He slides his hand over until it’s just under Eddie’s ass and what the
fuck,
but that feeling makes Eddie clutch at Steve and shove their chests together. Steve pulls Eddie’s hips up, hand still tucked into the divet between Eddie’s ass and thigh, and holds Eddie tight against his body. At the same time, he slides his tongue against Eddie’s teeth.
“Oh,
fuck,
Steve,” Eddie gasps. Or he tries to, anyway— Steve keeps kissing him.
It’s hot and open-mouthed. Steve coaxes him into opening up wider and wider, until his jaw is stretched and almost hurting. It hurts really good, though. Eddie tries to kiss back, shoves his tongue against Steve’s in a slick glide that sends a shower of shivers down his spine.
He clutches tight to Steve’s bare back, thinks he’s probably digging his nails in too deep but he can’t fucking stop. Eddie tilts his head back and tries to get a better angle, tries to get Steve’s tongue wrapped all the way around his own.
It’s not even kissing so much as it is sliding their tongues together. It feels so, so good— Eddie really likes it, fuck, nobody ever lets him kiss them like this. Nobody
likes
it like he does— it’s usually tolerated for about five minutes before he gets shoved off. Before the other person giggles and says,
nobody ever taught you how to kiss, huh? Let me fix that.
People don’t
like
kissing like this. It’s slimy and wet and nevermind the fact that it sends Eddie into the stratosphere every time it happens; it’s
gross.
Shit, but Steve probably hates it.
“Sorry,” Eddie says, pulling away and gasping. “Sorry, sorry.” Even while he talks, though, he’s kissing Steve, their lips sliding and hooking on each other. All wet with spit.
“For what?” Steve says, and then doesn’t let Eddie respond. Doesn’t wait, just uses the hand not holding Eddie by the ass to clutch at his hair. Pulls his head back with a tight grip.
Eddie’s mouth drops again, wholly without his permission, and Steve seals them back together. Flicks his tongue across Eddie’s lips then pulls back slightly, goes back to sliding their lips together with a happy sigh, and Eddie just— just can’t
resist.
He touches Steve’s tongue with his own, begging silently for Steve to open his mouth more. To get closer. For him to grind his tongue against Eddie’s the way he was doing a second ago.
There’s a pause, just for a moment, and then Steve
does.
And it’s even better than before; somehow, Steve moves with more purpose, more focus. He stops pausing to pay attention to Eddie’s lips and instead sucks on Eddie’s tongue. Rubs the side of Eddie’s tongue with his own, slides Eddie’s tongue between his teeth, biting just enough for pressure. Not enough to hurt.
Fuck, it does the
opposite
of hurt. Oh, fuck, oh
fuck.
Steve pulls away, just barely, in order to breathe. Their lips are still touching. Eddie is gasping right into his face, panting, every couple breaths almost turning into a whine.
“You got a thing for tongue, Munson?” Steve murmurs.
“Shut the fuck up, yes,
fuck,
come back here,” Eddie says.
Steve laughs. Steve laughs and Eddie can feel it against his mouth and something inside him
snaps.
He grabs Steve under his arms and yanks, hard, until Steve tumbles over him, landing hard on Eddie’s chest. One elbow comes down by Eddie’s head, Steve holding himself up.
Eddie sputters and gasps, “kiss me, kiss me
right now—”
Steve does. He dives back down and, shit, but he’s got Eddie’s fucking number now doesn’t he? Immediately Steve is kissing him in a way that’s wet and sloppy and so
good,
his tongue back in Eddie’s mouth with no build-up, and Eddie can’t help it. He squirms and wraps both of his legs around one of Steve’s, shoving up against Steve’s thigh.
He’s just barely coherent enough to hope that Steve’s body is blocking Eddie from the rest of the room, because he can’t stop moving. Can’t stop tightening and relaxing his legs, can’t stop nudging his chin against Steve’s, can’t stop thrusting his tongue back into Steve’s mouth.
Steve twists their tongues together. And then it’s like he— like he’s fucking stroking down Eddie’s tongue with his own, up and down and around, and Eddie’s whole body trembles and rocks.
“You cold, man?” Steve teases in a whisper. His voice is thick and slow and
hot.
“You’re shaking.”
Eddie just shakes his head, pulling Steve closer with his legs. His arms are around Steve’s shoulders and he’s clutching at Steve too tight, tight enough to bruise him, but he can’t help it. His hips twitch, then twitch again, until he’s thrusting almost rhythmically against Steve.
He’s moving in tiny humping motions because he’s trying so, so hard not to get caught. Not by any of the others in the room— not even by Steve. Like maybe he can steal an orgasm, snatch it out from under everyone’s noses, because he fucking needs it. He needs it, he needs it, he
needs
it.
Eddie hasn’t
needed
anything like this since he stopped… sampling his own wares, so to speak. Fuck, he wants an orgasm the way he wanted coke at age fifteen. He’s
twitching
with it.
“Steve,” Eddie gasps, and is shocked by his own voice. He sounds fucking— strung out.
“Oh,
shit,
Eddie,” Steve moans, and for the first time Steve’s hips kick against Eddie’s own.
Immediately, Eddie thrusts back, locking his legs so tight around Steve that his ankles cross. He’s really, genuinely shaking now, his thighs and knees trembling around Steve’s leg, his abdomen tensing and releasing.
“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay, okay, hold on— okay.”
“Do not get off me,”
Eddie hisses, but is ignored.
Steve rolls off him, Eddie’s hands sliding down his bare skin, and Eddie gasps up at the ceiling feeling like he’s just surfaced from the bottom of a lake. His legs are still spasming, so hard it’s visible
fuck his life,
and his pants are still clinging and he’s still shirtless and
everyone can probably see how hard he is
and fuck him,
fuck him,
because that doesn’t bring him down from the brink at all. It does the opposite, actually.
Eddie’s always loved when people watch him. Always loved being the center of attention; fuck, he stands up on cafeteria tables yelling about sorcery and sodomy just so people will look at him. Fuck,
fuck,
fuck— he wants to touch himself. He’s high as shit and he wants to just— stick his hand down his pants right the fuck now.
He doesn’t. He turns his head and looks out at the room instead, and— nobody is looking at him. Argyle is fast asleep, Robin has headphones on. Byers and Nancy are sitting, backs stiff as boards, in front of the television.
Between the TV volume and the record still spinning, nobody heard him or Steve.
That’s— a relief, actually. A knot of fear that Eddie didn’t know he had loosens, relaxes, dissolves.
“Me and Eddie are getting cold,” Steve announces. “We’re gonna go, uh, find shirts. Upstairs.”
Steve doesn’t wait for anyone to respond. He tugs Eddie up from the floor, wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist. He leans on Steve because his legs are, like, fucking shaking. Steve hustles Eddie out of the room and up the stairs, his chest to Eddie’s back.
“Move, move, move,” Steve urges.
As they tumble toward Steve’s room, Eddie floats back into his body a little bit. While making out with Steve, he… he doesn’t know how to describe it. It was like every part of his body felt good; every part of him was throbbing, pulsing. Everything was so sensitive he didn’t think about his dick at all. Eddie’s going to blame the weed for that, but he’s got the uncomfortable suspicion it might’ve just been Steve. Just Steve Harrington, focused and observant and intent on pushing all his buttons.
Now that he’s up and moving, he becomes aware of how fucking…
tight
his cock feels. He’s so hard it’s like his skin is too small, the grip of his jeans feels like a hand squeezing him just right.
Eddie is embarrassingly, humiliatingly, toe-curlingly hard. He sticks his hand between his legs because it fucking— it almost
hurts,
and it hurts so good, and he’s got to, he’s
got
to.
He rubs up and down over his dick like he’s massaging out a muscle, Steve still pushing at his back.
“Oh, shit, Eddie, are you touching yourself right now?” Steve asks. He slides his hands down Eddie’s chest, over his stomach, catches Eddie’s hand where—
yes—
he’s touching himself.
A gasp against his neck, a choked-off noise, and suddenly Steve is shoving Eddie into the wall, just feet from his bedroom door.
Eddie’s back slams against it hard. The smooth paint is cold against his naked spine but he doesn’t give a
fuck—
he grapples at Steve and hauls him in, smashing their mouths together and grinding against Steve with his chest and hips.
Their mouths are once again open, tongues pressed together. Eddie hauls himself against Steve, up and down, up and down, sliding his whole body along Steve’s front. He’s gasping,
oh oh oh oh,
and his legs are shaking again, he’s shaking all over.
“Relax,” Steve says, pulling his mouth off Eddie’s and kissing over his cheek. Sliding his tongue down the line of Eddie’s jaw. “Relax, Eddie, it’s okay— you’re okay, we’ll get you there.”
He fixes his mouth onto Eddie’s neck, right in the middle, and sucks hard. Eddie scrabbles across his shoulders but can’t find a good grip; it feels like his fingers are tingling. Steve gently presses a thigh between Eddie’s legs and Eddie takes what’s on fucking offer. He latches on, desperate, and starts rocking.
The roll starts in his abdomen and works down, into his hips, his thighs. Back and forth, up and down— Eddie tries it fucking all. He gets so, so close; he’s shaking again, or maybe still, but he’s definitely shaking
more.
A strange buzzing starts between his ears. His dick is hard and he’s fucking
wet
with it, wet because he’s about to come but he can’t quite
get there.
“Steve,” he gasps. “Please, man, you’ve got to—”
“I’ve got to what,
man?”
Steve says.
“Fuck off, Steve, come on,” Eddie says, dragging himself across Steve’s thigh, against his hips.
Their bare chests scrape against each other. Eddie can feel Steve’s nipples against his chest, feel the scratch of his chest hair. Every breath comes out as a moan. Eddie can hear himself but he can’t
stop,
and he doesn’t really want to.
He feels wild, out of control, like he’s about to shake into pieces. Liquify and then drip down Steve Harrington’s thigh.
Fuck.
“Call me something sweeter than ‘man’ and I’ll touch you,” Steve bargains. He bites hard on Eddie’s neck, then drags his tongue up in a long swipe. The spit dries cold against Eddie’s burning skin and Eddie gasps.
Something about Steve’s tone— stern but teasing, mean but tender— makes Eddie lose his mind. It feels like a slap, it feels like a kiss. It feels like Eddie is about to fucking
die.
Eddie licks his lips, fumbles for clarity. Tries to find something sweet to say. In the end, all he can say is
Steve.
He says it on a moan. Says it soft, says it with his heart in his mouth.
Steve pulls away from his neck to stare at him. His eyes are dark and make Eddie’s head spin.
“Fucking strawberry milkshake,” Steve says nonsensically, and Eddie can’t ask him what he means because then Steve starts
touching him.
Steve slips his hand down, cupping Eddie hard through his pants in the same moment Steve sucks Eddie’s earlobe into his mouth. He fiddles with the silver stud with his tongue and scrubs the heel of his hand against Eddie’s dick, the friction through his jeans almost hurting.
Eddie’s knees start to shake and shake
hard.
It rattles his teeth. He pulls Steve close and works his hips, and it feels— it feels— it feels like finally scratching a rash. Eddie might be drooling but it doesn’t matter because Steve keeps
touching
him.
Steve is tonguing at his ear. Steve is pressing him against the wall. Steve is pulling Eddie’s hair. Steve is digging in and
rubbing,
over and over and over and—
And—
“Coming, I’m gonna, it’s, oh fuck Steve—”
Eddie’s whole body locks up. His eyes roll back in his head. And then all at once he’s shaking and thrashing because it just feels so
good,
it’s pulsing through his hips, his whole body throbbing. He humps up hard against Steve’s hand. Steve presses strongly against him, unmoving, while he does. Eddie shudders his thanks, biting down on Steve’s naked shoulder and drooling.
His dick pulses, throbs— and the skin is so tight it’s
squeezing—
and come floods Eddie’s jeans. Gets him wet.
Eddie breathes against Steve’s skin, which is slick from Eddie’s mouth. He’s still shaking and he can’t make it stop. He pants, in and out, while Steve holds him up.
“You alright?” Steve asks him. When Eddie can’t find his tongue, Steve continues, “that looked pretty intense, Eds.”
Eddie wants to say something— hell, he wants to fucking
shake Steve’s hand,
because he’s never come that hard in his whole fucking life— but he can’t. His throat goes thick and tight and he can’t do it.
“Hey, okay,” Steve says, and it’s like he’s responding to Eddie. Like Eddie actually did manage to say something, even though that isn’t true. “Here we go, dude, move your feet a little bit.”
Steve starts tugging him toward his bedroom door, gently but persistently. He hooks Eddie under his arms, leans Eddie’s chest against his, keeps his thigh between Eddie’s so that Eddie doesn’t tip over.
Which, like, is probably good— Eddie can’t feel his feet. His knees bend and wobble like cooked spaghetti. There’s a strange moment where his vision fades in and out, blurring around the edges, and then they’re in Steve’s room. It’s a nightmare of blue and plaid. If Eddie was even five percent more in his body, he would give Steve shit. He will later.
In this moment, giving Steve shit feels like an impossible task. An unachievable goal, because all he wants is for Steve to stroke down his back, pet his hair, kiss his face.
Eddie feels fragile. Breakable. And still, somehow, turned on. He’s heavy with the feeling, body turning to lead.
Steve tips him onto the bed and the sheets are worn down into softness, like Steve’s had the same pair for a long time. Shamelessly, Eddie burrows into them, scrubbing his body across them like a bear rubbing against a tree. Or something.
He’s still feeling weird. Obviously.
“Get down here,” Eddie says, the words coming out slurred, because Steve is just hovering at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips. There is a thoughtful frown on his face.
A couple fast blinks, like Eddie’s startled him, and then Steve smiles.
When Steve leans down, Eddie grapples his arms across Steve’s bare shoulders and yanks. Steve collapses onto his chest with a startled
oof,
and Eddie wheezes with Steve’s weight. But having Steve on top of him brings Eddie back down into his body, just a little.
Abruptly, he realizes that Steve is still hard. Steve’s not
doing
anything about it, isn’t working his hips or sliding his hands over Eddie. Isn’t pushing, isn’t in any sort of rush. But Steve is hard and Eddie knows it, and suddenly Eddie is
desperate.
He’s not even totally sure what he’s desperate for, because nothing about… any of this has been expected. Nothing Steve has done was anything Eddie expected. Fuck, nothing
Eddie’s
done was anything Eddie expected.
Who knew all it took was a good kiss from Steve Harrington to knock Eddie off balance? Who the fuck knew that Steve Harrington’s tongue on his ear would make Eddie go belly-up, vulnerable and shaking and so fucking turned on he got
dizzy?
Who fucking knew? Not Eddie. Certainly not fucking Eddie Munson, and isn’t that a funny joke?
Eddie feels like he
should
have known. It’s hysterical that he didn’t. Eddie snickers into Steve’s bare shoulder and squeezes Steve a little harder. He’s too worldly to not have known; he’s been too many places, done too many things with too many different types of people. How the fuck did Eddie not
know?
He feels stupid. He feels like a shook-up coke bottle, fizzing up until he pops. Steve twisted him off and he exploded, sticky and frothing, and now he’s got to settle back down.
He feels fucking
enlightened.
“Lemme blow you,” Eddie says. “Come on, Harrington, let me get you off.
Fuck,
sweetheart, let me suck you.”
“You think I’m gonna say no?” Steve asks, and Eddie can hear the way he’s grinning. “Where do you want me?”
“Can I— like, on the floor—”
Eddie’s heart tumbles over itself, thudding loudly in his chest, and shit but he sounds fucking incoherent. He’s panting, gasping even though Steve’s not heavy on his chest.
Before Eddie can say anything else— say something about Steve, on his back, hands in his own hair, Eddie on his knees in front of the bed, head between Steve’s thighs— Steve is moving. He rolls off Eddie in a smooth rolling tumble, athletic and just… Eddie’s not sure what to call it. It’s almost like he poses, except that’s not quite right. The word is too fake, too
cold,
for what Steve does.
Steve lays back, bare chested and tan from the summer sun. He shines with sweat and the buttery lamp light. His stomach is relaxed, he’s not flexing or faking, not trying to look more muscled than he is. He’s just… on display, relaxed and playful, his knees crooked. Jeans still on.
Dark lashes flutter at Eddie. Steve’s lips are cherry red from kissing, and spread into a slick smile.
Seduced,
Eddie thinks to himself, turning the word over in his mind with a strange, excited curiosity.
I’m being seduced.
Hell, Steve’s been seducing him this whole damn night. But it’s more, somehow, watching Steve do it in the private safety of his bedroom. In the quiet comfort of his bed.
Eddie pulls himself up until he’s sitting. Steve doesn’t look away.
Eddie tumbles onto the floor, hitting his knees hard. Steve doesn’t look away.
Eddie wraps his hands around Steve’s ankles and
tugs,
pulling Steve to the edge of the bed. He throws Steve’s calves over his shoulders. And still,
still,
Steve doesn’t look away. He props himself up on his elbows and stares down at Eddie, eyes lidded low
.
Dark and playful but dangerous in a way that makes Eddie think of domesticated wolves.
What big teeth you have, Harrington,
Eddie thinks, and then cackles to himself.
Above him, Steve shakes his head and grins.
“You’ve got the best laugh, man,” Steve says, which startles Eddie for some reason.
Part of him thought Steve was going to say something like,
I’m getting old up here, Munson,
but of course Steve wouldn’t. Steve’s not the kind of guy to rush anyone into anything; not the kind of guy to make Eddie hurry up and blow him.
“I’m taking your pants off,” Eddie declares, because suddenly he can’t wait another fucking moment. He needs to get his mouth around Steve now, now,
now.
Needs that closeness, that vulnerability and trust from Steve. Needs to be the one to… like, fucking possess that trust. To hoard that closeness like a dragon hoarding gold.
He needs Steve to keep looking at him.
“Yeah, please,” Steve responds, but Eddie is already attacking the button of Steve’s jeans, already yanking the still-damp denim down Steve’s thighs.
Dimly, Eddie hears Steve huff a laugh but doesn’t respond. He’s too busy wrestling Steve’s jeans off completely, flinging them over his shoulder and going for his underwear; they’re black and tight, cupping Steve in a way that makes Eddie’s mouth water.
Steve lifts his hips and Eddie hooks his fingers in the elastic and, just like that, Steve is naked. Naked and lounging, body lush and inviting. Well-earned muscle overlaid with a soft layer, like Steve has been drinking water and eating well. Healthy in a way that makes Eddie feel…
Grateful, maybe. Wondrous.
Those pitted scars on Steve’s sides glimmer silver. Eddie wraps a hand around Steve’s waist, covering them.
Eddie meets Steve’s dark eyes, watches Steve’s lips part, and then lowers his head.
When he sucks the head of Steve’s cock into his mouth, Steve goes boneless. His back bows down into the bed, elbows sliding out from under him. He grins up at the ceiling, smiling that lazy confident smile that Eddie likes so much. He doesn’t get to see it often; these days, Steve seems to have a perpetual furrow between his eyebrows. Constant concern on his face.
It’s nice, seeing it now.
Eddie puts himself to work, inching his way down Steve’s dick until it hits the back of his tongue. It’s harder than he thought it would be, giving a blowjob, but in some ways it’s easier, too.
A distant part of Eddie had been apprehensive of the taste, the smell. The feeling of a dick in his mouth. But he shouldn’t have been. It’s easy, doing this: Steve’s skin is warm, and clean, and Eddie likes the stretch of his lips. The weight on his tongue.
It does something funny to his head. Blanks him out like a VHS tape played too many times. Everything narrows down to the weight in his mouth and the soft, pleased noises Steve makes. Steve isn’t loud but he’s not quiet, either. He’s just… genuine.
Steve moans when Eddie rubs his tongue down his dick, sighs when Eddie strokes over his stomach. One of Steve’s hands creeps down and into Eddie’s hair, holding firm and tight.
Eddie hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard, and Steve’s fingers tighten against his scalp until pain zings, electric, down Eddie’s spine.
When Eddie moans, Steve does it again.
It feels good enough that Eddie redoubles his efforts,
triples
them, because Eddie’s already come and he needs Steve to feel good, too. He wants Steve to shake and moan and feel the same way Eddie felt. Because otherwise it’s not fair, otherwise Eddie hasn’t done his job, and something about that almost makes him feel queasy.
Cautiously, Steve starts to work his hips against Eddie’s mouth. Eddie slides his hands under Steve’s thighs and hoists him in, encouraging the movement.
“Baby, fuck,” Steve gasps.
Eddie moans. Spit drips down his chin. His lips are tingling with the friction of Steve’s cock, the way it slides in and out. When Steve gives a particularly hard thrust, Eddie almost chokes. It should feel bad, should make him want to sputter and pull off of Steve’s dick, but it doesn’t. It
doesn’t;
instead, it makes Eddie gasp through his nose and moan. He shuffles forward until his chest is pressed flat against the mattress, his knees sliding half way under the bed.
He likes being down here, on the floor, looking up as Steve gasps and half-laughs his way through the blowjob. Steve is grinning, light and uncomplicated, his eyes on Eddie. His hand is still in Eddie’s hair and gently guiding his head up and down.
Eddie is surrounded, consumed, by Steve: Steve’s legs across his shoulders, holding him down; Steve’s dick in his mouth, heavy and warm; Steve’s hand in his hair, pulling tight and strong.
It’s wonderful. It’s close and comforting, and Eddie fucking
burns
with it. Each stroke of Steve against his tongue, each time Steve’s hand clenches tighter in his hair, sends Eddie into dizzy, giddy spirals. He’s panting around Steve’s dick, feeling wet and sticky everywhere. Sweat in his armpits and behind his knees, come still slick around his own dick— which is hard again.
Impossibly, Steve gets harder against his tongue, and another breathless laugh bursts out of Steve’s chest. It’s a light sound. Uncomplicated, like Steve is sometimes. Steve feels good, his body feels good, and so he’s laughing. Smiling at Eddie.
Fuck, but Eddie didn’t know sex could be like this.
“Gonna come, baby, fuck you’re so good at this,” Steve says, and pulls Eddie down by the hair.
Eddie gasps and chokes eagerly on Steve’s dick. Next to his nose, Steve’s thighs twitch and shake, his stomach flexing, and Eddie moans at the same time Steve does.
“Eddie, yeah, fuck— fuck, Eddie,
Eddie
,” Steve gasps, and Eddie sucks hard.
He bobs his head once, twice, and Steve’s eyes roll back. He pulls Eddie in, heels shoving against Eddie’s back, and then suddenly Eddie can taste him against his tongue. Hot and salty, a little slimy.
It’s gross. It’s fucking
hot.
Overwhelmed, Eddie sucks Steve harder, swallowing as much as he can and letting the rest drip down his chin.
Gasping, and still half-laughing, Steve pulls Eddie off of his dick by the hair. Eddie goes with a strange noise— it’s not a whine, except maybe it is, because it’s high pitched and needy and Eddie wants so much to be back where he was. Surrounded by Steve, making Steve moan and giggle. Doing good work.
“That was so fucking good, baby,” Steve tells him. His bare stomach is heaving, in and out.
“Yeah?” Eddie asks, and he sounds fucking destroyed. Like he just did ten rounds of combat and his hit points are low; all husky and desperate. “You liked it?”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. His eyes are dark and shining. Eddie can’t look away from them. “Seems like you did, too, babe.”
“It was alright,” Eddie grins, shrugging.
“Just alright?” Steve asks.
Eddie gazes up at Steve, who’s propped himself back up on his elbows, and lets himself beam. He smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.
Steve smiles back and shakes his head. “You are so…” Steve starts, but doesn’t finish. Instead, Steve sits up, abs contracting and releasing effortlessly, and hunches over Eddie. His legs slide off Eddie’s shoulders but don’t leave Eddie completely; he tucks them around Eddie’s waist instead, locking his ankles.
Eddie stares up at him, still kneeling by the bed, and licks his lips. Softly, Steve’s hand comes down from Eddie’s hair. He swipes his thumb across Eddie’s chin, and the motion is embarrassingly slick. Steve’s thumb digs in, hard, and Eddie feels himself gasp.
Like his open mouth is an invitation, Steve slides his thumb— now coated in come and spit— between Eddie’s lips. Instinctively, thoughtlessly, Eddie licks it clean.
It tastes… fine. Not good, but not that bad, either.
The taste isn’t the point.
The point is Steve, Steve’s thumb in his mouth, Steve leaning over him; and the point is Eddie, taking what Steve gives to him and wanting more. Always, always more.
Crashing and receding. Wanting and gorging and then growing hungry again.
“Hey,” Steve says. His square jaw flexes. “Come back up here.”
Eddie stares at him, motionless, trying to process the words through the buzz in his ears. And then, all at once, Eddie throws himself up onto the bed, on top of Steve. Steve catches him with a barking laugh.
He rolls Eddie onto the sheets, so quick and smooth it turns Eddie’s head. Makes him feel like one of those struck-stupid cartoon characters. Big pink hearts whirling around him.
He used to glue himself in front of Uncle Wayne’s tiny TV on Saturday mornings, hiding out from his parents back before he went to live with Wayne permanently. The pictures would glitch, cut in and out with bad signal, but he remembers the cartoons. A little cartoon bunny being kissed, and his heart leaping out from his chest. His cheeks glowing red, even though animals with fur can’t blush.
When Steve presses him down and kisses him, Eddie feels just like that stupid fucking rabbit.
“What’s up, doc,” Eddie blurts against Steve’s mouth. He can’t help it.
Steve huffs, then sucks a kiss onto the base of Eddie’s jaw. “I’m trying to think of a good way to respond to that,” he tells Eddie. “There’s gotta be a joke in there about
doc
and
cock
rhyming, but I’m not smart enough to find it.”
Before Eddie can respond to
that—
and Jesus, Harrington is right, if they could pin down that joke it would fucking
kill—
before Eddie can say anything, Steve bites down hard on his neck. Like, so hard Eddie can feel the bruising start immediately.
Just like that, they’re back at it: zero to ten to one-hundred miles per hour, Steve biting his way down his neck and across his collarbones. Tracking down to his nipples, and he fucking bites those, too; these sharp, tiny vampire bites that make Eddie thrust his chest up into Steve’s mouth like a girl in a porno. Except he’s not acting.
Shit,
shit,
but he is really not acting.
“Can’t believe you’re hard again, Eds,” Steve groans, Eddie’s nipple still in his mouth. “That’s so fucking hot, baby.”
When Steve scrapes at it with his teeth, Eddie’s legs kick out against the bed.
“You want me so bad,” Steve says, and he’s not teasing. He’s not being mean. He sounds fucking baffled
.
“Of course I do,” Eddie gasps. “Fucking— of course I do, Steve,
fuck.”
And then Eddie can’t talk anymore, because Steve is biting across his chest and he’s biting
hard.
Leaving red marks that flush darker with every second that passes. It feels fucking
crazy,
is what it feels like.
It feels like Eddie’s going out of his mind.
He can’t do anything but scrape his fingers down Steve’s back. Eddie’s knees are bent up, Steve laying between them, but his legs keep falling back down. His feet keep sliding because Eddie keeps trying to thrust his hips into Steve.
He notes all this in a vague, passive sort of way. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing matters except for Steve Harrington touching him. Steve biting hard on his nipples, hands clawing down Eddie’s sides. Leaving red marks everywhere. Red bruises and scrapes that Eddie is going to pinch and touch, alone in his bedroom, remembering this. Getting off to the memory.
Steve bites hard at the soft skin below his belly button and Eddie almost, like, yells. Partly because he’s shocked and partly because it feels… it
feels.
Eddie can’t tell if it feels good or bad, but he knows he wants more of it. More,
more,
more of it always.
Steve puts his hands on Eddie’s jeans, rubbing over Eddie’s cock and saying: “I’m gonna take your pants off, Eds, can’t believe you’ve still got them on—”
And Eddie is responding: “Fuck off, take them off, take them
off,
please, Steve I need you to—”
Just like that, Steve is popping the button and yanking his jeans down. They get stuck on Eddie’s bare feet for a moment but Steve gives a hard tug and they disappear onto Steve’s floor. There’s a moment’s pause, where Steve draws back to stare at him with dark eyes, and then Steve reaches out. He tucks one finger into the elastic of Eddie’s underwear and pulls back.
When he lets go, the elastic
snaps
back onto Eddie’s skin. It’s a sharp and bright feeling, and Eddie’s dick throbs with it. Gets wetter than it already is— he’s still sloppy from his first orgasm, but now he’s, like, fucking soaked. It’s all leaked through his underwear and he can
see
it, the white of his come and the big damp patch.
Steve can see it, too.
“You’re a mess,” Steve says, and then he keeps going, like he can’t help it. “Fuck, look at you, Eddie. Shit. You’re all wet. You’re fucking
soaking,
baby.”
Eddie gasps, and then moans, and then gasps again because fuck, was that him? But he can’t think about it too hard because his dick is still pulsing, and the pulsing is
good.
His dick has that too-tight feeling, familiar, and Eddie knows that he could fuck up into the thin air and his underwear and feel even better. Maybe even come like that. He’s always been a little bit of a hair-trigger, but he’s never minded. Not when it feels like
this.
And he can go again, over and over, has spent whole nights working himself raw. Thrusting into his hand. Against his bed. The arm of the couch, a time or two. Just because he could. There were nights where he’d come into the sheets and then into a sock and then all over his belly.
“Sometime soon you’re going to fuck me,” Steve says, and Eddie makes a keening noise that sounds a little bit like
yeah.
“You’re gonna take all those rings off and fuck me with your fingers, get me ready, and then you’re gonna fuck me with
this.”
And Steve clenches his hand around Eddie’s cock, a little mean, but so good.
“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” Eddie says, mostly because he wants Steve to keep talking. He tries to sound suave, put together, but his voice cracks and breaks and he’s mostly gasping for air. He sounds like he’s running. His hips are twisting against Steve’s hand.
“Yes,” Steve groans, and then he’s removing his hand and yanking Eddie’s underwear down, throwing them off. “I know that’s not your thing, but I figure we can compromise.” He bends down and sucks a bruise into the crease between Eddie’s thigh and his dick, and Eddie’s vision whites out before he can ask Steve what the fuck he means by
that.
“Please, Steve,” Eddie says again, because he can’t say anything else.
“You like that?” Steve asks, and Eddie gasps hard.
He might not even need Steve to touch him, not if he keeps talking like this. Eddie’s whole body rolls, up against Steve and then down against the sheets, and it’s like his body is a live-wire. There’s hardly any friction against his dick but he’s rocking like he’s fucking into something anyway and it feels fucking
amazing.
“You like when I talk to you, Eds?” But it’s not really a question. Steve pinches at Eddie’s thighs, viciously hard, leaving more bruises. It makes Eddie moan, and again it’s high pitched but it’s not embarrassing, because Steve so clearly likes it.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, voice shaking. “Yeah, sweetheart, I like when you talk to me.”
“Good,” Steve murmurs. “Yeah, that’s good, ‘cause I like to talk.” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp bite, right next to the base of Eddie’s cock. That place where the skin isn’t quite stomach but isn’t quite anything else.
“Got a question for you,” Steve continues. “It’s been keeping me up at night, let me tell you.”
“Shoot,” Eddie says, fisting one hand in Steve’s hair and grabbing tight to the pillow beneath his own head with the other.
“You like blowjobs, Eds?”
“What?” Eddie sputters. “Of course I like blowjobs—”
But he doesn’t get to say anything else. He chokes on his own tongue because Steve puts his mouth on his dick, a long smooth motion that takes him almost all the way down. Eddie grasps at the pillow, twisting his fingers into the pillowcase and pulling. Without his permission, his body thrashes, like he’s trying to get away even though that’s the last thing he wants.
“Oh, shit,” Eddie says. “Oh, shit, Steve,
honey,
fuck—”
Steve works his tongue. Sucks at the head. Eddie feels it when he presses against the slit of his dick, can feel Steve’s teeth lightly catch against the crown. His fingers clench, hard, in Steve’s hair.
An odd jerking motion, Steve moving his head back slightly, and then Steve grabs Eddie’s hand and removes it from his hair.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie gasps, because shit,
not everyone likes their hair pulled, Munson, and you just pulled it really fucking hard.
“Sorry, Steve.”
The only response Eddie gets is a peaceable hum, which vibrates up his dick and through his stomach. It makes Eddie’s legs spasm.
From there, everything builds up fast, faster than Eddie can keep track of, never mind control. Steve slides his mouth up, then down, and Eddie writhes. Steve presses him down hard by his hips, that thick strength in his arms holding Eddie
tight,
and Eddie revels in it. He bucks and thrusts just so he can feel Steve hold him down.
All in all, it’s only a minute, maybe two, before Eddie gets close again. Before he’s whining and gasping and repeating Steve’s name. His dick is throbbing, the skin too tight and too small, and Eddie can feel each pulse. When Steve pulls back and puts his mouth on Eddie’s balls instead, Eddie fucking… there’s a noise Eddie makes, and he can hear it from himself, but it’s so high and strange that he can’t put a word to it.
“Gonna come, Steve, I’m— again—”
It’s just that it feels so good, it feels so
good,
and Steve Harrington is sucking him off, Steve Harrington is playing with his fucking balls and before Eddie knows it he’s trying to cross his legs, trying to keep Steve where he is. He thrashes hard against the bed and buries his hands in his own hair, pulling hard. Dimly, he hears something that’s almost a laugh.
It doesn’t matter. Eddie’s eyes cross and his mouth drops open, his stomach flexing, and then that
tense
and
release
happens. Everything pulls tight and then lets go in pulsing, orgasmic waves, and before he knows it Eddie is coming wet and hot across Steve’s face.
“Oh, fuck, oh
shit
,” Eddie moans, rocking himself back and forth.
Steve puts his mouth back on Eddie’s cock and sucks down the last few spurts, soothing him.
In the aftermath, Eddie’s body shakes again, legs trembling and stomach heaving. Steve swipes his hand over his face, wiping off Eddie's come, then pulls himself up and lays down. He's a heavy weight that covers Eddie completely. Eddie hauls him closer, wrapping arms around Steve’s waist and twining their legs together.
They lay there and breathe, fast at first but then slower, slower. Steve’s breath against Eddie’s neck is calming. Eddie trails his hands up Steve’s back, over those smooth scars of his, and then brushes them back down.
Eddie closes his eyes and lets himself lose track of time.
They glide in and out of sleep, stumble into dreams and then back out of them. Neither of them really passes out, or anything, but for a long stretch of time they lay there together, wrapped around each other like yarn in a bracelet.
After what might be hours and what might only be forty-five minutes, Steve slides off of Eddie. He worms close again immediately, though, so Eddie can’t feel too bad about it. He lifts his arm so Steve can press into his side, nose tucked into Eddie’s neck, and then settles it across Steve’s shoulders.
From where they’re laying, Eddie can see out of Steve's window. The pool is bright and glowing against the night sky, an eerie blue, and in that strange glow he makes out their shirts and shoes, still crumpled on the pool deck. If he squints, Eddie can make out the shape of his black bandana.
He stares at it for a moment before he loses it. Eddie cackles, so hard he winds up snorting, and Steve jolts out of his weird almost-meditation.
“What the fuck?” Steve says, taken aback, and his tone is like,
why the fuck are you doing this.
Steve gets that tone every time someone startles him, like he’s trying to save face. He’s seen Steve do it with the kids, with Robin, with Nancy. And now, with him.
It’s endearing.
Eddie snickers harder, shoulders shaking, and buries his mouth in the dip between Steve’s pecs. “False advertising.”
“Explain,” Steve drawls.
And then Eddie’s not laughing anymore.
“Uh,” he says.
Eddie hesitates, because how can he explain this? Explain flagging to Steve, and why he does it, and what it means? How can he explain to Steve that, for years, Eddie has made himself come to the
idea
of pain, to skin pink and hot and stinging? Rubbed himself until his boxers were wet to the image of teary eyes, to bruises on necks and wrists and hips, and never put together that he wants the pain to be
his?
How can he explain the misinterpretation of his own desire?
Briefly, for a half of a half second, Eddie tries to make the fantasy— which has always been vague, always filled with faceless men— specific and clear. Solidifies the image in his mind until it’s
Steve.
He imagines making Steve hurt. Imagines making Steve hurt enough tears well up in his eyes, making Steve’s skin burn hot because Eddie’s been hitting him. Giving Steve bruises, the kind that
ache.
The idea makes Eddie want to throw up. It makes him want to apologize and bury himself in Steve’s neck. He’s got the absurd urge to run his hands over Steve’s body, check his flanks and his throat, like maybe Eddie’s thoughts will have re-opened old wounds.
Eddie had nightmares about those marks on Steve’s body. He still does, sometimes.
Sado top,
Eddie thinks to himself, queasy and baffled at his own audacity. He forces himself not to tremble because Steve is fine. Steve is fine.
Eddie’s been flagging as a sado top. What a fucking joke.
“Hey, hey, woah,” Steve says, his voice close and gentle. Eddie crashes back into his body, back into the present moment.
Steve is still holding him; their skin is still slick with sweat and come and spit. It’s starting to get sticky. Eddie’s throat is gloriously sore and he’s got bruises on his thighs that throb so
sweetly.
“You’re alright, Eds, we’re alright,” Steve tells him. “Shit, honey, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Quit making that face, alright? You’re breakin’ my heart.”
And then Eddie thinks— why the fuck not? They’ve got time. He’s naked and still a little high and, before or above all that, he trusts Steve. Trusts him with his life. Trusts him at his back when there’s monsters swarming and the sky is lit up blue and red. He can fucking trust Steve with this. This is nothing; small fish. A tiny secret that they’ll laugh at together.
“So, alright, this needs context,” Eddie starts, and his voice shakes at the beginning but is sturdy by the end. He puts on his dungeon master voice; he needs the soothing shield of performance. “You know how I keep a black hanky in my back pocket—”
“Oh, yeah, the gay bandanas or whatever,” Steve says.
Eddie is so baffled he stops talking.
“I don’t know, dude, yours seemed pretty accurate.” Beneath his cheek, Steve shrugs. All casual.
Bizarrely, Eddie feels… offended. Hurt. Even though two hours ago he wouldn’t have felt either of those things.
“I mean, the bottom part was maybe a surprise, but it’s not a big deal. It’s just sex, you know? I wasn’t totally sure about the masochism, but… I think we did pretty well for our first time.”
Eddie pauses. His brow furrows. He tries to make sense of what Steve is saying, but he can’t quite make his thoughts link up in his head.
“What?” He asks.
“Yeah, man, Robin explained it to me,” Steve says, and suddenly everything starts to make more sense. “Left pocket means bottom, black hanky is for S&M.”
“No, Steve, the
right
pocket means bottom,” Eddie corrects, feeling lightheaded. “Mine means I top.” And that he thought he was a sadist, though maybe he’s going to get out of explaining
that
mental mixup. If he’s very, very lucky.
Steve was half-wrong, because Eddie wants to top Steve with a desperation that’s bordering on pathetic, but Steve was half-right, too. Because Eddie loves the bruises throbbing on his thighs, the bite marks stinging on his neck and chest. And he
hates
the idea of hurting Steve.
“Oh, cool,” Steve says, continuing the conversation, and Eddie forces himself to focus.
Steve relaxes contentedly against the sheets, like none of this is a big deal to him. “I’ve never, like, bottomed or whatever, but it seems fun. It was hot talking about it earlier.”
Maybe it
isn’t
a big deal. How the fuck would Eddie know?
Eddie’s always known Steve has more experience with sex than he does, experience enough to treat it with casual appreciation. Like sex is just something fun that Steve does with other people, or with himself. Special, sure, sometimes, but nothing scary. Nothing that Steve hides from or talks around or avoids. Nothing
shameful.
It’s enthralling. The easy confidence Steve has slides through Steve and into Eddie, and Eddie tries to absorb it.
A cracking yawn half-breaks Steve’s jaw, then, and Eddie glances at the clock. Almost three, and he has to leave early. Uncle Wayne’s recruited him into helping start a garden; two weeks ago, Uncle Wayne had shown up with a raised plant bed and a bunch of seed packets. It’s a little late for it, they’re already a week into June, but it’s not
impossible
to start a garden this time of year. Just harder.
“We should sleep, sweetheart,” Eddie says, and the pet name drops out of his mouth as easily as anything.
Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. Steve
likes
him: kissed him in front of all his friends, pulled him into his lap, laid with him on the floor face to face with their toes pressed together.
Steve's been, just... really good to him. Genuinely good, in a way that is vulnerable and genuine and patient.
“Oh, honey,” Eddie sighs, overwhelmed and touched.
For the first time, Steve’s cheeks flush and Eddie stares, awed.
Steve clears his throat and looks at Eddie in a way that’s… not shy. Just cautious, maybe.
“Thanks, by the way,” Steve says.
“For what?” Eddie asks, baffled, because Steve wouldn’t thank Eddie for sex or orgasms or whatever.
“Just…” Steve trails off. He licks his lips and then twists. Leans forward until their mouths are pressed together, close-lipped and soft. “For not laughing at me. For being so sweet.”
Eddie pulls back a little, his heart feeling too big for his chest. Like it’s about to burst out and burrow under Steve’s skin, so Steve can keep it forever. “Why would I laugh at you?”
Steve hesitates, then shrugs. Eddie can feel it, the rise and fall of his shoulders from where he’s tucked against Eddie’s side. He keeps his eyes on Steve’s face, careful, because something here is fragile. Something about
Steve
is fragile, suddenly.
In the blue nighttime, Steve’s eyes are big and boundlessly dark. Eddie can’t look away from him, from the sudden sheen on them. He reaches out and pulls Steve in hard, pressing their naked bodies together like maybe they could merge if he pulls hard enough.
It would be nice to share a body with Steve. To feel him breathing, to feel his heart beating, and to know that he’s safe in a visceral, bloody way.
That’s a freak thought. The kind normal people probably don’t have.
Eddie lets himself think it anyway.
“You wouldn’t,” Steve finally says. “Sorry, I know you wouldn’t.”
“Never,” Eddie promises. “Alright, Steve? Even if you, I don’t know, ask the stupidest questions ever. I’m not gonna laugh at you for, like,
expressing
yourself.”
The other words are too big to say, right now, even if Eddie thinks he might mean them, so instead he finishes with: “I like you a lot, sweetheart.”
Steve beams at him, big and shiny, like maybe he heard the other thing Eddie didn’t say.
“Me, too,” Steve tells him.
“I know,” Eddie grins, nuzzling into Steve’s hair. “You faked weed virginity for me, man.”
Before Eddie leaves, he shakes Steve awake. When Steve rolls over onto his back, eyes blinking open sleepily, Eddie pounces on top of him. Kisses him stupid. Kisses him over and over, with lips and tongue, until Steve laughs and pulls him down.
They roll around between the sheets for a while, Steve still naked and Eddie fully-dressed.
Eddie had crept downstairs in just his jeans twenty minutes ago, nervous because he is currently in possession of a fuckoff-amount of hickies and scratches. His jeans ride low and there are some incriminating finger-shaped bruises on his hips. But his shirt had still been out by the pool, along with his shoes and bandana and everything that had been in his pockets.
Only Argyle was sleeping in the living room, everyone else bunked down in the many guest rooms at casa Harrington, so.
It could have been worse.
“Steve,” Eddie laughs into Steve’s mouth. He pulls back but can’t find the determination to break the kiss. He dives back, sliding his tongue between Steve’s lips again.
Steve sucks on it. Kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.
“You leaving?” Steve murmurs, their lips still mashed together. Eddie can feel them against his skin: the open vowels of the word
you,
the lick of Steve’s tongue on the first syllable of
leaving.
“Fuck, never,” Eddie blurts, and Steve laughs. Eddie huffs and shakes his head at himself, feeling young and giddy and stupid. “But yeah. Uncle Wayne’s decided he wants to start a fucking garden, for whatever reason.”
“A garden?” Steve asks, pulling away with his eyebrows raised. His lips are red and slick. The sun is rising, coming in through the window in shades of gold, the new day turning Steve into something unreal. A Roman statue, or something; he has the nose for it.
“He’s a crazy old man,” Eddie dismisses. “But yeah. I have to go.”
“Lemme walk you out,” Steve says, pushing Eddie to the side and climbing out of bed.
He’s ass-naked, the span of his back broad, scars on display. His hair is greasy with sweat. He’s got dark hair up his shins and thighs, spanning his crotch and belly. Eddie didn’t get a good look at him last night, not really: it had been too dark by then.
“Shit, Steve,” Eddie groans. “Put some clothes on, you look too fuckin’ good right now.”
Turning and looking over his shoulder, Steve grins. Raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“I wanna lick you everywhere,” Eddie says, and briefly debates just throwing all his clothes off again and fucking Steve on the floor. But then he glimpses the alarm clock and sees the time— 8:20, fuck— and curses. “But I can’t, fuck, damn this garden all the way to hell.”
“What’s he growing?” Steve asks, casually throwing on a sweatshirt and some tiny fucking green shorts that make Eddie want to push Steve down and climb on top of him. Maybe get Steve to pull his hair again.
“Eds?”
“Yeah, what? Sorry,” Eddie responds. “No, it’s just like, tomatoes. Nothing crazy. Come here so I can kiss you.”
Laughing, Steve comes and wraps his arms around Eddie. His hands slide down Eddie’s spine and tuck into his back pockets. Steve pulls him in by the ass and then they’re kissing more. He isn’t sure which one of them starts it, but after a moment they’re swaying together, side to side, and breathing through their noses. Still kissing.
Eddie pulls away to cup Steve’s jaw. Steve lets him do it, lets Eddie move his head. Scrape his fingers over Steve’s stubble.
“Fuck, I do not want to leave!” Eddie explodes.
Steve tosses his head back and cackles.
He leaves anyway, of course, because Eddie’s not a petulant child. He’ll go, eat breakfast with Uncle Wayne and then help him plant his old-man garden. And then he’ll come back, and Steve will cook them dinner, and they’ll listen to records. Kiss on the couch. Maybe fuck on the couch.
“You promise?” Eddie presses.
They’re standing in Steve's long driveway, the house behind them silent and sleeping. In the grass, crickets are chirping, coming awake as the sun rises.
Gently, Steve steps forward and presses Eddie into the van. His back is against the driver’s door, the handle digging into his spine.
“Promise,” Steve says.
And, of course, then they have to kiss again.
They make out against the van for a while because Eddie feels like he’ll just… melt and fall apart and
die
if he needs to leave Steve. Even just for half a day. Steve’s hands find Eddie’s hips again, holding him tight, pressing on the bruises already there. It makes Eddie gasp and giggle. He throws his head back, disconnecting their lips, and immediately Steve’s mouth travels to his ear. Latches on.
“Not fair, Harrington,” Eddie says. “Oh, shit, not fair.”
“Get outta here, Munson,” Steve tells him, biting a kiss onto his lips one more time before stepping back.
Eddie pouts at him, even though Steve is right. The sun keeps creeping higher into the sky and Uncle Wayne has always been an early riser. “Kicking me out?”
“Sooner you leave, the sooner you come back,” Steve declares. His hands slip off of Eddie’s waist. “Go on, kid. Scram.”
“I’m older than you by two years,” Eddie reminds him.
“Kid.”
Steve just grins at him, toothy and cheerful, and suddenly he looks younger. His hair is flopping into his eyes, the lines between his brow relaxed. “I know, baby. It’s sexy of you.”
“To be older?”
“Stop
stalling,
Edward Munson.”
“It’s Edwin, actually,” Eddie corrects.
Mouth dropping open, Steve stares at him for a second before he laughs. His head tips back, his throat exposed and long and golden. “Is it really?”
“Really, really,” Eddie confirms.
“Now I'm stalling,” Steve sighs.
Eddie’s mouth quirks without his permission. Automatically, he grabs a strand of his hair and pulls it across his face. Chews the end shyly.
“I know,” he tells Steve, because they
are
stalling, and any longer Eddie is going to get into trouble.
Uncle Wayne’s really been cracking down lately, which Eddie gets, and is sometimes even grateful for.
He’s not grateful for it
today,
shit.
Behind them, the front door bangs open, shattering the morning quiet and the soft moment.
Eddie leans his head back against his van and groans.
“Hey! You leaving?” Robin hollers down to them from Steve’s front door, arms folded across her chest.
“Yeah, Buckley!” Eddie hollers back, and Steve winces. Eddie frowns at him apologetically but Steve just flaps his hands dismissively, taking a couple large steps back.
Grumpily, Eddie finally turns and unlocks the door to the van, sliding in behind the wheel.
When Eddie rolls down the window to say goodbye to Steve for real, Steve is shaking his head and sighing. “She’s gonna give me so much shit.”
“Wheeler, too,” Eddie agrees.
“Fuck, and Jonathan,” Steve groans. “I’ll probably deserve it though.”
“Hey,” Eddie frowns. Because giving friends shit is fine, they all do it all the time, but something about the way Steve just said Jonathan’s name… there was real dread, there. Just for a moment. And Eddie doesn’t know if it’s just Steve, being self-deprecating like he sometimes is, or if there’s really something to be worried about. Eddie doesn’t know Jonathan Byers very well, after all.
“You need me and I’m here, sweetheart,” Eddie says, because it’s the only thing he
can
say. It’s the only thing that’s true enough.
Steve stares at him for a moment and then leans in through the window. “I know, Eds,” Steve tells him. He presses a sweet kiss to Eddie’s mouth and Eddie sighs helplessly.
“Alright,” Eddie says. “Just as long as you know.”
Finally, Steve backs up, raising a hand and watching as Eddie pulls out. As he reverses, Eddie catches a glimpse of Robin leaping off the front porch and dashing over to Steve, arms waving, as Nancy and Jonathan Byers appear in the door behind her.
All of them are grinning, even Steve.
Especially
Steve.
Eddie cackles, tension dissolving into something cheerful and bright, and then flicks his stereo. There’s a tape already in:
Kiss,
and immediately
I Was Made For Lovin’ You
comes blaring through his speakers.
Tossing his head back, Eddie sings along and thinks about Steve.
Uncle Wayne is already awake when Eddie gets back, because of course he is. Eddie loves Uncle Wayne with his whole heart, is immeasurably grateful to the man, but fuck if Uncle Wayne doesn’t
piss him off
sometimes. Shit, but Eddie can never sneak anything past him.
Eddie sits in the dirt driveway and drums his fingers against the wheel. Okay. Fine. Okay, he’s just going to have to go in and brazen it out. There’s nothing else for it.
Besides, Uncle Wayne sat Eddie down when he was sixteen and, in the most awkward display of emotional competency Eddie has
ever
seen, told Eddie:
look, it’s fine. You being the way you are. Alright? You don’t have to keep sneaking that boy through your window.
Eddie hadn’t even been sneaking him in for sex, was the thing. He’d already started selling, and the guy had wanted ket for a party.
But Eddie hadn’t corrected Uncle Wayne, because Uncle Wayne thinking he was a queer was actually better than what he really was, which was a drug dealer. And maybe he was kinda queer. Eddie at sixteen hadn’t exactly been decided yet.
Uncle Wayne found out about the drug dealing three months later anyway, and hadn’t
that
been a hell of a fight.
And now here Eddie is, twenty years old with hickies down his neck and no way to hide them.
“Aw, fuck,” Eddie sighs, and then climbs out of the van.
The door slams behind him and he crashes up the trailer steps, lets himself in the door. Uncle Wayne is sitting on the couch, bowl of cereal in hand and one of his many mugs on the coffee table. He’s watching the news.
They stare at each other for a minute, Uncle Wayne calm and unmoving, Eddie simultaneously frozen in place and vibrating out of his skin.
“Milk’s already out, if you want cereal,” Uncle Wayne says, and just like that he can move again.
Eddie rustles through the cabinets to find his Cheerios. He pours himself a bowl, studiously avoiding eye contact with Uncle Wayne. He thinks maybe he’s about to chew right through his bottom lip.
“Sit down, boy, I’m not gonna bite,” Uncle Wayne tells him.
Eddie sits.
He clambers up next to Uncle Wayne on the couch, pretzeled and twisted so that he can hide his face in his knees if he needs to. He tries to focus on the news, on his cereal, but he keeps glancing at Uncle Wayne out of the corner of his eye.
“Thought you were going to that Harrington kid’s house,” Uncle Wayne says after a while.
A half-hysterical laugh bursts out of Eddie. “I did,” he cackles, and then shoves a spoon full of cereal into his mouth. He sort of chokes on it, but it’s better than letting himself talk.
“Big party?” Uncle Wayne asks.
When Eddie glances over at him, his brow is furrowed, the deep and strong lines of his face plain in the sunlight.
“Uh, no,” Eddie says. “No, there were only five of us. Six including me.”
“Hm,” Uncle Wayne says.
It’s so hot in the trailer, the sun beating in through the windows. It must be hot, because that’s the only reason Eddie’s cheeks are burning. Why his whole body feels like it’s on fire with embarrassment. It’s hot in the trailer, and if Uncle Wayne asks, that’s what he’ll say.
He focuses on his cereal. He shovels it down, milk dripping from the corner of his mouth. Eddie swipes it away with the back of his hand and orders himself, frantically:
do not think about coming on Steve’s face.
“I know you’re grown, kid, so you don’t have to tell me,” Uncle Wayne says, and the sentence is so out of left-field Eddie turns to look at him. Uncle Wayne’s eyes are twinkling, the pale blue suddenly bright, suddenly playful. He looks like he did years ago, when he still swung Eddie around on his shoulders. Still chased him around in the yard.
Uncle Wayne is trying to hide his smile behind his coffee mug but it’s not working.
“Tell you what,” Eddie says warily.
“Who gave you all that?” Uncle Wayne asks, gesturing at Eddie with his mug. His eyes track down Eddie’s neck, linger on his dirty shirt, then come back to his neck. “You look like you lost a fight with an octopus.”
Eddie opens his mouth. Shuts it. Sticks another spoonful of cereal in it, just to buy time.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Uncle Wayne says, his gruff voice gentle. “But… we used to tell each other things. You remember that?”
And Eddie does remember. He remembers being eight, ten, twelve, and running up to Uncle Wayne every Christmas. Babbling his ear off. Biking down to the trailer with a baseball glove and a stack of books, pestering Uncle Wayne on his day off. Forcing Uncle Wayne to let him help with cars, with the A/C unit, with the squeaky door. The two of them talking and talking and talking.
When Eddie moved in permanently at thirteen years old, it seemed like divine intervention. A blessing. The best thing that ever happened to him.
When did he start taking Uncle Wayne for granted?
“Hey now, kid, it’s alright,” Uncle Wayne tells him, and Eddie quickly scrubs a hand across his cheek. It comes away wet, because he’s crying.
Shit, he’s always been such a crybaby.
“Sorry,” Eddie blusters. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Uncle Wayne starts, “It’s alright—”
But Eddie cuts him off. “I’ve just been, like, I’m sorry I’ve been such a piece of shit to you. And don’t say I haven’t been, okay, I know I have been— failing classes and not taking anything seriously and
selling drugs to minors
out of
your home,
and you could’ve gotten in so much trouble for that, but you—”
Eddie stops himself. He takes deep breaths, winding himself down, and scrubs his face again.
“Just. Thanks,” Eddie says. “Thank you for… keeping me. Even though I made it really hard.”
“I love you,” Uncle Wayne tells him. “You’re my kid, Eddie. I don’t tell you that enough, but you are. You’re my boy, alright?”
“Yeah, alright,” Eddie sniffs. “Alright.”
They sit in silence for a while. They eat their cereal.
Eddie chases the last three pieces around his bowl with his spoon, watching them spin through the milk. He scrubs his cheek against his shoulder, wiping off the last of his tears, and glances at Uncle Wayne again.
He clears his throat. Smacks his lips. Reminds himself that he used to tell Uncle Wayne everything, and besides, Uncle Wayne told him it was fine years and years ago. This is no big deal.
“So, you know. Uh.” Eddie hesitates and then turns, fully, so that he’s facing Uncle Wayne. He crosses his legs and sets his cereal bowl down.
Uncle Wayne sets his mug down, turns to look at him. He’s got that patient look on his face, the same one he wore when Eddie was nine and explaining DnD to him.
“Steve Harrington,” Eddie blurts.
Uncle Wayne blinks at him. He frowns. Scrubs a hand across his chin and blinks more.
“Steve Harrington,” Uncle Wayne repeats. “Hm.”
Eddie fidgets. “You know him?”
“‘Course I know him,” Uncle Wayne responds, still frowning. “Know his daddy, too.”
“Oh,” Eddie says, then hesitates.
Uncle Wayne peers at him, his pale eyes piercing Eddie and holding him in place. “He good to you?”
“Of course he is,” he says, because of course Steve is.
Despite himself, Eddie flushes. It’s embarrassing, how quickly his response came. His cheeks burn red and he knows it, but he can’t keep it from happening. All he can do is think of Steve.
Steve and his gentle, strong hands. His broad shoulders, his furrowed brow. The firm set to his mouth that’s always there, even though he’s quick to smile. The kindness that pours out of Steve, like he’s so full of it it just spills out of him. The way he stands in front of Eddie, in front of the kids and Robin and Nancy, every time danger comes knocking. Comes howling at them with teeth.
He thinks of Steve, blood down his chin, gaping wounds in his side. Steve wearing his vest. Steve holding him by the waist in the pool.
Steve, vulnerable in the dark, blushing when Eddie calls him
honey,
calls him
sweetheart.
The incredulous, honest way he’d looked at Eddie, surrounded by friends in his living room, and said
don’t you know?
“He’s really good to me, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie promises. He ducks his head and grins. “He thinks I’m sweet. How fuckin’ weird is that?”
“You are sweet,” Uncle Wayne tells him, his eyes soft. “I’m glad that boy knows it.”
“He’s so… like, it’s crazy, because he’s
Steve,
but he’s so…” But Eddie can’t figure out what he wants to say. Something about Steve being a jock, maybe. Something about how Steve acted three years ago, but then, Eddie didn’t know Steve three years ago. None of it is really important anymore, is it?
All Eddie knows is Steve now: Steve in the deep blue night, Steve under the red lights of hell. Steve wrapped around him in bed, kissing him with tongue. Holding him tight.
“Let me just say this, then I’ll drop it,” Uncle Wayne says. His face is serious, lined and stern. He could be carved from stone.
Eddie gulps nervously and prepares to, like, defend Steve’s honor.
“You listen to me, Edwin, alright?” Uncle Wayne says. “You’re my boy. And if
your
boy ever needs a place to stay, he’s welcome here.”
When Uncle Wayne pauses, Eddie stares at him incredulously. His heart is pounding, racing.
“I don’t know Steve, but I know his daddy. And if you say Steve’s your sweetheart, then he is, and if that makes any trouble for
either one
of you, then you both come here. You come
home.
Got me?”
Eddie feels his eyes well up again.
“Yeah, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie says. “I got you.”
And then everything boils over until Eddie is sobbing on the couch, hands over his eyes and Uncle Wayne’s arm around his shoulders, just like when he was young.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” he blubbers. “I’m, like, really happy. I’m relieved!”
“Hush now,” Uncle Wayne tells him, and pulls Eddie in tighter.
And then that’s it: there’s no interrogation, no yelling. Uncle Wayne lets Eddie cry it out, then makes him a cup of coffee. He doesn’t say anything more about the way Eddie’s been used as a chew toy. Doesn’t do anything other than talk about where they’re putting the garden, and how he got one of those raised beds to keep the plants in.
It’s a tiny, tiny drop of truth in an ocean of lies. In the huge fucking wave of lies that threatens to drown Eddie every day: lies about his grades, about the bullying, about the drug deals, about the monsters and Chrissy and the hell dimension he’d walked through.
But: he told Uncle Wayne about Steve, and it went alright. Maybe, some day, he can tell Uncle Wayne about the other stuff, too. Maybe it can be like it was when Eddie was a kid and all he ever needed was attention from his Uncle Wayne.
Once Eddie is a little steadier, Uncle Wayne takes him outside and hands Eddie a bag of dirt. Eddie wheezes and complains but carries it over anyway, Uncle Wayne right behind him.
It’s June. It’s warm. Eddie’s got bruises down his neck and chest and thighs. He’s going to see Steve Harrington later, and they’re going to eat dinner and kiss and kiss and
kiss.
He’s got dirt on his hands. Tomato seeds in the pocket of his black jeans.
He helps Uncle Wayne plant a garden.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
But separate's always better when there's feelings involved
If what they say is "Nothing is forever"
Then what makes, then what makes, then what makes
Then what makes, what makes, what makes love the exception
“Hey Ya” by OutKast
**
The boy that punched Rey in the face still hasn’t returned to school by the time Rey’s thirteenth birthday rolls around. Ben had given him a broken jaw, broken ribs, and multiple contusions and fractures. He’d mostly left the other two boys alone, the main injury between the two of them a twisted ankle that had been self-inflicted by tripping.
Ben had turned himself into the cops the morning after the incident, been arrested at the police station, then immediately bailed out by Leia, and is currently awaiting his court date. He and Luke are also not on speaking terms, which has made attending her after school art classes incredibly awkward for Rey.
But Ben isn’t currently sitting in jail, and he won’t be going to prison. And Rey is intensely, intensely relieved.
She is torn over whether she should be guilty for feeling this way.
**
It’s technically her first birthday party.
Maz drives her to the studio the Saturday after her actual birthday, and when she walks inside, Paige and Rose have stretched a massive “Happy 13th Birthday Rey” banner across the entryway. The sight of it, hand made and covered in glitters and flowers, makes her chest feel warm. She grins at the two sisters as they rush over to greet her.
Rose flings her arms around her and squeezes tightly before letting her go. “Are you excited?” she asks, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. She grabs Rey’s hand and tugs her forward before Rey can answer. “Wait until you see your cake!”
“Rose!” Paige snaps, stepping into their path. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” Paige’s hair is slightly out of place and there are bags underneath her eyes. She graduates in just over a month and has been stressing over finals for
months
.
“Oh.” Rose looks sheepish for a moment. “Right, sorry. I got so excited I forgot.” The two sisters start chatting, and Rey takes advantage of them being distracted to look around the newly decorated art studio. There are streamers everywhere and about a billion balloons in every color possible. There’s a small pile of gifts on a picnic table that Luke probably had in storage. Her friends had put so much effort into making this happen, and she hadn’t even asked them to.
In fact, when the idea had been mentioned by Rose a few weeks ago, she’d vehemently protested. She doesn’t
need
a birthday party, birthdays really aren’t that big a deal. But Rose had simply smiled and nodded like she totally agreed. The next thing Rey knew, she was getting a birthday party.
“You only turn thirteen once,” Rose had admonished while helping Rey pick out invitations. Rey hadn’t been able to argue, since Rose and Finn had both had birthday parties too. She’d conceded and picked the invitations featuring puppies and kittens.
Rose takes her hand, jolting Rey back to present, and brushes aside a few streamers. “Ta da!”
“You…you guys got me a piñata?”
**
Rey pretends to use the bathroom, but instead goes to the kitchen-office. That’s where she knows she’ll find Ben, and sure enough he’s sitting at the table, reading a graphic novel and sipping coffee.
“You’re missing my birthday party, jerk,” she says bluntly, leaning against the door frame.
Ben looks up and smiles when he sees her. “Hey, kid.” He sets the graphic novel aside and finishes the rest of his coffee in one gulp before standing. He doesn’t move beyond the table, however. “Luke told me to stay in here. He thought I might, uh, scare your friends.”
Luke is absolutely correct in this, and both Paige and Rose have mentioned that they’d rather not be around Ben. But this is Rey’s birthday party, and she figures she gets the final say.
“They’re not scared of you,” she lies, and he gives her a look that says he doesn’t buy it. “Besides, it’s my party. There’s a piñata!” She holds her hand out to him and cocks her head to the side. “Please?”
He sighs and walks over to her, taking her hand.
Nothing dramatic happens when they walk back out into the entryway. Poe has shown up with Mattis, much to Rey’s delight, and right behind them is Finn, who is handing Now That’s What I Call Music CD’s to Luke for him to put on. When Finn sees her, he bounds right up to her without really noticing who is standing beside her.
Ben quickly releases her hand and steps to the side. He’s so tall that streamers brush his hair.
Finn flings his arms around Rey and hugs her close, babbling about how he’s so happy to be here and how he can’t wait for her to open the gift he got her and—
When Finn notices Ben his eyes go comically wide. Rey realizes that the two of them have never met before. Nevertheless, Finn seems to know exactly who Ben is just by looking at him.
“Um.” Finn holds his hands up pleadingly. “It was just a hug, I promise!”
Ben’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks very alarmed, and then very awkward. He grumbles something underneath his breath before slinking out of the entryway and back toward the kitchen-office.
Rey smacks Finn in the arm. “Dummy! You made him uncomfortable!”
“I made
him
uncomfortable?! He’s the scariest guy I’ve ever seen!”
Finn is exaggerating, of course, but… Rey can’t really blame him for feeling this way.
She sighs and rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Hours go by. She opens her gifts and tries not to get teary when everyone sings happy birthday to her. Paige and Rose present her the cake with a flourish. It’s shaped and decorated like a paintbrush, and Rey realizes that that’s why neither of them had come to bed until very late the night before.
She destroys the piñata, and watches in confusion when it finally breaks open and nothing falls out. Then she laughs and laughs and laughs at Luke when he sheepishly admits he forgot to put the candy inside.
Finn grabs her and pulls her into the middle of the crowded room as loud, loud music fills the entryway, and Rey can hear Luke swearing as he hurries to lower the volume. But someone, maybe Poe, shouts at him to leave it because this song is catchy as hell. And it is.
She dances with Finn and Rose, laughing and feeling blissful in a way she’s never really known before. Is this what it’s like to have a family who love you enough to celebrate you?
She giggles at her two friends, who know every word to this song, and pauses for a moment to catch her breath as they keep dancing.
And there, past all the streamers and under the banner, is Ben, standing by the entrance to the hallway with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He watches the scene with something sad in his gaze, as if he’s an outsider looking at a place where he doesn’t belong but wishes he did.
Some of the bliss she’d felt just moments ago leak out of Rey and she swallows, unwittingly taking a step in his direction. He looks at her then, brown eyes catching hers. And he shakes his head, ever so slightly. Rey sucks in a breath and frowns; she’d like nothing more then to march right up to him and drag him out into this entryway with the rest of the partygoers. Because maybe he doesn’t belong here in this place with these people, but he does belong beside her—
Finn tugs on her shirt sleeve, grabbing her attention briefly. When she turns back to look at Ben, he’s already gone.
**
The party ends when the sun sets, and Rey dutifully watches one by one as everyone leaves. She thanks and hugs everyone who came, the warm feeling in her chest spreading all throughout her body.
Rose and Paige stay to help Luke clean up, and while they’re distracted Rey cuts off a hunk of cake and hurries out of the entryway and into the hallway.
Ben is reading the same graphic novel and is sipping his umpteenth cup of coffee.
“I brought you cake,” she says as a way of greeting, sitting the plate down by his coffee cup before drawing up a chair across from him.
There’s a brief moment of silence.
“I wish you had actually been there,” she says very quietly.
“I know you do, kid.” Ben’s voice is equally as quiet. “But, it was for the best.”
I wave of indignation rolls over her Rey, and she’s about to hotly deny this, that Ben isolating himself isn’t good, when he reaches down and grabs something from under the table. It’s something wrapped in a plastic bag (the best gift wrapping Ben can provide).
“Ben, you didn’t have—”
His eye roll shuts her up, and with a smile on her face she grabs the parcel and unwraps it hurriedly.
She shrieks when she sees what’s inside, and Ben grins stupidly.
“An iPod?! Holy shit, Ben, do you know how expensive these things are?”
He blinks, amused. “Yeah. I do.”
She rushes around the table and flings her arms around his neck, which is slightly uncomfortable given the fact that he’s still sitting. There’s a soft, pleased look on his face when she pulls away. “I put iTunes on Luke’s computer and uploaded all my CD’s,” he says. “I’ve already put all of them on there for you too.”
Scrambling, Rey opens the box as quickly as her fingers can move, marveling at the gadget’s sleek look. “This is awesome, Ben.”
He opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it quickly, as if thinking better. “You’re welcome, kid. We can go to the record store sometime in the next couple of weeks and you can pick out some new stuff. Can’t have you slacking on your music while I’m gone.”
Rey stills, some of the excitement ebbing away.
“How long?”
Ben shrugs. “Won’t know until after the hearing. The lawyer says that because my record is clean I’ll probably only get charged for a misdemeanor. So, just a shitty fine and some months in jail.” He says it so casually, as if the fact that he faces jail time doesn’t bother him at all. As if the fact that he beat the pulp out of thirteen-year-old boy doesn’t bother him at all.
Rey purses her lips and stares down at her gift, thinking. She wants to argue with him, admonish him, but… She just can’t bring herself to wreck this moment by thinking about him leaving. Not yet. Because he’s still here. For now.
So instead of saying anything, Rey simply hugs him again. He lets out a breath of surprise as she holds him close. And, before she can lose her courage, she kisses his cheek.
The tips of Ben’s ears turn red, but otherwise he says nothing. In fact, after a moment he rubs his cheek at the spot she kissed. “Are you…what is this?”
“Rose gave me lip gloss earlier.” Rey busies herself pulling the earbuds out of the box and plugging them into her new iPod, trying not to let on to the explosions currently happening in her stomach.
She’d felt stubble on his cheek. And he’d smelled good.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It had been only 30 minutes, but to Peter it seemed like time itself had stopped just to spite him. Tonight was Thursday, one of two Tower Nights during the week. Tower Nights were, as the name suggested, evenings where he’d be picked up by Happy after school and taken to Stark Tower to work on various tech, including his own suit. He’d stay over and be dropped off to Midtown in the morning. One of his fellow interns had texted him about her current project and maybe she’d let him have a look at the -
“Mr Parker!” startled Peter into awareness. “Thank you for your kind attention,” smiled Mr Cobbwell. Peter smiled back sheepishly. “Class, I have just received a notice,” the teacher announced, waving the bunch of A4 sheets in his hand. “Our field trip has been scheduled for next week, and I have permission slips for all of you here. Now, there are rules and regulations, as always, regarding conduct of students as representatives of the school; in addition to those, there are venue specific rules this time. Everything is outlined in these forms. They will have to be signed by a parent or guardian and returned to me by Monday.”
“Where are we going, sir?” asked Sally.
Mr Cobbwell looked at the bored students and puffed himself up to make the announcement. Peter shivered slightly. “It seems we have been granted permission to go to Stark Tower!”
The class didn’t seem to share his excitement, although many of them sat up straighter and started whispering among themselves. Peter, on the other hand, sank lower in his seat. Ned looked at him in shock and Peter helplessly shook his head.
“Isn’t that really unsafe, sir?” ventured Luke. “That whole area’s, like, a major target for all sorts of–”
“Shut up, Mendes,” scoffed Flash. “Since the Avengers went upstate it’s been fine! What are these rules, Mr Cobbwell?”
“Well, there’s mainly health and safety regulations, so you can’t leave the tour group at any point, if you have a disability please mention it in the form, security badges are to be worn at all times – you need to submit a passport size photograph for your ID – phones are not allowed in certain areas, no hacking or stealing because that sets off alarms, and you can only update your social media once you’re done with the tour, just in case,” the teacher read out, to the groans of the class and the ring of the bell. “It's all written here, guys! Take a form on your way out, and remember – Monday latest!”
“Hey Parker, guess we’re going to your workplace!” called Flash, taking a form. “Can you ask your boyfriend Spiderman to come by this time?”
“Oh, he’ll be there,” muttered Peter. What was his life?!
*
Over dinner the next night, May brought up the field trip. “When I saw the email from your school, I couldn’t control myself,” she laughed. “What is your life, even?”
“That’s what I thought too!” Peter grinned. “I mean, I was really quite worried at first because, you know, but then I realised, no one at the tower knows except Happy and Mr Stark! And not like they’re gonna drop by! By the way, this is delicious, May–”
“I know, isn’t it? I got the recipe from Geeta, it’s not quite like she makes it but it’s good, right?”
“Totally, it should go in the book,” Peter assured her. “What is it, a korma?”
“You know, I forgot to ask her…”
*
The next Thursday morning saw Peter rushing to make it to the school bus on time. He’d had to double back because he forgot his ID, and then there was a dog walker with three (!!!) dogs and so of course he had to say hi to them all, and before he knew it he was running late.
“Harrington told me about your reputation, Peter,” grinned Mr Cobbwell, who seemed in high spirits. “You’re the last one here!”
“Sorry, sir, there was traffic!” replied Peter, rushing into the bus and finding the seat Ned had saved for him.
“You walk to school,” scoffed MJ from the seat across him.
Peter just grinned back.
“Psst,” said a voice behind him. Thinking it was Ned, Peter turned back, but saw Ned had turned back too, and Flash was smirking at them. “Hey Penis, I’m surprised you showed up! Thought you’d be conducting the tour for us – you know, since you’re an intern and all that.”
“Peter’s a STEM intern, man,” Ned snapped. “Stark Tower has proper guides to conduct tours.”
“Hey, Peter,” Cindy called out. “Do you know all the staff there?”
“No, not really,” Peter replied. “I tend to go there in the evenings, so I don’t really know the daytime staff. Plus I stick to my labs, you know?”
“A likely story,” scoffed Flash, but was mainly ignored.
Some days Peter burned to ask Flash about his dad’s car. He only wished he’d had the suit then, if only for recording purposes. It might’ve helped with the building, but you know. Mainly the video of Flash nearly pissing himself.
*
As they reached the tower, even the most nervous among the class were hyped up.
“Alright, class, we cannot halt for more than two minutes, disembark quickly and do not leave any belongings behind!”
Once they went through the first security checkpoint and were inside the large lobby of Stark Tower, the students were welcomed by a young man named Jack. He pointed out the toilets and gave them ten minutes to take pictures around the lobby, while he took Mr Cobbwell to sort out the badges. Most students gravitated towards the
Iron Man suit display
to take pictures. Since they were early, they were one of the first tour groups of the day, and there was barely a line.
Peter idly looked around, waiting for Ned to return from the bathroom. MJ was staring at him again.
“What?” he fidgeted self-consciously. Of all his acquaintances, MJ was the one he figured would deduce that he was Spiderman.
“I’m not staring at you. I’m wondering if I should protest against capitalism and market domination by one single corporation.”
“What are you leaning towards?” Peter asked, curious.
“Pepper Potts is the best thing to happen to this company, and maybe I should celebrate the shattering of the glass ceiling.”
“Yeah, she’s amazing!” Peter said enthusiastically. “She’s honestly superhuman, she handles SI globally AND has time to talk to people AND manage press AND Mr Stark–” he could have gone on, but Jack was calling the students back.
“Alright, I hope all of you have gone through the rules for the tour, those were NOT guidelines, and they have to be followed at all time. Mr Watson,” he nodded to Alex, “the Tower is fully accessible by wheelchair, please be with me in the front so you can see without your classmates blocking your view. If you require any assistance please let me know.” He handed Alex a badge and asked the class to come forward when their names were called out.
“Now, these are souvenirs, of course. You don’t need to return them, but be warned that once you leave the Tower they will be disabled, so please don’t wander off. If the card is used to access the Tower later, there will be consequences for you, so don’t go selling them on eBay!” he joked. “Abernathy, Camille!”
Once he reached P, Jack looked at Peter. “Where is Peter Parker?”
Peter raised his hand and came forward.
“It says in the system that you’re an employee, do you have your ID?”
Peter’s cheeks burned. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“Well you know the rules, man. Put that on!” Jack’s easy smile turned into wide eyes and an impressed look as he saw the red and gold colour of Peter’s badge. He whistled. “Dude, nice!”
Peter muttered his thanks and avoided everyone’s eyes. When the badges were done being distributed, Jack gestured them all to form a straight line to go through the second security checkpoint. “Okay, so as you can see, the staff entrance is towards the left hand of the reception, and visitor entrance is to the right. There is also a separate vendor and service entrance, and of course, two private entrances for residents of the Tower and VIP guests. Mr Stark also tends to use the penthouse balcony, or any window large enough to fit the Iron Man suit,” he laughed.
“Hey Jack, so Peter says he’s an intern here, but you don’t seem to know him?” Flash called out with a faux-curious smile.
“There’s, like, eight thousand people working here, man,” Jack answered. “And I just handle the tours, I meet other staff mostly during lunch or something. But an intern under 18? Never seen that. Our security system knows him though,” he shrugged.
“Does Peter need to go through the other security?” Mr Cobbwell wondered. “I don’t want anyone to leave the group.”
“Oh no, he can go either way,” Jack assured him.
Cindy raised her hand. “Why were you so impressed with Peter’s badge?”
“Yeah, I’ll get right to that in my introduction, let’s just get through security,” Jack smiled, looking a bit impatient. He demonstrated how the scanners worked, and waited on the other side. Security was stronger here, and burly men and women confiscated drones, spyware, EMPs, hidden cameras, and liquids that students had brought along.
When Peter walked through with his bag, a blue alert flashed on the panel. The security personnel curiously asked to see his badge, and waved him through without a fuss, sharing a look with Jack, who shrugged, equally confused. Despite being used to this, Peter breathed easy. Web fluid would have been hard to explain.
Once they were all through security, Jack gestured towards a table with water and juice bottles and told them to help themselves.
“Let’s begin our tour with some basic information about Stark Tower,” Jack began, holding his own water bottle in hand. “The Tower is the brainchild of our CEO, Pepper Potts, and is chiefly designed by her and our owner, Tony Stark. Opened in 2012, Stark Tower runs completely on arc reactor energy and is not attached to the city’s power grid. It was briefly sold earlier this year, but the deal was cancelled and Stark Tower is now host to the New York arm of Stark Industries. Miss Potts and Mr Stark have moved to the city full time, but for security reasons do not always stay here. The Avengers HQ has been relocated upstate.”
Peter had never been on one of these tours, and was surprised to learn these things. Miss Potts designed the tower? How was she a real person?!
“After the Chitauri attack in 2012 and then the reveal of HYDRA, security has been the primary concern for Mr Stark. The Tower is now reinforced with multiple layers of material that I cannot disclose, which makes it near indestructible aerially or internally. The airspace within 3 miles is monitored to identify potential airborne threats, and security has been beefed up internally to guard all staff and visitors. No one is allowed entry without a background check, and that includes you guys.
“Now I think the girl there asked about ID’s?” Jack nodded to Cindy. “So as you can see, you all have white badges. That means visitor. Tours for the general public were closed two years ago, so now it’s only educational tours, by the way. I, myself, have a purple badge, which means general staff. White badge holders have to be escorted by purple badges or higher, so if I bring my boyfriend to visit, he can’t wander off at any point.
“There’s a lot of different colours for specialised staff, like green for biotech staff, or cardinal red (“dark red,” he explained at their blank looks) and grey for engineering – can anyone guess why?”
“Colours of MIT!” Abraham called out.
“Correct!” Jack exclaimed, delighted. “Not many people guess that. I always hear Harvard,” he rolled his eyes. “So yeah, lots of security levels. Security has black badges, and what else – oh yeah, service staff has yellow. Anyway, so Mr Parker here–” he pointed at a dismayed Peter, “–has one of the elusive badges, he’s only the second one I’ve seen, honestly. Red is for close personal staff to either Mr Stark or Miss Potts, such as managers, PR agents, lawyers, primary assistants, etc. And gold is for all access! This guy here can go anywhere within the Tower!”
The class all looked at Peter in awe, including Ned,
who already knew this
. Peter noticed Flash was suspiciously quiet and was avoiding his eye.
“Why do you have that clearance, Peter?” asked Alex.
“Um…I can’t say?” Peter winced.
“Oh yeah man, I don’t think I have clearance to even ask, so I didn’t!” Jack (bless him) deflected the class’ attention.
“What colours do the Avengers have?” asked Betty.
“Yeah, we get this question a lot, but no one seems to know the answer to this,” Jack shrugged. “They take the private entrance, so their security is handled by the building’s AI, FRIDAY.”
This news excited everyone, and Jack had to clap his hands to get silence again.
“Yes, there’s an AI, yes, she has eyes and ears everywhere. Everyone say hi to FRIDAY!”
The class looked around, mostly at the ceiling, calling out greetings.
“Hello, Midtown School of Science and Technology!” chirped FRIDAY. “Hope you enjoy the tour. We’re excited to have you.”
After the excitement had died down a bit, Jack resumed walking.
“Who’s the other person?” Sally asked. “With the red and gold ID,” she clarified at Jack’s confused look.
“Oh, right! That’s Miss Pott’s personal assistant, Jameela. She’s being trained to take over a high position, I’m sure, but she basically tails Miss Potts and can cover for her in case of emergencies. She’s got her own underlings as well, and she’s badass, a goddess among men…but yeah sorry, back to the tour!”
Peter made sure to stick close to Mr Cobbwell, who deflected nosy classmates with a look.
Jack continued leading them through the museum on the first level, which was the history of SI and the company’s goals and side ventures. Peter tried to focus, but this stuff was really boring. The business minded students, however, were taking notes and asking insightful questions about growth and sustainability. He made his way towards the back and checked his text messages.
“So Parker,” Flash came up to Peter, trying to look nonchalant. “How’d
you
score this gig?”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked.
“Like, are you his secret lovechild or something? We all know Stark slept around, I won’t blame your mom – hey, I’m talking to you,” Flash hissed, as Peter walked away, furious.
*
After thirty minutes of the first floor and another thirty of the second (which housed the Avengers display), they took the elevator to one of the more exciting floors, Jack talking the whole way. Peter did not envy the guy, he couldn’t imagine talking so much.
“So floors three through forty are offices, and yes they’re mega boring but they’re necessary and valued! Floor forty one through sixty are labs, and that’s where we’re going!” Jack announced to the cheers of the class. “Yes, so we’re headed to fifty, which is robotics, here we are, please follow me, and remember to scan your badges!”
He led them through a hallway to a closed lab with ‘R3’ on the door, and pressed a button. Peter was thrilled; he spent quite a bit of time in R3, and was excited to show off a bit for Ned and MJ.
“My colleague Liam will take over from me now, I’ll see you guys in a bit. Enjoy!” Jack waved and handed them off to a handsome olive-skinned man in his 30’s. Peter could see some of the girls (and Jonah) straighten up and fix their hair.
“Hello, Midtown,” Liam welcomed them. The lab had been changed a bit, in order to accommodate the class. There were comfy seats arranged around a holo table, and at the entrance there was a large table to keep cellphones and bottles. “Please scan your badges, hand over your phones and bottles to the kind bot, and find a seat. Please don’t touch anything!” Peter was the last to enter, and Liam hugged him warmly.
“Are you staying back after the tour?” he asked. “We’ve got some fun planned, Boss might come by too.”
“Mr Stark’s back?” Peter asked, thrilled. Tony had been negotiating with the UN for what felt like ages, and had managed to get pardons for most of the rogue Avengers. This time, he had been advocating for Captain Rogers and Bucky Barnes to be allowed to return and a pardon to be granted to both. Peter knew how much these talks drained Mr Stark, who usually hid somewhere for a few days after each one.
“Yeah,” Liam replied, a bit quieter. “The news isn’t out yet, but according to Jameela, he did it!”
“WHAT?! OH MY GOD!” Peter burst out, all but jumping on Liam, who was just as excited and hugged him back, laughing. “Ohhhmygod can you believe–”
Mr Cobbwell cleared his throat. Peter looked around to see that the class was staring. He blushed and rushed to take a seat, while Liam went to the other side.
With a swipe of his hand, Liam activated the holo table. The class ooh’ed. For fifteen minutes, Liam enthralled Peter’s class with schematics, designs and photographs of the simpler innovations at SI. This time, the entire cohort was engaged, asking Liam about other work in robotics, his own projects, how one could be part of the company, and where there was most need in the field.
After half an hour’s discussion on robotics, someone finally asked about Peter and his contributions.
“Ah, I figured someone would ask, but I’m afraid most of what Peter does in the building is confidential and above my clearance level,” Liam admitted, pointing at his card with cardinal red, grey and blue stripes. “He’s usually at the lab on 81, and we see him maybe once every two weeks. I can tell you what he does here, if he’s cool with it?”
Once again, Peter had the attention of the whole class as they turned in unison to look at him. He nodded at Liam, too embarrassed to say anything. The class turned back towards Liam as he showed them some of Peter’s recreational work, such as TOAST-E (the communal toaster that now remembered everyone’s preferred toast choice), Rico (the bot that fed you when you were in the zone and couldn’t be bothered) and Squeeze (the cuddly bot that was basically a dog but didn’t need to be taken care of). The class clapped and some even patted Peter on the back after they saw a video demonstration.
“Okay, 15 minutes to have a look around, and off to the cafeteria,” Mr Cobbwell announced. Peter rushed Ned to his usual work area, where Squeeze was in sleep mode and charging. At Peter’s tap, the bot activated. They spent a few minutes playing with him before the rest of the class noticed and rushed forward to play.
“I think we can program him to recognise people without a need for a badge,” Ned suggested, watching the bot.
“Yeah, I can’t figure out how to do that and there’s unwritten rules about messing with others’ work here so no one else has done it either,” Peter admitted.
Logging into his account, Peter handed over the code file to Ned, and walked over to Liam.
“So what’s gonna happen? Are they coming here? Ohmygod,
are they coming here
? Will they
BE HERE
?”
“Calm down, Peter,” Liam grinned, but he was excited too. “I have no idea, Jameela didn’t give me much more than that.”
“But you’re her boyfriend, get some more info!”
“Hey, you know Boss personally,” Liam accused, “Why don’t you ask him?”
“I can’t just
ask
–”
“Uh huh, and I can’t just
ask
either!”
A bell dinged somewhere in the lab and Liam paused to consider what it could be for. Peter could hear Luke muttering, “This is it, we’re gonna die, it was an alarm,” and tuned him out.
“Right!” Liam remembered. “Time for you lot to go to one of the cafeterias for some brunch! Now remember, food’s free so go wild. Try the croissants, they’re my favourite!”
Peter’s class was cheerfully ushered out, back towards the elevators, where Jack met them again. They were led to 45, which housed the nearest cafeteria, spanning half the floor. The class was given forty minutes to grab some food and use the toilets.
Peter took this time to talk to Mr Cobbwell, who was in line for crepes. “Mr Cobbwell, is it okay if I stay back here after the tour, or are we doing anything back at school?” At his teacher’s hesitant look, he hurried to say, “Only, I come here after school on Thursdays anyway and it’s quite a waste of time. I can call my Aunt if you need her permission!”
“I don’t mind, Peter,” My Cobbwell said with a sad smile. “But it’s not up to me. There’s your safety to consider, and I don’t know any of these people. You’re a minor, and I can’t leave you here.”
“But I come here every week!” Peter protested. “You know my internship is real!”
“Like I said, Peter, I don’t mind it. But I am responsible for your safety while you’re here. How can I verify anyone’s identity here?”
“Yeah, um,” Peter was forced to agree, “Yeah, you’re right, thanks anyway, sir.” He walked back to Ned, who looked at him hopefully. Peter shook his head.
“Young Peter!” came a call from - well, everywhere all at once. Which could only mean one person.
“Mr Thor!” exclaimed Peter, surprised. “I didn’t know you were here!
Oof
!” he muttered as Thor enthusiastically patted him on his shoulder.
“Well I wasn’t, but a wizard made a portal and now here I am!” said Thor jovially, as if that explained anything. “I asked FRIDAY if anyone was here but everyone seems to have gone missing, but then she said you’re here, so…”
“Right! Great!” Peter nodded.
There was silence as both Peter and Thor tried to think of something to say. Peter could hear camera phone shutters and a couple of mumbled “awkward!” comments. The SI staff that was around was staring too, since the 45th floor never saw any Avengers action, being at least 5 cafeterias away from the former Avengers residence floors.
Thor looked around, and beamed at the children. “Are these your friends?”
“Oh, yeah sorry, I’m on a field trip with my class! It’s like sightseeing,” Peter explained, as Thor nodded sagely. “This is my friend Ned, and this is MJ.”
“Hello, Ned and MJ!” Thor waved.
“Whoa,” was all Ned could say, and even MJ seemed a bit starstruck.
“Mr Stark has arrived,” came FRIDAY’s voice from the nearest speaker. The news had a sudden effect on the staff, who rushed to finish their food and get back to work.
“Well then young Peter, I shall take your leave,” Thor smiled. He went up to a food counter where a lady silently handed him a massive tray of food. He held it singlehandedly and waved at the occupants of the floor with a grin.
“Bye!” “See you, Thor!” “Bye Mr Thor” chimed everyone enthusiastically. As soon as the elevator doors shut, there was a burst of noise as everyone shrieked and fawned over The Hottest Avenger.
“Ohhhhhmygod ohmygod
ohmygodddd
,” chanted Ned, pulling Peter’s arm so hard it hurt. “THE Thor knows my name! He said my name and said hello Ned and I have to call my mom she will DIE! I love you so much Peter you’re the best!”
Laughing, Peter decided to text May an update too.
11:40
THOR WAS HERE he said hi to me and everyone is so hyped!
I think he broke Ned
Mr Stark is here btw, I think he did it
11:41
Nice! I might drop in if he’s still around ;)
Did what?
Ohh wait, did he really do it?
OMG
11:42
Yes! I was gonna ask you to call school and tell them to let me stay here after but Mr C says no :(
11:42
How come?
11:43
Says can’t verify these people and so it’s not safe etc.
11:44
He’s right
I’ll try something hang on
11:45
What?
May
May what?
May!!
*
After brunch, they were herded to another lab, this time on 42. They had a look at the more commercial technology, like StarkPhones and tablets, and were allowed to fiddle with older prototypes.
A lady named Alison gave them worksheets to crack, and then handed over information packets on Stark Internships.
“Most people think there’s only STEM internships here, but really, there’s all kinds,” explained Alison. “Marketing, business, PR, management of different kinds, and so on.”
“Hey, Miss Alison,” piped up Flash. The class groaned. Peter could only sigh in anticipation.
“Yes?” Alison asked, bemused at the response of the class.
“How would a 15 year old get an internship opportunity?” Flash asked, with a slightly maniacal look in his eye.
“Well, internships are for college students only,” mused Alison, “So maybe a prodigy who was studying at university might get one? But that’s quite rare, honestly. Those tend to prefer academia over practical applications.”
“So how did Peter – raise your hand, Parker – get his internship?”
Peter could seriously kill Flash, because now the rest of the class had started to look interested as well. No one doubted his claim, but they all wanted more information. And by the look of it, Alison was just as clueless.
“I- I don’t-” she stammered. She looked at Peter’s badge and was even more flustered. “Young man,” she started, and Peter could see his life flashing before his eyes.
“Access restricted,” came FRIDAY’s voice over the speakers. “You are not authorised to question Mr Parker.”
“Sorry, FRIDAY!” called out Alison, laughing nervously, looking sideways at Peter. “I can’t help you, young man,” she said to Flash. “This is above my level.”
Peter could feel the burning curiosity of his entire class. At this point, even Mr Cobbwell had forgotten himself and was staring at Peter.
*
As the tour was winding up, it was nearing half past two. Jack handed them all personalised bags with SI goodies, which included t-shirts, an arc reactor shaped lamp, StarkPhone covers, and a really cool travel mug that showed War Machine if the liquid inside was cold, and Iron Man if the contents were hot.
“You may use the washrooms before you leave, I know it’s a while to get back to your school. Please don’t leave any belongings behind! I hope you’ve all had a good time on today’s tour,” said Jack with a big smile. “Enjoy the rest of your day!”
Peter’s class clapped for Jack, as Mr Cobbwell gave him his thanks.
As they were about to head outside the tower to wait for their bus, one of the elevators opened and out came Mr Stark, talking rapid fire to two staff members who were running to keep up with him. As the class looked at Tony Stark in all his glory (“I thought he’d be taller,” Betty whispered to Justin), Mr Stark walked right up to the group.
“Peter! We’re having a party, where are you going?” Tony asked him. He held his hand up in a gesture to his minions, who immediately backed up to give Mr Stark space.
“Um, hi Mr Stark,” Peter replied nervously.
“Yes, hi, how was your tour, etc. Party, where are we at?” said Tony, looking at Peter’s classmates and nodding at Ned. “You too, Ned, coming?” Ned squealed and looked beseechingly at Peter.
“Well I’ll – we’ll – have to go to school and come back, for safety reasons–”
“You’re safe with me, I’m Iron Man,” replied Tony dismissively. “You, teacher,” he addressed Mr Cobbwell. “You’re cool with it, right?”
“Uh, yes, yes Dr Stark,” stammered Mr Cobbwell, starstruck. “It was more that I didn’t know anyone, but
you
, I mean,
you
…” he drifted off.
“I like you, teacher,” Mr Stark smiled widely. “Not many people remember my doctorates. Come here, where’s your phone?” He took Mr Cobbwell’s phone and took a selfie with the teacher, who looked about ready to faint. “Class photo?” Mr Stark suggested, snapping his fingers at his minions, one of whom ran ahead with her phone while the other hurriedly arranged Peter’s class so that they’d all be visible in the photo.
Once multiple photos had been taken (“Now make a silly face,” Mr Stark (TONY STARK) had called out, to the students’ delight), Mr Stark gave the class a big wave and took Peter’s elbow, ushering him towards an unmarked elevator. Peter grabbed Ned’s hand and pulled him along, both calling out thanks and a farewell to their teacher. The minions got off on floor thirty, which said LEGAL when Peter peeked out.
“Hey, Mr Stark, this is so nice of you, like you didn’t have to come all the way, we could have come back, it’s not a bother, and how did you even know we were here, did FRIDAY tell you?” Peter rambled. “You look so tired wow, you just came back, right? Are you jetlagged? You should nap, we’ll be fine, I’ll take Ned to the game room–”
“Kid,” Tony interrupted, suddenly looking exhausted as he shooed them out of the elevator on floor 85. “I was
about
to nap, your Aunt called me and made me come get you. It’s fine,” he waved off Peter’s guilty apology, “I’m happy to do it. But you’re right, I need a nap before the party. Go play.”
As the doors closed, Peter and Ned shared an incredulous look.
“Your life, dude,” gushed Ned.
“My life, dude,” Peter agreed.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
In the bustling city of Midgar, Cloud Strife seeks solace after the loss of his mother to geostigma. He hopes for a fresh start but finds himself haunted by memories of his past. In the slums, he meets Aerith Gainsborough, a vibrant and mysterious girl who captures his heart with her carefree spirit. As their friendship blossoms into love, Aerith reveals a devastating truth: she is also battling geostigma.
Determined to save her, Cloud dives into the world of Chocobo racing, where he leads a rookie team known for their losing streak. Despite the odds, he remains hopeful that victory will bring them closer to a cure. Meanwhile, Aerith channels her emotions into her writing, crafting love stories that reflect their blossoming relationship. Yet, as her health deteriorates, Cloud grapples with feelings of helplessness.
Things take a turn when Aerith is forced into a marriage arrangement with Zack Fair, a prominent figure in Midgar. This deal is not only a personal crisis for Cloud but also a stark reminder of his failures. Faced with the threat of losing Aerith to the Lifestream, Cloud must decide what he is willing to sacrifice for love. Will he find the strength to confront his past and secure a future with Aerith, or will he be left with unfulfilled dreams and the weight of regret?
The biting wind of the lower sectors, carrying the metallic tang of Midgar's perpetual grime, was a stark, unwelcome embrace. Cloud Strife walked with a practiced anonymity, a ghost drifting through the skeletal arteries of the Steel City. Each breath was a reminder of the air's thick, suffocating weight, a stark contrast to the cleaner, sharper breaths he'd once taken, high in the polished halls of Shinra HQ. Now, those memories felt like echoes from another life, a life that had ended as abruptly and devastatingly as his mother's. The dual ghosts – his past and his grief – walked with him, an invisible entourage in the sprawling, uncaring metropolis.
Midgar. The name itself was a statement, a pronouncement of dominance. Towers of steel and glass clawed at the bruised sky, their peaks lost in a haze of pollution and ambition. Below, the city fractured, breaking into a thousand pieces of desperation and resilience. Cloud had chosen this abyss, this labyrinth of shadowed alleys and makeshift dwellings, not out of any desire for connection, but for its very opposite: oblivion. He sought to disappear, to become just another shadow in a city overflowing with them, hoping that in the vastness of Midgar's despair, his own small sorrow might find a place to be swallowed whole.
His SOLDIER past, a gilded cage of expectation and manufactured heroism, was a brand he desperately wished to shed. The uniform, the reputation, the chilling efficiency – they were all remnants of a person he no longer recognized, a person who hadn't known the raw, unvarnished pain of loss. His mother's passing had been a quiet detonation, shattering the carefully constructed facade of his existence. The subsequent silence in his life was a deafening roar, a void that no amount of Shinra propaganda or combat commendation could fill. He was adrift, a vessel without a rudder, propelled by an unseen current through the indifferent currents of Midgar.
The neon glow of the city, a garish mockery of true light, painted his weary eyes with hues of crimson and electric blue. Each flicker of advertisement, each booming announcement from a Shinra loudspeaker, was a reminder of the pervasive control, the relentless march of progress that seemed to crush everything in its path. He felt it acutely, this sense of being both inextricably linked to Midgar and utterly divorced from its purpose. He was a product of its machinations, a tool wielded by its masters, yet his spirit felt as alien to this concrete jungle as a desert flower blooming in a frozen wasteland. He moved through the districts, a solitary figure, his gaze often lost in the distance, searching for something he couldn't articulate, a purpose buried beneath layers of manufactured reality and personal desolation.
The weight of his uniform, the palpable aura of his former training, was a constant source of anxiety. He'd shed the physical trappings, but the SOLDIER was a shadow that clung to his very essence, a whisper of combat readiness that tensed his muscles at the slightest provocation. He trained relentlessly in the privacy of his rented room, the rhythmic thud of his body against the thin walls a testament to his desperate need for control, for some semblance of order in the chaos that had become his life. Each punch thrown, each defensive maneuver practiced, was an attempt to banish the specter of helplessness that had settled upon him since his mother's illness, since her death. He'd been unable to shield her, unable to offer comfort in her final moments, and the guilt gnawed at him like a parasite.
He found solace in the anonymity of the slums, a stark counterpoint to the gleaming, sterile perfection of the upper sectors. Here, life was a raw, unvarnished struggle. Makeshift homes clung precariously to each other, a tapestry of corrugated metal, salvaged wood, and tattered cloth. The air was thick with the scent of cooking fires, damp earth, and the ever-present undercurrent of despair. Yet, amidst this desolation, there was a vibrant pulse, a resilient beat of humanity that surprised and disarmed him. People here, though living on the fringes, possessed a spirit that seemed to defy the very foundations of Midgar's oppressive structure.
It was in this unlikely sanctuary that Cloud first saw her. She was a splash of color against the muted grays and browns of the slums, a beacon of light in the pervasive gloom. Her presence was so inherently vibrant, so full of life, that it felt almost out of place, an anomaly that drew the eye and arrested the breath. He watched her from a distance, a detached observer, initially intrigued by the sheer force of her radiance. She moved with an easy grace, her laughter like the chime of wind bells, a sound so pure and unburdened that it seemed impossible to exist in this world.
Her name, he would soon learn, was Aerith. And her innocence, her almost defiant joy in the face of hardship, was a stark contrast to the cynicism that had become Cloud's armor. He'd grown accustomed to guarded interactions, to the subtle dance of suspicion and self-preservation that permeated most of his encounters. But Aerith offered something different. She approached him not with caution, but with an open, unguarded curiosity, a genuine warmth that began to chip away at the meticulously constructed defenses he'd erected around his heart.
Her carefree spirit, her ability to find beauty in the mundane, was a revelation. He found himself observing her, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, even as a part of him recoiled from the unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability. He was a soldier, trained to be detached, to analyze and act, not to feel, not to connect. Yet, Aerith's effortless charm, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of the simple things, began to sow seeds of doubt in his carefully cultivated indifference. He was searching for purpose, and in her, he found a flicker of something that might, just might, be worth pursuing. The void within him, vast and consuming, seemed to recede slightly in her presence, replaced by a tentative, almost forgotten feeling of hope.
The first few encounters were tentative, a cautious exploration of shared space and fleeting words. Cloud, usually reticent and terse, found himself drawn into conversation, surprised by Aerith's easy rapport. She asked questions, not with the probing intensity of an interrogator, but with the genuine interest of someone who sought to understand. He, in turn, offered snippets of information, carefully curated to reveal as little as possible, yet she seemed to glean more from his guarded silences than he intended.
There was a fragility to their budding connection, a delicate balance between his ingrained reserve and her boundless openness. Her laughter, so readily offered, was a balm to his weary soul. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the sound of genuine joy, how much he'd starved for a connection that didn't carry the weight of obligation or suspicion. Their conversations were a quiet dance, a tentative exchange of vulnerabilities that slowly began to erode the walls he had so painstakingly built.
He found himself seeking her out, drawn by an invisible thread. He'd watch her tend to her flowers, the vibrant colors a testament to her care and dedication, a stark contrast to the barrenness he felt within himself. He'd listen as she spoke of her dreams, of a world beyond the confines of the slums, a world where the sky wasn't perpetually obscured by the city's metallic canopy. And in those moments, the weight of his past, the specter of his SOLDIER identity, seemed to lessen, replaced by a nascent sense of anticipation, a quiet hum of possibility.
They shared simple moments, stolen pockets of peace in the tumultuous reality of Midgar. Sometimes, it was just watching the rain fall on the rusted, corrugated roofs of the Sector 5 slums, the rhythmic patter a soothing melody that accompanied their shared silence. Other times, it was sharing a meager meal, the simplicity of the food made extraordinary by the warmth of their company. These shared experiences, seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, began to weave a subtle, yet powerful, thread of connection between them, laying the foundation for something deeper, something that defied his attempts at detachment. He found himself anticipating their meetings, a feeling that was both alien and profoundly comforting.
Aerith, despite her outward effervescence, carried a subtle undercurrent of sadness, a melancholy that Cloud, himself a connoisseur of grief, recognized instantly. It was a quiet sorrow, a shadow that flickered in her eyes when she thought no one was looking, a brief pause in her otherwise luminous presence. He sensed it, a resonance that went beyond mere observation. He, too, carried the heavy burden of his mother's passing, a grief that had left him feeling hollowed out, adrift in a world that no longer made sense.
Though neither of them spoke of their losses explicitly, a silent understanding began to form between them. The shared experience of grief, the profound sense of absence, created an unspoken bond, a recognition of a shared pain that transcended words. This shared melancholy, juxtaposed with Aerith's inherent brightness, hinted at a complexity within her, a depth that drew Cloud further into her orbit. He found himself wanting to protect that light, to shield it from the shadows that he knew all too well. He saw in her not just a source of fleeting comfort, but a fellow traveler on a path marked by loss.
Midgar itself began to weave itself into the fabric of their burgeoning relationship, becoming more than just a backdrop. The city's oppressive structure, with its stark divisions between the opulent upper sectors and the struggling underbelly of the slums, mirrored the internal struggles of its inhabitants. Cloud saw himself reflected in the city's harsh realities, his SOLDIER past a mark of both privilege and alienation. He had been trained to protect the city, to uphold Shinra's dominion, yet he felt like an outsider, a pawn in a larger game.
Aerith, however, possessed a unique perspective on Midgar's soul. Despite her upbringing in the slums, she had a deep, almost spiritual connection to the city, a perception that transcended its material form. She spoke of the Lifestream, the very essence of the planet, and how it flowed through everything, even through the steel and concrete of Midgar. Her connection to this vital energy gave her a unique insight, a way of seeing the beauty and the pain that lay beneath the city's surface. She saw the city not just as a physical entity, but as a living, breathing organism, capable of both immense suffering and profound resilience. This understanding of Midgar, this intimate connection to the planet's energy, was something Cloud couldn't quite grasp, but he was undeniably drawn to it. It was a perspective that offered a glimmer of hope, a sense that even in this corrupted world, life found a way to persevere. The city, with its dual nature of promise and despair, was becoming the silent witness to their unfolding connection, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of overwhelming odds.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The Doctor remembers why she tries to limit companion numbers to one at a time; any more and they’re so terribly difficult to keep track off.
“What did I say,” she complains to Yaz as they meander through the busy alien marketplace, “What was the
one
thing I said not to do - don’t wander off!”
“I know,” replies Yaz, “I heard you the first six times.”
“I mean I expected as much from Ryan but
Graham!”
“Look they can’t have gone far. They probably just… got distracted and turned around.”
“Back to the Tardis?”
“No I mean - got turned round. You know. Lost.”
“Well I know they’re lost Yaz. That’s why we’re looking for them. Now think - where did we last see them? Was it by the hats? I think it was by the hats.”
“You just want an excuse to go back to the hat stall,” Yaz says, rolling her eyes a bit. “It took us half an hour to get you away from there the first time.”
“Don’t exaggerate, it wasn’t half an hour. And besides! I don’t have any hats to fit this…”
“Doctor?”
But the Doctor doesn’t reply, having trailed off as her eyes landed on something across the marketplace she’d never expected to lay eyes on again.
“Doctor?” Yaz asks again, and following her line of sight, prompts; “Someone you know?”
The Doctor nods mutely.
Yaz nudges her. “Want to go and say hello?”
Throat dry, she shakes her head. “No,” she says, quietly but firmly. “She doesn’t know me. Not with this face. And she can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“Timelines… it’s complicated,” the Doctor gives a sigh.
Across the market, River Song finishes her bartering with the stall keeper, handing over a handful of coins and accepting a small object in return, which she tucks neatly into her cleavage. A smile tugs at the Doctor’s lips as she fondly rolls her eyes, and she is just about to sadly turn away from the ghost of her past she was never meant to see before River can spot
her
staring, when all of a sudden the curly-haired woman looks straight across the street and locks eyes with her. The Doctor stops breathing. River’s eyes flicker briefly over her before she looks back into her own and
winks
, before turning away and slipping off into the crowd.
“Er…” The Doctor hears Yaz stutter from beside her. “It kind of seems like she
does
know you, Doctor.”
Breathe, right, yes.
Gasping a little, both her hearts beating double time due to the brief deprivation of oxygen and quite possibly the mere presence of River, she gives herself a shake. “No, she can’t,” she says firmly, to both Yaz and herself. “She’s just… I mean that’s just her. Winking at strangers. Does it all the time. I think. Probably. Typical River. Yep.”
“River? Is that her name?”
The Doctor swallows, turning away. “Doesn’t matter what her name was. She’s gone. Come on then!” She says, forcefully cheery. “We gonna go and find these two or what? Can’t have wandered far!”
--
Ryan and Graham hadn’t wandered far at all, it turns out, when they bump into them in the next street - right by the hat stall, much to the Doctor’s delight.
“Oh for heaven’s sake what did you bring her back here for?” Graham complains to Yaz. “Took us half an hour to get her away the first time!”
“It’s not my fault, you’re the ones who got lost and wound up back here!”
“Oi! What d’you think?” Says the Doctor, hands out and a ridiculous looking black stetson perched on top of her head, complete with a purple feather.
“I think none of these people have ever seen a John Wayne film in their lives,” says Graham, and the Doctor tuts.
“Not people Graham, they’re aliens. And they got it mostly right. How much is this please?” She turns to the stall keeper.
“Doctor,” it’s Ryan looking across the market place up at one of the buildings.
“Not now Ryan - unless you’ve got any money? Have you?”
“No, Doctor - look!”
She turns just as Yaz gives a gasp from next to her.
“Doctor!” She says. “It’s that woman from earlier!”
The Doctor takes the hat from her head and places it back as she stares up to where the crowds are starting to point, to see none other than River Song, standing on the very top of what appears to be a large clock tower, arms out to the side.
“Oh my god,” says Ryan. “She’s gonna jump!”
The Doctor swallows. “Yep. Yep she is, Ryan.”
Muttering is going round the crowd and the attention of almost the whole market square is now on River- just the way she likes it - thinks the Doctor.
“Doctor!” Says Yaz urgently. “Can’t we do something!?”
“Yeah,” says the Doctor, watching as River turns and lets herself fall backwards off the tower to the screams of the people below. A split second later, long before she can hit the ground, the Tardis materialises briefly in mid air, scooping her neatly up before both vanish again.
“Woah - what!? What just happened!?” Gasps Yaz.
“Was that your Tardis Doc!?” Says a baffled Graham.
“Yeah,” sighs the Doctor again, turning away. “Be right back.”
“Wait - where you going!?”
“To catch her,” she tells Yaz, like it’s obvious. “Obviously.”
--
The Tardis throws out its anti-gravity fields as River nears it, slowing her decent and settling her gracefully on her feet inside the console room.
“Ah,” says River, smoothing down her dress and hair. “Thank you dear.”
“You’re welcome,” Says the Doctor, stepping out cautiously from behind the console.
“I was talking to the Tardis,” Laughs River.
The Doctor swallows. “Still throwing yourself off buildings then?”
“Trusting you to catch me?” Smiles River, and her suspicions are confirmed. “Always.”
“Very dangerous you know,” the Doctor says, because she doesn’t know what else to say.
“Well I had to do something to get your attention sweetie. You didn’t come after me in the marketplace.”
The Doctor shrugs, stepping a bit closer. “You could have just come and said hello,” she says quietly.
“So could you!”
“I didn’t know you knew me!” She exclaims, and River pauses at that, eyes widening a bit.
“You’re new.”
The Doctor swallows again. “How can you know me?” She breathes, and then River straightens, and smiles at her, eyes twinkling with a thousand promises.
“Spoilers.”
The Doctor lets out a laugh that comes out like a sob, and to her horror realises her eyes have quickly filled with water.
River’s face softens.
“Are you crying?”
“No,” she says firmly, sniffing. “I don’t cry. That’s for humans.”
“Sweetie, I’ve watched ‘the Good Dinosaur’ with you.”
“That film is not for children!” The Doctor exclaims, wiping at her cheeks. “That film shouldn’t even be allowed for adults!”
River chuckles as the Doctor sniffs again, getting control of herself. Stupid emotions!
But River is standing just across the console from her, gazing at her with a soft smile on her lips and there’s still
spoilers!
And she wants to cry all over again. But she’s not about to do that - not now, in front of her wife, whom she hadn’t seen in so long it feels like an eternity, and who she never expected to see again. So she clears her throat and sets about distracting herself; “So River Song. What brings you to this planet. Not much happening here - pretty peaceful time period; not your sort of place at all.”
River laughs. “Oh you know me so well,” she purrs, and the Doctor is glad her wife understands her well enough to go along with the change of conversation direction. “The same thing that’s brought you here though, I imagine.”
The Doctor’s eyebrows shoot up. “And what’s that?”
“Oh,” says River. “You don’t know.” Her eyes twinkle. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
“River…”
“Thanks for the catch sweetie but I really should be going.”
“River!” She bounds round the console and into River’s path before she can leave. They are closer now and she looks up into her wife’s face -
up!
She’d never had to look up before! “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing for you to worry your pretty head over honey,” she says patronisingly. “I’ll catch up with you another time.” She goes to brush past her but the Doctor blocks her path, squaring up to her crossly.
“River Song,” she says sternly, “If
you -”
But she doesn’t get to finish what she’d been going to say because her wife has seized the sides of her face, pulled her in close and is kissing her.
Kissing River. She’d forgotten what that felt like. Well no, that was a lie, kissing River Song wasn’t the type of thing one ever
forgot
, but certainly the feeling it
gave
her had been dulled over time because the ringing in her ears and the way (almost) all the thoughts in her head suddenly went quiet is certainly something she hadn’t explicitly recalled whenever she thought about it. (Which she can’t deny is something she had done very often.)
She doesn’t remember ever having to tilt her head back to kiss her, and as she winds her arms up round her neck she finds herself going up onto her tiptoes to gain better height and that’s
certainly
something she also doesn’t remember, along with the strange exclamations of “Woah, what!?” She can hear in her head. No, wait - those aren’t in her head. She pushes River back, landing back down on her feet properly and looking around, wide eyed and slightly short of breath, at her three companions who have just entered the Tardis and are now staring at them in shock.
“Oh,” the Doctor says, shoving her hair out of her face (it was always doing that this time around -
so
annoying) “Hello gang. You found me then. Where did I park?”
“The same place as before -
three
hours ago,” says Ryan, sounding annoyed.
“Oh - oops. Must be the - time rotors off. Or me. We haven’t been doing that for three hours have we?” She looks at River.
“I’m good but I’m not
that
good, sweetie,” River rolls her eyes. “Just your driving - as usual.”
“Hey - I resent that.”
“Doctor!” It’s Yaz, looking between them oddly but clearly distracted. “Look - that building your friend,” she nods at River, “jumped off earlier? It was a museum, and it was raided. They said they’ve had their most valuable artifact stolen some… puzzle piece, or something?”
“Shard,” says Graham. “It was a shard belonging to -”
“The pyramid of life!” Gasps the Doctor. “Their most sacred item - the people of this world worship that - and not only that it’s a way for them to look into the past - connect with their ancestors even! And if a shards missing that means…”
“Well this has been lovely but it’s time I was off,” River cuts in and the Doctor whirls to face her with a gasp.
“You didn’t!”
“Girl’s gotta make a living somehow,” she shrugs. “Oh don’t worry - they’ll get it back. Eventually.”
“River! No - wait, don’t you dare - !”
But with a a quick tap on her wrist River vanishes just as the Doctor lunges for her. She gives a cry of frustration as she scrambles off the floor and flies to the console.
“What the - did she just vanish!?” Exclaims Ryan.
“Vortex manipulator. But I can track her signal…” She says, tapping away. “Aha! There! Not far, same place same time, just across town.”
“Doc who
was
that!?” Asks Graham.
“That? That was my wife. And we’re going after her. Hold on gang!”
“But Doctor - surely she knows you can follow her?” Yells Yaz over the engines of the Tardis as they fire up.
“She doesn’t just know Yaz,” Says the Doctor with a mad grin, “I’m betting she’s counting on it.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The waters were warm and soothing as they flowed around her, leaving her floating weightlessly in an ethereal state of almost-sleep.
Her chest rose and fell with deep breaths and she became vaguely aware of the armor strapped to her body and the tingling of her power beneath her skin, always alert.
Always aware.
The whispers of the darkforce that she commanded sounded in her ears, bringing her more fully back to herself, and Evelyn willed her eyes to open.
Soft orange and silver clouds greeted her vision as she blinked in confusion, not recognizing her surroundings.
Was she dreaming?
With a sharp inhale she sat up, her hands and hip landing on a firm foundation hidden beneath the reflective surface of the water.
Her head turned from side to side, trying to find a landmark or something to indicate where she was.
The last thing she remembered was…
Fire and smoke.
Alien screaches and a sea of claws and razor sharp teeth snapping at her face.
Thanos’s war ship hovering in the sky above the ruins of the Avenger’s complex, the mad titan himself standing before them in his golden armor, blade held loosely in his grasp.
The battle.
The Stones…
Evelyn gasped as she recalled the determined, heartbroken look on her father’s face as he kneeled before Thanos, the Stones pulled into his armor by the clever little nanites and flaring brightly from across the smoke-filled battlescape.
She knew what he would do, and Evelyn hadn’t hesitated.
Fear that she would be too late had filled her as she pulled at the darkforce and teleported across the field, landing behind her father and gripping his head tightly at the exact moment that he had snapped his fingers.
Tony Stark’s death had been certain, the cost the cosmic Stones wrought far too much for an ordinary human to withstand.
Evelyn had believed that she could survive it even as she pulled the cold, icy hollow of his death into herself.
Her innate healing ability would bring her back, as it always had, hundreds and hundreds of times.
Except, apparently, it
hadn’t
.
“Well.
Shit.”
“Indeed.”
Evelyn spun to her feet, the warm golden water spraying around her in an arch as she turned to face the voice.
Her eyes widened in shock as they landed on the familiar figure before her, clad in his signature green and black leather.
Green eyes glimmered in amusement and a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
“Loki?” Evelyn breathed, the sound of his name breaking in the air between them with long-suppressed emotion at seeing him again.
Thor had told her how horribly he’d died, his own eyes filled with tears as he spoke of Loki’s last moments defying Thanos, and she had never thought that she would get to see him again.
But here he was, grinned brightly, arms sweeping wide in a dramatic display.
“Ta-da!” he drawled, and she let out a huff of disbelief tinged with amusement before she rushed forward and wrapped her arms tightly around his torso, clinging to him.
“You
fucker
.
You
died
,” Evelyn murmured thickly against the warm leather of his jacket.
His arms encompassed her, the familiar smell of magic and mint making her throat grow tight with feeling.
There were very few people she’d grown truly close to in her life, and he had been one of them.
“As did you, apparently.
Didn’t think that could happen.
It was
disgustingly
heroic by the way, what you did,” Loki said casually.
Evelyn huffed and pushed away from him, looking up and up— she had forgotten how
tall
he was— to see the fondness in his eyes that he only seemed to have for her.
“So… we’re dead.
Is this Valhalla then?
I thought there’d be more sword fighting and mead halls,” Evelyn quipped, looking around at the barren space they found themselves in.
“Ah… this is not Valhalla,” Loki denied, his smile tightening as he squeezed her shoulders one last time before releasing her.
“And you are now faced with a choice.
I already know what you’ll choose, of course, but it must be presented to you regardless.”
Evelyn blinked at him, her features twisting in confusion.
“What do you mean?
What choice?”
“To continue on into whatever afterlife awaits you— and there is one, but the universe won’t let me tell you what it is,” Loki grouched.
“Or, to pass beyond this universe into another one.
A new one.
A universe that is on the brink of destruction, which can only be saved by you and whatever other horridly heroic acts you’ll no doubt perform.
You know how universes are.”
His quirked brow did little to assuage the shock that rose in her at his words, and Evelyn took another step backwards, away from him.
“You’re not… really Loki… are you?” She asked quietly, suppressing the pain of her realization.
He’d always had a knack for coming back from the dead, but his bag of tricks only ran so deep.
The Loki-shade gave her a sad smile and tilted his head to the side as he clasped his hands behind his back.
“I am the essence of his soul, seen through the Stones that he has encountered.
Close enough, but not quite as good as the real thing,” the shade explained wryly.
Evelyn swallowed heavily and nodded her head, considering what he had told her.
If he had really been Loki she likely would have followed his lead here, glad to have a friend to share the afterlife here.
But if it was just her, alone, then that changed things.
“Will I remember?
In whatever new universe I go to… will I remember?” She asked.
She didn’t want to know who she was without her memories and experiences.
While her life hadn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, Evelyn had accomplished a great deal and had become someone who had risen above what had happened to her.
From an experiment, to a weapon, to a girl discovering her family, and then to an Avenger.
She didn’t want to lose those parts of herself, the good or the bad.
“You will remember everything.
You will be as you are now, but in a new universe,” the shade confirmed, and he grinned that bright Loki-grin when she nodded her head in agreement.
“I knew you’d choose to fight on.
It’s in your nature.
There won’t be a Loki in this new universe, unfortunately, but I’m sure you’ll find a subpar replacement in no time.
You’ve always had a way of finding interesting people to surround yourself with.”
Her lips curled at the corners despite herself, and Evelyn wished desperately that this was truly Loki here with her again.
But she supposed that she’d need to get used to the idea that she’d never see anyone she cared about ever again.
Not her father.
Not her little sister.
None of them.
Her smile faded and she layered her heart in armor much like that which covered her body.
She could grieve later.
Alone.
Not in front of the shadow of her dead best friend.
The shade sensed the turning of her thoughts and straightened, a more serious expression shifting across his face.
“I hope you find some measure of happiness in this new universe, Evelyn.
It’ll likely be hard-won, knowing you, but nevertheless— good luck,” he told her ardently.
She nodded her head, the will to converse with the shade vanishing as she felt warmth spreading across her body, blooming beneath her chest plate and spreading out along her limbs.
Evelyn caught the familiar twinkle of mischief in the shade’s green eyes before a rushing sound screamed in her ears and everything went white.
***
He knew that he needed to be on his best behavior and impress his superiors, but Reno was breathtakingly
bored
.
He sat in the passenger seat of the helicopter and watched as Slash, his mentor for this mission, piloted them across the sky.
There were a handful of SOLDIER infantrymen in the body of the helicopter with them, but they were all quiet and tense.
He supposed this was probably their first mission for SOLDIER, and Wutai had been a bit of a bitch on the ground lately.
The only real action he’d seen had been dirty, shadowy Turk business that he couldn’t really brag about to anyone other than the other Turks.
He knew that they all underestimated him because he wasn’t even twenty yet, dressed like a slob, and was ‘unprofessionally casual’ around the workplace.
Reno liked it that way, though.
Gave him a leg up when shit went down if no one saw him as a threat.
And people tended to either lower their guard when he joked around, or they got so frustrated with him that they snapped and made a mistake.
Veld had told him that he needed to at least
act
like a professional every once in a while or he would be stuck behind a desk.
Which wasn’t good for anyone’s sanity.
So, here he was, riding along when he knew that he was the better pilot, for another one of the SOLDIER drop offs.
At least they didn’t have to hang around this time.
Just a quick dip, ditch the grunts, and then back to base for that trash they called food in the mess.
Just as he let out a long sigh while internally lamenting what he was doing with his life, a bright flash suddenly lit up the sky.
He jerked in his seat, eyes squinting agains the blinding light for a moment, and then leaned forward as his mouth dropped open in shock.
In the sky just ahead of them there seemed to be a… rainbow.
It was glowing brilliantly, shimmering in every color he’d ever seen, and hurtling straight down towards the earth.
“The hell is that?” one of the infantrymen shouted, but Reno ignored him, blinking as he remained riveted by the incredible sight.
The rainbow beam shuddered and something moved within it, a white ball of energy that traveled from the dark sky above downward at a rapid speed.
When it collided with the ground there was a massive shockwave that rocked the air and snapped the tops of the nearest trees clean off.
“Shit!” Reno barked as the shockwave hit them, blaring sirens and flashing red lights illuminating the cockpit as the helicopter veered wildly in the air.
Slash grit her teeth and clutched at the cyclic, doing her damndest to keep them from crashing.
Outside, the rainbow beam flickered and vanished, but there was a faint orange haze in the air where it had made contact.
It only took a few moments longer than it would have taken Reno for his partner to level them out and the alarms to fade, but everyone in the helicopter was shaken and tense.
“Was that a summon?” another of the SOLDIERS asked, and Reno wondered the same.
It wouldn’t be typical of Wutai to use a summon outside of a major battle, but they’d been growing desperate lately.
Before anyone could answer, the radio crackled and he reached up to his headset.
“
Reno, Slash, report
,” his director, Veld, spoke roughly.
They must have been able to see the beam all the way back at the base.
Reno shrugged and looked to his partner, indicating that she should answer.
She rolled her blue eyes at him and tapped at her own headset.
“Some kind of aerial disturbance.
Didn’t recognize it.
It looks like…” Slash paused, her lips thinning.
“It looked like something fell from the sky.
Created a shockwave when it hit.”
“
A Wutaian weapon?
” Veld questioned.
“Unclear.”
“
Hmm.
Investigate.
If it’s an asset, acquire it.
If not, eliminate.
We can’t afford for Wutai to gain any kind of advantage.”
“Copy,” Slash confirmed, and the radio clicked out.
Reno fidgeted in his seat, excitement bubbling in his gut.
He’d been going stir-crazy at base, and this was just what he needed.
“Orders?” the nearest SOLDIER asked, shouldering his sword.
“We’re to investigate the scene, acquire any assets and eliminate any enemies,” Slash informed them, steering the helicopter towards the orange haze ahead.
The infantryman passed on the orders to the rest of his men and Reno pulled his stun baton from the holster at his hip, tossing Slash an excited grin when he caught her eye.
She huffed and frowned at him— no sense of adventure, that one— and focused on bringing them closer to the area of impact.
Reno was on the edge of his seat as he leaned forward to peer down at the ground below them the moment that they cleared the tree line.
There was a massive crater where the rainbow beam had hit, broken and burned tree trunks twisting and bending away from the center.
Some were still on fire.
A strange, unfamiliar pattern seemed to be pressed into the earth in a perfect circle, and though he thought he saw something at its middle, the smoke in the air prevented him from getting a clear view.
“SOLDIER!
Secure the area!
Reno, you’re with me,” Slash called out as she set the helicopter down at the edge of the burned out clearing.
Reno sucked his teeth at the jarring impact of her landing.
He was quick to slip out of his harness and slide out of the helicopter, waiting for the SOLDIERs to finish disembarking before he strolled forward towards the center.
The smoke burned his eyes and nose but he grit his teeth and continued on, curiosity more potent than his discomfort.
He could hear the quiet crunch of Slash’s boots behind him as he moved, glancing down at the burned patterns below.
It did look like the ambient magical symbols that always shimmered in the air when a summon was called, but he had never seen them burned into the ground like this.
An alteration of Ifrit?
“Ahead.
Weapons ready,” Slash growled at his elbow, her gun held out in front of her.
Reno nodded, gripping his stun baton as his thumb flicked the power on.
It hummed in his hand, a familiar and comforting vibration.
He was able to see through the orange haze now and his gaze landed on what appeared to be a body.
It was laying unmoving at the center of the crater, strange twisting formations of shiny black stone surrounding it.
Reno thought it looked like the rock and stone had actually melted from the impact.
The result was some freaky-looking alien structure, almost like a cage, that cradled the body within.
“Looks like a person,” Slash murmured.
Reno nodded, his eyes narrowing as they drew closer.
It was a woman, in some kind of sleek black armor that appeared to be slightly battle-worn but still in decent condition.
She was small, her frame petite even beneath the armor, and definitely unconscious.
There was blood smeared across her face and the heavy indentations in the ground beneath her suggested that
she
was the thing that fell along the rainbow beam and impacted the earth.
“Damn.
Still breathing,” Reno whistled, catching the slow rise and fall of her chest.
“She looks Wutaian,” Slash observed, toeing at the woman’s shoulder with the tip of her boot.
The stranger’s head lolled to the side and Reno caught onto what she was seeing, but the features— with her dark hair and brows and tanned skin— while definitely possessing Wutaian traits, weren’t all there.
The angle of her eyes was wrong, and the armor that she wore was unknown.
He was familiar with Wutaian armor and arms, and this wasn’t that.
“Nah, I don’t think so.
We should take her in, yo.
Let the nerds figure it out,” Reno suggested, kneeling down to check her for weapons.
Just as he reached out to remove a few well-secured throwing knives he was suddenly hit with a warm spray of liquid across the back of his neck.
Reno grunted in surprise and rolled to the side, his baton snapping arcs of electricity as he held it out protectively in front of him.
Slash stumbled before him, her face ghostly white.
Something wet and shiny was protruding from her chest and she pawed at it weakly, a horrible gurgling noise coming from her.
Just as Reno regained his footing she slumped forward, a massive spear impaling her though the torso.
She fell face-down and remained unmoving, blood pooling in the patterned impressions on the earth below her.
“Fuck,” Reno hissed as he caught sight of figures moving in the orange haze around him, and then the screaming started.
The SOLDIERs must have engaged their attackers, but Reno recognized the symbols on the spear that had killed Slash.
These were Eclipse Warriors.
Skilled in stealth and assassinations.
With the smoke and haze in the air, there was no way that even the mako-enhanced SOLDIERS would be able to take them out.
He could hear the sound of metal on metal as swords and spears collided, but the echoes of battle did not last long, and he felt a chill run down his spine as he realized that he was alone.
His partner was dead— again, another one who couldn’t cut it— the SOLDIERS were eliminated, and Reno was hopelessly outclassed as he stood in a smoking crater next to a woman who had apparently fallen from the fucking sky.
“Surrender, and you will not be slain.”
The words were growled low and clearly hostile, seeming to come from right in front of him, but Reno could see no one.
He grit his teeth, assessing his situation, and knew that surrender was the only course.
Torture could be withstood, and all he needed was a moment of surprise to turn the tide.
Reno clicked the switch on his baton and tossed it to the ground in front of him, holding his hands up in the air.
He adopted a submissive stance, letting his eyes go wide with fright and turning his head to and fro to search for the assassins.
“Yeah, man, I give up!
First day on the job, they sure as hell don’t pay me enough for
this!
” Reno stammered, keeping an eye on the fallen woman beside him.
Had this all been some kind of elaborate trap?
He didn’t think so, but they had arrived do quickly that it wouldn’t surprise him.
“There is no price Shinra can pay that would justify their crimes,” the voice sounded again, this time from behind him, and when Reno turned he was met with a flash of silver and an impact to his head that sent him tumbling down into darkness.
When he woke some time later he feigned sleep for a moment longer, reaching out with his other senses to try to get a read on his situation.
His head pounded in pain, likely from a concussion, but otherwise he seemed to be physically alright.
Reno could feel his hands tied tightly behind his back and laced through the bars of the chair he was seated on.
The air smelled damp and earthy, like he was underground, and the tinny scent of blood was strong.
He could hear a whisper of movement, boots sliding against stone, and then he was suddenly slapped with ice cold water.
Reno abandoned his subterfuge and shrieked as the cold water bit into him, causing his muscles to seize painfully and his headache to spike.
Nausea bloomed in his belly but he managed to keep himself from throwing up, though he had a brief moment of spiteful glee at the thought of hurling all over his captors.
There were two of them, lightly armored and masked, and they glared at him hatefully.
He was being held in some kind of bunker, the walls made of smooth stone with old wired lights hanging on the ceiling above them.
His eyes flickered past them to see the woman from the crater secured to a chair similarly to himself, and Reno felt a frisson of apprehension as he realized that she was still unconscious.
And, apparently,
not
with the Wutaians.
“Shinra.
You will answer our questions, or you will die,” one of the assassins spat, his dark eyes narrowed at Reno.
He held a wickedly sharp knife in one hand.
“Yeah, man, whatever you need!” Reno whimpered, playing the hapless employee.
The second assassin raised a brow at his compatriot as he leaned on the spear held in his hands, likely falling for it a bit, but the first assassin did not falter.
“What was the weapon you used where we found you?”
So, the Wutaians weren’t behind the rainbow beam…
“Wait, what?
What weapon?” Reno asked, frowning in confusion.
“The light!
The bomb!
What were you testing?” the assassin demanded.
“We weren’t testing anything, I swear!
We were heading to base when that light lit up the sky and then we were sent to investigate.
I have no idea what that was, we thought it was
you!
” he said, rearing back as the assassin lunged towards him.
His blade flashed in the low light and Reno made sure to appear appropriately terrified.
“Perhaps your associate will be more forthcoming,” the assassin growled, and then the second Wutaian grabbed another bucket from a nearby bench and flung the water at the still-unconscious woman.
He was surprised when she woke with a shuddering gasp, her entire body going stock still as she blinked the water out of her eyes and coughed lightly.
Now that he could see her more clearly he saw that was not Wutaian, though she appeared to favor them enough that he could see how Slash had wondered.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” the woman muttered, her voice rough and scratchy, and she coughed lowly to clear it.
She didn’t appear concerned about her current situation, her deep brown eyes scanning the two assassins in front of her before falling on him.
Reno gave her a tilt of his head, trying to communicate his own helplessness, and the woman sighed and looked back to her captors.
“What is your purpose here, Shinra scum?” the first assassin demanded, flipping his blade in his hand.
The woman snorted, whipping her head to the side in an attempt to flick her hair out of her face.
It was long and almost black, braided tightly on top of her head, but some of it appeared to have come loose.
“What the hell is Shinra?” she asked as she blew a raspberry, dislodging a strand of hair that was caught on her lips.
Reno blinked in surprise at her question more than her casual acceptance of being tied to a chair in a cave basement.
Everyone
had heard of Shinra.
Even out in the boonies, in the farthest flung teeny-tiny village, everyone knew who they were.
The Wutaians seemed to take offense at her question, the first assassin backhanding her across the face with a blindingly quick blow that had Reno wincing in sympathy.
“Hey, man!
That’s no way to treat a lady!” he protested as her head snapped to the side.
Shockingly, she chuckled and rolled out her neck, grinning at her abuser.
There was blood on her teeth as she smiled.
It sent a chill down his spine, his hindbrain snapping into alertness.
“Silence!” the second assassin barked, and he lashed out at Reno, swinging the butt of his spear in a lightning-quick arc.
The metal tail snapped against the side of his knee and Reno grunted in pain as he felt something tear in the joint.
The blow knocked him to the side and he crashed to the ground as his chair tipped, smacking his shoulder roughly onto the cold stone floor.
His vision blurred for a moment and he had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat as his head throbbed terribly.
Yeah… he needed to take care of that concussion sooner rather than later.
“God, you guys are assholes.
Does it make you feel tough to smack around people tied to chairs?
Real mighty warriors you are,” the woman cajoled, huffing in derision.
Reno wanted to laugh but he was trying not to throw up.
Seemed like she was a little bit crazy like him.
Hopefully they wouldn’t kill her for it.
“Shinra does not deserve mercy!
You are animals!” the first assassin spat, reaching out towards the table and pulling Reno’s stun baton away.
He clicked it on and it crackled menacingly, but the woman didn’t look worried.
She looked almost… bored.
Reno wondered if she’d suffered some sort of brain damage herself when she fell from the sky.
“Still don’t know what Shinra is, so, you’re trying to torture me for nothing.
Honestly though, I get if this is just a misunderstanding,” the woman commented.
The assassins shared a glance, but Reno couldn’t read them with their faces turned away from him.
He tried to shift quietly, not wanting to draw their attention back to him, and his knee lit up in pain.
“What weapon did you use?
What is Shinra doing?”
“Seriously?
Are you stupid?
I just said I’m not—”
A sharp crack sounded as the first assassin shoved the end of the baton into the side of woman’s throat and white sparks of electricity flowed into her.
Her teeth clenched and her body seized, but she made no sound, and after a moment the assassin pulled the baton away, looking confused.
Reno felt the same— that baton packed enough of a punch to take down a SOLDIER— and he frowned at the thought that they had somehow damaged it.
Tseng would have that asshole Rude kick him across the training room if he broke another one.
“Alright.
You get one of those.
But I swear to fucking god, if you hit me or hurt me again, I’m going to tear
your
hand off,” she inclined her head at the first assassin, “and then kill
him
,” she nodded at the second, “with
that
baton.”
Reno and the assassins simultaneously blinked at her, taken aback by her words, and then the red head watched as the first assassin wisely proceeded to do exactly what she had warned against and strike her across the cheek with the baton.
The moment that the sleek black metal made contact with her skin she exploded into movement, erupting from the chair and a flurry of twisting metal and snapping iron cuffs as if they were made of wet paper.
She was faster than any SOLDIER he had ever seen, her limbs a blur as she moved, and then there was a spray of blood and a severed hand slapped onto the floor in front of Reno’s face.
He watched its fingers twitch for a split second and then returned to the action, seeing the first assassin cradling his mutilated arm as he fell to the ground while the woman drove a knee into his face.
Bones crunched beneath the power of the blow and he flew backwards, shattering the table and sending the tools and weapons that laid on it across the floor.
He was very clearly dead.
The second assassin wasted no time attacking, swinging his spear with a shout of rage and determination.
The woman caught the blade deftly between her hands, a grin pulling at her mouth as she looked up at her attacker with a feral gleam in her eyes.
With a swift maneuver of her booted toe, she flipped and kicked the baton off the ground where it had fallen, caught it in her hand, and drove it into the assassin’s gaping mouth.
Blood and viscera exploded out of the back of the Wutaian’s head as electricity snapped around his body, and Reno wondered if anyone had ever used a baton to kill someone with quite the same flair.
He’d have to try it out someday.
Her torturers dead, the woman kicked the assassin away, the baton making a squelching noise as it slid free from his skull.
Without a care in the world, the woman wiped the weapon clean on the assassin’s pants before turning her attention to Reno.
He watched her approach with a confusing amount of trepidation and arousal tumbling around in his belly, and he enacted a casual expression when she stopped and crouched down in front of him.
Her eyes scanned his body, taking note of the odd angle of his dislocated knee and what he supposed was a gallant looking head wound from the blow that knocked him out at the crater.
“Got a proposition for you,” the woman drawled, tapping a finger on the handle of his baton.
“Proposition away.”
“I’ll get you out of here if you answer my questions,” she offered.
That seemed too good to be true, but Reno would take whatever opportunities came his way.
Still…
“You gonna get naughty with that baton if you don’t like my answers?” he asked blithely, and was delighted when she grinned at him, her amusement genuine and warm in her eyes.
“Only if you say ‘please,’” she quipped.
His own grin grew.
“Lady, I don’t know what brand of crazy you are, but I’m digging it.
You’ve got yourself a deal, yo.”
She effortlessly tore away his restraints, fingers ripping through the iron like butter, and he wondered at the lack of mako glow in her eyes.
She definitely wasn’t SOLDIER, but he’d never seen anyone other than one of their rank with this kind of strength and speed.
He winced when she righted him, gripping at his knee while simultaneously— discreetly— checking his pocket for his PHS.
It was disappointingly missing.
“Can you walk?”
“Nah.
Need to scrounge up some potions or something.
I think they’ll have materia on them, if we’ve got the time to check,” Reno replied.
She frowned at him, dark eyes skittering across his form for a moment before she gingerly gripped him around the waist and hauled him damn near off his feet.
“Woah!”
“I’m stronger than I look,” she murmured.
Smaller, too.
She barely came up to his chin, but she was lifting him as if he weighed hardly anything.
He’d feel emasculated if he wasn’t in so much pain.
“Yeah, I caught that.
I’m Reno, by the way.”
“Evelyn.”
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but this hasn’t really been the best day I’ve ever had,” Reno grit out between clenched teeth as he tried and failed to put a little weight on his bad leg.
Evelyn snorted, a wry grin on her face.
“Same.
How’d we get here?
Do you know how to get out?”
she asked, peering around the room before hauling him towards the only opening in the room that appeared to lead into a hallway.
“Not sure, but these old Wutaian forts can be tricky.
False walls and maze-like corridors.
We’ll probably run into trouble sooner or later,” he warned her.
She hummed absently as she pulled him along, and he took a moment to discreetly look her over.
She was pretty.
Really
pretty, and under any other circumstances he’d probably try to shoot his shot, but Reno had a feeling that she wouldn’t lose any sleep over ditching him if he crossed one too many lines.
He
was
reckless, but self-preservation won out this time.
There was a strange symbol on her armor that he didn’t recognize, a stylized kind of triangle.
It wasn’t in any language that he recognized.
“So… you kinda fell from the sky.
Out of a rainbow beam.
That normal for you?” he asked her lowly, hoping to get as much information out of her as she likely planned to get out of him.
“Rainbow beam…” she murmured, shaking her head with a small huff.
“Bifrost.
It’s a form of travel.
I don’t remember what happened.
I kind of died, I think.”
His brow rose at her words, wondering what kind of thing could have killed someone like her.
“My turn.
What’s Shinra?” she turned the questioning on him before he could contemplate further about her strange words.
“Uh, the Shinra Electric Power Company.
It’s a corporation, trying to use mako to create more accessible and affordable energy,” Reno answered.
“And you work for them?”
“Yep.
Department of Administrative Research.”
She eyed him skeptically.
“Not one to judge based on appearances… but you don’t strike me as a researcher.”
“Heh, you’ve got me.
I work for the Turks.
We do a little bit of everything.”
“Who are the assholes back there?”
“Those guys?
Wutaian assassins.
They’re nasty, sneaky little ninjas who serve as Wutai’s kill squad.
They took out the unit I was with when we found you.
Kept me for info.
Or for this face,” he drawled, wiggling his brows at her.
Evelyn huffed and then froze suddenly, shifting her body to move in front of his.
Before he could question her he heard a soft shuffling sound from in front of them and she slowly, carefully, moved him away from her.
Reno anticipated her thoughts as she handed him his baton and he propped himself up on the wall, watching tensely as she slunk along the stone corridor in silence.
A Wutaian slid around the corner and found his face smashed in by a well-placed kick.
The body crumpled to the ground and a warning shout followed, but Evelyn was already flying around the corner and disappearing from view.
Reno held his breath and listened to the sounds of battle ringing just out of his sight, hearing shouts and screams and the occasional meaty thud of an impact.
Steeling himself, he hopped as best as he could with one foot towards the nearest body, trying to ignore the ruined mess of the man’s face.
He quickly patted the man down, breathing a sigh of relief when he discovered a potion and a small handgun stashed on his belt.
He downed the potion without hesitation, not even grimacing at the slick texture as it slid down his throat and got to work.
Blessed relief flowed through him as his headache abated and his knee crunched and twisted back into place.
He could still hear the sounds of battle as he checked the bullets in the gun and then turned to peer around the corner.
It was a complete bloodbath.
Bodies were strewn across the corridor and there were more than a few severed limbs laying in a pool of blood.
If he hadn’t seen the crazy shit that went down growing up with the gangs in the slums then he would probably be sick.
Evelyn was currently removing her fist from the chest cavity of another assassin, shaking out her hand and sending splatters of blood into the air.
Her head snapped towards him, eyes blazing in a way that made him clutch his purloined gun even tighter.
“All clear.
For now,” she said.
He noticed that she wasn’t even breathing hard, and she was practically covered in blood as she delicately stepped between the shredded corpses between them.
As she reached out in a motion to aid him with walking again he shifted back and her eyes caught on the gun.
She froze, face hardening, and gave him a single raised brow.
“Picked it off the dead guy.
He had a potion too, so I won’t be winning any races any time soon, but I can walk on my own,” Reno said, his entire body nearly vibrating with anticipation.
He was under no delusions that he could take her out before she killed him, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“If you shoot me in the back, I will rip off your arms and beat you with them,” Evelyn said, deadly serious.
“Yeah, not that stupid.
But
… you’d be dead, so…” he shrugged as he stepped closer to her, limping only slightly on his nearly-healed knee.
“Test that if you want to.
But I’m hard to kill, and I keep my promises,” Evelyn replied with a shrug.
He had no desire to test her, as she said.
She led him on and he winced at the squelch of blood beneath his boots as they stepped between the bodies and out into the corridor.
The doors ahead of them were open and the sky was visible, the stars faded slightly with the imminent arrival of dawn.
“Alright, there’s bound to be more of them around here, but if we can get into the trees we can start heading south.
Not sure exactly where we are, but Shinra’s base is that way,” Reno said quietly.
Evelyn nodded her head and they slipped along the side of the stone building, keeping to the shadows.
He imagined that security wouldn’t be too tight if the base was full of assassins, but he wasn’t about to let his guard down now.
They ran across a lone patrol on the outskirts of the base, but Evelyn made such quick work of them that he hadn’t even felt the need to fire his gun.
They didn’t need the attention the noise would draw, and she didn’t seem to need the help.
Reno was limping heavily when they had been hiking through the forest for what had to be hours as the sky was beginning to lighten, and he gave a dramatic sigh of relief when she finally declared that they should rest for a bit.
It rankled that she didn’t seem tired at all, but he wanted comfort more than to be irritated, so he left it alone as he found a small trunk to sit on.
Reno watched her as she stared out at the horizon, not sure what she was looking for but seeming to find it as she let out a long breath and then turned to join him.
“Will they follow us?”
“Maybe.
They’re good in the forests.
Sneaky as fuck,” he answered, slumping forward and rubbing at his sore knee.
The worst of the damage was healed, but it wasn’t completely well.
He hoped he wouldn’t need surgery.
The last thing he wanted was to be laid up somewhere out of the action or forced behind a desk again.
“Why do Wutai and Shinra hate each other?” Evelyn asked, picking at dried blood beneath her nails as she sat next to him on the grass.
“Wutai has an abundance of mako and they won’t let Shinra access it.
Apparently, there was a deal between them a long time ago.
Wutai broke it, banned Shinra, and Shinra declared war,” Reno explained, his eyes feeling heavy as his adrenaline began to wane and tiredness took over.
“How does a power and electricity company have the resources to wage war?”
“Eh, Shinra’s more than just an electricity company.
They’re… well, they’re a bit of everything.
Science and engineering, weapons and machinery, a little of this and a little of that.
Fingers in all the pies.
We’ve got the weapons and manpower, but Wutai is dug in deep,” he told her.
Evelyn hummed and crossed her arms as she leaned back against a tree, staring out into the forest.
“They thought my…
arrival
… was a weapon of yours?”
“Yeah.
We thought it was one of theirs.
Never seen anything like it.
Where’d you come from?
You don’t know about Wutai, never heard of Shinra… not exactly normal, yo…” he said, his words slurring slightly as his head bobbed in exhaustion.
“I’m not from this world.
Came from a different universe.
Apparently, I landed myself right in the middle of a brand new pile of shit.
Just my luck,” Evelyn muttered, sounding not nearly as tired as his felt.
Reno folded his arms over his legs and laid his head down on his forearms, resting his eyes for a moment.
He heard Evelyn let out a soft laugh.
He wanted to gape at her revelation— he believed her, which was even stranger— but a giant yawn escaped his mouth instead.
“Take a rest.
I’ll keep watch.”
“Thanks, yo.”
She hummed in response, but he was already asleep.
***
Evelyn let her mind race while the red head, Reno, slept soundly beside her.
Fucking Loki.
Whether it was him or not, it was so characteristic of the trickster god to drop her down directly into a shitstorm and gleefully watch the chaos unfold.
Apparently this new universe was in the middle of a war and they weren’t being very civil about it.
She had no idea if this was earth or not— the All Speak gifted to her by Thor made it nearly impossible to truly know what language they were speaking, as she could understand them all.
There were things that were familiar though.
The Wutaians had clothing and buildings that appeared reminiscent of feudal Japan, Reno was carrying a gun that looked a bit like a 1970’s pistol while his suit appeared closer to something a modern businessman might wear today, and the coloring and scents of the forest were very much like those of her own planet.
An alternate dimension?
Something close to that, she suspected.
Her gaze shifted to her slumbering companion.
He looked
young
.
Early twenties at the oldest, but though he had a strikingly attractive baby-face, there was a weight to his eyes that she recognized in herself.
He had seen some shit and come out of it harder.
Sharper.
The way that he had held that gun in the corridor after she’d blown through the patrol looked like he was more than comfortable with it, and she had the feeling that he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her if he thought it was in his best self-interest.
She could respect that, even if it irked her.
Evelyn’s problem here was a lack of information.
She hadn’t been able to get much out of Reno before he passed out, but the intel she’d gathered was enough to give her a broad idea of what was going on.
While she didn’t intend to land here and immediately start fucking shit up, the abuse at the hands of the Wutaians made her decision pretty easy.
She’d declared a side, and she had the feeling that she would need to stick with it.
For now.
The Loki-shade had told her that this universe was in trouble, but she wasn’t in a position to understand what that meant.
She needed to know more, and she hoped that this Shinra Corporation would be willing to trade information for her own unique services.
A soft shuffling sound caught her attention and Evelyn snapped her head to the side, listening intently.
Whatever it was that was making noise was still a far way off, but she didn’t want to be caught unaware with a sleeping companion.
Moving silently, Evelyn crept over to Reno and slipped the gun from the inside of his jacket.
It was a testament to his exhaustion that he didn’t even register the removal, and she smiled wryly as she carefully maneuvered his body and slung him over her shoulders.
Reno was tall and lanky, and while his weight was negligible with her enhanced strength, his toes nearly dragged on the ground as she moved from their resting place and began walking towards the coast.
This had been the direction that Reno had directed them to while they had escaped the base, and Evelyn hoped that if they continued the same way then they would regroup with his allies sooner rather than later.
She moved quickly through the underbrush, trying not to jostle her cargo or make tracks prominent enough to alert anyone following them to pick up their trail.
The sun was rising higher into the sky as she traveled, Reno still fast asleep on her shoulders.
He’d better be grateful for this.
Evelyn didn’t really know what to think of him just yet, but he was quippy and laid-back in a way that she had appreciated.
Hopefully he wouldn’t shoot her in the back after everything was said and done.
Just as her stomach was beginning to let her know that it had been god knows how long since she’d fed it, there was a distant din of sound ahead.
Evelyn slowed her pace and proceeded cautiously, picking up the chatter of what sounded like a dozen or so men.
The trees cleared ahead of her and she gazed through the underbrush, catching sight of what looked like a squadron of soldiers.
They wore a curious combination of techy armor and medieval shoulder pauldrons, and while many of them carried rifles, some of them were wearing swords strapped to their backs.
They didn’t look like the Wutaian assassins, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Still no sign of the squad.
What’s the word, captain?
Are we continuing on with this grid, or heading back?” one of the soldiers asked, looking to a man with dark blue fatigues and a silver helmet that obstructed his features.
“We’ll head back to base and regroup with the others.
With the chopper destroyed and the rest of the soldiers dead, there wasn’t much chance to recover the Turk.
Probably dead or slunk off into the woods to escape.
Either way, our job here is done,” the captain replied.
Evelyn braced herself and hoped that she was making the right choice as she let Reno slide from her shoulders and sit against a tree trunk.
The red head sighed and shifted, his eyes opening lazily for a moment before they caught upon her and sharpened with awareness.
“Wha?”
“Shh.
There’s a patrol ahead and I think they’re your people, but I didn’t want to guess wrong and get you killed,” Evelyn whispered as she crouched beside him, tilting her head towards the clearing where the soldiers were organizing.
Reno perked up and tried to stand, wincing for a moment as his knee buckled.
She caught his arm and helped him up, catching the way that his body relaxed in relief.
“Yeah, they’re Shinra,” Reno confirmed.
He let her support him with an arm around his waist and began pulling her forward.
“Yo!
Friendlies incoming!”
Despite his declaration, nearly every soldier in the clearing ahead turned with weapons ready.
Rifles and swords were pointed their way, but Reno just huffed and rolled his eyes.
“Identify yourself!” the captain shouted, poised to attack alongside his men.
“Reno.
Turk.
This is Evelyn.
Like I
said
, we’re friendlies,” Reno grouched, glaring at the man.
“Sir!
I recognize him.
He’s one of the squad we’re looking for,” another soldier chirped.
The captain lowered his blade to his side, giving a signal that the rest of his men followed.
They stowed their weapons and Reno nudged her, prompting Evelyn to continue forward to meet them.
She was greeted with the curious sensation of all eyes on her, though with their helmets she couldn’t see their gazes directly.
“Got a phone I can borrow, yo?” Reno asked, and the captain pursed his lips and pulled what looked like an old flip phone from his pocket before handing it to Reno.
Evelyn had a brief moment of amusement as she considered how her father would react to seeing that ancient-looking piece of technology.
The soldiers murmured amongst themselves as Reno tapped the keys on the phone and then held it up to his ear, tapping his foot while it rang.
“
Veld
.”
“Yo, boss.
Not dead.
Just regrouped with a soldier platoon,” Reno drawled, winking at the captain.
“
Damnit, Reno.
Report.”
The man, Veld, sounded irritated.
“The anomaly was…” his icy blue eyes flickered to her and she gave a shrug.
“It was a woman.
Not Wutaian.
Fell outta the fucking sky, boss.
She was unconscious at the center of the event.
We went to investigate and the Eclipse Warriors ambushed us.
Lost the entire squad, Slash included.
They took me hostage.”
Evelyn frowned at the information.
He was remarkably well-balanced for a man who’d just lost his entire team.
Either he was excellent at compartmentalization, or he was a bit of a sociopath.
Maybe both.
“
Damn.
How’d you escape?
”
“They took the woman too.
Her name’s Evelyn.
She broke free, let me loose, and got me out.
Definitely an asset,” Reno continued, smirking at her.
Evelyn huffed at his sly expression.
“
And the Eclipse?
”
“From what I can tell, she killed all the ones in the base—”
“A patrol was close to us this morning, a little after you fell asleep.
Pretty sure I lost them, but we shouldn’t linger,” Evelyn informed them.
The soldiers immediately were on their guard, their captain indicating they should create a perimeter.
“You catch that, boss?”
“
Yes.
Return with D Squad to base.
Bring the asset.
”
There was an abrupt click as the phone call ended and Reno snorted as he tossed the phone back to the captain.
He snatched it out of the air with a growl and then turned to his men to give them their orders.
“Yo, did you carry me?” Reno asked as they began to move through the forest again, the trees fading away to reveal a white sand beach that would have been stunning if they weren’t being potentially hunted by assassins.
“Had you all safe in my arms while you took your power nap, like a pretty little princess,” Evelyn quipped with a grin.
Reno looked affronted for a moment and even a few of the soldiers snickered, but they quieted quickly when he sent them an icy glare.
Finally he just gave a hum and shrugged, leaning more of his weight on her.
“Who’s got a potion, man?
I need to hold onto whatever’s left of my masculinity,” Reno groused.
One of the soldiers near them tossed him a bright blue vial that Reno snatched out of the air, uncapped, and downed without hesitation.
He let out a sigh of relief and almost immediately pulled away from Evelyn.
She let him go cautiously, raising a brow when she noticed that he was walking normally.
Reno grinned and winked, twirling the empty vial between his fingers.
“Huh.
That’s useful,” Evelyn observed.
She wondered if it was some kind of magic.
Was this a world with magic?
There was so much for her to learn.
Hopefully she would be able to gain the information she needed from Shinra.
She hated flying blind, especially when she had no one to watch her back.
“Shinra’s got all the best gear.
Just you wait, yo.
You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
***
Evelyn let herself relax slightly as they accompanied the patrol to a large rocky outcropping just off the beach where a helicopter lay waiting for them.
She listened as the soldiers chatted and continued to ask Reno questions when they popped into her mind, but she still got the sudden sense that something was off.
Whether they were being watched or it was just her instincts flaring up due to the strangeness of her circumstances, Evelyn was tense and wary as they piled into the chopper and took to the air.
Reno was watching her too.
He was trying to be discreet, but Evelyn had been trained by Natasha Romanoff herself, and she knew what she was seeing.
He was nervous.
Tapping his fingers to the side of his leg, slumping down in a feigned position of laziness, and letting his eyes travel from the cockpit, to her, and then back.
Something had him off kilter, and she had a feeling that she was going to find out what it was soon.
The chopper finally set down on a black tarmac in the center of what was clearly a military installation, and she could see several squadrons of soldiers lined up in clear rows and groups.
They were off to the side, but close enough.
Anxiety crept up her spine as the soldiers began to disembark, leaving Reno and Evelyn alone in the hold.
She turned to him, scanning his features with calculating eyes.
“Am I gonna like what happens when I get off this bird?” she asked him bluntly.
Reno didn’t hide his frown.
He sighed and swiped his messy hair out from his eyes before giving her a helpless sort of shrug.
“Look, you’re an unknown.
Yeah, you helped me, and thanks a million for that, but Shinra… well, they don’t do well with unknowns,” Reno explained tightly.
She could see a tiny drop of sweat beading at his temple.
“I’ll debrief with your people, but I’m not going to be a prisoner.
Trust me, Reno… you
don’t
want me as an enemy,” Evelyn stated.
“Yeah, I caught that with the way you shredded those assassins.
Look yo, let me head out first and I’ll try to smooth things over.
But I’ve gotta be straight with you.
I’m a company man.
I’ll follow orders, even if I don’t like them.”
It wasn’t difficult to read between the lines.
Reno would fight her if they told him to, and he wouldn’t hesitate.
Neither would she.
“Fine.
Go.”
He wasted no time leaping from his seat and hopping out of the chopper, ducking his head down and jogging across the tarmac to where a small group of people waited, positioned safely between two squads of soldiers.
Evelyn crouched at the edge of the hold, taking in the new players in front of her.
There was a man in a suit much like Reno’s, with almost asian features and sleek black hair pulled into a high ponytail.
At his side was a larger man, also in a well-tailored suit, with dark brown hair and a face full of scars.
He was frowning at Reno as the red head spoke, hands gesturing wildly.
Three more men stood with them, one in a lab coat with glasses and a hunched posture.
The next was a thickly built man with a broad mustache and what looked like a well-decorated military suit.
The third man looked more like a fashion model than the warrior his armor hinted at.
He had a long red leather coat that very nearly matched his vivid crimson hair and he appeared both irritated and completely bored at the proceedings.
The red-clad warrior stood slightly apart from the others with his arms crossed over his chest, and Evelyn could see that there was something different about him.
His armor beneath the leather coat looked similar to that of the soldiers that carried the swords, and he also had a blade strapped to his back, though it looked far more elaborate that the ones his cohorts carried.
But it wasn’t that… it was…
His
eyes
.
The moment he turned his head to look at her from where she lingered in the chopper she inhaled sharply in surprise.
His eyes
glowed
.
Like a bright blue light shone through them, ethereal and unnatural.
Evelyn once again wondered at the existence of magic in this world, and thought that if anyone was more than human, it was this red-clad man.
He narrowed those eerie eyes at her and frowned just as Reno shifted away from the other suits and looked to her.
She could tell by the resigned pull to his expression that the conversation had not gone his way, and by association, hers.
Evelyn sighed and hopped out of the chopper, striding across the tarmac and preparing herself for another battle.
She paused a good distance away from them and folded her arms across her chest, raising a brow at the brown-haired man who appeared to be their leader.
He stepped forward, sharp eyes scanning her up and down before he took a deep breath and spoke.
“We’d like you to come with us.”
His voice was the same one from Reno’s phone call— Veld, she recalled.
“Come with you where?” Evelyn asked.
The black-haired suit shifted slightly, his hand slipping into his jacket.
She tensed.
“Into Shinra custody.”
“Yeah.
I’m not going to do that,” Evelyn snorted.
The soldiers on either side of the group shifted, their grips on their weapons tightening.
There were more with rifles than swords, but it wouldn’t matter when things got started.
She knew she’d be able to take them all.
“It would be in your best interest to cooperate,” Veld said lowly, frowning at her.
Reno shoved his hands into his pockets and took a small step to the side, angling his body in front of his boss.
Smart.
She didn’t want to hurt him, but if they pushed her…
“I’ll cooperate, but not as a prisoner.
I don’t recognize your authority, nor the authority of Wutai.
We can have a conversation regarding mutually beneficial collaboration, but there will be no ‘taking into custody,’” she drawled, leveling him with an unimpressed gaze.
“You’ll recognize our authority when my soldiers are through with you,” the mustached man barked, his cheeks red and ruddy as he blustered, drawing attention to the massive scar that bisected the right side of his face.
Veld seemed irritated with the interruption and turned to speak to the man, but he was already raising his hand.
“Soldiers!
Take this woman into custody!”
“Wait, Heidegger!
We should—”
“Shut the fuck up!” the man, Heidegger, interrupted Reno with a roar.
The other suit moved to intercept Reno as he turned towards Heidegger, but Evelyn was shifting her attention to the soldiers rushing towards her.
She shifted into a battle stance and took in a long, steadying breath.
She let the soldiers surround her, their weapons ready, and as the nearest one reached out for her, Evelyn allowed the darkforce to fill her.
She pushed her power out in a massive wave of black energy that crackled and whispered into the air, the shockwave throwing back the entire squadron of soldiers.
They let out shouts and cries of alarm as they flew backwards, the impact likely injuring some of them but not severely.
“She has materia!” one of the soldiers shouted, and she recognized the word.
Reno had said it back in the base.
Was that what they called their magic?
“Retrieve it!
Genesis!
Take her down at bring me that materia!
It’s the property of Shinra now!” Heidegger ordered, and the red-clad man stepped forward.
The soldiers scattered out of the way, leaving a clear path from the warrior, Genesis, to her.
“Try to leave the asset alive, Rhapsados.
I’d like viable samples to work with,” the man in the lab coat spat, and Evelyn felt her blood run cold.
She’d had more than enough of scientists and experiments to last many lifetimes, and would under no circumstances allow herself to be put into the same position again.
She would kill them all before she would become an experiment again.
“Alright, Red.
Let’s dance,” Evelyn quipped as she began to circle the warrior.
He narrowed his eyes at her and drew his blade, holding it loosely at his side.
“Are you certain you do not wish to cooperate?
You do not even have a weapon,” Genesis observed in a smooth, sophisticated tone, giving her an unimpressed look.
Evelyn grinned, a feral sharpness taking over her features.
“I
am
a weapon.”
He scoffed dramatically and flourished his sword before lunging at her almost lazily, the arc of his swing passing predictably wide.
He was toying with her, either trying to use intimidation or just sizing her up, but Evelyn wanted to see what this man with glowing blue eyes was capable of.
She darted forward, calling on her enhanced speed, and ducked beneath his blade, following through with a punch that contained only a hint of her true strength.
Genesis grunted with the impact, his eyes widening in surprise as he was thrown back and his boots skidded across the tarmac.
He stomped his foot down to halt his momentum and glared at her, chin tipping down as his expression became immediately more alert and cautious.
Good.
He was taking her seriously now.
She didn’t give him a moment to gather himself before she rushed forward again, dodging to the side as he lashed out with his blade.
He was moving quicker now, approaching something that closely resembled her own speed, and Evelyn felt a grin pull at her mouth as they traded attacks and dodges.
Genesis was definitely enhanced, and nearly on par with Steve when it came to speed.
There were murmurs and low exclamations from the soldiers and suits that were witnessing their battle, but Evelyn was content to ignore them and focus on their fight.
She began landing hits on him— nothing devastating, more a test on his gaps and openings— striking at his ribs and kicking at his thighs.
He was growing frustrated, his expression contorting and his eyes blazing as he hissed and grunted with each contact made.
Genesis let out a growl of rage and twirled his sword, making Evelyn leap back to avoid the hit.
The moment he had space he held a hand in front of him and she felt a strange static in the air, a heat rippling across her skin.
Something glowed green around Genesis’s wrist, visible beneath the red leather of his coat, and then he flung his arm towards her and fire erupted into the air.
She felt the heated air burn her throat as she gasped in surprise, but her reflexes saved her as the darkforce answered her call and surrounded her like a cocoon of liquid darkness.
The heat stung but was bearable beneath her shield, and she only allowed it to drop when she felt the air return to a safer temperature.
Anticipating another attack while she was essentially blinded, Evelyn dropped into a rolling dive to the side as she allowed the darkness to fall away.
Her instincts paid off as a fireball skittered across the tarmac where she’d been standing, and she landed in a crouch, watching as Genesis growled and lifted his hand, passing his palm over the length of his blade.
Runes and patterns flared on the metal’s surface, flashing brightly before the entire weapon was wreathed in vibrant flames.
Genesis huffed with a haughty grin as he raised his flaming sword and rushed her, moving faster than before.
Evelyn was forced to be on the defensive as she ducked and dodged to evade the magic weapon, and she could see the frustration beginning to mount as Genesis failed to land a blow.
He released a bellow of rage and thrust his hand out towards her, the green glow returning and a spiral of fiery beams twisting towards her.
Evelyn pulled the darkforce within her and summoned it to act as a shield in front of her, the beams impacting her shadows and pushing her back several feet.
As the darkness abated she had a split second of surprise to see that Genesis had followed his magical attack with a physical one, and the flaming blade was speeding towards her face.
He fully intended for this attack to be a fatal one.
Reacting without thought, she reached up and caught the blade between her hands.
Silence covered the tarmac as everyone looked on in stunned disbelief while Evelyn held the still flaming sword above her head, the faint sizzling sound of her skin beneath the heated metal almost an afterthought in the moments following her move.
A scream clawed at her throat but she held it back, trapped behind teeth that were grit in a facsimile of a grin, sharp and intense.
The rage crackling in her chest made her hum in acceptance, and she knew that she was going to end this battle now.
Though his intention had been to kill, Genesis had succeeded in hurting her.
Not badly, but enough that she was done with him.
“Call for Sephiroth!
Do it,
now!
” Veld growled, and as Genesis snapped his head to the side to glare at the man, Evelyn took advantage of his distraction and moved.
She rotated her torso, maneuvering the sword to pass harmlessly by her shoulder while simultaneously twisting her body around, exposing her back to Genesis.
Her elbow flashed through the air in a rapid attack, connecting with Genesis’s nose with a loud crack.
His head snapped back and he grunted loudly, but Evelyn was still moving.
She continued the spin, bringing both fists forward and connecting with his chest in a powerful blow infused with the swirling power of the darkforce.
Genesis was hurled off his feet and soared through the air, colliding roughly with a parked vehicle on the far side of the tarmac.
The metal groaned and bent as his body hit it and he slumped to the ground, his sword tumbling from his hand mid flight and the flames spluttering out.
Evelyn clenched her fists, feeling the burns instantly healing now that the super-heated metal was gone.
His sword clattered to the ground in front of her and she stalked towards it, retrieving the blade and testing its weight.
It was surprisingly heavy, but well balanced.
Evelyn examined it for a moment and then looked to the unconscious Genesis, taking in the blood covering his face from his broken nose.
Hard to say how long he would be out, if he was an enhanced as she thought he was.
Just as she made to turn away from him and back to the ones in charge there was a flicker of movement from her peripherals and she dove to the side a moment before a gleaming silver blade was brought down on her back.
Evelyn rolled to her feet, Genesis’s sword held out defensively in front of her, to see that another warrior had entered the fray.
He was
tall.
At least two heads taller than her, and built powerfully.
Clad in black leather and gleaming armor, he also possessed the most beautiful,
ridiculous
hair that she had ever seen.
It was almost as long as he was tall and swung heavily behind him in a silver curtain as he rose to his full height, a katana held ready before him.
She had never seen anything like it.
It was, like the rest of him, ridiculously huge.
His eyes held the same unearthly glow as Genesis’s, though they seemed to gleam even brighter than the red-head’s.
He was watching her closely with those glowing eyes, every line of his body ready for combat.
“Well, look at
you
,” Evelyn drawled as she twirled Genesis’s sword in her hand.
“The leather get-up, the overcompensation sword… you must be the boss fight.”
There was nothing in his face to show that her words had needled him, and Evelyn grinned.
She could tell by the way he was standing, the way he held his weapon, that this would be a good fight.
“General Sephiroth.
Our finest soldier, first class.
Give up now, girl!” Heidegger snapped from the side.
Evelyn raised a brow at this new warrior, this general, and hummed.
“First class, huh?
We’ll see.”
With a flick of her wrist she held her sword ready and lunged for him, ready to test his defenses.
Sephiroth moved before she could meet him, that massive katana swinging in a arc so wide she had to nearly bend in half to avoid it.
She followed up before he could, and when he brought the blade up to parry the sound of metal on metal screamed across the tarmac.
The moment their swords met the battle raged.
No warm ups, no dancing around each other.
Sephiroth was here for one reason, and that was to take her down.
He was
fast
.
Blindingly fast.
And if she hadn’t trained with Pietro and Loki she would have been apprehensive about tangling with him, but Evelyn could match his pace.
Her muscles burned pleasantly as his strength shone through, and she let all of her focus narrow into the movements of her opponent in front of her.
For his part, Sephiroth was unreadable.
There was nothing in his expression that gave away his thoughts, and he allowed only quiet grunts and focused exhales with his attacks.
He was difficult if only because of his impressive range, his larger frame and seven-foot katana giving him enough space to unleash his devastating attacks.
He chained them together, one after another, and Evelyn felt herself losing ground.
She wasn’t worried though.
She was having
fun
.
Finally, a lunge from him had her dodging to the side, but it was a feint, and he turned the blade and sliced it through the air towards her, directly towards where she had moved.
The edge of the katana slipped across her upper arm and cut into the muscle below.
Evelyn rolled out of his range, grinning as her body healed itself.
The blood was apparent, but the dark fabric of her armor disguised the extent of her abilities.
She didn’t need them to know everything she was capable of just yet.
As Evelyn regained her footing she saw the first sign of emotion from Sephiroth.
There was a muted satisfaction on his face as his eyes flickered down to her arm and then back up, and the very corner of his lip twitched for a fraction of a second.
He was pleased with himself.
She knew it wouldn’t last.
“First blood is mine,” Sephiroth said, the first time he had spoken as well.
His voice was low and melodic, and Evelyn grinned.
“Last blood counts for more,” she replied as they slowly circled each other.
She was vaguely aware of the suits across from them watching the battle, and she could hear Veld and the scientist speaking on the phone to someone.
“You are skilled, but I am the better swordsman,” Sephiroth continued evenly, and Evelyn laughed.
His eyes narrowed at her reaction.
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble,
general
, but I’ve been holding back,” Evelyn said, and tossed the blade to her right hand, anticipation swelling in her belly at the familiar grip.
“And I’m
not
left-handed.”
She didn’t wait for a response before she leapt towards him, confidence blooming in her at the effortless feeling of fighting at her most powerful.
Evelyn had made sure to be adept at fighting with both hands, but she had learned as a right-hander, and it showed.
Sephiroth was immediately pushed back by her flurry of attacks, his longer blade more of a hindrance as he had to contort and manipulate his own body in order to meet her strokes.
His expression hardened as he fought, his speed and skill the only thing keeping him from falling to her hits.
She could feel the momentum of the battle begin to level out as he adapted to her higher skill, and Evelyn found herself relaxing into the rhythm of their movements.
He was incredibly skilled, level-headed, and while she was pushing him back slightly now, Sephiroth was still composed and not panicking.
When he defended a rather technical sequence of attacks she laughed out loud, thoroughly enjoying their fight.
She caught a quiet ‘
humph
’ from him at her reaction and she had the feeling that he was enjoying this too.
Finally, she pushed hard with her blade and they sprang apart, both eyeing each other with a newfound respect.
Both were breathing hard but not overwhelmingly, and Evelyn gave him a small grin as she held up her hand and allowed the darkforce to swirl between her fingers.
“Want to spice things up a little?” she asked him playfully, delighted when his lips twitched and he lifted his own hand.
There was a small silver bangle around his wrist that contained several small colored orbs, and when one of the green ones began to glow she realized that this was the source of their magic.
And then lightning sparked around his arm and she laughed again.
So, there were more than one kind of magic they could wield…
“Shall we?” he purred, his strange blue-green eyes seeming to glow brighter.
Her answer was to hurl a bolt of darkforce energy at his feet.
He leapt aside, as she thought, and she met him with her blade.
Sparks crackled in the air and she felt the skin at the back of her neck tighten as lightning flashed between them, his katana shielding him as he blasted at her with his magic.
Evelyn let it move past her, taking in the familiar feeling of the lightning biting across her skin as she dodged the main attack and took only a glancing blow.
Thor’s lightning was nastier than this, and after years of training and fighting together, the element hardly affected her anymore.
Sephiroth didn’t know this, however, and unleashed attack after attack interspersed with the crossings of their blades.
The darkforce was used more as a shield than a weapon, as she didn’t truly want to hurt him.
If things changed then she’d do what she had to do, but she was trying to make a point here, and Evelyn had a feeling that if she killed this man then the chance for an alliance would be gone and there would be two different factions trying to take her down.
Sephiroth didn’t seem to tire from his prolonged use of magic, but she could see sweat beading along his hairline.
Her own body recovered rapidly, though with the way the darkforce was chilling her veins, she wouldn’t be able to continue this way.
Hopefully, there would be more opportunities to tangle with the general, but she thought it was just about time to end things for now.
With a focusing breath she pulled at the darkforce, accessing the black, frozen dimension unseen to all but her, and teleported behind Sephiroth.
He was unprepared for the sudden disappearance of his opponent and was off-balanced by his attack towards a target that had vanished, and Evelyn was ready.
Her blade slipped over his shoulder and the edge sat against the side of his throat, a threat that he could not ignore.
Sephiroth froze, the lightning that had been prepared in his hand sputtering out and leaving a deadly silence on the tarmac.
“
Wait!
The order has been rescinded!
We want to collaborate!” Veld cried suddenly, and Evelyn shifted away from Sephiroth, letting her blade fall to her side.
She kept her eyes on him as he turned to regard her cautiously, his eyes flickering between hers and the sword that had been close enough to end him.
From this near she could see that there was more than just the glow that was strange about his eyes.
His pupils were slit, almost like a cat’s.
Curious, but she had other things to think about right now.
“I hoped you’d say that,” Evelyn said, and flipped the blade in her grip, offering Sephiroth the hilt.
He eyed her for a moment before cautiously taking the weapon, and Evelyn turned to stride towards the suits.
There were dark gashes across the asphalt where her darkforce and his bolts of lightning had struck, some still smoking lightly.
Whatever happened next, at least she’d had a hell of a fight to keep things interesting.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
There’s a photo Tim saw once, back when he was still chasing freedom and adrenaline and Robin over Gotham rooftops. At the time, he thought it was one of the coolest ideas he’d seen, and while he’d expanded his aperture for quality composition since he first searched “cool photography ideas” on Pinterest, something about that one photo had stuck around long enough for Tim to remember it now.
The photographer was leaning out a car window, face obscured behind their tool of choice, hair streaming in the wind behind them. Around the edges, the road ahead could be seen, blue sky bright with afternoon sunshine and highway free of any other travelers. The majority of the photo was taken up by the side mirror, where a thunderstorm had gleefully shoved its way firmly past brewing and taken over the entire horizon in its glee. Swathes of rain obscured any view that may have previously been visible and forks of lighting sparked through the clouds to tag the ground, while the text below provided a faded and desperate warning:
objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
Tim had long since moved past his single summer of storm-chasing. Vigilantism provided just as much an opportunity for photography, and there was even more a chance for adrenaline and satisfaction in a job well done. Perhaps a slightly higher chance of death via stab wound, but the likelihood of freezing to death in the arctic or getting struck by lightning were lower (though never zero). But the feeling the photo had given him, a chance for a breathtaking adventure juxtaposed with the swiftly creeping consequences of the past, had never left.
The phrase “gut feeling” had never meant much until he’d connected it with the visual. Every once in a while something in Tim’s life would shift, and he’d feel that creeping, unsettling sensation all over again, even while he stared into what looked like a cloudless sky.
Sometimes it was little, stupid things: terrible traffic on an already bad day, a silly argument gone out of hand with one of his siblings. Sometimes it wasn’t: a Bat ending up in the med-bay after going silent on coms, Ra’s al Ghul reaching out again (personally or otherwise), a JL meeting that had everyone exhausted and injured by the end of whatever invasion they barely stopped.
Something that had struck him years later was how in focus the photo was. Head and limbs held perfectly steady, car and mirror and text all easily visible. Hair flying and lighting both equally captured and preserved. It wasn’t a photo taken in haste, but composed beautifully.
Later Robin wondered if the photographer had been an experienced crafter, confident in their tools and their skills and their timing, both to take the photo, and to leave before they were caught in the storm.
Red Robin supposed they could have been a reckless amateur. An artist in the right place at the right time by sheer luck.
Tim wondered if it mattered.
His own gut feelings had never given him an edge, just reminded him there was something to lose.
Maybe that was an edge all on its own.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
【
"Nezuko!!" Tanjiro hugged Nezuko and ran out of the attack range. He came to a big tree and gently put Nezuko down! He looked at the injured Nezuko with heartache!
"It's so badly injured! The left wrist is almost broken!"
Looking at Nezuko, who was seriously injured and unconscious but still frowning because of the pain, Tanjiro could only look anxious: "Heal it quickly! Heal it quickly!"
Rui, who was standing by, was shaking all the time when he saw this scene! He raised his right hand slowly with trembling, and said in disbelief: "Are you brother and sister?"
"So what?" Tanjiro didn't even turn his head, still looking at his sister anxiously!
"
】
.....
~One Piece World~
"Doctor! Call a doctor quickly..."
Chopper shouted frantically, running around in circles.
Then he slapped his forehead, realizing something.
"By the way! I am a doctor!! But I can't get over it either!!"
~Jujutsu Kaisen World Future Timeline~
"This kind of injury can be cured in a flash by a Reverse Cursed Technique."
Shoko Ieiri said while holding a cigarette and staring at the dark circles under his eyes.
But judging from their physiques, they seem to be the same as ordinary people. If there is no special treatment, this hand will be useless!!
Judging by the white-haired boy, he should be the same as the cursed spirit in this world, full of disgusting smells.
"Eh, can voice have a healing effect? He just shouted to heal quickly, and Her body was actually healing!!"
Yuji Itadori chimed in excitedly.
Shoko Ieiri looked at it after hearing it, took a deep breath of smoke, and slowly exhaled. But Nezuko didn't seem to be an ordinary person either, her body was gradually healing!!
Not only that, but people in other worlds also noticed this situation!
~Bleach World~
~Hueco Mundo, Las Noches~
Aizen Sousuke stood in the grand hall of Las Noches, his sharp eyes fixed on the screen before him.
"It's healing, similar to the super-speed regeneration of the Hollow?!"
He murmured, his voice calm but laced with fascination. His mind raced with possibilities, dissecting the mechanics of the ability and comparing it to the regenerative powers he had observed in Hollows and Arrancars.
Ulquiorra Cifer, who had been standing silently in the shadows, stepped forward, his pale, emotionless face betraying no hint of interest.
“If it is similar to Hollow regeneration, then it is flawed,”
He said flatly.
“Hollow regeneration is tied to our instincts and survival. It is not perfect. This ability may share the same weaknesses.”
Aizen turned his gaze to Ulquiorra, his smile never faltering.
“A fair point, Ulquiorra. But that’s precisely what makes it worth studying. If we can eliminate those flaws, refine the ability, and integrate it into our plans… the possibilities are endless.”
【
"Your... sister has become a Ghost!! But you're still with her!" Rui's eyes widened, and he stood there staring at Tanjiro.
"That girl stood up... and protected her brother... Risking her own life..."
Rui leaned forward slightly, his blood-red pupils trembling constantly, and his eyes showed a look of desire.
"This is a genuine bond!! I want it so much!"
Rui's sister's face was full of anxiety, and she couldn't help but call out to Rui anxiously, but Rui impatiently waved his hand, and several extremely sharp silk threads instantly cut through her sister's body!!
Cut the body into several pieces, and the head fell directly to the ground! The silk threads continued to knock down the tree behind him!
】
.....
~Fairy Tail World~
"This is not brother and sister!!"
Elfman said angrily with an expression of disbelief on his face.
His voice rose with indignation.
"A real man would not attack his sister! This is an insult to the word brother and sister!"
The people in other worlds also looked tired of looking at scumbags. A child, but really cruel!
Killed his sister, as she said, just out of impatience...
Some speculated about Rui’s nature.
Or is this a demon? There is no mercy or hesitation, not to mention any guilt or uneasiness!
【 The head that fell to the ground looked at Rui with tears in his eyes and said in a panic and fearful tone: "I have been a good sister! Give me a chance..."
Rui said impatiently with a gloomy face: "Then you kill the guy wandering around in the mountain now!"
Hearing this, the body that fell to the ground picked up the head and immediately ran towards the forest, not daring to stay any longer!
】
.....
~Projection of All Worlds~
The scene in front of them shocked everyone. They had seen serious injuries, but it was the first time they saw a head that was still able to speak!
"It's talking!! The head is talking...!!"
Others marveled at the bizarre sight.
"The dead are talking!"
"The body can actually pick up its own head... and even run...!"
~Jujutsu Kaisen World Future Timeline~
"It's very similar to the cursed spirits in our world."
Gojo Satoru smirked knowingly.
It has super-fast healing, and the head and body can be separated without dying.
【
Watching Rui turn around and put his hand over his heart, he said to Tanjiro with a deeply moved look: "After seeing your bond... I am deeply moved..."
"Just hand over your sister to me, and I will spare your life!"
"Let your sister become my sister! Don't worry, I will create a bond."
"The bond of fear!! I will let him know what the end of resistance is!"
】
.....
~Type-Moon World, Magical Girl Illya Worldline~
“This guy is a pervert! Taking away someone else’s sister and trying to make her your own? What a joke!”
Illya shouted, her small fists clenched tightly at her sides. Her face was flushed with anger, and her ruby-red eyes burned with indignation.
Miyu, standing beside her, nodded in agreement, her usual calm demeanor replaced by a rare look of disapproval.
~Fairy Tail World~
"It's really infuriating! This guy...!"
Mira rarely lost her temper, but this time, she snapped.
She shook her head in disgust.
"That's right! What's the use of a bond that can only be maintained by fear!!"
~Demon Slayer World~
"Nezuko is not an object! She has her own thoughts and will!"
Tanjiro, outside the video, was also full of anger when he heard this!
He clenched his fists tightly. Damn it! I must become stronger, otherwise, I will lose my only sister.
【 "Stop joking!!" Tanjiro walked out with a broken sword in his hand, his eyes full of anger.
"I won't hand Nezuko over to someone like you!"
Faced with Tanjiro's angry roar, Rui said expressionlessly: "You have good momentum! If you can do it, come and try it!"
Rui lifted the hair covering his left eye, revealing the words in his pupil: "If you can beat me, one of the Twelve Demon Moons!"
The words ‘
Lower Class
’ glowed ominously in his eyes. 】
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“The Eclipse is coming up in a few days,” Zuko said, as a way of starting conversation. “Apparently we’re not high enough up the list of priorities to be protected.”
A few days had passed since their secret trip off the island, but since they got back, Zuko seemed to be getting called to attend more and more meetings. The one he was just returning from was about how they would handle possible attacks during the Eclipse.
Katara nearly dropped the scroll she’d been reading. “Protected!?”
“Yeah.” He laid back on the mattress, exhausted. “That’s what the meetings are all about now. In case the Earth Kingdom attacks when we can’t fire bend or something.”
Katara leapt to her feet.
“I have to get going.”
“What?” Zuko sat up to watch as she rushed around the room, going to get the cloak she’d been using on their trips out previously. “What’s happening, where do you need to go?”
“Find Sokka- Toph- My dad, anyone!” She turned on her heel before spinning around again, clearly becoming overwhelmed by the thoughts rushing through her head.
“Katara.” She rushed across the room, going to grab a bag for her to pack things in. “Katara!”
She came to a stop by where she’d left the cloak. “Yes?”
“What is happening and…” he thought for a second before resolve overtook him. “How can I help?”
“The Day of Black Sun- the eclipse- that was our chance to…” she glanced back at Zuko and paused for a moment before continuing. “Well, you know, but if there’s going to be protection, if they know what we’re doing and are taking precautions to avoid it, someone has to warn them.”
“Okay.”
Katara blinked. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. You want to help people, right? Winning this war will help everyone. The Earth Kingdom, the Water Tribes, the Fire Nation. Everyone.”
“Of course.”
“People are suffering. Helping the people who want to help those people is the right choice and… I’ll do what I can.”
“Okay… Okay!” Her face brightened. “We’re doing this together, then.”
“Okay.” Zuko reached for his cloak. “We need to make a plan. Do you know where they are right now?”
Katara shook her head. “No. I know around where they were when we were in Ba Sing Se, but they’ve probably left by now.”
“Are there any places we should check? Places they’re likely to be?”
“They’re probably in the Fire Nation now, since the eclipse is so soon, but finding them might also be a problem, I can’t imagine they’d let themselves be found this close to their goal…”
She sat on the mattress next to the young fire bender, exhausted from the spike of energy she’d just had.
“We can’t warn them,” Katara concluded. “There’s no way we can reach them in time.”
“Okay. What do you want to do then?”
Another idea hit her and she turned to Zuko. “You know what they’re planning, right? You’re at the meetings?”
“Yeah,” Zuko said, not giving it a second thought.
“Then we need to wait until they get here, and tell them all the information we have.”
“Will that work?”
“I don’t know,” Katara admitted. “But we have to try, don’t we? This whole time I’ve been in the Fire Nation, I haven’t known what will work and what won’t, but I have to keep moving. I have to keep helping no matter what happens, because I can.”
There was silence for nearly a minute as Zuko just stared at her, blank-faced, a million thoughts flashing through his eyes before he suddenly turned away and stared down at her lap.
A few seconds later he finally spoke up. “You help everyone you can, even me. It’s amazing… What can I do to help? Anything. I’ll help with anything.”
He looked at Katara and she simply stared back before her mouth opened, ready to speak, only for no words to come out.
“... Katara?”
She blinked. “Right! Sorry, yes! You can help, really. I mean, you’re the answer to the one thing that’s in our way the most. Aang needs a Fire Bending teacher.”
“He’s alive?”
“I… don’t know for sure, but I have to hope, right? And if he’s not, the fight doesn’t stop. We can’t have a new born baby carrying the weight of the world. And you… you’re still helpful. Just supporting what we’re trying to do is enough.”
Zuko took a deep breath. “I can’t… I can’t ask you to trust me. Not after what you’ve had to go through because of me, but I need to do one thing before we leave. And I think the day of the eclipse is my best chance.”
Katara looked at him closely, seemingly figuring out what he was thinking without him having to say it. “Your father?”
“I need to talk to him. After everything- my scar, my banishment, my mother-”
“Your mother?” Katara looked confused for a moment before remembering their conversation in the caverns beneath Ba Sing Se. “Right, after everything that’s happened, I guess I’ve forgotten.”
“I can tell you about her, if you’d like,” Zuko offered, equal amounts offered and delighted at the opportunity to share these stories with Katara. “But yeah, I think he might have had something to do with it and… I guess I just need him to say something- anything about what he did. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
Katara placed one of her hands over his. “It’s not. And, if you want, I could tell you about my mom too.”
“I’d like that. A lot.”
“Then on the Day of Black Sun, that’s what we’ll do.”
“I’ll talk to my father and you’ll find yours?”
“If I can.” Katara shrugged, staring at the wall opposite them, the words leaving her mouth as she thought them. “If not, I’ll go with you. I don’t want you to get hurt by him again, just because you’re choosing to do the right thing.”
“Then I’ll do the same. If I can’t confront my Father, I’ll help you find your friends.”
Katara nodded. “Then we need to be ready. Packing, training, whatever we can do.”
“You pack. Whatever you think we need, I’m ready to leave all of this behind. I’ll keep going to these meetings, tell you whatever I find out. We can train together, sneak out of the palace at night… It’ll be a lot of work.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Are you?”
Katara’s eyes were already filled with resolve, he knew he didn’t even need to ask the question, but it felt like second nature at this point.
“Of course.”
Her resolve was mirrored on his face. “Then I’ll follow your lead.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It all began in Qingquing City, China. There was news that a baby that gave off light was born. Ever since then, superpowers were discovered in various places, and time passed without the cause being identified. Before we knew it, the supernatural became normal, and dreams became reality. The world has become a superhuman society, and the world's population of those with a special trait has grown to 82%. In this world swirling with chaos, the profession that everyone once dreamed about and admired came into the limelight. Heroes... We've heard this narration a thousand times by now, haven't we?
Two years ago, an especially exceptional group of aspiring heroes was cultivated at the prestigious UA High. Since their start, they've grown and had countless clashes with the League of Villains, enduring obstacles that tested them at every turn. Now, in their third year—their final year of hero training—their eyes are set on the future.
The League had been quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The pro heroes and police were on edge, frustrated by their lack of progress in uncovering clues about the villains' next move—or the whereabouts of their missing leader, Tomura Shigaraki. Only time would tell what awaited society...
_________________________
Location: Musutafu, Japan - UA
Timeframe: Present Day
_________________________
"If everyone could just—Kaminari, stop it! Can you all just—Tokoyami, for the last time, don't sit on the desks."
Tenya Iida rigidly stood at the podium in front of his classmates, his attempts to bring order drowned beneath their chatter. His rowdy peers barely noticed him as they talked eagerly over his voice. Finally, he hollered:
"All of you! As your class representative, I implore you to shut up and sit down!"
The unusual sharpness in his phrasing startled the room into compliance. Denki Kaminari slouched into his chair with a groan. "Aw, c'mon Iida, don't be such a stick in the mud." His remark drew a ripple of laughter from nearby seats.
"I am not being a 'stick in the mud', I am simply trying to do my job as—"
"As class representative," The class chimed together, mocking him in perfect unison.
"This is the third year in a row we've heard that line. We have it memorized by now, Iida!" Eijiro Kirishima laughed, looking across the room to his buddy Katsuki Bakugo.
"Mhm." That was all Bakugo gave him.
"That just shows what a good class rep he is." Izuku Midoriya offered, voice earnest.
"Yeah, don't let it get to you, Tenya!" Ochako Uraraka added, smiling encouragingly.
"Thank you, Midoriya, Uraraka. As I was saying—"
The door slid open.
"Good morning, class," came a familiar monotone.
"Good morning, Aizawa-sensei!" The students chorused.
"Iida, quit messing around and get back to your seat. Class is about to start."
Deflated, Tenya trudged to his desk with his head bowed, muttering, "I just wanted to finish the announcements..."
_________________________
"C'mon, Deku! Even with All Might’s power I’m still gonna kick your ass!" Bakugo's voice thundered over the gym, explosions crackling from his palms as he dodged his rival's attacks. “Is that all you got?!”
Midoriya smirked. "We both know the answer to that."
Veins stood out on Bakugo's forehead. He sneered, then barked a laugh. "Bring it, nerd!"
All around them, other sparring matches raged.
"Tsu!" Kirishima bellowed. "Quit hoppin' around!"
"Maybe you should quit standing still—ribbit." Asui's tongue lashed out, wrapping around his torso and tossing him across the gym.
"Woah—Tsu! Hey—! WAH!" WHAM! He hit the dirt hard, crimson hair whipping as he spat out soil. Asui giggled.
Nearby, a cold wave of ice surged across the floor as Todoroki clashed with Iida, who was fending off both him and Aoyama's glittering laser beam. Sero swung lines of tape through the air to corner Kaminari, while other pairs tested their own strengths against each other.
From his perch, Shota Aizawa watched. He thought back on the two years he'd spent with his class—their growth, their brushes with death, the trials they had to overcome. And yet... He yawned, heavy from another sleepless night.
More than a year now... they've been stagnant in hiding, he reflected grimly. Who knows what the League could be planning?
His chest tightened as unease pooled in his heart. He adjusted his eyepatch sitting over his right eye.
If they attacked now—if they caught us off guard—would these kids truly be ready? They've come so far, trained so hard... but even the strongest can falter if fear lingers in their hearts. They need to learn to face it, to move through it...
His gaze swept over them, steady but troubled.
She's nearly here. She is the key.
________________________
Location: Boston, Massachusetts - United Heroes of America Academy
Timeframe: Izuku Midoriya’s last year of junior high
_________________________
"Make sure to snap your wrist when your arm is almost extended. You've got it this time." Pro hero Midnight instructed her pupil, speaking in her native language as they went through the lesson.
The young student, fifteen, nodded, eyes locked on the dummy perched several meters away. Determination radiated from her. She unraveled her weapon, focused on the target, and brought her arm out to the side, snapping at the precise moment. Guided by her opposite hand, she struck true—the dummy's head flew clean off!
"Woohoo! Very good, Charlie! I'm impressed with how far you've come in such a short time. This really your first time training with a whip?"
"It's because you're actually a good teacher! I don't know anyone else as good as you."
Such a way to speak about her instructors...
Nemuri Kayama thought, though a small smile tugged at her lips.
Charlie brushed dirt off the bandage covering a laceration on her arm, a temporary souvenir of her training. "And I think... I think it's because you're nice to me. You make training fun!" Her grin was infectious. "I never thought training could feel this great! I wish you could stay..."
"Sorry, kiddo. I have to get back to Japan soon. This has been an interesting trip—I've never been asked to train someone outside the country before."
"Well... I needed to get better. So I wanted the best of the best."
Midnight allowed a brief pause to settle over them, hooking Charlie's attention. "Speaking of training...have things at home gotten any better?"
Charlie blinked, caught off guard. She chewed on her cheek and glanced away. "My mom... is moody. Like usual. But she's happy when I make progress, so... maybe she'll proud. I just hope it's enough. My dad tries to help, but he's always busy or away on missions."
Nemuri sighed softly and rested a manicured hand on the top of Charlie's head. "Listen, kiddo. Here's some wisdom: at your age, bad things feel like the end of the world. But they don't last forever. Nothing can bring you down that easily. It takes courage to fight through hard times—but never give up. Good things are coming your way, Charlie."
_________________________
1 year & several months later
_________________________
A monitor glowed in the dark room, illuminating a lone figure curled up on a chair. White hair slipped from behind her ear, partially obscuring her vision, though she paid it no mind. Her body was rigid, knees drawn tight to her chest, heartbeat pounding in her ears.
The world-news announcer droned on in a British accent.
"It's a tragic day in the hero community. Renowned Japanese Pro Hero, Midnight, has been reported deceased this morning after a massive battle in Japan. She suffered multiple injuries during the long fight and tragically lost her life. Pro heroes across Japan and the globe mourn this tragic loss. Yet, the heroes and UA students were able to stop the attack before the city's destruction. Recovery efforts have been underway since..."
The reporter's voice faded into the pounding of her own heart. Her eyes locked on the screen as tears blurred her vision. A voice broke through the silence—not even bothering to knock before entering.
"Is that the woman your school had you train under last year? Hm. Looks like she wasn't so great if she was defeated like that."
Charlie shrank further, knees hugged tighter, struggling to steady her trembling breath. Words stuck in her throat; she knew speaking in anger or grief would only bring more trouble.
Her mother clicked her tongue bitterly. "Amaryllis, are you listening to me? Don't try to use this as an excuse." She closed the gap, pressing a hand on the back of Charlie's neck harder than necessary.
Quivering, Charlie met her mother's empty stare. No sympathy, no reaction.
"Death happens every day in this world. Your training continues tomorrow. No more amateurs. Are you trying to jeopardize your number-one spot at school?"
Charlie shook her head, desperate to avoid further punishment. Her mother turned back with a thin, cruel smile, saffron eyes gleaming cold in the dark.
"Stop making a fool of yourself and dry those tears, Amaryllis. You're sixteen now. What kind of hero acts like this?"
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
She was falling. Around her was nothing but the blue sky, with no sun to be seen and no clouds to protect her from the blinding light that was nonetheless assaulting her eyes. She looked beneath her, afraid of seeing the ground approach, but it seemed thousands of miles away. It seemed she could see the whole of Westeros, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't sure of anything, as everything seemed unreal. She spread her arms instinctively as if it would stop her fall but of course, it did nothing. Yet, she wasn't scared at all. What was she expected to do? Wait until she landed on the ground? It seemed strange, for the ground wasn't getting any closer – although she wasn’t certain she could genuinely tell the difference at this distance. She was so high that a mile or two was probably insignificant.
Her hair was flying wildly around her head, and she noticed it was auburn and white, the two colours mixing harmoniously. She wondered if, like Shiera Seastar, her eyes were of two different colours as well. One purple, one blue. Sadly, she couldn't know. From what she could see of her body, she was a young woman, no more than ten-and-six, barefoot and wearing a long dress, but that was it. Was this appearance her soul? Perhaps. Only the Old Gods had the answers to her questions.
She closed her eyes for a second, wondering what would happen when she would open them again. She breathed deeply and opened them again. Only to gasp in surprise. She was falling, but she wasn't alone anymore. In front of her, facing her in the same position, was Brandon Stark.
Her Bran.
Her sweet Bran, broken by Jaime Lannister and countless horrors beyond the Wall. Her adorable Bran, who used to be scared of monsters. Her dear Bran, who used to dream of knighthood. Her lovely Bran, who had held her hands when he had taught her to warg into birds.
They might call him King of the Six Kingdoms, or the Three-Eyed Raven, but to her, he would always be
Bran.
Bran was in his twenties, his hair their natural auburn once again. The horrors he had lived through had darkened it, but soon after taking the Iron Throne, his hair had returned to its natural Tully auburn. It was long, the wing flowing through it easily. He seemed comfortable in this place, a big smile on his face.
She tried to say his name, but no sound came out of her mouth. She put a hand on her mouth, trying to find something wrong, but Bran moved easily in the air and stopped her. He took her hands, pulling her towards him. Holding her by her thighs, he helped her balance herself on his shoulder. All without a word. She looked at his blue eyes, searching for an answer. It couldn't be just a dream.
"We can't talk for long", Bran said. She sobbed but once again, no sound came from her. "You can't be heard, here, only the Three-Eyed Raven can."
With his left hand, he put an auburn lock behind her ear.
"A shame, I would have loved to hear you sing to me one last time…" he whispered. "But that is not why I called you here, as you can imagine. You were so scared, I couldn't ignore you this time, no matter what energy it took from me. You must listen to me carefully because it is the one and only time I can visit you."
Tears filled her eyes but she wiped them angrily and nodded. She would always listen to Bran, he knew so much, and she loved him so dearly.
"As you exist right now, you are rewriting history. Of course, it will change many things in the future and the time our family was born may never come again in this time. But it's alright. The Old Gods sent you here, so here you must stay. I wish I could come in your dreams regularly, and tell you my advice. But I can't, because I'm not the only Three-Eyed Raven. Those who came before the Dance care little about this era, it isn't their burden anymore. But Brynden Rivers came after, and he's from Rhaenyra's line. He may have been the one who called me beyond the Wall, but I have no love for him. And right now, he's trying to interfere with your time, with this story you're writing for yourself. I won't let him. You have a chance to prevent the disappearance of dragons, with whom most magic died. You can make Westeros a place that won't be plagued with rebellions and wars for centuries to come. But, first and foremost, you have a chance to be happy, to love, get married, and have children like you always wanted.
I won't let him take that away from you
. So live. Don't doubt yourself, don't doubt the Old Gods' decision of sending you there. Be happy."
Tears had started running down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her brother's shoulder. Her sobs may be silent, but they were rocking her body like a storm would mistreat a frail ship. Bran caressed her hair softly.
"Don't cry, sweet sister", he said and she could hear his smile. "I'm proud of you. We all are. Rickon is ruling over the North in peace, and Arya is staying with them for a while. She's also looking for Nymeria now that her travels are over. I think your children will soon have direwolf pups just like we did all these decades ago. I won't lie, I'd like one as well, to name him Spring."
He put a hand on her cheek so she would look at him. His smile was brighter than the sun, gentler than the kindest breeze. Bran let go of her, simply holding her fingers. At the same, beautiful raven wings appeared on his back, spreading wide. Her eyes widened at the sight of the black wings. Bran brought her hand on his lips, kissing them as a knight would do for his lady.
"Now, go back, Sweet Queen Helaena. They're waiting for you."
She was suddenly flung back, and her mouth opened in a silent scream of surprise. She instinctively extended her hands to catch Bran, but it was pointless. Her brother waved his hand. Instinctively, her lips moved to talk, although she knew it was pointless. Perhaps he could read her lips.
"Í løvě yøü!"
Her eyes widened as the Old Tongue left her mouth. Bran's eyes widened as well but surprise soon left its place for a bright smile despite his own tears.
"I love you too!" he yelled.
She smiled despite the tears and, after burning in her memory the face of her brother for the last time, she closed her eyes.
000
Helaena woke up with a gasp and sat up abruptly in her bed. Immediately, her ears were assaulted by yelps and screams. Her siblings, mother, and friends were all there, sitting on chairs or on her bed. They were crying her name, tears running down their cheeks. Bran’s words came back to her '
They’re waiting for you'.
He was right, they had been waiting for her. Helaena forced herself to smile at them despite the thundering of her heart against her ribs.
"I'm sorry for scaring you", she said.
It spurred Lyarra into movement, who climbed hastily on the bed and hugged her. Aemond was next, followed by Aegon. The three children were clinging to her, and Helaena hugged them back with all the strength she had. Cregan, more restrained, put a hand on Helaena's shoulders. Queen Alicent grabbed one of her hands, breathing deeply and wiping the tears on her cheeks. Even Ser Criston seemed touched by the scene, offering them one of his rare smiles.
"It's alright. We’re not mad at you", Mother said. "We're happy you woke up."
She moved a bit so that Aemond would be lying on her lap, Lyarra holding one of her arms and Aegon would be hugging from the side. It was much more comfortable. She held onto Aemond's and Lyarra's hands and rested her head on Aegon's shoulder. She could finally see Mother properly. The Queen sat across her on the bed, her expression soft. Sadly her eyes were once again full of worries. '
I should be easing her worries, not making them worse. I hope this will be the last time I worry her like that. I must help her,'
the princess thought.
"How long did I sleep?"
"A few hours, but it was enough to scare us half to death. I think Dreamfyre almost drove the dragon-keepers insane. She's been worried for you, but she'll surely settle down now." the queen replied with a small smile. "I'm glad you're awake, my dearest love. Are you hungry? Thirsty? A maester should look at you."
"I'm fine, Mother. A very special bird looked after me," she said with a bright smile. "He told me how to make everyone happy."
"Did he, now?" the Queen asked. "I'm glad that you have such a good friend. Will you tell me more about this bird?"
"Yes, but later…"
"Of course, my dear. Do you want anything?"
"I'm a bit hungry…" Helaena confessed.
"I'll send a maid to fetch food immediately," Ser Criston said before heading out quickly.
"Thank you, Ser Criston," the queen replied. "Helaena, can you do something for me?"
"Of course Mother!"
"I'd like you to spend a few days with me. I'd like all of you to do so. That means no flying, no fighting without me, nothing. I've been very worried, and it would make me feel much better if you all agreed."
"Yes, Mother!"
"Of course, Your Grace!"
"No flying?!" Aegon whined. "But
I
didn't faint!"
"Please, Aegon?" Helaena asked, moving her head to look at his bright lavender eyes. "I promise we'll go flying together after. And I'll come to all your sparring lesson for three days."
"A week", the boy negotiated.
"I promise."
Aegon grinned wildly, and Helaena smiled softly. Her brother was greedy. Greedy for love, for attention, for glory. The King keeping Rhaenyra as his heir despite having a male heir must make him feel like a failure as a prince, whether consciously or unconsciously. As such, he was looking for this attention and love he craved so much elsewhere. It was probably why the book
Fire and Blood, a history of the Targaryen Dynasty
, had described him as a glutton who had been "grasping" throughout his entire reign. She wouldn't let him become like that. She would shower him with love and affection, him and her two other brothers. She would give them all the love they deserved. She would make sure they were all as good as prince Daeron had been described in the books and songs. Aemond wouldn't lose his eye, and none of them would die.
Queen Alicent as well. Helaena would make sure to openly love her, to be her strongest supporter and ally. She wouldn't let her mother suffer alone. There would be no Queen in Chains, for she would fly to her mother's rescue on Lady Dreamfyre herself if she had to. She remembered all too well the feelings of being a prisoner of the Red Keep. She would
never
allow her loved ones to be subjected to such treatment. Especially at the hands of people history would remember as the Bitch Queen and Lord Flea Bottom.
She wished she could find a peaceful solution to the incoming Dance of the Dragons, but she knew that a man like Daemon Targaryen would never agree to such a thing. Rhaenyra might be persuaded to bend the knee if offered Dragonstone and peaceful life as ruler of the Crownlands, but Daemon would never agree. Men like him never settled for peace when they could have war. She had met those people. The latest in her former life had been Daenerys Targaryen herself, a descendant of the couple. '
I
can't allow their line to continue, if only to stop her birth. Hers, and King Aerys the Second's, and Aegon the Unworthy's, and so many other mad Targaryens who plunged the realm into fire and blood',
Helaena thought. Bran had been right. She was Westeros' hope for peace.
000
Helaena wasn't allowed to go out for two days. As frustrating as it was, the princess understood. She must have terrified her family, and she knew she would have done the same. Thankfully, her uncles visited her, and her siblings and friends remained at her side at all times. They wouldn't let her get bored, for which she was grateful. Part of her hoped the King might visit her if only to scold her and her siblings for their absence at the tourney, but of course, he didn't. Mother was there to save face, and that was all that mattered to a man like him. From what she heard from the maids, Ser Criston and Rodrik Cassel had dominated the mêlée, one using his famous morning star and the other his war hammer. Another knight, hailing from the Stormlands, had also defeated scores as well thanks to his speed and agility. Armed with several daggers and throwing knives, he was a master of sneak attacks.
"He must be half-rabbit", one of the maids said humourously as she served them food. "That man jumped as high as another's head."
"Don’t joke about that. He was certainly trained in this type of fight. He's a cutthroat, I'd bet my hand on it!" the other had replied.
"A cutthroat! Do you want to give the children nightmares?", the first one replied. "Don't listen to Marya. She's jealous because she didn't get to see the tourney" the maid said gently.
"It's alright, I’m not scared. If a cutthroat attacked us, the Kingsguards would defeat him," Helaena said.
"Or the dragons would eat them," Aegon added, shrugging.
They remained inside Helaena's chambers for two more days until the final feast took place. Everyone was commanded to attend it, and Helaena couldn't help but fear it. Nonetheless, she went with a brave face. She wouldn't show fear, she couldn't. Aegon's enemies would feed on her fear and use it against her. She wasn't weak, she wasn't someone's prey anymore. Helaena was a hunter, and her victims would never suspect her for a long time. By the time they would notice her, her jaws would be closing on their necks. Wolves took their time when they hunted, and she would do the same. She would begin with their weakest members to build her strength and slowly but surely, she would attack the lonely leaders.
She sat at the banquet table with the most resolute face a six-year-old, almost seven, child could wear and focused on her food. There was no need to pay attention to the other guests for now. The toasts were repetitive, and Helaena was appalled at Rhaenyra's one. It was abysmal. The youngest princess wondered if her half-sister had ever received any lesson on diplomacy.
'Arya could have done better than that. And Arya’s toasts mostly consisted of inviting people to get drunk for the thrill of it. This woman is a terrible diplomat',
she deadpanned in her head.
Music began suddenly, and Helaena couldn't help but shiver at the painful memory. Aegon grabbed her left hand, and Aemond her right, both sensing her distress.
"It's alright. Mother made sure no song that may hurt you will ever be played. The singer who tried to oppose her got banished from the Red Keep," Aegon promised.
Helaena smiled and held their hands tighter. Even Aemond muttered something about the singer deserving it.
"Thank you, for looking out for me," she said. "It makes me so happy to have you with me."
"Don't worry about that. It's a brother's duty to protect his sister."
"Truly? I'm glad to have such dedicated protectors, then," a voice intervened.
The three children looked up swiftly, and Helaena met Rhaenyra’s cold purple gaze. In her banquet dress, she was as beautiful as the history books had written. But Helaena didn't care. As far as she did, Arya's wild beauty and Margeary's delicate features were much more beautiful than Rhaenyra's unnatural beauty.
"Good evening, my dear brothers and sister. I apologise for surprising you, but I had to visit you. Helaena, I was so distraught to hear you had collapsed. Are you feeling better?"
"I do, sister. I'm grateful for your concern. My brothers looked after me for days, and their care helped a lot," Helaena said with a bright innocent smile.
"Yes, of course," the princess replied with squinted eyes. "A loved one's care is often the best remedy."
"It is! Mother's presence was great as well, she always sang me to sleep."
"I have no doubt," Rhaenyra said almost hatefully before putting a happy and concerned mask on her face once more. "Have you enjoyed the first joust?"
"Of course! Rodrik did so well, and he was wearing my favour, it was like a dream! But I don't remember who had yours, sister… It was a knight from the Crownlands, right?" she asked as is she hadn't openly insulted the princess, frowning a bit to perfect her act. Children's presumpted innocence was a blessing at the moment.
"Yes, Ser Steffon Darklyn. He won many rounds, do you remember him better now?" the princess asked kindly.
'What an idiot…'
Helaena thought, amused. She obviously remembered ser Steffon. He had lost spectacularly to Gwayne Hightower. It had been one of the most humiliating defeats Helaena had seen in two lifetimes. She had been kind enough to give Rhaenyra an exit door to avoid humiliation, but if she wanted to be reminded of Ser Steffon's defeat, Helaena wouldn’t deny her.
"Oh, yes, I do!" Helaena put her hands on her cheeks and smiled as much as she could. "Uncle Gwayne defeated him in a single blow! It was my second favourite round!"
Rhaenyra visibly recoiled as if she had just been slapped. Her cheeks reddened because of the humiliation, worsened by Aegon trying –and failing – to contain a chuckle. The princess' eyes visibly darkened and for a second, Helaena feared she would strike them, but she successfully composed herself.
"I'm glad you enjoy the joust so much, sweet sister. If you excuse me, I must go and attend to the other guests."
"Enjoy the feast, sister!" Helaena said in a sing-song tone as the other princess left.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“So, you remember the plan, right?” Matt whispered. The sirens in the distance picked up, the sounds of the police officers on foot growing louder.
“You’re blind and I’m just a scared teenager,” Peter said back, nodding. “Got it.”
Peter rubbed at his cheeks, bringing colour to them, and pinching his arms until tears of pain prickled his eyes. He huddled into himself, making himself look smaller, and adopted a wide-eyed, terrified expression.
Matt shifted over and attached himself to Peter’s arm, looking like any normal, bewildered blind person. No powers here. Nope.
“Let’s do this,” Peter murmured.
In the back of the cruiser, Matt sat hunched into his seat. Face withdrawn and pinched, shoulders arched, and an arm around Peter’s shaking form. The teenager’s face was pushed into Matt’s shoulder, crying softly.
The kindly officer in the front seat kept glancing back at him, biting at her lip, concerned. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye, and brought an arm around his midsection, folding even further in on himself.
“You’re amazing at this,” Matt whispered.
Peter began to laugh, but quietly caught the sound in his throat, choking. He disguised the sound as a small, desperate sob.
“
Oh
, poor kid,” the officer in the front seat said.
“He’s sensitive,” Matt told her. He rubbed a hand over Peter’s back and gently patted his hair.
Peter pulled away. His breathing was hitched, his cheeks tearstained, his huge brown eyes wide and wet. Matt may not have been able to see how truly heartbreaking Peter looked, but he could hear the pain in Peter’s wrecked voice, and silently applauded his performance.
“I w—want to go—o home,” Peter choked, voice thick with tears.
“Lots of stuff to do before that happens,” the officer driving said gruffly.
“P—please,” Peter said, desperately.
“Son,” the driver began
“Soon,” the kind officer said.
“Not soon,” the driver argued. “You know how long these processes take. They were found in a shady area, after a huge crime bust went down, for no apparent reason. You know how suspicious that is! We have to—”
“Please,” Peter said again. “Please—god,
god
.” Peter’s breath hitched and then picked up, panicked. He screwed his eyes shut and shook terribly. “Please—the last time I was in a police car, my Uncle had just—just—” Peter cut off with an audible sob.
“His uncle was murdered less than 18 months ago,” Matt murmured to the officers. “In front of him. He watched his uncle die.” The officers exchanged looks. Under Matt’s arm, Peter sobbed harder. “He’s still very emotional about it.”
“Oh, dear,” the kind officer said, biting at her lip. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“They were very close; he’s an orphan.”
“Oh, goodness…”
Matt visibly tightened his hold on Peter, pulling the teen closer to him. He pushed his jaw into the boy’s hair, sighing sadly. They huddled together in that backseat, clothing rumpled and torn, looking like innocent kicked puppies. Perfect.
“I wish I could’ve done more for his family,” Matt admitted sadly. “His Aunt is elderly, you see, and they only have each other. Family friends of mine, the both of them. But with my blindness… I can’t do half as much for them as I want."
“You seem very close,” the kind officer noted. “That’s so sweet.”
“Matt’s the best,” Peter murmured into Matt’s shirt, just loud enough for the officers to hear, just quiet enough to sound like a wholesome truth, slipped out due to the frequency Peter thought it.
The older driver narrowed his eyes—though they had softened a great deal, now less hostile, more sad. He cleared his throat and asked, still suspicious, “What were a couple of nice boys like yourself doing out together in such a shady area, anyhow?”
“Like I said, Peter’s a family friend,” Matt told him. “He helps me get around the city sometimes. Place like New York, it’s hard enough to navigate normally, but being blind makes things just so much more difficult. Peter helps me out.” Matt adopted a soft, nostalgic tone. “He’s a good kid. He helps a lot, makes being blind just a little bit easier… Besides, in exchange for guiding me around, Peter gets a babysitter. It makes his Aunt happy, she’s so busy trying to pay the bills nowadays, and she worries so terribly…”
The kind officer cooed at them, touched. The driver
hmmed
, and pressed, “Alright, but why were you in
that
area?”
Peter sniffed, looking up at the officers from under his wet lashes. “It’s my fault,” he admitted in a small voice. “I—I got frightened, some people mugged us…”
“It’s not your fault, Pete,” Matt said, brushing a hand over Peter’s hair.
Peter shook his head. “It is. When those guys grabbed us, I freaked out, I should’ve helped you and kept it together, but I just grabbed your arm and ran. I got us so lost, and in such a bad area…”
The kind officer looks them up and down; their story fits beautifully, explaining the pair’s torn and ruffled clothing, their matching bruises and Peter’s split lip.
Peter began to cry again, thick tears soaking his flushed cheeks once more. “I’m—I’m so sorry for the trouble, sirs.”
The kind officer had a hand over her heart, her eyes so big and wide with sympathy Peter thought she might start crying too. The gruff driver had practically melted, looking at the two of them in mirror with a soft, worried expression.
“Were can I drop you off?” the driver asked.
Peter blinked through the tears. “Huh?”
“C’mon, we’ll take you straight home. I’m sure that Aunt of yours is out of her mind worrying by now.”
“We don’t have to go to the station?” Matt asked tentatively.
The driver smiled kindly. “I think you’ve both been through enough for one night, don’t you think?”
“Really?” Peter asked shyly. Matt had to concentrate on not gaping at the younger hero; no matter how many times they did this, it was never any less strange, hearing Spider-Man sound small and meek, sobbing, terrified to the level Peter’s persona was.
If it had been anyone else with less skill—or, rather, experience at blatantly lying and manipulation—or anyone who looked more threatening, more obvious in their strength, and Matt wouldn’t have had a secret identity anymore. The officers would’ve handled them roughly, felt their suits underneath their clothes and hiked them up to expose their recognisable costumes.
If it had been
Wade
with him tonight, Matt would’ve been in prison by now. Or dead. Most likely dead.
“Really,” the driver said. “Go home, get a good night’s rest. Forget about all this, alright?”
Peter hugged Matt around the neck and cried harder, in happiness this time. Matt could feel the boy’s face, a wet mess, against his neck. He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so grateful.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Peter babbled.
Matt wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders and allowed himself to smile.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You are
brutal
.”
Peter grinned around his pizza. “You bet your ass I am! I leave no survivors!”
“Truly,” Matt said, “a wonderful performance.”
“I know,” Peter said, showing his teeth.
They ate in companionable silence, enjoying their take out. The whole
not being in jail
thing made the pizza taste so much better.
As soon as the cruiser had dropped them off and disappeared around the corner, Peter had let his head fall back and full on
cackled
like a super villain, rubbing his hands together and everything, a mad glint in his eyes. Perhaps his years in the mask were finally getting to him…
Now, Peter was warm and comfy, and thankfully less manic. He had long since washed the tears from his face, ordered pizza, and claimed Matt’s couch as his own.
“How did you do that?” Matt asked.
“I have this friend,” Peter explained in between mouthfuls of pepperoni. “MJ. Most amazing actress in New York, I tell you. She taught me a thing or two about acting. And manipulation. And being a badass.”
Matt nodded and took another bite of his pizza, still a little confused. He finished the slice and began to grab another before saying, “Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“You make a good crybaby. A real natural, truly. Suits you.”
Peter threw his pizza at him and Matt ducked away, laughing.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
As the notification appeared, the magical beast gave out a last hiss and vanished, turning into a blue ray of light. Kai's eyes followed. He saw the ray entering the red and white ball, but the ball disappeared too.
A hologram of the treasure chest appeared over the man's body.
It wasn't the time to enjoy the loot, though.
Kai snapped his head, looking into the distance. He could hear the gun going off. A dim burst of light now and then.
How much MP Arlen has left?
Kai asked himself, his thoughts murderous.
Should I
… go?
Of course, he wasn't thinking of going and helping the Captain, but…
…
[
Your Title Status is updated
…
…
Title
: Murderer
Specification
: Kill 10 Contestants in a single random world. The Contestants must be from the same or higher floor than yours.
Status
: (8/10)
Effect
: Perception +2, Worth +1
]
…
Kai ran, looking at the number 8.
His direction, though, was taking him away from Arlen. A pile of mud was in his sight and two figures were struggling to come out from under it.
Kai appeared like a phantom at the top of the mud.
33 points, he saw his HP crawling up. Tiredness, though, didn't have any step, and it HP regaining points didn't affect it either. Their was no replacement for what Kai need; Rest.
Kai's hand went for the longsword's hilt, its blade stuck in the mud.
It took him time, a few seconds, but he pulled it out. It was bent. One edge had lost its sharpness.
Kai looked at Simon first. Only his head and right hand were out of the mud. His face was flattened against the ground. His fingers were twitching, pushing the rocks, but in vain. He couldn't even twist his neck. The weight of mud was too much to give the one-eyed man much freedom.
Then he looked at Shae. She looked back. Her entire body was under the layer of thick, viscous mud, save her head. She was crying big, heavy tears. Her mouth became an ugly smile, then turned into a sad frown as she looked at him. A whimper came out of her throat. It could have meant anything.
A loud
boom
resounded behind his back, but Kai was looking at the orange, yolk-like morning sun.
Kai wasn't an indecisive person, but cunning deeds needed thinking, and thinking needed time
.
He had to compromise and find a middle ground somewhere
.
What would happen next?
Kai gave it a hard thought.
There is no way to pin Simon and Shae's death on the enemy.
Am I strong enough to kill an injured Arlen?
Kai asked himself. The answer was flat No. He could scarcely hold back the urge to vomit. His SP was still down, his soul weak. One flick of Arlen's wand was enough to send him tumbling down.
Can I poison him?
The thought passed by.
No
, he answered. The Blood Essence was still in cooldown. If he were to lose more HP, he won't have the strength to take Mr. Beedle to the destination.
Huh!
Kai snorted.
And how will I take him? I can't even use a broom
.
A victorious laugh followed the previous boom. Kai knew the meaning behind it.
The woman's dead
.
"Please," Shae finally forced out a word. Then another, "Don't…"
Kai asked the last question.
Can killing Simon become a fatal mistake?
It can
, he reluctantly answered. The man was indeed a messy knot of tangled threads. Kai had seen men like Simon. He knew what had happened to those who weren't smart about their choices regarding them.
The answer might have come from his experience. Or it could have been an instinct. But both were important enough for Kai to not ignore them.
Kai sighed. The thrill of killing, getting a Title, and becoming powerful got buried by a persistent will. He extended the longsword towards Shae's head. She closed her eyes, muttering the names of gods, of whom Kai knew nothing about. She blubbered. Tears, snot, and saliva was running down from her face, diffusing into the puddle of muddy water under her head.
Slap!
Kai hit her cheek with the flat of the sword. "Hey!" he said, almost laughing. "What are you crying about?" He stepped off and hacked at the mud. Not heavily, but with enough force to loosen the hardened soil.
Murderer
, he thought, pulling out Shae.
There is still plenty of time to get it. I have just arrived in this mysterious place
.
Shae backed away from him as soon as she came out in the open. Kai didn't even spare her a single glance. He moved towards Simon. His longsword lifted and was just about to come down when the mud around Simon broke apart.
Dozens of water bullets ripped apart the hardened soil, and Simon slid out, looking up. Kai's widened eyes met the single pupil of the man.
"Ah! Red," Simon said, a dry smile on his face. "Thank you, but I won't be needing your help."
Kai let the longsword return to Inventory.
He looked at the one-eyed man and knew he had been lucky to not attack him before. Simon's face was ashen, almost white. He was dying. But the water bullets could have injured Kai mortally.
A dangerous opponent
, Kai thought.
For how long he was holding them back?
"I won't survive," Simon said, looking up at Kai. "I've lost too much blood."
When he slid out of the broken pieces of hardened mud, Kai saw what Simon was talking about then. Simon's broken leg seemed to have been crushed to pulp from the impact of the mud bomb.
"Can't you just eat and regenerate HP?" Kai asked. "Desmond's injury wasn't any worse."
"Yeah," Simon said, grimacing with pain. "But Desmond had that water pouch, didn't he? No water pouch for this old man, I guess."
It struck Kai then. No amount of food was going to be enough for Simon. He needed to stop the blood loss, and let his HP regeneration overcome the HP drop. It was a feat that can only be done using magical Items.
Should I take the risk then?
Kai asked himself.
"Do you want to kill me?"
Kai didn't respond. He stared into the old man's one eye. It had lost all the brightness of living. His mouth was opening and closing for every puff of air.
"Your death means nothing," Kai replied. "Not now."
"Ah," Simon nodded, seeing the two approaching figures from afar. "What about my life?"
What?!
"Is it some trick question, Simon?" Kai asked, also noticing Arlen and Shae's blurry figures in the distance. "What do you mean?"
Simon watched Kai with that one eye of his as if looking into him. The dry smile was still on his face, but it didn't look hopeless to Kai. "No trick, Red," Simon said, chuckling. "Only you can save my life."
"I am done here," Kai said, taking a step away from Simon. "Live or die. It's your business."
"Wait!" Simon shouted. It must have taken him all his strength, for he couldn't do anything for a few moments after that.
Kai looked back and saw the dead man, fighting the urge to put a drop of Light Neurotoxin into him.
"What now?"
The wind had picked up momentum by then. Dawn turned into a mature morning, and Kai found he was hungry. His stomach grumbled as he saw his HP regenerating. Though the SP regeneration was almost half that of HP, it was rising too.
"I am not joking," Simon said, taking another shallow breath. His hands found their grip in a muddy puddle, and he straightened himself to look at Kai. "You have the food that can save me."
For a moment, Kai did not know what Simon meant. But it came fast to him. The food. The meaning behind Simon's words.
"Haha!" Kai laughed, amused over Simon's foolish suggestion. "You want the flesh of Hippogriff's legs? Even ten of you isn't enough for me to give it up."
"No, not me… I know," Simon said, his voice breaking. "But I have something which can match its value. More than enough, I would say."
Kai's brows pressed, hearing that. As much as Kai knew, Simon had nothing that Kai wanted. Yes, the man was more mysterious than Arlen. But what use of that mysteriousness when Simon couldn't even save himself?
Still, a dead man is talking
, Kai thought.
No harm in hearing him out
.
"Say it," Kai said. "If a trade you want, a trade you will get."
"Yes… a trade," Simon whispered, his eyes shining against the morning sunlight. "But not now. I can only give it after the mission's end before teleporting back to the Primordial Tower."
Are you fucking kidding me?!
Kai's eyes widened.
"
No,"
Simon said, looking into Kai's hazel pupils as if he could read his thoughts
. "Think about it. A man of your nature must know when to take the advantage of an opportunity when presented. Also
… it's not like I am your match. You can kill me anytime if I back out and turn your… 8 into 9
."
Kai's pupils almost became slits, hotness rising in his chest.
How? Just how Simon got to know that he killed the three in the shops?
Kai asked himself, his hands twitching to take out the longsword.
Or is he just guessing?
Simon chuckled. "I am just a dying old man at your mercy…"
Kai was as strange to mercy as the sky was to the earth. But… his instincts had never betrayed him.
So, he chuckled back. "Alright, No. 9. You got yourself a deal."
*
*
"Tell me again," Arlen asked, eating the roasted chicken. "How did the man die?"
Damn it!
Kai cursed.
He is not letting it go.
The braided man's death seemed to have troubled Arlen. If not in Stats, the enemy was as strong as Arlen in battle prowess. For him to die, even under the combined power of Kai, Simon, and Shae, could mean a lot of things.
"He had taken out a snake type of magical beast," Kai said, repeating the same words. "… and then the beast turned against him. I took the opportunity and killed the bastard."
"Crushed his heart, you mean," Arlen said, narrowing his eyes at Kai. "Didn't you fear the beast?"
Fuck you! Just eat the meat
, Kai thought, anger bubbling up inside him. "No," he said. "The beast had already disappeared into the red and white ball."
"Pokeball…" A tiny, feeble voice came from Arlen's behind. Kai could barely see Shae's hair shining red and gold there.
Pokeball?! Is that what the thing is called?
Kai thought.
How does she know?
"Shae's right," Arlen said, looking at Shae over his shoulder, making her blush. "That's an Item from a Random World full of magical beasts."
Thump!
Kai felt his heart would have given out if he hadn't eaten to his fill by now. He remembered the purple-yellow-colored snake, and a hidden smile surfaced on his face.
"Which world is it, Captain?" Kai asked, looking at Mr. Beedle. "Can you tell me?"
Arlen followed Kai's gaze. Even an idiot could tell Kai was using the man he had killed as a payment for the answer.
"I know," Arlen chuckled, not minding Kai's shameless attitude. On the contrary, Arlen even seemed to admire these little things about Kai. "The World of Pokemon."
Pokemon
…
Kai imprinted the name into his memory.
"Go on then," Arlen commanded, finishing the meal. "Collect your loot. We will leave the moment Simon says he can handle the broom."
"Captain," Kai said, standing up as if it was just a fleeting comment. "I think we should cover Mr. Beedle under a cloth. His state isn't exactly becomingly, don't you think?"
Kai approached the corpse, leaving behind Arlen to mull over his words.
The smell of death hit Kai, along with piss and shit. The man must have lost control of his bowels at the moment of death. Crabs had claimed his body, and some were even going inside him as Kai had left a big hole from his throat to chest.
The treasure chest's hologram beckoned him.
The key appeared, then. Kai had already chosen the random Item option.
Click!
The key and treasure chest vanished. Kai scanned his Inventory, hoping it had enough space to hold whatever the System and his Luck had awarded him.
A smile. "Haha!" Kai laughed, seeing the Item. He took it out.
…
[
Item
: Pokeball - Generation 1
Grade
: Common
Specification
: An Item to catch and store live magical beasts
Requirement
:
1. Elementary Pokemon Trainer
2. 2 MP per second
Attributes
:
1. Pokemon Catch Rate - 15% - 45%
2. Current Status: Empty
Skill
: Not Applicable
Effect
:
1. Store magical beasts by converting them from matter to energy
2. The beasts within the Item will become friendly with the Contestant
3. Only E- to E+ graded magical beasts can be captured
4. Any type of magical beast can be stored
5. Magical Beasts HP, MP, and SP regeneration +100% (within the Item)
6. Pokemon Catch Rate depends on the beast's Stats while being captured
Quality
: 73%
]
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Chapter Two
The Dark Side of the Moon
“Statement: Kryptonian signature is no longer detected,” the metallic voice paused. “Speculation: Superman has departed the Watchtower.”
The android super intelligence colloquially known as Brainiac leaned forward in his command seat.
“Run the scan again,” Brainiac ordered. His heavy brow pushed downward while his alien green lips shifted into a frown.
He steepled his fingers in front of him and looked out across the command bridge of his command ship. Four humanoid drones worked various stations in front of him. Seven-fingered hands tapped at control panels and keyboards. One, on Brainiac’s left, turned its head to look at the leader with an expressionless robotic face.
“Statement: Kryptonian signature is confirmed not on the Watchtower space station. Conclusion: Superman is no longer present.”
“Excellent,” Brainiac smiled. He turned to face a drone on his right. “Tell me: Superman has proven difficult to beat in the past. How best can we get under his skin now?”
The drone turned to face Brainiac and seemed to pause. “Statement: a proper response is unknown.”
The three other drones stopped their tasks as well. They all faced Brainiac, who sighed heavily and shook his head. He got to his feet and stood with wide feet.
“If we break his allies, we break Superman. Activate Project: Asmodeus.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Luckily for everyone involved, Cody has managed to grab control of the situation before they even make it back to the outskirts of camp.
Or rather, luckily for almost everyone.
Luke seems greatly disappointed, pouting mightily as both Kix and Bones check him over for injuries (Anakin’s not sure why Cody thought two medics were necessary) and Fives and Jesse are positively radiating terror into the Force as Cody
glares
at them. Anakin can just catch the tail end of his verbal lashing as they hurry towards the tableaux.
“—endangering a youngling’s life. What were you thinking? Were you thinking?” Cody snarls. Fives opens his mouth. “That was a rhetorical question, trooper, be
quiet.”
Fives and Jesse seem to shrivel further in onto themselves.
“Aww, Uncle Cody,” Luke whines, shaking off the attention of the medics as he hops over and tugs at Cody’s fingers, “don’t blame Fives and Jesse—it was my idea.”
“Still, they should have known better,” Cody says, firmly.
“They said no at first! I wanted to go up alone—but then I pointed out that we could all squeeze in and I could sit in their laps so they could help me!”
Obi-Wan disguises his laugh as a cough. Cody only glances over briefly before reestablishing his narrow-eyed evaluation of Luke. Luke arranges his face in a beatific, beaming smile.
“I’m really sorry, Uncle Cody,” Luke says, voice turned wheedling. “Really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just wanted to practice and Jesse told me we should wait for you or Rex or Ben, but I was so excited to see the Y-Wings—I’ve never seen them so shiny!”
He blinks his eyes, blue orbs turning impossibly wider and bluer and shinier on the next blink. Cody fights valiantly for one second, then two before his stern demeanor reluctantly melts. Fives and Jesse audibly sigh in relief.
“Okay, fine,” Cody says, pursing his lips. Luke’s eyes light up and Cody holds up a hand. “But from now on, you stay with the 212
th
. Clearly, the 501
st
can’t be trusted with you.”
“Hey!” Anakin protests. Fives and Jesse’s eyes widen and behind Cody’s back they shake their heads minutely, but frantically. Cody opens his mouth and Obi-Wan hastily interjects.
“I think you’ve made your point, Commander,” he says. Fives and Jesse nod vigorously. “Fives, Jesse, dismissed.”
As one the two troopers snap out a smart salute to Obi-Wan and begin to move away quickly. But Fives can’t resist throwing a cheeky smile and wink back towards Luke and the vein on the side of Cody’s head pulses.
“But not before reporting to your Captain,” he snaps out. “You are to tell Captain Rex about this incident and submit to any punishment he deems acceptable. And I will
know
if you leave anything out.”
“Yes sir!” Jesse stutters out as the two clones finally manage to stumble away. Anakin watches them go with a bemused look—sometimes he swears his men are more afraid of Cody than they are of him or even Obi-Wan for that matter.
“Now, Commander, was that truly necessary?” Obi-Wan asks, sounding amused. Cody frowns fiercely.
“I don’t know why I thought you’d be more bothered by your son’s casual disregard for his own safety,” he mutters. “I guess I forgot who I was dealing with.”
“To be entirely fair, earlier, he was very concerned,” Padmé adds. Obi-Wan nods and gives a carefully innocent smile, one that looks
suspiciously
like the one Luke had used on Cody not even minutes earlier.
“But once I saw that you had the situation well in hand, I saw no reason to interfere,” Obi-Wan explains. Cody furrows his brow fiercely.
“Luke,” he says, still glaring at Obi-Wan, “how would you like some armor?”
Luke’s eyes go round. Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow.
“Ben says armor is uncivilized,” he says, uncertainly. Obi-Wan nods approvingly.
“He would say that,” Cody snorts. He slaps a hand against one pauldron. “But doesn’t this look so cool? Don’t you want some of your own?”
Luke pauses and glances towards Obi-Wan. He begins nods, hesitantly at first, but then more and more eagerly as the seconds pass.
“Good,” Cody replies, with a sharp dip of his chin. “We’ll get you some paint.”
“Paint?”
“Of course, every shiny must paint their armor—otherwise it’s just a bucket.”
“But—but I wouldn’t even know where to begin!”
“Hmm, you’ll figure it out,” Cody says, fondly. He bends down and taps at Luke’s chest. “It’s in here, somewhere.”
Luke nods solemnly.
“And you’ll help me?”
“Of course, brother. Now, I want you to go find Clang—just ask one of the clones in yellow, they’ll help you find the armory. Once you have your haul, bring it back to the command tent, where we were last night, and I will help you as best I can.”
Luke nods eagerly and dashes off before Cody can even finish his sentence. Cody jerks his head and two clones suddenly dart out of the shadows, following Luke a safe distance away—unnoticed, but not so far as to be useless in case of emergency.
Cody climbs to his feet and turns to fully face Anakin, Padmé, and Obi-Wan.
He glances around.
“What?” he mutters defensively. “We have to keep him busy somehow—look what happened last time.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes are suspiciously wet.
Padmé clears her throat and gives a light, tinkling laugh, masterfully pulling everyone’s attention away from Obi-Wan’s display of emotion.
“Oh, Ani,” she says, “you may have competition for favorite Uncle.”
“Hey!”
She pats consolingly at her husband’s arm.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure
I’m
still in the lead for favorite Aunt,” she laughs.
“Quite right,” Obi-Wan replies, sounding more like his usual self, but still a little choked up. “Quite right.”
Cody evaluates them, eyes roving rapidly across the puffy red rim underneath Padmé’s eyes, the downturn at the corner of Obi-Wan’s lips, and the ashen gray color of Anakin’s normal tan.
“Are you three done?” he asks, carefully shaping the words.
“For now,” Obi-Wan responds, deliberately light. Cody pauses, nods.
“Okay then. Shall we then?” Cody says gruffly. “I assumed that returning Luke should be our first priority, sir, so I’ve taken the liberty of clearing our schedules for the day—I had the Senator’s droid tell the Seps we needed more time to attend to our wounded—and prepared a bit of light reading on the subject matter.”
“What ever would I do without you, Cody?” Obi-Wan murmurs.
“Wander around hopeless and robeless,” Cody quips back. Anakin tips his head back and laughs.
“We should totally ask Luke if that’s still a thing.”
“I think we have much bigger priorities,” Obi-Wan sniffs.
“Nope,” Anakin says, loudly popping the ‘p’ and gracing his Master with a shit-eating grin. “no, we definitely do not.”
“It may help us establish the critical divergence between his universe and ours,” Cody adds, deadpan. Obi-Wan buries his hands in his sleeves—which he only ever does when he actually wants to throw his hands up in the air or wrap them around Anakin’s throat.
As they walk away, Anakin can’t resist leaning over to Cody and whispering in a not-so-whispery-voice.
“Okay, but seriously. I’ve got a light sword
and
I can build droids from scratch
and
I can teach him how to fly. I’m totally the favorite uncle.”
“Whatever you say, sir,” Cody says, blandly.
***
Anakin groans and buries his head in his arms.
“I’m done,” he declares. Neither Padmé nor Obi-Wan look up from their own datapads. Cody spares him a brief glance, but Anakin thinks he is just reaching for his caf and Anakin just happens to be in his eyeline. He glances over to Rex, who had begged off hours earlier to supervise Luke—nominally Artoo’s job, but, as Rex put it “Artooey’s just as like to join him in eating paint as preventing him.” Artoo had beeped angrily at that, but everyone else had glanced at the giant yellow mess that Luke was making of his mini-armor, face, and Artoo and agreed all too readily with Rex’s assessment of the situation. He’s now sitting just a little ways away, Luke in his lap as he shows the boy how to properly clip his own, rather violently yellow shin guards onto his legs.
Unfortunately for Anakin, Rex seems to be ignoring his whining as well.
“Oh my, Master Ani. Is there anything I can do to help?” Threepio agonize, shuffling over. Anakin twists his neck and smiles.
“Thanks, Threepio,” he says, really meaning it. “But unless you’ve found an answer to how we’re going to get Luke home in all this mess, then I don’t think there’s much you can do.”
Padmé sighs and finally lowers her pad. She pinches the bridge of her nose.
“As much as I hate to admit it,” she sighs, “he does have a point. We’ve been at this for hours.”
Luke glances up at her tone and looks in between the adults, a small, concerned moue to his mouth. Rex taps at his shoulder and tries to pull his attention back to the armor, but it’s in vain. Luke stands to his feet, using Artoo as a support.
“We just need to keep looking,” Obi-Wan insists, stubbornly. “The answer must be here somewhere.”
“No, I don’t think it is,” Padmé argues. “There are plenty of written accounts of these incidents, but every single one is the same—a few details shifted here or there, but it’s all the same. And none of these accounts talk about how the travelers got home—these writers are much more concerned with talking about what they learned from the travelers about potential futures.”
“Oh don’t forget the guy whose mind was absolutely blown by the fact that pallies are yellow in another universe. So blown away he went on for 12 pages about it,” Anakin mutters.
“Well, what else would you suggest?” Obi-Wan asks, voice even. “Do you have some other solution?” There’s a long moment of silence. Obi-Wan sighs and raises his pad once more. “That’s what I—”
A screechy beep cuts him off, Artoo wobbling back and forth angrily under Luke’s pudgy hand. Everyone in the tent whirls.
“Well, that’s a terrible idea, Artoo! I never,” Threepio gasps, as affronted as Anakin’s ever heard him. Anakin cocks his head and shrugs.
“Dunno. It’s not great, I’ll give you that, but it’s probably better than sitting here, reading for the next eternity,” Anakin says thoughtfully.
Cody clears his throat.
“And for those of us who don’t speak binary, that idea was…” he begins, in a leading tone of voice.
“I would not even want to insult anyone by having to repeat such nonsense,” Threepio insists. Anakin rolls his eyes.
“You just don’t want to tell them because you know none of us speak Sullustan,” he teases. “You’d have to translate everything. You’re
afraid.”
“I—Master Ani! I have never been so insulted in my life—by my own Maker, too!”
Artoo beeps aggressively, main light flashing blue and red.
“You two, stop bullying my droid,” Padmé interjects finally. She sounds genuinely upset and Anakin knows he’s gone a little too far—he throws up his hands immediately in surrender and gives her his best wide-eyed apologetic look. Obi-Wan glances between them, seeming a little shocked.
“You must teach me how to do that,” he murmurs. “Thirteen years and I’ve never seen him give in so quickly.”
“You didn’t see what she did to Senator Organa’s aide,” Anakin says, defensively. “He called Threepio fussy one time. Just one time and she
destroyed
that man’s career. And his marriage.”
“I don’t care what anybody says, Threepio’s got a good heart!” Padmé responds, hotly. She pauses, then darts her eyes over to Obi-Wan and looks down again. “And he has some lovely stories about your mother. She taught him to make
tzai.
So, he’s part of the family, in a way. Technically.
”
Cody and Rex share a look.
“Are we now officially talking about the marriage we’re not supposed to know about?” Cody asks, sounding relieved and amused in equal measure.
“You knew they were married?” Obi-Wan asks, betrayed. Cody raises an eyebrow and gestures to Rex, who is rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.
“For some reason, Skywalker thought it was a good idea to rely on the only person in the GAR who is a worse liar than he is to help keep his secret,” Cody says dryly.
Artoo gives a warbly, laughing beep-boop. Then, a questioning, pushy sort of follow up—just to make sure no one’s forgotten his original suggestion.
“I think that’s a great idea, Artooey,” Luke says, suddenly. He pats at Artoo’s dome. “What’s everyone so worked up about?”
“You speak binary?” Obi-Wan asks, startled. Luke tilts his head.
“Yeah, duh,” Luke replies, with a childish giggle. “Fulcrum taught me. She said she’d take the loyalty of a single good droid over a whole squadron any day, and just because you were a stubborn old bastard about the whole thing didn’t mean I needed to be too.”
“Luke!” Anakin scolds, frowning fiercely. Luke’s eyes widen and his hand flies up to cover his mouth.
“Whoops,” he says, voice muffled, “I’m not supposed to repeat that.”
“And what do you say to Ben?”
“Um…sorry, Ben? I didn’t mean to call you the bad word,” Luke offers hesitantly. He looks to Anakin for approval and he nods. However, much to Anakin’s displeasure, everyone else, even Obi-Wan, just looks amused. Obi-Wan’s son! Swearing! He feels like they should all be much more concerned about this than they actually are.
“Hmm, very well, thank you—and so what does Artoo suggest?” Obi-Wan prompts. His lips twist in a wry expression. “I feel as if I have been waiting an age for this plan to be revealed—I should hope it is worth the wait.”
“Oh!” Luke gasps. “Yeah! Artoo just suggested we go talk to the locals—they’ve been living beside this Temple for hundreds of years, right? So even if nothing in written down in
our
records, they’ve probably got some stories they could share.”
“That’s…” Cody pauses, hums, “not actually a bad idea. Apart from the fact…”
“…that we literally just waged a massive battle with them and probably made a lot of enemies in the process? Yeah, not to mention we can’t understand a damn word they’re saying,” Rex finishes.
“If only we had two very experienced, diplomatic negotiators known for getting their way no matter what and a wonderful translator fluent in over six million forms of communication,” Anakin adds, in a sing-song voice.
Everyone turns to look at Padmé, Obi-Wan, and C-3PO.
“Oh dear,” Threepio frets, his torso servos whirling as he tilts side to side worriedly. “If I am shot to pieces by uncivilized Separatists, it is all your fault, Artoo.
All
your fault.”
***
Hours later, long after Luke has gone to bed, Cody looks up blearily from his data pad and gives a pointed cough. Internally, Anakin feels as if he could skip for joy. He was ready to head to bed hours ago—he doesn’t really see the point of planning out every pause for breath and tonal inflection like this—but he knows that he alone is not strong enough to convince Obi-Wan and Padmé to stop. But now, with Cody on the job, Anakin knows there’s a good chance of sleep in his near future.
When neither Obi-Wan nor Padmé immediately respond, the clone commander gives a second, much louder cough.
“Sir?” he prompts, running his eyes over the drooping shoulders of his General. “It’ll be much harder to think straight after a sleepless night. The best thing we can do—for the Republic, for Luke—is get some rest.”
“Is it that the time,” Obi-Wan murmurs, looking up and cracking his neck. He glances around the tent, looking slightly bewildered. He blinks at Padmé, then glances at Anakin. “Oh good, I no longer have to pretend like I can’t hear you sneaking into her quarters!”
Anakin shoots him a narrow-eyed look.
“You couldn’t really hear us,” he protests.
“Mmm,” Obi-Wan says, with a mysterious smile. Padmé sniffs, rising to her feet and keeping her chin raised imperiously in the air as she holds out her hand to her husband and leads them both out of the tent.
“Remember to say goodnight to Luke before you go to bed! He said you can just wake him up, no matter how late,” Anakin throws over his shoulder. He whips back around and leans towards Rex, who is also exiting the tent, and switches to an urgent whisper. “He couldn’t hear us. Right?”
Rex just looks at him pityingly as Padmé leads them both away. She gives him an exasperated look as they duck into her own set of diplomatic quarters—cleaner and a little larger than the ones surrounding it—but otherwise nearly indistinguishable from the dozens of tents surrounding it.
“Why did you tell Rex?” she asks, as she turns around and bares her neck in a silent request for Anakin to help unbuttoning her gown. Only a couple of years ago, all of Padmé’s wardrobe had been a complete and total world mystery to Anakin, but he now unhooks the buttons with practiced ease. He’s just grateful that her traveling ensembles usually don’t involve wigs—those were the worst and he could never get them off without snagging at least one lock in his mechnofingers. “And before you told Obi-Wan, too!”
“I needed help distracting Ahsoka!” Anakin says defensively as he shrugs off his tabards. Padmé turns around and muffles a laugh in his chest. “What?”
“Oh, honey,” Padmé says. “Ahsoka
definitely
knew.”
“What? No, she didn’t—”
“You had me give her fashion advice. Because you thought her tube top was scandalous but didn’t want to undermine her “feminine power” if that’s what she really wanted to wear.”
“I didn’t say scandalous—I was trying not to contribute to the insidious male gaze.”
“And I appreciated it—it’s always good to know you actually do listen to my rants,” Padmé says fondly, as she pokes at Anakin’s chest. He allows himself to fall back into the bunk and arrange himself as a pillow for his wife. She lays her head on his chest and snuggles in. “I know she did as well. But I took her shopping and paid for one of the most influential, up-and-coming Nubian designers to hand tailor three new outfits for her. As much as I love Ahsoka, that’s not something you do for your friend’s apprentice. It’s more like something I would do for Ryoo or Pooja or…or a daughter.”
Anakin glances at her sharply.
“She was my apprentice,” he sputters, “she never thought of me like a—it’s not the same, you know.”
Padmé cranes her neck so that she can frown at him.
“But I’ve seen you share
tzai
with them,” she says. Anakin flushes and her eyes widen in understanding. “Ani, you didn’t! Please tell me you’ve explained to them what sharing tea means to you!”
“Jedi forbid attachment!” Anakin protests. He sighs and stares up at the tent’s canvas ceiling. “It was an accident, really. Obi-Wan was just…struggling after Naboo. He liked tea, but couldn’t stand to drink anything Master Qui-Gon left behind. I didn’t really know what else to do, but I had some
tzai
Mom gave me before I left and it seemed to help. I explained what it meant, I did, but…I don’t think I did it right, or that he ever really understood what it meant. And by the time I was finally learning about the Code and all the rules, I realized he definitely didn’t understand what it meant, but I didn’t know how to explain it any better.”
“
Ani!
”
Anakin throws his mech-arm, the one not trapped under Padmé’s body, over his eyes.
“I know, I know,” he groans. “I don’t know how to explain something that was never really explained to me—everyone just sorta knows how it is on Tatooine. And it’s a secret tea, okay? You don’t go around just explaining all of that…weight to people!”
“You explained it to me,” Padmé counters. “I thought you did a…okay, so it wasn’t a great job, but I got the idea.”
“That’s different,” Anakin sighs. “You’re…you. And we’re us. And you just don’t understand how different it is—I know lineages look like families to outsiders, but they’re really, really not—and the Council discourages any sign of attachment between Masters and Padawans. I got enough flak for “my undue displays of affection” with Ahsoka as it was.”
“Mmm, if they’re discouraging it, they’re doing a pretty bad job of it,” Padmé observes. “I’ve seen the three of you together—you and Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. That day when Ahsoka got her bead for…whatever that was? I’ve never seen Obi-Wan so proud, except when he talks about you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s real proud of me,” Anakin mutters. “Especially now that he knows about the whole slaughtering a bunch of unarmed sentients bit.”
“But he stayed. And offered to help,” Padmé points out. “If that’s not attachment, I don’t know what is, blood or no blood. And earlier today, you called yourself Luke’s uncle—I know you were joking, but does that make it any less true? And if Luke’s our family, a boy we’ve hardly known for two days, then surely Ahsoka and Obi-Wan must be as well.”
“I—” Anakin pauses and huffs out a breath. “I should have known better than to argue with a Senator.”
“Mmm, yes you should have, but here we are,” she jokes right back. She sobers, then hesitates. “I suppose I never pointed it out because I assumed you knew, but you do know how important you are to Ahsoka, right?”
“I—” Anakin’s throat closes up. “Maybe, before. But then, with the trial and how I failed her—”
“Failed her? How can you even say that, Anakin? You stood behind her when no one else would, fought for her freedom and her good name, and ultimately cleared her.”
“But she left!” Anakin bursts out. “It didn’t matter, she left anyways! I wasn’t enough.”
“I think that had more to do with Ahsoka than it did with you—she’s a teenage girl trying to find her place in the Galaxy. It’s natural to want to do that alone.”
“I could have helped her though! We both could have us.”
Padmé regards him for a moment, then twists one of his unruly curls around her finger, almost absentmindedly.
“Once,” she begins, thoughtfully, “when I was still in office, I got in a fight with Sola. I forget about what exactly, but I wanted to help her with something and she just…exploded. Later, when we got it all sorted out, she told me that sometimes she needed me to just keep my distance. “You suck up all the oxygen in the room, Pads,” she told me. We’re both like that, I think, and sometimes the Solas and Ahsokas of our lives just need some space, to figure out how to
exist
without us there. I don’t think it means they love us any less.”
Anakin is silent for several, thumping heartbeats.
“But I’m worried about her,” he says, finally. “How am I supposed to stop worrying about her?”
“Well,” Padmé says slowly, after a long pause. “Keeping our distance doesn’t mean we can’t help, I should think. I know she said she’d reach out if she needed help, but there’s no reason we can’t precipitate that. It wouldn’t be hovering. Not really. Just…checking in. Monitoring.”
“I—I didn’t think about that,” Anakin says, blinking.
“I’m not saying she has to come live with us or anything,” Padmé clarifies, “but monthly com calls and an allowance of some sort wouldn’t be amiss, I think. Just to make sure she isn’t sleeping on the streets.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Anakin says, glumly. “Unfortunately, I have no idea where to even begin. I don’t even know if she managed to scrape up enough money for a new com.”
“How fortunate for you then that your wife is a seasoned politician with her own elite spy force,” Padmé opines. “I’m sure Sabé can track her down. She’s never failed me before.”
“You’d do that? For me?”
“Okay, first of all, let’s be clear, Ahsoka is my family too, and I’m almost as worried about her as you are, so this is as much for my peace of mind as yours,” Padmé clarifies. “But also, yes, if you think it will help. This clearly has been tearing you up, which is just ridiculous, when there’s such an obvious solution within my grasp.”
Anakin tucks his chin down to his chest and stares at Padmé, a warm smile spreading across his face, stretching muscles he hasn’t used in, oh, ages.
“I love you so much.”
“I know,” Padmé responds dryly. Anakin laughs and pushes at her shoulder with his nose, tickling her. Padmé giggles. “I love you too, you nerfherder.”
“How romantic.”
“Eh, we both know you’re the one in charge of the grand romantic gestures,” Padmé replies, with a deliberately casual shrug. She closes her eyes, settles back into the mattress and Anakin’s arms, and grins. “Delegation, Ani, look it up.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“No.”
“Please, just listen-”
“Fuck. No.” You spit out, and your father flinches at the crass language. He opens his mouth to speak, but you don’t want to hear another word.
“The answer is no, I am not marrying that-”
That cruel, ugly, slimy, smug son of a bitch is what you want to say.
“Bastard.” is the word you settle on.
Your father downs the rest of his whiskey from his pristine crystal glass, and a servant is quick to pour him more. You have to look away, you can’t recall the last time you’ve seen him without a drink in his hand. Your heart clenches in your chest.
You soften your approach. This is your father after-all. He may be the Governor of Marley, the richest man in the colony but this is the same man who held you as you cried when your mother died, the man who would stop at nothing to procure you the best books, the finest dresses, the most delicious sweets. He loves you. You know this. But right now, what he’s asking you to do-it’s unspeakable:
Marry Admiral Zeke Yeager, secure the Swann family legacy, fulfill your duty as the only remaining child.
You want to understand where he’s coming from, but forcing you to be a bride, and Zeke’s bride at that? You cannot fathom it. You cannot fathom a life where you are beholden to the whims of a self-serving navy officer who will lock you away and only let you out to carry on his arm like a doting little trophy wife. You cannot fathom a life beholden to any man.
“Father,” You say softer, pleading. You place your gloved hand on his, “I know Admiral Zeke is a highly ranked official, but please, if you force me to go through with this I will be miserable.” He doesn’t meet your eyes and this cowardice only serves to fan the flames of your anger. You grab the glass, his glass full of amber liquid, always full of whatever amber liquid-brandy, whiskey, what does it matter? You grab the glass and throw it at the wall, satisfied with the way it shatters into a million pieces. Your father’s eyes snap to yours.
“You’re a coward.” You say, all venom, “You’re a coward, and I won’t marry him.” His gaze shifts, hard and angry. He shoots out of his chair and then he backhands you. Your head whips to the side and your ears ring. You can feel your skin growing hot from where his hand made contact.
“This is not up for discussion!” He yells. Your jaw drops open, but you have no words. Your father has hardly ever yelled at you and he has never in your life slapped you, you’re unused to it and you discover quickly that you hate it.
“You will marry Admiral Yeager even if I have to drag you down the aisle myself.”
“Then have fun dragging my corpse, because the only way I will be marrying him is over my dead body.” you snap, but the words lack the same anger as before. There’s a stinging behind your eyes and the uselessness of arguing with your father is settling over you. You storm out of the room, slamming his office doors behind you.
You make a beeline for your bedroom, cursing the stupid skirts of your stupid dress and how they slow your movement. Your vision grows misty and a tear falls down your cheek. You curse yourself, angry that you’re crying, angry at your father for forcing you into marriage, angry at not having a say in your own fucking life. A hand catches your arm. It’s an unwelcome grip and you yank your arm back, but they don’t let go.
“Lady Swann, where are you off to in such a hurry?” Your blood runs cold. You know that voice. You lift your head to face a tall blond man with wiry glasses and a beard, your “betrothed” Admiral Yeager.
“Admiral,” you say with as much vitriol as you can manage. He releases your arm and you take several steps back.
“Ah, I trust your father has told you the good news.” He says.
Good news. Yeah fucking right.
You school your features, you will not show him just how much he gets to you, “He did. However my father and I have different definitions of good. By ‘good news' I was hoping to hear that you had been lost at sea.” You give him a saccharine smile, “but with a profession as daring as yours, there’s always hope.”
There’s a flash of irritation on his face, but it’s gone in an instant, “I’d be careful if I were you Lady Swann” He takes a step closer. “When you are my wife, you will not be allowed to speak to me like that.”
“I will never be your wife.”
His lips curl in a smug smile and you have the urge to slap it right off his face. Your fists curl at your side. “You know what makes me such a great admiral?” He looks at you, but you don’t give him a response. He continues, “It’s because I always go after what I want.”
You don’t care, You hope the glare you’re directing at him says as much,
“Other people wait, they wait for the stars to align or for the right moment, but I don’t put my faith in the stars and I don’t believe there is a ‘right’ moment. If you want something, you can’t wait for someone to hand it to you. You have to take it.”
Your stomach twists, and as much as you want to snap back with a snarky remark, you can’t find the words, because as much as you don’t want to admit it, he scares you. Zeke is manipulative, he fights dirty and he uses people as pawns to advance his station. You’re the governor’s daughter, the most coveted prize of any Marleyan navy officer and noble.
“Your father may let you act like this because he loves you, but trust me I will teach you how to behave.” He takes another step closer and this time you take a step back. He looks amused, but there is something sinister in his eyes, like toying with you is bringing him joy. You want to run, run far far away and never look back. “You will be my wife, Lady Swann, because I always get what I want. I suggest you don’t make the mistake of standing in my way.”
Was that a threat? Did he just threaten you?
He puts a hand on your shoulder, you smack it away. He laughs, a cruel, terrible sound.
“I look forward to the union of our great families, fiancee.”
And with that he leaves you to go to your father’s office. They will most definitely be discussing your marriage, working up a contract and a dowry, and then your father will sign your life away as if you are nothing but a pretty souvenir. Bile rises in your throat, you think you’re going to be sick.
You bolt the rest of the way to your room and lock the door behind you, and enclosed in the privacy of your bedroom, you finally allow yourself to cry.
—---
You must have cried yourself to sleep because you don’t remember closing your eyes. It’s nearly dark, the setting sun casting an orange and golden glow over your lavish room. Your room used to be a sanctuary to you, the only place you could truly lay down your guard and decorum and just simply exist, but now the large four poster bed feels monstrous, the chandelier too gaudy, the plush carpet like it might swallow you whole. It’s suffocating. It feels like a prison, a gilded little cage where you’re to be kept until you are handed off to your next handler.
Your heart hurts. How could your father do this to you? And he slapped you? Your hand goes to your injured cheek, it’s slightly swollen and tender to the touch, but it won’t leave a scar. A pretty bride couldn’t have scars. Your mind latches onto the word bride, and Zeke’s words come unbidden back to you. Something about not waiting for someone to give you what you want, that no one will hand it to you. You have to take it. Zeke is a horrible person, but he isn’t stupid.
No one is going to hand you your freedom, your father made it very clear to you that he will not let you out of this marriage and there’s no way you could convince Zeke to give up his precious prize. If you want your freedom, you are going to have to take it for yourself.
You shoot up out of bed with a renewed sense of determination.
You’re going to leave, and you’re going to leave tonight.
—---
The last time you went through town, you were in a carriage. It was broad daylight on a summer day. There were shops as far as the eye could see, merchants shouting at the carriage, waving their goods. You had thought it overwhelming then. It was twice as overwhelming now.
Drunkards stumbled down the street, splashing drinks, cursing up a storm, whistling when they see an attractive woman walk by. There were women with hardly any clothing on, their collarbones and cleavage exposed. They sat on the laps of men, they poured mead down their throats, they took all their money and left them with a dumb smile on their face. Vendors still haggled, only their goods were of a different nature. They sold drugs, alcohol, perfumes that make a woman desperate for you, some things you didn’t know and didn’t want to find out.
You pull your cloak further over your head, trying to be as small and unnoticeable as you can possibly be. You had put on one of the servant’s uniforms, a white flowy chemise under a black lace up corset paired with a plain black skirt that fell just below your knees. You wore your own black boots because you couldn’t bear to part with truly good footwear.
It had been almost too easy to sneak out of the manor. You waited until nightfall when the rest of the house went to sleep then grabbed only the necessities. You packed a couple extra sets of clothes, some coins and jewelry, some food, and a dagger with a golden handle that you had found in your father’s study hanging on the wall. You hoped it was enough, it was all you could fit in your satchel. You went back to your room, locking the door to buy yourself some time in case they caught on to your escape before you were gone. Then after much mental preparation and a self-pep talk, you jumped from the balcony of your second story room to the grass below. Your stomach had sunk straight through the floor, but you landed with a roll and were completely unscathed.
Now onto the next phase of your plan:
1.find a ship
2. Stowaway or buy passage on said ship
3. Make sure said ship is not one of your fathers trading vessels (big no no)
“Hey you!” a voice calls out. It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you. Everyone addresses you with your title.
“Me?” You ask and suddenly feel quite stupid.
“Yeah you,” the man says, more like a boy really. He’s tall with long light brown hair brushed away from his face. He stumbles towards you and you’re hit with a stench of alcohol. You fight the urge to gag. “Lemme buy you a drink” He slurs his words and gives you a sloppy grin. It makes you smile and your shoulders relax slightly. He seems harmless.
“I’m okay for tonight, but thank you sir” You reply.
There’s a laugh from nearby and you look to the source, a girl with a brown ponytail and wide brown eyes. “Did you just call him ‘sir’?” She asks, smiling. Your cheeks heat up.
Was that offensive? Should you have called him something else? How did polite society work in the town?
“I-” You start to apologize, but a loud bald boy interrupts, “Sir Jean!” He exclaims then laughs so hard he knocks over his drink. The brown harried girl joins in.
“Hey!” the boy that just offered you a drink says, but he’s no longer talking to you. He’s stomping over to his friends. For whatever reason, you’re smiling. Maybe it’s how carefree they are, maybe it’s the fact that it’s been an hour and there are no navy officers storming the street calling out your name. It dawns on you then. No one knows who you are. It’s a terrifying thought, it’s a freeing thought.
“I hope our Jeany boy didn’t bother you too much.”
You turn around to face a person with a brown ponytail and glasses.
“Oh no, I think those two are giving him enough grief.” you say, pointing over to where the brown haired girl and the bald boy are laughing at Jean who in turn is arguing, waving his hands all over the place.
The person laughs, “Yeah, I think you’re right.” You look back to them and there’s a glimmer in their eyes, “They keep the crew interesting, that’s for sure.”
Did they just say crew?
“You have a crew, are you in the navy?” you ask, trying not to appear too excited. They snort, “Navy officer, you’re funny!” They put an arm around your shoulder, “I’m Hange, come on let’s get you a drink.”
You don’t want a drink. You aren’t fond of it, you can barely stand the smell, but this could be your only chance at escape. You smile and let them lead you into the tavern. It’s crowded, but thankfully, it’s not completely packed. Hange leads you to a booth and waves down a server, “Two mugs of ale over here please!” They call out cheerfully then look at you, eyebrows pinching, “Say, you never told me your name.”
Fuck. Well you can’t tell her your real name. People might not recognize your face, but they would recognize your name. What do you say? It’s weird if you don’t respond, it already is weird. Fuck.
By your saving grace, a server comes and places ale in front of you, giving you a second to come up with an alias. You panic and decide on the name of the protagonist from one of your favorite books, “Ruby,”
“My name is Ruby.”
Hange gives you a curious look, “You sure?” and you stiffen. What if you already gave yourself away? Did they know you were lying?
“Alrighty then, cheers, Ruby!” They hold up their mug with a smile. Oh, so they’re moving on. You can do that too. You pick up your mug. It’s sticky in your hand and you fight the urge to cringe.
“Cheers,” you echo and clink your mug against theirs, some of the liquid sloshes off the sides and you take a sip. You’ve never had mead before. And you would have gladly kept it that way, it’s disgusting.
“Not a fan?” Hange says with a laugh. You realize your face is scrunched up.
“It’s-” you hesitate, “It’s not completely terrible.”
They laugh again and the loud, free sound brings a smile to your face.
“You don’t need to sugarcoat it honey,”
“Ok fine, it’s not my favorite.”
“Not your favorite?”
“Okay, it’s bad.” you finally admit.
You both laugh and your hood falls from your head.
“Ooh ouch that looks nasty, how’d you get it.” Hange says squinting at your face. You’re confused what they mean at first, but then your hand goes to your cheek, where your father had hit you.
“It’s-” you start, but the words die on your lips and your eyes begin to sting. Fuck cut that out! No one wants a cry baby on board their ship.
“Husband?” They ask and you look at them, their eyes light up and it’s like you can see the gears spinning in their head. Your heart begins to race.
“You’re running away.” They say. Shit. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe people do recognize you. Maybe this person was going to shout for the officers right now. Or maybe this is your chance. You take a deep breath.
“Yes, I’m running away.” You lean forward and speak in a hushed voice. “My husband-he’s awful and I need to get away from him.” It’s only sort of a lie, but you have no problem with lying if it gets you off of Marley.
“You mentioned you had a crew,” Suddenly you feel nervous, your heart is going a million miles a minute. And you so desperately want this to work, you could cry. “And I-”
“You’re hoping, we’ll let you travel with us to escape your husband.” They finish for you. You nod. There’s a beat of silence and you begin regretting you asked.
“Where do you plan to go?” They’re not judging you, in fact they haven’t this entire time. It makes you relax just a fraction.
“Anywhere,” you say quickly. “Just not here.” The jewelry feels very heavy in your bag, you can pay them for passage,
“I can pay!” you add and you startle yourself with how loud you are. “I can pay.” you say again more calmly this time.
“You’ve got yourself a deal!” Hange says and they stick out their hand. You blink.
Really? It can’t possibly be this easy? Can it? You feel warm, you did it, this is your way out.
You shake their hand and you're surprised by how strong their grip is. You feel like your arm is about to get yanked out of your socket. They hold their mug up in another cheers and you oblige, tilt your mug to theirs. You take a long gulp this time. It still tastes terrible, but you’re getting used to it.
—--
After another hour or so, Hange rounds up the rest of the crew and you all start back to the ship. Jean is with his friends who were teasing him-Sasha and Connie-as you learned from Hange. They’re leaning on each other and Sasha holds a half-eaten turkey leg in her hand. There are a few others Hange told you about, but they’re names are getting muddled in your head.
The trio behind Jean-a blonde boy named Armin and black haired girl named Mikasa are carrying a very drunk brunette Eren in between them. Apparently he and Jean were competing to see who could out-drink the other. You think it’s safe to say that neither of them won this round.
“What type of maritime business do you specialize in?” Hange looks at you like you’ve grown another head.
“You have a weird way of saying things.” They say, “Very...proper,”
Okay talk less proper, how would a sailor talk? You had no idea. Do they curse a lot or is that just a phrase people say ‘cussing like a sailor’” You suppose you’ll find out.
“We operate in high-stakes business trading.”
You don’t know exactly what that means and you’re about to ask for some clarification when you reach the ship. It’s absolutely massive with huge billowing sails that blow gently in the night sky. It is polished dark wood carved with an expert craftsmanship that rivals your father’s vessels. Your gaze travels to the side, and in swopping black letters are the words The Paradis.
You hear someone yelling and it takes you a while to realize that it’s Hange calling out to you, “Ruby!”
Oh right. That’s what you said your name was. You’ll have to get used to it.
“Coming!” you call back and race up the loading ramp onto the ship, “Sorry” you say, a bit breathless, “I’ve just never seen a ship like this before.”
Hange puts their arms out, “Welcome to our own little slice of paradise!” They grab your wrist, brow eyes bright, “Come on I’m going to give you a tour.”
“Who’s this?” it’s a low, cold, no-nonsense voice that immediately sets you on edge.
“Oh Levi! Meet my new friend! This is Ru-”
“I don’t care who she is, what is she doing on our ship?”
You step from behind Hange. The man is shorter than you anticipated, only a few inches taller than you, but his sheer presence speaks for itself. He had black hair styled in an undercut. He’s looking at Hange with an intensity that you think you would hate to be on the receiving end of. A chill runs down your spine.
“I just need passage until we get to the next city,” you say, “I told Hange I can pay.-”
His eyes snap to you, they're grey. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone with grey eyes in your life, and if you did, they didn’t look like his-like a storm cloud ready to strike.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Okay. Rude. No one has ever spoken to you like this-well except your father and Zeke this morning, but still, it makes you hot with anger. It makes you narrow your eyes and give him the type of glare you usually reserve for Zeke. Where does he get off talking to you like that?
“You’re the one who asked why I was here.” You bite back.
“I was asking Hange why they brought you on board.”
“And I don’t need Hange to speak for me, I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself.”
“Clearly.” He deadpans, “but again, I wasn’t talking to you.”
How dare he? Doesn’t he know who you are? You are the governor’s daughter, as close to royalty on this godforsaken colony as it gets and he has the nerve to dismiss you? You open your mouth to fire back a retort, but Hange speaks.
“Oh come on, Levi!”
Hange lets go of your wrist and wraps an arm around Levi’s shoulders, “There’s no need to be so hostile. She’s perfectly harmless.”
Levi pushes Hange off of him, “We’ll see what Erwin has to say about her.” He glares at you again, you glare back. Hange grabs your shoulders and you look away. “You stay here, we’re going to talk to Commander Erwin and I’ll be right back.” They give your shoulders a squeeze and you give a small smile in thank you.
When you look back to Levi, he’s already walking away. What is up with him? He just met you. Hating someone you just met is just ridiculous, not to mention incredibly impolite.
You walk to the railing and look over the shining lights of Marley. Drunken laughter and lilting music meets your ears. People are dancing in the streets. It's nothing graceful, nothing compared to the practiced precision of the dances you engage in at various balls and parties. They spin around each other, clapping their hands, stomping their feet, pulling each other close-indecently close-and swaying. It's uninhibited, it's entirely romantic. You wish you could join the fray.
If all goes well, you’ll probably never see this place again. Your heart constricts. Marley for all its faults is your home. You grew up here, splashing in the ocean with your sister, picnics on the lawn with your mother, breakfasts with your father. What about your friends? You hadn’t thought this through, you should have said goodbye, you should have at least left a note. You didn’t have to leave today, you still don’t.
But you do.
It’s the small logical voice at the back of your mind that reminds you that there is no going back, that the sooner you leave the better. The deeper you get into this engagement, this wedding-the thought still makes you nauseous-the harder it will be to leave. And you need to leave. You mother and sister are gone. You don’t recognize your father anymore. Your friends will go on with their lives, they don’t need you. You’re going to be okay.
“Hello Ruby,” You nearly jump. Christ you need to calm down. You turn around and are met with Hange, Levi, and the man who spoke- a tall broad man with neatly kept blond hair. He gives you a smile, “I’m Commander Erwin, leader of this ship. I trust you’ve met my first mate” He points to Hange, “And Captain Levi.” Levi scoffs.
“Hange filled us in on your situation.” Erwin continues.
You look down to your feet, you need to play the part. You remind yourself of the way Zeke threatened you this morning and you have no more need for acting. The anxiety, the fear, they’re all very real. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Erwin is staring at you and for some reason it means a lot to you that he said that. It feels very reassuring. “We can grant you passage to Maria, it’s a few days' travel away from here, but that’s where we’re planning on stopping next.”
You could hug him, you’re so grateful. “Thank you Commander, this means the world to me, thank you.” Your relief hits you all at once and you feel an onslaught of emotion. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, but you refuse to let yourself cry, especially with the way Levi is still glaring at you.
Commander Erwin nods, “Rest up, we set sail at dawn.”
It’s happening. You’re getting out of here. You’re not going to marry Zeke.
Erwin turns away and Hange follows him talking about something excitedly. Levi doesn’t move, he just stands there with his arms crossed across his chest and stares. It unnerves you. He unnerves you. He makes you feel like he can see straight through your story, straight through you.
“Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?” You snap.
Levi doesn’t respond and there’s a beat of silence that passes between you both, the sound of the crashing waves the only reprieve.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m on to you,” he finally says. A cold dread runs through your body, but you force yourself to stay still. You can't afford to give yourself away, not when you're so close to your freedom. Instead, you raise your chin in defiance. He stares at you a second longer and you force yourself to hold his gaze. Then he walks away.
You let out a breath. You don’t think you were breathing the entire time he was scrutinizing you.
It’s only three days.
Three days until you’re free. Three days of making sure no one pokes too much into your background, three days of being as inconspicuous as possible.
It seems possible, easy almost, but something about Levi plants a seed of crawling doubt under your skin. He’s only one man.
So why do you feel like he’s going to be your undoing?
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
1.
Like most troublesome, headache-inducing things that happen to Sanji, it starts with a bored Luffy.
They’re in the galley, and Luffy is sprawled face-first on the dining table, head swollen from a recent kick from Sanji. Sanji is still riding on high from having thwarted Luffy’s attempt for Snack Before the Snack Before Lunch, so he doesn’t expect Luffy’s innocent, “why do you and Zoro not kiss like most couples do?”
It’s a blessing for the crew that Sanji is such a
professional
, because otherwise he would have dropped the rice balls he is making.
He whips his head towards Luffy. “What?”
“Just wondering, is all,” Luffy says to the table, oblivious to Sanji’s shocked confusion. “Ace told me about it before, how couples should kiss and hold hands and stuff.”
Sanji doesn’t even know where to
start
with that, and his brain is not exactly equipped for this kind of conversation with Luffy—out of all people—so he decides to return to the rice balls on the pantry. Salmon for Usopp, Sea King meat for Zoro…
He sighs. “Zoro and I,” he begins, just as the door opens.
Zoro strides into the galley like he owns the place, arching his eyebrow. “You and I?”
He feels Zoro stand behind him, and soon enough, Zoro’s left hand shoots over Sanji’s shoulder, snatching one of the rice balls. His other hand is on the pantry, right beside Sanji’s hip.
Sanji lets him take the food, feeling generous for once. He’s almost done, anyways. “Go ask Luffy, he’s the one with the stupid questions.”
Zoro turns to face Luffy, but doesn’t step away from Sanji. Their shoulders brush against each other.
Luffy sits up and
looks
at them with a rare, serious expression. Before either of them can ask if anything’s wrong, though, Luffy picks his nose, goes, “never mind,” and strolls out of the galley.
Zoro watches their captain go as he reaches for another ball of rice. “What’s with him?”
That was one more rice ball than Sanji is feeling generous for, so he swings his leg. Zoro blocks the kick with practiced ease, as expected, but he seems to have gotten the message loud and clear, because he drops the rice back onto the plate. He still doesn’t step away.
“No idea,” Sanji says, and doesn’t step away, either. If Zoro doesn’t back down, neither will he.
2.
Sanji immediately forgets all about it because it’s
Luffy
and he has long learned that trying to understand how Luffy’s mind works is a futile endeavor, so it throws him completely off guard when a beautiful girl from a flower stand waves at him and says, “We have just the right flowers for your boyfriend.”
“Excuse me?” Sanji asks, tone surprised but polite, because he wasn’t raised
wrong
like a certain green-haired oaf he’s currently doing a supply run with.
“Your boyfriend, you know,” the lady winks, and in a terrible, horrifying turn of events, gestures at the very oaf-slash-pack mule standing a few meters away from him. “The swordsman,” she clarifies.
What the fuck makes you think we’re dating, are you fucking blind
is Sanji’s initial gut reaction, but—he feels like reiterating—he wasn’t raised
wrong
like a certain green-haired oaf who thinks it’s okay to argue with women and their eternally wise insights, so instead he says, “No, thank you, miss.”
He walks away before the girl can say more…
misguided
things, and grabs Zoro by the arm. “We’re leaving.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, cook,” Zoro says, but he lets Sanji lead him through the crowd. Sanji keeps a secure grip on Zoro’s arm throughout the way—Zoro might get lost, you see, and then Sanji has to spend hours looking for him throughout the island. Wouldn’t be the first time that happens.
Sanji’s hand tightens around Zoro’s arm; he ignores the way it almost mimics the sudden tightness that runs through his chest from the touch.
3.
It’s been a week and they have long sailed away from that island, but the conversation still bothers the
fuck
out of Sanji, so he goes to Usopp’s workshop. It pains him to admit, but this is something he can’t talk about with the girls (regardless of how wonderful and smart they are), and Usopp might be full of shit but he’s a good friend, and sometimes he says the exact things Sanji wants to hear, so.
“When the fuck did I start dating Zoro?” He asks as he steps into the room.
Usopp doesn’t even bother to look up from his new invention. “Did you forget your anniversary or something?”
Definitely
not
the things Sanji wanted to hear. “Did I forget my—no, that was a rhetorical question, I didn’t forget my anniversary because we were never dating!”
“Very funny, Sanji,” Usopp says. When Sanji doesn’t reply in favor of having a heart attack and an aneurysm at the same time, Usopp
finally
tears his eyes away from his workbench and frowns. “…wait, really?”
Sanji takes every good thing he has said about Usopp back. Usopp is full of shit,
period
. “Really! Why would I lie about this?”
“I don’t know! I mean, you and Zoro,” Usopp says, and visibly inches away when he sees how quickly Sanji’s face sours. “You two have this, this
thing
going on, so we’ve always thought—”
“‘We’?!” Sanji zeroes in, because there are so many things wrong in that sentence that the only way to maintain his feeble grasp on sanity is to tackle it word by word.
“Royal ‘we’!” Usopp squeaks. “Just, the general we, no-one-specific we, actually, I’ve caught the ‘I-Can-Only-Use-the-Pronoun-We’ sickness in the last island—”
“Cook!” A voice from the deck interrupts Usopp’s rambling. Sanji would recognize that annoying voice even with both ears plugged. In his sleep.
“Shut up! I’m in the middle of something important, Marimo!” He shouts back. There’s a loud
thump
from the deck in place of a civilized reply because Zoro is a
brute
, and Sanji groans and adds, “fine, I’m coming!”
“I want five!” Zoro shouts.
“Three!” Sanji fires back, and then grumbles under his breath, “ungrateful bastard, who the fuck even eats five spring rolls during snack time? Still had the gall to ask for drinks on top of that! One day I’ll put saltwater inside his stupid mug and he’ll finally beg me for mercy…”
When he turns back to Usopp, the
we’re not done yet
dies in his lips as Usopp gives him a funny look.
Sanji squirms under the scrutiny. “What?”
“You got all
that
just from ‘I want five’ and a thump?”
Sanji huffs. “It’s Zoro. That idiot can only speak in caveman language. I’m just smart enough to interpret his stupid grunts.”
The funny look doesn’t disappear from Usopp’s face, and it’s sort of pissing Sanji off. “Yeah.
Sure
.”
Sanji opens his mouth to disagree with whatever the hell Usopp is implying, but Zoro’s
thump
evolves into a
bang
, and he shouts, “If you smash the deck
again
I hope Franky kills you this time!”
He stomps out of the workshop, Usopp forgotten.
4.
There’s a group of marines sitting a few tables away, and Sanji has a feeling that they’re beginning to recognize him.
They aren’t exactly subtle about it; they are all looking down at the same paper, presumably Sanji’s bounty poster, and a couple of them start pointing and gesturing at his table.
Amateurs
, Sanji thinks.
Sanji takes another gulp of his drink and listens in on their conversation, just in case. He can take them all down in his sleep, of course, but he would rather not do it in the middle of a crowded bar when others can get unnecessarily drawn into the fight and injured. He’d leave when it looks like they’re about to take action.
“It’s Black Leg, I’m sure,” he overhears one of them say.
“One hundred and seventy-seven million berries,” another chimes in, obviously excited. “Even split five ways, we could each get thirty-five. We should go for it; I think we can all handle a below two-hundred.”
Sanji feels a vein pop up on his forehead. He is ready to stand up and show them what it’s truly like to face someone with his
grossly
undervalued bounty, when one of the marines suddenly says, “no, are you crazy, haven’t you heard of the rumors?”
Sanji pauses.
Interesting
. Are there some cool rumors surrounding him? Is it about how terrifying his kicks are? Or maybe it’s about how his observation haki is so amazing nobody can even touch him—
“If you go after Black Leg,” the marine elaborates, “his boyfriend is going to come and get you.”
Sanji’s brain short-circuits.
“His boyfriend?” another pipes in, oblivious to Sanji’s breakdown. “Are you talking about Pirate Hunter Zoro?”
What the
fuck
?
“Yeah!” The first marine searches his pocket, and pulls out another poster, most probably Zoro’s. “Look at how terrifying he is! Three hundred and twenty million berries! We won’t win against him.”
Oh, that was it. They’re fucking
dead
.
Sanji haphazardly throws the payment for his drinks at the bar, takes large strides towards the marine and
slams
his foot against their table. The wooden table cracks and crumbles into pieces at the impact with a loud
bang
, and the whole establishment goes quiet.
“Heard some familiar names being thrown around,” he says, lips stretched into a humorless, feral grin. He cracks his neck as the marines scramble to their feet in panic, a fruitless attempt to run away from him. Sanji takes several steps towards them as his legs start to catch on fire. “Only beautiful ladies are allowed to say my name.”
Sanji is no longer welcome to that bar.
5.
“So, Cook-Bro, when did you two get together?”
Sanji’s hand slips, swinging his hammer down a little too hard, and the wooden block he’s helping Franky nail snaps into two. “Who?”
“You and Zoro-san, obviously,” Brook chimes in when it’s clear Franky won’t answer, grumbling about ‘monster strength’ and ‘too many broken blocks.’ Brook, who’s also been helping on the restoration of the crow’s nest after a particularly nasty storm yesterday, starts laughing. “I would imagine the two of you have spent so much time consummating your relationship on this very spot, and we simply got curious.”
There are...so many factual inaccuracies in that statement that Sanji is actually
impressed
by his crewmates’ imagination.
“What the shit?” He says, trying to laugh it off. “You’re joking, right?”
Franky and Brook visibly freeze. Pausing from their respective work, they turn, slowly, giving Sanji twin bewildered stares before looking at each other.
“Forgive me if I was wrong, Sanji-san,” Brook begins, twirling his bony fingers together as he carefully says, “but I’ve always thought I simply missed the beginning of your and Zoro-san’s love story, seeing that I joined the crew a little bit later than everyone else.”
“Yeah, same with me, actually,” Franky says, and he’s
staring
at Sanji like he’s looking at the man for the first time in his life. “I mean, when I joined, you and Zoro-bro were already,” he flips up his sunglasses and frowns at Sanji. “You
know
,” he says conspiratorially.
“I
don’t
know,” Sanji says, because what the hell, he
doesn’t
. Why do people keep assuming that he knows things? When did this even begin? He always thought that the whole incident with the marines was just one of those ridiculous marine rumors, in the same vein of people thinking Robin can kill people with a wink and Shanks secretly has twenty different wives hidden in East Blue. Tall tales of people with high bounties aren’t exactly a new concept.
But then he remembers his exchange with Usopp, and that one conversation he had with Luffy in the galley, and the beautiful flower lady a few islands ago, and fuck, holy fuck, this is a
thing
, isn’t it? Is this what everyone has been thinking the whole time?
Is this what the ladies have been thinking the whole time?
That he’s been, what,
banging
the Marimo?
He tries to school his expression into something resembling a smile, his jaws clenching a little. “Me and that Marimo aren’t a thing,” he explains.
“Really?” Brook asks, and he sounds so genuinely disappointed that it almost makes Sanji feel bad. Almost. “Not at all?”
Sanji grits his teeth. “I think I would know.”
“So you and Zoro-bro aren’t,” Franky says, and his hands make a horrifyingly obscene gesture, made worse by the fact that Franky’s hands are the size of Sanji’s head each. “Doing this?”
“
No
,” Sanji says flatly. He gets the vague impression that he’s just figured out the existence of a new level of hell, and his crewmates are its gatekeepers.
6.
Zoro steps out of the dressing room wearing the most mismatched outfits Sanji has ever laid his eyes upon—a green tie on a purple suit and blue vest, with an orange dress suit underneath. Zoro’s pants are bright yellow. Sanji thinks he just got a minor headache from the sight alone.
“Happy?” Zoro grumbles, clearly irritated by the whole proceeding.
“Are you colorblind?” Sanji says in place of an answer, and starts shoving him back towards the dressing room. “Never mind, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. Just let me pick the clothes for you already.”
“You always pick the expensive ones,” Zoro protests.
“No I don’t, you’re just poor,” Sanji argues back. “Listen, I want this to end just as quickly as you do, so stay inside, be nice, and wear whatever I tell you to wear. Don’t worry, Nami-san is always generous enough to lend you some berries for the clothes."
“That’s because she’s trying to
rip me off
,” Zoro shouts back from inside the room, but Sanji refuses to acknowledge such preposterous accusation towards a queen like Nami. He opts to start picking clothes instead, making sure they’re of the right size for Zoro’s stupidly overtrained muscles, and throws the whole thing into the room.
When Zoro walks out of it this time, he is decidedly more...presentable. In white dress shirt, black tie and dark green vest, the mosshead doesn’t seem like he’s trying to blind every person who has had the misfortune of seeing him anymore. Sanji could even say he’s...handsome.
In, like, a friend-way.
Super platonic.
This whole thing is a
mess.
He decides to distract himself from that dangerous train of thoughts by dramatically pointing at Zoro’s tie, groaning, “
eugh
, do you even know how to tie a tie?”
Zoro crosses his arms indignantly. “Of course I do,” he says. And then, when Sanji simply stares at him skeptically, amends, “not really, but I made some guesses. It wasn’t that hard.”
Disgusting. Downright
barbaric
. Sanji doesn’t know what he expected from such an uncultured brute.
He walks right into Zoro’s personal space and starts fixing his tie, grumbling, “why do I have to do
everything
,” and Zoro lets him, body leaning slightly into Sanji to give him better access, contrasting the way his arms are still crossed in a stubborn pose.
Just as Zoro goes off to pay (with Nami’s money that Sanji will make sure he’ll pay back), one of the shop attendants walks up to Sanji and starts giggling. “It’s so cute to see your boyfriend let you pick his clothes for him,” she says without preamble, “oh, what I’d give to have my girlfriend let me pick her clothes for her. Her fashion sense is so terrible too.”
It takes a couple of seconds for him to realize what the girl means. “No, no,” he immediately says when what she’s implying finally dawns on him, “you’re getting this wrong, my dear.”
She continues to giggle. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him,” she says, and winks at him. “If he asks, he
totally
picked those clothes by himself.”
Sanji feels like he’s going to cry, and he mutters to himself, “I should’ve let that stupid Marimo wear those ugly clothes.”
The girl clasps her hands together excitedly. “Oh, I feel that too!” she says cheerfully, completely missing the point, “we all have a soft spot for our significant other, including their bad fashion decisions.”
When Zoro finally returns from the cashier, Sanji kicks him in the shin just because he can.
7.
The clothing store incident was the last straw.
Sanji can handle people thinking that he and Zoro are banging—physical attractions between crew members aren’t exactly unheard of for pirates—and considering their crew has a literal skeleton and a talking reindeer, there are worse people he can get into weird rumors with. Not to mention Zoro isn’t exactly...bad-looking.
Not that Sanji is
actually
having sex with Zoro on the regular, of course. Never even crossed his mind, really. Except that one time, at that one summer island, but it must have been the
heat
.
The point is, Sanji can handle raunchy, sex rumors. But it’s a whole different ball game when people think he and Zoro are—he shudders at the thought—
in love
.
So before Sanji could second guess his own decisions, he forces himself to confront the ladies. He finds them lounging under the
mikan
trees, and he half-hops towards them, a tray of drinks balanced carefully on his left hand.
There isn’t a good way to lead up to the question, so he blurts, “do you think Zoro and I are dating?”
There’s a pause.
And then, Robin turns to Nami and says, with a little smile, “it seems our bet has come to an end in my favor.”
“Damn it!” Nami exclaims, pulling out some bills from her pocket. “I was so sure he wouldn’t catch on for a couple more months.”
This isn’t happening
, Sanji thinks despairingly as he, in horror, watches Nami reluctantly handing the money over to a smiling Robin.
I am dreaming and this is a nightmare
. “Nami-san. Robin-chan,” he says, because he thinks he’s going to burst into tears if he tries to say something else.
“Oh, yeah, you and Zoro,” Nami turns to him, almost like she’s forgotten about him in favor of mourning the loss of her money, which is probably true. “You two are dating, no question about that.”
“Nami-
san
,” he says, voice raising a few notches higher. “Zoro and I aren’t sleeping together.”
“We didn’t exactly say anything about sexual intercourse,” Robin points out, and Sanji never imagined this is how he’d get Robin to finally talk about sex; his imagination usually involved much less clothing and even fewer mentions of Zoro. Somewhere around the value of
zero
, in a perfect world.
Sanji does not live in a perfect world.
“You take care of him, he has your back in a fight,” Nami adds. “Whenever you two are in the same room it’s like everyone else stops existing.”
“That’s not true,” Sanji argues, but it sounds weak, even to himself.
Nami gives him a flat look. “You guys were playing footsies under the table when we went to that food stall in the last island.”
“It was a
manly feet competition
,” Sanji sputters. “That I was
winning
.” He also can’t help adding, just because.
Both Robin and Nami give him sad, identical looks that makes Sanji feel like he’s one of those pitiful dishes he made when he was eleven that adults pretended to like, and Sanji resists the urge to throw himself overboard.
The girls then turn to each other and have one of those silent conversations they usually have when any of their male crewmembers starts doing something particularly stupid, which involves a lot of eyebrow raising and pitying looks. Sanji prides himself of rarely being at the ends of that look, but as always, Zoro is making that feat increasingly difficult to maintain.
It’s Nami who finally turns back towards Sanji and suggests, “if you’re so unsure about it, why dont you just ask Zoro?”
And that’s...well.
Before Sanji’s brain can fully process Nami’s question and the incoming headache it seems to cause, Robin smiles and says, “I’m sure he will be happy to explain.”
Sanji possess a healthy amount of respect for women that is far from fear, but in that moment, there may have been some chills running down his spine.
“Thank you for the drink, Sanji-kun,” Nami says with a sip from her cup, signalling the end of their conversation.
8.
Sanji is a smart, calm, and rational decision-maker, so clearly the first thing he does is file the whole thing into a neat little box in his head, pack it all up, and pretend nothing ever happened.
He admits he isn’t very good with the last part; it’s only been a week since the disaster of a conversation with the ladies, and he’s already caught himself avoiding Zoro multiple times. The swordsman clearly notices, and it’s almost impressive how the man can wear a flat expression and still exude the aura of a kicked puppy every time Sanji looks away whenever their eyes accidentally meet across the room.
Not that Sanji would ever equate Zoro to a
puppy
. That would be an insult to the entire canine species.
“Is that our afternoon snack today, Sanji?” Chopper asks, his tiny head peering over the counter, eyes wide and practically sparkling at the macaroons on the counter.
Sanji looks up from a neatly stacked tower, arranged in order of color wheel and size because he strives for nothing short of perfection. There are only eight towers, though, and Chopper, ever observant, quickly notices.
Chopper tilts his head. “Did you not make any for yourself?”
Sanji shakes his head and shrugs at the baking tray left at the kitchen counter. “The ones for the Marimo isn’t done; I made his a little bit different from everyone else because he doesn’t like sweets.”
Chopper breaks into a smile at that. “That’s really thoughtful of you, Sanji! Zoro would definitely appreciate it!”
Zoro’s taste buds have not advanced past the level of a starfish’s so Sanji doubts the brute would even notice, but you don’t exactly disagree with the bundle of joy that is Chopper. “Sure.”
He takes a little bite from another batch, testing its taste. It dawns on him that his earlier agreement might come across as a special gesture for
Zoro
, so he rushes to clarify, “not that it’s anything
special
, really. I do this all the time for everyone, including you, Chopper.”
Chopper nods, once again distracted by the colorful treats, but Sanji still feels the need to continue, “and anyways, I guess I just want to make things even, you know? He bought me this really ugly tie, and I…”
He trails off, and absentmindedly fiddles with the tie he’s wearing. It’s a gift, one that Zoro bought him for no reason when they went on a walk together in the last island. They do it more often than he’s willing to admit, sometimes under the guise of Zoro being a pack mule for Sanji’s supply run. And Zoro always pays for the food they get afterwards, because there’s no way Sanji is paying when Zoro’s the one picking the shitty restaurant, and they have dinner together, bickering over the candlelit room, their knees almost touching underneath the table—
“Oh, shit,” Sanji curses, hand still hovering around the tie from Zoro, resting above his heart. The neat little box in his head is spilling all over. “That was a
date
.”
9.
He finds Zoro at the crow’s nest.
The swordsman is lifting a weight the size of Little Merry, which is totally an overcompensation for
something
, but thinking about Zoro’s dick in this situation isn’t exactly helpful so Sanji tries his best not to think about it.
He slumps down at one of the benches, and Zoro ignores him for the most part.
“Are we dating?” He asks after a long pause.
Zoro doesn’t even miss a beat, that asshole. “Huh. Those girls are right. Never thought you’d ever catch on, cook.”
Sanji scowls. “What do you take me for?” He says, as if he didn’t just figure this out a few hours ago. “An idiot?”
Zoro doesn’t answer and opts to stop with his training and give him a
look,
which is an answer in and of itself.
It's not the time for a fight, though, so Sanji makes a vague gesture at the empty space beside him, and his… boyfriend, apparently, what the fuck—takes a seat beside him.
He takes a long drag from his cigarette because he feels like swallowing his arm whole. “What were you going to do?” He asks. “If i never...you know.”
Zoro shrugs. His expression is unreadable. “Probably nothing,” the swordsman says. “I like what we have, cook. I wasn’t going to ruin it.”
The word bothers Sanji more than he expected it would. “Ruin it?” He echoes.
Zoro sighs. “I knew you were going to freak out.”
“What? No.” Sanji scoffs. Or tries to. It somehow comes out more like the sound a drowning chicken makes. “What?
No
.”
Zoro narrows his eye at him. “You’re literally freaking out right now.”
“
I’m not freaking out,
” Sanji half-yells, which is probably a clear sign that he’s freaking the fuck out, so, okay, maybe a little bit. Just a teensy tiny bit.
Zoro smirks at his reaction, and oh, fuck, now that Sanji knows where to look, Zoro’s smile actually looks
fond
. “It’s not like you’re going anywhere, you know?” Zoro explains. “And when this whole thing ends, I can just follow you, stay at whatever stupid restaurant you’re going to build in All Blue.”
Zoro smiles, at that, a small curve of lips, soft and barely-there but touches his eyes nonetheless. It sends a weird warmth, spreading through Sanji’s chest. “I know I can,” he says, and, “I know you’ll let me.”
The words knock a breath out of Sanji. The trust, pressed in between every syllable, is loud and clear—for Zoro, to believe wholeheartedly in Sanji’s dream like it was his own, in the existence of the All Blue. And for Zoro, who was ready to die for his own dream, to actually think of what is coming
after
. To have
Sanji
be a part of it.
Zoro must have taken Sanji’s dumbstruck silence the wrong way, though, because for the first time since the conversation started, there’s a flash of uncertainty across his expression.
“Listen, cook, you don’t have to—” Zoro looks away, and rubs the back of his neck in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “I don’t need you to love me back. What we have, it’s good enough for me. We don’t have to call it anything if you don’t want me to.”
And
that
finally got Sanji to speak up, because the mosshead cannot be more
wrong
, and Sanji never passes up the opportunity to point out Zoro’s mistakes. So he puts out his cigarette and says, “shut up. Shut up.”
Zoro goes quiet and stares at him. Okay, so he
can
look like a cute puppy. Sometimes. The cute part is still arguable.
“Stop assuming everything, shithead,” Sanji jabs his finger at Zoro’s chest. “I just found out that not only I’m dating a shitty swordsman, I’m also apparently in love with him, and that’s all you have to say?”
Sanji waits for the words to sink in, and he watches Zoro’s face break into a slow-starting smile. It erases the hard edges of his expression, makes him look younger, and Sanji thinks he’s a little in love with it.
He’s kind of a little in love with everything about Zoro, really. That’s part of this whole dating thing, he’s been told.
“Cook,” Zoro says, and he looks like he’s stumbling with his words, because he pauses, and corrects himself, “Sanji. I’m going to kiss you now.”
Sanji doesn’t need to be told twice and closes the distance between them.
10.
“Oi,” Zoro says after they pull away, blunt and straightforward and so very
Zoro
. “Can we do that again?”
Sanji laughs, and pulls Zoro into another kiss. “We’re dating, dumbass. Of course.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Pain seared through Aria’s ribs, sharp and unrelenting, as if every bone in her body had been rattled by the fall. She groaned, blinking away the haze of unconsciousness, and found herself lying in a soft bed of golden flowers. Their petals shimmered faintly, as if lit from within, and the air around her was cool, carrying a faint metallic tang. Above her stretched a cavernous ceiling, its jagged edges illuminated by veins of blue crystal that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. The light they cast was eerie, casting long shadows across the walls that seemed to shift and twist as she moved.
Beside her, the child—a small figure with messy brown hair and wide, fearful eyes—shook her shoulder frantically. “Y-you saved me!” they whispered, their voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. Aria blinked, the fog in her mind clearing as she recognized them—the same child she’d seen teetering on the edge of the chasm. They looked unharmed, though their blue shirt with double purple stripes was scuffed with dirt, and their hands clutched the strap of a small, battered backpack like a lifeline. Their expression was a mix of gratitude and fear, their eyes darting around the cavern as though it might swallow them whole.
Aria sat up slowly, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her ribs. She sucked in a breath, the cool air carrying a faint metallic tang that made her nose wrinkle. Around them, the cavern stretched endlessly, its towering walls of deep purple stone looming like ancient sentinels. Thick, twisting vines scaled the surfaces, their leaves shifting restlessly in the faint breeze as if they were alive. She swore she saw one of them twitch, but she couldn’t be sure if it was her imagination or the eerie light playing tricks on her. Above, the jagged ceiling was illuminated by veins of blue crystal that pulsed faintly, casting an otherworldly glow over everything.
The air was thick with the ghostly echoes of wind, a haunting melody that seemed to hum through the crystals and vines alike. It was beautiful, in a strange, ethereal way, but also deeply unsettling. Aria couldn’t shake the feeling that the cavern was watching them, the shadows on the walls shifting and twisting in ways that didn’t make sense.
"Where are we?" Aria asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t expect an answer, but the question slipped out anyway, as if the cavern itself might reply.
The child shook their head, their messy hair falling into their eyes. “You shouldn’t be here,” they said, their voice small but firm. There was something about the way they said it—a weight behind the words that sent a chill down Aria’s spine.
"What do you mean? Who are you?" Aria pressed, her gaze lingering on the child’s face. There was something familiar about them, though she couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the way they held themselves, or the quiet determination in their eyes despite the fear.
The child hesitated, their fingers tightening around the strap of their backpack. “I’m… I’m Frisk,” they said finally, their voice breaking slightly. “And this… this is the Underground.”
Aria’s brow furrowed. “The Underground?” she repeated, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. She glanced around again, taking in the towering walls and the pulsating crystals. It felt like a place out of a dream—or a nightmare. “What… what is this place? How do we get out?”
Frisk’s expression darkened, and they looked away, their small shoulders tense. “It’s not that simple,” they murmured, their voice carrying a weight that made Aria’s chest tighten. Before she could press further, a soft rustling sound drew her attention. Near the edge of the golden flower bed, a single flower tilted toward them, its face—yes, its *face*—contorting into a razor-toothed grin. Its black eyes glinted with a malice that made Aria’s stomach churn.
“Looks like fresh MEAT fell down,” it hissed, its voice high-pitched and mocking, like the scrape of nails on glass. The words sent a shiver down her spine, and she instinctively moved closer to Frisk, her body tensing as if preparing for a fight.
Frisk’s eyes widened, and they scrambled backward, their hands digging into the soft earth. “We need to go,” they whispered urgently, their voice barely audible over the eerie hum of the cavern. Their small frame trembled, but there was a flicker of determination in their eyes, as if they’d faced this before and knew what was coming.
Aria nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever this place was, one thing was clear: they were in danger. And she wasn’t about to let anything—or anyone—hurt Frisk. Not on her watch. She glanced around, her eyes darting to the towering walls and the faintly glowing crystals. “We’ll find a way out,” she said, though her voice wavered slightly. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure Frisk or herself.
Aria’s attention snapped back to the flower as it let out a low, guttural chuckle. “Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” it sneered, its grin widening impossibly further. “Humans are always so… *delicious* when they try to run.”
Frisk’s grip tightened on the strap of their backpack, their knuckles whitening. “Please,” they whispered, their voice barely audible. “We can’t fight it. We have to run.”
Before Aria could respond, vine-like roots burst from the ground, snaking toward them with alarming speed. Aria’s heart pounded as she pushed herself to her feet, though her ribs screamed in protest. She stepped in front of Frisk, her hands trembling but determined. “You leave us alone!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the cavern, though it sounded braver than she felt.
The flower’s laughter echoed through the space, high-pitched and cruel. “Oh, how adorable,” it crooned. “The human thinks she can protect the other human. How *precious*.” The vines circled around them, closing in like a predator stalking its prey, their thorny tips glinting in the faint blue light of the crystals above. Aria’s mind raced, searching for a way out, but the walls were too high, the chasm too deep. They were trapped.
Frisk gripped the hem of Aria’s jacket, their small hands shaking. “What do we do?” they whispered, their voice barely audible over the hum of the cavern. Their wide eyes darted between the vines and Aria, searching for reassurance.
Aria didn’t have an answer, but she squared her shoulders, forcing herself to stand tall despite the fear clawing at her chest.
The vines lunged, their thorny tips slicing through the air. Aria’s breath caught in her throat as she instinctively pushed Frisk behind her, shielding them with her body. The flower’s laughter echoed through the cavern, high-pitched and cruel, as the vines closed in like the jaws of a beast.
“Stay close!” Aria hissed to Frisk, her voice tight with fear but firm. Her mind raced, but there was no time to think, only to act. She grabbed a loose rock from the ground and hurled it at the nearest vine, striking it with a sharp *thwack*. The vine recoiled slightly, but the others surged forward undeterred, their movements almost deliberate, as if they were toying with her.
Frisk stumbled backward, their feet sinking into the soft earth of the flower bed. “W-we can’t fight them!” they stammered, their eyes wide with panic. Beads of sweat formed on their forehead, and their breathing came in quick, shallow gasps.
“We don’t have a choice!” Aria shot back, her voice strained as she dodged a vine that lashed out at her. The air smelled of damp earth and something sickly sweet, like decaying flowers. She could feel the cold, slick surface of the vines as they brushed past her, their thorns grazing her arm and leaving thin red lines in their wake.
The golden flower’s grin widened, its black eyes glinting with malice. “Oh, this is *fun*,” it sneered, its voice dripping with mockery. “Humans are always so entertaining when they squirm.”
Aria’s chest burned with each breath, her ribs aching from the fall, but she forced herself to keep moving. She grabbed another rock and this time aimed for the flower itself, hurling it with all her strength. The rock struck the flower square in the face, and it let out a shrill, inhuman screech, its grin faltering for the first time.
“You… you DARE!” it shrieked, its voice rising to a pitch so high it made Aria’s ears ring. The vines thrashed wildly, slamming into the ground around them with enough force to send up sprays of dirt and petals.
Aria seized the moment, grabbing Frisk’s hand and pulling them toward the edge of the flower bed. “Run!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. Frisk didn’t need to be told twice. They bolted beside her, their small hand gripping hers tightly as they stumbled over the uneven ground.
Behind them, the flower’s laughter turned to a roar of fury. “You can’t escape, little humans!” it screeched, its vines lashing out in a desperate attempt to catch them.
Aria’s heart pounded in her chest as she scanned the cavern for an exit, her eyes darting between the towering walls and the glowing crystals. There had to be a way out. *There had to be.* The hum of the cavern grew louder, mingling with the flower’s enraged cries, as the shadows on the walls seemed to writhe and twist in time with the vines’ movements.
She glanced back just in time to see a vine snaking toward Frisk’s ankle. Without thinking, she yanked them forward, and the vine missed by inches. “Keep going!” she urged, her voice a mixture of desperation and determination.
The cavern seemed endless, the walls closing in around them as they ran. Aria’s legs burned, and her ribs throbbed with every step, but she didn’t dare stop. The golden flower’s laughter echoed behind them, a haunting reminder that they were far from safe.
As they rounded a jagged outcrop of stone, a faint glimmer of light caught Aria’s eye. It was different from the cold blue of the crystals—warmer, softer. Without hesitation, she pulled Frisk toward it, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“We’re almost there!” she said, though she had no idea what “there” was. All she knew was that they couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.
The vines continued to thrash behind them, their thorns scraping against the stone walls as they pursued. The flower’s voice echoed through the cavern, a sing-song taunt that sent shivers down Aria’s spine. “You can run, little humans… but you’ll never escape!”
Aria clenched her teeth, her grip on Frisk’s hand tightening. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered under her breath, her voice fierce despite the fear coursing through her veins. As they ran toward the light, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching them from the shadows.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It made more sense now.
When he’d first met her, Natsu had thought Lucy to be vain and a bit shallow if also surprisingly generous when buying meals for total strangers. Her early reliance on her ‘sex appeal’ strategy had been puzzling since she was a competent wizard, but it was an undeniable truth that she
was
pretty.
Heck, he’d tried to use that to his own advantage right off the bat. Sadly for them both, Duke Everlue’s tastes ran in a different direction, and they’d ended up wrecking the place in
his
normal haphazard manner. It still always seemed odd that Lucy put such an emphasis on her physical appearance when she was just a complete badass and tough as nails.
But it made sense to him
now
.
When Mirajane appeared at Team Natsu’s table holding a job posting specifically requesting Natsu, Gray, and Erza, they could scarcely believe it. Not that someone had singled them out by name - they were amazing, so it just stood to reason - but that the job was for an exorbitant amount of money with very little risk or actual work.
A wealthy couple was traveling across Fiore with their two young children and the wife’s sister on their way to a relative’s extravagant wedding. Since it was ‘well known’ that bandits preyed on the affluent, the couple wanted to hire mages to protect their family on the four day trip. Naturally, they wanted the best, and the
best of the best
was Fairy Tail’s top team. All they had to do was keep an eye on a bunch of rich bigwigs, and they were told they could bring along as many other mages as they felt necessary.
It sounded like the kind of job Lucy would jump at since her share would easily pay six months of her rent. Instead, she’d blanched at something written on the parchment and excused herself by saying she was in the middle of a ‘hot streak’ on her novel. Natsu had begged, whined and wheedled, complaining that the job would just be too boring without her. He’d draped himself on top of her, sulking with the seriousness of an expert pouter, until she caved like a house of cards.
It wasn’t until they’d arrived for their job that he learned why she’d been so hesitant.
The family had greeted her with “It’s little Lucy Heartfilia!” and “You’ve grown so pretty” and “So sorry hear about your father, a shame really.” She knew these people from her childhood, and something in the strained smile and fake laughs she put on made him acutely aware of her discomfort.
Erza had taken charge of the operation, as she was wont to do, ordering Natsu, Gray, and Happy around while quietly asking Lucy if she was alright staying near their patrons. The blonde girl had smiled weakly, nodding. Her parents had known them, walking in the same social circles, so they’d be more likely to accept direction from her than the ‘uncouth wizards.’
They’d insisted she ride with them in their carriage while the other mages traipsed along beside, pleading that a young lady of her upbringing really shouldn’t strain herself by walking everywhere. Besides, that kind of physical activity would make her
bulky,
and she had such a lovely, soft appeal. Eza had quirked a red brow at that, and Natsu snickered. He’d been all set to tease Lucy about being squishy when Gray elbowed him in the ribs and started hushed, irritated scuffle.
“Best behavior,” Erza said menacingly, ending their tussle as soon as it began.
But the family’s continued comments about the blonde’s appearance started to dig in under Natsu’s skin. He just couldn’t understand why they weren’t gushing over how strong a wizard she’d become or how much ass she’d kicked during the Grand Magic Games. Talking about her golden hair, trim waist, and shapely legs seemed like missing the
entire point
of his partner.
One of the evenings they’d been traveling, Natsu had complimented the aunt on her ‘cool’ black veil, prompting Lucy to swat him on the arm and hiss that it meant she was recently widowed. Feeling a bit foolish, the dragon slayer had smoothly said, “That sucks.”
The lady chuckled indulgently and replied, “It’s not all bad. I do get a portion of the estate after they finish parceling it out to his children from his first marriage, and this time I can do whatever I like with it. The money is mine and only mine.”
He’d blinked at that, not quite getting why it would even be something to make note of. It also seemed strange that the woman didn’t appear all that sad about having lost her spouse. She seemed like a nice lady otherwise, and it really wasn’t his place, so he didn’t waste too much time pondering it.
Later the aunt leaned over to talk to him quietly. “This is likely going to sound rather cruel,” she’d said, “but the best thing that could’ve happened to little Lucy was her father losing his fortune after she ran away. Otherwise she would’ve ended up just like me...”
“Like you? You don’t seem so bad,” Natsu put forth.
She’d laughed and smiled grimly at him. “I meant forced into marriage with someone she barely knew and didn’t love, but thank you all the same.”
His face must’ve betrayed his extreme confusion because the woman’s eyes turned speculative. “You didn’t know? About Junelle?” When he’d shook his head negatively, she’d offered a sympathetic curl of her painted lips. “Jude was going to marry her off to the Duke in order to cement a business deal. Don’t look so shocked; it’s a common practice. What
else
are daughters for?” The bitterness leaching into her voice dropped ice cubes into his gut.
By now things were sinking in. A few more offhand remarks by the widow made him consider that, in the world Lucy had grown up in, her looks were considered something of a commodity. A prize, a bargaining chip. Something for her and her parents to
use
to get what they wanted. The thought made him quiet and somber which Erza and Gray both acknowledged. He wasn’t quite sure how to express what he was feeling, so he played it off as having eaten some fire that didn’t agree with him.
All the while he watched Lucy wilting in the light of the family’s shallow admiration. Was this how she’d looked when she’d been under her father’s thumb? False, brittle cheer laying over anxiety and inevitability? Even thinking it made him nauseous.
At one point, the husband leaned his face in close to Lucy, whispering in her ear, not realizing a dragon slayer could pick out every damning word, that she really had grown up
so beautiful
and it was
just a shame
that such a delicate girl was reduced to the hard work of being a wizard to sustain herself. If she would consent, he would be
oh so happy
to support her instead… if she would just make herself
available
to him. It was the way Lucy tensed when the man’s hand dipped low against her back that brought Natsu’s hackles up along with the revolting realization the man had just
propositioned
her.
Teeth baring, he’d been ready to jump up and beat the crap out of the guy, employer or no, when Lucy's high, too loud to be genuine, laughter attracted everyone’s attention. The situation was immediately diffused by her “You’re very funny!” and the prying eyes of the rich man’s wife.
He’d never been so glad to be done with a job in all his life - at least not one where he hadn’t been required to take transportation. Natsu had been eager to be rid of these people only to find out that Erza had accepted their
very gracious
invitation to the wedding reception. They even offered to provide the wizards with suitable clothing for the event.
A swanky party stuffed into itchy, restrictive clothing… Just the way to round out a miserable job. He hadn’t even gotten to fight any bandits!
Now that Lucy wasn’t having to glue herself to the family’s side in order to keep watch on them, the fire wizard quickly took their place. She gave him a tired, tiny smile, starting to perk up as he grinned, huge as he could, and made her scold him when he started shoveling food into his mouth. That was more like it.
Her dress was a flowing, pastel pink which he privately decided looked nice but didn’t suit her nearly as well as her t-shirt and shorts. In fact, this
whole
moneyed world of hers didn’t suit her at all. The way she was waving her hands and scowling at him would make anyone who didn’t know her think she was righteously angry, but
he
could tell. She was having fun. Finally.
Cramming his belly until he felt like he might burst out of the heavily embroidered coat, the dragon mage began to come down from the peak of unease he’d been feeling. Lucy was relaxing, Erza was nodding her head absently at something a rich gentleman had said while trying not to get caught ogling her boobs, and Ice Bastard chatted with some
other
rich old dude about the potential entrepreneurial applications of ice make magic.
Happy just draped his little body over Natsu’s shoulder, stomach also rounded with too much food.
“Miss Heartfilia, I have to say I was surprised when I learned that you joined a wizard guild,” another man spoke up, catching the dragon slayer’s attention away from the glass of wine he was frowning at. He hadn’t even asked for it. Some waiter just handed it to him.
“Your mother was quite a treasure with her talent, but I think poor Jude was relieved when she put away those keys of hers.” The man laughed like he’d told a joke, and the other rich guys joined him.
One of the younger ones smiled at the blonde, doing something
weird
with his eyes that he probably thought would make her attracted to him. “I saw your performance on the lacrima at the Grand Magic Games.” Lucy tensed, her own smile snapping into place like a mask. “It really was just
awful
to see those Raven Tail and Sabertooth thugs treat you so horribly.”
He edged in closer, evidently not noticing the way Erza and Gray turned to stare at him or how Natsu’s sharp teeth peeked out under the lip that was peeling back threateningly. “It seems like a shame that such a pretty girl would have to go through something so terrible. That someone so… stunning would have to fight all on her own.”
Gray cleared his throat in a way that just was noisy enough to be rude. “So, you don’t think a pretty girl can be strong too?”
“Well, I didn’t say that,” the man amended, discreetly snatching a look at Erza’s very carefully straight face. “It’s just that… Well, in the social circles
we
come from,” he waved a hand to indicate himself and Lucy, “women are more encouraged to be refined, delicate. We don’t ask them to dirty their hands or
fight
for us. They understand that we need their
support
in order to run our businesses and governments. Their beauty and fragility are something to be celebrated and protected.”
There was a murmur of agreement that had Erza rolling her eyes and Gray giving a little shake of his head.
“I dunno,” Natsu said loudly, swirling his drink carelessly and feeling extremely peeved. “The prettiest girl I know is also the toughest.” Gray noticed Lucy casting a glance with a small smile at Erza and hid his humor behind the rim of his glass. She really just didn’t know, did she?
“That’s an… interesting sentiment,” one of the men replied diplomatically. It was obvious he didn’t understand.
The dragon slayer shrugged, a movement made more exaggerated by the ostentatious epaulets tacked onto the dressy jacket he’d been forced to wear. “She might not be the toughest on the
outside
, but she sure is inside. No matter how many times she gets knocked down, she’ll always get back on her feet and keep fighting. She doesn’t run when you need her, and she doesn’t use other people as shields. She’ll stand and fight right next to you even if she’s bleeding and hurting.”
His dark eyes regarded the surprised expressions of the wealthy people surrounding them. “It doesn’t matter if she can win every fight. I’d rather have a friend who’ll risk everything helping me than have ‘em hiding in my shadow waiting for me to protect them. She’s the most beautiful person
because
she’s the toughest.” He chugged down most of the glass of expensive wine, making a slight face at the taste.
Gray watched Lucy’s creamy cheeks bloom into deep crimson during Natsu’s impassioned speech. There was no doubt who he was talking about now. The ice make mage leaned over to whisper in Erza’s ear as the rest of their group started a new topic in earnest. “Do you think that idiot realizes what he’s just confessed?”
She chuckled and shook her head. “Not yet, at any rate. It’ll sink it at some point.”
Once the party was done, Natsu nearly tore the loaned coat in his enthusiasm to be rid of it. Lucy batted his hands away and started undoing the ridiculous number of buttons and clasps that kept it fastened tight to his lean frame. Even if she’d said he looked good in it, the damned thing was insanely uncomfortable.
“Did you mean what you said earlier?” Her voice was so soft even his enhanced hearing almost missed it.
“Oh, yeah! Those little steaks on a stick were
so
good!”
The look she slid up let him know she was wondering if he was being deliberately dense or not. Her eyes dropped back down to where her hands were working on a silver buckle. “I’m sure they were…”
Maybe it was how he’d watched her struggle over the last week, or the new appreciation he had for her childhood, or how
angry
those men had made him when they judged her without really knowing her. Or it could’ve been all that wine he’d drunk tonight without respecting the shockingly high alcohol content. Whatever the reason, his courage was on a high and his inhibitions at a low, and he grasped her laboring fingers with his warm, calloused ones.
She looked up, startled, and he looked down, eyes dark and fathomless. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers in what was probably the most clumsy first kiss in the history of ever.
Really, he had no idea what he was doing.
But he did it anyway, and when he pulled back Lucy’s face was burning and her mouth gaping. The heat he felt slithering up his own cheeks was probably not fire he decided, though he managed an approximation of his normal carefree grin. “I meant every word.”
“You really think I’m strong?” She sounded shy, but her expression looked like she might start laughing.
He nodded vigorously. “Yep! Definitely the toughest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Tougher than Erza?” she teased, giving him a nudge with her elbow. Natsu strengthened his hold on her fingers.
“Way stronger,” he whispered, magnetically drawn back to her mouth for another chaste kiss.
That familiar, singular Lucy smile that bloomed like a rare flower on Mt.Hakobe made him feel 100 feet tall. Invincible. Unbreakable. For all he admitted that he won most of his battles thanks to his friends, he’d never quite put into words what
her
special presence meant. She lent her unconquerable power to him everyday in little ways. Her strength was
his
strength, and he knew without a doubt that he couldn’t stand on his own two feet without her anymore.
How the hell had that happened? He was definitely screwed, and he definitely didn’t care.
Giggles spilled out of her, making her shoulders shake and lending a distracting jiggle to her chest. “Just don’t ask me to go carrying any giant monster carcasses, okay?”
Natsu slung an arm around her casually, freeing her hands and feeling buoyantly content. “I have no idea what I’d do without you.”
“Well,” Lucy drawled as she tucked her own arm along his waist, “happily for you, I don’t plan to ever make you find out.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
ACT ONE: THE RAIN
"Uh, JARVIS, remind me again why we're hosting a party when our magnum opus of artificial intelligence is currently sitting in the digital equivalent of a
timeout corner?
"
Tony swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the afternoon light. The city sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious to his existential crisis.
"Because, sir,"
JARVIS replied smoothly,
"You told Captain Rogers it would be 'good for morale' after the Maximoffs' probation was officially lifted. Also, because you enjoy 'dramatic juxtaposition'."
Tony snorted, "Keep psychoanalyzing me, and I'll reprogram you to say 'please' and 'thank you'." He knocked back the rest of the drink and set the glass down with a
clink
, "—Status check on the Ultron core?"
"It remains dormant. Neural matrix stabilized, but no emergent activity detected."
Tony grimaced. Three days of nonstop work, and all they had to show for it was a glorified screensaver. He'd envisioned a revolutionary AI — Something sleek, efficient,
perfect
. Instead, they'd gotten... Nothing. Just static and that eerie sense of being
watched
from inside the code.
Bruce had called it a mercy. Tony had called it a waste of good tech and good lab time. Now, Thor was going to pack it up and take it back to Asgard like it was carry-on luggage.
The elevator dinged.
"Tony." Steve's voice, all earnest disapproval and star-spangled concern, "You're not dressed yet."
Tony didn't turn around, "Observant as ever, Cap. What gave it away? The lack of a tux or the existential despair?"
"The twins just arrived. Thought you might appreciate getting a heads-up."
Ah.
Right.
The
other
mess in his life. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, unleashed upon his tower, having to see them properly for the first time since their little stunt in Sokovia.
Tony forced a grin, spinning to face him, "Great. Can't wait to bond over canapés and repressed trauma."
Steve sighed, "Play nice, Tony."
"Always do, Rogers." Tony replied blithely, "But nobody else ever seems to play nice back."
The White Widow
"Chert voz'mi."
(Goddamn it.)
Alia cursed, throwing her hands up in the air in despair. She'd been pacing around her side of the adjoining quarters she and Bucky had been assigned (to manage their codependency; though it typically just meant they alternated sides whenever they felt like it) like a madwoman for nearly thirty minutes. And she was just about feeling crazy, too.
Because Natasha was
late
.
With her
dress
.
Stark's party was apparently 'cocktail attire'. Well, that was all well and good, except Alia's style trended towards
military chic
. Tactical
everything.
A great affinity for cuffed cargo pants. Plenty of tank-tops (Which Bucky
always
appreciated, at least) but nothing that screamed
cocktail attire
.
Natasha had said to give her an hour. Well, it had been an hour and
three minutes
, and she—
—
Oh, finally
. Relief flooded Alia the moment she sensed Natasha in proximity. She didn't even waste time, sauntering over to the door and opening it, "You are
late
."
She could feel Bucky's amusement from his half of their quarters.
He
had no issues dressing up, so he was greatly enjoying Alia's dilemma. Which he would be paying for later.
Natasha arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the outburst, as she stepped inside. The garment bag slung over her shoulder swayed with her movements. She tossed it onto the bed without ceremony.
"Traffic," The other Widow deadpanned. Then, with a pointed once-over at Alia's current ensemble— Ripped black jeans and a tank top that absolutely
screamed
'I will stab you at a moment's notice'
—She added, "You're welcome."
The zipper of the garment bag hissed open, revealing sleek black fabric. Natasha held up the dress with a wicked smile; it was tailored to hug every curve, the back dipping dangerously low, the sleeves long and fitted. Old-fashioned, but for modern times.
Natasha glanced at the adjoining door, where Bucky's amused presence was palpable even without telepathic abilities to sense it.
"You going to survive seeing her in this, Barnes?" She called out, teasingly, "Or should I be paging medical in advance to be prepared for a heart attack victim?"
From the other side of the door came Bucky's muffled,
"Fuck off, Romanoff,"
followed by the distinct sound of a foot hitting the wall.
Natasha only grinned wider. Mission accomplished, apparently. She winked at Alia before sauntering out, no doubt to get ready herself. Alia already knew what Natasha would be wearing. White.
It was ironic. The Black Widow dressed in white, and the White Widow dressed in black. A little inside joke, between the two of them, for tonight.
Alia let out a breath and got to work getting into the dress — Which was basically a trial in and of itself. She'd never worn something so...
Formal
, before. It felt strange. A bit like she was exposed, which, in a way, she was.
But she could make this work. She always did.
"...James. I think that I need your help with the zipper," She finally muttered like a petulant child, knowing Bucky would hear her. She'd been trying herself for the last three minutes.
The door opened with deliberate slowness, Bucky stepping through with that familiar half-smirk already playing at his mouth, until he saw her. His breath caught audibly, his boots freezing mid-step as his gaze raked over the way the dress clung to her curves, the plunge of the back barely restrained by that stubborn, half-done zipper.
"Jesus
Christ
," He muttered, voice gone hoarse at the sight. His metal hand flexed at his side like he was resisting the urge to touch. And Alia didn't need telepathy to feel the heat in his stare, or sense the way his pulse had kicked up the second he'd laid eyes on her.
He moved behind her in two long strides, his fingers, calloused and warm, brushing the nape of her neck as he dragged the zipper up with painstaking slowness. His breath tickled her ear, uneven.
"Natasha's trying to kill me," He grumbled.
The zipper hit the top with a soft
click
, but Bucky didn't step back. His hands lingered at her waist, his nose skimming the sensitive spot below her ear.
"Party's in twenty minutes," He murmured, lips grazing her skin, "You know, we could be
late
."
Alia only rolled her eyes, tipping her head back so she could look back at him, "No, James, we cannot be
late.
It would be very rude." She punctuated the point by reaching up to plant a kiss on his jaw.
Yeah. She knew what she was doing.
"And, besides," Alia added, dryly, "I have not done my makeup yet. And you would ruin it."
Bucky groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder, "You're
mean
," He grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. His fingers tightened briefly at her hips before he forced himself to step back, running a hand through his hair.
He leaned against the dresser, watching as she moved to the vanity—deliberate, predatory.
"You thinking of wearing your hair up?"
The question was innocent, but his tone wasn't. Alia didn't need telepathy to know
exactly
where his thoughts had gone.
"Mm. I had not decided yet." Her hair had grown out enough that she could, if she wanted to; just skimming her collarbone and only just starting to fall down her shoulders. She'd need to get it cut again, soon...
She busied herself instead with applying lipstick (clothes were one thing, but Alia
did
enjoy makeup), a deep red the colour of blood, "Did you have a suggestion?" She asked, thoroughly amused by his suffering now.
Bucky's gaze, though, had locked onto the way the lipstick stained her mouth, his own parting slightly. He swallowed hard before managing,
"Up."
The word came out strangled. He cleared his throat, dragging his eyes away. Only to get caught on the elegant line of her bare back again.
He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his jacket in a way that was
not subtle
, "You're doing this on purpose," He finally accused, his voice low.
Outside, the muffled sounds of the party starting up filtered through the walls; music, laughter, quiet conversation. Bucky didn't move. His metal hand gripped the dresser hard enough to dent the wood.
Alia grinned, those dark lips curling, "Only because you make it so easy for me to," She assured him, sweeping up her shortened hair into a quick, effortless updo — The sort of style she was used to throwing together, be it when sparring with Natasha or Wanda, or relaxing at home in their quarters. A few stray pieces tickled her face as she stepped back.
Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat that was almost a growl, pushing off the dresser in one smooth motion. In two strides he was crowding her against the vanity, his hands braced on either side of the mirror as he leaned down to murmur directly into her ear:
"Tease me like this at the party, and I
will
drag you into the nearest closet, Avengers be damned."
"You would not." She scowled, but that waver in her voice gave her away. That, and the way her head tilted on instinct to give him better access to her neck.
His teeth grazed the exposed column of her throat, just shy of leaving a mark, "Try me," He murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice making her shiver.
The doorbell chimed, then. JARVIS' polite voice filled the shared suite,
"Ten minutes until scheduled event commencement, Sergeant Barnes, Ms. Volkova,"
And Bucky pulled back with a groan.
He straightened his collar with one hand, the other sliding down to intertwine with hers.
"Alright. Later," He promised darkly.
Alia only smiled again, this time a bit less sultry, a little lighter, as she interlaced her fingers with his.
It was just one short elevator ride to the common area. One where Alia made it a point to
not
look at Bucky because she was sure if she did, he'd have her up against the wall of it in no time. She almost exhaled in relief when they finally arrived, both miraculously intact.
The common area was already abuzz with guests, even though the party didn't start for another ten minutes. Everyone was scattered; Natasha, in her white dress, was manning the bar; Tony and Bruce were speaking in low tones to one-another; Thor was regaling what looked to be a group of veterans with fantastical stories.
And then, of course, there were the Maximoffs. Steve was already with them.
"I am serious, James. No closets. This is a big night for Wanda and Pietro." She finally muttered to Bucky, slipping her hand from his so she could walk over to Steve and the twins.
'A big night' was an understatement. It had taken months of work but Secretary Ross had finally approved the lifting of the twins' probation. It didn't mean that neither she nor Steve were off the hook concerning them, but it meant they could leave the upstate compound. It meant they weren't at risk of being thrown back in the Raft if they stepped a toe out of line.
It was a victory, even if it was a small one, and one worth celebrating. Not that Tony Stark needed an excuse to throw a party, though...
Wanda spotted her first. The girl's eyes, still sharp with skepticism despite weeks of tentative trust, flickered over Alia's dress, then Bucky, who lingered a few paces behind her, before her gaze settled back with a soft little smirk. Pietro, leaning against the bar next to Natasha, opted to just wolf-whistle at her. Alia rolled her eyes.
Steve, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat, "You clean up nice," He offered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Alia ignored the heat creeping up her neck, "Oh, do not start, either, Rogers."
Wanda tilted her head, fingers toying with the rim of her wineglass, "You look... Different," She said, more observation than compliment.
"Different bad?" Alia raised an eyebrow.
"Different
interesting
."
Alia laughed at that, shrugging, "Interesting, that is good." Before she added, "Then, you two look very
interesting
as well. I am happy you could come." She meant it, too.
Steve and her, they'd worked damn hard over the last month to help these two thrive. They'd fought even longer before that to have them released from the Raft. Now, they had a real chance to reclaim their lives. That wasn't something Alia took lightly. Now Wanda and Pietro were here, her in a dress and shawl, him in a polo shirt and jeans, almost looking like they belonged.
"Do not worry. Once everyone has had a few drinks, there will not be so much tension," Alia added, grinning, "Just do
not
drink what Thor offers you. Steve, Bucky, and I, it is good for us. It is
not
good for humans with
normal
livers."
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "That's putting it lightly. Last time Tony tried Asgardian mead, I don't think I saw him for an entire weekend..."
Wanda's lips twitched into almost a smile. Pietro snorted into his drink.
Across the room, Tony clinked a fork against his glass, exclaiming, "Alright, folks! Since we're all here—" His eyes flicked briefly to Wanda and Pietro before he continued, "—Let's raise a toast. To new beginnings, questionable life choices, Thor's upcoming sabbatical, and to
not
destroying my tower this time."
Glasses lifted. Bucky appeared at Alia's side again, pressing a vodka martini into her hand, her usual, the golden glimmer suggesting he'd already been by Thor to have it spiked. His fingers brushed hers deliberately as she took it.
No closets,
his smirk said,
but I'm keeping track.
She mentally flicked his brain and he scowled at her in return. Alia grinned smugly back at him, then glowered when he stole a kiss from her that had Pietro gagging into his beer bottle.
The party hummed around them, laughter and music weaving together.
And, somewhere in the tower, deep in the lab servers, dormant code stirred; a danger that none of them foresaw coming.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Sleep. That was all the ancient mind knew now. Millenia of sleep had driven it into the vast unconscious landscape of imagination. Far, far away from the nord warriors that had forced it into slumber.
But now, something was disturbing that slumber. Something distant, but powerful. It could hear the caller's voice, even now. It distracted the mind, as well as the dream creatures it was hunting.
"Mirmulnir,"
the voice was saying.
"Zil gro dovah ulse!"
That was strange. It could recall the voice, somehow. Someone important. And that name, that was its own name! But who was calling?
Something cracked as the voice called out,
"Slen Tiid Vo!"
Recollection jumpstarted as the dreamscape fell away to the waking world. Great, leathery wings spread, cracking the dry, frozen ground holding the great beast down, tossing it away in shockingly hot chunks. Scales and flesh grew around bones so ancient, they had been all but forgotten. And great, yellow eyes opened to the sight of a great, black dragon hovering above the beast, glaring down at it with an expression every dragon had known from birth.
Submit or die.
Mirmulnir the mighty bowed his great head to the Eldest One.
"Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleysejun kruziik?"
The World Eater smiled, showing off every last one of his razor sharp teeth.
The Age of Dragons had returned.
Ralof sat by the fire, watching the flames lick away at the logs that served as fuel. He was supposed to be resting. His watch was coming up, and he didn't need to risk dozing off in the middle of it.
But sleep had not claimed him. His mind was too full of dark thoughts for that. The dragon sighted over Riverwood. Tullius probably scheming with his Thalmor overlords. And the one-eyed stranger...
He could still see it, as clear as day. The expression on the man's face as he judged Ralof and his uniform, and found both wanting. Why? What was the man after? What were his goals? Why was he even
there?
He heard Throrn's form move in the other bedroll and sighed, rolling over to face the man. "You should be sleeping," he pointed out with a small, forced smile.
Throrn snorted, not turning to meet Ralof's gaze. "So should you, sir," he grunted in response.
Ralof chuckled, turning to stare at the ceiling. "First, the cowards of the Empire force Ulfric into rebellion," he mused. "Then, this stranger appears in our midst."
"And then," Throrn muttered in dark amusement, "As if that's not enough, the dragons return to threaten our homes." He groaned as he sat up, shaking his head. "It's as if the gods hate us or... something."
It was Ralof's turn to snort. "Let's hope it's
something
, then," he said, finding one stalactite in particular
quite
interesting.
Throrn made a noise and started to dig into his pack.
Ralof frowned, watching in mild curiosity and confusion. "What is it?"
"I
just
remembered," Throrn answered, pointedly
not
looking in Ralof's direction. "You told me to look through Gunern's officer's pockets. I found a note."
Ralof sat up himself, his eyes narrowing at the warrior. "And you're telling me this
now?"
Throrn's cheeks turned pink. He pulled out a folded scrap of paper, turning to glare at Ralof. "Well,
pardon me, sir.
I was a little distracted by the massacre and, oh, I don't know,
the thrice-damned dragon?"
Ralof sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, holding out a hand. "Have you read it, yet?"
Throrn passed the paper over with a shake of his head. "No, sir. Again, I was a little preoccupied."
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Ralof unfolded the paper, and began to read.
To General Galmar Stone-Fist,
I have glanced over your plans to rescue your leader, and agree that while they are solid enough on their own, you require a reliable escape route.
Luckily, the location of the operation was gracious enough to provide one. There is an extensive barracks building; the largest building in the entire village. You will need to traverse all the way down to its prison at the bottom. At its rear, in the deepest part of the building, there is a wall that should break with a few, powerful blows from, say, a battleaxe or a warhammer.
Once this wall is broken down, it should open up the path to freedom. My source's information ends there, but it should be more than enough to guarantee the operation's success.
I wish you all luck. You are true sons and daughters of Skyrim, and I wish with all my heart to one day carry a fourth of your courage within me.
- R
Ralof frowned, his brow furrowing as he read the note. Who was this
R?
What kind of source had they held within Helgen? Had they known about the stranger? The dragon? Still, if if Ulfric's right hand man, Galmar, trusted them, then surely all was fine.
Right?
"Everything alright, sir?" Throrn asked hesitantly.
Ralof didn't answer. He simply folded the paper, staring into the fire once again. It really
was
as if the gods hated them. Or
something
. And he gave a silent prayer to Talos that it was, indeed,
something.
Both men leapt to their feet as they heard the bridge leading to the back of the mine creak, their hands on their axes. And both breathed a sigh of relief when Gunern's face appeared over the bridges above them.
The nord snorted as he gazed down at them. "You lot look like you've just seen a ghost," he joked, marching down the ramp towards them. "I hope you're not about to doze off, Throrn. It's your watch."
Throrn grumbled incoherently to himself, marching past Gunern in an obvious bad mood.
Gunern watched the man leave, then turned towards Ralof. "What's up with him?"
Ralof shrugged. "Been a rough few days," he pointed out gently. "Besides, I think he's a newer recruit."
"Aye, probably," Gunern relented, sitting down atop the vacated bedroll. He grimaced, gently closing the flap. "He also sweats," he grumbled. "Good thing the fire's going, eh?"
Ralof shrugged, holding the paper out to Gunern. "Take a look at this," he said.
Gunern frowned, accepting and unfolding the paper. He read slowly, mouthing the sounds. He then made a small noise and nodded. "So that's how we knew about the passage..."
"So you didn't read it either," Ralof concluded.
Gunern shook his head, handing it back. "Nope. And before you ask, I have no idea who that
R
is supposed to be."
Ralof grunted, shaking his head. "No," he said. "That was
your
unit. You should take it to Ulfric yourself."
The man frowned again. "What do you mean? You're not coming with us?"
"No," Ralof confirmed, staring into the fire once more. "Someone needs to make sure that stranger's watched. I'll be going to Riften; make sure that's taken care of."
Gunern grimaced. "That why you were talking with that bloody elf earlier?"
Ralof's eyes narrowed as he turned to regard Gunern. "The bosmer have suffered as much as we have, thanks to the Thalmor," he admonished harshly. "More so, even. And I'd appreciate it if you remembered that, soldier."
Gunern's face scrunched up to reflect his doubt, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, sir."
Ralof nodded in return. "Besides, I know this elf," he said, returning his gaze to he flames. "Works for my sister at the mill. He also hunts for the village. Not the strongest, but a good, reliable worker."
"Alright, I get it, sir," Gunern grumbled, laying down
atop
the bedroll. "But, uh, shouldn't you be getting to
your
watch,
sir?"
Ralof was silent for a few moments. Then he sighed again, getting to his feet. "Get your rest," he told the other nord, his voice cold as a Skyrim winter. "We're leaving tomorrow, after all."
He knew Gunern was watching him all the way to the entrance tunnel. He didn't care.
Nords like Gunern were a necessary evil in the war against the Thalmor, after all.
Bradley was having a miserable night. He'd had to climb back down the mountain and hike all the way back to Riverwood. Whoever had made that exit
clearly
did not care for the state of one's knees when they'd designed it.
Still, he'd found some more gold and supplies in both chests he'd found. Little by little, his purse was growing heavier. A weight he was more than happy to carry, until he found something worth spending it on.
On the other hand, by the time he'd arrived at the Sleeping Giant Inn, he was completely exhausted. He barely registered the owner's suspicious looks as he rented a room from her. Barely heard her informing the big man at the bar of her trip the following morning.
No, he simply stumbled into his bed, almost completely forgetting to shut the door behind himself.
Sleep took its time to claim him. But when it did, it was complete and absolute.
That night, his mind decided to take him back through the conversations of the last dream. Except that it had all been jumbled up in an incoherent mess. His wife berating him, Pride criticizing him. The slap. The pain. All mixed up and melting together.
And then he was in the Gate once more. He was screaming his throat raw as something transmuted him. Over and over again. Little changes, tiny tweaks to his DNA itself. It was pain like none he had ever experienced.
Save for the moment the Philosopher's Stone entered his bloodstream.
"Silence, child,"
admonished the cheerful voice of God.
"For this vessel to receive life in this way, it must be... adjusted."
Bradley did not obey. He physically couldn't, even if he wanted to. The pain of this transformation was driving the scream from his lungs.
And then, it stopped. He was allowed to breath again. His eyes opened, and he searched his surroundings for the offending deity.
Only to find himself in a landscape of stars. He was resting on a warm, pink cloud that billowed around him, lights shining from deep within.
Bradley found God again. It was standing on the cloud, not too far off. And its gaze was turned up towards the dragon.
The dragon was incomprehensibly humungous. Its wings spread out, blocking off half the "sky" with the leathery appendages. At first, he thought its scales were a deep scarlet. But as its head winded down towards God and Bradley, he could see its color changing with each light it passed through. Now it was gold. Now, silver. Black. White. Blue. Green. The changes were starting to hurt his eyes.
"Equivalent exchange,"
God said, grinning up at the dragon.
"As we agreed."
The dragon stared at Bradley for what seemed like forever. Its golden eyes shone with an ancient, eldritch intelligence he could not possibly hope to comprehend. How he knew that, he could not even begin to guess.
And then it spoke.
YES,
it said, though its jowls did not move. Bradley felt as if the mental voice was pressing him deeper into the cloud, preventing him from moving.
THIS ONE WILL DO.
"I certainly hope so,"
God answered, his grin widening.
"For what you're paying."
The dragon nodded, its eyes never leaving Bradley for a second.
NAMELESS HUMAN, WRATH THE HOMUNCULUS. FOR YOUR CRIMES AGAINST YOUR OWN PEOPLE, YOU HAVE BEEN SENTENCED TO REINCARNATION.
God tilted its head, chuckling.
"A little dramatic, don't you think?"
The dragon's eyes narrowed, though it only regarded God for a moment.
YOU SHALL ENTER THE WORLD OF NIRN AS NO ONE. YOU SHALL BE DOOM-DRIVEN.
It now raised a mighty claw, slowly reaching out towards Bradley's trembling, rage filled form.
YOU SHALL BE DOVAHKIIN.
The claw made contact. And Bradley's world became light and pain.
Bradley jerked as he awoke, slowly opening his eyes and glaring at the ceiling.
Now, his brain was coming up with stupid gobbledygook to cope with his new life. What a lovely thought. Certainly not a sign of a crumbling psyche
at all.
He groaned, sitting up and reaching for his eyepatch. He would forget his dreams. Today was a new day, full of opportunity.
He briefly wondered if Lucan sold maps.
Faendal sat upon the
Riverwood Trader's
porch once again, watching the other villagers pass him by. He nodded politely to those who did so, casually chomping on his apple.
He liked Riverwood. It was no Valenwood tribe, but it was a nice enough place. For a nord village. Sure, Hod and Gerdur were basically open Stormcloak supporters, and he had Sven to contend with on a daily basis. But none of them had ever made him fear that the mere presence of an elf would make them break out the torches and pitchforks.
He'd traveled Skyrim extensively before settling down here. He knew how bad the nords could get. And as bad as Sven could be, Faendal actually found himself looking forward to their verbal spats. They'd become a sort of staple in Riverwood's daily entertainment, a fact that enraged the bard to no end. And enraging Sven had become his own personal favorite past time.
The door behind him opened, and he glanced over his shoulder. His heart raced, and he hoped he wasn't blushing.
There stood the most beautiful woman in the world. Camilla Valerius. With long, earthen brown hair she kept up neatly in a bun, skin as smooth as silk, and her eyes were gorgeous pools of forest green one could get lost in for ages.
He shoved down the sudden re-emergence of old, painful memories. This was no place for the ghosts of the past. Instead, he got to his feet, giving her a smile and a bow of the head. "Morning, Camilla," he said, as casually as he could. "And it's a lovely one. Not nearly as lovely as you, I'm afraid."
The woman giggled, barely hiding her smile behind a dainty hand. "Oh, always with the jokes," she teased, shaking her head. Then, her smile disappeared. "Any news on Bradley, yet?"
Faendal felt a pang of jealousy, but he pushed it down.
Surely
, the man was far too old for her to take an interest. Not when there was a semi-eternal elf right in front of her.
"No," he admitted. "But Orgnar said a one eyed man rented a room. Arrived late last night, looked about ready to collapse."
Camilla gasped. "Oh, dear," she muttered, turning to look at the
Sleeping Giant's
door. "I hope he's not
too
hurt. That silly claw isn't worth a life, no matter
what
Lucan says."
Faendal chuckled. "After seeing him fight, I can honestly say it was probably just exhaustion. I'm sure the old man's fine."
As if on cue, the inn door opened, and out stepped Bradley. He was taking a sip from his waterskin (newly purchased at the
Riverwood Trader
) just as he caught sight of the pair. "Ah, good morning," he called out, descending the porch steps. "I see you came down alright, Faendal."
The elf shrugged, smiling despite himself. He couldn't help but like the old man. He was smart, capable, and funny in that way only a retired grandfather could get. "Well, a dead wolf doesn't present
that
much of a challenge," he pointed out. "I see you survived the barrow."
Bradley grimaced at that, turning to gaze up the mountain. "You were right to fear the place," he grumbled. "But, I don't think the children of Riverwood will have anything to fear from its denizens for some time."
Camilla smiled and nodded. "Well, that's good. Those places are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else." She frowned, cupping her chin as she added, "I wonder why those bandits only stole Lucan's golden claw. I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin."
"Ah," Bradley exclaimed, taking off the pack. "There, I actually have an answer. You see, it was never about what was in your shop to begin with." He dug in the pack, producing some sort of old journal. "It's all in here," he said, handing it over. "Straight from the ringleader himself."
Camilla blinked as she accepted the book, slowly opening it up. Her eyes narrowed as she read, then widened. "So," she muttered, her eyes dancing over the lines again, "They just wanted to break into this... Hall of Stories? What was even inside?"
This time, Bradley didn't grimace. In fact, no expression showed on his face whatsoever. It was a stone hard gaze the man had fixed on some point over Camilla's left shoulder.
"I'd rather not talk about it,"
he said in a low, deathly calm voice.
Camilla and Faendal exchanged a worried expression. Then, the woman cleared her throat awkwardly. "And... The claw?"
"Oh, I have that right here," the man answered jovially, reaching into his pack once again.
The journal snapped shut, and Camilla grabbed the man's arm. "Then why are you out here, wasting time like this," she asked harshly, though her face was beaming with joy. She pulled at him, like a little girl dragging along a hesitant parent. "Come on, he'll be so excited!"
"I- well," Bradley muttered in half-hearted protest. "There's no need to pull! I can get there on my own, you know."
Faendal shook his head, watching the love of his life drag the old man inside. What a woman.
And then, curiosity drew him inside.
Lucan was laughing as he accepted the claw from Bradley. "There it is," he proclaimed happily, turning it over in his hands. "Strange... It seems smaller than I remember. Funny thing, huh?"
Bradley smiled and went to say something, but then his eye wandered down to the claw and narrowed. His mouth closed as he studied it, and Faendal shivered.
If there was anything the elf desired, it was to never make Bradley look at him the way he was glaring at the claw. Right behind marrying Camilla.
Lucan missed Bradley's look, hurrying behind the counter. "I'm going to put this back where it belongs. I'll
never
forget this!" He set it on the counter, then beamed up at the man. "You've done a great thing for me and my sister."
Bradley nodded, his jovial mood not quite back in place. "It was a pleasure, Lucan. And, now..."
"Oh, right," Lucan said with a chuckle, reaching under the counter. "Spent half the night putting it together, only to go and forget it in the morning." He produced a
fat
sack of jingling septims, handing it over to Bradley. "Here you go. Feel free to spend as much of it as you want."
Faendal snorted. "Trying to coax a man out of his hard earned septims, Lucan? Isn't it bad enough he had to brave Bleak Falls Barrow for you?"
Lucan turned a fiery red, turning to face Faendal with a waggling finger.
"Now, see here, you little squirrel-man-"
The elf snorted. "Squirrel-man? You're getting quite creative, Lucan. Sure you don't want to reconsider your career, put Sven out of a job?"
"Oh, ha-ha,"
Lucan grumbled, rolling eyes. "If you would kindly go away, now? You're bothering the customer."
Bradley cleared his throat, setting his pack on the counter. "Well, I do have a few things to
sell,
" he said, much to Lucan's obvious chagrin. "But I do have one item in particular I'd like to get my hands on-"
Faendal chuckled, walking out the door once more. He had to get back to the mill, after all.
But not before he shot Camilla a quick wink and a wave.
Lucan hadn't possessed any maps. Apparently it wasn't a thing most would need in Riverwood. It was a relief to finally see an obstacle that made sense, and Bradley simply sold off most of what he'd gathered in the barrow.
But he'd kept the gemstones. They were a curiosity he intended to ask Farengar about. He hadn't bothered to mention them to Lucan, assuming he wouldn't know what they were.
He'd left soon after, accepting his and Camilla's thanks with a smile, and hit the road to Whiterun.
As he approached the gates, he turned to see the Khajiit watching him. He smiled and nodded, passing them by. It was good to know they were keeping to their schedule, as he'd probably have a chance to visit again.
But he was on a mission, with the Jarl's favor at stake. He wasn't certain what kind of hierarchy existed here, but both Whiterun and Riverwood owed their allegiances to Balgruuf, which made him at least
somewhat
important.
As he entered the city, he spotted yet another blonde nord speaking with a dark skinned woman. She was wearing a leather apron, and standing just outside of what was obviously a blacksmith's shop. Her arms were folded as she listened to the leather-armored man before her.
"We'll pay whatever it takes," he said, "But we
must
have more swords for the Imperial soldiers."
The woman shook her head, sighing heavily. "I just can't fill an order
that
size on my own," she admitted, for what seemed to be the millionth time. "Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorland Grey-Mane?"
The man scoffed. "I'd rather bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak," he spat out. "Besides, Grey-Mane would
never
make steel for the Legion."
The woman sighed again, rolling her eyes. "Have it your way," she said, turning back to the forge. "I'll take the job, but
don't
expect a miracle."
The man nodded, and the pair parted, leaving Bradley feeling a little like a voyeur. With a few more questions to add to the ever-expanding list.
He glanced around, then approached the blacksmith, clearing his throat.
The woman looked up from her work, frowning at him. "Can I help you? Got some good pieces, if you want to buy." She motioned to the building, adding, "More inside."
"Perhaps later," Bradley answered, waving a hand. "I couldn't help but overhear the tail end of your conversation with the departing gentleman. Would you mind indulging an old visitor's curiosity on the matter?"
She snorted, turning back to the forge. "There's not much to say," she answered, pumping the bellows. "That's Idolaf Battle-Born. He and his entire clan are supporters of the Empire. Meanwhile, the best blacksmith in the city is from Clan Grey-Mane, and they support the Stormcloaks. Therefore, I get a near impossible job to fulfill."
She glanced at Bradley again with a frown. "You wouldn't happen to know my father, would you? There can't be
that
many one eyed, Imperial warriors in Skyrim." She blinked, as if registering the insult. "Uh, no offense."
Bradley chuckled, tapping his eyepatch. "What, this thing? I keep forgetting it's gone!"
"... Right," she muttered, clearing her throat. "My father's the steward, up in Dragonsreach. And you wouldn't happen to be Bradley, would you?"
Bradley blinked in surprise. "I would be," he replied, "Though I'm sad to say I have yet to speak directly with your father, uh, Proventus. Yes?"
She smiled and nodded, stepping away from the forge again. "And I'm Adrianne. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
"And you," Bradley said with a nod. "Do you work this forge all day?"
"Aye, that I do," she answered, gazing back at the forge with pride and determination. "I've got to, if I hope to be as good as Eorlund Grey-Mane some day." She then turned towards him, a look of consideration in her eye. "In fact," she muttered, "I've just finished my best work yet."
Bradley bowed his head to her. "Congratulations."
She nodded, grabbing a greatsword from where it sat upon some workbench. "It's this sword, right here," she said, beaming down at it. "I made it for the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater. It's a surprise, and..." Here, she blushed a little. "I don't even know if he'll accept it."
"I see," Bradley said simply. "That is quite the conundrum." At this point, he was just making noise. Why had he signed up for this conversation in the first place?
Oh, right. Learning more about Skyrim's political landscape. He'd almost forgotten. The stress and dreams were
really
getting to him, apparently.
"But... Listen," Adrianne said, turning towards Bradley. "Could you take this sword to my father? He should know when to present it to him."
Bradley considered it for a moment. She hadn't mentioned payment, so he probably couldn't expect any. On the other hand, getting on the Steward's good side couldn't hurt either.
Besides, he was already on his way up there anyways.
"But of course," he said, giving her a smile.
"Thank you." She handed him the sheathed blade with a heavy sigh. "And now, time to start that ridiculous order."
"Godspeed," Bradley answered as he turned away. "And good luck."
The rest of his trip upwards was uneventful, though he did take note of the preacher at the foot of Dragonreach's steps. He was an older man in orange robes, standing before the statue of a mighty warrior as he preached. A man apparently called Heimskr, as he proudly announced himself.
This was not the first of his speeches Bradley had sampled, and he had the distinct impression he'd heard these lines already. Still, the man had fervor and consistency, which the homunculus concluded was all one could hope for in a holy man. Besides, Heimskr seemed to be having a good time, and Whiterun seemed to function around him as if he wasn't there. Just another piece of the scenery.
Bradley marched up the stairs and into Dragonsreach itself, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. It was about lunchtime, and everyone; except for Farengar and Irileth; was seated at one of the two long tables laid out before the throne.
There were some new faces as well; three children and one man, who all just
had
to be related to Jarl Balgruuf in some way. Bradley took in this information, saving it for later. His eyes had fallen on Proventus, who was seated opposite the Jarl himself.
As Bradley approached, the nervous man caught sight of him and nodded. Proventus quickly chewed and swallowed his current mouthful, rising to his feet. "Welcome back to Dragonsreach, sir," he greeted. "How can I assist you, today?"
Bradley shot a glance to Balgruuf, who was in a heated discussion with the other man. Not paying attention to them at all. Good.
"I have a delivery for you," he said to Proventus, holding out the greatsword. "Your daughter sent this."
"Hmm?" Proventus asked, blinking as he stared dumbly at the blade. Then his eyes lit up with realization, and he accepted it. "Ah, this must be that weapon for the Jarl," he said quietly, giving the oblivious Balgruuf a quick look himself. "Poor girl," he muttered, slinging the thing over his back by its straps. "So eager to prove herself. I'll present it to Balgruuf when his mood is..." Another quick look. "...
Agreeable."
"Of course," Bradley said with a nod, turning towards Farengar's lab. He'd noticed a stranger with the wizard who looked
exactly
like the innkeeper back in Riverwood. Perhaps this could explain the suspicious look she'd given him. They were both standing over his desk, where a book lay open before them.
"Thank you," Proventus said, digging in the satchel on his belt. "Here, take these coins. For services rendered."
Bradley kept his gaze on the lab for just a second longer before turning back to the Steward. "Of course, sir," he said, holding his hand out.
The homunculus happily stuffed twenty gold pieces into his ever growing purse as he closed the distance between himself and the lab. One last delivery, and he'd be free to do... Well, there wasn't much he
could
do except for gather information. And as great as these little gigs were, he was getting a little tired of being bounced from place to place like this. Certainly, he'd traveled extensively throughout Amestris, but there had always been a central point for him to return to.
Now, if there was a way to purchase or earn property...
"You see?" Farengar was asking excitedly. "The terminology is
clearly
First Era, or even earlier! I'm convinced this is a copy of a
much
older text. Perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other, later texts."
The hooded woman in leather armor (a different make this time, though) nodded solemnly. "Good," she said, cementing her identity as the innkeeper. "I'm glad you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."
Bradley fought the smirk creeping up his face. Of course the woman was involved in some cloak and dagger nonsense. Of course, it was nonsense he was well versed in, so he felt perfectly qualified to judge the overly paranoid woman.
"Oh, have no fear," Farengar told her, waving a hand dismissively. "The Jarl has
finally
taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research."
The woman folded her arms, glaring at the wizard from beneath her hood. "Time is
running,
Farengar, don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question.
Dragons have come back."
Farengar nodded, returning his gaze to the book itself. "Yes, yes. Don't worry," he assured her, right before cupping his hairless chin and thinking. "Although," he mused slowly, "The chance to see a living dragon up close would be
tremendously
valuable." He then closed the book, turning towards the doors at the back. "Now, let me show you something else I found. Very intriguing. I think your employers may be interested as well..."
Deciding he had stalked enough, Bradley cleared his throat, now standing opposite the woman.
She looked up and studied him intently. He just smiled and gave her a nod, motioning to the still oblivious wizard.
The woman sighed, turning back to the retreating Farengar. "You have a visitor."
Farengar stopped in his tracks, whipping back around in confusion. "Hmm?" he asked, just before his eyes fell on Bradley. "Ah, yes," he said with a chuckle. "The Jarl's protégé! You didn't die, it seems!"
The woman and Bradley shared an exasperated look. The latter sighed, setting his pack on the desk. "That much seems apparent," Bradley noted dryly, pulling out the slab of stone.
"Ah," Farengar said, taking the object from Bradley. "The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! Seems you're a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way." He beamed at Bradley, motioning to the woman. "My... Associate, here," he said, after a moment of careful consideration, "Will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me."
The woman snorted, even as Farengar returned to her.
"So your information was correct after all," the wizard remarked. "And we have our friend here to thank for returning it to us."
The woman nodded, giving Bradley yet another appraising look. "You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that?" she asked, motioning to the Dragonstone.
It took everything within Bradley to refuse the instinctive rolling of his eye. "Are we all in the habit of stating the obvious?" he asked.
She snorted again, giving him a nod. "Nice work."
Bradley grunted, turning to Farengar. "So, what happens now?"
The wizard chuckled, opening his mouth to speak-
"Farengar!"
called out Irileth, rushing towards the lab from the palace's entrance. She came to a halt just within the lab. "Farengar, you need to come at once," she barked out. "A dragon's been sighted nearby." She glanced to Bradley, nodding to him. "You should come, too."
Farengar happily set the Dragonstone on the desk, almost tripping over his own robes as he rushed to Irileth's side. "A
dragon,
" he breathed. "How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"
Irileth glared at him as she turned back around. "I'd take this a bit more seriously, if I were you," she admonished him. "If the dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it."
Bradley watched them leave, and a random guard join them. He then turned to the woman and gave her a nod. "The bed was quite comfortable," he said, strolling casually out of the lab. "And when you see the barkeep again, give him my compliments. Breakfast was simply sublime."
He completely ignored the glare she shot at the back of his head. And the scraping of paper.
Delphine glowered as she started her charcoal rubbing. That
man.
That
human creature
had seen directly through her ruse. And had waited for the others to leave before sharing that information.
Who was he, this
protege
of Balgruuf's? Where had he come from? He looked Imperial, but she knew better than to trust her eyes. Besides, just because his
heritage
was Imperial didn't say anything about his origins. Just who his parents had been.
He'd introduced himself as Bradley. It was a start. A former soldier, from the way he held himself. And a man who did not see anyone as a plausible threat.
She'd expected
someone
to be able to deal with that barrow,
including
the bandits she'd nudged towards Lucan's claw. But she hadn't expected a man like Bradley.
Still, he was nothing compared to what this stone could teach her. And she prayed to the Divines that it would prove Esbern wrong.
With a sigh, she turned the Dragonstone over, set down a new sheet of paper, and began again. Bradley had been a useful tool today. Perhaps, with a little more preparation, he could continue to do so. It would need the right bait, of course. The right angle.
Let Bradley gloat now. It didn't matter how much he knew. Everyone had their levers. She knew that. The Thalmor knew that.
And if he was the latest of their agents hunting her down, Delphine would make him regret he had ever been born.
Irileth glared across the room as Bradley followed the guard up the stairs. She didn't mean to. In fact she was quite pleased with the man thus far. Bradley had been nothing but a godsend for Whiterun since he'd arrived.
She sighed, giving the guard a nod. She'd caught Balgruuf just as he was heading for the Great Porch, and the her friend was waiting patiently. Well, as patiently as he could. He was a good Jarl, but he'd been a reckless warrior, and those instincts could rear up at any second. Despite his timid nature, Proventus had been just what the man needed. What Whiterun needed, really.
"So," Balgruuf said, watching the clearly nervous guard. "Irileth tells me you came from the Western Watchtower?"
Irileth glanced at the guard and nodded. "Tell him what you told me. About the dragon."
"Uh, that's right," the guard said with a nod, stepping forward. "We saw it coming from the South. It was fast, faster than anything I've ever seen."
Balgruuf nodded, his eyes narrowing. "What was it doing? Was it attacking the watchtower?"
The guard shook his head. "No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left." He swallowed, and while the motion was hidden by the helmet, it was most certainly audible. "I've... Never run so fast in my life. I thought it would come after me, for sure."
Irileth nodded. That was what worried her the most. To not chase after something running like that... No normal predator could resist such a tantalizing target. No, this dragon was intelligent. But what was its goal, other than devouring prey?
If the furrows in his brow were any indication, Bradley had come to the same conclusion. "Pardon me," he said, stepping forward, placing a hand on his chest, and bowing at the hip to Balgruuf. "But I have a question for the witness, my lord."
Balgruuf eyed Bradley for a few seconds before nodding. "Go on ahead," he said, motioning to the guard.
"Right," Bradley answered, straightening and looking the guard in the eye. "Did you happen to see what color its scales were? Were they black, perhaps?"
The guard paused, slowly shaking his head. "... No, I don't think it was. It was more of a... Grey-green, really."
Irileth felt the fire in her veins chill at his words. She hadn't even considered
that
angle.
One
dragon was bad enough, but
two?
With the original still missing?
Bradley grunted, turning to Balgruuf and raising an eyebrow. "Not the same dragon, my Jarl," he pointed out, needlessly.
"Aye," Balgruuf agreed, waving a hand to the guard. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it."
The guard nodded and headed down the stairs with a quick salute.
Turning towards her, Balgruuf barked out, "Irileth, you'd better grab some guardsmen and get down there."
She nodded, dutifully reporting, "I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate."
"Good," he said with a nod. "Don't fail me."
Then, Balgruuf turned towards Bradley. Their Thane in the making. Thus far, he had gone above and beyond the call of his duties. In fact, they'd intended to name him Thane after receiving word of his success from Farengar (who was, even now, being uncharacteristically quiet). But then, this happened, and they hadn't had a chance to discuss it yet.
"There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend," the Jarl of Whiterun said, giving Bradley a nod. "I need your help again. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."
Bradley snorted, though his worry was written across the lines in his brow. "Not exactly a high bar, if you don't mind my saying so, my lord."
Balgruuf chuckled, raising a single shoulder in silent agreement. He then raised a hand, adding, "But, I haven't forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. As a token of my esteem, I have instructed Avenicci that you are now permitted to purchase property in the city. And, please..." He snapped his fingers, and another guard stepped forward, holding an Imperial bow and a quiver of iron arrows. "Accept this gift from my personal armory."
As Bradley accepted the weapons, Farengar stepped forward. The young mage was practically vibrating with excitement, but was restraining himself admirably. "I should come along," he told Balgruuf, his hidden eyes almost shining under his hood. "I would
very much
like to see this dragon."
Balgruuf sighed, approaching Farengar and setting a hand on his shoulder. "No. I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here, looking for a way to defend the city against these dragons.
Farengar's face fell, but he bowed his head dutifully, turning to head down the stairs himself. "As you command," he said, drearily.
"One last thing, Irileth," the Jarl said, turning back to her once more. "This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."
Irileth smirked, remembering their old adventuring days together. "Don't worry, my lord," she replied, turning away and marching down the stairs. "I'm the very soul of caution."
Well, that had been rather interesting to witness. But it was certainly a good sign for Whiterun's leadership. Balgruuf was clearly a practical ruler, doing what he could with what he had. The soldiers left something to be desired, but, then again, such was the story of the rank and file of any civic service or military outfit. One could only do so much before the recruits simply had to be sent out for duty.
Of course, he'd checked the lab for the innkeeper, only to find Farengar puzzling over the Dragonstone on his own. No sign of her now, but he knew where she'd be going. Eventually, in any case.
He jogged behind Irileth now, having strapped the quiver and bow across his back. It wasn't his weapon of choice. He was far more comfortable with his swords. And in a world of tanks and guns, he'd never had a need to pick one up.
Still, if the dragon was still around, what better time to learn?
They stopped in front of a small building, just behind the front gate. There, four guardsmen had been gathered, standing at attention and waiting for Irileth's word. They were a peculiar sight to Bradley, but only because only one wearing the closed helm that was typical of their uniform. The rest had open faced helmets of leather, and were clearly confused by their current orders.
Irileth came to a halt before the guards, taking a moment to inspect each and every one before nodding. "Here's the situation," she said, starting to pace before them. "A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower."
The guards stared at her for a moment before erupting into nervous whispers of,
"Now we're in for it,"
and,
"A dragon?"
"You heard right," she barked, interrupting their quiet noises. "I said a dragon!" She spat and grimaced, continuing, "I don't much care where it came from or who sent it. What I do know is that it's made the mistake of attacking Whiterun!"
Bradley smiled. He knew General Tullius to be a capable leader just from his behavior at Helgen. But that was a man who gave orders, not speeches. Charisma, it was clear, was a foreign mistress to him.
Irileth, on the other hand, was actually starting to inspire hope in her soldiers. Hope, and the fire of patriotism.
"But, housecarl," said the one man in "proper" uniform. The last voice of dissenting fear. "How can we fight a dragon?"
Irileth smirked and nodded. "That's a fair question. None of us have ever
seen
a dragon before, or expected to face one in battle." Her pacing halted, and she turned to face the quartet, black eyes burning with rage and passion. "But we," she proclaimed, "Are honor bound to fight it, even if we fail."
With a hand, she motioned to the city itself. "This dragon is threatening our
homes,
our
families.
Could you call yourselves nords if you ran from this
monster?"
She thumped her chest, demanding loudly, "
Are you going to let me face this thing alone?"
Three of them shook their heads, protesting loudly. Bradley could just hear the speaker mutter to himself,
"We're so dead."
Irileth ignored the statement, gritting her teeth. "But it's more than our honor at stake here," she warned them. "Think of it- the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours, if you're with me!"
She smiled once more; the predatory, determined smile of a wolfhound ready to hunt itself a wolf. "Now, what do you say?" she asked, looking between them all. "Shall we go kill us a dragon?"
In unison, the guards drew their weapons, shouting out their confirmations.
Irileth nodded one last time, turning towards the gate. "Let's move out," she barked, and the guards sheathed their weapons once again, falling into step behind them.
Bradley chuckled as he followed their example. He hadn't interacted once during that display. But he was certainly impressed with Irileth's leadership skills.
He just hoped that was enough to deal with a dragon. He recalled the impenetrable hide of the first one, and his smile disappeared.
He had signed up for this. And it would certainly look bad if he abandoned them now.
But for the first time in his life since becoming accustomed to his homunculus biology, King Bradley was worried about a future battle.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Hana turned to Haruka as she stood silently watching the news broadcast, as she had been doing off and on for the past three days ever since the report came that the tropical storm in the Pacific had turned into a typhoon and was headed for Japan.
“Damn…” Haruka muttered as the weather report confirmed everyone’s worst fear: the storm would make landfall as a category 3 typhoon.
“What’s wrong?” Hana asked.
“The storm his headed straight for us,” Haruka replied.
“Do they know when it will make landfall?”
“Sometime early next week,” Haruka replied, looking less than thrilled by the prospect.
Michiru joined them in front of the television as they began to name off areas that were slated for evacuation.
Meanwhile, Rei was also watching the storm’s progress and monitoring which areas were slated for evacuation. The inner senshi girls had all decided they wanted to ride out the storm together, and the best place seemed to be Rei’s shrine, as it had already survived several high-level typhoons.
Ami had been the first to join Rei, with the rest set to come in as the storm got closer.
“Rei…” Ami said as they looked at the list of areas slated for evacuation and gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Rei asked.
“That’s where Hana lives with Haruka and Michiru,” Ami replied, pointing at one of the areas under the mandatory evacuation zone.
“Damn…”
Ami invited all of the other girls for a video chat, and all of the responses were almost immediate.
“We should invite them to join us,” Usagi said over the group video chat as soon as Ami mentioned that the outers were in an evacuation zone, “they’re senshi just like us, and it’s time to unify the team.”
“Rei, are you okay with that?” Hana asked as this was Rei’s home.
“It’s not like there are that many other options, besides for once the dumpling-head has a point-”
“Hey!” Usagi yipped in offence, but Rei ignored her.
“-Haruka and Michiru are senshi just like us, and this rift between us and them has existed a little too long. This is the perfect opportunity for us all to get to know each other.”
Mina and Mako seemed to agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment. They didn’t know their outer counterparts very well and were curious what they would learn once they were allowed to actually sit down and get to know them on a personal level.
“Do you want me to call them or will you?” Ami asked.
“I’ll do it,” Rei said as they shut down the video conference.
Hana had just gone back into her bedroom when her phone rang.
“Why is Rei calling me?” she wondered aloud before answering the phone.
“Hello…”
“Hana, how are you doing?” Rei asked.
“Not so good, we just got word we have to evacuate, and I don’t know where we’ll go,” Hana replied.
“Interesting, you should mention that as that’s why I’m calling,”
Rei replied.
“The girls and I had decided that we would wait out the storm here at the shrine, and when we saw you needed a place to go, we talked about it and decided to extend an invitation for all of you to join us.”
“That isn’t my decision to make; Haruka and Michiru are trying to decide that,” Hana replied.
“Where is Setsuna?”
Rei asked.
“She is staying close to her university right now, and from what I can tell, that’s a safe zone.” Hana replied, “Hold on, I’m taking the phone to Haruka.”
“Okay,”
Rei replied.
“Haruka…” Hana said as she rushed back into the living room.
“Hana, what is it?”
“Rei is on the phone, and she might have the solution to our evacuation problems,” Hana replied.
Haruka and Michiru both gathered as Hana put Rei on speaker phone.
“Okay, Rei, you’re on speaker, and Haruka and Michiru are both here.”
“Rei, what is the plan?” Haruka asked.
“Ami and I were watching the news when we saw that your area was under evacuation, and we were wondering if you wanted to wait out the storm here at the shrine with us.”
“Us as in just the two of you or all of the team?” Michiru asked.
“The whole team will be here,” Rei replied, “Sure, a lot of us aren’t under evacuation notice, but we thought that it would be nice to be together during the storm.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re inviting us?” Haruka said, sounding rather perplexed.
“Believe it or not, Usagi made a good point to support the idea of the two of you and Hana joining us here.” Rei said, “She pointed out, not in so many words, that we are all senshi and kind of part of the same team, so it doesn’t make sense to have such a wide rift between us, and as much as I hate to admit it, she’s right.”
Haruka and Michiru looked at each other, surprised that Rei was giving Usagi credit for something that actually made sense and took at least a little brain power to come up with.
Michiru chewed on her lip and noticed out of the corner of her eye that Hana was chewing on the cuticle of her right thumb. She had noticed that it was a problem on several occasions but had yet to find a way to break the younger girl of the habit.
“Bet that hurt,” Haruka said in a teasing tone that earned a glare from Michiru as she worried Rei wouldn’t realize Haruka was joking. She then got serious again, “In all seriousness, she’s actually right. We had initially dodged getting to know you girls because of our mission, but that’s been over for a while, so there is no reason we shouldn’t spend time together and bond now.”
“Give us a few hours to pack, and we’ll be on our way,” Michiru added before they got off the phone.
“Well, this is going to be an interesting time,” Haruka commented offhandedly as they distributed to their rooms to pack and finish the last of their storm preparations.
Rei looked at Ami as she hung up the phone.
“What did they say?” Ami asked.
“They’ll be here in a few hours; they just need some time to pack up their personal belongings,” Rei replied.
“Aren’t the other girls coming sometime, either today or tomorrow?” Ami asked.
“As long as the evacuation map doesn’t change, yes, they will.” Rei replied, “This is going to be an interesting time.”
Within the next hour, Makoto joined them in the shrine.
“So, what did Haruka and Michiru say about our invitation?” Makoto asked.
“They’ll be here later today,” Rei replied.
“I honestly don’t think they had many options to begin with,” Ami said sadly.
Rei and Mako looked at her.
“That’s true, Haruka and Hana don’t even talk to any of their family other than each other, and gods know what Michiru’s relationship with her parents is like.” Rei reminded them.
“After what Jiro did, I can’t exactly blame them.” Ami sighed.
Mako shook her head, “I remember what happened, but I don’t think I understand what led to that.”
“That isn’t my story to tell,” Ami sighed, “It will be up to Haruka if she wants to share that story with all of us because it is her story after all.”
Minako arrived shortly after Makoto, and they got word that Usagi and Chibiusa would likely arrive around the next afternoon. They had finally gotten word out to the others that Haruka and Michiru would be coming along with Hana, so it was down to a waiting game at that point.
Haruka let out a long breath as she parked her car in a small parking lot close to the shrine. Sure, this wouldn’t have been her first choice, but with Hiro having moved back to Yokohama, even closer to the coast than they were, he was evacuating as well.
Rei and Ami were in the entryway as they came up to the shrine.
“Welcome, come in, and we can get situated. Usagi and Chibiusa are the only ones not here.” Rei explained as they went inside, each removing their shoes as they moved into the private, family space.
They placed their bags in a designated space and returned to the kitchen area to enjoy a cup of tea and get to know each other.
“This is going to be an interesting time,” Hana observed. She had noticed Haruka hadn’t spoken a lot in the recent conversations about plans for the next few days. She knew her sister would take time to assess the situation before adding her two cents.
“Is there anything we really need to be aware of?” Haruka asked.
“You mean besides the fact that both Usagi and Chibiusa snore, loudly, not much,” Rei replied, then noticed Michiru looked odd.
“I think I forgot something I was planning on bringing with us!”
“What is it?” Haruka asked, looking slightly concerned.
“I had a sketchbook and some paint markers I was practicing with, and I don’t think I brought any of them,” Michiru said as she stood to go check her bag to make sure she had grabbed them.
Haruka watched her with concern, but in the safety of the shrine, didn’t follow. She knew of all places, this was pretty safe, but at the same time, she was still not ready to open up about anything. That would take time; she was still feeling out what these girls were like. She already felt like she knew them better than when their mission ended and far better than when she picked up the mantle and didn’t even know the identities of the original five, but that was far from enough to make her relaxed around them and willing to divulge long-held secrets to them.
Michiru returned a few minutes later, looking annoyed.
“You forgot them, didn’t you?” Haruka inferred.
“Yes,” Michiru replied in annoyance.
“There is an art supply store a couple of blocks away; they’re probably closed by now, but you can go in tomorrow if you want,” Mina suggested.
Michiru nodded quietly as she returned to her seat by Haruka, mentally kicking herself at the fact that she had managed to remember everything else but that 1 thing that she had been dead set on bringing.
Artemis watched the group as they gathered rather awkwardly around the table. Clearly, this was going to take time for guards to come down and people to really relax.
Night fell, and after a nice meal, those present in the shrine got ready to try to sleep. It was clear that so far, everyone was getting along nicely, but they still had yet to add Usagi and Chibiusa to the mix, so the chaos really hadn’t started yet.
Haruka lay on her back listening to the soft sound of Michiru breathing next to her. Rei had set up a large tatami room with several futons to make sleeping arrangements easier, and so far, that didn’t seem to be an issue.
The futons were set in two rows, one against each wall down the length of the room. Haruka had chosen one of the ones close to the far wall of the room. Michiru was next to her, and when she looked towards her feet, she could see where Hana was lying with Ami right next to her, across from Michiru.
Makoto had taken the futon on the opposite side of Michiru with Rei on Ami’s other side. Minako was lying down on the other side of Ami from Hana with Artemis by her head. It was assumed that Usagi and Chibiusa would want to sleep next to each other, but no one knew for certain how they would pick their spots.
Rei had said the position Haruka had picked was probably for the best and warned that Usagi and Chibiusa both snored to varying degrees and volumes.
This wasn’t her usual sleeping arrangement, and it would take time to get used to. She had found it difficult to sleep when she wasn’t able to turn and make physical contact with Michiru. She didn’t necessarily have to be touching her partner, but it helped to have the ability to do so, especially when she was this stressed.
They had checked the weather report before bed, and it seemed the trajectory of the storm hadn’t changed, and they were all safe where they were.
“You can’t sleep either?” Hana asked quietly, pulling Haruka from her thoughts.
“It’s okay, sis, I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” Haruka replied softly.
“I’m scared,” Hana said in a weak voice.
“Come here,” Haruka said softly, and Hana went to her, and Haruka embraced her. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
Rei watched silently from her position lying on her futon as Haruka reassured Hana that there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. She wondered what they had been through to form such a bond, but didn’t say anything. She figured she would learn more about Haruka over the coming days.
She also watched as Artemis went to check on the sisters.
To Be Continued…
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
BANG!
A rugged leather boot kicked through the wooden saloon doors of the Last Drop. The entire bar was empty, abandoned, save for the single lone figure waiting for her. Sevika’s eyes lifted with subtle amusement, kicking up her feet in a nearby chair and swishing a glass of bourbon in her palm. If the woman saw the murder glowing within bright pink eyes, she didn’t seem bothered. Guess they’d both resigned themselves to the inevitable fight.
“Just you?” Sevika asked, uninterested in her sudden appearance.
“Don’t forget these two.” She grinned evilly as she threw the collars of the corpses she’d been dragging into the entrance of the building.
Sevika’s two pathetic henchmen, the woman with a black short-cut bob and the sickly looking ginger man that wore black eyeshadow slammed onto the floor. A bullet hole marred both of their foreheads, placed right between cold, lifeless eyes. Honestly, what did Sevika expect having
these
two guard the front door? Keeping some of her chem demons behind would’ve been much more troublesome.
The under-city leader sighed and took a swig from her glass, wincing at the burn of alcohol as she swallowed it in a single gulp.
“Told them to get out of town.” Sevika muttered with a frown.
“These two don’t seem that bright.” She mocked while tapping the barrel of her pistol against her temple. “Actually, every one of your guys seemed to have a few screws loose. But don’t worry. They’re gone too.”
“I saw this coming, you know?” The bourbon was set onto the wooden table before Sevika pulled a lighter from her leather jacket and played with the metal top, flicking it open and shut, over and over. “Knew it the second that old man took you into our ranks, all those years ago.”
Her eyes narrowed at the woman’s words, far too irritated by the panic that was absent from the scene. It wasn’t hard to guess she was talking about Silco either. Of course she was. That’s all Sevika ever did. But she didn’t interrupt either. If this was the final ramblings of a dead woman, so be it. Don’t say she isn’t
completely
heartless.
“You’ve always been a danger to our ambitions.” Another metal click of the lighter filled the pause. “Only a matter of time before he was dead. By your hand most likely. And the rest was sure to fall soon after. I warned him too many times to count.”
“Because you knew you weren’t ever gonna fill his shoes, huh?” She smirked towards Sevika, knowing she was speaking the truth. “Isn’t that right?”
“
Because
you’re a ticking time bomb.” Sevika leveled a glare right back at her. “And Silco lost sight of what kept us strong. Prattling on and on about loyalty, yet unable to see what was right in front of him.”
Sevika suddenly stood with her hands splayed on the wooden table. Her pistol snapped towards the center of the woman’s chest in response. Finger on the trigger. Ready for the moment of attack, but it never came.
“Anyone else in your position would’ve been tossed to the streets. We had no need for runts” The Ogre growled. “But he saw potential in you that never existed. Thought he could shape you into the weapon we needed but I saw things for what they were.”
“Did you? Shoulda took me out in my sleep or something then.”
“Even if I wanted to back then, he wouldn’t have let me. Because how great would it be if we sent a bomb like you top-side? All the dirty work would’ve been handled just fine. Better yet, you and you’re fucked up brain would’ve thought it meant he trusted you. That he
loved
you. If it worked, it might’ve been his greatest plan, years in the making and executed flawlessly.”
She’d thought of this reality before. She wasn’t entirely blind to Silco’s ambitions, especially now that he was dead and she had time to reflect. He wasn’t a good man. Because of him, the under-city was drowning. Shimmer spilled uncontrollably through the streets. The oppressive top-side was growing stronger by the day. Yet, these thoughts just sent her through a spiraling maze. There was no way to know if it’d gotten this way due to that fateful night she killed him, or if this was always the inevitable end of such ambition.
“Didn’t exactly work out like he planned then.” She replied with a humorous chuckle. Maybe what Sevika said was true. Maybe Silco never really loved her. Didn’t make her feelings on the man any less real though. She’s always had a tricky time sorting out what was real and what wasn’t anyway.
“No.” Sevika nodded in agreement, “Because he’s not a liar…”
“Look,” She sighed, scratching her pistol against her temple tiredly, even using the edge of the barrel to scratch a pesky itch under her nose. This was beginning to feel super boring. Giving the woman a few last words seemed fine, but a monologue!? The freakin’ sun was starting to set outside! She didn’t have all day. Her ghosts were getting antsy too. She could sense them bouncing beside her, glaring down the rugged woman and eager for the thrill of battle. “Let’s just nix the chit-chat. You definitely wanna kill me and I’ve decided that ya’ gotta go to the big farm in the sky, so let’s just go at it, okie dokie? May the best killer kill.”
“I see that spending time with the street trash hasn’t changed you at a-.”
Blam! Blam!
Shots from her pistol cut the woman’s words abruptly, she wasn’t joking about wrapping up the fight. To her dismay, Sevika was quick to react, shoving her table over in an instant and letting the pair of bullets smash into the wood. Splinters of wood chips scattered into the air in reaction. It was a pretty sight, like birthday confetti, but not as pretty as the bullet hole she intended to split through Sevika’s skull.
She took off, sprinting to the side and running along the length of the room to find an alternate angle. With her arm raised and pink eyes locked onto the makeshift cover, she ran to find Sevika’s crouched body. Just as she was about to fire a round into the bulge of a leather jacket, she remembered her pistol only had a single round left. Shit. Had to be extra sure of a solid shot then.
The small moment of hesitation gave Sevika enough time to counter. A mere blink of her eyes changed the arena as the table protecting the under-city boss was now soaring towards her. Her entire, lithe body stretched like a cat into a rolling leap to avoid the attack. As soon as she found her footing, Sevika had pressed further into a newfound advantage.
A ‘whooshing’ noise caught her ears before the sight of the glowing red blade was spotted, twirling and swinging across the length of Sevika’s body.. Arcs of fiery plasma ripped through the air, wavering and unsteady. Her heels slammed on the floorboards, grounding herself just long enough to spin into evasive tactics. Each time she raised her gun, she was forced to dip or dodge another red lash. Aim. Stop. Aim again. Side-step. Aim again! Cartwheel!
Ugh! Fine! Make it more of a challenge. It’s what she wanted anyway!
Find the openings, slip through them, inch her way closer with every twist of her body until the barrel of her pistol could press into Sevika’s temple. It was a solid plan. Easier said than done though. No matter how graceful her movements were, no matter how expertly she weaved between the webbing of magma, the heat still licked at her pale skin. She winced against every passing hit, her arms covered in red lines and her clothes split at the seams in various places, but she
was
getting closer.
It was doubtful to think that Sevika had time to find more ways to upgrade her blade. It appeared to be the same material with all the capabilities she’d seen before. Yeah. The sword hadn’t changed. That much she was certain. Sevika’s skills with the sword were an entirely different matter. There were combinations of attacks that merged seamlessly into follow-ups. The gaps in the danger were more precisely narrowed and when another heated line singed the edge of one of her trailing braids, she growled in irritation.
Pushing forward through the burns, she entered into a close proximity to the Ogre and stumbled once the woman’s blade extended towards her face. Her knees buckled in immediate reaction as she leaned backwards. The hot glow of metal passed over her nose, less than an inch above her face.
Now sliding across the ground on her knees, she twisted and used her hands as leverage to swing into a sweeping kick at Sevika’s legs. The moment her opponent leapt over her kick and retracted the sword to its original length, she dropped onto her back and aimed her pistol center mass. It was dumb of Sevika to jump into the air, helpless to defend herself from gunfire.
Blam!
The pistol fired at the same time as Sevika’s hasty swinging counter. Just as blood spurt from a wound to Sevika’s side, a trailing layer of plasma cut along the length of her tattooed arm, searing a thin line from her shoulder to her wrist and forcing a gasp from her lips. The cut split the inked blue clouds with a perfectly straight divide.
Sevika groaned, fumbling her landing and treading backwards on her heels while she held her bleeding side with her free hand. Her legs swung towards her head before launching forward and shooting her up onto her feet, staring down the Ogre in a mixed combination of satisfaction and frustration.
“Tch.” Her tongue clicked against her teeth.
The final shot wasn’t a fatal blow. At least not instantly fatal like she’d been aiming for. And the burn that traveled the length of her arm was pulsing as if the fire were still there, trying to spread further along her skin. Plus her tattoo was totally ruined now! The newly created line was probably permanent, or at the very least, ruining the perfect blue swirls with its rigid design.
A deep breath stilled her panting breath.
No sense in getting angry about spilt milk. Sevika definitely took the worst blow in that exchange and despite being out of ammo, she still had her knife at her hip and a chomper attached to her belt. The win was still hers for the taking.
They were glaring at each other, sweat and blood pooling into small droplets on their bodies before splattering onto the floor of the Last Drop. Just as she was covered in dirt and grime, Sevika’s short brown hair was messily disheveled. It gave her some satisfaction to think she’d pushed the woman this far already, looking as roughed up as herself yet without nearly as many kills from the day’s events.
“Ya know…” She started while wiping her lips with the back of her palm and shaking the pain away from her tattooed arm. “It’d be just dandy if you keeled over and died like you’re s’posed to.”
“Not gonna happen, brat.” Sevika growled, the purple glow of the shimmer pump on her mech arm raised and lowered to surge more of the vile liquid into her veins. For a second, the woman’s eyes glowed menacingly purple before she shook away the majority of the rage clouding her vision.
“Old farts like you are dead and gone anyway.” She replied as she holstered her pistol and replaced it with her knife. She twirled the little blade through her fingers, spinning and flipping it nonchalantly and with practiced precision. “But keep that determination in ya Toots! It’ll make it even more fun when I carve you up like a pumpkin!”
“Heh.” Sevika’s humorless chuckle made her brow twist with intrigue. “Maybe Silco did love you at some point, but if he saw you now, after all you’d done…I think he’d prefer that you burned in hell alongside me.”
The words shouldn’t have bothered her as much as they did. She shouldn’t care about a poor excuse of a statement designed to rattle her measured clarity. She shouldn’t care…but she did. Because how dare Sevika say such things! Such lies! What the fuck did the Ogre know about love? Silco’s love? The strange but comforting emotions that tied herself to the dead man inexplicably.
Mylo was raging across the room, flashing from one place to another, screaming incoherent madness that only fueled her own. Vander’s deep growl from behind felt like it was inside her, vibrating against her ribcage. Claggor’s eyes were locked on her from the side, judging. Always judging. And worst of all, Silco lay between herself and Sevika, empty and soulless, riddled with bullets from her minigun.
He
would
love me! He has to! I’m- I’m his daughter. She shook her head at the absurdity, distracted by the jittery scribbles collapsing around her vision.
Don’t cry. You’re perfect.
“You can’t just take that back!” She shouted at Silco’s silent words. His last words…If he were alive today, he’d still hold her dear to him, right? That’s how love was…right!? All this time trying to understand the differences of such a powerful emotion led her to that conclusion. She wasn’t wrong. He can’t take it back. He can’t!
She was pulled from her crazed world the moment she sensed danger and raised her knife to the sword descending overhead. Her block was too quick, too unprepared, and time seemed to slow as she watched her little blade shatter under Sevika’s strength. The swing continued and sliced across her chest from armpit to hip.
She was forced to leap backwards to avoid the second swipe, dropping the hilt of her weapon to the floor and now empty-handed. The gnawing insanity that stained the corners of her mind was still bearing down upon her thoughts. White, jagged lines were growing thicker. Her ghosts yowled at the pain that burned across her body. And Sevika’s encroaching form seemed to flicker like a mirage. Where was the next attack coming from? Where!?
Three glowing blades seemed to slash towards her backpedaling stance. Two of them were fake, her own mind’s twisted game. But which two?! Just as her illusions faded, she locked onto the only sharpened edge that hadn’t disappeared and twisted around its dealy swing. She wasn’t fast enough to avoid yet another slice of her throat. Luckily, it was shallow, manageable, but still left an unsettling scar on her psyche.
When had she lost control?
How
had she lost control? The sudden shift in the battle was entirely in Sevika’s favor and there was nothing to do but dodge and duck around every fatal blow all while the lacerations continued to accumulate. Sevika didn’t lack brains either. She saw the startling panic brewing in pink eyes and leveraged her advantage further, shouting while she swung her deadly mechanical arm.
“When you’re dead, maybe the old man would actually crack a smile.”
Shut up.
“You’ve ruined everything about him. Why wouldn’t he want revenge in the afterlife!”
Shut up.
“Better yet, that whole family you think you’ve earned would rest easier knowing you’re no longer a threat!”
“Shut up!” She hastily stomped on the ground and rushed forward, taking Sevika’s blade through her bicep, but sliding through her guard at the same time. Her free hand was balled into a fist, blasting punch after punch into the woman’s bleeding side.
Sevika howled in pain from her frenzied attacks, returning every punch with a slam of her fist onto her hunched spine. They were locked together, fumbling around the array of overturned tables and chairs. She could endure the pain of Sevika’s fists on her back, knowing that she was damaging the woman just as much.
Until…
The blade that pierced through her bicep suddenly grew hot, boiling her blood and muscles as she cried out from the sensation of a strange, new agony she’d never felt before. The sword was ripped from her skin, slicing through a devastatingly large portion of her arm before Sevika’s hands were clasped around her belly and throwing her into the air.
She barreled through the bar, flailing while her vision wavered and blood spewed from the deep gash in her arm. When she landed amongst a pile of shattered wooden tables, it took her a moment to even regain some of her vision. Without thought, she shakily got to her feet. Her tattooed arm, the only good one left, raised to form a fist and through tears in her eyes she glanced towards her other arm, dangling and unresponsive to her will to move it. Half of her bicep was torn from the sword, bleeding profusely into a growing red puddle on the floor.
Shit. Not good.
Unfocused eyes returned to Sevika’s blurry form. The woman was breathing heavily and had yet to approach, still in a world of her own pain from the punches to her gunshot wound. They were both seemingly focused on recovering from the damage inflicted..
A frown twisted upon her lips. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. She should’ve saved all her bullets for Sevika. The empty metal casings that littered the under-city streets felt like a waste. Victory would’ve been guaranteed if she’d entered this damned bar with her minigun and held the trigger until Sevika was just an unrecognizable mass of blood, guts and bone. Now, with only a single chomper to defend herself and a useless arm, victory seemed all but a fleeting dream.
“...” Sevika’s eyes returned to hers, stubbornly focused and resolved on winning the fight.
“...” She glared back with equal desire.
There was no alternative to winning. Ekko was counting on her. Vi and Caitlyn were hoping for Sevika’s death. And all the lives of the Firelights would be safe if the Ogre was nothing but a lifeless corpse. She
had
to win. Her thumb reached for the pin of the chomper at her belt, only to instead brush over the dirty, blood-stained steel of Ekko’s pocket watch.
Her eyes widened before her heart suddenly lurched in her chest. The tears that bubbled across her vision were no longer in physical pain. No. A newly formed plan in her head hurt so much more. Because there were few ways she could imagine winning this battle. Factoring in the need to ensure none of her allies live’s were in question, narrowed the odds even further.
They’d be safe. Sevika would be gone. And she…well, she never really expected to live that long anyway. It was the right move. The right play. Rather, the only trick she had left in her book of secrets. Oh well.
She was curious after all…would it finally be quiet when it was over?
With her good arm she grabbed the chomper from her waist, finger around the pin and clenched her grip on the grenade tightly. Before Sevika could even question her intentions she was sprinting towards the woman with all her strength, a hoarse scream reverberating from her throat.
When Sevika was finally able to catch on to her last gamble, the woman began swinging her arm in fear, lashing out red lines frantically, all of which she carefully dodged and bounced around the pathetic attempt to trap her in a web of death. She pulled the pin of her chomper and brought her arm back. At this distance, with her strength, she couldn’t miss.
A fearless cry echoed through the room as she whipped her arm with a powerful throw. At the same time a stray, burning slice of air cut into her shins and sent her tumbling to the floor. Just not before she could release the grenade in her palm.
“Jiiiinnnnxxxx!” The woman's roar sounded like a hated curse and a fear-filled plea wrapped into one.
She turned her chin upwards to watch the chomper sail across the distance between them, time slowed as it twisted and turned, rattling its teeth. Sevika’s blade extended once more, cutting through the air with a sweeping blow and she watched the sharpened edge nick the shell of her grenade.
BOOM!!!
Suddenly, everything was blurry and white as a devastatingly close shockwave slammed into her body.
“Mmm- wha?”
Her voice was gravelly and broken as she started to come to her senses. The first thing she felt was pain. Like all her bones and muscles were replaced by an ever-present ache that had no limit. To even fathom how she was conscious was too difficult when her brain felt like it’d been split into many little pieces.
She reached out. Towards what, she had no idea. The word was still foreign to her eyes. Familiar walls and furniture were slow to register, but she was horrified at the sight of a tattooed arm stretching out. Was…was it hers? Her pale tissue was covered in splotches of charred, dusty gray skin, cracked and damaged as red blood seemed to leak from every portion of the shrapnel coated arm. A twitch of her finger brought a wave of nausea and splintering pain to the forefront of her mind, seizing her breath and thoughts.
Every stangled second that passed felt like there was an hourglass tied to her heart, counting down her final moments.
She couldn’t even find enough strength to roll onto her back and stare at the ceiling. The explosion of the chomper may not have killed her instantly, but her death felt inevitable now. Like she was nailed to the floorboards, unable to do anything other than suffer through the hellish damage until there was nothing left but a soulless corpse.
A small whimper was her only response to the pain…
Guess she never really expected death to come like this. She always imagined it’d be a beautiful moment, a fiery explosion, then nothing. A finale to be remembered through history books in some form or another. Seemed like the world that hated her so, didn’t even like that wish, leaving her to drown in the torture of her own actions long after the dooming explosion.
A chuckle escaped her. It hurt. She should’ve expected that both times she’d tried to go out in a blaze of glory would fail.
Her vision warped again, this time allowing her to glance at the thing she’d been reaching for. Ekko’s watch lay just a few feet away. The cover was split open and yet the mechanical hands still ticked along its face. Maybe she was delirious from the blast that rattled her brain, but the hands of the watch seemed to faintly glow. It was sorta mesmerizing…pretty.
On the bright side, she wouldn’t have to listen to Ekko’s rant about her reckless actions this time. She tried to think of it as a positive consequence, but the thought only brought thick, watery tears to her eyes. It wasn’t fair that Ekko wasn’t here by her side. Or maybe it was for the best. She had no idea, only able to recognize the loneliness that consumed her heart and the relief of knowing that she’d done exactly what she set out to do. The ol’ hero of the day, sacrificing her life for the people she loved. The pain wasn’t so bad when she considered it like that.
A ‘thump’ caused her eyes to drift, the slightest tilt of her head managed to view the blurry body leaning against the doorframe of whatever room she was dying in. A tall woman with short hair.
“Vi…” She murmured through burned lips. A quiet whisper entirely unheard.
“D-damn you.” The rugged, vengeful response widened her eyes.
Sevika’s snarling face was suddenly clear in her sights. Her clothes were scorched like hers, dark skin now burned into an ashy gray, and the blade of her arm was no longer glowing. It was broken, snapped down to the size of a short knife.
The woman took a slow step into the room.
That single step was enough to put unmeasurable fear in the core of her soul. Sevika wasn’t dead either! Not yet. Which meant she hadn’t won. There was still a very real possibility of the Ogre slipping away after finishing the kill and then what impact would her death have?
It was through the fear that she managed to grit through the strain and protest of her burned body to push off the floor. She was pathetically shaky in her balance, eyes half-lidded and tiredly locked towards the slowly approaching enemy. Her stance wavered and she caught her palm on the desk beside herself, nearly screaming as her raw, damaged skin took desperate hold of the wood.
Sevika stumbled over her own feet, not quite falling over but forced to stop her advance. It gave her time to realize the room they were in. The familiar walls, plush chairs, the desk at her side, and the familiar scent of cigar smoke wafting through the air. Silco’s office. Seemingly untouched since she’d last seen it, aside from the door that had been blasted off its hinges.
“Is this…how you thought it’d go?” Sevika questioned, exhaustion was clearly taking hold of her every word. “Was it…worth it? Stupid girl.”
“...”
She was silent for a moment, only focusing on drawing breath into her lungs. It felt hot as she inhaled, uncertain if that was the air she sucked in, or if her lungs were as scorched as the outside of her body. Pink eyes drifted towards Silco’s desk, almost content to just linger over letters that had his distinct handwriting, gaudy pens, crystal whiskey glasses stained with the faint amber tinge of leftover bourbon, and an opened box of ordered cigars. The many objects were comforting as she waited for the end.
And then she spotted something else. The tiniest beacon of hope.
“Liar"
A lone word was still spray painted onto the surface and a colorful arrow pointing to the knife embedded in the wood. Slowly, carefully, yet as quickly as her damaged body would allow beyond the pain, she slipped her palm around the blade’s handle and pulled it from its sheath in the split wood. Her entire body turned to face Sevika, the trembling knife raised and ready.
No words were uttered from her lips. She was tired of this game. Tired of all insults and pointless rambling. Tired of all the doubt. If she needed to put a little extra into her last moments, fine. Sevika wasn’t leaving the Last Drop alive. If she was able to search for her, she should’ve ran away instead of confirming her death. It was the last mistake Sevika would ever make.
Despite the defiance in her eyes and the resolution in her heart, the twisted way she viewed the world was rearing its ugly head once more. Her opponent wasn’t just Sevika anymore, but the grim reaper himself. Waiting, no,
stalking
behind the under-city boss like a void-filled statue. The shadowy mass towered over them both as the room’s contents bled away from her senses, its size so incredibly large that she struggled to find breath or swallow the saliva in her throat.
Defeating such an illusion was just as impossible as seeing him to begin with. Maybe he really was here, in this room with the two of them, eager to collect their damned souls. Or maybe the crazed ghosts within her mind were trying to convince her that this duel of blades wasn’t what she wanted. It didn’t matter really. The worry for her own demise had long since been abandoned. Years of living in rage and insanity made sure of that. But the difference now was she could see the favorable outcome beyond herself. Count all the ways that stopping Sevika on her own, here and now, would improve the lives of those she held dear. Her wants meant nothing.
Then again, she always wanted a statue of herself somewhere in the city, but she’d settle for the opportunity to ease the burdens of those that had taken her in, repaired as much trauma as they could, and gave her a new chance at a better life. It was short-lived, sure…
But wasn’t that more than she deserved already?
The seconds were counted by the light clicking of her pocket watch on the floor. Both herself and Sevika slowly approached each other. Every movement inflicted the sensation of needles stabbing into her muscles. Every breath was like trying to inhale a thick, smoldering smoke. Judging by the expression on Sevika’s face, she assumed the older woman was experiencing a similar agony.
Just a few feet away from each other now, she could see the wrath of the Ogre in her gray eyes. Dark eyebrows lowered and lowered, as if such a hateful glare could somehow kill her. Sorry Sevika. She’d never make it that easy.
.
.
.
Suddenly they both scrambled to swing first. The blood coating her arm flicked off her skin as she whipped her knife towards Sevika’s chest, slicing through her thick leather jacket. Dodging the returned strike was impossible. Merely swaying away from Sevika’s broken sword nearly caused her to topple over herself and if she lost her footing now, it’d be finished. She knew it.
So she took the stab into her thigh with a throaty grunt, already swinging again. And again. And again!
In the tightened confines of battle, unable to move beyond swinging their knives, dodging was definitely impossible. Parrying came once every few attacks, creating sparks from clashing steel only to be repeated a few seconds later.
She felt every breach of her defenses. The razor edge of metal carved through her pale skin like butter, only ever blocked by the strength of her rigid bones, of which certainly cracked under the strong blows. Her shoulder was coated in cuts. Her top was slowly being shredded apart, but with so much dark blood pouring from her wounds, it was probably hard to tell. The fabric clung to her skin through the sticky sheen of blood and sweat. And her useless arm was dangling at her side, more of a hindrance than anything else.
Still, she fought back. This fight weighed more than just their own lives. Roaring incoherently as her movements increased in speed. Sevika’s own battlecry matched hers. Without any words left between them both, they continued to fight, cutting each other apart and praying that the next slice of flesh would be the one to end it.
Sevika had more strength behind her traded attacks, digging her sword through the meatiest parts of her muscles in an effort to force her to drop her weapon or to stumble and collapse. But she was faster,
much
faster. And the grip she had so tightly wrapped around the hilt of her knife was enough to convince her that the blade was possibly a part of her now. Each devastating stab into her skin was returned with a flurry of cuts into Sevika’s worn and exhausted body. Their arms swung like whirlwinds, fast, powerful and violent. Their blood was scattered into a ring around them.
Orange sparks crashed over her eyes as their blades connected in mid-air once more. The force of the stalemate flung both their arms backwards, twisting painfully in their sockets but she saw through the fluttering distractions and spotted her chance, the broken guard of her opponent. Heels slammed into the ground as she rushed forwards, staking the older woman through the chest once, twice, three times as Sevika rolled and struggled to avoid a finishing blow to her heart. Just as she prepared to rip her knife from Sevika’s skin and try again, all of her strength vanished.
The knife that had once been so tight in her hand, suddenly slipped from her grasp yet remained rooted in Sevika’s rib cage.
Her body was falling over, barely able to stay sturdy on her feet as her eyes lowered to the floor. The entire world was spinning, her vision growing darker and darker, but one last glance towards the Ogre was all she needed to see wide gray eyes staring back at her in shock. The under-city leader looked surprised that such a violent frenzied stabbing had slipped past her guard. It was hard to tell if it’d been enough though. She was barely thinking straight until those same gray eyes glanced down.
She followed Sevika’s trailing gaze until pink eyes settled on the distraction that’d captured the woman’s attention amidst such pure carnage.
Oh…
Her eyes were wide, confused, as she began recalling the moment she’d entered Sevika’s guard and wondering why she hadn’t felt it.
Sevika’s sword was skewered through her stomach, all the way to her mechanical wrist.
The feeling of the sword’s tip exiting through her back was a faint memory remembered shortly after the pieces were connected. So much adrenaline and desperation had clouded her judgment, weakened her ability to sense the danger or the resulting consequence.
A surge of liquid suddenly bubbled up her throat, fast and burning, coating her tongue in iron before a torrent of blood burst from her lips. It splattered onto Sevika’s panting chest and she stumbled in her balance, attempting to get away, to deny the truth of what happened, what would inevitably happen.
The mere act of leaning away forced Sevika’s blade to be ripped from her belly, more dark red liquid oozing from the fatal wound as her boots slid upon slippery floorboards. She nearly crashed to the floor, but found the will to catch herself and lean on the desk at her side. She wouldn’t be the first to fall. She couldn’t be. Never. Never!
Even more confusing was Sevika’s silent observation. It looked like the woman was in a stunned trance, frozen in time…until she wasn’t. The Ogre turned, shakily limping towards the plush seat in front of Silco’s desk, crashing into the surface with a wobbly turn to sit upon the cushioned seat. The back of her brown-haired head now facing Jinx.
A strange desire took hold of her then. She had to live long enough to see Sevika’s eyes close. Whether it be a simple curiosity or desperation to know she’d finally killed Sevika, she didn’t know, but she stumbled around the room, nearly collapsing with each painfully struggled step as more of her lifeforce flooded the floors. A bloodied, pale hand latched onto the bookshelf along the wall before she turned and pressed her back to it. Even if she wanted to continue standing on her feet, she couldn’t help but slide down the furniture and sit on the floor.
Rest. She just wanted a second to rest. Then…who knows.
From the newly established view, it almost looked like she was a child and Sevika was a scolding parent. Her on the floor. Sevika watching from above, seated in the red velvet chair. They stared at each other, still no words uttered between them. Just wet, gurgling breaths and trembling bodies.
Weird…for some reason…It was so easy to replace Sevika with herself, imagine what she might’ve been like had she stayed by Silco’s side so loyally…It filled her with something, a strange emotion. Almost like…pity?
But she couldn’t reflect further on her mind’s twisted theories. Her eyelids were heavy.
Really
heavy. And the pain that consumed her entire being was just an afterthought. After all, when drowning in fiery burns, coughing up blood with every passing second, her senses were shutting down. All she could taste was iron. All she could see was blurry forms. All she could feel was the struggling, timid beat of her heart.
Sevika’s arm moved, reaching for something on Silco’s desk. She couldn’t quite tell what it was the woman was grasping for until a dark tobacco cylinder was placed between her lips. The flicker of a flame soon pressed into its tip and the scent of his cigar smoke brought Silco to her muddled, foggy mind.
It had a pleasant smell. A reminder of a similar life with someone watching over her. She felt like her lips were stretching, maybe? It was so hard to tell. Was she smiling? The weird part about Silco was the fondness she felt towards the man. It was all hindsight of course, never known until he was nothing but a skull and bones.
“He…”
Sevika’s gravelly voice lazily forced her eyes to lift towards the woman.
“The Chem-barons never had…any hold over him…”
She stayed silent, solely focused on staying awake. Staying alive. And listening to the final words of her greatest enemy. Was it just her, or did Sevika sound somber?
“I couldn’t…be like him.” The woman pulled the cigar from her mouth, exhaling a portion of smoke between her lips as her arm fell over the chair and let some ash fall to the floor. She watched the gray dusting fall like snowflakes.
Sad…She never did get a chance to see him properly sent to the after-life, did she? There was something so pretty about watching the ashes bundle upon the floorboards, smelling like him,
reminding
her of what he meant to her. He deserved better than an abandoned death. Or maybe he didn’t.
Was it wrong to still want that resting peace for him anyway?
“Maybe you could’ve…” Sevika fell silent. If she were more conscious, she might’ve tried to understand what the under-city boss was trying to say. “Guess…it doesn’t mat-…”
The fractured sentence was never completed. And just as heavy eyelids were drooping over pink eyes, she watched Sevika’s heaving chest grow still. Dead. Gone.
The cigar slipped between her calloused fingers and fell, snubbed out the moment it crashed to the floor.
How long had she been laying here?
Her breathing was raspy, fractured, as each inhale sounded like the sputtering of an empty generator desperate for fuel, yet her exhale was short, quick, and wet with the stains of her blood. Save for the involuntary action of weakly taking oxygen into her lungs, it was quiet.
Unsettlingly quiet.
Faded pink eyes stared absently towards the center of the room, unfocused and slowly losing its usual shine. Winner. Dying. Killer. Suffering. She was all these things and more, but sitting in Silco’s office and holding onto life with each strangled breath. The pain was fading as a wave of eerie calmness took root in her limbs. The blanketing cold was spreading towards her heart, traveling through bursted blood vessels, broken bones, and the open wounds that littered her body.
She wondered why she was still alive. No. That wasn’t exactly right. Why she was still fighting…pretending that hanging on just a little while longer would somehow save her from cruel fate.
A slow blink captured her surroundings like an aged camera, taking notice of what was in front of her but all too blurry and muddled around the edges. Trying to conjure thoughts into a useful sentence was near impossible. Words fluttered through her mind, attempting to formulate some sort of plan, some miracle strategy to recover from the destructive duel. Nothing came to mind.
Suddenly Mylo was in-front of her, his lips moving animatedly, yet his words that were usually present in her head were nowhere to be found. It was scary.
“M-Mylo?” She rasped before a coughing fit rumbled through her chest and dotted more of her chest with a rain of blood. A slight shift in her gaze found Vander and herself standing off to the side, looking at her in some sort of pity, also speaking silent, unheard words. The icy coldness that numbed her limbs spiked in her belly when she saw the illusions of her manic mind slowly begin to fade. Their forms turned more and more translucent as time passed. “Wait…N-no.”
She tried to will her arm outwards and reach for them. The fog of her mind began to lift as a sharpened stab of fear pierced through her heart. Where were they going? Why couldn’t she hear them anymore? Are they leaving? No! Come back! Don’t-.
“Don’t…Leave…Me.” She wheezed, begging, pleading and hopeless.
Another itch in her throat caused a shuddering breath that evolved into a series of harsh coughs. She might’ve lost feeling in most of her body, but she could still feel the hot tears burning at the corners of her eyes. Her ghosts were so far away. Why were they so far away? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Why? She didn’t want to spend her final moments alone. For however much she hated the creatures of her imagination, she couldn't help but beg for them to keep her company. They were pieces of her too. Dying…
Please. I’m so scared.
As her vision tunneled, the darkness seeped into the world. Resistance was fleeting and the shadowy advance over her peripheral sight only made her breathe faster, like she just might be able to outlast it. Death was easier to accept when she thought she’d at least have someone by her side, maybe even guide her to where she needs to go. But they were leaving. Where was she supposed to go? Her strength was entirely exhausted and the specters that haunted her were now abandoning her. What if
nothing
was waiting for her on the other side? What if this was it? Empty blackness. Not just a serenity like she’d hoped, but pure and unforgiving annihilation.
Afraid, teeth chattering and so heartbreakingly broken, she could only whimper as Mylo disappeared. Then Claggor, Vander next.
“N…o…”
Vi was gone. Silco too.
“C-come…back…”
Never in her life did she think she’d ever cry for their presence. Only a few seconds with the totality of silence and she was already mourning the foolish curiosity and recklessness that had her seeking for such a thing. Silence was agonizing. Death was lonely. She wanted them to stay. It wasn’t fair.
Don’t leave me.
The back of her head leaned to rest upon the covered edges of the books behind her. Her eyes lazily traveled towards the ceiling, spotting her nook within the rafters. The safe haven she’d carved into the Last Drop. The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow as she was left to fade by herself. Fractured, incomplete memories was all she had now…How many hours had she spent in this room, hovering over Silco as he worked, playing all sorts of pranks on the unsuspecting that entered?
Should she be surprised that this was how it ended? After all the horrible things she’s done, did she really expect a decent ending? The mere fact that her last moments would be spent alone made her heart stumble in its beat. The hope and will to hang on for a second longer in this terrifying reality.
This was it, wasn’t it?
This was what it was like to be forgotten and left to die. Her chest shakingly lifted with a weakened inhale. She wondered if she should start counting the remaining seconds. There wasn’t much else to do. At least Sevika was dead. That was good. In a funny way, she’d found the perfect ending to her tragic tale. It made sense. It worked. Time spent with the Firelight’s would’ve been even more limited as the secret of her ex-prisoner status grew harder and harder to conceal from the council like Brina feared. Vi could live with Caitlyn on the top-side too. Her lips lightly pulled at the corners upon that thought. Not just Vi, but everyone would be better off now. And there was no way for her to screw it up.
Yeah…this was a good ending. Just…not for her. She could accept that.
She only wished that they wouldn’t mourn her too long. Poor Ekko. He’d be just as devastated as her sister…If only she’d had time to leave him a note or something. Make the whole ordeal a little less sad. It was a shame really. She closed her eyes, letting the weight of her eyelids lull her towards the void. As much as it hurt, she supposed he’d be better off too. Free to pursuit his life of freedom, maybe even find someone that he could love as much as her.
Hopefully…not too fast though.
“Jinx!” Funny. It was almost like she could hear his voice in the distance, calling for her. “JINX!”
The second shout of her name forced her eyes open. Immediately she noticed a blurred form to her side, something just inside the office door frame. It looked like-...
“Heh.” How cruel. Ekko showing up at a time like this? She didn’t know whether to sob in relief or scream in anguish that nothing in her life could ever be simple. Even the reaper seemed to enjoy pulling her heart apart, ripping her to shreds in torment.
“Jinx. No…” She heard Ekko’s voice, so aghast that it might as well have been a hoarse whisper.
“L-look who it is…” She chuckled weakly, lips spreading with what little happiness was left inside. Her white teeth were stained red, darkened further as a wet, bloodied cough interrupted her words. She rasped in pain before finding the will to look towards him with nothing but love in her eyes. “...my Boy Savior.”
He was crouched beside her in an instant and she just numbly blinked towards his frightened expression. Light brown eyes traveled over her state in a panic, not quite knowing how to identify the worst of her injuries. There was so much blood. One of her arms was nearly severed and just dangling by torn muscle and blackened skin. Most of her tissue was blackened and scarred by dozens of stab wounds and cuts. The boy beside her was trembling already as his lips parted in shock.
She wanted to reach for him, place a hand upon his cheek in comfort, but she was stuck, frozen and empty.
Don’t look like that Ekko…We won. We did it. Sevika’s dead, see? And everyone else is fine. Mission accomplished. Just…just a bit of a hiccup, but he should still be happy for the victory. This was the second best outcome they could’ve expected, right? And she was happy because he was here. He’d
be
here. That’s all she wanted.
He was here for her.
“F-fuck…your stomach.” His eyes were wide, already wet with the beginning of tears. “Hold on. I’ll- I’ll fix this. Just gotta-. Just gotta put some pressure on the wound.”
Even as she watched him clasp his hands over one another and press deeply into her largest injury, she felt burdened by the secret she had to keep. It was too late. She couldn’t even feel his palm covering the wound.
“Ekko.” She mumbled his name as serenity took hold of her expression, “...I did it.”
“Don’t talk.” He replied instantly. His pained expression was frantically pushing his vision towards anything other than herself. Like avoiding the extent of her crippled body would somehow make it non-existent. “Just hold on. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay!”
She felt her head steadily drop forward, no more strength left to even keep her eyes upon the boy she loved. A bloodied hand slipped under her cheek, bracing her nodding descent and it almost felt like one of those times she’d spent too long working on her contraptions, dancing between consciousness and her will to fight the inevitable was so utterly depleted. So…tired.
“Jinx. Hey Jinx, look at me.” Her eyelids fluttered at the command, but all she saw was the blurry outline of Ekko’s silhouette. “Please. You have to stay awake. Stay with me. C’mon. Don’t do this. You can’t.”
“I…did it, Ekko.” She smiled again, unknowingly repeating herself, but she wanted him to understand. He didn’t have to worry about her. Just being here was enough. She only wished it wasn’t so excruciating to be unable to feel his hands on her. No longer able to stare into his captivating eyes, his beautiful smile.
Could he smile for her? One last time before she goes?
“God dammit!” Ekko shouted. To her ears it sounded like he was miles away, but at least she could still see he was close, even if his features were blurry and her skin was numb. “Why would you-!? Dammit we were supposed to fight her together!”
“Sorry…” It was easy enough to sense his confusion, his hurt. The betrayal of her decision to go after Sevika alone. Maybe it was stupid, but she didn’t regret it. “Not my…brightest idea…huh?”
“Tell me what you need.” He urged desperately. “Where is the worst of it? Oh God. Shit. No. No please.”
They both knew his question was pointless. He was already rambling in dread. There was nothing he could do, didn’t he see? Even with the shimmer fused inside her body, there was no healing from such a severe amount of damage. The pool of blood underneath her should be enough to present him with the truth.
“Ek-ko…I’m cold…”
So cold. As if she’d been transported to a harsh tundra of some sort, naked and bare to the chill that spread through her veins. She never imagined death would be so…freezing.
“Keep your eyes open. Please don’t do this. Focus on me baby, okay? I’m right here. I’ll get you warm, alright? You can pull through it. Just a little longer. I need you.”
His other hand reached to press against her cheek, holding her languid face in both his palms, the bleeding hole in her stomach forgotten in panicked denial. Or maybe he’d finally realized it was pointless to stop such a torrent of blood. The dam that contained her lifeforce had already been shattered in too many places. The wounds were too deep, final…fatal.
“It’s okay…” She mumbled as a mixture of iron and spit oozed from her slightly parted lips and dripped onto her lap. If there was anything to fret about at this point, it was probably the fact that she looked like she’d been through hell. Ekko didn’t deserve to see her like this. But she couldn’t do anything other than offer whimpers of comfort to the heartbroken Firelight. “It’s…not so scary…now that you’re here.”
The timing between her blinks was growing longer and longer. It took more effort to open her eyes, to keep her gaze matched onto Ekko’s reddening eyes. She could sense her consciousness slipping, words no longer being correctly filed in her head, her lips opened and closed as if to speak, but there was nothing. Just nothing.
“Jinx? Jinx!?” So far away. “Stay with me. Dammit! You gotta stay with me. You promised.”
She
did
promise he’d never lose her…
Guess that was another failure to add to the lengthy list. Another betrayal. How fitting that she’d be able to tack on at least one more. A lifetime of mistakes deserved to end with at least one more, right? The only sensation of heat left in her body burned from the few tears sliding down her cheeks and sliding onto the edges of Ekko’s fingers still holding her upright.
“I-I’m…so sorry.”
She really, truly was.
“C’mon. C’mon.” He was trembling, she could sense it in his voice. “Keep your eyes open, remember? Stay awake. Why-why aren’t you opening them? Jinx. You have to-.”
“I…”
I can’t.
Such a heavy darkness weighed her down. Even her breath had faltered into a struggled wheeze. Slow and empty of any true air to her lungs. A growing pressure began rising in her chest and upon recognizing the feeling, she knew there was no time left. Nothing left to give. Nothing left to take. Just an ever-present icy chill, pulling her into depths that had no boundary.
“Wait.” Ekko suddenly exclaimed as his fingers rattled the broken chain on her hip. “The watch! Where’s your watch!?”
Hm? Was she hearing right? Why would he ask about the watch he gifted her?
“I-It’s…”
Did she finish her thought? Had she told him where she saw it laying behind Silco’s desk? It seemed like she might’ve said something. But she couldn’t remember. Every painful moment felt like her memories, near and far, were burning apart like fire eating away at photographs. There was no past, present or future she could parse through.
“Where is it?” Ekko pleaded with her but all she could offer was her thoughts and unspoken words. She heard him repeat himself over and over. Rustling noises skirted around the corners of her thoughts, Ekko seemingly ripping the room apart in search of the mechanical timepiece. “Ah Here! I’ve got it!”
She felt his return to her side, once more his hands were reaching for her. Taking her limp wrist in his grasp and forcing the clock into her palm.
“You need to hold onto this. Stay with me Jinx. I can fix this, I swear. You hear me?”
“Just…let me…go.”
Was it selfish of her to ask him to give up? His panic, his fear was nothing but a blemish on her final moments. A weak, helpless flailing against nature itself. She just wanted his company and love. She wanted to feel him wrapped around her as she finally faded to the abyss. All the agony would wipe away like the dirty streets after a good, strong rain. Jinx would be wiped away, forgotten like every other criminal born in this city. Didn’t sound so bad when she knew what the outcome of trading her life would bring.
“Hold onto it. Please baby. Please.” Ekko insisted through his watery voice. “I can’t let you go. Not like this. Let me try to fix it. Let me try.”
Ekko. So stubborn. Like always.
Was she smiling? Probably. She felt like a part of her was at least, like a little flame in her soul had just fluttered, weak and dying as waves of death crashed over it. A weight was suddenly pressed over her chest. Despite the totality of numbness that consumed her, she could sense the difference. There was a sound of a chord being pulled and Ekko’s arms around her completely.
“This’ll work.” Hm? What will work? What was Ekko muttering? What was he-? “It has to. It has to.”
He cried into her. Shaking against her limp and unresponsive frame. But it was fine because he was close, holding her. Even if he wanted to deny what was happening, she was glad to at least feel him close. Could she find the strength to whisper her love to him once more?
Suddenly,
There was light. Blue light. It glowed behind the darkness over her eyes, so bright that she was forced to scrunch her nose in reaction. The air around them seemed to spiral like a tornado and all the while, Ekko kept her pressed to his chest, muttering some sort of repeated insistence as if he needed the words to command reality.
A startling rush of strength shot through her veins and it took only a moment to gasp at the energy flooding into her. Pink eyes blinked open and stared at the most mind-jarring sight. She could see herself. Ekko too. They were huddled together, separate from where she was watching, bracing against violent winds and she tilted her head curiously. What was she seeing?
A quick glance at her arms provided even more demanding questions. She was blue! Why was she blue? Spectral? Not quite like the illusions in her mind, but definitely something that seemed more at home within a spooky spectral plane or something. Was this the afterlife?
If it was…lame.
No. This couldn’t be the afterlife. She could see glowing magical runes in the air, swirling around the room as if they were being conjured and called by request. She’d never seen such runes…was it always like this? Were they always here? Invisible to the naked eye yet still permeating the air? Another glance towards her physical body allowed her a chance to spot Ekko’s opened Z-drive being embraced by the both of them, the revealed gemstone was spinning wildly, lighting shooting off in all sorts of directions, some of which lashed across Ekko’s body, singing his clothes and burning his skin.
The second she reached out towards the boy in an attempt to pull him away from harm, her entire body lurched like a magnetized metal, attracted towards some inexplicable force. Her translucent body was flung through the air before smashing into her true body. The physical and spiritual seemed to merge and she tried to follow the motions, but before she could get her bearings, she was sliding up the bookcase and on her feet again.
Her body was ignorant to her will.
She began limping backwards, parting from Ekko, and the boy just watched her with intense desperation and awe. Her body was moving on its own, willed to do so by a power beyond her comprehension. Slashing her arm through the air over and over, pouncing to various spots upon the floorboards, all in reverse.
Abruptly, her entire body twisted upside down in the air as a flying object caught her attention. She watched, almost in a trance, her body was floating, while Ekko’s pocketwatch seemed to seek her out and attach itself back to her hip. The chain was relinked as if it’d never split. Her eyes were captivated by the glowing blue hands of the clock, watching them sparkle and glitter with a magical brilliance as they spiraled counter-clockwise. The inscription she’d never remembered to read glowed just as brilliantly.
Then she was launched out of Silco’s office, back to the bar where the explosion of her chomper had originally sent her crashing from. Faint, indecipherable noises echoed in her ears, her own voice was among the noise, maybe Sevika’s too? She continued to be guided by the predetermined actions of the past, as if she were a doll being strung along a stage, and the hidden master that controlled it all was somewhere far away, disguised amongst the magic. Or maybe it
was
the magic. Hextech. Ekko’s Z-drive. The pocket watch. All of it was working together like a practiced orchestra and producing a divine symphony beyond humanity.
She landed on her feet, settled into the stance she’d held when listening to Sevika’s boring monologue the moment she entered the Last Drop. A phantom pain suddenly electrified her body. Memories of the damage she’d taken pierced through her body like ghostly blades. Her hand dropped to her exposed stomach at the sensation of being skewered by Sevika’s broken blade but her brow twisted in confusion when she smoothed over her unpunctured belly.
W-what?
The Last Drop was still destroyed. Time hadn’t gone backwards. She could still feel the pain of her fight with Sevika. It stained over her nerves like a thick, viscous ink as if it’d still happened…but it hadn’t? Everything was just as it should be…except herself. Almost as if the brink of death was just a mystical dream.
“Jinx?” Ekko’s voice snapped her attention upwards to see the boy peeking from beyond the door frame of Silco’s office. Aside from the flurry of burns he’d sustained by activating the Hextech in the open and letting its lighting zap across his skin, he looked nervous, apprehensive in addressing her. “Are you…are you okay? Do you feel alright? Can you say something?”
“I’m…alive?” She questioned aloud, wide eyes still unfocused and looking within to summarize her experience. Did Ekko send her back through time? Since when did he know how to-?
“It worked.” He gasped. “They said it wasn’t possible but I
knew
it!”
“I’m alive?” She repeated, still perplexed.
“I wasn’t sure what would happen. It was such a huge risk…but I used the watch and Z-drive to reverse time on it and since you were connected to it…among a few other things, I set it to bring you back to before it all happened.”
“Oh…” She was still exhausted, still in pain from the constant influx of time forcing her to remember every cut, bruise, break and stab in the battle with Sevika. All of Ekko’s excited explanations fell upon deaf ears. He sounded like he was speaking gibberish in another language. “...neat.”
Before she could even see Ekko’s reaction to her simple words, she felt the entire world spin upside down as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. The last thing she saw was Ekko sprinting towards her as she crashed to the ground. Completely, utterly exhausted, but alive and breathing.
Her Boy Savior sure was something.
When she opened her eyes for what felt like the dozenth time that evening, she could already tell things were different. She was drifting, floating, rocking like a boat upon water and slumped over large rigid shoulder blades.
She whined as her chest bumped uncomfortably against the sharp edges of the shoulder she laid on. Apparently reversing time on injuries doesn’t completely wipe away the feeling of death and decay. A few times she tried to settle herself and ride upon her carrier’s back without issue, but too often her eyes snapped open, feeling like her arm was once again about to fall off or that her stomach was emptied and bleeding from the stabbing she’d received. None of it was real. Just after-images, imaginative thoughts, and confused assumptions.
“Stop building those muscles of yours dumb-butt.” She groaned as her bosom pressed painfully into rippling back muscles. “Any bigger and it’s definitely gonna seem like you’re compensating for something.”
A quick gasp of surprise followed by a ragged chuckle confirmed her escort was absolutely NOT Ekko like she’d thought.
“Maybe that’d be a good thing.” Her sister laughed. “Glad to see you’re awake Pow.”
“Vi?”
Blinking away the weary fog from her brain, she realized her older sister was hunched over, letting her noodled body splay over her shoulders and lean upon the woman as she slowly walked through empty streets.
“Can you hold your arms around my neck?” Violet asked, “It’s kinda hard to walk like this. You’re heavier than you look when I gotta support your lazy ass.”
“
Ha ha.
” Her arms linked around her sister’s collarbone despite her protesting eye roll. “Least I don’t have fat hands.”
Vi seemed to just shake her head and smile, her calloused hands lowered to grab onto the undersides of her thighs and hoist her a bit higher than before, allowing for a much more relaxed pace.
“Where’s-?”
“Ekko and Caitlyn were needed top-side. I’d guess they’re getting their asses chewed out pretty good right about now, but they can handle it.”
“And the other…uh…Firebugs? They good?”
That earned a curious glance from her sister and a soft smile that took a few seconds to appear after processing her question.
“Yeah. They’re helping clear the streets, calming the other trenchers and letting them know it’s safe. Made it out just fine.”
“We got outta cleanup duty, huh?” She sighed as she nuzzled her cheek on top of Violet’s much too bulky frame. Definitely preferred Ekko’s slightly smaller stature, but it was better than nothing. “Score. I hate public service. Yuck.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
They continued walking in silence and occasionally her mind would drift, almost as if she were still trying to sync her own internal clock with the time of the present. She’d have to mention the disorienting side-effects to Ekko later. Not that she expected him to use it again so soon. They got lucky on a gamble, no matter how much Ekko insisted he was prepared. That was the cool part though. She actually felt a bit lucky this time around.
“...”
“...Where are we goin’?”
“We made plans to meetup at the clubhouse.” Vi replied coolly, “Gonna be the first ones there so don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to rest before the party.”
“Party?”
“You know it. We won Pow.” Her sister’s bright voice melted a portion of her heart, glad that it was such a joyous and free declaration. “We actually did it.”
“That’s…good.” She meant it, just, you know, super tired? Still trying to make peace with the fact she’d traveled through time. Possibly one of the only people she’s ever known to cheat two very distinct deaths in the most impossible of ways.
“I saw the Last Drop. Heard how you handled Sevika…”
“Oh…heh…sorry about that.”
“You’ll be more than sorry.” Her sister growled lowly. “What the hell were you thinking? Going off on your own after Sevika? There wasn’t a single reason to rush it. We were gonna take her down together.”
Yeah…Ekko said the same thing already. If she weren’t so honestly apologetic, she might’ve just spewed out insults and rambunctious teases towards her sister until the moment was forgotten, because who the hell cares when the result was so awesome? But…it didn’t change the fact that her reckless decision making caused her friends quite a bit of turmoil. She couldn’t handle the thought of her position being flipped with Ekko’s or Vi’s. She’d have gone even more insane than she already was.
“I just…wanted to make sure…you know.” God, was she blushing like a timid teenager now? Her face felt hot. Dammit, why’d explaining your feelings have to be so…
gross
feeling? “...That you guys were safe…or whatever. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Well, right back atcha’ numbnuts!” Vi shouted. Yep. Her ears were ringing. But, it helped that she’d started to anticipate more of Vi’s undoubtedly pissed, yet equally relieved mood. What a strange combination of emotions that must be.
“I did what I wanted.” She replied quietly. To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like she was defiant and uncaring of her reasons. To her sister, to her shared blood, her words were twisted without hesitation, understood for what she really meant.
I couldn’t stop myself from caring about you.
Violet sighed before shrugging her shoulders and re-establishing a leveraged grasp on her thighs as they continued walking through the darkened streets of the under-city.
“I know. And since it turned out alright in the end, I guess I can tell ya what I really think.” Oh? And what did her sister truly think of her deplorable, regulatory actions of the past 24 hours? She was certainly curious.
“Lay it on me sis.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
Pink eyes widened, almost immediately blurred and stinging from fresh tears that immediately swept over her eyes. Proud. Proud. Vi was proud…of her? That might just be-.
“That rocket of yours that just vaporized an entire factory. And you were so badass out there with Cait and me. Hearing Ekko talk about you two fighting together against chem demons and taking Sevika one on one. If I were you, I might’ve tried to do the same and failed even harder.”
“You know me.” She giggled, “Piltover’s number one badass, fully ‘quipped with enough ‘splosives to add a second sun to the sky!”
“I mean it, Jinx.” The use of her name halted any sort of attempt to lighten the mood with her quirky jokes. “You’re the coolest little sister ever, you know that?”
“Shuddup...” She mumbled into the leather jacket she pressed her face into. Embarrassed, blushing, maybe even a little bit delighted to hear such warming words. Okay, maybe she was a little more than just delighted…Oh fine! A lot more! The words made her night-, week-, year dammit! Her freakin’ year! “You’re so dumb.”
“Says the idiot that nearly got herself killed instead of waiting thirty minutes for backup.” Vi cheekily replied with a bounce in her step.
Touché. Dear sister. Touché.
She really didn’t mind if the walk to their old clubhouse took all night. This was fine the way it was. Holding onto her sister’s back, laughing and joking as much as they fought. It felt wholly familiar and placed a yearning in her chest to keep the moment alive for as long as she could.
So far, this was perfect.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
When they arrive, Eddie lets out a whistle through his teeth. “Nice castle, Harrington.”
“Shut up,” Steve says.
He opens the door and stands aside for Eddie to enter — what he doesn’t expect is Eddie taking his hand and pulling him in after, pressing him flush against the now closed door, lips less than inches from his own as he says, “You said it could be a come-on?”
“I did,” Steve manages, as Eddie swallows his breath in a kiss.
They make it, somehow, to Steve’s bedroom. Steve lets his body lead and his mind follow; this is something he knows how to do, something he’s good at. Soon Eddie’s shirtless, and Steve takes a moment to look at him, at the sharp clefts of his collarbones and the faint hollow lines of his ribs, at the dark scattered tattoos and the column of hair disappearing under his jeans, before he pulls his own shirt off and falls to kissing him again. They press against each other; for a moment this feels unspeakably natural, like he knows every move to make, every touch, every sound. Eddie sighs against him as Steve kisses down his neck and really this is easy, this is no different to anything else.
But it is different, is the problem. Steve doesn’t want to think like that but he is, he is thinking like that, he’s thinking about how Eddie isn’t one of those girls, he’s thinking about how he doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’s going to fuck this up and this is new, too new, so new, and he remembers the last first time he had with someone who mattered to him and that was Nancy in this room as Barb died just outside and–
Eddie twitches, then, but it’s not a good twitch, more like an involuntary flinch, and just as quickly Steve realises Eddie is trembling even as he pulls at Steve more and more insistently, like he’s trying to put something off, and it’s not just Steve who’s freaking out, just a little bit, inside his own head.
“Eddie,” Steve says softly, and then again more firmly when Eddie doesn’t respond. “Look at me.”
Eddie looks at him. His pupils are blown, his face hazy, but there’s something beneath all that. “What?” he says, and his voice is different to his look, to his touch — his voice is small, and hesitant, and scared.
And not only that, but Steve is scared too. He’s thinking about how he’s a little bit gay and that little bit is enough to completely change how he views the world and his relationships and himself, most of all, and now he’s in bed with Eddie Munson about to do something he’s never done before and it’s so fast, so soon, so good but so soon and it’s scary, is what it is, it’s fucking scary. So he says quietly, carefully, “You think– I don’t know. We could just– lie here, or something? Instead of–”
“Okay,” Eddie says immediately, and Steve is maybe a little selfishly hurt by the relief in his voice — at least, until Eddie lays down with his face hidden in the crook of Steve’s shoulder and Steve feels his heartbeat against his skin, rapid beyond the point of arousal and definitely veering into the territory of panic. Eddie seems aware that he’s noticed. “Sorry,” he says, voice muffled. “It’s– I don’t know what it’s–”
“You okay?” Steve asks slowly, the own nervous jump of his heartbeat responding to Eddie’s own.
“I feel– shit, I feel crazy right now, how can I- I go from–” His speech speeds up, like it did that night in Family Video, breaths coming in frantic pants between a tripping, hurtling series of words. “Fucking– hell, I feel like God is– is fucking– is fucking
cockblocking
me right– now, Jesus– Jesus Christ–”
It startles a laugh out of Steve, even as Eddie hyperventilates into his shoulder, and Eddie manages a small, fractured laugh in return. Steve shifts his arm and curls it around Eddie’s torso, pulling him closer. “Can I do anything?” he asks, again in a quiet, careful voice. He knows Eddie might not like the tone, but he can’t help it. The concern.
Eddie just exhales shakily, breath hot against Steve’s bare skin. “Just have to– I’m– I’m fine– just have to– just have to get through– fuck, this is so– just have to get through it–”
“And talking helps?”
“Sometimes, can be– but it can– oh, fuck, I don’t– shit, Steve, I’m sorry– fuck– just talking a lot can force– force my lungs out– out of it, y’know? Jesus– Jesus fuck– and just knowing– I’m sorry, shit, this is so– I don’t– yeah, knowing someone’s listening is– like, it’s– to the– to the craziness, it’s– it’s calming somehow, fuck–”
“I’m listening,” Steve says. He traces a continual figure of eight on Eddie’s ribs, which are jolting with each panicked breath. “I promise. I’m listening.”
“
Fuck,
I’m so– hate this happening around people, it’s so– it’s not– I’m fine– and we– I ruined– fuck, I ruined–”
“You– c’mon, man, you didn’t ruin anything.” Steve looks at the dim ceiling, taking a deep breath of his own. “I was scared too, y’know. It’s– like, it’s okay.”
Eddie doesn’t say anything. His hand has somehow found its way to Steve’s wrist and is clutching on tightly, rings digging into Steve’s skin, not that he’s going to complain. Whatever helps. And Eddie’s curled a little closer into him, too, a leg thrown across Steve’s thighs, face mushed against Steve’s neck, skinny frame trembling as he clings to Steve like a fucking anchor.
“Do you want me to– I don’t know. Do you want me to talk, instead?” Steve says, after a long moment of desperate silence.
Eddie shifts against him. “Yeah, if you–” Another couple of rapid, helpless breaths. “Christ, this is– insane, fuck, just– I’ll be– I’m sorry, I’m sorry– distraction– would be– fuck– would be good–”
Distraction. Steve can do distraction. But he’s got nothing to talk about — head completely empty, suddenly — so he sings instead. The first thing on his mind, which isn’t exactly Eddie’s scene at all, like at
all
, but he asked for a distraction and hating Steve’s music taste is as good a distraction as any. “
Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?”
he sings softly, vaguely tunefully, he hopes. “
Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long…
”
Eddie jerks against him, but when their gazes meet, Steve finds him smiling faintly, even as it doesn’t reach his frantic eyes. “Jesus H.– Christ, Steve, I think my– I think my panic– attack might go away just because– just because it’s disgusted by this– by this shit–”
Steve doesn’t reply, just sings a bit more. “
And wouldn't it be nice to live together, in the kind of world where we belong?”
Eddie doesn’t interrupt him this time. He lets Steve sing through the whole song, which he knows very well, actually, an old favorite when he was a kid — and now, he thinks, in bed with Eddie, it has a little bit of a new meaning to it.
When he’s done, Eddie’s not shaking quite so hard, and his breathing is almost regular against Steve’s skin. He still hasn’t let go of Steve’s wrist.
“What if I’m losing my mind?” he says, very quietly. “Like, what if this is just–”
“You’re not,” Steve says, pretty adamantly, because he knows he’s not. Because he knows what this is like, and he knows too many people who know what it’s like, and it’s not losing their minds. There’s a quote, suddenly, he remembers Nancy saying late one night when neither of them could sleep after it all went wrong the first time and she was curled into his side just like — Jesus — just like Eddie is now, curled there and she said softly when it got to five a.m. and sleep was nowhere near, she said
Insanity is a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world.
He repeats it now: “Insanity’s, like, a rational adjustment to an insane world.”
Eddie looks at him in the gloom. “That’s a lot of big words for you, Stevie.”
“Stevie?” Steve wrinkles his nose. “I can do big words.”
Eddie snorts. Then there’s a gentle silence. “That– fuck, for some ridiculous reason that actually kind of helps. Where did you get that one from?”
“Who says it’s not mine?” He’s definitely raised an eyebrow, though Steve doesn’t look to see. “Alright, I got it from Nance.”
“Wise woman, Wheeler.”
“You still think I should get back with her?”
The silence is less gentle this time. Eddie hasn’t moved, but he’s tensed up against Steve, and his voice is tight when he says, “I mean, I don’t exactly know what you want me to say to that–”
“Nothing, man, I– nothing.” Steve wants to bring a hand up to rub at his forehead, but one’s still tucked over Eddie’s ribcage and the other is held in the grip of Eddie’s fingers on his wrist, and neither hold is one he wants to break. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
A beat. “I said what I said because– shit. This is just kind of embarrassing, really, but I mean– well, you two looked good together. And you had some sort of lost look, I don’t know, like you were looking for
something
and I knew Robin wasn’t it and I knew there was no way–” Eddie breaks off. “I was already so far gone on you, Harrington, Jesus. I knew I had less than a hope in hell, hell being the place which we were actually in, to be fair, so maybe I should have considered that — but yeah. Just wanted you to be happy, I guess. Shit.”
Oh. It’s– sweet, actually. Steve thinks about him
already so far gone
, even in the middle of a manhunt, even with the mob hanging over him and Chrissy and Vecna and all of it — still far gone. He feels sort of warm at the thought.
“I guess while I’m being– yeah, like, honest, or whatever–” Eddie takes a long breath in, steadier than before. “I really want to have sex with you. Like– but, yeah. I don’t know if I– I need to sort my head out, first.”
“Can I, uh, be honest with you too?” Steve says in the dark. He feels Eddie nod. “I– like, yeah. I really want to have sex with you too. And I’m very used to– y’know, like, ladykiller and all that, what they say. I never really wait.”
“Scandalous,” Eddie says against his skin.
Steve smiles a little. “But it– it feels bigger right now. Like, a bigger deal. Because it’s–”
“A guy,” Eddie finishes for him. “A gay thing.”
“Not a gay thing but– yeah. A gay thing. A bisexual thing.” He feels absurdly proud to say it out loud. “It’s… new. And it’s– a thing.”
“It is definitely a thing.” Eddie hums against his neck. “I’m not gonna blame you for that, Steve. Swear to God. Or, wait, I swear on Dustin’s mother.”
Steve groans. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“What can I say, you were clearly so flustered in my presence–”
“Uh, yeah, because you had a
shard
of
glass
held to my neck–”
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t enjoy it. Like, just a little bit. Deep down.”
Steve flicks at Eddie’s arm. Eddie tightens his grip on his wrist in response, a quick squeeze of his fingers that somehow manages to be the most comforting thing in the world. “Anyway, back to the point, I– yeah. Also need to wait a bit, I think. Just to– to feel less, y’know, earth-shattering? About the whole thing?”
Eddie breathes out. “We can do that,” he says, and there’s relief in his voice and relief in Steve’s chest and maybe God really is cockblocking them right now, but Steve doesn’t care that much because Eddie is still here, still right in his arms, making promises and plans and saying
we
and really that by itself feels good.
Eddie shifts in his arms. “I can’t believe I finally get into Steve Harrington’s bed and then freak out before I can even suck his dick, like, talk about tragic.”
“I mean, if you hadn’t, I, like, probably would also have freaked out.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” He’s smirking faintly in the gloom. “Good to know my panic attack made you feel better.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you know what I
meant
–”
Eddie laughs. But then he goes quiet, the silence stretching on, until finally — “I don’t know why I– I don’t know. I guess, just after Saturday night–”
Steve doesn’t want to think about Danny right now. And more than that, it’s an awful thought, that being reminded of being reminded of something bad can itself become bad, just some endless fucking loop of nightmarish bullshit. “You don’t have to, like, explain it. It’s really okay.”
“Yeah.” Eddie lets go of his wrist, which feels like a loss until his fingers find Steve’s hand and begin to fidget with it absently. “It’s been– yeah, it’s been pretty bad all day, like my mind was just
waiting
for me to let my guard down so it could freak out. Something about being back in school, seeing all the stuff about–“ he sucks in a breath, deliberately slow and even “–about Chrissy, and Fred, and Patrick, and the way people look at me, not even like I’m dirty but like I’m
dangerous
, now, and I just really
need to graduate, y’know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Steve thinks, then, about asking. Double-super-senior, and all that crap. But Eddie’s touchy about it, clearly — but Eddie’s also here, sprawled in Steve’s bed with his limbs everywhere and his heartbeat right next to Steve’s own, and they’ve already been pretty damn honest tonight so what’s a little more? “Why are you– like, why haven’t you graduated yet? You’re not stupid, you’re smarter than I am, for sure, and yet–”
Eddie sighs. “I just can’t study, man. I just– can’t do it. Doesn’t work in my brain. D&D? Fine, I can spend hours on that, no problemo, but the second I sit down to do– hell,
anything
else– it’s just, poof. It’s like my mind leaks out of my ears, and there’s a million other things to do and I know I
need
to study but it’s like my mind doesn’t know that. And assignments, I just forget them, like, I know I gotta do them but that just doesn’t translate into actually doing them, y’know?”
It’s not like Steve is that great at studying either. But he could do it, when he had to. He’d leave it to the last minute, but he’d do it, even if it took him til four a.m. because there was no way he wasn’t graduating, no siree. Eddie’s hand is still twitching over Steve’s, fidgeting with it the way he does with his own hands, and for a second Steve wonders if maybe it’s all related, the constant nervous energy, the never sitting still, the not being able to concentrate.
“It’s always
potential
, is the thing. They’re always telling me– or they were, until they held me back the second time and clearly gave up trying– telling me I’m
wasting my potential
. Because– yeah, I guess I used to be considered, uh, smart, or something.
Used to be
being the operative phrase, here. You know, I read all of
The Lord of the Rings
when I was nine? And let me tell you,
The Two Towers
is no joke for a nine year old.”
Steve doesn’t need to be told that. In long, boring Monday hours at Family Video he’s tried to get into
The Fellowship of the Ring
— completely secretly, of course, Dustin would be unbearably smug if he knew —
and the effort of it has been like extracting his own teeth.
“But, like, I think I’m capable of reading maybe a sentence of
Moby Dick
at a time before I feel like I’m itching out of my skin and climbing up the walls. And the final’s in a week. And I want to pass, shit, I really want to fucking pass, not that anyone seems to believe it–”
“Hey, I believe it.”
Eddie, possibly for the first time all night, goes still. “Oh,” he says. He’s silent for a moment, then, “Jesus, Harrington, this ability of yours to make me feel better is kind of uncanny, actually, you sure you weren’t the one with superpowers grown in a lab–”
Steve snorts a laugh. “Just take the compliment, man. Please.”
He can feel Eddie smiling against him. After a moment, he says, “I- yeah. I mean it, though. You do make me feel, like, better, and these days that takes- that takes a lot. I- um, despite it all, I had a really good night with you. And if I haven’t completely freaked you out with the, uh, craziness, then maybe we could–” his voice goes quieter “–maybe we could do it again?”
“Yeah,” Steve says immediately. He doesn’t even consider being embarrassed by the speed of his own response — what is there to be embarrassed about? Eddie, folded in his arms, fits here like he’s fucking
meant
to fit here, like this is what Steve’s been looking for all along. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
After a long, silent moment, so long Steve wonders if he’s fallen asleep, Eddie speaks again. “I don’t know about sleeping arrangements
chez
Harrington, but in my house sleeping in jeans kinda sucks, actually, so how about we–”
“Right.” Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Steve disentangles himself from Eddie’s warm limbs and roots through his drawers to find sweatpants and a t shirt for Eddie, both of which come up slightly baggy on him. Steve finds a spare toothbrush from somewhere and they brush their teeth standing next to each other by the basin, smiling at each other in the mirror, their minty spit mingling as it swirls down the drain. Something strangely domestic about it all, actually.
Then they lay down together again in the dark, side by side. Suddenly awkward. Steve doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, where to put them, whether to touch or to–
Then Eddie lets out a little sigh and moves closer without warning, slinging an arm over Steve’s chest and pushing his face into the crook of his shoulder again, and Steve wonders at it, at how natural it feels. And at how if this were a girl he wouldn’t be wondering at all. But it’s Eddie, and it’s different, and it’s not better, necessarily, but it’s different.
(He hasn’t had this good a first date since he took Nancy out for pie.)
And for once, he sleeps dreamlessly.
When he wakes up, thin morning light filtering in over them, they’re in much the same position, sprawled together and taking up most of the bed. Eddie is still asleep, his hair tickling Steve’s nose, breathing deeply and evenly against his skin. Steve’s rather enjoying this, actually, and it’s nice to see the guy get some rest for once, but he looks over at the clock and sees it’s nearly seven and he also has to pee, like, really badly, so he carefully extracts himself and thinks about making breakfast. Eddie doesn’t stir.
He’s cooked up something simple, toast and eggs scrambled the way Tommy H’s mom used to scramble them in the mornings after sleepovers in third grade, when he returns to the bedroom to wake Eddie. Which feels unfair, really, because he’s pretty and peaceful in the early sunlight. Steve thinks about the previous night, about kissing him in the car and holding him through his panic attack, and feels something flutter in his chest. It’s those moments, he thinks, the vulnerable ones — those are the ones that make all the difference. He didn’t really realise that when he was dating Nancy. He pushed them aside and wanted to be normal, wanted her to be normal, but really why should she be normal? Why should he?
Insanity is a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world.
Eddie stirs sleepily when Steve touches his arm, blinking in the light. His t shirt — Steve’s t shirt — has ridden up to expose his hips, and for a second Steve remembers him shirtless last night, bony lines and dark tattoos blossoming on pale skin, but only for a second, because they’ve put that aside for now. For now.
“What time is it?” Eddie says, voice low and gravelly with sleep. He rubs at his eyes and makes no move to sit up.
“Seven-thirty. Rise and shine, you got a fun day of school ahead.”
“Ha, ha. Tell me, Harrington, is it weird for you to have a high schooler in your bed? Cradle snatcher, much?”
“You’re literally older than me. And, like, not to sound like a total
loser but most of my friends are fifteen-year-olds, so.”
Eddie smirks. “Oh, you’re definitely a loser.” His hands come up to tangle in Steve’s hair — already styled for the day — and pull him down into a kiss.
His tongue is licking into Steve’s mouth when Steve manages to extricate himself and say, “I thought we were, uh, waiting–”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t make the wait fun, right?” Then Eddie’s smile fades a little. “Or, like, if you don’t want to, like, we-”
“I want to,” Steve cuts him off, pulling him into another light kiss to put off that insecurity. “How did you sleep?”
“I’ve slept worse. I’ve also slept better. You snore, Harrington.”
He decides to ignore that comment. “Breakfast?”
“What, no breakfast in bed? Your chivalry is slipping, clearly, whatever next?”Steve just shoves at him lightly in response. Eddie follows him down the stairs, still with sleep in his voice and blinking it from his eyes, and is saying something along the lines of
what culinary delight awaits me, then, more dry Honeycombs from the back of your cupboard or will it be more–
And then they both stop. Sitting at the breakfast bar, head buried in her walkman with her hair around her face, is Max.
There’s nothing explicitly incriminating about the scene, really. Eddie and Steve, Eddie in pyjamas, having breakfast together. It’s not like they’re holding hands. But the t shirt Eddie’s wearing is an Adidas t shirt, which he wouldn’t be caught dead in outside this house so it can only really be Steve’s, can’t it, and the hickey from the other night is on full, fading display on the side of his neck and really the most telling thing is the absolutely stricken look Steve can
feel
on his own face, the way a flush burns on his cheeks and the way Max stares at the two of them with a smile creeping across her mouth.
“I fucking knew it,” she says. “Oh my god, the hickey
was
you–”
“It wasn’t, actually,” Eddie says, pretty smoothly, actually, now he’s gotten over the initial frozen surprise. He enters the kitchen and helps himself to a plate of eggs. “Any additional ones are, though.”
Steve lets out a strangled sound. Max and Eddie are disconcertingly chill about the whole thing. Max’s grin is growing wider. “I
knew
there was something going on, oh my god, Harrington and Munson, this is too good for words–”
“What are you doing in my
house?
” Steve manages.
“Oh.” She looks at her hands, shoulders drooping, and he forgets everything else because he knows that look on her, the uncertain unhappiness, the reluctance to ask for help. He steps forward and sees that her eyes are red. “Yeah, I– it was stupid, really, but, like–” She looks at Eddie, then. “Ever since I got, y’know, Vecna’d, everyone’s been going at me to open up and shit and, like, last night was really– my mom– so I– yeah. I went round to yours– to Eddie’s– but he wasn’t home and I didn’t want– I didn’t know who else, so I– yeah. Biked here.”
Eddie pulls himself up to sit cross-legged on the counter. Steve thinks about telling him not to and then decides he looks too good up there, plate in one hand and fork in the other, looking at Max with big, expressive eyes. “What happened?”
Steve didn’t know they even really knew each other, not all that well. But Max bites her lip and starts talking: “She just drank, like, too much. Which she does. It’s not– yeah, it’s not a big deal. Sometimes it’s a bigger deal than others. And last night–”
“It was a bigger deal.” Eddie is nodding.
“I had to–” Max closes her eyes. “Had to hold her hair back as she threw up, which, yeah. That was fun.”
“Christ,” Steve lets out. “That isn’t–” And then he stops himself, because she doesn’t want to hear his opinions of her mom’s parenting right now, does she? She just wants someone to listen.
“That isn’t fun,” Eddie finishes. “Also, not really fair on you, is it?”
Max and Steve both stare at him. She looks stricken. “But she’s– I mean, this year’s been–”
“Y’know, they’ve always got an excuse. Right? Why don’t you let them keep making their own excuses, and don’t, like, waste your energy doing it for them. Just a thought.” He eats another forkful of eggs, as if he hasn’t just said something totally inappropriate.
But then Max looks lighter, suddenly. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “I guess– yeah, I guess it is pretty shitty.”
And Steve understands, suddenly. Something about Eddie and something about Max, and something about the reason she went to Eddie first, before anyone else, even forgetting the fact he lives next-door. He thinks about last night, about the way Eddie knew what he had to do as his breathing spun out of control, like he’d done it so many times before, about
I’m a gay guy in a small town who ran away from home
and about
then when my dad
–.
Steve wants to know. He really wants to know. But it isn’t his place to ask.
Max brightens as breakfast goes on, and Eddie soon has all three of them laughing, her teary eyes forgotten. They have to go soon, though, and there’s something Steve can’t let slide without addressing it, so he stops Max in the hallway as Eddie’s getting dressed: “You’re not gonna, like, tell anyone, right? About–” He looks up the stairs. “About this.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, promise.” She gives him a soft smile, then, none of the usual cynicism in it: “I’m, like, happy for you. Y’know? I feel like this is– yeah. Good.”
“Yeah,” he says, echoing her smile. “It is good.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
There was an art to operating within and around the occupied territories; the complex webs the Empire spun and that were knit around them were dangerously overstretched, yet made up in the severity that followed any mistakes - and in the zealousness with which accusations were handed out. Paranoia was effective against larger operations, even if much was sifted through, causing operations larger than a certain point to be easier to trace - at least when they were within the territories themselves. What happened in it's periphery, in the deserts of Thanalan, was a danger, yet one that was mostly neutralized by the internal dysfunction and the disorganized nature of current resistance efforts.
It was easier to be complacent then, to take one's eyes off into larger, greater endeavors. In turn, so did the Alliance mostly attend to its own matters and looked warily at the future that was to come.
Mostly.
"Lookin' like a fine imperial, lass"
"Aye, I concur."
The voices of both now-uniformed hyur men were met with the inscrutable expression hidden 'neath the helmet, the raise of her shoulders and quiet sigh drawing wry chuckles as they walked toward one of the checkpoints for the first moment of truth: A guard taking in the documents forged by Meffrid, scanning the supplies they guarded, and observing the three before the gates to Castellum Velodyna were opened.
A simple glance, however, showed the reason for the ease: further convoys stretching out into the horizon, the base itself abuzz with activity that made it all the easier for Meffrid to nod with his hand "I'll fill this paperwork, both of you go ahead." And for the rogues to promptly hide amid the midst.
Whilst conventionally an au'ri woman amid the continent would stand out, the greater frequency of them in their midst was, itself, a telling indicator. Garlean forces tended to be cosmopolitan in their own manner - merging a great many accents and, at points, languages, simply from the great swathes of territory under their control. The surge in personnel had clearly affected operations, and rendered them indistinct to local forces, even if Ichika couldn't help but to hold her breath as the hyur leaned closer on her, whispering to her horn "Keep y
our
eyes open f
or
anything." The intonation itself forced, yet effective enough at covering the distinct Limsan dialect of his in what was quietly grating.
A nod met him, and yellow eyes scanned the room as they made their way in, blending in with the crowd for but a passing moment before disappearing from sight - discretely heading further upwards through the tower. Ever a degree sharper, the rogues' master pulled her into the corners as guards made their patrols whilst reaching further into the personal quarters.
If there were advantages to Imperial architecture, it was a mixture of the taste for the grand mixed, then, with generally-simple rules of thumb to navigate throughout it and a preference for automated systems.
In other words, it was all too easy for her and Jacke to separate and slide a card into separate panels, revealing the small rooms within-
"What the-"
The garlean officer, yet in plainclothes, reacted a few seconds too late for the distance to be cut and them to be tackled, quickly drugged by an alchemical concoction to knock them out before, hastily, being set upon the ground and the door closed.
They'd already entered here with a time limit over their heads - whilst it was not preferable, chances were that this'd need to be fast. Hands flew, then, to both chain the officer and to rummage through the room for aught of notice. Quickly examining, then discarding documents as Ichika ran a hand through her hair, finding then mobilization orders for their company and pocketing them before a knock startled her.
"Have ye found anything?" He asked, in perfect timing for her to open her door and rush outside. "…Some Garlean aside."
"Documents on troop mobilization, they seemed useful?"
Jacke flashed a smirk, then, "I knew we could count on ye." And a hand was run through her helmet as if it were her hair, causing the other woman to roll her eyes. Their pace accelerated then, avoiding the patrols before descending upon the mess hall-
"Hey, new guy!" A yell from further in caused for an expletive to be muttered under his breath "Why don't you join us for the game?" A roe conscript said from afar, raising her cards.
With a practiced ease and a shrug "I'm afraid that we are to join the patrol to Castrum Occidentalis tonight!" Which got a small series of winces. "No rest for us
aan
s, is there?"
"No," came with a pause and a shake of her head "There sure isn't. Be safe."
"Will be!"
Then, once upon finally reaching a small and relatively silent stretch, a long sigh and a quiet
"Seven hells"
was let out.
Rejoining the flow of movement at the bridge, tension slowly left as Meffrid wordlessly joined them, moving toward a maintenance section into the tower's base, towards the valley at the bottom of the Castellum. The pace accelerated, then, reaching the exit only to be faced with distant alarms a few minutes later.
It'd be a long night as the moon set and magitek looked for them, yet neither would it be a first for any. The path to the Shroud being a long one, moreso to safety, yet providing much-required space. "I got shipment records," said Meffrid, drawing two pairs of eyes to him, "your superiors are going to want to see them."
"Are they that bad?" Ichika asked in low whispers, tone curious.
"Yes." A small, considered pause followed, before saying. "But I'm afraid that more will have to wait for their ears." A curious look followed Jacke's eye as he leaned on the distant rocks, smiling afterwards whilst Ichika's brows raised, looking at Meffrid for further elaboration. "I have nothing against both of you, but the Resistance has held the short end of the stick for enough, I need guarantees."
With a pause, Jacke put a hand on his pocket and stretched a hand "…Consider it a done deal."
Tension relaxed from Meffrid's shoulders then, saying a short "I'm glad" before returning to the road onwards, step by step leaving the Empire - and Ala Mhigo - behind, even if magitek scouts could be heard well-into the Black Shroud that long night.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Genya Shinazugawa did not hate many things about his older brother, but having to get up at dawn because of Sanemi was certainly one of the few exceptions.
It just had to be the Shinazugawa brothers’ luck that Kimetsu Academy was a 30-minute commute from their apartment in the city. With Sanemi having his teaching credentials in mathematics, their hands were tied. It wasn’t worth it to get another job in the city, and Genya needed a ride to school anyways.
Still, the pain of having to wake up at 5 in the morning was something Genya could do without.
His alarm went off at its usual time, blaring and loud in a sharp way which roused him from his sleep with little mercy.
Beep, beep, beep, bee–
it went, until Genya’s hand flew out from under the covers and slammed the off button on it hard, effectively shutting it up.
Despite it being so early, the sun was already rising outside his window, crowning over the rolling mountains in the distance to the east, where the small city of Kimetsu Town stretched on in the valley between the rocky landscape. Dawn during the summer was a sweaty ordeal, and it showed in the way Genya had to peel himself off of the sheets on his bed, the fabric effectively damp.
Soaked,
even.
The boy dragged a hand down his face to wake up– a futile attempt, because his eyes drooped shut regardless and a long, winded yawn slipped from his lips. The sun was beginning to peek in through his blinds, little golden rays of warmth casted onto his grey bedding.
In the background, somewhere in the apartment, Sanemi could be heard in the shower already. Genya sighed, knowing he’d have to wait to shower and get rid of all the sticky sweat built up in the night.
Genya hated school. He had no friends, only a few acquaintances, and he did poorly in math, which his brother never skimped on pointing out or berating him for. The only thing he was good at was archery, but the season didn’t start for a good three months once autumn rolled around.
Sanemi was still in the bathroom after five minutes (during which Genya sat on the edge of his bed and stared into space), so Genya decided to get up and get his uniform sorted out for the first day back.
Today would be his first day as a first year in high school. Genya didn’t expect much, if anything, to change. He was still the same boy he’d been two months ago on his last day of junior high, and he assumed his other classmates also had not changed, which meant they’d be assholes as always.
Genya rose from his bed and trudged over to his dresser as if he wore cement shoes, pulling out from the top drawer his folded school uniform. It unfurled in all its clean, pristine glory to fully reveal the crisp white button up, the green striped tie, and smooth khaki pants.
An abrupt knock pulled Genya out of whatever thoughts he’d managed to think of so early in the morning, and he turned his head in time to meet Sanemi’s gaze as his brother opened the door.
Purple eyes met Genya’s own ones.
“...You’ll need to iron that.” Sanemi spoke gruffly, his hand on the doorknob of Genya’s door.
Sanemi was dressed in an outfit very similar to the Kimetsu school uniform. The only differences were the forgoing of the green tie and the addition of a dark grey waistcoat. He also had left the very top button of his shirt undone.
Genya looked back to his uniform, tossing it over his shoulder.
“I know. I’m going.” he huffed, and Sanemi shot him a final glare before shutting the door harshly and leaving.
…
Genya’s shower was much-needed and much-appreciated once he took it. Cool water washed away the night’s sweat and helped to wake him up more.
After that, he pulled on his pants and ironed out his shirt himself, and the rest of the early morning was quiet in the Shinazugawa household except for the sound of the two brothers preparing for the day.
Genya and Sanemi, though entirely hostile to one another, were used to each other’s lone company. The Shinazugawa family had once been lively and great in numbers, but long ago their mother had passed from an illness and taken with her the four youngest Shinazugawas.
Genya had been young, but old enough to remember. It had been what turned Sanemi against him, the loss of their mother.
He’d been young, and
obtuse
, entirely out of line when he’d raged at and blamed Sanemi for her death. Sanemi had taken it to heart, bottled up that rage Genya had thrown at him and was now unleashing it back on his little brother.
Now, though both older and far more mature, too much time had passed to make amends. Awkward silence filled the spaces in brief conversations. It was tense.
…
The car ride to Kimetsu Academy was luckily filled with the sounds of the car radio broadcasting the morning program, in which a lady with a dulcet voice informed whoever was listening on the weather. Genya gazed out of the passenger window as she droned on about clear skies and high temperatures.
Sanemi stopped at a red light, and turned the volume down. “Did you do the summer algebra I told you to?”
Genya didn’t bother to look at his brother as he answered. “No. I lost it.”
Sanemi tightened his grip on the leather steering wheel. “You’re kidding, right?”
Genya shrugged.
“...This is why you’re shit at math, Genya. I don’t even know why I try helping you anymore.” Sanemi growled, and when the light turned green, he stepped on the gas pedal a bit harshly.
The car lurched forward, effectively lurching Genya forward, too, and the boy braced himself against the dashboard with a hand. He scowled at his brother, and Sanemi simply kept driving.
Hostility was their normality.
But sometimes, Genya longed for the person Sanemi had been before their mother’s death.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
This fic contains both m/m relationships and spanking. Not necessarily canon.
A Thousand Year-Old Grudge (LOTR)
By Haruka (
[email protected]
)
--
Intruders.
Haldir, captain of the Lothlorien guard, led his brothers and the rest of his company through the woods, tracking the newcomers who had no business being in their part of Middle Earth.
There they were. There was a _dwarf_ with them, and he was yakking non-stop. Easy prey.
The band of strangers stopped as Haldir and his Elves surrounded them. That's when he realized that not all of them were unknown to him. One was Aragorn of Gondor -- he had known this Man for years. However, it was the presence of one other that gave him a start.
Prince Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm. The last time he had seen him, Haldir had made a promise to himself. A thousand years had passed since then, and he had forgotten neither his promise nor the young Prince.
But duty first. Aragorn told him that they needed his protection. Against his better judgment, he brought them deeper into Lothlorien so they could speak at length about the situation. Once there, as per Elven courtesy, he greeted Legolas formally, and the youth expressed his gratitude, claiming they were in his debt. Haldir searched the beautiful face of the younger Elf and wondered if he had somehow forgotten their last meeting and what transpired then. There was no sign one way or the other in Legolas' expression -- he seemed careworn. So did they all, for that matter.
Before long, he had determined from the group their business in Lothlorien. It involved a respite from their journey to destroy the One Ring in the fires of Mordor. It surprised Haldir that a whelp like Legolas would be entrusted to represent the Elves on such a mission, but perhaps he had actually matured since they last met. Not that it mattered one way or the other. He argued with Aragorn as to whether they could stay or not -- the presence of the Ring could be the ruin of them all -- but in the end it was decided that the King and Queen should ultimately make that decision. As he cast Legolas another measuring look, Haldir dearly hoped they would stay long enough for him to settle the score he had remembered for a millennia.
During the audience with Celeborn and Galadriel, it was revealed that the wizard Gandalf had perished while accompanying the party. They were devastated by the loss, and the Lothlorien Elves shared their pain. Gandalf had been known to many in Middle Earth. They would sing for him that night. Out of his respect for this turn of events, Haldir decided to allow Legolas his grief for a time before bringing up old matters between them.
***
It had been a good trip to Mirkwood, uneventful with nothing to threaten the riders from Lothlorien, Haldir and his brothers, Orophen and Rumil. They were greeted by King Thranduil and his four sons, the youngest of which was called Legolas. This was when Haldir first met the Prince.
The mischief he saw in the crystal blue eyes should have warned him that there was more to this youngster than the formal, expected words of greeting he recited after they were introduced. He did not learn the extent to which this was true until later that night.
"Who is there?" Haldir asked at the sound of a knock in his chambers.
"T'is I, Legolas," the Prince said and entered. "I hope I am not disturbing you."
"Nay," Haldir replied, watching the boy's movements carefully. He was curious as to what could bring him there at that time of night.
"It is tradition here in Mirkwood, for my father the King to offer one of his sons to important guests of his realm as a personal attendant," Legolas explained, guileless eyes locked on Haldir's. He began to unfasten his own tunic and slipped it off, then removed the silk undershirt. Bare now from the waist up, Legolas touched Haldir's cheek softly. "We are to treat his guests very, very well."
Haldir took hold of Legolas' wrist. This young Elf was very beautiful and definitely desirable. The pearl-like skin on his smooth chest with its perfect pink nipples was tempting to touch, and the soft pouty lips begged to be kissed, and hard. But Haldir was not so easily taken in by even such a flawless jewel as the one before him.
"This is an unusual tradition," he said carefully. "It must be particular to Mirkwood, as I think few other rulers would surrender their children over to even very important visitors."
"Perhaps that is their mistake. Father has raised us to ensure the comfort of guests, that ALL their needs must be met." Legolas tossed his silvery head, sending the long silky tresses swirling around his shoulders. Haldir noticed the small braids over both ears, a traditional Mirkwood style. He wondered what it would feel like to unbind one and trail the strands between his fingers.
"Tell me, Haldir of Lorien," Legolas murmured sweetly, pressing himself up against the older Elf, "what can I do to please you?"
Haldir felt a hand between his legs. He grabbed the young Prince by both biceps and held him at arm's length.
"You should consider yourself lucky I do not go straight to the King about this, young one, for if he was any kind of father he would ensure your difficulty in seating a horse for a very long time to come."
Legolas was all wide-eyed innocence. "I - I do not understand. What have I done?"
Haldir's eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice, "Or perhaps I should warm your backside myself to ensure the learning of this lesson. Legolas, I can hear at least two of your brothers in the hallway, listening to us. I do not know how far you intended to take this jest but it is a dangerous game for a beautiful young Prince to be playing." He folded his arms. "If you wish to continue removing your clothing, by all means do so, but the moment your bottom is bared it shall feel the flat of my hand."
Legolas' face was scarlet, his blue eyes sparking with anger. He snatched his clothing and stalked out the door. Haldir heard the voices of Thranduil's older sons asking their sibling what had gone wrong. He shut his ears to the rest of the exchange -- it didn't interest him. Upon reflection he wished he had gone ahead and spanked Legolas. Maybe it would have stopped he and his brothers from engaging in anymore tricks of this sort with future guests of Mirkwood. But then again it was not his problem and they were not his children. And right then they should have been damned grateful they were not.
--
"Haldir, wake up!"
He awoke with a start and recognized his brother Orophen leaning over him with an anxious look.
"What has happened?" Haldir asked, trying to sit up and gather his senses back from sleep.
"You must gather your things," Orophen said. "We have been asked to leave."
"What?" Haldir said, now wide awake. "Why?!"
His brother looked like he wanted to say something more, but stopped himself. "Just hurry," he said, and left.
Haldir wasted no time doing as his brother suggested, but he wanted answers. Once he was ready he went out to find he and his brothers' horses packed and prepared to leave. He saw King Thranduil and his sons all watching him. The other court members present were silent and _all_ were staring at him.
"What is this about?" Haldir asked. "What are we being accused of?"
"Not 'we', Haldir," the King said icily. "To my knowledge, your brothers have done nothing. However," his expression darkened, "YOUR inappropriate advances to my youngest son are unwelcome and offensive to me."
Haldir shot a look at Legolas, whose eyes were lowered.
"Do not try to deny it," Thranduil continued. "Two of his brothers bore witness to the scene. You should just consider yourself fortunate that Legolas extricated himself from your grasp before things went any further."
Haldir could sense his brother Rumil was about to protest, but he held up a hand. "No, Rumil, do not speak. We will not convince them of my innocence anymore than they would believe Legolas and his brothers staged it all."
Several members of the Mirkwood court began arguing at once, but Legolas remained silent. Haldir stared at him until the young Elf raised his eyes to meet his. He took some satisfaction in having the Prince avert his gaze first.
"You will leave," Thranduil ordered. "NOW."
Haldir, Orophen, and Rumil mounted their horses. Haldir cast Legolas one last look and caught his eye.
You have humiliated me before your entire court and brought shame to Lothlorien, he thought in Legolas' direction. I made a mistake last night when I let you escape unpunished. Next time we meet, I will rectify that, and you will beg for mercy as you learn what humiliation truly is.
He turned his horse and rode away without looking back.
***
Three days had passed since the Fellowship rode into Lothlorien. Haldir had only seen Legolas from a distance and had not tried to approach him out of respect for his mourning Gandalf. However, he noticed the Elf was never far from his friends except when he went to bathe. He watched and waited to see when the best opportunity to confront him would come.
--
"Legolas," Aragorn said to the Elf as he watched him untie his braids, "I think you should not go to the pond at this time."
"Why not?" Legolas asked curiously. "I was only going to bathe."
"I do not wish to alarm you, but Haldir has been staring at you ever since we arrived. He does not look at either Gimli or the Ringbearer with as much malice as I see in his eyes when he casts them upon you."
"I know," Legolas admitted, then sighed. "I am not sure, but I think he is still holding a grudge for something that occurred when we first met in Mirkwood."
"When was that?" Aragorn asked.
"About a thousand years ago," Legolas replied. "I was young and foolish and would do anything my older brothers dared me to do."
Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "What exactly DID you do?"
Legolas flushed and dropped his gaze to the ties of this tunic as he fiddled with them. "My brothers thought Haldir looked stiff and conceited upon his arrival. They told me to pretend as though our father had instructed me to 'entertain' him because he was an important guest." He shrugged. "For me, t'was all a game. I was still less than two thousand years old, but not a newcomer to sex, so if he accepted, I would have gone through with it and probably enjoyed it. Haldir was as attractive then as he is now. But my brothers expected him to get flustered and embarrassed."
"But he did not?" Aragorn asked.
"Nay," Legolas confessed. "He got angry. He chased me out -- threatening to spank me if I remained -- Aragorn, stop laughing!"
"I am sorry, I cannot help it!" the future King of Gondor chuckled. "You must admit, Legolas, it makes for an interesting mental picture!"
"Perhaps for YOU," Legolas pouted. "But I am trying to be serious."
Aragorn managed to get himself under control. "Forgive me," he said. "Pray continue, for surely that is not why Haldir bears you a grudge."
"Nay," Legolas agreed. "He is angry because of what happened the next day, when he and his brothers were ordered to leave Mirkwood."
"What happened?"
"Oh, it was bad," Legolas sighed. "My brothers had told my father that Haldir made advances toward me, but I was able to escape. Of course Father believed them."
"Did he ask _you_?" Aragorn inquired.
Legolas nodded guiltily. "He did, and I confirmed the story."
"Oh, Legolas." Aragorn shook his head.
"I was but a youth!" the Elf said defensively. "Perhaps sixteen of your years at most!"
"And you are SO much older now -- what are you, about twenty?"
Legolas bristled. "Do you wish to hear the rest of the tale or not?"
Aragorn gave a bow of his head. "Aye."
"Well, I guess there is not much left to tell. Haldir was incensed and made accusations, but no one believed him. He and his brothers left and never visited Mirkwood again." Legolas looked at Aragorn. "A couple of weeks later, I still felt so badly about it all that I confessed the truth to my father. I absolved my brothers from blame and said I acted alone."
"Did he punish you?"
"Nay," Legolas snorted softly. "To do that would be to admit that HE was wrong and had banished someone from Mirkwood without just cause. He forbade me to tell anyone else the truth and nothing more was said about it until today."
"Now I understand why he looks at you the way he does," Aragorn said. "And having said that, I plan on keeping a very close eye on you during our stay here."
Legolas smiled. "Aragorn, what are you afraid of?"
"I am not sure, but I will watch over you and make sure that if Haldir decides to finish what he started, you will have someone to back you up."
Legolas leaned over and brushed a gentle kiss over Aragorn's lips. "Your protectiveness is touching."
"And necessary," Aragorn said firmly. "I know you can usually take care of yourself, but Haldir is another Elf, and one with twice your years of life and experience. I will be watching, just in case."
"Then you had best start your watching, Estel," Legolas said lightly and pulled off his own tunic, "for I _am_ going to bathe now."
--
Haldir sat up straighter when he saw Legolas approach the pond. He had been hiding behind a tree, biding his time, and now it seemed his patience was being rewarded.
Legolas was bare-chested already, reminding him of that night in his guest chambers in Mirkwood. The Prince was still a vision of Elven perfection. Haldir wondered how many innocents had been taken in by that pretty face and flawless grace, only to find out how devious and untrustworthy he was.
He watched as Legolas finished undressing and stepped into the water. He waited as the other Elf languidly bathed himself and washed his hair, but when he started to come out, Haldir slipped from his hiding place and stepped in front of him. Legolas stopped, looking startled.
"H-Haldir," he stammered. "What brings you here?"
"Overdue justice," Haldir replied and grabbed Legolas by the wrist. He began to pull the naked Elf across the clearing.
"Release me this instant!" Legolas insisted. "Let me explain!"
"Then you DO remember what happened when last we met and why you deserve what I am about to do," Haldir told him.
Legolas wondered wildly exactly WHAT Haldir was about to do. He was naked and dripping wet -- Haldir must have waited for him to be in this state or he'd have confronted him sooner. What if he was planning to take him by force, because Legolas had teased him when he was younger? And where was Aragorn, his self-appointed protector?!
Aragorn was in fact quite near, tensed and ready to intervene as he watched from the trees, but first he wanted to know Haldir's intentions. To move in too soon would mean no proof of his crime, and Aragorn wanted to make sure that if Haldir _was_ about to attempt to rape Legolas, that he could report him to Celeborn with no doubt as to his guilt. If, of course, Haldir survived Aragorn's own wrath first.
He saw Haldir stop in front of a tree stump and seat himself on it. Then he gave Legolas' slender wrist a jerk and the Elf Prince was suddenly face-down over the Guard's knees.
Aragorn couldn't have been more surprised if it were happening to himself. He had not expected THIS at all. And if he was surprised, Legolas' expression proved he to be shocked. Aragorn wrapped his hand around his sword hilt and prepared to step into the clearing and put an end to this before it began, but then he hesitated.
If Haldir did not punish Legolas now, he would continue to carry his grudge for another thousand years and perhaps next time Aragorn would not be there to protect him. In fact, if any more time went by, Haldir might decide spanking Legolas was not enough, and might do him more serious harm later. Maybe it was best to let this happen, and put an end to this thousand year-old grudge.
Besides, from the tale Legolas had told him of what transpired, the young Elf DESERVED this for the part he'd played. Aragorn relaxed his stance and prepared to watch what promised to be a very entertaining spectacle.
"Haldir, what are you DOING?!" Legolas demanded as the older Elf twisted his arm behind his back and grabbed the other to hold with it. "Release me or I shall scream!"
"You would not have the entire rest of the Fellowship come to find you displayed thusly, young Prince," Haldir said with a sneer. "You are too proud for that." He lay his palm against the soft mounds of Legolas' bottom and took a moment to smooth it gently over the skin. "I wonder if in all your long years of life whether you have ever been spanked for anything. Somehow I doubt it. But I promised myself that I would hear you beg for mercy and so I shall."
Legolas felt the hand leave his bottom and feared he knew what would come next. He was right.
*WHACK!*
"OUCH!" he cried. "Haldir, that --!"
*WHACK!*
"OUCH! Stop that this INSTANT --!"
*WHACK!*
"OUUUCH!"
Aragorn winced -- Haldir was putting a lot of force into the spanks and just the fact that they were drawing outcries from Legolas proved how painful they were. Even from this distance he could see the gradual change of colour on Legolas' bottom as it went from white to pink to red. The beautiful Prince somehow managed to look graceful even as his slender legs kicked behind him and he bucked with every blow. Aragorn felt himself harden at the sight and almost envied Haldir getting to impose this discipline on Legolas. Maybe he would remember this in the future when the Elf got too mouthy with him.
"How does it feel now, Prince of Mirkwood?" Haldir demanded, landing another sharp smack on his tender backside. "To be hurt and humiliated and helpless -- it is no less than what _I_ felt that day your entire court gathered to see us sent into exile! And all because of the lies that poured forth from your deceitful lips!" He raised his knee enough to gain access to Legolas' undercurve and thighs, and began peppering them with brutal blows.
Legolas could barely think straight anymore and tears were streaming down his cheeks. The pain was terrible and he WAS embarrassed and where in the seven HELLS was Aragorn?! He had promised to protect him!
"Haldir, p-please listen!" he tried to speak. "I am SORRY!"
"I do not want to hear apologies, son of Thranduil, I want to hear pleas for mercy!" Haldir ground Legolas' wrists together in the small of his back and redoubled his efforts to punish his defenseless bottom.
"Noooo!" Legolas yelled and tried to struggle but his arms threatened to come loose from his shoulders. "Haldir, PLEASE! I BEG of you, STOP!"
The spanking did indeed stop. Legolas lay sobbing over Haldir's lap. The older Elf stood up, dumping the Prince unceremoniously onto the ground.
"I should have done that before I left Mirkwood," Haldir said coolly. "Who knows how many other people I might have saved from your treachery?"
Legolas had to get his voice under control before he could speak. "H-Haldir," he said, his body still hitching from the tears that were so hard to keep from flowing, "I want you to know, I-I am truly sorry for what m-my brothers and I did to you." He looked up at the older Elf with sorrowful blue eyes. "I t-told my father the truth after you left."
Haldir blinked in surprise. "You did?"
Legolas nodded. He wiped his eyes and shakily got to his feet. "I admitted my guilt in the whole matter," he confessed. "But he would not let me tell anyone else. I am sorry for THAT, too."
Haldir frowned. "I am glad you saw the error of your ways, Princeling, but you still deserved what I just gave you." He drew a deep breath, raising his voice, "And I believe Aragorn agrees with me or he would not have witnessed the entire scene without interfering, am I right, son of Arathorn?"
Aragorn stepped out of the shadows of the trees, smiling sheepishly. Legolas glared daggers at him, massaging his sore backside.
"You WATCHED?!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were to PROTECT me, you bastard!"
"Now, now, such language is beneath your station," Aragorn chided gently as he walked up to him and covered him with his own cloak as Legolas was starting to shiver. "Haldir is correct -- you deserved that punishment for what you did to him and he was right to deliver it."
"And it made an 'interesting mental picture' for you to keep always?" Legolas retorted wryly.
Aragorn nodded. "Aye, that it did." He put an arm around Legolas' shoulders and regarded Haldir. "I hope you will be satisfied with this, Haldir, and will no longer bear Legolas a grudge. He has done the best he can to make amends and has borne your punishment."
"When I next return home to Mirkwood, I will tell our court the truth, regardless of what my father says," Legolas promised. "Your good reputation will be restored. I hope then you can forgive me."
"There is no need to bring up the matter again, little Prince," Haldir told him. "I have made enough of my reputation over the last thousand years to banish memory of what I supposedly did to you for those who matter the most. You told your father the truth already -- that is enough. I would not see you be the next one banished from Mirkwood for going against his orders." Haldir gave them both a nod. "Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties." He disappeared into the woods.
"I guess it is over," Aragorn said with relief and looked worriedly at Legolas. "Are you all right?"
"No thanks to YOU, my protector!" Legolas sniffed and strode away from him. Aragorn hurried to catch up.
"Now Legolas, be fair. By allowing Haldir to go through with your punishment, we cleaned the slate between you. He will no longer harbour a grudge, is that not a good thing?"
Legolas sighed. "Of course it is," he conceded. He stopped and turned toward Aragorn, smiling softly. "I am sorry that I was angry. Will you forgive me?"
Aragorn kissed him tenderly and they hugged. "Of course I will."
Good, Legolas thought, smiling smugly over Aragorn's shoulder. That way you will be unprepared for when I get back at you. Haldir is not the only one who can hold grudges, and I guarantee THIS one will not wait a thousand years for the pay off!
--
(2003)
I do not own any of the characters in this story.
This fic is not to be re-posted.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
I slowly opened my eyes, taking in the scene before me. I was in a classroom, myself sitting in a chair. My head, just a second ago, was laying on a desk.
“Huh?” I said out loud. “Where am I?”
I looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.
First of all, there were metal plates sealed on where windows would be.
‘That’s weird,’ I thought. ‘Why are the windows sealed?’
I stood up and walked over to them. I tried to take them off, but even with my strength, I couldn’t take them off.
Next, I looked at the clock. It seemed to be frozen at seven twenty three pm.
‘Why that time?’ I asked myself.
Finally, on the board, there was a sign that read: GO TO GYM IMMEDIATELY.
‘What is going on?!’
Quickly, I hurried out of the gym and explored the building a bit, trying to find the gym. It seemed to be a school, but what school exactly…
Then it all came back to me. I was here because she had been recruited to be a student at Hope’s Peak academy, a school for training demon slayers. I, however, was special. Me and a few other students had been recruited to be taught as hashiras-the highest rank you could get. I couldn’t have been more excited.
Now, everything made sense. Why I was here, this place…
But there was still one glaring problem: why was I here now? Last time I remembered, I was walking inside of the school, but then everything distorted together, and I lost consciousness.
However, at that moment, I decided to persevere.
After a bit of searching, I found the gym and walked inside.
In the interior, eight people around my age were standing around, talking.
One girl turned and smiled. She then said, “Look! There is another person!”
Everyone turned to me, and my cheeks started to redden.
One energetic man spoke next. “Did you see anyone else?”
I shook my head, and he continued to speak.
“Well then, why don’t we introduce ourselves!”
“I agree,” A tall man said.
And so, we started introducing ourselves.
First, I walked up to a man with a mismatched haori and jet black hair tied into a ponytail. I quickly introduced myself, saying “Hello! My name is Mitsuri Kanroji, the love hashira!”
He stayed quiet before saying, “My name is Giyuu Tomioka, the water hashira,” He just stared into my soul, looking empty and emotionless.
I felt pity for him. ‘He looks so sad!’ I thought.
Nevertheless, I head over to the next person. He was wearing a striped haori, and had a mask to cover his mouth.
‘I wonder why he wears a mask?’ I thought.
“Hi! My name is Mitsuri Kanroji! I am the love hashira!” I said happily. Despite the circumstances, I was trying my best to stay positive.
He looked away, and then I could see it: a white snake, wrapped around his neck. I screeched, and everyone turned.
“Sorry everyone!” I spoke, blushing.
“I am Obanai Iguro. The serpent hashira,” He turned back to look at me, then spoke again. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
“Um, I don’t think so…” I replied, looking away in wonder.
“Hm,” He mumbled as he walked away.
After that odd meet-up, I walked over to the only other girl. She had black hair with purple tips, and her eyes were purple as well. She was actually really short, the shortest of the group.
She was staring off into space, not noticing me walking up to her.
She jumped as I said, “Hello!”
She started to smile, as if she had been this entire time. “Hello. I am Shinobu Kocho, the insect hashira,” She said.
“I’m Mitsuri Kanroji, the love hashira! It’s good to have another girl here!” I said enthusiastically.
She continued to smile and then spoke. “Yes, it is.”
I moved onto the next, a man covered with scars all over his face. But, in my opinion, the scars made him more beautiful.
“My name is Mitsuri Kanroji! I am the love hashira!” I said.
He turned to me and scoffed. “Sanemi Shinazugawa. Wind hashira,”
There was some awkward silence, and I decided to leave.
Following the mysterious man, I went over to an energetic, beaming man with red and orange hair. He was smiling, talking to a boy. The boy had long, black hair with blue tips. They both turned to me as I came over.
“Hello! My name is Mitsuri Kanroji, the love hashira!” I said.
“I am Muichiro Tokito. The mist hashira,” The boy said.
The red/orange head then spoke. “And I’m Kyojuro Rengoku!” He was also like me; trying to stay positive.
“What hashira are you?” I asked.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you! I am the flame hashira!” His loud voice boomed.
‘I swear I’ve seen him before…’ I thought.
After talking to them for a bit, I went over to another man. He had white hair, and seemed…flashy…
“Hello! I am Mitsuri Kanroji, love hashira!” I said.
“I am Tengen Uzui, the sound hashira,” He smiled, and I blushed a tiny bit.
I then moved on to the last person. He was a very tall, muscular man with no pupils in his eyes.
‘He must be blind…but how can he be a blind hashira?’ I wondered.
“I sense someone…” He spoke.
“EEEK!” I said, startled.
“There is no need to be afraid,” He continued.
I gulped, and introduced myself. “I’m Mitsuri Kanroji, the love hashira,”
He nodded, then said, “I am Gyomei Himejima, stone hashira.”
‘He has to be the strongest out of all of us…’ I thought.
“Have we all introduced ourselves?” Gyomei’s booming voice asked.
I nodded, and so did the others.
“Next, we need to figure a way out of-” He was interrupted by someone, or something.
A crow appeared, flying in the air, I screamed, and others gasped.
“Everyone calm down!” The crow screamed.
“What?! How?!” I screeched.
“I SAID CALM DOWN!” The crow screamed.
“I sense…an animal…” Gyomei started.
“Ahem…I am the one and only Monokuma!” The crow happily said.
Everyone was silent after that, shocked that a bird could talk.
“And I’m here to explain the killing game to you!” He continued.
“Killing game?” Muichiro asked, his eyes widening.
“Yes, yes! You all will be participating in a killing game!” Monokuma said.
Chills went up my spine when I heard this. My blood ran cold, and fear was written all over my face.
Tears ran down Gyomei’s face, and anger bubbled up in him. “I cannot believe such an evil-thing-exists!” He said as he clenched his hands together in a prayer.
“Thing?! I am not a thing, but Monokuma! And I am the headmaster of this school, so you better respect me!” Monokuma spoke.
“We got a crow as a fucking headmaster?!” Sanemi yelled in frustration. Sanemi then walked over to Monokuma, cracking his knuckles. “I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is, but it better stop!” He continued.
“Ahem,” Monokuma started. “Violence against Headmaster Monokuma is a direct violation of the rules, but we’ll go over those soon.”
“This is bullshit…” Sanemi said, walking towards Monokuma.
Monokuma flew high into the air, and continued his speech. “However, if you do kill-”
“GET DOWN HERE BASTERED!” Sanemi yelled, his fists clenched.
“I’m getting really sick of you!” Monokuma screamed from above. He then whipped something out of thin air…a box? He dropped the box onto Sanemi, and he caught it.
Immediately, Shinobu screamed, “THROW IT! IT’S A BOMB!”
Sanemi’s eyes widened, and he threw it into a corner. Soon after, the bomb exploded.
‘Shinobu is so smart!’ I thought, looking at her.
“How the fuck did you know that?” Sanemi asked, turning to her.
She replied swiftly. “I work with bombs. I would know,”
Monokuma cleared his throat and flew back down. “Now, Sanemi, or anyone, really, can use this as a warning not to mess with me. Because if you do, there will be consequences.
I shivered at that, wondering what over consequences he could mean.
Sanemi scoffed, and Monokuma continued.
“However, if you do kill someone, and get away with it, you are able to escape this place. The only way to get out is to kill someone,”
I gasped at this. “So the only way to get out…is to kill someone?!” I asked.
“Correct. Also, you have to get past a class trial, which is-”
“I’m leaving. This is not worth it,” Sanemi said, walking towards the exit.
“A-are you really sure that’s a good idea-” I started.
“Nothing can be worse than this,” Sanemi spoke.
Monokuma, annoyed, said, “I WILL throw another bomb at you if you try to escape,”
Sanemi, grunting, turned away from the door and crossed his arms.
“Well then, let’s continue with a basic explanation of the class trial!” Monokuma continued. “You must find out who killed the victim, after investigation. If you figure out who did it, then only they will be punished. But if you vote for the wrong person, then everyone else gets punished, and the blackened leaves this place.”
“What do you mean by punished?" Tengen asked, raising one brow.
Monokuma giggled, then said, “Execution, of course!”
There was silence for a bit, before Sanemi spoke. “You can’t be serious,”
“Oh I’m being very serious!” Monokuma laughed.
“It seems we have gotten into a tough situation…” Rengoku said, now serious.
“Indeed,” Shinobu continued.
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ I thought.
“Now, we need to go over the school regulations and your e-handbooks,” Monokuma declared.
“W-what is that?” I asked nervously.
“Your e-hand books are your guide for living here, at Hope’s Peak. They include rules, a map, and so much more! Your e-hand books also include your full name once you open them up,” Monokuma announced.
“Now, let’s go over the rules, shall we?” He cleared his throat, then continued. “Number one: you may not leave the school. Number two: violence against Monokuma will result in immediate punishment. Number three: you may only kill a maximum of two people. Number four: if you go out during nighttime and do not kill anyone, you will be punished accordingly. Number five: new rules may be added,”
“Oh and Gyomei? You won’t be getting an e-handbook since you’re blind,” Monokuma laughed.
Gyomei’s face turned stern and angry. He didn’t seem like the type of person you wanted to mess with, yet here was Monokuma.
There was silence for a second, before Muichiro asked, “This isn’t a joke…?”
“Of course not! This is reality!” Monokuma giggled, and spoke again. “I guess that was everything. Now, start the killings!" And with that, Monokuma flew out of the room.
“This…this is infuriating,” An angry Gyomei said.
“We need to find a way out,” Sanemi uttered.
“But Monokuma said the only way out is to kill-” I started, but was cut off.
“He could be lying. C’mon, Gyomei, let’s look for an exit,” Sanemi continued, walking out the gym, Gyomei followed after.
I sighed, and turned to everyone else. “What can we do now?” I asked.
“I guess…we could explore,” Shinobu suggested.
“That seems like a good idea!” Rengoku said, a bit more positive now.
We all agreed, so I headed off to explore. Right after I exited the gym, I was in the trophy room. Lucky enough, Obanai was there.
“Hey Obanai!” I waved over to him. He turned.
“How about we team up! It could be useful to have allies!” I suggested.
He backed up a tiny bit. He seemed to consider it, before agreeing. “I suppose,” He replied.
I cheered, and we teamed up.
Once we exited the trophy room, we saw stairs leading up. There were metal bars separating us from the upstairs. I walked over to them, then tried to open it. It was no use.
“That won’t work. We need to find another way out,” Obanai suggested.
I nodded, and we headed on.
Next, we saw bathrooms, but that had no leads.
Soon, however, we found a nurses office. But it was locked.
“It seems this room is locked for some reason…” Obanai said in wonder.
“Well, hopefully it will be unlocked soon!” I proposed.
He nodded, and we left.
After that, we found a couple of classrooms, but they were not helpful.
However, we found an A/V room, with monitors all over. And that’s when I realized something. There were also monitors EVERYWHERE. And cameras.
“Um Obanai…I just noticed that cameras and monitors are all over this school,” I explained.
“I noticed that earlier…it is quite eerie,” Obanai replied.
Then, we found a giant red door, but it was also locked.
“Why is everything locked?” I wondered out loud.
“Hm?” Obanai asked.
Realizing I said that out loud, I blushed and hid my face. “AHH I’M SO SORRY! I didn’t mean to say that out loud!”
“It’s fine, really, Mitsuri,” Obanai said.
I looked back at him and calmed down. We continued on, heading down a dark passage.
To the left was a bath house, and to the right was a cafeteria. We decided to go to the cafeteria first. Inside, Rengoku was eating.
“Oh, hello Rengoku!” I said cheerfully.
“Ah, Obanai and Mitsuri!” Rengoku smiled.
I smiled back, and we both walked over to him.
“How’s exploring going?” Rengoku asked.
“Well, we found a couple of locked rooms which was weird...but other than that, nothing out of the ordinary,” I explained.
“It’s almost like this wasn’t planned…” Obanai mumbled.
“Huh?” I asked, turning to Obanai.
“Nothing,” He quickly replied.
“Well, I'll let you two get back to exploring this school!” Rengoku said.
We said our goodbyes, and left the dining hall.
Me and Obanai went across to the bathroom, but it was locked. Again.
I sighed, and Obanai spoke. “Don’t lose hope, Mitsuri. I’m sure we’ll all get out of here,” He reassured me.
I smiled at that. “Thank you!”
Next, were the dorms. They went in an order: me, Rengoku, Giyuu, Muichiro, Sanemi, Shinobu, Obanai, and then finally, Gyomei.
I opened my dorm to find an actually nice room. There was a bed in a corner, next to some nightstands. There was a bathroom, and a small table across the table. I picked it up, and it had the name “Mitsuri Kanroji” on it.
‘This must be my key,’ I thought.
I walked out of my room, locked it, and knocked on Obanai’s door. He immediately answered, and I asked him if he wanted to explore more. He nodded, and we continued on.
The last rooms were the laundry room, toilets, and incinerator.
“It seems we have covered the entire layout,” Obanai said.
I smiled and nodded. “I think I’m to go to my room!” I spoke.
“See you later, Mitsuri,” Obanai replied.
“Bye Obanai!” I said as I walked into my room.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"I mean it - she was the most realistic simulation I've seen since Minuet."
Riker's eyes were bright as he recalled the earlier test of the
Enterprise-E
's holodeck that he, Data, Troi, and Geordi had conducted at a jazz bar. Even Worf had come along, after his protests were dismissed by Troi pointing out that the reason for his visit from Deep Space 9 was to see the new ship. They had decided to cap the night off with an inaugural poker game in Riker's quarters, which quickly became controlled by his and Data's rapidly growing chip stacks.
Geordi tossed two cards into the center of the table. "You're just saying that because she could actually pretend to put up with your bluster."
"I'm shocked -
shocked
, Geordi, that you doubt her interest was genuine."
"It was not genuine, Commander." Data flicked two cards neatly into Geordi's waiting hands. "She was merely a holographic representation of a female patron of the establishment and any interest she may have demonstrated was the result of a computer simulation." He considered for a moment, then continued. "The fact that she
did
appear to have an interest in your unsubtle advances may in fact demonstrate a flaw in the holodeck programming of the new
Enterprise
."
Troi and Geordi stifled their laughter, and even Worf looked amused, in his own way. Data was pleased - it had been 439 days since the installation of the emotion chip, but he was still not completely confident in his ability to determine the appropriateness of humor at the expense of someone else.
"Yeah, okay. But come on, you guys gotta admit, this was one of the best holodeck programs we've seen in a while, right? I mean, she was
stunning
." He turned to Geordi for confirmation. "Right?"
Geordi looked at his new cards. "She was something, all right," he replied noncommittally as he toyed with his chips, waiting for Troi to make her bet.
"Twenty," she said, and tossed two chips into the pile.
Riker quickly called. "What'd you think of her, Worf?"
"She was much too small a mate for a Klingon." He scowled at his hand and the growing pile of chips in turn, then slapped his cards onto the table. "Fold."
"You guys are killing me. What about you, Data?"
"Sir?"
"What did you think of her? I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'd just assumed that since you got the emotion chip you'd..." He made a vague hand gesture. "...be able to experience sexual attraction."
Geordi raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but failed to seem surprised at Riker's forwardness. "Call."
Data felt an odd sense of embarrassment - an emotion he had experienced much less frequently than many others. He considered whether or not he should avoid the subject Riker had brought up, as many humans would choose to do. But then, was it not a common human bonding experience to discuss one's romantic life? Though was it also not common for humans to stop short of discussing more intimate details?
After 27 microseconds seconds of consideration, Data decided to match Riker's forwardness. "Indeed you are correct, Commander. However, thus far it has only been directed toward male members of humanoid species. Consequently I felt nothing for her. Dealer folds."
There was an awkward silence while Riker, Troi and Geordi exchanged glances.
Geordi turned slightly in his seat to look at him. "Data, do you mean to... Are you telling us you're... gay?"
Data accessed his language databases. "In my understanding of the most common usage of the term, yes, I believe that may be accurate."
Another pause.
"And this, uh..." Riker scratched at his beard as he leaned forward, brow furrowed. "This is because of the chip? Because of a bit of programming?"
"It would appear so. Dr. Soong was meticulous in his creation of the chip. I do not doubt that he would have taken my sexuality program into consideration while constructing it."
"But Lore got hold of it before you did, right? Is it possible that he tampered with it?" Troi sharply jabbed her elbow into Riker's arm at this.
"No. Geordi and I saw no evidence of damage to the chip other than what was caused when I was forced to fire a phaser at Lore." The usual unbidden conflicting emotions that arose when the death of his brother was brought up began to flood his mind. The subject had proven to be the greatest obstacle in his attempts to fully integrate emotions into his life, and was still capable of causing great distress. Counselor Troi had assured him this was to be expected of anyone who had experienced what he had and advised him to not simply turn off the chip when it became a problem, saying only time would allow him to fully heal.
Accordingly, he allowed the emotions to continue to process in the background and continued. "You seem to imply that the emotional expression of my sexuality program may be a defect of some kind in the chip. I do not understand why this would be so."
Riker opened and closed his mouth a few times as he appeared to search for words. Worf interrupted anything he would have said, however, as he straightened his back and appeared to enter what Geordi had once called his Pompous Klingon mode. At the time Data had failed to understand the joke; however, upon reviewing similar instances from the past he now believed he could see the appropriateness of the appellation.
"Could you not alter the program?" The Pompous Klingon mode was accompanied by this particular grumbling voice in 87.4% of occurrences, and nearly always coincided with an assertion of the proper Klingon way of conducting one's affairs.
Data was beginning to see a problem. "Why should I wish to do so?"
"Because it is not... normal."
Another silence descended upon the table. Data noted that Geordi continued to appear to devote his attention to stacking his chips in various patterns, his jaw clenched. Troi looked at a loss for words, and Riker widened his eyes by nine percent as he thought out loud.
"Wouldn't say it's not normal... Unusual, maybe..."
This seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Geordi's stack of chips collapsed and he looked up sharply. "Now wait a-"
Troi smacked Riker's arm with the back of her hand this time. "Will!"
"Please," Data interrupted, and they all stared at him. He found the effect was somewhat off-putting. "This appears to have made you uncomfortable in some way. I had not spared much thought to the implications of this particular manifestation of my emotional programming. I was unaware that it would be cause for concern. In fact, I was given to understand that homosexuality began to become destigmatized in human society during the period after Earth's third World War, shortly prior to the founding of the Federation. Is this not accurate?"
"
Yes
, Data, it is." Troi said this as much to Riker as to Data.
Riker raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Yeah, definitely, it's just... uncommon. And, well... What about Tasha? And Jenna?"
"Those relationships are not relevant, as they occurred prior to the installation of the emotion chip. My actions with Tasha were the result of a sexuality program that lacked the direction that the emotion chip now provides for it. My relationship with Jenna was governed by a program I had to specifically create for her. One could liken it to the conditioning of the humanoid mind to produce an expected response upon encountering certain stimuli. It is not a native response to the individual."
Anger was the first emotion Data had ever felt, and aside from humor was the one he had spent the most time analyzing. During his sessions with Troi following the last encounter with Lore, she had raised the possibility that he would not be able to fully understand everything that had occurred if he was unable to experience the associated emotions. It was a large factor in his decision to finally install the chip. He had used the majority of the shore leave he had been granted after the destruction of the
Enterprise-D
to attempt to come to terms with the events, and consequently he had had to relive several distinct varieties of negative emotions.
He occasionally felt a twinge of regret that anger was the emotion with which he was most familiar. Data knew that Troi harbored a quiet yet profound sympathy for this, and was grateful.
At this moment, however, the emotional state he was experiencing was a novel one. It contained the sixteenth type of anger that he had identified, but also the third confusion, eleventh fear, a small amount of the eighth variety of sadness, and an overwhelming desire to voice every thought that came to mind on the subject. He would need to speak with Counselor Troi about this, but for the moment he followed what they had agreed would be the best course and let the emotions take him where they would.
"To my knowledge," he continued in a coolly logical tone before anyone could respond to his analogy, "there are 28 same-sex couples aboard the Enterprise. Of these, seven are interspecies relationships. It is not an uncommon phenomenon. I do not understand why you are more concerned with my apparent sexuality than you are with theirs."
The poker game seemed forgotten. "Further, I believe it must be pointed out that my gender was itself essentially an arbitrary decision on the part of Dr. Soong. He and my mother argued over the matter until he simply crafted my head in his image. In fact, one could say that this is true for any aspect of my personality. For example, while I am in all practical aspects ambidextrous, I do favor my left hand for simple tasks such as painting. This is not a conscious choice or a spontaneously generated piece of code. It was a decision that Dr. Soong must have at some point purposefully made while he was creating me."
Riker let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Maybe we should call it a night before you end up having an existential crisis."
"On the contrary, Commander. I am quite comfortable with my identity. I
am
Noonien Soong's son." Data paused momentarily as he considered how best to help the others understand. "My original programming is not unlike the genome that humanoid children inherit from their parents. My subsequent enhancement of that programming is simply the child maturing as it learns how to interact with the world around it.
"You will note, for example, that I often include short pauses in my speech when I am engaged in casual conversation. I have found that affectations such as these add nuance and connotation to speech that is beyond the simple meaning of the words. While in reality it may only take me 12 nanoseconds to determine the most appropriate word for the occasion, I may show hesitation in order to convey the complexity of the situation. This was not part of my original language programming, but rather came out of several years of observation and experience."
It had been a long while since Data had spoken largely uninterrupted for such a lengthy period of time outside of a staff meeting or a theatrical performance - not, in fact, since consulting with Troi about Lore's death and his first brush with emotion. He wondered what it meant that the others had remained silent except for Riker's attempt at a joke.
"In contrast, the program that I wrote for Lieutenant D'Sora was not the result of this normal growth pattern. It was written out of necessity rather than growing organically, so to speak, and was subsequently deleted. It has no more relevance to my current operation than would any other learning experience for what
not
to do.
"While it would theoretically be possible to alter the sexuality expression of the emotion chip, to do so would fundamentally alter the programming that my father laid down for me. I would essentially be changing my genome for no purpose other than to be more 'normal.'" He glanced at Worf. "I am not a conventional lifeform. I see no reason to attempt to alter myself in this respect so that I may experience commonality."
The subject of the D'Sora program had raised the memory of the argument he had attempted to engage her in. The program he had written included a provision for "storming out" when one was finished with a heated discussion, and since then Data had been fascinated by the idea but had never found an opportunity to attempt it himself. His observations led him to believe that this would be an ideal occasion, and, if he correctly understood the idea behind it, would serve to finalize his argument.
He rose, neatly stacking his cards and chips and pushing them to the center of the table. "I believe I have said everything there is to be said with regards to my sexuality program. If you still find yourself confused, I suggest you converse with Counselor Troi. I must attend to an experiment in the biometrics lab. Excuse me."
If Data had been unsure whether Troi would mind being used in such a manner, the quickly suppressed amused smile that crossed her face as he left would have told him all he needed to know.
10.7 hours after leaving Commander Riker's quarters, Data entered Counselor Troi's. Her eyes brightened when she saw him.
"Hi, Data. I have a feeling I know what you're here to talk about." She gestured to the sofa next to her. "Come in, sit down."
"If you are referring to the incident during the poker game last night, you are correct," he began, taking his usual place at the end of the couch. "I have several concerns I wish to discuss."
Troi's smile faded, but she retained the ghost of it she often held when counseling someone. "Such as?"
"Primarily, my attempt to make the others understand my feelings on the matter of my sexuality program. I believe I may have... 'laid it on too thick.'"
Her brow furrowed slightly. "In what way?"
"I am concerned that my actions may be perceived as
ranting
at Commander Riker and Worf. I had not intended to do so, and I feel as though I must apologize." He blinked. "I find, however, that part of me does not wish to apologize."
"Then don't."
Data blinked again. "Counselor?"
Troi leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Data, you did nothing wrong. You reacted exactly as I would expect someone whose identity was unfairly questioned to react."
"Unfairly questioned?" He reviewed the conversation to determine what she most likely meant. "Are you referring to Commander Riker inquiring if Lore had tampered with the emotion chip, or Worf's suggestion that I alter the program due to its abnormality?"
"Both." Troi sighed. "See, Data, it's true that now most humans don't care one way or another about other people's sexualities, but some wounds of the Eugenics Wars are harder to heal than others. And some cultures are still somewhat hesitant about it." She smiled wryly. "Sometimes Worf has a tendency to forget that what's important for Klingons isn't important for everyone else. Either statement on its own would have been enough to make anybody angry, and I certainly can't imagine either of them saying those things to any other gay member of their crews."
"You suggest that they reacted the way they did because I am not human."
"Mostly I think they just have a hard time understanding why Dr. Soong would have deliberately programmed your emotion chip to make you attracted to other men."
Data nodded slowly, considering this. "My father did have an unusual way of looking at things. I do not doubt that he would find this situation most amusing. But I am what he made me, and I accept that."
"Exactly." She leaned back in her chair and settled in more comfortably. "The people that we're attracted to is a great part of what makes us who we are. It was natural for you to want to defend yourself. A perceived personal attack can easily be interpreted as though it were a physical threat, and reacted to just as aggressively."
"I believe I understand. Shortly after Worf's suggestion that I alter the program, I began to experience a novel confluence of emotion consisting of 72.3% anger, 16.1% confusion, 7.8% sadness and 3.8% fear. I also felt a compulsion to express every thought on the subject that came to mind."
"I've never heard righteous indignation described quite so precisely before."
"I could tell you precisely which types of those emotions I experienced."
Troi let out a small laugh. "No, thank you Data, I think I get the picture."
"As you wish." Another detail occurred to him. "I believe that the mention of Lore may have precipitated my... rant."
"That was the most civil rant I've ever heard, Data." Her face softened. "But it's understandable. I know that thinking about Lore isn't easy for you. It's to be expected that someone in an already emotionally fragile state would react more easily to something like that."
"It is normal for the subject of Lore to evoke several strong emotions, and this occasion was not an exception. I followed your advice and allowed the emotions to continue, and looking back, it felt as though this served to... 'feed' the anger I felt. I believe it did not help that I subsequently began to consider my past experiences with anger."
"Which naturally brought you back to Lore."
"Yes."
Troi sighed again and moved to join Data on the couch. "I wish I could tell you that it will get easier, Data. You experienced a sort of trauma that most people can't even begin to imagine, and it's going to be a sore point for a very long time. But you seemed able to keep calm, so I'd say you're making progress."
Data recalled the first time he had thought about Lore after the installation of the chip. It had been... unpleasant. "I agree. Thank you, Counselor."
"I'm glad to help. So," she clapped her hands on her thighs and smiled wickedly. "Are you going to tell me just how you discovered your attraction to men in the first place?"
As Data observed Geordi constructing a model of the original United States schooner
Enterprise
to replace the one lost during the crash on Veridian III, he believed he was beginning to understand the appeal of crafting such objects by hand rather than simply replicating them. Geordi sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarters, surrounded by assorted miniaturized pieces of wood and rope and appeared to have no worldly concerns at all.
"I think his exact words were 'I'm such an ass.' Hand me that flag, will you?"
Data joined him on the floor and passed over the indicated replica flag. "Counselor Troi did suggest that Commander Riker's later silence was indicative of his embarrassment at his initial reaction."
"Then he stared off at your pile of chips for a second and said something like, 'he just stormed out on us, didn't he?' and laughed. He
loved
it. I don't think you've ever been more human to him than in that moment."
"Counselor Troi was similarly delighted. She said she was proud of the manner in which I ended the conversation while making clear what I thought of their reactions."
Geordi picked up what appeared to be the final piece of rigging. "Oh, you made it clear all right. Worf seemed worried that his honor would be tainted or something if he didn't get to apologize to you before he had to go back to DS9."
Data chose to forgo the obvious response regarding Worf's subsequent apology to him in the biometrics lab. The topic seemed to be a conversational dead end, as it were, and he found he wanted to raise another subject. "She also expressed amusement at my response when she inquired how I discovered my attraction to men."
"Oh yeah?" Geordi appeared distracted by the delicate operation of attaching the rigging to the mast.
"Yes. I am curious: do you also find it amusing that during my early exploration of emotion I watched several erotic holofilms in addition to the usual dramatic fare?"
Geordi's hand slipped and a yardarm swayed dangerously. He blinked rapidly - an expression of surprise still novel given that his ocular implants were only 63 days old - and steadied the yardarm. "Erotic holofilms?"
"Over the course of fourteen days I watched 382 films, seventeen of which were erotic in nature. 99.83% of all instances of sexual response were due to male humanoids."
Geordi cleared his throat as he ran a hand over his head. "What was the outlier?"
"A human female who bore an unfortunate resemblance to Tasha. I believe the response was caused by the sympathetic memory of our time together, as I do not experience attraction when I think of her. There is love, but only that for a lost friend." He had not finished that film.
"I'm sorry, Data."
"Do not be. Among other things, it serves as an excellent example to me of the varying degrees of intersection - or lack thereof - between lust and love." He resumed the original course of the conversation. "Did you find my approach amusing?"
"Well..." Geordi resumed his attempt to rig the ship. "It's certainly... strange to think of you watching those things. But it's a reasonable thing to do, I suppose."
"I believe Counselor Troi was primarily amused by the immediate mental image she said she formed of me taking copious notes and calculating exact angles and forces. I confess, prior to the installation of the chip this was precisely my method of exploring various facets of sexuality."
Geordi smiled and bit back a laugh. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I do not know. I find I am at a loss as to how to proceed with intimate relationships. I do not even know how best to determine whether a potential partner would be interested in such a relationship."
"Ah, I know how you feel."
"In what way?"
"Well, I mean, just because I've never had a relationship with a man doesn't mean the interest isn't there." Geordi finished attaching the rigging and the yardarm hung securely in its place. He leaned back, satisfied. "It's just... I'm awkward enough with relationships already, it's easier to try it without the added insecurity of whether or not they're even into men. And I've never really had anyone I felt motivated enough to get over that for."
"You suggest you would attempt to engage in a relationship with a male if you knew beforehand that his sexual orientation would not preclude it."
"Well... yeah."
"I see."
They were silent. Geordi stretched out his legs and grimaced. "Dammit, my leg's gone asleep."
"I have told you several times that it is not possible for an extremity to enter a semi-conscious somniative state."
"Now look-" Geordi glanced up from rubbing his calf.
Data just smiled at him.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
ELIOT
With just under four hours to go before the curse would be officially broken, Eliot found himself waking to the familiar feeling of Q's back pressed up against his chest. They were spooning, Eliot's arms holding Q tight, probably tighter than should have been comfortable for him, but Q had always liked feeling anchored in that way. He said it made him feel safe, and Eliot wasn't going to argue with that. It felt so incredibly nice, so
normal
to wake up this way, with the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the drapes, Q's heartbeat reassuringly strong under Eliot's hands, and... well. Technically, Eliot shouldn't have been familiar with the sensation of waking up next to this particular warm body nestled tightly against him, but he
was
familiar with it all the same. He shifted, his hips pressing deliciously against Q, and he heard a small happy sigh of pleasure as Q stirred awake.
"Morning," Q said, like this was an every day occurrence, like they were back in Fillory, middle-aged and so familiar with each other's bodies and minds that words were often unnecessary.
"Morning," Eliot said, dipping his head down to press his forehead into the back of Q's neck. He pressed a kiss there and then regretted it, worried ridiculously that this, of all things, was what constituted crossing a line.
"I'm starting to appreciate a unique challenge arising - so to speak - from this situation," Eliot said, trying to keep his tone conversational.
Quentin reached back to slap him on the shoulder in mild protest at the pun, squirming against Eliot slightly. "Oh yeah?"
"Well, when Julia first said we'd have to touch each other for twenty-four straight hours, I was a little too worried about your impending death to fully appreciate how... um..."
"
Nice
it would feel?" Q finished. He flipped around in the bed so they were facing each other, hooking an arm around Eliot's neck. He shifted his hips just slightly until - yep
.
There it was. Good to know Eliot wasn't suffering alone.
"Nice. Nice is a word that might apply," Eliot agreed, a little breathless. "But now that you're no longer at death's door, um - " Q shifted again, and Eliot gasped. "Quentin."
Quentin laughed, a silky, warm sound that pooled low in Eliot's gut.
"I'm a shitty person for saying this," Eliot said, his entire body tense from trying
not
to push his hips forward in turn. "But I could pretend to be asleep and you could call Alice in here..."
Q actually looked like he was considering it for a moment, which was just...
Jesus
, but then he blinked, tearing his eyes away from Eliot with a little groan of frustration. "You're right, that's shitty, we can't. Uh. We can't do that." He tilted his head forward until it thunked lightly against Eliot's collarbone, and then he spoke, softly, his lips brushing against Eliot's skin. "Of course just talking about this is kind of already cheating, so..."
"Don't," Eliot said, hissing as he felt Q's teeth press very briefly, too soft, into the skin of his shoulder. "I'm trying to be a good person, here." Eliot realized that his hands had somehow ended up curled around Q's hips. He hadn't meant to put them there.
"Sorry," Q said, but he didn't sound that sorry, and he was dragging his lips along Eliot's chest now, one of his hands skimming up Eliot's torso towards his neck.
The door slammed open and Margo walked in, a tray of food in her hands. "Good morning, sleepy heads," she said. Eliot jerked his head up from where it had been staring down at Q's torturous progress, but squeezed his hands tighter on the skin of Q's waist.
"Hey, Bambi," he said, his voice way too bright. Margo gave him a knowing look, but actually decided, for once, not to say anything.
"I've brought sustenance. Healing boys need a healthy breakfast."
Q's face was bright red, and he turned slightly, trying to hide evidence of his arousal from Margo. This has the unintended consequence pressing Eliot and Q even closer together, and Eliot's breath hitched. Q caught his eye, biting his lip in half-amusement, half-shame.
"You two are a nightmare," Margo said, rolling her eyes and leaning over to set up a tray. "I promise I'm not trying to be a bitch, for once, but you do know that Alice is in the other room, waiting to talk to you, right?"
Quentin deflated a bit at that, nodding solemnly and picking up a piece of toast in a despondent sort of way. Eliot moved a hand along Q's free arm and squeezed his hand in what he hoped was a supportive, and not clingy, gesture.
"You're right," Q said. "This is just..."
"Hard?" Margo suggested. Eliot threw a grape at her head.
"
You're
the nightmare," he chastised. Dumb sex puns were supposed to be
his
thing.
"Listen, Eliot," Margo said, suddenly a bit anxious. "I'm not sure how to say this..."
"Go," Eliot said, knowing immediately what she was going to say. "I get it, you should go. Fen needs you, and Josh will be back any time now."
Margo's mouth relaxed into a relieved smile. "Thank you. Q, baby, I'm so happy you're alright." She came forward and kissed Q on the cheek, then leaned over him to kiss Eliot on the mouth.
"And I'm just a phone-call away. Or, well. You know what I mean."
"Is Penny giving you a ride?" Q asked, biting in to his toast.
"No, he's helping Kady with some hedge business. I'll take the long way round." She meant the Neitherlands, which, while certainly safer now that the Library was - mostly - friendly, still wasn't exactly a stroll through the park.
Eliot frowned. "Margo, are you - "
"I can take care of myself," she said. "Seriously, honey, don't you think you have enough to worry about, keeping this poor boy alive with the healing power of your di- "
"Okay!" Q said loudly, pressing his face hard into Eliot's shoulder to hide his mortification. "Thanks for stopping by, Margo. Good luck in Fillory. Give Fen and Josh my best."
"If I have time, I'll try and remember," Margo said, and with a toss of her perfect hair, she gave one last genuine smile and left the room.
"I hate her," Q groaned, flopping down on the bed next to Eliot, keeping a hand curled around his elbow automatically.
Eliot sighed in contentment, popping a grape into his mouth. "I love her."
JULIA
"Less than an hour left," Julia said, just for something to say. Alice was sitting on the couch staring down at a mug of tea. It looked like the same one she'd had in her hand the last time Julia had seen her, hours ago, and it looked untouched.
"Yeah," Alice said, glancing up at her briefly and then back at the mug. Julia sighed, and then sat on the couch next to her. She hadn't been
avoiding
Alice over the last day, but what the hell was she supposed to say to someone, in this particular set of circumstances?
The truth was, Julia actually really
liked Alice. Much more than she ever would have guessed in the earlier part of their acquaintance. If anyone in the world could understand the feelings of impotent rage that came from having all the power of the world at your fingertips, and then
losing
it, it would be Alice Quinn. Plus, their shared love for Quentin had practically forced them to get to know one another. If sides were to be taken, Julia would always take Quentin's, but she couldn't help but feel protective of Alice, too.
"I feel awkward," she confessed. "I don't know if there's anything I can say that would help."
"Did you know?" Alice asked her, voice a little cold. It took a moment for Julia to put together what Alice meant.
"No! Of course I didn't, Alice. You think if I'd known, I wouldn't have sent for Eliot right away? I know how much this sucks for you, but it's Q's life we're talking about."
Alice set her cup of untouched tea down on the coffee table and turned to look Julia in the eye. "Yes, I realize that. I guess I'm asking if you... were you
surprised
, when you realized?"
That was a much more difficult question. She thought hard before answering, wanting to give Alice the benefit of her honesty. "At first, yes. Really surprised. And then once I'd had the chance to think about it, some things started to make sense to me."
"Like what?" Alice asked. "Because I - Julia, I feel so
stupid
. I had no idea, not even a little bit. I mean, there was that threesome, years ago, but I didn't think Q thought of Eliot like that, not
really
."
Julia took Alice's hand, and somewhat to her surprise, Alice accepted the touch, squeezing back. "Alice, I don't want to talk about this if it's going to hurt you."
"I need to understand," Alice said. "It's how I process stuff like this, I - I need to make sense of it in my head. You saw the look on Eliot's face just as well as I did. He looked like..."
"Like he was going to die of it," Julia said. "When he saw Q like that."
"Yeah. It was scary. Way more intense than I would have expected. I've never really understood them, their friendship... and now I guess it's obvious that I was missing a big piece of the puzzle."
"When Eliot was possessed by the monster," Julia started, feeling her throat constrict slightly. She had to trust Alice's request - if she wanted to understand, Julia would do her best to help her. "Q was... he was
not
okay. Obviously I put that down to his dad's death, and Eliot was dead too, so... it made sense that he would be struggling."
"Yeah, I remember that, when I came back. He was kind of cold, and... and
flat
, if that makes sense. I thought it was just that he was angry at me, and stressed, but thinking back on it now it's clear he was in trouble. It's just another thing I have to feel guilty about. I should have realized - "
"Alice, I've known Q my whole life, and I was too caught up in everything going on to take his behavior seriously. And we got lucky - we all got out of that darkness alive and intact. There's no use feeling bad about it now."
Alice nodded, her lips turning down into a frown. Julia realized that she was still holding Alice's hand. It didn't feel even a little bit awkward. "I realize, looking back," Julia continued, "that Q didn't care about anything in the world but getting Eliot back. The second he realized that Eliot was still alive, it became his whole focus. He didn't care if he lived or died, he just... he was desperate for it."
"But when, though? I mean,
how
did they... if Q's been in love with Eliot for months, why didn't any of us know about it? And how could he - he's the one who asked me to give us another shot. Why would he do that if..."
There was a small stirring of anger and protectiveness pooling in Julia's gut. Honestly, she felt a bit the same way. Earlier, Julia had been visiting with Eliot and Quentin when abruptly, seemingly by prior agreement, they had proceeded to tell her about another life - one they'd lived together in Fillory's past. She'd been happy to know that Q had experienced something so beautiful, but now, sitting here on the couch with Alice's smaller hand gripped in her own, she wasn't sure
what
to think. If Q had loved Eliot so entirely, why had he decided to lead Alice on?
"I don't know," Julia said. "Obviously I - I think you and Q are going to have to talk about this once you have a chance to be alone..."
"You know something," Alice said, voice sharp. "You, and Eliot too - you're both hinting at something... Q's supposed to be my
boyfriend.
Don't I have a right to..."
"Yes." God, this was
so
not Julia's secret to tell. She hated Q and Eliot both a little bit for putting her in this position. "Yes, you have a right. You deserve so much better than this, Alice. I definitely don't think that Quentin was trying to hurt you, but that doesn't change the fact that he
did
, and it
sucks
."
Alice blinked at her a few times in surprise, and then her face lost a bit of its anxious tension, softening into something that looked almost fond. "Thank you. I didn't expect... it's like you're on my side."
Julia smiled a little sadly. "I'm really hoping that I don't have to choose."
Alice took a deep breath, and then gently extricated her hand from Julia's. Before Julia could decide how she felt about that, Alice's hand was back, this time gentle against the skin of her wrist. She left her fingers there, like the touch was an anchor, and then said: "Just tell me this, honestly: do I have a shot, here, or should I back off?"
Was she supposed to be honest? Would it hurt less if Julia told her what she really thought? Suddenly, sparing Alice Quinn pain became the most important thing in the world, and Julia felt a small squeeze of panic in her chest as she realized that she didn't know how to accomplish that. A few seconds of silence, and then Alice sighed, leaning back against the couch and breaking eye contact with Julia.
"I guess no answer is sort of an answer, huh?"
"I'm sorry," Julia said. "I wish..."
"Yeah. I wish, too," Alice said forlornly. Then she smiled, and it looked genuine, if a bit pained. "You don't have to pick sides, though. Or at least, I wouldn't expect that. And - if I have to lose him, it's nice to know I won't lose you too."
QUENTIN
"And...
there
." Kady said in triumph, as her phone let out a loud chirp. "Twenty-four hours."
Q and Eliot were out in the living room with the others - Kady, Julia, Alice, Penny-23 - sitting on the couch. Q had made the walk under his own power, Eliot clutching at his arm and ready to catch him if he stumbled, but honestly, he felt fine. Sure, the walk from his bedroom to the living room couch normally wouldn't have resulted in an elevated heart rate, but he thought that was the nerves as much as it was the exhaustion.
"So... am I supposed to feel something?" Q asked, looking at Kady. She shrugged unhelpfully. Eliot and Q were both dressed now, but Eliot still had a firm grip on his hand and was showing no signs of letting it go.
"How sure are we on the twenty-four hours?" Eliot asked. His voice sounded calm enough, but Q's hand ached from how hard Eliot was holding it. "Maybe we should allow for a window."
"It's definitely twenty-four hours," Kady said, consulting a piece of paper with messy handwriting littering the margins. "Once Q started getting better, I figured I'd double and triple check that there wasn't any nasty surprises waiting for us at the end of this thing."
"What did you find out?" Alice asked. She was sitting on the chair furthest from Q and Eliot, and Q looked over at her a little nervously. They hadn't spoken at all since Eliot had shown up the previous day, although Eliot had told him that they'd had a brief conversation, and he knew from Julia that Alice hadn't left the apartment that whole time, waiting anxiously to make sure he was recovering. It made his heart feel bruised and tender with affection for her, and sadness filled him for what he knew he'd have to do very shortly. He pressed the length of his leg against Eliot's, seeking reassurance.
"I found a couple of people who got hit with the curse and lived through it," Kady was saying. "Same exact symptoms and timeline of getting sick. After twenty-four hours, you can let go. You'll feel..." Kady hesitated, clenching her jaw as she looked down at Q, "It'll be painful, like how it felt when the curse first hit you. But it'll only last for a couple of minutes and then the last of the magic will be expelled. You'll still feel tired and a little under the weather for a few days, but... that's it."
Q shivered. It was hard to believe that it had been just over two days since he'd been hit with this curse - despite the fact that he'd been sleeping for the majority of that time, he felt exhausted down to his bones. So much had happened, so much had
changed
, and he hadn't even left the apartment. Still, no amount of time was likely to make him forget how it had felt with the curse hit him. It maybe wasn't the worst pain he'd ever experienced, but it probably came close. He looked at Eliot, who had gone white and was trying very hard to look like he wasn't on the verge of a total panic attack. In a perverse sort of way, it was comforting, to have someone else's fear to focus on.
"It'll be okay," Q said. He didn't want to freak Eliot out, but felt like he should probably give some sort of warning. "It - um. I'm going to be in kind of a scary amount of pain for a couple of minutes, but it'll look worse than it feels." Eliot's chin quivered for a moment, and Q ached with love for him. "We should - let's get it over with." He lifted his free hand and put it on the side of Eliot's face, smiling when he leaned into it instinctively. Then, he removed his hand, placing it in his lap, and slowly started tugging his other hand out of Eliot's.
Eliot, and G
od
Q loved him, resisted it for a second, clamping down on Q's fingers. "Are you sure - "
Q tugged again. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere." Their fingers came free. For a second, he felt normal, and then -
"Mother of
fuck
, ow, ow, ow."
He groaned, closing in on himself. It felt like flames were burning their way through his insides, a rush of malignant, evil magical energy coursing through him, scorching the heart of him. He pitched forward, instinctively seeking the same healing touch that had kept him grounded over the last twenty-four hours.
"Q!" Eliot was grabbing at him, hands rough and clumsy with panic.
"It's okay," Julia was saying. "'
Mother of fuck'
is what he said at the beginning of this thing." But her voice sounded a bit worried too, and Q could feel her hand pressing hard on his shoulder.
He felt himself fall off the couch, twitching, and knew that Eliot had slid onto the ground with him. He heard a high whimpering sound and became aware that he was the one making it when he felt the vibrations of it against Eliot's chest, where he was being held like a precious, fragile thing.
"Q, shh, shh, I've got you," Eliot was saying. "Please, just...
please
."
Q wondered what exactly Eliot was asking for, and how he was supposed to give it to him. The pain seemed endless, surging higher and higher, and then cresting through the center of his chest with white-hot intensity. He heard himself give an animal yelp, a horrid, shuddering sound. For a moment he felt certain he was going to die, and then he heard Eliot's voice, small and trembling in his ear. "I'm here, it's okay, it's okay -
please
- " El sounded miserable, frantic, like he was the one with fire running through his veins. It was a little hard to think properly through the pain, but Q knew that he was the cause of Eliot's agony, and that was enough to clear his mind, at least slightly: he really had to stop whimpering, because it was hurting Eliot. He managed a slow breath, and then another, feeling the edges of the world start to firm up again around him.
He felt as raw as a live wire, twitchy and vibrant with exposed nerve endings going off in bursts along his skin. He could feel Eliot's hands trembling against him, heard worried little puffs of air stirring the hair on the back of his neck. "It's okay, don't freak out, I'm fine, it's
fine
, El..."
Eliot let out a groan when he heard Q's voice, and Q felt his cheek on top of his head, pressing firm. "You're okay." It wasn't a question, more of a command.
"I think... it's... yeah, it's stopping," Q said, taking a shuddering breath. Another. His skin felt stretched tight over his bones, but the pain was subsiding. "It's gone. It's over." He sat up, regaining control of his limbs, and pulled himself away from Eliot so he could turn to face him. His face was white as a sheet. "El,
really
, I'm
okay
." He pressed one hand against Eliot's chest and the other against his face, and Eliot's eyes snapped shut. He turned his face into Q's hand and kissed his palm, and it was about then that Q remembered they weren't alone in the room.
He cleared his throat, and then lifted himself up on his knees, pulling his hands away from Eliot and trying to stand. Julia leaped forward to help. Eliot didn't look happy about it, but he let Quentin stand up and move away from him, his eyes tracking everything with a fierce intensity. Q took a few shaky steps on his own and then sank down onto the edge of the coffee table. "That fucking sucked."
"Jesus, Q." Alice sounded equal parts horrified and relieved. Q had definitely not forgotten she was in the room, but her voice did something to him, something startling and intense, piercing through the remaining fog of pain and centering him back into his body. "I'm so - thank
God
," she said, and, ignoring Eliot slumped on the floor just a foot away, she came straight up to Quentin and threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace by instinct, holding tight.
"That was terrifying," Kady said. "Worse than I thought."
"You okay?" Penny-23 asked. Q looked over the back of Alice's shoulder at him.
"Uh. Yeah." The room was spinning a little bit, but he could feel it - the malignant magic that had been inside of him for the last two days was gone.
He made eye contact with Eliot, who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the universe. Alice's warm weight pressed against him felt suddenly claustrophobic.
God, he felt like such a monster. He loved Alice - he
really
did. He truly hadn't been thinking of her as a consolation prize, the person he had to settle for since Eliot didn't want him. Loving Alice was one of the best things about him, but he also knew his own mind. Right there, in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to fall back to the floor and into Eliot's arms. He'd spent literally every second with Eliot for a full day, but it wasn't enough. He hadn't spoken once to Alice in all that time, as he burned his way through a terrifying, magically induced illness, and already he wanted her to go, wanted them all to go, so he could be alone with Eliot, hold him until both of them weren't scared anymore, until he felt himself safe in the place he belonged. If that wasn't definitive proof of Q's heart...
He pulled back slowly out of Alice's arms and carefully met her gaze. "Hey," he said. "Alice."
"I guess we probably need to talk, huh?" she said, her voice wobbly, eyes bright with tears.
He nodded, then turned to look up at Julia, who was standing close by. "Jules - "
"Use my room," she said at once, reading his mind like she so often did. Q didn't really want to break up with Alice Quinn in the same room where he and Eliot had just spent hours making absurdly heartfelt and grandiose confessions of undying love. It felt cheap, somehow.
"Thanks," he said. "Alice, could you just give me a second to..." he kept his eyes firmly on her, careful not to let them flicker over to Eliot's face, but he saw in the tightening of the lines around Alice's mouth that she still knew. She nodded once, stiffly, then got up. Q saw Julia grab Alice's arm and squeeze for a moment, and then Alice made her way to the hallway, leaving the others clustered around Q.
Once she was gone, Q stood on wobbly legs and turned to Julia, letting his friend pull him into a tight hug. "Oh, Q, I'm so relieved, you have no idea."
He released her, and to his shock was pulled into a very brief, somewhat harsh hug by Kady. "Leave the hard-ass hedge interrogations to me next time, got it?" she said, pulling away almost before Q could return the hug.
"Uh. Yeah, will do."
Penny-23, fortunately, wasn't the hugging type. He clapped a hand on Q's shoulder, though, and gave him a genuine smile.
Q turned to Eliot, who was still on his knees on the floor in the space between the couch and the coffee table. He'd gone still, cold and white as marble. Q knelt in front of him and touched his face, bringing him to life. Eliot sucked in a harsh breath and pulled Q tight against him, pressing his lips to the side of Q's neck. Quentin didn't bother to stop him, just held him tight as Eliot shuddered for a few moments, seeking equilibrium in Q's embrace.
"That was fucking torture," he said into Q's neck. "Don't do that. Don't make me watch something like that. Jesus, you're going to make me go grey."
"You look good with grey hair," Quentin murmured back. "Silver fox, remember?"
Eliot gave a little huff of incredulity. "Let's save that for a later decade, darling."
The endearment was somehow both sarcastic and heartfelt at the same time, and Q's heart did an embarrassing little tap-dance inside of his chest. How did Eliot
do
that to him? Slowly, and with great reluctance, Q pulled back out of Eliot's arms. For a moment, Eliot resisted that too, his forearms braced tight against Q's back, but with a small sigh of effort, he loosened his grip. Q sat back so they could make eye contact. He knew without looking that Julia had ushered the others away to give them some privacy.
"Are you going to be okay?" Q asked. Eliot still looked paler than usual.
"Yes. As long as you're alive and happy, I've got everything I need."
Q rolled his eyes, even though he felt like smiling and launching himself back at Eliot. "You're a sap."
Eliot just nodded. "The logical consequence of telling the unvarnished truth. When it comes to you, apparently I'm a hopeless romantic."
Quentin couldn't find the words to respond to that, feeling the small tug in his chest that told him he needed to get up and walk down the hall to talk to the woman who was still, technically speaking, his girlfriend. Luckily for Q, Eliot knew him better than anyone.
"Go. Talk to her. And then come back to me."
Without pausing to feel bad about it, Q reached forward and kissed the corner of Eliot's mouth, keeping the contact as brief as he could manage. He stood, feeling his legs still a bit wobbly, and walked down the hall. Eliot was still sitting on the floor when he turned the corner and lost sight of him.
Alice was sitting on the edge of Julia's bed, looking around the room in a vaguely curious sort of way, when Quentin walked in. He felt unsteady on his legs, a combination of his ordeal, and nerves from the impending conversation.
"So," Q said, just to say something.
"So."
It was occurring to Q that as much as he'd been dreading this conversation, he hadn't really
prepared
for it very well. Alice's expression was saying so many things all at once - relief that he was okay, sadness and anger over what she clearly knew was about to happen, and a glint of defiance - she wasn't going to do it for him. He'd have to say it.
Of course, that was what Q admired so much about her, that determination, that sense of her own worth. Alice knew what she deserved, and Quentin hated that he didn't know how to give that to her and still remain true to how he felt.
"I should start by saying I'm sorry," he said. He was still standing awkwardly by the closed door, and he leaned against it. "When... when Eliot showed up, I was pretty out of it, so I don't really remember if I said anything or..."
"You didn't, not really. You just told him to stay with you." Alice's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. She'd had just as much time as Quentin to think about all of this.
"Right. Like I said, I was pretty out of it. None of that was strictly... voluntary. Not that that's an excuse, I just... um. I guess it's important for me that you know I never lied to you, or, or, kept anything from you on purpose."
Alice raised an unimpressed eyebrow at that. "You're clearly just like... unbelievably in love with Eliot, Q. And unless that somehow came on spontaneously, you obviously
did
keep something from me."
"I really - I do love you, Alice," Q began, but Alice put up a hand to stop him.
"Quentin. Is this a breakup?" she asked. It wasn't really a question. She was too smart to think otherwise. But Q knew she was asking him to do better, to be clear and communicative and give her the closure she required.
Q took a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and met her eyes. "Yes."
"Okay. Come sit next to me, you look like you're about to fall over."
Q did so, sinking onto the bed, close enough to feel the heat of Alice's leg against his, but not quite touching. He'd find the words, for her. She deserved that.
"Alice, I'm going to tell you about a crazy thing that happened to me. I didn't keep it from you because I didn't trust you, or didn't want you to know, exactly. It's something that happened to me and Eliot, and we sort of had this unofficial agreement not to talk about it. With
anyone
. Eliot only told Margo yesterday."
Alice's eyes widened. She knew Eliot and Margo well enough to understand how significant that was. "Okay. Tell me."
Q did - he started at the beginning, going back to the key quest, explaining the mosaic. Alice knew about the puzzle of course, from the Fillory books, and he saw the full impact dawn on her as he kept talking. He told her about falling in love with Eliot, meeting Arielle, the terror and joy of learning they were going to be parents. And then Teddy, Ari's death, and everything that came after that, the family they had built. He had just started to tell her how it ended - the key, and Jane, writing the letter to Margo, when she put a hand on his arm to stop him.
"The beauty of all life," she said, sounding awed.
"Yes," Q said. He still felt a sense of nearly spiritual reverence when he thought about it. The beauty of all life was
them
. Quentin Coldwater and Eliot Waugh together. There couldn't be a love more real than that.
"Wow. Q. That's..."
"I know," Q said. "That timeline, it never happened, you know? But for me and El, it. It
did
. We can't remember all of it, not the way we remember the past of our own true timeline, but it's a part of us. It's written into our bones. It's not. Um. Something you can forget about, growing old loving someone."
Alice took her hand off of Q's arm, seeming to realize it was still there. She took a couple of deep breaths, and swallowed loudly. "Why did you even bother with us, then?"
"Alice
," Q said. It wasn't fair of him to be hurt by that, but he felt the sting of it anyway. "I - I didn't think of it like that, okay? It's not a competition. I thought. God, this is going to sound weird, but I really thought I'd figured it out, you know? Everything was so crazy and bad, with the monsters and Everett and the magic being rationed. I was spinning out, and you were..."
"I was there," she said, cold.
"Yes, but that makes it sound... it wasn't like that. You were
there
and I'd loved you for so long, Alice. I'd worked so hard for you, and finally you were there - more importantly, you
wanted
to be there. Suddenly, you became the only thing in my whole life that wasn't a fucking disaster."
"So you were clinging to that. I can get that. It's not flattering, exactly, but I can understand it. But what I don't understand is why you stayed with me, when you got Eliot back."
Q let out a bit of a harsh laugh. "I didn't think he loved me like that. Hell, Alice, I wasn't even sure
I
still loved him like that. It's not like I was desperately pining and Eliot was indifferent, and now he's changed his mind or something. It's a lot less clear cut than that. I'm really not sure if I know how to explain it."
"Try, please."
"The life that I lived with Eliot - he was. I loved him so much, there. Then. He was truly the love of my life. I loved Arielle too, of course, but not the way I loved Eliot. He was the center of my world, he was my partner in every possible way."
Q paused, swallowing around the next thing he knew he had to say. It was the best way to make sense of it to himself, and to Alice as well. "I thought, when we got Eliot back from the monster, that I had figured out something. I thought - hey, this is fine. I'll always love Eliot, of course, but being his friend is all I need. I've already
had
my life with him."
Alice was looking at him with a guarded expression, but when she didn't say anything, he went on. "I thought that Eliot was the love of one of my lifetimes, one I'd already had. And that you were the love of
this
life. I thought I'd figured out how to have a life with you both."
He saw it happen, watched as Alice's composure broke. Her face twisted and she let out a little hiccuping sob, burying her face in her hands. "But you were wrong," she said, overwrought. "He - Eliot gets to have you
twice
."
Q let her cry for a moment, unsure if his touch would be welcome, but Alice, who had learned not to shy away from what she needed, leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder while she cried. Grateful for the touch, Q put his arms around her, trying to control the burning in his own eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "Hurting you is the last thing I'd ever want to do, but I just keep doing it."
Alice cried for a few more minutes, and then, with a shuddering sort of laugh, she lifted her head from Quentin's shoulder and looked at him, shaking her head. "You know what's really fucked up, Q?"
"What?"
"I'm so sad, and so angry with you for breaking my heart, but... that fucking story... it's so goddamn romantic, I can't even really hate you for it."
That startled a laugh out of him. He bit down on it quickly, though, ducking to meet her eyes. "Our story's romantic too, Vix," he said. "And it doesn't matter how sure I am about this, I'm still sad that it has to be over."
Alice's face underwent a minor transformation, taking on an expression of strong determination. She looked beautiful when she was sure of herself, even with the tear-tracks and the splotchy skin. "Q, I'm going to be mad at you for a while. Maybe a long while."
"I get that - "
"But you told me that you wanted me in your life, and I told you I wanted that too. Maybe we just need to adjust the parameters."
Quentin smiled, surprised by how relieved he felt. "Yes. God, yes, Alice, I'd really like that."
She smiled back at him, but it was reserved. "Like I said. I'm pretty angry. Currently. But eventually..."
"Yes, eventually. You... you tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it," he said. "You're one of the most amazing people I've ever known, Alice. I can't imagine who I'd be if I'd never known you."
She looked at him like she was trying to unlock a puzzle, and Q fought back the urge to say something, babble useless placating words to fill the silence. Finally, she nodded, like she'd decided something, and leaned forward to press her lips against his in a short, chaste farewell.
"I'm going to go out for a bit, with Julia and Kady. Girl's night, you know?" She stood, and put a hand on the side of his face, sliding a finger down it like she wanted to memorize how it felt. Quentin swallowed, looking up at her as she spoke. "I can see that you're happy. And someday, I'll be happy for you. Goodbye, Q."
ELIOT
From inside Q's room, Eliot heard the sounds of Alice, Julia, and Kady collecting their coats and purses and leaving the apartment. He thought about running into the living room to find Q, but decided against it; he would understand if Q needed some time alone to decompress. He himself was buzzing with a sort of restless energy that he couldn't burn off. He sincerely hoped he'd never have to watch Q go through something so horrible again. Maybe they were just condensing all of their drama into a neat, compact 48-hour period so they could be indescribably happy for the rest of their lives.
Probably not, but whatever. A guy can dream.
Eliot was facing the window when he heard the door open behind him.
"So, I'm officially single," Q said, walking into the room and swinging the door shut.
Eliot smiled at him, starting to cross the room. The words '
looking for a rebound
?' were on the tip of his tongue, but he saw the shadow across Q's face and pulled him into a gentle hug instead. "Are you okay?"
Q nodded into his chest. "She wasn't exactly surprised. But she was kind of pissed off."
"Understandable," Eliot said, breathing in the clean, healthy scent of Quentin's newly washed hair.
"I feel bad for not feeling worse," Q said, his voice slightly muffled. "Does that make sense?"
"Oh, definitely," Eliot said, smiling. "I should feel like shit for breaking you and Alice up -
again
- but instead I'm just stupidly happy. It's incredibly rude."
"Oh, good." Q looked up at him, his expression relieved. "Me too." And then, like it was something they did every day, the most natural thing in the world, Q leaned up and kissed him.
His mouth was minty, clean and soft, and Eliot melted into him. It was like coming home, coming alive, every other cliche he'd ever heard, and he didn't have room inside of him to be self-conscious about it. He let Q position him the way he wanted, a gentle slide of smooth lips against one another. Eliot had always had a bit of an obsession with Q's lips, the bow of them, the soft pink, and he'd developed a fixation with kissing him during their long life together in Fillory. He'd lost count of the number of nights, early in their relationship, when they'd gotten so caught up making out with one another that the effort of more than that became impossible - he remembered feeling like a teenager, grinding his way to release with his pants still on, an eager body in his lap, swallowing Q's gasps and murmurs of pleasure.
Eliot tried - no
really
, he tried - to keep this first kiss gentle. Quentin had literally just broken up with the woman he thought he was going to spend his life with, and he was still recovering his strength. It would really be for the best if they kept things slow, on the physical front. Honestly. That was the plan.
They did not stick to the plan.
Before Eliot could find a way to slow himself down, he and Q were trying to swallow each other alive. Eliot could hear his own breathing, harsh and too loud in his ears. Q was making little sounds into his mouth, gripping at Eliot's shirt-front and pressing himself as tight as he could against him - without meaning to, Eliot found he'd pushed Q backwards across the room, gotten his back up against the wall for leverage.
"
Fuck
," Q gasped, as Eliot slotted a leg in between Q's thighs. Q ground down, and Eliot made a truly embarrassing, desperate noise, dropping his lips to Q's collarbone. He sucked into the soft skin there, and then bit down, a phantom memory of their past lives telling him how much Q liked it a little rough. "
God
, yes, do that again," Q said, throwing his head back and letting it thunk against the wall. Eliot laughed, delighted and so turned on he was actually light-headed.
He had a hand up under Q's shirt before he'd realized it, and Q's hands had grabbed at the back of his ass, pulling their hips tight against each other. Eliot could feel Q, the hard, hot, familiar length of him, and he felt his knees give way as he leaned all of his weight against Q, mouthing at the skin of his neck. "Bed," he gasped.
"Yes, yeah. Clothes - " Q pushed his hands clumsily at Eliot's vest and shoved forward, pushing Eliot back towards the bed where just two days ago, Eliot had arrived to find him barely clinging to life.
Q was certainly alive now - alive, and hard and hot and demanding, and Eliot loved him so much he felt like he was going to burst from it. Time kept moving in weird fits and starts, little moments seared into his brain, Q's hands on him, tugging, pressing, the harsh sound of their breathing, the spit-slick slide of their lips against one another. At some point, when they'd managed to remove most of their clothes, Eliot became aware that Q was saying something, pressing his lips and teeth into Eliot's neck, down his chest - a low, desperate chant -
love you, love you, - god, I love you, El,
and Eliot tried very hard to gather his wits enough to say it back. He was babbling
something
, he realized, and making sounds that he didn't recognize in himself, desperate, aching noises. He'd lost all control of the situation, and for once he seriously didn't mind it.
He was drunk on the noises Q was making, too, wanted to swallow all of them up but also wanted very badly to get his mouth on Q's dick - he had barely managed to slide down the length of Q's body, however, when Quentin got a hand into his hair and tugged, hard, pulling him back up. "If you put your mouth on me right now, I'll come," he confessed.
"Not seeing the problem," Eliot said, trying to slide back down.
"Not yet," Q said, gasping as Eliot's tongue found one of his nipples. "I want - fuck. El. I - " he made a frustrated sound and grabbed Eliot by the arms, shoving until Eliot allowed the momentum to tip them, so that he was lying on his back looking up at Q, who had a very determined look on his face. "I want you inside me. Now."
"Jesus Christ, Q," Eliot said, eyes widening. His hips jutted upwards of their own volition, and Q pressed down on his chest, then lined their hips together and reached a hand down, grabbing them both together. Eliot jerked, the sensation feeling way too fucking good. Q wasn't the only one who was in danger of ending things prematurely - it may have had something to do with the fact that Eliot had been having a bit of a dry spell, or the fact that he'd been touching Q pretty much non-stop for hours on end and hadn't been allowed to do any of this, or more probably the fact that he was really, stupidly in love with the man currently straddling him, and couldn't quite believe he was getting to have him like this again.
There was a spell for this, to make Q ready for him, but Q usually didn't like it - he liked it when Eliot worked him open slowly, made him squirm, made him beg for it. Today, apparently, he was too impatient for that. Eliot watched, as Q, his pupil's blown wide with desire, performed the tuts, and then before Eliot could think about taking back control of the situation, Q was sinking down onto him. His vision actually whited out for a moment.
"Fuck,
fuck
this is not going to take long," he said, a little apologetic, as Q started moving in tight, quick little jerks.
"Good, me neither," Q said, and then groaned as Eliot lifted his hips to meet Q on a downward motion.
Despite the fact that he was the one inside of Q, Eliot felt split open, scooped out and hollow with the feel of it. Q didn't usually want it like this - he liked being held down, covered by Eliot's taller body, but Eliot couldn't deny the appeal of this position. Seeing Q above him, riding him, was something out of one of Eliot's filthiest fantasies, the ones he'd entertained when Q had just been the fascinating little first-year, a new play-thing to torment. He let Q have his way with him for a while, squeezing his eyes shut and trying desperately not to come, drinking in the noises Q was making, little staccato moans with every jerk of his hips.
Eliot reached up, putting a hand on Q's chest, wanting to touch. Their position wasn't allowing him to grab at Q, hold him the way they both needed. Practicing a move they'd perfected over decades in Fillory, he grabbed Q's arms and flipped them, sinking back in to Q's willing body before he'd had time to realize what was happening.
"
Eliot
."
This was
Quentin
, under him, moaning his name with practically pornographic fervor. Quentin Coldwater - the most selfless, generous, beautiful man Eliot had ever knew, a man who understood the best and worst of Eliot Waugh and still wanted him, still
loved
him. Eliot had never thought he'd get to have this again, and as he let the passion of their coupling overtake him, he felt himself more profoundly hopeful,
joyful
, than he'd ever been in this lifetime. Q came first, spilling over Eliot's hand, which had been wrapped tight around him, crushed between their stomachs. He clenched down, groaning Eliot's name again, high and shocked, and then Eliot was gone too, burying his face in Q's neck, trembling through his release, stuttering senseless words of devotion into Quentin's hair, as together they shuddered their way to a sense of calm they'd both been seeking for far too long.
QUENTIN
"I think," Eliot said, after a long moment of sated silence and a convenient magical clean-up, "That's gotta be top five. Easy."
Quentin's heart was still pounding incredibly quickly, and he was having trouble catching his breath. "Of all time, or just with me?" he finally asked, squirming slightly to escape the heavy press of Eliot's body on top of his own.
"Same thing," Eliot murmured unthinkingly into Q's collarbone, where his head was resting. Q tried very hard not to preen at that, but Eliot caught the pleased little huff of laughter and lifted his head, waggling his eyebrows. "You're the best I've ever had, baby."
"Oh, shut up," Q said, feeling his cheeks heat from the teasing praise. "Same."
Eliot rolled his eyes. "Yeah, duh. Who the hell else is gonna take care of you the way I can?"
"Oh,
you
took care of
me
, did you?" Q said, laughing. He felt satisfied in a way that went beyond physical.
Eliot gave a little hum of contentment when Q scratched his fingers into Eliot's hair, and Q felt his heart turn over in his chest. "Hey, um."
"Hey," Eliot said back, his eyes closed, breathing starting to even out.
"Hey, don't fall asleep," Q said.
"But you wore me out, Q."
How was it possible that something as simple as that could make him blush, even after a lifetime with this man? Q turned his head and placed a clumsy kiss to the side of Eliot's neck. "I wanted to ask you something."
"Mm?"
"Well, I was thinking about. What we both need. Like, not just from each other, but from our lives, and - I think. I think I'm still figuring some stuff out, but I think I know where we should be."
Eliot's eyes flickered open, and he rose up on one arm so he could look down at Q, his eyebrows raised. Q cursed his inability to form a complete sentence without stumbling over himself, especially when it was something important like this. But he also trusted Eliot not to laugh at him or brush him off. More important, he trusted
himself
to stick to his guns and talk it out, even if Eliot did decide to be evasive. The last couple of days had taught him that much about himself.
"I think I should move to Fillory with you."
Eliot jerked like Q had just electrocuted him, and his eyes went wide. "You - what?"
"Well, I know you're probably eager to get back to Whitespire, so - "
"I'm not leaving you," Eliot said. He sounded almost angry, and Q felt his own eyebrows raise in a mixture of confusion and amusement.
"I said I should come
with
you, El."
"But - you're - you live here." Eliot blinked and seemed to realize how stupid that sounded. He shook his head and pushed himself up, off of Q, who immediately missed the weight and warmth of him. "I mean, your life is here."
"Is it?" Q asked. "Because your life's in Fillory, El, and I don't really feel like living apart, unless that's what - "
"Fuck no," Eliot said, sounding contemptuous of the very idea. "With all the trouble you get yourself into around here, do you seriously think I'm letting you out of my sight?"
"Hey!"
"Plus I've missed you," Eliot admitted. "Even if it weren't for all of this," he gestured between them, "even if we weren't going to be together, I'd still... I just missed my friend, Q."
"Yeah, me too," Q said. "which is why I think it's probably best if I move to Fillory."
"I'd stay here," Eliot said. "Just - to be clear about that. From the moment you said you loved me and you were breaking up with Alice, I sort of assumed that's what I was doing."
"Really? But - Margo, Fen..."
"They don't need me. I don't... I mean. I'm not saying..." Eliot sighed, clearly frustrated with his inability to form a proper sentence. Q found the stuttering endearing. Finally, Eliot squared his shoulders and spoke firmly: "I'm trying to say that you're my priority. I'll go wherever you go."
"Great. I'm going to Fillory, then."
"
Q
," Eliot said, exasperated. "I'm saying you don't
have
to - "
"Do you love Fillory? I mean, if it weren't for me, would you want to live there?"
Eliot frowned at him, and didn't answer.
"Eliot, listen. When I first found out that Fillory was real, I was so excited. But everything since then has been one disappointment after the other. I never got what I thought I needed from it, but... now? With Margo and Fen in charge, with you and Josh helping to make it a good, fair place to live... I want to be a part of that. If you'll let me."
Eliot's face transformed, a glow of happiness and relief infusing it until it was so bright it was almost hard to look at. "Well, ultimately it's Margo's decision," he demurred. "But I think I might be able to convince her."
"We'll have to come back here to visit all the time," Q said. He'd been giving this a good deal of thought. "There's Jules, of course. And... I'm not sure how long it's going to take for things to stop being... painful, but I want Alice in my life, El. I hope that's okay."
"Of course," Eliot said immediately. He reached out and took one of Q's hands. "I want that for you, for both of you - really."
"Good. So it's settled - you'll beg High King Margo to let me in to her awesome castle, and we'll stay in Fillory, with frequent field trips."
"I'm incredibly lucky," Eliot said, sounding almost dazed with it. "I get to keep you, and I get to have Margo, and Fen, and
Fillory
, and..." he sighed, and lay back down fully onto the bed, this time on his back. Q squirmed around until he was lying with his chin propped up on Eliot's chest so he could see the elated, almost dopey expression on Eliot's face. "I actually get to have it all: my soon-to-be ex-wife and my two soulmates." Q felt his heart constrict and start pounding harder.
Soulmates.
Eliot's eyes flicked over to study his face. "I do hope you're okay with sharing. Because honestly I'm not sure if Margo's going to let me go, even if I wanted to."
Quentin laughed out loud and pressed his face into Eliot's bare chest. "Soulmate?" he said, a little embarrassed at how needy the word sounded coming out of his mouth.
Eliot's arms came up around him, and squeezed. "Yes. Yeah, had I not made that clear?"
"It's going to be... El, I'm going to have a hard time with it sometimes. Believing that I'm good enough for you, that you could really want me."
"Then I'll just keep telling you," Eliot said immediately. "Remember what I said - we're going to be nauseating to everyone who has to spend time with us. I'm going to declare my love for you to the fucking world, Q. You're going to be begging me to keep a lid on it before long."
"Doubtful," Quentin said, pleased. Then he went quiet for a moment, thinking. "I'm not always so good at... I just meant... I hope you know how I feel, too."
Eliot went still for a moment, and then relaxed, one of his hands brushing slow, lazy patterns up and down Q's arms. "I think I might have a hard time believing it sometimes too." Q could tell that it was a really hard thing for him to say, even now, after all of the talking they'd been doing over the past couple of days. "It's hard for me to trust it, that you could..."
"Yeah," Q said. "I know. I guess we're both just our own brand of insecure."
"It's not that I don't believe you, exactly," Eliot said. This was a familiar conversation, retreaded again and again during their decades in Fillory's past. They'd had the same conversation just hours before. Sometimes Q wondered if they'd ever stop having it.
"It's like you said, El. We'll just keep telling each other. As much as it takes until we both believe it's real." And that was worth it - annoying, painful, scary sometimes, but worth it.
Eliot gripped him tighter. "How is it possible that I'm not sick of touching you right now?"
"I don't know, but I'd say it's a good sign."
For the rest of the day and well into the night, they did quite a lot of touching, no longer dictated by magical necessity. Making up for lost time.
JULIA
"Wow, Q, I... I don't know what to say."
"Say you're happy for me, Jules," Q said. His eyes were a little watery, Julia noticed, but she wasn't sure if that was from the current conversation, or the fact that he'd just said a clearly weepy goodbye to Eliot, who had headed back to Whitespire to join Margo.
"I'm happy for you," Julia said immediately. "
Fillory
. Wow. Can you imagine telling twelve-year-old us about this?"
Quentin laughed, bright and carefree, and it stirred something in Julia's chest. It was so nice to see him like this, really, but there was a small phantom ache to it as well, an ache that felt like Alice.
"No, I can't. But this is... it feels really good, Julia. It feels like the thing I'm supposed to be doing."
"I'm so glad."
"And we've already got it all worked out, we're going to visit so often you won't even notice I'm gone."
Julia laughed at that. "Doubtful. But that's okay, it'll give me an excuse to visit Fillory more often, too."
"Yes! Absolutely. You and I will go on a tour of the place, we'll see all the stuff we used to talk about."
"It's good to see you excited about stuff again, Quentin. I didn't realize how much I was missing that."
Julia meant it, she really did, so she was a little surprised to see the enthusiasm slide off of Q's face. "I wasn't... you know, I could have been happy with her."
There it was again, that twinge in Julia's chest, a strange cocktail of anger at Q, and guilt for something she wasn't putting a name to, not yet.
"I know that. It's... gonna be weird, for a while, Q. There's no way for it not to be. But you're a good person, and Alice is a good person too, and you're both also incredibly stubborn. I think there's a way for everyone to be happy at the end of this."
Quentin pulled her into a hug and squeezed tight. "It's probably weird for me to ask this, but... did she seem okay? When you and Kady took her out for drinks the other night."
"Oh," Julia said, feeling her face heat up as Q pulled back from the hug. "Um. Actually, Kady bailed after the first hour or so. Something came up. So it was just me and Alice."
"Okay?" Q said, raising an eyebrow. "And..."
"And... she's good?" Julia said. She hadn't meant for it to come out like a question.
The somewhat surprising truth was, Alice had ranted at Julia and Kady about the breakup for a while, and then for the rest of the night, Julia and Alice hadn't talked about Q at all. They'd talked about magic, about their childhoods, about the plans they had for the future. They'd gotten drunk but not too drunk, and crashed together in Kady's unused bedroom back at the apartment, because it was farther away from the one that had been occupied by Q and Eliot that night. Alice hadn't thought about Q for most of the evening, and Julia hadn't thought about Penny, which was just one of many reasons why she felt so strange about the whole thing.
Luckily for her, Q was in many ways still the same oblivious sweetheart she'd known her whole life, and he didn't notice that she'd gotten weird. It didn't matter, anyway. Nothing was going to happen. And if it did, it was only going to happen after a lot of careful thought and consideration. She loved Q, she even loved Eliot, in a way, but she wasn't looking to replicate their melodramas with her own love life.
"I want her to be happy," Q was saying, and Julia blinked, refocusing herself on the conversation. "I think my going to Fillory is a good chance for us to have some healing distance, too. But... I'll feel better if I know she's got you to be her friend, Jules. Promise me you'll look out for her?"
Oh, great. That was practically a blessing from the ex-boyfriend, if you looked at it in the right lighting. She was definitely screwed.
QUENTIN
"So... obviously, the interior design was selected without you in mind," Eliot said. Quentin looked at Eliot's opulent room in Castle Whitespire, somehow completely over the top without being tacky, and tried very hard to school his face into something other than amusement.
"Clearly," Q said. "This is the bedroom of a bachelor. A slutty, slutty, bachelor."
Eliot smacked his arm, but he was smiling too. "We'll redecorate together."
"I don't get my own room?" Q asked innocently.
Eliot's eyes widened slightly at that. "Uh - no, yeah, of course you do, if that's what - "
"I'm
kidding
, El. God, you're easy today."
"I'm nervous
,
you jerk. I've never moved in with anyone before."
"Except me," Q pointed out reasonably.
"Except you," Eliot agreed, and Q watched with fascination as the tension drained out of him, an expression of simple pleasure lighting his eyes. "But then of course we didn't know we were
moving in together
when we... moved in together."
"Very true," Q said, mock serious. "I seem to recall it took us a full year to Christen our shared abode, the first time around. I don't see much of a reason to wait this time... do you?"
Eliot gave him one of those wicked, lustful smiles that used to knock Q over with desire. Hell, still
did
knock him over with desire, if the way his blood had started running hot and his palms had gone sweaty was any indication.
"Come in, then," Eliot said, and bowed gracefully for Q to enter the room first. "And then come
here
." Eliot used magic to slam the door shut, and he had Q up against it in the next second. "You've discovered the perfect antidote for my nerves, Quentin, and I really do appreciate you for it."
"Uh... good," Q said. Damn it. He'd been so witty just a second ago. But that was what this man did to him, and in the long-run he wasn't going to complain.
"Hey!" a loud voice came from the hallway, just as Eliot ducked to press a kiss into the spot behind Q's ear that drove him wild. "Put your pants on, you guys, I think a giant sea serpent is declaring war!"
Margo.
"Bambi?" Eliot said, kissing Q's nose in apology and pulling away. Q stood up straight and straightened his rumpled shirt as Eliot opened the door. "A what now?"
"Oh, catch up," Margo said, already striding down the hallway. "Q!" she called back over her shoulder. "I know we haven't officially given you a title yet, but you're family, so Fillory's problems are your problems - get your cute little ass into gear."
"Have you been checking out Q's cute little ass?" Eliot said in outrage, as Q hurried after the two of them down the hall, both looking regal and important in their Fillorian finest. "Because honestly, Bambi, I've already lost my wife to your wicked seductions, and - "
"A sea serpent, El,
focus
! It like, flew out of the sea and started spouting ancient prophecies. Or at least I think that's what it was doing. Tick needs to come with a translator."
A malevolent sea serpent didn't sound like good news at all, but Quentin found himself smiling uncontrollably as he lengthened his stride and fell into step beside Margo and Eliot. Eliot, full-on bickering with Margo about the correct course of action for this unlikely turn of events, grabbed Q's hand and held it as they rushed off to the throne room, and Q was pretty sure he hadn't even realized he was doing it.
They entered the room together, the three of them joining Fen, Josh, and a group of Fillorian officials and counselors, who were crowded around a couple of worried looking talking bears, who appeared to be explaining the situation with the serpent. Margo marched straight up to the group and started asking questions and barking orders, and Q felt himself pulled in to the circle as well, and his heart beat faster, a potent combination of giddy nerves and pride filling him up inside as Eliot kept their hands firmly interlocked, for the whole world to see. Interruptions of their reawakened sex life notwithstanding, there was literally nowhere else in the world Quentin Coldwater would rather be.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The Martians were among the top military soldiers and advanced technology in the solar system, Earth coming in a close second. Their ships were a stealthy sleek black, designed to blend in with the void of space. Their soldier’s black armor suits covered them head to toe, durable yet light, containing many convenient metal pockets to hold weapons that they can whip out when needed. The only way you can tell there was a human under there and not a robot was the visibility of their eyes through their red transparent masks. Other than that, they were completely covered, indistinguishable among a group.
Alec remembers what it felt like to wear one of those suits, except as a Shadowhunter on his way to becoming the new commander of a ship and crew, his was even more advanced.
He’s brought back swiftly to reality when he’s pushed from behind. He grunts as he forms a line, shoulder to shoulder with his crew, glaring at his own reflection in the black martial masks of the soldiers and thinking how easy it would be to kick their asses. But this wasn’t the time or place. They were already under enough scrutiny, any sort of attempt at escape would only deem them guilty of the crimes they were undoubtedly about to be accused of.
One of the four soldiers touch the side of Alec’s neck and looks down at their wrist, their suit giving them the identity of who they touched. Alec’s face pops up on a small hologram hovering above the soldier’s forearm. Alec couldn’t see their face but hopes there would be some form of discretion when they found out who he and his siblings were, if they found out who they were, who their parents were. The soldier looks up from his readings and into Alec’s eyes, Alec gulps and holds his hard stare. Instead of dragging him away, the soldier merely moved on to Jace. Alec didn’t even dare sigh in relief.
Each member of the crew was identified and told to start walking toward their holding cells. Magnus was pushed into his cell first, a glass door sliding closed as he gained his footing. Jace was next, then Isabelle.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed as she was grabbed and taken into her cell. “Keep your hands off of me!” she yelled before being forcefully thrown into her cell and landing roughly on the floor.
“Hey!” Simon shouted the same time Alec swung his fist back as the man faced him, only to be thrown to the ground as Alec punched him. It was only his helmet, so it didn’t do much damage, but damn did it feel good. After escaping death multiple times today, there was nothing that was getting between Alec and his siblings. With the information they had about the attack and the Shadowhunters to be the one to form it, he was seething with rage as he kneeled to punch the soldier again.
A violent shock of electricity stunted him as he brought his fist down only to fall to the ground in a cry of agony as another soldier stood behind him with a taser.
“Alec!”
“Get off of him!”
“Alec, are you okay?”
The shouts of his team members from their holding cells muffled as he seized on the floor, the aftermath of the electric shocks ran through his tensed muscles. He didn’t even get a chance to properly breath before he heard, “Take him first,” and felt two soldiers grab his arms and lead him away from his crew. He tried to stand but his muscles were weak from the shocks, so he settled for being dragged out. He opened his eyes enough to see everyone behind their glass doors watching him being taken away, banging away and yelling for him.
“Where are you taking him?”
“Alec!”
He saw one soldier approach Simon to put him in his holding cell, but after witnessing what just happened, Simon held up his hands in surrender and slowly backed into his own cell. Typical.
Alec looked over to see Magnus watching him with wide eyes and his hands against the glass door. With how skilled Magnus was with his hands as a doctor, Alec wouldn’t be surprised if the door magically vanished. He thought he had seen Magnus’ fingertips glow red for a second, but clearly his mind was playing tricks on him.
He lost site of Magnus as he was dragged around the corner, his eyes closing as fatigue overtook his body.
-
Alec groaned as his senses started to come back to him. He went to rub his eyes but found his hands bound to the chair he sat in. Blinking his eyes open he knows exactly where he is. He’s interrogated people in here before, just never thought he would be on the other end of it. Sighing, he knew how this was going to play out.
He flexes his fingers and tries to ease the tension from his muscles as he becomes more alert. He sits in a metal chair at a metal table, only one bright light illuminated from above, throwing the rest of the room into a dark abyss. He rolled his eyes, so dramatic.
Cracking his neck, he readies himself as he hears a door behind him open. Footsteps clanked on the flooring as someone came into his view and released the bindings from his wrists. Alec rubbed each wrist as he watched his interrogator sit directly across from him, hands folded on the table, so proper in his black uniform with the letters M L S in red on the left side of his chest.
Martian League of Shadowhunters.
The man sitting across from him was around his age or maybe a little older. To be honest it was hard to tell. There were no orders to smile or laugh, so no one really had wrinkles.
The man took a rectangular case out of his pocket and opened it, never breaking eye contact with Alec. Alec held his gaze with a mute stare, knowing what was coming. He pulled out a small, clear circular pill, then placed it into his mouth. The man sighed and closed his eyes as the effects set in.
His eyes snap open, pupils dilating as he observes Alec.
Stele,
a synthesized drug meant to heighten all senses to create a better, clearer focus. Shadowhunters were trained to use this during interrogations to pick up on the subtle body movements that could give away their suspects as they are interrogated.
The man’s lips slightly tipped into a devilish smirk. “Let’s begin.”
-
The crew sat begrudgingly in their holding cells.
“Hopefully the broadcast got out,” Izzy sighs softly as she sat on a small metal bench hunched over, nervously twisting her hands.
“They’re gonna try to frame us,” Simon chimed in. They were all allowed to talk to each other through the intercoms. Izzy looks up at him. “Think about it,” Simon continued, “they only need one false confession from someone and-”
“Yeah, and I wonder who's gonna crack first,” Jace sniped, standing with his arms folded on his chest, glaring across his holding cell at Simon.
“Real nice.” Simon sarcastically gave Jace a thumbs up.
“Shut up,” Magnus ordered. He leans on the door of his cell, scoping out the cameras and wondering where they could have taken Alec. “They’re listening to us, why else would they let us talk? They’re waiting to hear something to see if we are guilty.”
A woman soldier removes her helmet and approaches Magnus’s cell, opening the door. “You, out,” she orders.
Magnus hesitates. They had no idea what they were walking into, if any of them would see each other again. Clenching his jaw, he follows her. He nods at Izzy as she stands to watch him leave, a small smile of comfort sent her way.
I’ve got this
, he communicates with his eyes.
They turn a corner as she leads him down a dark corridor, the floor lit by lines of red lights creating a path. He expels a long breath to calm his nerves. Maybe he could find Alec.
-
“Alexander Gideon Lightwood,” the man began. “Born on Mars, brother to Isabelle, Jace and Max Lightwood. Interesting how your records hold no account of your parents.”
Alec doesn’t respond, he didn’t have to, he knew they found his proper records and discovered his identity, so he only stares back.
Stubborn ass
, Magnus’ words rang through his head and he almost cracks a grin.
The man continues in a monotone voice, his eyes never straying from Alec’s. “You’ve been working on The Institute for the past eight years. Tell me how someone with a military background ends up working on an ice hauler delivering water to
Downworlders
,” he says with clear disdain in his voice and Alec clenches his jaw.
This is why they were divided as a species. There were too many prejudices in the solar system for everyone to come together and understand one another. Alec wished it weren’t true, visiting the Downworld system taught him that everyone isn’t so different, especially after befriending Magnus. Shadowhunters and Mundanes would only view Downworlders as beings subject to their compulsive ways and nothing more.
He doesn’t want to talk to this guy, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He just wants to know why his fellow crew members and beloved Captain were killed.
“Okay, I’ll answer for you,” the man responds. “You joined the League of Shadowhunters at the age of ten. You worked your way through the ranks, shouldn’t have been hard with a mother like Maryse Trueblood.”
Alec’s face remains neutral, not giving away anything this guy wants.
The man’s pupils continue to grow and shrink as he searches for any hint of suspicion. He continues. “Someone died on your watch, and things started to change. You became a problem, acting out against the law. You assaulted a superior officer-”
“Not technically,” Alec interrupts, his voice low and monotone just as his interrogator’s. “He dodged my punch and I broke my hand on a metal beam.” He clenches his previously broken fist in his lap as the memories rush back to him.
The man doesn’t react and continues with his interrogation. “You were dishonorably discharged-”
“He ordered me to fire on a Downworlder ship-” Alec tries to rebuttal.
“And you disobeyed those orders by not taking out a smuggler-”
“He was smuggling
people
!”
“You had no way of knowing-”
Alec’s voice raises as his temper escalates. “But I was
right
!”
The man leans back in surprise and for the first time says nothing.
Alec’s fists clench harder as he grits his teeth. “Shadowhunters, Mundanes, Downworlders...we’ve been standing on each other’s necks for hundreds of years and I was tired of being the boot.”
The many suddenly leans forward and folds his hands on the table, eyeing Alec’s face as his pupils dilate. “So you decided to switch sides and join in forces against the League?”
Alec furrowed his brow, why can’t people understand that there are no sides. “I stopped playing the game,” he replied as if it were the simplest answer.
“You go out to Saturn, collect the ice, then head back to the asteroid belt to deliver for Downworlders. Out to Saturn, collect the ice, back to the belt. Saturn, ice, belt,” he kept repeating. “Out to Saturn, stop at Chernobyl-”
“Chernobyl? That’s a restricted moon for scientific research, I’ve never stopped there before,” Alec answers confused. Sure, they’ve passed by Chernobyl on their way around Saturn, but they’ve never stopped on that moon before. What was this guy getting at? He tried to switch the tables. “Why did you blow up the Institute?”
He ignored Alec. “How long have you known Magnus Bane?”
Alec is taken aback and blinks in surprise. Why would they care about Magnus? “Why does that matter?”
Again, ignored. “How long have you known he’s an OPA operative?”
Alec sucks in a sharp breath. OPA, the Outer Planetary Alliance that fights for rights for Downworlders against Mundanes and Shadowhunters. To some they would be a group of freedom fighters, but to others, they were terrorists. Magnus may have been born a Downworlder, but that doesn’t mean he actively fights and bombs Shadowhunter and Mundane ships. No, that couldn’t be right.
“What? What are you talking about?”
The man swiped his fingers across the desk and pulled up a holographic image of Magnus.
“Two advanced degrees in engine drive design and medical studies. You never wondered why someone with such intellect would waste their life working on an ice hauler ship? Not to mention the fact that he was born on the Downworld.”
Alec’s lip twitched in anger as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I never asked. It’s not my business.”
“Based on the desperate conditions of your shuttle, someone had to implement extraordinary improvisation to keep you alive, fix your antenna, send out a radio beacon and keep oxygen levels just enough for you to make it aboard another ship.”
He didn’t know what to say, but Magnus wasn’t the only one to partake in that. Something was wrong.
“These are clear indicators of terrorist intelligence. Did Magnus Bane implement those repairs?”
“Magnus isn’t OPA,” he answered simply. “We all worked on the ship.”
“Who did it then? Who fixed your radio?”
Alec clenched his jaw tighter.
“Was it the pilot? No, no that’s unlikely. Your sister then?” he asks as he swiped up an image of Izzy. “Again, advanced degrees in mechanics and engineering wasting her life on a rust bucket ship. Your sister was a weapons master before she left the ranks of the Shadowhunters a year before you did. Why? Do you know what she was doing that year?”
“Shut up.” It was the only response Alec could think of as he tried to keep his emotions in control.
And for a second, the man did, and Alec was almost relieved. But then he utters, “It’s not impossible for these people to be OPA spies.”
Alec’s heart rate was speeding up, this couldn’t be right. Sure, his sister left, but he was right, he didn’t know much about what she did for that year of her life. And Magnus, he was his friend, but for a friend, he really didn’t know anything about him or his past.
His shoulders tense up. “I don’t believe you,” he says, holding strong to his internal truths that his sister and friend couldn’t be labeled as terrorists.
The man swiped the image of Izzy and Magnus away and leans back.
“You do now,” he almost smirks, getting up from his seat and exiting the room, leaving Alec alone with his thoughts running a million miles a second.
-
“Hey, uh, I took a class on Martian’s once,” Simon attempts a conversation with the soldier standing guard. The soldier didn’t move let alone even blink. Simon continues. “Yeah I really loved learning about your culture. You’re all so smart and have such advanced technology.” Simon adjusts his glasses on his nose and licks his lips. “I remember when I was little on Earth, I just wanted to escape and become a superhero on Mars-”
“Martians aren’t superheroes, Simon.” Jace interjected as he leans against his door. “If they were, they wouldn’t be trying to take over the system.”
The guard flexes his jaw but remains quiet as he faces forwards.
Simon blinked in surprise, his mouth turned down in a grimace. “Well,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I-I mean when you put it that way-” he tries to alleviate the awkward tension but Jace had another plan in mind.
Jace continued. “This guy here isn’t even a superhero let alone Shadowhunter. You’re just one of hundreds of guards mindlessly obeying your orders given from someone higher up than you’ll ever be, someone that can be easily replaced-”
The guard turned to Jace. “You need me to make you shut up?” he grits in annoyance
“Oh, be my guest.” Jace backed away from the door and motioned at the guard. “Come on in, I’d like to see you try.”
The guard stands his ground as he contemplates before taking a step towards Jace.
The main doors slide open before another guard enters. “Enough of that,” she orders. “He’s next.” She points to Simon. The guard glares at Jace before walking over to Simon’s door, he pressed the button on the wall to slide it open.
“Going? Uh, heh, where are we going guys?” Simon asks through his not to subtle panicked laughter. He holds his hands up in surrender when the guard attempts to grab him. The guard sighs and points towards the doors.
“Get moving.”
“Alright, alright,” Simon mutters and sends Jace a look before turning the corner.
“Her too,” the guard adds as she gestures to Izzy.
Izzy’s door slides open as she sighs and stands to leave. Her expression is hard, but it softens at Jace’s attempts at comfort.
“It’ll be okay, Izzy,” he mutters to her as he places a hand on the glass.
She nods once and gives him a tight smile before turning to leave.
-
Magnus’ head whips up as someone opens the door behind him, he can’t turn to see who it is. He sucks in sharp breath as the interrogator leans over his shoulder and undoes his restraints.
“Your educational background is impressive,” he murmurs into his ear. Chills run down Magnus’ spine as he rubs his aching wrists. He watches as the man walks around the table and takes his seat across from him. The room is plunged into darkness, all except this very table.
And they say I’m dramatic
, he thinks to himself, barely containing an eyeroll.
The man pulls a tube out of his pocket, dispenses a pill and swallows it. His eyes fluctuate in size. Magnus feels exposed, as if somehow this man can now read his every thought. But he doesn’t let is dissuade him.
Magnus lowers his hands to rest on his lap. “I took free classes and tested through. Education isn’t something easily accessible to us Downworlders,” he snides.
“You did all of this to work on an ice hauler?” the man asks with a straight face.
Magnus purses his lips. “I help people that need it, that deserve it. You use us Downworlders as slaves-”
“And were your skills required on Chernobyl?”
Magnus blinks, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Chernobyl? That’s a restricted moon to Downworlders and anyone living in the Belt, why would I ever go there?”
The man quirks his eyebrow as if to suggest Magnus knows why he is being questioned.
“What? You think I’m OPA? That we all know each other and we’re all terrorists looking to destroy Mars and Earth?” The man doesn’t respond. Magnus leans forward, his face drawn tight. “I don’t believe in such causes and I will not be your scapegoat...and I won’t let you use my friends as one either,” he says in a low tone.
The man moves on. “How do you know the Lightwoods?”
Magnus leans back, feeling like he’s getting whiplash from all these questions. “We work together,” he answers simply.
“How close are you?”
Magnus releases a sigh of annoyance. What does this have to do with anything? “We’re friends,” he says.
“Really? Is that why you all plotted to destroy the Institute together?” the man quipped. He was baiting Magnus, trying to get him to reveal some crime he didn’t commit.
Magnus huffs in disbelief. “What reason do we have to destroy-”
“We were hoping you could answer that.” The man dared the corner of his lips to tip up slightly into a smirk.
Magnus clenches his jaw. He goes to cross his arms over his chest and as he does, he gives the Downworlder version of flipping someone off to the man.
The interrogator notices and his smirk only widens. “Why does Alec Lightwood hate Mars?”
Magnus furrows his brow. “He’s from Mars, I don’t think he hates it. But if he did, I can see why,” Magnus mutters.
“He was dishonorably discharged and left his parents behind with no regard. All three siblings left. Why?”
“Well seeing as you’re a Shadowhunter, shouldn’t you understand that better than a mere Downworlder?”
“Who did you leave behind when you left the Downworld?”
Magnus stiffens in his seat. He doesn’t answer, he can’t answer. How do they know about his life on the Downworld?
The man fully smirks now. Magnus glares at him as his shoulders tense up.
“Why did your team leave the Institute?”
“We were answering a distress call.”
“Distress calls from out this far are more than likely to be the cause of pirates. Why did you answer it? Who made the order to go after it?
Magnus remained silent. He didn’t know what they were after, why were they trying to accuse them of destroying their own ship?
“Was it the pilot? Unlikely, he seems a little...skittish, if you ask me.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“The engineer? No, she’s too smart for that. The brute blonde brother?”
Magnus doesn’t answer. It was in his silence that the man found what he was looking for, or thought he found what he was looking for.
“It was Alec,” the man mutters. “He answered the distress call, didn’t he?”
Magnus could tell the truth, that they weren’t plotting to start a war, but no one was going to believe him, so he sits quietly, his expression hard as he mentally deflects any angle this man was attempting to attack him from.
“You two are working together, somehow,” the man finalized. He leans forward toward Magnus. “I don’t know what your plan is, but I’m going to figure it out,” he threatens lowly before standing and exiting.
Magnus releases a ragged breath. What the hell was going on?
-
The Shadowhunter leading Alec through every twist and turn in the dark corridors finally stops at a large door. He turns and releases Alec’s wrists of their cuffs before entering a code on the wall to slide the door open. Another cell. Alec looks at the guard, sighs and walks into the room. It’s larger than his cell, with cabinets aligning every inch of the black walls along with five fold-out seats with straps for flight.
Someone clears their throat and catches his attention. Alec turns to look at the back corner of the room.
“Jace,” he breathes, happy to see his brother.
Jace smiles at him and puts down his bottle of water as he moves to hug him, but Alec stops midway as he takes in his brother’s look. Jace is in one of his old uniforms, black and sharp. Any sort of dirtiness from their excursion in their ship was cleaned from his face. M L S reads down the side of his chest.
“Wait…” Alec pauses in confusion. “What the hell is this?” he asks, his tone soft as he reels through his mind why Jace would be dressed this way, like he used to be, like Alec used to be.
Jace holds his hands out in surrender. “Look, I know we don’t owe our allegiance to them anymore, but they let me get cleaned up, out of respect.”
“Respect?” Alec spits out in disdain.
“Alec,” Jace warns him, trying to calm him down. “I know our lives were hell here, particularly yours…but I did serve here a long time and-”
“Particularly mine?” Alec asks. He huffs out a short laugh. “I served a long time too and we both burned bridges and left, but I guess I’m the only dishonorably discharged here. How could I forget, you were the golden child, the beloved soldier who could get away with breaking the rules.”
Jace shakes his head. “Alec-”
“No matter how hard I worked,” Alec muttered, his soft voice filled the dark walls while the darkness filled him, “all anyone could see was a gay Shadowhunter who got his little brother killed. They were never going to let me move up in the ranks to lead and I’d always be in your shadow. Even after eight years, looks like things are still the same.”
Jace’s brows furrow in guilt as he looks down, Alec kept his gaze strong, waiting to hear what his brother would have to say.
“I…” Jace tries, he looks up to meet Alec’s dark hazel eyes. “I was so happy for you when you became Executive Officer on the Institute, Alec. You have no idea.” His voice laced with care that Alec didn’t want right now.
Alec licks his lips and clenches his jaw. “Yeah, well, doesn’t really matter now does it?” he says as he looks Jace up and down. He rolls up the sleeves of his Institute navy-blue jumpsuit.
Jace opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Alec can tell by the look in his eyes that he feels awful, but this entire situation is awful and it’s beginning to catch up to him. They shouldn’t be fighting about this.
Alec huffs and turns to walk away, running a hand through his hair. Remembering he’s in a cell, he settles for the other side of the room. He leans his back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest as the doors open again and Simon stumbles in.
He adjusts his glasses on his nose as he finds his footing and takes in the room. “Oh, hey guys,” he says to them as the doors slide closed. He stops as he takes in Jace and points a finger at him. “Did you join?” He looks to Alec. “Is that an option?” his tone suggests he would totally take that option.
Alec rolls his eyes and, before he can answer, the door slides open again as Izzy and, finally, Magnus enter the room, both rubbing at their wrists and glaring at the guards over their shoulders.
Alec doesn’t waste another second and crosses the room to collect his sister in his arms. “Iz,” he breathes out. She hugs him just as tight as he rests his cheek on top of her head. He looks over at Magnus, who’s already watching them, and can’t find it in himself to feel complete and total relief. His chest aches at the unknown life his sister lived for that year she was gone, at the realization that he really didn’t know Magnus at all. The feeling of holding Magnus to his chest in the ship burns sharp in his memory at the thought that this wasn't the man that he had saved just a few hours ago, who had risked his life for the crew and doctored everyone back to their full health on the Institute for the past eight months.
If there’s anything the League taught him, it was to never fully trust anyone. You never know what someone has done, can do or will do to you or your family.
His heart and mind race a million miles a second at the dreadful situation they were in and the possibility that it was caused by someone he knew and loved.
Releasing a breath, he grabs Izzy’s shoulders and leans back. “Are you okay?” he asks as he looks for any injuries. Although, from the looks of his crew, he suspects they were subjected to more of psychological torture than physical.
“I’m fine, big brother,” she says with a fond smile as she stares up at him, but the ghosts of their pasts haunt her eyes. He nods his head in understanding, his eyes probably mirroring the same. He kisses her forehead and sighs and she gathered him in her arms again.
“So, what did you guys tell them?” Jace asks, folding his arms.
“Everything,” Simon quickly answered. He clearly couldn’t stand any form of pressure or lying. “I told them everything. I literally just kept talking and talking, I think I even made up some stuff at the end without even knowing it, I don’t know, I’ve never really been in this type of situation you know-” he rambled out in one breath until Magnus grabbed his arm to calm him. He looks at Magnus with wide eyes, then expels a long breath with him.
Alec couldn’t stand not knowing the truth, couldn’t stand the tension anymore. “Are you OPA?” he asks, addressing the elephant in the room.
Magnus whips his head to look at him, brown eyes rimmed with leftover black eyeliner turn wide with shock. “Are you serious right now?” he asks with a tight voice as his jaw visibly clenched.
“Alec?” Izzy says as she leans back to look at him with concern. But he can’t look at her right now.
“I just need to know.” He’s not looking for a fight, just the truth. “It’s not like we know each other’s life stories” he says to Magnus. Everyone turns to look at him.
“That’s rich coming from you. When were you going to tell us that you were apart of the League, hu?” Magnus raises his brows as he waits for an answer.
“Wait, what?” Simon all but shouts, but everyone ignores him.
Alec steps away from his sister and right in front of Magnus. “Yes, I was part of the League of Shadowhunters, I grew up on Mars. But you? All I know is you were born on the Downworld and now you work with us. We don’t know
anything
about you.”
“Wait, you were all apart of the League? How did I not know this?” Simon mutters in disbelief to himself, placing his hands on his hips.
“Oh, really? Why did you leave, Alec? Why did any of you leave Mars?” Magnus asks as he looks at the Lightwoods. None of them respond as they stare at him with blank expressions. Magnus purses his lips. “Well then, I suppose we all have our own demons we’re trying to escape from. Don’t blame me for doing the same.” He walks past Alec and bumps his shoulder. He folds out one of the chairs and gracefully sits in it, crossing one leg over the other as he leans back to look at his chipped nail polish. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not with the OPA,” he finalizes with a mutter as he looks back at Alec.
Alec turns to face him. “Then why did you stop me from going after that ship?”
“Because you were being a reckless idiot who was going to get us all killed,” Magnus fires back. “What, you think I go from ship to ship curing people for years while this entire plan got set up?” his voices raises and echoes off the walls. Alec releases a heavy breath and closes his eyes, trying to expel the tension rising in his muscles.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just saying, we’re in a tight situation and if anyone has anything to confess, then now’s the time.” He looks around the room as everyone remains quiet. “We are all that’s left of the crew, we need to trust each other and figure out what really happened.”
“Trust goes both ways,” Magnus states and Alec looks to him. He bites his lower lip before he nods his head. No more secrets.
They can only stare at each other as the tension from the room begins to fade, somewhat.
Jace breaks the silence. “Look, I’m sure they said a lot to mess with our heads. They told me Simon was on the run from a rogue vampire clan at the Dumort station that has unfinished business with him.”
Everyone turns to look at Simon. Put on the spot, he adjusts his glasses and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, t-that’s true.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess you could say those are my demons I’m running from.” He hesitantly glances towards Izzy. “They told me you were an OPA spy as well.”
“That’s not true,” Alec interjects immediately.
“Actually…” Izzy hesitates. Her brothers whip their heads toward her with wide eyes.
“W-what?” Jace breathes out.
“Isabelle,” Alec says in a hard tone. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not a spy! I just…” Izzy’s brows furrow as she hesitates, trying to find the right words to articulate what she meant by that. “I…I was involved with a guy, a Seelie,” she begins. “And he ran with the OPA.”
Alec sighs and runs a hand down his tired features. This situation just kept getting worse. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What happened?” he asks as he looks back at her, his heart aching.
Izzy hated seeing the disappointment in his and Jace’s eyes more than anything. Tears water up but she doesn’t let them fall. She took a deep breath. “It’s not what you think,” she says as she looks around the room. “He was never a part of the attacks against Shadowhunters and Mundanes. He worked more…behind the scenes, and I just wanted to help him Alec, I swear,” she begs as she looks up at her older brother who hasn’t moved an inch. “I’m so sick of the prejudices held against Downworlders, the unfair lives they are given just so Shadowhunters and Mundanes can live better ones.” Her words filled the small room. “I stood up for something I believed in, just like you two taught me to,” she says softly as she looks at Jace and Alec. When they didn’t reply, when no one replied, she tried to explain. “Look, Meliorn never-”
“That’s enough,” Alec said gently, not unkindly, as he moved towards her holding out his hand to stop her from continuing. He looks around the ceiling. “We don’t know if they’re listening. We have to be careful.” He expels a long breath and looks down on his little sister. “I know this was before you came to join us on the Institute, but I just need to make sure…are you still with him?”
Izzy sighs, almost in relief. “No, no I left him and his cause years ago. I swear, Alec, I had nothing to do with this.”
“I know, I know,” he mutters gently as he pulls her into his arms and sighs into her black ebony hair.
Jace walks over to join them. Alec releases her as she hugs Jace and walks towards the door.
“I’m getting us out of here. Hey!” he shouts at the door, not knowing if anyone can hear him. “I’m ready to talk to your Captain!”
He pounds on the door until it slides open to reveal a guard with their weapon ready to shoot.
Alec holds his hands up in surrender.
“I’m ready to talk,” he states.
The soldier grabs his hands roughly and bounds them together with cuffs. Alec looks over his shoulder at his crew, his innocent crew that look back with wide eyes at him.
He nods at them,
I’m going to fix this, I got this
.
They all nod back and watch as he’s taken away.
-
Alec comes to a stop behind the guard, whose name plate reads Underhill, as they reach the flight deck. Crew members sit in their positions behind their screens and controls as the ship moves along a steady pace among the stars. The Captain stands in the center of the room. She looks up as they enter and watches Alec through her transparent screen.
“Mr. Lightwood,” she says as she walks to meet them halfway, not a wrinkle in her black Martian suit nor a hair out of place as it sits atop her head. “I’m Captain Imogen. Right now, your face is currently being broadcast all over the system claiming that Shadowhunters were responsible for the destruction of the Institute. This,” she pauses for a second, “is a lie. A dangerous lie that can lead to a war.”
Alec stands tall, his hands cuffed in front of him as he takes this in. “Based on the evidence we found and the position we are in, we can’t be blamed for jumping to that conclusion, ma’am. Even if it isn’t true,” he addresses her.
She doesn’t react, none of these people know how to react to anything. “I have a proposition for you,” she begins. “You will recant your statement and say that Mars had nothing to do with these attacks and I will let you and your crew go.”
“Done.” Alec just wanted to get out of here so they can really find out what happened. “What’s the catch?” he asks as his eyes squint in suspicion. This was too easy.
“You will state that the attack was implemented by Magnus Bane and Isabelle-”
“Absolutely not,” he interjects as he shakes his head.
She holds out a hand in understanding. “Fine, I understand your need to protect your sister. Then I will settle for placing the blame on your doctor, Magnus Bane.”
“Well I don’t settle for that because it isn’t true,” he growls.
Imogen sighs. “Mr. Lightwood,” she motions for him to follow her as she leads him to her screen. The footage displayed another ship flying towards them. “You see this ship? It’s been following us ever since we picked up you and your team. It’s not one of ours and it won’t answer our calls when we try to hail it.” She looks up at Alec. “Magnus Bane is a Downworlder terrorist and this is most likely his friends coming to save him or finish the job. We need to act quickly,” she orders.
Alec shakes his head and almost laughs at this outrageous accusation. “Magnus Bane isn’t a spy. If he ordered the death of everyone among the Institute, why risk putting himself in danger? He almost died on my ship after that explosion and if it weren’t for him a few of us wouldn’t be alive. I’m sorry, Captain, but I won’t blame him, it doesn’t make sense.”
Imogen takes a minute to think about it. “He was just saving his own ass when he helped you fix your shuttle, I hope you know that, as was your sister,” she mutters in a soft voice suggesting that she felt sorry that Alec couldn’t see the truth about this.
He furrows his brow and shakes his head again. “No-” he goes to argue before the alarms blare and red lights flash on the deck. Imogen whips her head up and instantly settles back into her role as Captain as she barks orders.
“What’s going on?” her strong voice filled the cabin as the deck crew scrambled around to find the source of the problem.
“Captain, the ship has opened fire on us!” one of the crewmen shout just before the ship veers as its hit. Alec loses his footing and falls against a nearby wall. His mind flashes to only a few hours ago when he was in the same position. He sees the Institute getting blown up on his screen, hears Hodge’s voice whisper
I’m sorry
before turning to mere dust in space. His breath quickens as he goes through a map of the ship in his mind to get back to his crew.
But he didn’t have a chance to leave. Underhill grabs him quickly and forces him down in one of the fold out seats.
“Strap in!”
“I need to get to my crew-” Alec shouts, but he should have figured by now he would have been ignored.
“I said strap in, Lightwood!” Underhill shouts before the ship is hit again and everyone tries to keep their balance.
“Captain! What do we do?” someone shouts in fear. Captain Imogen pauses for a second before barking out orders of evasive maneuvers.
All Alec could think of was one dreadful thought, someone really didn’t want he and his crew to talk.
Today
really
wasn’t their day.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
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- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
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- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
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Guidance:
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- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
HOMECOMING --- (Silent Hill Homecoming Fan remake Graphic Novel) - Chapter 8 - JustALittleAmerican - Silent Hill (Video Game Series) [Archive of Our Own]
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4. Chapter 2 Part 1
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Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warnings
:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Categories:
Gen
F/M
Fandom:
Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Relationship:
Elle Holloway/Alex Shepherd
Characters:
Alex Shepherd
Joshua Shepherd
Adam Shepherd
Lillian Shepherd
Margaret Holloway
Elle Holloway
God (Silent Hill)
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Homecoming
Game: Silent Hill Homecoming
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Language:
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Published:
2025-06-13
Completed:
2025-08-11
Words:
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HOMECOMING --- (Silent Hill Homecoming Fan remake Graphic Novel)
JustALittleAmerican
Chapter 8
: Chapter 3 Part 2
Summary:
A fright in the night.
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Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
-..- / --. --- -. .----. / --. .. ...- . / .. - / - --- / -.-- .-
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“This entire night isn’t a good idea.” Leon shines the flashlight up his chin, casting him in dramatic shadows like a 12-year-old boy telling scary stories above a campfire. He’s having far too much fun with that thing. “There’s no harm trying. I’ll go first.”
Disapproval radiates off of you. Leon does an admirable job at ignoring it; he tests the integrity of the ladder by prodding it with his boot. You stand there tersely until–
“Ugh!” you exclaim. “Pass me that.” You snatch the light and point it down the side of the wall – the very, very
tall
wall, and its stupidly long ladder. “So you don’t fall and break your neck.”
He touches your elbow and rests his palm against his heart. “I appreciate that.”
“I’m sure you do,” you grumble. Outwardly: you’re a cranky troll. But inside? A boiling pot of nerves. And not the good kind, either.
Ever since you two fought (and tripped) your way back into the police station, you’ve been feeling out of sorts. Call it a gut feeling, but something doesn’t sit right with you. You find yourself looking over your shoulder more times than you can count, uneasy despite the ever handy and dependable Leon at your side.
But there isn’t any reason to, besides the usual. Nothing has suspiciously moved out of place that you’ve noticed and all the dead bodies are where they should be. Definitely no signs of anyone else living. You think you’d notice that nigh immediately if that were the case.
But something, something…. your spider senses are tingling. You continue to play a game of
Find the Difference
in the RPD, to the detriment of your ever-growing paranoia.
Leon crouches and lowers himself onto the ladder. He regrips the metalwork, testing it out. “It’s, uh, a bit slippery.”
“It’s raining.”
“I know. Just making conversation.”
Did that sound nervous? You think it sounded nervous. Why does he sound nervous? It’s making
you
nervous.
“I’d rather you focus on making conversation between your hands and the ladder.”
He snorts a quiet huff of laughter and climbs down a rung. Another, and one more. You bite your lip.
“See?” he calls up, but his head is still bent, focused on his hands and feet as he moves. “This isn’t so ba-
AD
!”
The ladder creaks. One agonisingly slow second and a foreboding whine that makes your stomach drop, before suddenly tearing away from its holdings and taking Leon down with it. He scrambles to grab at the brickwork and ledge, but no luck.
Your lungs jump and an involuntary gasp escapes you. “Leon–!”
“Shit!”
He hits the ground and the sound echoes in your ears. He doesn’t move, and you’re frozen like a bag of peas. Was that a crack you heard? Oh, please don’t be a crack.
Please
, just a nice, safe and meaty thud with no broken bones and ruptured spleens or punctured lungs–
He rolls over and groans, pushing himself up onto his knees.
You nearly wet yourself with relief.
“That… that wasn’t supposed to happen.” He staggers to his feet and takes a few wobbly steps to lean against the wall. When you flash the light on his upturned face, he squints and covers his eyes.
“No shit!” you shriek. “Did you hit your head?”
He touches the back of his head. “I think I bruised it a little.” His fingers come away clear. A good sign. You don’t know if you can trust him to identify a concussion. You can’t trust
yourself
to identify a concussion, and you took the damn first aid course! Oh, you need a fan right now, something to cool off your nerves
You get down to your knees and lie across the roof, leaning your arm over the edge. “Here – take it. There’s no way I’m getting down there.”
The realisation dawning upon his face is as clear as – well, all things clear. The ladder was the only way down – and you don’t want to try your chances crawling underneath a burning helicopter. It’s a dead end. You’re stuck.
“You could jump?”
You stare at him. Something climbs your throat. Like phlegm. It’s too much to suppress – you burst into laughter so hard tears are building in your eyes. The flashlight falls out of your hands and lands in front of his feet. It rolls to a stop against his boot and flickers twice.
That has got to be the most
stupidest
–
You shake your head. “Oh no. Nu-uh. Not happening.” You point at him, giggling and out of breath. “Like hell!”
“What? It was just a suggestion…”
“Yeah. A dumb one!”
Getting a hold of yourself, you calm down. Take in a few, loud dramatic inhales to settle your diaphragm. It reluctantly works. “I’m gonna head back downstairs. There’s gotta be a window closer to the ground that I can climb out of or something.” You push yourself to your knees. You sound more hopeful than you actually feel.
That thing in your chest stutters when Leon looks at you like he is. He’s so concerned, face literally twinkling in the firelight, furrowed brows directed at you and the night sky overhead. You wanna smudge those wrinkles away, smooth out his face back into youthful composure. A calmness to rival the one you’d seen (and touched) back in the main hall.
Leon really looks his best when he’s happy.
“Be careful,” he warns. Even wags a finger at you. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”
You point at yourself like
who, me?
And look around the empty roof for somebody else.
“I’m serious!” but he’s grinning, just a little bit. “I’ll come back for you, alright?”
I’ll come back for you.
Is it hot in here or is that just you? Definitely just you. It’s raining for gods’ sake. Least he can’t see it.
“I know,” you say. It sounds confident. More confident than you actually are, which on a scale of one to ten, you’re sitting at about a minus-two. You flick your damp hair over your shoulder. “I’m amazing. It’d be a crime if you didn’t.”
“I’d sure hate to commit a felony, being a police officer and all…” he shrugs like,
what can you do?
For a second, both of you just grin at each other. It’s sweet and a bit cheesy, but that’s alright. It’s a Moment™. And then it’s broken when the burning helicopter spits out a few balls of fire. You want to blow a raspberry at it. What a cockblock!
“I should go.” Leon throws a thumb over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. Actually, he kind of smashes his finger into the wall because he’s still leaned up against it. Pretty forcefully too, because he seems to have forgotten where he is…
You pretend that you don’t see him flinch. Pffft, instant regret.
Standing up, you dust off your dirty clothes (of which there is no hope for, ever) and salute. “See you later, yeah!”
He jogs off, peering over his shoulder at you several times. He makes some ‘I’m watching you’ gestures, even turning around fully at one point and walking backward to make his point. You just enthusiastically wave him away.
You’re heart rests a palm against its own chest and sighs. Same, buddy, same.
Of course, then he’s disappeared around the corner and you sort of just loiter around in the rain for a bit. You scratch your nose. Peer over your shoulder at the door.
Time to get a move on.
That way out isn’t going to find itself on its own. With one lingering look towards Racoon City’s sky, astoundingly clear of smog for once in its life and the stars so bright, you head back inside.
Back into the hellhole.
..-. ..- -.-. -.- / .-- .- .. - .. -. --. / ..-. --- .-. / -.-- --- ..- / - --- / --. . - / .. - / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / --- .-- -. --..-- / -..- / --. --- -. .----. / -.. . .-.. .. ...- . .-. / - --- / -.-- .-
You are not known for making good decisions.
That being said, you get it in your head the brilliant idea of looking for that second electronic part.
Yes, yes, you know. You told Leon that you’d look for a way out through some window maybe. Even agreed to not do anything stupid, which is a lot to ask for, not going to lie. But you’re pretty sure they’re all being stalked by the undead…
Look, you won’t get into trouble, you swear it. Although uneasy, you and Leon had done a pretty bang up job of clearing out almost all of the rooms in the station. The staircase hallway back into the station had been full of dead people and scattered furniture – so a total mess, but worth it to clean up. Future-you will thank past-you ten times over when you have to go back down there.
That being said, you have a moderate amount of self-assurance that nothing
too
terrible will happen. Just a little bit terrible.
Down in the main hall again, you pull out the RPD map. After some minor arguing, you gave in and accepted it. You didn’t trust it when Leon swore that he’d remembered the entire layout by now, because you knew that you definitely hadn’t. And you’d been running around with everywhere all night. You had to admit defeat when he insisted that something were to ever happen and both of you were separated, you’d need it more than him.
You track your finger along the hallways and rooms, marking out the path you need to take to get to the Clock Tower. It’s pretty straightforward, except for one thing…
You scratch your head. You could jump it? Just a little run and hop, and voila! It’s not as if you’re jumping from one cliff to another, or rooftop to rooftop.
Nope. Just between two bookshelves in the library. Two pretty wide bookshelves with a pretty wide gap in between. You don’t quite trust the stability of it, but you don’t think the shelf will tumble sideways if you screw up the balance.
Only one way to find out.
On the second level, you swing your backpack to the other side. It lands and rolls over once, coming to a neat stop. You back up a few steps, and get into a starting position; knees bent, palms on the ground, butt up and back muscles waiting to spring up.
All you need now is a real track, your old gym coach, and that annoying little gun that always startles you despite knowing full well that it’s coming.
(and some nice clothes too. You’d kill for a pair of sneakers – wait, you can’t use that phrase anymore. You
have
killed, oh dear.)
You squint ahead, take a breath, and–
You’re airborne. It lasts for a very long second. Then your feet touch the ground and you bring your center of gravity down with them, tucking yourself into a tight ball and rolling with the momentum. You splay yourself like a starfish when it’s done and grin at the ceiling. Hah! To think that you thought you’d never need those gymnastics skills.
Laying for a few minutes to catch your breath, you think that a nap is starting to sound like a great idea. Your body shares the same sentiment, and quite vocally too. The aches are really hitting you right now for some reason. Is this what old age is? No wonder old people are always so angry and dreadful.
This floor feels amazing. Besides the off-putting smell of old blood and viscera, it’s quite comfy down here. They really paid for some quality rugs. Wait. Is your tax money? So technically
you
paid for this rug. You could almost stay here forever. Maybe you would if you didn’t have some important things to do.
Like staying alive. Meeting up with Leon. Getting out of Racoon City. The usual.
But… one more minute. You close your eyes and slowly count the Mississippi’s away.
When it’s over, you reluctantly push yourself up to your elbows, taking another moment to pause and observe your surroundings, just enjoying the almost tranquil quiet, before getting up properly. You wipe off the dust and grime and throw your backpack on.
Time to move forward.
You exit into the Main Hall again, but two floors above the common area. It’s dark and dusty up here, little moats hanging in the air. There’s a lack of lighting that surprises you. It’s dimmer than you expected, despite the glow coming up from the first floor. You need to be cautious.
You take to the right, peer around the left walkway, and spot two of them aimlessly wandering around. Shit. You have to take them out. Can’t afford to leave them here when you’re sure there’ll be some backtracking in the future five or ten minutes.
Biting your lip and frowning, you think about how dumb you are. Your nerves sizzle a little, and anxiety creeps up on you. It’s been wont to do that lately.
Maybe… maybe you should just turn around and wait for Leon to get back…
No! You shake your head. Pat your cheeks. Snap out of it girl. No. You can do it. Soon. In five minutes. Just need to build up a little more confidence and then you can tackle this issue. Possibly even literally!
If this were TV, the scene would cut to a monotone flashback of Leon asking you to not do it, to just turn around when you can. But life isn’t TV, and it’s not that easy. You reason with yourself that it needs to be done because if you don’t, he’s going to up here eventually and do it himself.
Do you want to do it? No. Of course not. He was right on that account. But Leon’s not the only one capable of sacrificing little bits of himself to get through the night. If you can save him from this little bit of pain…
On your knees, crouching and peeking around the corner, you count the seconds. Take some time to breathe. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four. Focus yourself. You don’t have much in the way of weapons, and the last thing you’re gonna do is try and shoot it.
You are
not
that stupid.
(though your actions might belie that…many times over)
Isn’t it great then that you had the foresight to bring with you that oddly shaped trophy? Remember, the one that you’d first used to take down a lady when you first got here? Wow, great memories. Feels like a lifetime ago. You retrieve it from your
inventory
backpack.
It’s not a knife, but it’s as good as you’ve got. Will work in a pickle, 10/10. Couldn’t’ve asked for anything better.
You ready your weapon in your hand. You have the element of surprise here. Use it wisely.
Giving no time to second guess yourself more than you already have, you leap from your spot and sprint forward as quietly as you can. Without hesitation, you deliver a swift kick to the back of its knees. When it groans and stumbles down to a more manageable height, you raise the trophy and stab it right into the dead officer’s skull.
Blood spurts across your hands. Your fingers touch its matted hair. One tug, two tug, and the trophy pulls free, taking some brain matter and goo along with it. You stagger back but regain your footing quickly. There’s still one more left, and the noise seems to have attracted its attention.
You swallow harshly. The world goes dull. Everything seems flat.
Stepping forward very slowly, very quietly, you move in on it. It hasn’t actually noticed you yet, but seems to be in the motion of turning around. You’re not sure why it hasn’t smelled you yet or responded to the other one’s groan. They usually catch on quickly. Like a chain reaction. Maybe this one is just picky? Or unbothered. Standing there and staring into nothing, it's sure got a lot of time to spare. You wonder what it's thinking about. Health insurance, right? That always makes you want to stare forlornly into space.
Or, you think more grimly, that maybe it's just not hungry anymore.
You are a cougar in the jungle stalking an unsuspecting tourist because their clothing choice offends you and for that, they must die. And they also smell devastatingly good. It is a win-win situation.
Or a raccoon watching the neighbours garbage bin with beady eyes, greedy fingers, and a disturbing lack of soul. Truly the worst of the worst.
Holding your breath, you quickly slip behind it and take advantage of the situation before it can fathom what’s happening.
The office worker goes down with a surprised gargle and a crack.
Zombies – 0.
You – 2.
Sniffing, you wipe your hands down your jeans; same with the trophy. It doesn’t actually help much, considering the dirty state of your… everything, but it contributes to your peace of mind. At this point in your life, that’s the only thing you have going for you.
Murderous escapade over, you trudge over to the Clock Tower door. You push on it, but it doesn’t open. After jiggling the handle a few times and throwing your entire weight on the door, it finally gives in and you nearly stumble to your knees.
You don’t understand why everything is out to get you these days, but if they could just like, stop? You’d totally appreciate that.
It’s dark inside. What you would give to have a flashlight right now. For a few moments, you stand still. You cock your head, ear pointed towards the room at large. You don’t hear anything. Not even the quiet, laboured breathing the dead sometimes do.
It’s completely free of smell up here too. Just the natural scent of dust and old metalwork.
You conclude that it’s safe – for now. Quietly stepping forward, you reach out to what you’re certain is a table. It sure feels like one, beneath your wandering hands. You find something thing and rectangle like. A sheet of paper. Oh, goodie! A note!
It takes a bit of work to find a good angle, but you manage it. The moonlight is quite faint, but there is just enough that if you squint very hard….
It doesn’t say very much. Nothing that’s relevant to you. You don’t know what you expected. You put it back on the table.
New plan. You shuffle around, hands spread out in search of your next clue. That’s when you bump into a large–? It’s cold to the touch, and with many bumps around its circumference. You paint a picture of it in your head and realise it’s a giant gear. Another one is next to it, but they remain unconnected from each other. It’s missing a piece.
Well damn. Whatever. You’re not here to fix maintenance’s problems. You just want that electronic part, right? now, where is it….
You search the rest of the room as best as you can, but without any light, it’s a dead end. You can’t read any of the books, you found some herbs but you have no idea what colour they are, and this place is like a damn maze. If only you were a cat, then you would see everything better. Can cats catch the disease? Dogs can, as you’ve learned… but what about cats? Or birds? Or like, lizards too? They’re from different families, right?
Giving up, you prop your hands on your hips and tilt your head back. You breathe in deeply and take a moment to relax. Not thinking, not worrying over anything. In this one moment, you rid yourself of stress and the memories of tonight. You pretend that your somewhere else.
Like grandma’s attic. The lovely little hag is forcing you to clean it out. Apparently, she thinks there’s something up here that you’ll like. You hope it’s not her forty-year-old lingerie that she’s kept because of ‘memories’.
Or the boiler room in your apartment complex. Every now and then something turns off, the water goes cold, and everyone brings out the candles. You lose the short stick amongst your neighbours and they force a flashlight into your hand and shove you down the basement stairs. You’re not a very handy person, but a good kick or two usually did the trick.
There’s something charming thinking about the inane. The mundane aspects of life. Or maybe not so much as charming, but rather that you just… miss it. You miss the paper-thin walls and the smell of cinnamon porridge hanging in the hallway air; your elderly neighbour always left his door open after his morning walks. If anyone happened to be walking by, he’d try to invite them over for breakfast. Truth be told, it was not very good porridge.
You miss the radio playing from the next balcony over because it saved you the costs of buying your own. It's only a few dollars off your paycheck, but hey, those few dollars were better spent elsewhere. Don’t forget about the surrealist painting of flying pugs in the elevator. Nobody knows who owns it, but you have fond memories staring at while drunk out of your head.
Hell, you even miss the annoying couple upstairs that engaged in the most annoying, loudest, wonton
sex
– actually, no. No, you don’t. What are you thinking?
Stupid
. You take that back. You’re really getting stir crazy in here. You could have lived your entire without listening to them go at it like rabbits. Your poor virgin ears. Woe is you.
Zoning back to into present time, you open your eyes and stare upwards. You can’t see the moon from this angle. Just the long bars of metal the pale light illuminates, the giant bell you didn’t think would actually still be here (because hello, police station? What do they need that for? You can’t ever recall in your life hearing this thing go off), and this little red box and you’re not quite sure what it is?
You frown at it, little bit confused but not greatly concerned, just wondering why it’s there, cause it doesn’t look like it’s part of the metalwork and – OH MY GOD. Your mouth drops open. Is that it? Is that a toolbox? You step back, trying to see more. It’s got a darker extension that you think might be the handle, and–
Noooooo. You’re joking. That’s not–
You squint harder and step closer, even going on your tippy-toes.
No shiiit. Goddammit. It
is
the toolbox! How the
hell
are you gonna get up there?
.-- .. - .... / - .... . / -. --- -. -....- ... - --- .--. --..-- / .--. --- .--. -....- .--. --- .--. / --- ..-. / ... - .- .. -. .-.. . ... ... / ... - . . .-..
The gear. You need to get the gear.
You travel to the library – without your backpack because you don’t want it weighing you down when you’re coming back with the gear. It didn’t seem
heavy
heavy, but even Leon had some trouble carrying it the first time. You hadn't been sure why he'd wanted to take it in the first place when you'd first found it in the East Storage room, but you're not going to question it now. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.
Jumping and rolling across the bookshelf bridge, you randomly decide to take the ladder. Why? Because you’ve been robbed, that’s what. You’ve never climbed a ladder in your life – or gone down one either. And the first time you get a chance, albeit very reluctantly, Leon broke it!
Not on purpose, but still. You’re certain that once he’d gotten down there safely and proved that nothing bad was going to happen, you would have totally come around. With very vocal hesitance, but sure.
Of course, it didn’t happen like that.
Getting onto your knees and crawling backward, you ever so slowly reach your foot down until the boot meets the rungs, and you grasp the side railing tightly. You lower yourself down. One step, next step, third step, down! It takes longer than expected, and all the while you ponder what Leon is doing. Is he alright? It can’t have been that long since you’d both parted ways. Five, ten minutes at most? It hadn’t taken you that long to navigate the police station.
Hmm. Add another five minutes to that. You did spend some time wandering around the Clock Tower oblivious in the dark.
You should probably look for a rope lying around here somewhere. With your luck, there should be one conveniently lying around here. Just need to find it. If Leon hasn’t figured a way to get past the burning helicopter, he’s going to have gym rope it up the side of the wall.
Oddly, you find yourself feeling… chipper? Not happy, exactly, but more upbeat than you have in some time. Especially considering that you’ve been on your own for some time now. Obviously, everything is better when Leon is there – it’s
Leon
, how can it not?
It must be the progress you’re making. You nod, agreeing with yourself. That's what it is. You’re being very productive right now. Totally at odds with the past couple days. It's as if your most recent paranoia has just... vanished. Into thin air. Well, adios! Breathing is just that tiny bit easier now.
As you pass underneath the walkway into the general area, you muse how wild it is that only a few hours ago, you were honestly contemplating on starving yourself. Times change, man. They really do.
Stepping carefully over the dead body on the floor, you raise your head just in time to see the main door open.
You stop. Your mind goes blank.
The hand is first. Grey, like the colour of newspaper, but fingers large and thick like sausages. It grabs the roof of the doorway, and attached to it is an arm wrapped in black and a body built like a literal brickhouse, but in the bad sort of definitely not hot way. Ducking beneath the frame is an inhuman face and an inhuman stare settled beneath a ridiculous fedora.
Something makes a squeak. The man (?) looks at you.
“I, uh,” you smile nervously and wet your lips. “I think I have the wrong room?”
Wrong move. He takes a massive step forward. Something tells you he is
not
about to give a giant, friendly hug.
RUN.
You shriek and book it to the other door by the stairs. You barrel into the next room, nearly tripping when the air behind your neck
vibrates
, followed by the sound of tight leather scrunching around an empty, tightened fist.
You duck forward and hold your chest tight. You’d hold your jittery heart, but it’s in the lead by a mile already.
The next door opens violently under your weight, giving entrance to the long, darkened hallway.
Moonlight spills in through the windows. The furthest one is broken, letting rain and wind pour in. You can’t see shit without Leon’s flashlight, but that’s the last of your concerns.
Heavy boots shake the floor beneath your feet. The windows rattle and it’s like the action music to your own horror movie. You can almost hear the sick beat in your ears.
You sprint and grab the corner wall, using it to swing rightwards into the next stretch of hallway. Breath comes out in pants, shins throbbing under the sudden exertion.
You don’t know where you’re going. You just know that it’s anywhere but here. Anywhere is better without that – that
thing
. Psycho! Monster?
Oh, whatever! It doesn’t matter! You’re gonna die! Your squished guts and exploded brain matter aren’t going to care about what the Murderous Fedora is actually called. They’ll be too dead to care!
Through the bathroom you go, knocking over a tall vase on the way. There isn’t time to look back, but a ceramic clink, a sudden, loud crash, and an enraged growl sends a frantic laugh spilling out of your lips.
And then the instant karma god slaps you in the face. You slip, panic wheezing as the wet and bloody floor sends you sliding across the room. ETA in three, two–
The locker door dents. Not a lot, but,
shit
. Shoulder ouchie. Shoulder not be happy later.
Scrambling for footing, you claw at the bathroom door handle until it opens back into the hallways.
There’s a locker. The metaphorical light bulb forms above your head. In a split second, you grab the padlock, grip it tightly, and heave the locker off its feet. You dodge as it falls into the bathroom and spin around in time to see the Murderous Fedora catch it before it can send him to the floor.
It’s a short distraction, only a few seconds long, but a few seconds is all you need. You dart off with a single-minded focus.
Down the stairs. Dodge the hands flailing through the boarded-up window. Through the hallway. Hallway intersection. Dust reigns over you, the creaking of wood bending and breaking; the pace quickens.
You breathe harshly. The stitch in your side pangs deeply. Think. Pick. You look at the open ceiling vent desperately, but know you won’t make it without a boost.
The shadows on the wall grows. The vestiges of light brought in from the far back window disappear.
Eyes wide and wild, you swallow.
The West Office.
-.- -. --- -.-. -.- / -.- -. --- -.-. -.- --..-- / --- .--. . -. / ..- .--. / - .... . / -.. --- --- .-. --..-- / .. - .----. ... / .-. . .- .-..
The floor tremors.
You try to shuffle back, but it’s impossible. There’s no more room to give. You’ve already curled yourself as tightly as you can, knees next to your ears, arms wrapped around your shins.
You squeeze your eyes shut. The pounding is in your ears. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four – this isn’t the apartment, this isn’t–
The West Office door is broken off its hinges. It flies and lands into your field of vision. The wood is splintered, and a large, bloodied boot print stains the paint job.
Your mouth is stale with fear. It twinges with sharp pain. Copper blooms.
You don’t know what to do. The footsteps slow down; not just in number, but you hear it, can practically
feel
the meticulous way it lays down the heel of a boot first, the slow drawl until the toes meet the floor as well.
Like it’s considering. Thinking.
If you open your eyes… if you open them–
Right there. Just a little to the left. Standing idly, as if it’s alright. It’s got time. It can out wait you. It will.
You repress a sob. Hold your breath.
For an eternity, you sit there frozen. Like a statue on the garden fountain, bearing signs of erosion and the passage of time; or the Goddess who would better fit in a horror mansion than a police station. Urgh. This stupid RPD and it’s stupid statue and it’s stupid secret passageway.
It doesn’t move either. No more steps. You can’t even hear it breathe. You don’t think it needs to.
The floorboards creak. Leather goes taut.
It’s found you, it knows where you are – a tear, and another, spill from your eyes, and just when you sense the air moving as its hand – the hand that crushed
Ben
into gory little bits, the hand that’s going to crush
you
into gory little bits – reaches down and grabs your–
Nothing.
Hesitantly, you lift up your head, eyes still smelted shut but up you go. You strain your ears. It’s empty.
Empty
empty. As if there had been a weight in the air, and now it’s just… gone. Disappeared.
Very slowly, you crack open an eye. Look around. Everything is the same as it was before. Even the broken door seems innocuous, despite the devastating crack running through the middle. You’re at a loss.
It’s you. Just… you.
Like the snap of a finger, or the crack of a skull breaking under the force of a bullet, everything comes crashing down, and you have no choice but to slump over in total exhaustion. Your eyes slip shut and your temple gently collides with the oak wood desk, sliding down until you’ve curled up into a ball on the dirty floor. You’re too far gone to care about how disgusting it is down here, about all the germs and things that are probably crawling onto your skin and making it a home. By the time you get up, they’ll have established a tiny family restaurant and have a detailed history that dates ten generations back and ten generations wide.
Fatigue grips you tight and pulls you under.
It’s numbing.
For now, you’re safe. But not for long. The footsteps are gone, but he’s still out there. Lurking, looking. Searching. The RPD is not that big. He doesn’t strike you as the type to talk fashion and gossip over tea and cake.
God
. You shudder. You can already hear the hell that Leon is–
Leon!
You bolt upwards, panic consuming you.
You scramble to your feet, clipping the back of your head on the edge of the desk but barely noticing it. This is so bad. Like, monumental bad.
He doesn’t know. He thinks you’re just waiting for him in the main hall. He thinks you’re actually trying to stay out of trouble – okay. Lie. But you doubt that this is the sort of trouble he had in mind.
Fuck the electronic piece. Fuck the tower.
New objective: find Leon.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Nillendil smiled wickedly, a smirk entirely different from the fake smile she had worn but a few moments ago. If Aragorn were to say, he was tempted to call it an evil grin. For just a moment confirmed by the fact something dark came over Nillendil’s eyes, before she blinked it away and got on her feet.
“Why not leave the choice up to the women themselves?”
Nillendil asked, a sinister tone in her voice, despite the corrective tug on her pant leg from Elladan. The ways of both people so different, and though they worked together from time to time as they would soon be in the battle to come, they wisely chose not to comment on the ways of one another.
“Do you think your women incapable? Useless?”
Nillendil continued to stab at the subject, freeing her pant leg from Elladan’s corrective grip.
“I think no such thing.”
Éomer was quick to say, he was likely aware of more than a few ears listening in on their conversation. And to be frank, Aragorn was on his side in this. Nillendil’s words were sharp, straight to the point and in no way softened despite their conversation not being private.
Further adding to the mystery of her. The Nillendil Aragorn knew, would not speak so recklessly.
“There was a time, where it was common for your women to stand beside their men. Fight with them, bleed with them and die with them if needed.”
Nillendil pointed out.
“Ey, the Shield Maidens of old. That tradition has long since died out.”
Éomer deflected.
“We still train, some of us, in honor and memory of those women.”
Éowyn spoke. Nillendil sighed, the grin leaving her as she shook her head abruptly. The impassive look returned to her eyes, and despite their coldness, Aragorn much preferred this version over the grinning one with the wicked tongue.
“We may agree to disagree.”
Nillendil finally let the subject go, before rolling her shoulders as if uncomfortable.
“Now, I have brought down the mood and I wish to improve it.”
She almost smiled, before beginning to tap a beat with her foot and singing again.
If all of the kings had their queens on the throne
We would pop champagne and raise a toast
To all of the queens who are fighting alone
Baby, you're not dancin' on your own
Can't live without me, you wanna, but you can't, nah-nah-nah
Think it's funny, but honey, can't run this show on your own
I can feel my body shake, there's only so much I can take
I'll show you how a real queen behaves (oh)
No damsel in distress, don't need to save me
Once I start breathing fire, you can't tame me
And you might think I'm weak without a sword
But if I had one, it'd be bigger than yours
If all of the kings had their queens on the throne
We would pop champagne and raise a toast
To all of the queens who are fighting alone
Baby, you're not dancin' on your own
Disobey me, then baby, it's off with your head
Gonna change it and make it a world you won't forget (oh)
No damsel in distress, don't need to save me
Once I start breathing fire, you can't tame me
And you might think I'm weak without a sword
But I'm stronger than I ever was before
If all of the kings had their queens on the throne
We would pop champagne and raise a toast
To all of the queens who are fighting alone
Baby, you're not dancin' on your own
In chess, the king can move one space at a time
But queens are free to go wherever they like
You get too close, you'll get a royalty high
So breathe in to feel alive
If all of the kings had their queens on the throne
We would pop champagne and raise a toast
To all of the queens who are fighting alone
Baby, you're not dancin' on your own
Oh, oh, oh-oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh
Oh, oh-oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh
Kings and Queens by Ava Max
Despite her song being a final tease at Éomer, he seemed to take it in good spirit and gently tapped Éowyn’s shoulder with his own.
“Were it not a battle, that could claim all our lives, I would bring you.”
Aragorn overheard him whispering to his sister.
“And station me in the back no doubt.”
Éowyn said, as her brother quickly nodded before both laughed. Their argument forgotten, and peace restored between them. Éomer even placing an arm protectively around his sister’s shoulders, as she leaned into him.
“What of you, Lady Nillendil? You must have seen battle before.”
Éowyn asked. Nillendil tilted her head, her eyes briefly looking over the twins, before returning to Éowyn.
“Some.”
Was her brief answer.
“Much like your brother. Despite training her ourselves…”
Elladan began.
“… we too have tried to keep her safe.”
Elrohir finished. Aragorn bristled at the word tried; he didn’t like the tone of voice the twin had used. As though it truly was a thing of the past, that neither one of them would try to keep her safe any longer.
Something, despite the nearly perfect façade the three elven siblings were putting on, was terribly wrong.
“The sun is setting. You mortals should retire. You will need your strength in the days to come.”
Nillendil broke the silence. Her tone of voice not scolding, but a gentle suggestion. Far softer than the version of her, that had challenged Éomer just moments ago.
“We will need more than strength.”
Éomer dryly commented, patting his sister’s shoulder with an attempt at a smile. His worry obvious.
“Aid will come, when you least expect it. In times of need, look to the warrior at your side and in them find your strength.”
Nillendil counseled. The twins at her side, nodding in agreement, likely the very ones to teach her the saying, as they in turn had learned it from their teacher.
“For this night, try to forget the troubles tomorrow will bring.”
Elladan advised, but to Aragorn looked not at all to be taking his own advice.
“Find solace in the fact, that some day this all will be but a memory.”
Elrohir offered and much like his brother, didn’t look like he was taking the advice either.
“Maybe even a song.”
Nillendil smiled briefly, that warm smile Aragorn remembered from his youth. A smile that had once eased his every worry. Convinced him nothing could nor would ever harm him.
“Sing the mortals to sleep.”
Elladan asked Nillendil for a final song. She nodded in agreement, her smile gone as though it had never existed.
Yet still, her song was filled with emotions. A call. A plea for the strength of the warriors around them to remain strong. Remembering who and what they were fighting for. Reminding them that they still had a lot of fight left in them.
Like a small boat on the ocean
Sending big waves into motion
Like how a single word
Can make a heart open
I might only have one match
But I can make an explosion
And all those things I didn't say
Were wrecking balls inside my brain
I will scream them loud tonight
Can you hear my voice this time?
This is my fight song (hey)
Take back my life song (hey)
Prove I'm alright song (hey, ha)
My power's turned on (hey)
Starting right now, I'll be strong (hey)
I'll play my fight song (hey)
And I don't really care if nobody else believes (ha)
'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me
Losing friends and I'm chasing sleep
Everybody's worried 'bout me
In too deep, say I'm in too deep (I'm in too deep)
And it's been two years, I miss my home
But there's a fire burning in my bones
Still believe, yeah, I still believe
And all those things I didn't say
Wrecking balls inside my brain
I will scream 'em loud tonight
Can you hear my voice this time?
This is my fight song (hey)
Take back my life song (hey)
Prove I'm alright song (hey, ha)
My power's turned on (hey)
Starting right now, I'll be strong (hey)
I'll play my fight song (hey)
And I don't really care if nobody else believes (ha)
'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me
A lot of fight left in me
Like a small boat on the ocean
Sending big waves into motion
Like how a single word
Can make a heart open
I might only have one match
But I can make an explosion
This is my fight song (hey)
Take back my life song (hey)
Prove I'm alright song (hey)
My power's turned on (hey)
Starting right now, I'll be strong (I'll be strong)
I'll play my fight song (hey)
And I don't really care if nobody else believes
'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me
No, I've still got a lot of fight left in me
Fight Song by Rachel Platten
With that, their moods lifted, the mortals around them, affected by the strength of her song, retreated to their tents. Seeking sleep to maintain the renewed hope and strength in their heart.
Watching Éomer and Éowyn disappear in between tents, seeking out their own, Aragorn spotted Legolas in the distance. Barely visible, using the shadows around him to his advantage, he lingered. His eyes seemed permanently locked on Nillendil, who remained none to the wiser of the fact.
“If you wish to leave undiscovered, now would be the time.”
Nillendil spoke up. Aragorn’s eyes snapped to her.
“The path of the dead.”
She revealed she knew what Elrond had spoken off, when Aragorn had accepted the sword. Because despite the renewed strength of the mortals around them, their numbers were simply too few. And only, seeking out those who had betrayed his ancestor, would Aragorn find victory.
“That would be wise.”
Elladan agreed with her suggestion, getting to his feet. His twin standing just as quickly.
“I will not scurvy away like a rat under the cover of dark.”
Gimli blew an angry breath.
“Do not squash what hope has been awaken in their heart. Seeing Aragorn leave, all of you leave, even with an explanation offered, would only dampen it.”
Nillendil spoke. Gimli grunted but finally nodded. Aragorn’s eyes snapped to her once more, aware of what she was saying.
“You are not coming?”
He asked, wholly in body and soul against the idea. For her to be separated from them seemed a terrible idea. No less from all of them, as both Elladan and Elrohir had made their intension clear, that they too intended to head for the path of the dead.
“This is where our paths must separate, child.”
She said, her expression impossible to read.
“I will go with the Rohan king and his warriors.”
She revealed her path.
“Losing the king now, in these trying times, would be a blow Rohan will have a difficult time to recover from. We need their strength now and in coming days.”
She explained. Aragorn opened his mouth to ask what she meant about losing the king, but receiving a look from her brothers had him closing his mouth again.
Of course, the knowledge she held. Though he knew not the extent of it, at this point he knew not to question it. She had yet to let them astray.
“I will see you again.”
He settled on telling her. It felt not so much confirmation, as it was a desperate plea for her to hold on against whatever darkness was growing within her. One, he feared, would grow considerably once she was separated from her family and friends.
She offered no response, simply nodded just once and then sat down by the fire. Feeding the flames another piece of wood to last the night.
Seeking out Legolas in the distance, Aragorn could now longer find him. He had heard what Nillendil had said, and it no doubt troubled him as much as it troubled Aragorn.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
~~
“I hope you will forgive me for being… direct, but may I ask you a question?”
Sokka turns, mildly intrigued at the soft voice of the younger councilwoman to his side. “Yes?” He almost didn’t hear her over the cacophony of the current discussion, which can barely be called that.
Unless flying furniture can be counted as an argument.
Churai’s eyes are so wide it looks almost painful, not taking her stare off the current circumstance as a gout of fire blazes through the center of the room. “Is there a particular reason why he is here?”
Sokka hides a laugh behind a cough, following her gaze out to his mate, who is clearly very done arguing with this particular dockmaster as he throws a quill down next to his cowering form so forcefully it imbeds in the wood floor on impact.
“Sign it and get out.”
“He is the Firelord, is he not?” Sokka rests his chin on his hand, fully aware of the lovesick puppy he is probably displaying and not caring in the least as he watches Zuko’s lip curl in a snarl.
“Well yes, but he’s- I mean
you
are-” She stops, clearing her throat and gesturing vaguely. “I just feel his time might be better suited elsewhere? Today?”
Her statement amusingly coincides with the next appointment, which happens to be a group of young soldiers about getting funding for new weapons, and each one of them looks like they want to crawl in a hole and die when they are forced into fighting distance with his mate.
Sokka’s
furious and very much in heat
, mate.
“Trust me when I say I know exactly what I would rather be doing right about now, but even I know better than to try and convince him to shirk his duties for the day.” Still, it is definitely not a waste to watch him like this, to see the constant blood flush of his skin and the glow he has been exuding since he woke that morning.
It may be a little bit of an alpha thing that has his own scent oozing pride and smugness, to have everyone else see exactly what they cannot have.
Especially the group of young alphas currently looking like they want the ground to open up and swallow them than to try to continue their plea.
“But you’re his alpha? I mean, isn’t that kind of your-” She cuts off, as if she suddenly knows the error she is about to make.
And Sokka cuts his gaze to her sharply as his amusement drops, eyeing her with enough warning that the young beta immediately finds something interesting to look at on her desk. “My
job
, Councillor Churai, is to love my mate, not to keep him. And I will do so in whatever capacity he requires of me. Today, that is this.”
Granted it was a small discussion that morning when Sokka had woken to the bitter scent of distress mixed with the unmistakable cloying sweetness of heat in the air. But when he had gently suggested taking the day off his only response had been,
“Well I can either be miserable at home, or miserable at council and actually accomplish something.”
And Sokka had known well enough that it had little to do with productivity, and much more to do with keeping busy enough not to allow the downward spiral of Zuko’s worst thoughts to gain any traction.
It seems to be working well enough, and regardless of the rest of the council shooting Sokka overly concerned looks for the past few hours, no one had been maimed thus far.
“Apologies.” It is very quiet, even for her, and Sokka would feel a bit of remorse if not for the gap in her education that has suddenly become glaring.
“Accepted.” He turns back to see the newest attendant for a meeting, a very young girl seeking permission to run a small bouquet business in the market for her mother, and hides his smile behind his hand when he immediately notes the soft look Zuko favours her as she bravely gives her spiel. “But in the future I would recommend not assuming anything about the inner workings of someone else’s relationship, yes?”
Churai nods in his periphery, sufficiently reprimanded enough for him, and he has more important things to do than snap at council members.
Like watching Zuko try desperately not to cry as he is handed a terribly coloured picture of a marketstall design.
~~
The day, at least, goes quickly.
In a shock to no one, several appointments were suddenly postponed once word got out of what they would be dealing with once they got there, but many were still willing to try their luck.
More than one seemed curious in general if it was actually true, and the more the hours passed the more the scent of heat saturated the space until it was unmistakable.
It is every bit of relief to stand when they finally finish for the day and cross the room to him, nodding to a few others as they hastily make their way to the exit with worried looks shot his way.
But as long as the day has been, Zuko looks anything but tired, eyes bright and watchful as Sokka leans a hip on his desk. “I’m okay.” It is soft, enough to only carry between them even if it doesn’t sound entirely truthful.
Sokka would never needle him on it though, and just nods in response. “Ready to go?”
He doesn’t get a reply, only the stiffening of Zuko’s back as he reaches for his things, and the distress from that morning is almost instantly back in full swing. The sweetness of his scent takes on the bitter tang of apprehension and dread, and it is a long moment held between them before Zuko can meet his eyes.
There is an apology in his gaze, where none is needed, and an old anger is instantly stoked in Sokka at the sight. But he says nothing on it, nodding to his mate and taking a step back to give the breath of some space.
“After you.”
~~
The way home is blissfully quiet.
Sokka stays a generous stride behind, easily within reach but not encroaching as he follows Zuko through the palace grounds.
He keeps his eyes on their surroundings, unable to bank the protective instinct as he sends more than one guard a sharp look when they pass. And he must be losing some of the fight on his own control when every one of them immediately averts their gaze and inches away to give them a better buffer.
Because Zuko is a hot mess in front of him, in every possible way, but more than anything the growing anxiety in his scent is making Sokka want to grab the next wayward pair of eyes by the throat and slam them through a stone pillar.
And maybe Zuko is picking up the answering vicious notes in his own scent, because he does pause briefly in the hall of their wing of the palace, face turning towards him just enough to catch the bright gold of his eye. “Thank you.”
For what is irrelevant, but Sokka nods to him with a soft look. “Of course.”
He can see the way Zuko’s jaw tenses, chin dimpling for half a second before he turns away once more and continues to walk. He is straight backed and broad shouldered, heat rising from every tiny inch of skin bared, and to anyone else he would be terrifying.
But Sokka is not just anyone, and regardless of how lethal his mate can be, this is not that.
This is hanging onto the last shreds of control in a clawed and bloody grip, a remnant of past necessity that his instincts have never allowed to falter.
It has always felt right, that Zuko is this way, and Sokka couldn’t imagine a world where he would be anything else. It is impossible not to feel the warmth of alpha pride in his chest at the thought, especially as his eyes linger pointedly on the flushed pinkness of a long healed scar peaking from beneath Zuko’s collar.
That he had been the only one deemed worthy of him.
The memory remains burned into his mind, the brashness and desperation of them both in their youth. The beautiful, deadly, prince snarling in his face as he shoved him back into a tree.
“You know it’s you.” Golden eyes flashing, muscles taut in the arm pinning Sokka’s shoulder. “You know, and you’ve done nothing.”
Accusatory and not, the warning creak of bone on bone but Sokka won’t rise to the bait. “And? You aren’t some prize I’ve won, Zuko. I am not about to force myself on someone unwilling.”
“But you are about to let me walk into a prison unclaimed?” Fangs on full display, lips curling in fury around his words. “What kind of Alpha are you?”
There is the sting of claws at his neck as the grip tightens, and Sokka does snap back then, pushing into the contact enough to bloom the tang of blood into the already scent soaked air between them as a growl thunders through his chest. “Apparently the only decent one you’ve met!”
It is a flash then, fragments of an expression immediately schooled, and if Sokka were any less quick he would have missed it. The pause, the breath, the spike of fury notable in the wildfire of his scent. Anger, but not at him.
And Sokka stops entirely, checking himself back as he watches Zuko. Because the answer is carefully hidden, but not well enough from him.
That someone had tried before, and failed.
And that Zuko is afraid. And he is allowing Sokka to see it.
So he gives to the force against him, ignoring the pain in favour of staring Zuko down. “Do you want me to?”
The snarl is ongoing, lips still curled but Zuko’s breaths are sharp and wounded things as he looks away. Deference, but not the kind that Sokka wants.
“Zuko-”
“-And if I say no?”
Sokka’s head tilts, catching the turbulence of Zuko’s scent as it spikes in every direction. “Then you walk into a prison unclaimed. And I rip apart anyone who tries to change that.”
Another pause, but different this time, and Zuko’s head ducks briefly before he turns back to face Sokka properly. There is a nod, almost imperceptible, but Zuko is smart enough to know that will not be enough. “Do it.”
And Sokka does not hesitate, knowing that every inch of this decision has already been agonized over to reach this point. That Zuko allowing him to lean in at all is assurance enough, even as his teeth ghost over the spot for the briefest of moments before sinking into the silk-soft skin with one firm snap of his jaw, and-
-”Soft.”
Sokka is pulled from his thoughts as his mate turns once more towards him when they near their rooms. “Hm?”
Zuko snorts, scent pulling together a bit less fractured now that safety is closer at hand. “I can smell you. Getting all soft about something.”
Sokka smiles, humming lightly as he stretches, and mentally tallying a little victory in his corner when Zuko’s gaze zeros in on the strip of skin exposed at his belly. “Just thinking about the first time.”
He does fully stop then, one hand halfway reaching for the door to their quarters as he turns with an incredulous look. “Oh yes, so romantic, when we fucked in the dirt like a pair of horny teens.”
Sokka rolls his eyes, more pleased at the dissipating stress in Zuko’s scent than any annoyance could deter. “In case you forgot, we
were
a pair of horny teens. You almost started a forest fire halfway through.”
“Decidedly not my finest moment.”
“I beg to differ.” And he really does, thinking back to the wildness of them both, snarling and snapping and clawing into the dirt, and Zuko burying a set of too-hot omega fangs into his shoulder that burned his own mark to permanence. “You were perfect.”
Zuko sighs, but the hint of a laugh dulls the edges of it as he takes a step towards Sokka.
A surprise in its own right, his normally hates being touched at the start of his heat, needing space from loudness of any variety until he can bring his panicking body back down enough to calm.
So Sokka stills entirely, brow raised in question but hands loose at his sides as Zuko closes the distance and reaches up to tug his chin.
“Soft.”
But he brushes his nose and cheek across the bolt of Sokka’s jaw in the lightest of scent marks, before swiftly releasing his hold and striding into their home.
Sokka barely gets the door shut behind himself before Zuko is shedding layers, rumbling punched out little growls as his frustration grows with each new set of buttons and laces. He can already hear the warning straining of cloth on the verge of ripping as he passes by him to their bathroom, leaning down to start the flow of water into the expansive tub.
He eyes the selection of fancy oils and salt along the side, but thinks better of adding anything complicated without Zuko’s say-so, and instead lets his own palm rest beneath the flow. Both to check the temperature and to simply add his own scent to it, albeit diluted.
Sokka doesn’t hear the footfalls behind him over the water, but he doesn’t have to. The smouldering honey essence of his mate in heat fills the space unhindered by clothing, and his mouth waters instantly at the taste of it in the air.
Zuko is resplendent, crossing to his side while he slings his hair up and out of the way with a long pin. He is blood-flushed and nearly glowing, thighs shiny with a mess of slick as it trails down between them, and he eyes Sokka with a knowing look before taking a step into the full tub.
They don’t say anything, outloud anyway, other than a relieved sigh on Zuko’s part as he lowers his aching body beneath the warmth. And Sokka is happy enough as they are, sitting to his side and pillowing his head on his elbow on the lip of the tub as he watches closely.
Because it is a point that took months to get to initially.
Where Zuko would allow him to see him like this.
Sore, tender-skinned all over with gritted teeth and an arm slung tight across his middle, as the other slips a hand between his legs to try and gain some small relief.
Alone, forever, and now not ever again.
Because Sokka gets to be here, eyes hungry as Zuko snags his own lip in his teeth, and the point of one fang pricks just enough to bead red. The muscles of his forearm flex, legs falling wider as his hips roll into the stroke of his own fingers, moving enough now for the water to displace and lap at the edges as he climbs higher still.
The pain is still there though, distress and discomfort quieter beneath the onslaught of pleasure but not enough to disappear entirely. And Sokka would love nothing more than to slip into the tub behind him and hold him close, to let him shatter apart in his arms instead of against porcelain, but that is not what Zuko needs from him.
So he breathes through the need to move, taking lungfuls of scent rich air that make his cock pulse against his thigh to leave a wet mess in the cloth of his pants. And he stays transfixed on Zuko’s face, to the tense knit between his brows and the growing volume of his whines as his hips stutter beneath the water.
Watching him come feels like watching divinity before him.
And in many ways, for Sokka, it is exactly that.
The privilege of watching his lover unravel, mouth parting to gasp as his free hand snaps out to slam down onto Sokka’s forearm, claws biting in to anchor in his skin as his scent coats the room in bliss.
Zuko does grab for him then, whining in short panicked breaths as his instincts fully take over, and Sokka is there in an instant for the fallout, reaching across the bath to pull him in tightly and nuzzle softly into his cheek.
He doesn’t try to ply him with affirmations, and instead just lets a purr rumble loudly where his chest presses to Zuko’s side, ignoring the dampness of tears he can feel against his throat as Zuko struggles to come back down. His body shakes through a few more waves, and he crumples further on each one, curling up tighter still despite the size of his frame.
Sokka waits, holding him there until the water begins to cool, until Zuko takes a shaky breath and nods against him.
“Take me to bed.”
It is a simple enough thing to hook his arm beneath Zuko’s knees and pull him free from the bath, and it sets his own instincts at ease to have his mate securely in his hold. His scent is growing deeper by the second, but Zuko will fight it to the last moment, always.
And Sokka understands.
So he takes care to set Zuko down on the expanse of their bed, and allow him to slowly release his iron tight grasp on Sokka’s shoulders. And Sokka can’t help the shudder that runs through him, bracing himself on a forearm when Zuko takes the opportunity to nip beneath his scent gland. He licks across it immediately afterwards to soothe it, leaning back against the bed with a heavy breath as Sokka’s heartrate spikes. “Sorry.”
But Sokka just smiles, shaking his head to try and clear the instant fuzziness Zuko caused. “I’m okay.”
He manages to peel himself back with only one quick bite to the inside of his cheek, before walking across their bedroom to throw his own clothing off. It is impossible not to feel the burn of a pointed gaze at his back as he bares himself completely, but it is less about showing off than it is about making things less complicated later on.
His cock is still at the ready, will be until this is over, blood pumped and weeping and oversensitive to even accidentally brush against, but it is not time for that quite yet.
So he stretches languidly, before pulling the covers back and sliding beneath, turning to face his mate and offering his palm between them. “Time for some sleep?”
Zuko blinks, considering. “Some.” He does slide his own hand across, lacing his fingers into Sokka’s and rubbing his thumb rhythmically across his wrist to catch more scent. “I think.”
Sokka smiles and leans forward to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “Wake me up when you need me.”
~~
There are teeth at his neck.
Not quite biting but dragging at the vulnerable skin there, and Sokka’s eyes snap open in an instant as a shiver ripples across his shoulders. “Zuko?”
The breaths against him are ragged, and the inferno of Zuko’s body is pressed tight all along his back as a pained noise is buried against his skin. Zuko’s arms reach to circle his ribs, palms spanning across Sokka’s belly as he hooks one leg over Sokka’s thigh.
Sokka smiles, reaching with a hand to grip Zuko’s hip and pull him in tighter when he feels the slick heat of his cunt grind along the muscle of his leg. “Just like this?”
Zuko nods against him, moaning softly as he gains a small bit of rhythm. “Can I? Sokka can-” The question had been asked already, this time with intention as his teeth grab a little bit harder just at the edge of the mark. His hips work harder, making an absolute mess between them and it is impossible for Sokka not to squirm at the feeling of slickness trailing down to his cock.
Sokka thinks he could come just from that alone, currently, and leans his head back for better access as he nods. “Yes, do it.”
There is no second to think or brace, the moment the words pass his lips there is just the sharp pressure of fangs sinking in. He hisses loudly as it throbs, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs as Zuko’s thighs pinch his own tighter, riding it in messy slides as he purrs happily around his mouthful.
And then there is a hand reaching for him, stroking fingers across the pool of precome and slick currently mixing in the hollow of his hip. Sokka’s mouth drops open on a whine as his cock is circled in Zuko’s palm, hips trying to move but entirely unable, and it doesn’t matter. Zuko does not tease him or even attempt to draw it out, too busy chasing his own pleasure and muffling needy noises against him as he strokes Sokka firmly.
It borders on painful, almost, his cock is so sensitive and swollen that it feels nearly bruised, but Sokka can do nothing but remain as he is. Pinned between teeth and thighs and a hand intent on catching every half stutter his hips manage to make.
He loves it, the unstoppable force of his mate taking what he needs, the scent of them both spreading into one another that will be strong enough to last
weeks
.
Sokka can feel the quick shift of pressure of his knot forming with a growing ache, and Zuko makes a pleased sound as he feels it against his fingers. He comes almost instantly when Zuko’s hand slides further down to encompass it, all slick and tight around him, and his cock makes a mess of them both as he digs his own teeth into a pillow with a growl through each heavy pulse.
Zuko is only a half second behind, hips working feverishly until he stills with a shudder and Sokka fully starts to lose feeling in his leg from how tight it is being grasped between Zuko’s thighs. He pants wet breaths into the skin still held firmly in his jaws, and it is several minutes of intermittent growling before he finally releases the hold.
Sokka hisses a bit at the release, blood flow rushing back to the fresh wound to ooze sluggishly down his collarbone, but he can’t help the smile when Zuko immediately soothes over it with his tongue and nuzzles under his ear. “Feeling better?” His voice is thick to his own ears, coming more from his chest than normal under the influence of barely reined in instincts.
He feels the nod as Zuko relaxes against him with a sigh. “Almost.” He presses a lingering kiss beneath the blooming bruise as his fingers stroke softly over Sokka’s sternum. “That helped the most. Sorry.”
Sokka snorts. “Ah yes, what an awful time I just had. The things I do for love.” He gestures to the mess of come in front of him, alongside his still hard cock laying across the crease of his hip.
But Zuko is barely listening it seems, already tucking his nose back right beside the mark he just remade to take long inhales of Sokka’s scent, nipping at a new spot just to the side of it. The heat of his body has only grown, as if a patch of blazing summer sunlight has seen fit to wrap around Sokka’s frame, scent wild and dangerous with need.
Sokka turns in his arms, dislodging Zuko slightly but his mate only blinks at him with eyes a little too black as he settles back. The ache of oversensitivity is finally gone, or at least is able to be fully ignored judging by the immediate shimmy on Zuko’s part to get closer into his hold. “Now?”
He already knows the answer, couldn’t miss it with a not very subtle rock against his hips as Zuko tries to get a bit of friction.
But he will always ask.
And Zuko nods, fingers reaching to thread through Sokka’s hair and tilt him closer, not to kiss but just to nip at his jaw for a moment. “Your mouth, first.” Then there are lips on his, heated and sweet as a tongue slips through to stroke along his own, and Sokka makes a pleased hum against him as his cock kicks at the thought.
Zuko doesn’t always enjoy it during his heats, sometimes simply just too afraid of doing actual harm to Sokka to allow himself to relax into it, no matter how assuring Sokka tries to be.
So he knows better than to try his luck and attempt to get Zuko to sit on his face, as much as he might adore that position best, normally. But even so, he has no complaints in getting to slide down Zuko’s body and press his lips to his throat, his sternum, ducking to the side to lick across the swell of his chest and suck a nipple into his mouth until the fingers in his hair tighten with warning.
Zuko’s breaths come in staggered little pants as Sokka nips along his belly, legs falling wider to make space until Sokka reaches to pull them over his shoulders.
The first taste of him is the most addictive thing he thinks he’s ever known, tongue sliding through the near scorching slickness like sweet warmed honey and he can do nothing but moan against him and delve deeper. It is all pure Zuko, all his mate, scent and taste mingling together until it is indistinguishable and he can feel every inch of tightening pleasure in his lover as it takes over all of his own senses.
He has always loved this, the high thready whines he can barely hear through the vice hold of thighs on his face, the claws tangling in his hair to pull him in harder, and the fine tremble in Zuko’s hips with every arching writhe to meet him.
Sokka keeps his eyes on him, unable to look away from the high flush to his face and sheen of sweat as Zuko’s head tips back with his teeth buried in his lip. He follows the movement, stroking one hand up the shuddering muscles of his belly to palm his chest, teasing at his nipple with gentle flicks of his thumb.
He can feel the rumble of a growl- even if he can’t hear anything but the thud of Zuko’s pulse through his thigh- as blown out eyes meet his. But Zuko doesn’t make any move to stop him, instead reaching to grab his other hand and place it on the unoccupied side.
Sokka doesn’t hesitate to oblige and doubles down his efforts, cock throbbing needily where it is pressed into the bedding but he doubts anything in existence could pry him away from the task at hand right now. And he is quickly losing himself in it, rumbling happily into every pass of his tongue, licking deeper and deeper until his nose rubs against Zuko’s clit, tongue fucking into him with short quick strokes the way he knows Zuko loves.
And Zuko is quickly falling apart around him, thighs pressed so tight it makes Sokka’s jaw ache, muscles tensing as he squirms within his hold.
Sokka can feel the precipice climbing with each heated pulse of slick that tracks down his chin and neck, greedily licking and sucking him clean to get as much of the taste as he can, but it is barely a few more seconds before there are claws in his forearms as Zuko starts to come.
He is so beautiful like this, messy and halfway to feral as he fully grinds against Sokka’s face with a snarl. The points of his claws dig into Sokka’s skin as he tosses his head back, voice tapering to a whine as Sokka doesn’t let up, licking and sucking through every shudder until Zuko’s legs fall free of him.
Sokka still doesn’t move from his preferred place, nuzzling happily into the softness of Zuko’s inner thigh and gently biting little red marks into it as he waits for him to come back down. The satisfaction hanging heavily in Zuko’s scent has his own instincts preening as a hand slides back into his hair to pet through the strands.
Zuko huffs a laugh, eyeing him with a brow raised. “If you had a tail it would be thumping the bed right now.” It is barely a hoarse rasp, his voice already half gone from strain, but his mouth curves into a soft smile when Sokka nips him properly in response.
“Shocking, truly, that I love making my husband come.” He rolls his eyes, but grins right back as he leans up to rest his chin just below Zuko’s navel. “You are okay?”
Zuko tilts his head with an almost unbearably grateful look as he nods. “Yes. Faster now though, I’m already…” He pauses to blow his breath out slowly, shaking his head like he is trying to clear it.
And Sokka can feel it, the miniscule movement of the hips beneath him, the scent of need that hasn’t really backed off at all, starting to overtake everything else. He lets his palm rest on Zuko’s belly, stroking gently over the fatigued muscles as he nods. “Any preference?”
But Zuko is already moving, nudging Sokka free to push him onto his back and following him over to straddle his hips. And Sokka barely has a second to brace himself before his cock is suddenly sinking into the slick inferno of his mate’s body, sheathing completely and grasping for Zuko’s hips just to have something to hang onto.
Zuko purrs loudly as he seats himself, shifting slightly to accommodate the spread of his already swollen cunt and smiling as he settles fully. But there is only a moment of peace before his eyes blink unfocused, a bit of panic once again creeping into his scent as he reaches for Sokka’s hands. “Sokka, Sokka I need-”
And Sokka is already adjusting, sitting up to pull Zuko flush to his lap and wrapping his arms around his waist to anchor him tight and close. “I’m right here, I’ve got you.” He rocks a bit with the movement, breathing against the relentless pleasure of fucking slightly further in. He can already feel his knot trying to reform, all the tender pressure building lightning quick in response to finally being inside.
Zuko nods, burying his nose directly into Sokka’s neck where his scent is strongest and sliding an arm over his shoulder to secure himself. “Fuck,
fuck
, move baby.”
It isn’t quick, they are too molded to one another for anything other than a slow rock back and forth but the feeling of being so entwined is another level of perfection.
Sokka can feel every hitch to Zuko’s breath as they climb together, tugging him forward with an arm across his hips to angle him just right. And there is nothing but desperate gasps against his neck as his knot begins to find purchase, an endless chorus of
please, please, please
, until he catches properly.
Zuko’s breath rushes out of him the second he’s tied, hips working to pull him even deeper as the knot continues to swell, and Sokka doesn’t let up even as his balls draw up and he starts to come, too intent on seeing his mate fall right along with him.
It doesn’t take much, his hand barely skims over the stretch of skin at Zuko’s belly before his cock is suddenly being squeezed as the cunt around it spasms. Wave after wave until a gush of slick slips from around him to soak them both as Zuko heaves breaths into the open air that feel just a bit too hot.
But fire hazard aside, Sokka feels nothing but peace and rightness in the moment, tied tight and entirely tangled with the man he loves more than anything.
And the feeling passes between them with ease, Zuko catching enough air to press his lips to Sokka’s brow and whisper. “Bite me next time.”
~~
The time between gets shorter and shorter with every round, until there is no space for his knot to even come down before Zuko is snarling and grabbing for him again.
He did bite him the next time, with Zuko on his hands and knees and Sokka’s fangs buried in his neck and that alone was enough to make him come before they even started, gushing around Sokka’s fingers as his body went loose and pliant within his grasp.
Sokka had managed to pull away long enough afterwards to get some food, but it took a decent amount of coaxing to get Zuko to accept anything amid the feverish rush to get back to business. In the end it came down to keeping the plate on the bed and managing to get a few bites of fruit into him for the few seconds of somewhat lucidity immediately post-orgasm.
Zuko’s heat finally breaks as dawn starts to crack through the seam of darkness outside, and both of them are so exhausted at the end of the final round they only manage a slow roll with both of them on their sides.
But it is still lovely, to knot him like this, and hold him close to his chest as sleep finally begins to take them.
Because he gets to smell the contentment, the happiness, the comfort, he has given his mate, the way only he can.
And there is something so perfect about Zuko mumbling and turning his head to look at him with knowing eyes.
“Soft.”
Sokka smiles, closing the miniscule distance to kiss his cheek and rest his head on Zuko’s temple. “For you?
Always.”
~~
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
let's give 'em something to talk about
they think we're lovers, kept undercover
i just ignore it, but they keep saying we
laugh just a little too loud
stand just a little too close
we stare just a little too long
— bonnie raitt, something to talk about
-:-
The whispers don’t bother him, at first.
It’s only natural that the rumor mill would follow the five of them around after their rescue and return from Scarif. The Council offers them medals (all of them refuse). There’s talk of them being heroes, gossip turning them from men to myths. It’s a twisted version of the true tale that goes around the base.
Cassian grits his teeth and bears it. He has more important things to worry about.
-:-
His first night at home is spent entirely in the med bay, half unconscious most of the time, and only awake to be fussed over and given bacta patches, medicine, stitches, what have you. He hates hospitals, but it’s not like he can get up and walk out.
Jyn comes by his makeshift room – really just a curtain, separating him from Bodhi – late that night when he’s lying in bed struggling to breathe for the nightmares and the injuries.
She looks smaller, silhouetted in the moonlight. Almost fragile, like a dream. Like if he touches her, she’ll shatter.
Still, she’s in better shape than him. She presses a warm hand to his forehead, strokes his hair out of the way. Cassian can’t breathe for an entirely different reason when she kneels down at his bedside.
“Hey,” she murmurs. Her voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before. There’s a world of something else in that
hey
, something flickering at the edges of her touch, but he can’t think about that right now. Can’t think about anything, really, not now.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks her, a wry smile twisting his lips. Jyn ducks her head. “Nightmares or the medicine?”
It’s meant to be an easy conversation, but she says, “I was worried about you,” and his heart stutters to a staccato instead.
“I’ll be fine.” It’s an old, practiced lie, one he’s told himself a million times to get through the night. Jyn doesn’t buy it, he knows, but she doesn’t question it either. Her fingers trail down his face, passing like ghosts over his cheekbone, his jaw.
Cassian gulps. Jyn’s hand goes still.
“I should go,” she says. It occurs to him now that she’d come in here to make sure he was alive.
Mindful of his injuries, he lifts his good arm to wrap a hand around her wrist, keeping her tethered to him. She hadn’t made any move to leave, despite her words, but she looks surprised at his motion, like she’d expected him to just let her leave, or push her away.
Even the thought is impossible. “You can stay,” he says, struggling not to sound too hopeful. Jyn’s hand flutters down his neck and presses soft over his breastbone, measuring his heartbeat. The hospital shirt he’s in is just open enough for her to touch bare skin.
“Okay,” she whispers, tracing a scar near his collarbone. It’s an old one, from before Scarif, not even visible anymore, but her touch makes it feel like it’s on fire.
With some effort, Cassian manages to let go of her hand and move over in his bed, just enough for her to climb in next to him. His body protests every movement, but it doesn’t matter when she curls up into his side, tucking her head into his neck, her hair haloing out on the pillow.
She’s shaking, just a little, her breaths coming shuddery over his skin. He can’t quite wrap an arm around her, so he leans his head on top of hers and listens for her heartbeat, steadying his breathing for her.
Eventually, her body goes quiet at his side.
-:-
When he wakes up, she’s gone, but he’d expected that. The beds aren’t built for two people, and the medical droids are constantly checking on them. Even if she hadn’t left herself, they would have moved her.
What he doesn’t expect are the looks.
He gets well-wishers, more than any of the other four, all the people who wanted to thank him, congratulate him, mourn the dead with him. Other spies and soldiers, sometimes children, drifting in and out of his bedside whenever he’s awake. After a few days, he gets used to it.
It’s one of the kids who cracks the glass wall they’ve been hiding him behind. “You and Jyn Erso,” begins the boy, barely fifteen and so much like Cassian already, but he and his sister exchange conspiratorial glances that hint at the childhood they’ve yet to have stolen from them.
His sister elbows him, giggling, and he doesn’t finish the sentence. Cassian stares at him, somewhere between amused and annoyed.
“Me and Jyn Erso
what
?”
The girl shifts from foot to foot and shrugs. “Isn’t she – like – your girlfriend?”
Cassian coughs, hard. The idea of applying a word as mundane as
girlfriend
to Jyn –
Jyn
, who he had thought he would
die
with, Jyn, who he would die
for
– is as ridiculous as the idea that he and Jyn are some sort of grand rebel romance to these kids. He doesn’t laugh in their faces, but he can’t take it seriously enough to answer.
Luckily, a medical droid comes by and shoos them away to run diagonistics on him. He would like to say he doesn’t keep thinking about it long after everyone leaves, but he kind of does.
-:-
Jyn ends up in his room more often than he might admit when he finally gets to move out of the med bay.
She leans against the wall his first day back, watching as he settles in, everything untouched from before Scarif. Her eyes are keen; he might feel embarrassed if his room had any personal touches whatsoever.
“Where have you been staying?” he asks her, tossing her a glance over his shoulder.
She looks like she’s being swallowed by the sunlight, filtering in through the window. Her hair is up in a ponytail, strands still falling in her face. He looks away too fast.
“They gave me a room.”
Her voice is dismissive, bored. She doesn’t seem to care for the actual mundane reality of the Rebellion any more now than she had before Scarif. He wonders whose room they gave her, if he’d known them. How she sleeps in it.
Cassian drifts closer to her, tired of rearranging his pillows, pretending he doesn’t want to be near her. Jyn watches him, her lips parting, green eyes bright and catlike as she catalogues his movements. He reaches a hand up and brushes his fingers over her cheek, so soft she almost melts into his arms.
He opens his mouth to say something, when the door opens.
This, he thinks with a certain amount of disgruntlement, looks like it’s going to be a problem.
-:-
Whoever keeps spreading rumors of him and Jyn sleeping together every time she so much as stops by his room is going to get decked if Cassian ever finds them.
“I mean, we’re
not
,” he complains to Bodhi one afternoon, the two of them wiling the time away by upgrading a ship. Neither of them are healed enough to be on proper missions yet, so they make themselves useful in whatever ways they can. “Sleeping together, I mean.”
Bodhi doesn’t say anything, but he raises an eyebrow at him. Skeptical. Cassian wills the flush on his cheeks to cool.
“She – she has nightmares,” he explains, knowing he sounds too defensive and unable to do anything about it. “That’s it.”
“But you are, ah, sleeping together,” Bodhi points out, not looking away from the roof of the ship as he fiddles with the machinery instead. “In the most innocent sense of the word.”
Cassian grumbles, but can’t argue. Bodhi doesn’t press him, but he does seem a little smug about it.
-:-
He’s gotten too used to having Jyn in his bed to stop just because of a few rumors. At this point, he’s not sure he can fall asleep without her.
She always waits until the base is more or less quiet, buzzing instead of bustling with activity, before she slips into his room in the night, arms wrapped around herself, eyes too wide in the darkness. He doesn’t think he even knows how to say no to her anymore; he keeps a space in his bed carved out for her on instinct these days.
“Did I wake you?” she asks the second night, the words warm against his neck. She sounds only the slightest bit apologetic, doesn’t seem to regret it much at all.
“No.” Cassian lifts one arm – the good one, still careful with it – and manages to drape it over her waist. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
Jyn huffs out a breath that sounds like it could become a laugh if she weren’t so tired. An involuntary shiver sneaks down his spine. She pretends not to notice.
“My room is so cold,” she mutters. Her hand is splayed over his chest, hot through the thin fabric of his nightshirt. He doesn’t see how that’s possible, given her body heat, but her teeth are chattering so he presses his lips to her forehead until she relaxes.
“I don’t think it’s the room temperature,” he muses, right on the edge of sleep when all his filters are down. “I think it’s the nightmares.”
Jyn makes a soft noise in the back of her throat and presses closer to him, tangling her arm around him. “You’re warm,” she murmurs, her body shifting against his, touching at too many points to count, in too many ways that make him feel –
Cassian swallows. He certainly
feels
warm. Sleep is a welcome respite from the emotions she evokes.
-:-
She’s assigned a mission off-base before he’s cleared for active duty again, and he can’t pretend it doesn’t bother him.
He doesn’t blame her for going. She feels useless sitting around on her injuries, as they all do, and she hates the base. Hates the banal reality of the rebellion. Hates the way people look at her, half in awe and half terrified. Jyn Erso, equal parts the daughter of an Imperial scientist, and the rebel who stole the Death Star plans.
Of course she wants to leave. He just hadn’t thought how empty it would feel with her gone.
“You’re moping,” Baze informs him. Cassian looks up from reconfiguring a sniper to frown at him.
“I am not,” he says, although he’s aware the petulance in his tone doesn’t help his case. “I’m just trying to keep busy.”
Chirrut nudges his foot with his staff. “You miss her.”
Cassian turns his scowl on Chirrut. “Of course I miss her. That’s not the point.”
Except, that’s kind of every point. Baze and Chirrut exchange looks that make him grind his teeth. What would
they
know? Him and Jyn, whatever they are, it belongs to them. The fact that everyone on the base seems to think it’s their business is salt in the wound. Surely, after Scarif, they deserved some privacy?
-:-
Privacy, he surmises, is a myth on Yavin 4. Even Mon Mothma seems to have heard the tales.
“Jyn will be returning tonight, if all goes well,” she tells him, drops it casual into a conversation they’d been having about the situation on Tatooine. Cassian stops and stares at her, unable to disguise the emotions flickering across his face fast enough.
“I thought you would like to know,” she says after a beat of silence. “Since she is your…”
Cassian’s eyes narrow.
“Partner,” Mon Mothma amends. A diplomatic save, but still a switch from whatever she’d meant to say.
Cassian sighs. “Does nobody on this base have better things to do than gossip?”
Mon Mothma smiles, amused. “Certainly, but you must admit you and your gang of rebels are a very worthy subject of discussion. Everyone wants a piece of the heroes, Captain Andor.”
“But my love life?” he protests, and only realizes too late what he’s said.
To her credit, Mon Mothma doesn’t point it out. He’s sure the heat on his cheeks is answer enough.
-:-
She comes back more or less in one piece, although she doesn’t go find him first. It annoys him more than he wants to admit, but he manages to track her down in the cargo bay, conversing in hushed tones with Bodhi as she wraps a bandage around her hand.
Bodhi takes one look at him and scampers off. He doesn’t know what his face looks like, but he’s sure it’s not pretty.
“Stop that,” Jyn says before he even gets a chance to open his mouth. Her voice is light, her tone bored. She barely glances up from her bandage.
His brow furrows. “Stop what?”
Jyn’s eyes flick up to his face and she waves her good hand in a vague gesture. “Being all moody. I thought we’d moved past this.”
“I’m not moody,” he says, wounded.
She raises an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you? Bodhi says you’ve been grumpy ever since – ”
Ever since I left.
Jyn pauses, licks her lips. Cassian’s a little gratified to see the topic is just as uncomfortable for her as it is for him. Feelings are neither of their strong suits, which is unfortunate for the rest of the rebels.
He decides to save her the trouble. “Well, you’d be moody too if I’d gone and left you alone to deal with all these giggling gossipmongers.”
The way his lip curls in a sneer over the last two words is enough to tease a smile out of her. Cassian finds himself returning it, helpless to do anything else. It’s been so long since he saw her smile.
“Are they still at it?” Jyn looks around the bay, notes the people sneaking glances at the two of them, and rolls her eyes. “What’s the big deal? We’re just sleeping together.”
She says this loud enough to be overheard. Cassian jumps and shoots her a glare. She seems more amused by the flush crawling up his neck than anything else.
“Can you – just once – make my life easier?” he asks her.
Jyn grins and hops up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “No.”
At least one of them is getting some enjoyment out of this mess.
-:-
He doesn’t complain when she’s constantly over at his room; his quarters are much nicer than hers, perks of being a captain and all, and he enjoys her company. She doesn’t look so haunted anymore, a month after Scarif, and he thinks that he doesn’t either, at least not around her. It’s not an unwelcome feeling.
He
does
complain when she does things like opening his bedroom door while he’s in the shower, as if she doesn’t very well
know
what’s going to happen.
“Oh, sorry!” says the teenage girl standing on the other side when he steps out of the refresher and levels a glare at Jyn. He’s in a
towel
, for crying out loud. “I just needed – Captain Andor’s signature for the – you know what, I’ll come back.”
She scurries off, no doubt to go tell her friends what she’s seen. Cassian heaves a sigh, runs a hand through his soaking wet hair, and pretends not to notice the laughter Jyn is hiding behind her smile.
“I’m pretty sure they’re writing a gossip column on our torrid affair,” she informs him with an easy smirk, leaning back on his bed and watching him sort through his clothes. Cassian sends her a dirty look. “If the Alliance had a newspaper, what would it be called? Rebellion Weekly?”
“Turn around,” is all he says. She doesn’t, of course, but it’s worth a shot. “You know, I had a
reputation
before you came along.”
“Oh?” Jyn trails her gaze up his body as he pulls on his jeans. He struggles not to blush. “What was it? Emotionally stunted rebel spy, too frigid for a good lay?”
“Shut up.” But he’s laughing, which he thinks is the point. She makes him feel light again, no matter how much darkness they both carry within themselves. He doesn’t have to worry about her taking things the wrong way, or even the right way. They’ve gone through too much not to understand each other.
Besides which, he likes this game. He’s pretty sure it’s the only aspect of life on a rebel base that she enjoys.
“I’ll have you know, I was a perfect gentleman before I started sleeping around with girls who would rather steal a ship and run away than listen to the Council’s orders,” he tells her, only half joking, his shirt forgotten on the chair. “That’s why they’re so shocked, you know. You’re not my type.”
“Good thing you’re not actually sleeping with me, then,” she retorts, but something’s changed in her eyes. Something beyond just amusement. Cassian feels a spark of heat sizzle up his spine; the room feels crowded all of a sudden, full of nothing but him and her and the space between.
There is very little space between.
He looks down at her, still perched on the edge of his bed like she belongs there. She lifts her chin to meet his gaze, defiant as ever, but with a tenderness to the set of her mouth that hadn’t always been there when he looked at her.
Cassian lifts one hand and strokes it down her cheek, her jaw, lingering right alongside her mouth. Jyn wets her lips, a hungry sort of expectancy in her gaze. The ferocity of his wanting,
her
wanting, crashes through him, tugging him downwards, and he understands, then, why everyone thinks this is already happening.
Jyn meets him halfway and it is exactly as glorious as he’d been imagining. She clutches at his shoulders, drawing him in until their noses bump and their foreheads touch, her palms hot over his bare skin. Cassian tumbles onto the bed, partly her fault, partly his, and her weight is warm and delicious beneath him in a way it hadn’t been when they had just been sleeping together.
This is something new, something real. Something free of nightmares and the ghost of the war hanging over them.
He kisses her full of desperation, a longing he hadn’t realized he needed to satisfy burning on the tip of his tongue. Jyn curls her fingers into his hair and pulls him in until there is no point where their bodies aren’t touching. All his nerves seem to end in fire as she kisses him, messy and hot and hungry, barely pausing for breath.
“Cassian,” she whispers when they part for breath, trailing one hand down his back and inciting shivers everywhere she touches.
“Mm?”
“We have a meeting in half an hour.”
Cassian groans and drops his head into the crook of her neck, listening to her shake with silent laughter with no small amount of resentment. He has a brief vision of the two of them stumbling into a meeting with the Council, hair in disarray and smelling of sex, and the thought is mortifying enough to cool his desire to get her clothes off, just a little.
Not enough to stop him, though.
“We can be late,” he dismisses, pressing a kiss to her collarbone that has her sucking in a sharp breath. “We’re heroes. They’ll live.”
Jyn breathes out a laugh of delighted surprise. “I didn’t know you had that in you, Captain Andor,” she teases, looking impressed when he draws his head up to drink in the sight of her again. “And all this for a girl?”
Cassian grins. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, even though she’s right. Jyn smiles up at him, brilliant and hopeful, and it’s hard to even think about anything outside the walls of his bedroom when she’s looking at him like that.
So, he doesn’t.
-:-
The whispers don’t stop, of course, but at least now there’s some truth to them.
And if maybe he lets them get caught kissing in the corridors once or twice just for fun, well, nobody else needs to know that they do it on purpose.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Kaveh was nervous.
The Dendro Archon advised the rest of the group that Alhaitham would begin the process of breaking the curse that caused Kaveh to lose his memories. He was scheduled to start today, and Kaveh was nervous.
Even if Lord Kusanali could walk Kaveh through the process, it was not a reassurance that things would go well. He could not help but wonder, though, about what Alhaitham was to him before he lost his memories.
Why was Alhaitham the only one who could do this for Kaveh? Why was Alhaitham too eager to do this for him despite the risks and consequences?
They were roommates, but were they only roommates? Alhaitham looked at Kaveh as if he had known Kaveh his whole life. Maybe he once did. Right now, Kaveh was not really Kaveh, incomplete without any recollection of who he was or what the things he stood up for have been.
His own history gone, the context of Kaveh lost in the desert like the wind washing away the sand.
Kaveh lifted his half-finished cup of coffee to his lips. He was lost in his thoughts for far too long, as the coffee has long since gone cold. He drank the rest of it before putting the cup by the sink. As he made his way back to the living area, the front door of the house was unlocked and pushed open.
Alhaitham was back, with Nahida in tow. That meant that they were able to finish the preparations at the Sanctuary of Surasthana. That meant Alhaitham should be ready to attempt ending the curse and bringing Kaveh’s memories back.
The scribe was silent, while Nahida touched Kaveh’s hand and asked, "Kaveh, how do you feel?"
Kaveh could not look away from Alhaitham, trying to watch the younger man’s expressions. When the scribe simply sat down and opened a book, it felt like nothing big was about to take place. Kaveh turned to the Dendro Archon and said, "I am okay, Lord Kusanali. Did everything go well?"
Nahida nodded with a smile, "We had a bit of trouble, but we had enough help. We can start the process now."
"Are you sure?" Kaveh asked Nahida, before turning to Alhaitham.
He closed the book he was reading and headed to the bedroom without saying anything. Nahida smiled at Kaveh once more before gesturing that they both should follow the scribe.
Once they were in the bedroom, Alhaitham removed his cape and his belt, putting them on the side of the bed before lying down. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"Wait!" Kaveh exclaimed, "What’s going to happen now?"
Nahida opened her palms to channel her power to the man on the bed, saying, "Alhaitham has to enter a coma-like state. He dreams of your curse, and that’s the only passageway that we can enter as of the moment. We had the Traveler and the General Mahamatra seek out other possibilities of physically entering the bubble, but it’s uncertain that a path could exist. We cannot wait for their reports as we have to start as soon as we can."
"And then? How could I help?"
Nahida nodded to the chair near the bed. "You should sit down and rest, Kaveh. If Alhaitham were to be successful, you would most likely feel the effects directly."
After Kaveh obeyed the Lord of Dendro, Nahida turned back to Alhaitham and continued to feed him energy until she glowed a deep shade of lush green. Kaveh watched her do her work until Alhaitham gasped for air, immediately pushing himself into a sitting position. Nahida ceased the whole operation.
Kaveh almost sprinted out of the room to fetch him a glass of water. Wordlessly, Alhaitham accepted the offer and drank his fill, handing Kaveh the empty cup before lying down once more.
"Maybe we should wait," Nahida told Alhaitham. "We weren’t able to breach the first layer as expected."
"How can I help?" Kaveh repeated, looking directly at Alhaitham. "I hate it. You’re doing all of this for me, and yet I am rendered useless to everyone. I can’t just sit here and watch you risk your life just to get my memories back."
Someone knocked on the door. Nahida perked up and immediately floated towards the bedroom door, "I think I should get that. Must be Tighnari. I have something to discuss with him as well."
After Nahida left the room, Kaveh turned back to Alhaitham, "Please? It fills me with dread, knowing how much of a sacrifice this is for you, and yet I cannot even lift a finger to do something."
Alhaitham shook his head, "I cannot have you go weak right now, Kaveh. Especially not this early. I cannot go through this with you filled with hesitation and regret. It won’t work. You have to be prepared for whatever happens from this point on."
"You mean, it’s not just a one-time thing?"
Alhaitham tried to look at Kaveh. He really tried, like he was scanning his face for something he was searching for. After a while, the scribe gave him a sad smile and said, "I have six chances to get this right, or else the memories I will fail to gather will be lost forever."
"Six times?" Kaveh echoed. "You will be placed in a coma six times!"
"It won’t be long, perhaps," said Alhaitham. "I would need a few hours—half a day at most. The dream landscape could be a bit hard to navigate. I could tell you about it when I learn about it more, alright? I just need you to be strong right now, Kaveh. It would help me."
"Really?" Kaveh then wiped the tears that had almost formed in his eyes. "I will try my best, so you better try your best, too."
Alhaitham nodded before closing his eyes again.
As if on cue, Nahida and Tighnari stepped into the room. Tighnari was all business, immediately examining Alhaitham’s physique as thoroughly as he could. He turned to Nahida, "His vitals are okay right now, but we need to monitor him the moment he slips into a coma. I was able to brew tea from some mushrooms and the henna berries that Candace was able to provide. It should help him gain his energy back after he wakes up."
He took a bottle from his bag and placed it on the bedside table. He took a smaller vial and handed it to Kaveh, "Hold onto this. Dehya and Nilou were able to assist me in making this. It’s an ointment that you should rub on his skin every hour while he’s unconscious to make sure his body remains hydrated and vitalized."
Kaveh looked at the vial as Tighnari continued to assist Nahida with preparations. They fluffed Alhaitham’s pillow and gave him some powder to put under his tongue.
After a minute, Alhaitham’s breathing went even, and Nahida started to channel her energy the way she had earlier. This time, Tighnari assisted by monitoring Alhaitham’s vitals.
A few more minutes passed. Tighnari’s ear kept on twitching. He frowned, "His heart rate is getting too fast."
"We’re almost there," gritted Nahida as she squeezed her eyes shut.
"Got it," Tighnari activated his own vision and placed both hands on Alhaitham’s chest. Kaveh watched them concentrate, willing himself to be strong and not resort to tears, until Nahida pulled away. Tighnari followed.
"He’s in," Nahida confirmed. "Now, we wait."
"I will continue to monitor his vitals," Tighnari looked at Kaveh. "You can sit closer to us if you want. He would be comforted with that, I feel."
Kaveh scooted his chair closer to the bed, watching Alhaitham’s stable breathing. It looked like the man had just fallen into a deep slumber, not into a coma in order to enter a dream to break an ancient curse.
Alhaitham stepped on clear water. It was not solid at all. The water was able to hold him up perfectly as the surface tension failed to break, with everything in the realm frozen in time.
He wondered if this was the last clear blue sky King Deshret ever saw before his descent into madness or if he was able to feel at peace in those moments between the death of Nabu Malikata and the second Apep swallowed him whole.
He looked around at the silent paradise, hoping for a clue on where to go and what to do next.
In the meantime, he walked towards the center island of the realm, where there were empty wooden chairs huddled in the middle. Alhaitham thought about what kind of conversations these gods must have had in the endlessness of the quiet.
The moment his foot touched the grass, a small shadow crept up from behind the three in an attempt to escape. A soft mop of blond hair was seen as the scribe immediately chased after the shadow. It was gone.
Was it really a shadow?
Alhaitham looked around and saw no trace of what he saw. He looked at the tree where it was hidden. Curious, he touched the tree. His hand glowed bright blue. He began to speak of the words, not as an antithesis of the curse that started it all, but as a companion piece to unlock what had been sealed.
Amidst endless sandstorms, our flowers endure
Memories of us are clear mirrors of reflection pure
Anger, sorrow, and regret born from falsehood lure
Offer taken, given back: all my love follows cure
The glow that surrounded his hand disappeared. Tree leaves started to fall around him. A tug on his cape had Alhaitham whirling around. So, it was not a shadow.
It was Kaveh.
A very young Kaveh.
Alhaitham reached out to pluck away a leaf that fell on top of the child’s head, "Are you lost, little one?"
The boy immediately cried out, offended, "I am not little! I take care of Mama just fine. I had to, so I am no longer little!"
"You had to?" Alhaitham echoed. "That’s very brave of you. I did not imply that you are incapable of looking after your mom, it was just because… you are indeed little."
"I have to be strong! I have to continue looking after my Mama! Or else…"
"Or else?" Alhaitham prompted.
Young Kaveh began to cry, "Or else she will leave me too, just like Papa did. He said he will only join that fun competition to enjoy and win so we can be proud of him, but it was not fun at all. They all went to the desert and Papa… Papa never came back."
Alhaitham knelt down in front of the boy. Now, he knows exactly what he was dealing with here. He was a fragment of Kaveh’s memory, manifested into phantasmal beings that could exist in a realm that provided them with that stillness and that quiet. This place has been where Kaveh’s memories were kept, and fragments of him continue to exist here.
It meant Kaveh would gain his memories portion by portion, and he would feel all the emotions brought together with each fragment as if he were experiencing them for the first time.
But that’s something to think about later. Now, Alhaitham has to talk to this boy named Kaveh, who just lost his father, struggling to deal with his and his mother’s grief, and perhaps convince him to come home.
"Do you want to cry it out?"
Young Kaveh lifted his chin up with a proud huff, "Cry? I am tough! Mama already cries a lot, so I cannot do that. There are maaaany things to be done!"
"Like what? School?"
"Not just school. Cooking, cleaning, washing the dishes, washing the clothes, making sure the plants are alive, and making sure we have enough mora to buy things. Many more, too!" Young Kaveh looked proud of himself. "Kaveh has no time to cry."
Alhaitham hummed, "But do you want to?"
"...No."
The scribe opened his arms, "How about a hug instead? You deserve that much for being a good, kind, and strong young man."
Young Kaveh examined Alhaitham’s face, as if he were discerning if he was a bad guy. After a while, the boy walked towards him and tried to place his hands around the scribe’s neck, pressing himself against Alhaitham. The scribe embraced the boy, rubbing his small back. The hug got too comfortable after a few seconds, as the boy suddenly began to wail.
He cried and sobbed and screamed, breaking the silence that shrouded the realm with voiced pain. Alhaitham hugged the Young Kaveh harder, trying to condense all of his words into a singular action.
He was too young to have lost this much. He was too young to have grown up too fast. Alhaitham wished Kaveh never gone through something like this. It was as if he lost both of his parents at once, and yet the scribe could understand how things happened that led to this situation in Kaveh’s past.
He, too, with everything that the scribe knew now, could understand what Kaveh’s mother went through. To lose someone in the sands, it’s the dull hope that kept on hitting the back of Alhaitham’s neck like he was being decapitated by a blade that has never been sharpened for a couple decades. A small glimmer of hope that was meant to kill him but not quite got there. To live with it forever, then? It was only understandable that Kaveh’s mother felt what she did.
Understandable, yes, but acceptable? Not really. She had a boy who had been hurting too, as if there was a double-edged sword lodged in his small body. The pain of losing his father and the pain of seeing his mother were wrought with grief and hopelessness. A child who had to adjust, to keep his steps light, his demands reasonable, and his needs barely met.
This has been Kaveh’s groundbreaking, the overexcavation and recompaction of his life that had to be done to build forth the intended foundations that made him the unshakable person that he has become.
After what felt like forever, the boy’s wails began to slow down into sniffles, his shoulders shaking. Alhaitham let him wipe his tears using the scribe’s cape.
"I am sleepy," remarked Young Kaveh.
"Alright. Do you want to go home now?"
The boy frowned, "You know my house? You know where I live? Who are you?"
Alhaitham wiped the stray tears that kept on falling with his thumb, "You will know who I am soon enough, and I hope you won’t regret it."
"Why would I? I cried all over and you didn't hate me. It’s nice. I can’t do that around my mom because then she will cry too, and I don’t want to hurt her even more," Young Kaveh looked down at his feet for a few seconds before taking a long, deep breath.
He looked at Alhaitham with newfound strength and asked, "Are you really going to take me home?"
"Yes, if you want to."
"I want to," nodded the young boy.
Alhaitham offered a hand, and the Young Kaveh immediately took it. They walked towards the entrance of the paradise. Alhaitham looked up at the ever-changing blue sky of the realm, "Nahida. We’re ready."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
When they arrived at the threshold, Emmrich was grateful none of his living neighbors were about. He hurriedly summoned his key and opened the door, allowing Mona to enter first.
His home was far grander than his alcove in the Lighthouse. Plush purple Fustian velvet sofa and chairs, Orlesian rugs, Nevarran skulls, all surrounding an unlit stone fireplace. Shelves were half-bare, dust gathering where books were missing. A small kitchen, a dining table with two settings. They could not see any other rooms from his entryway, but he hoped to give her a tour later.
“You have a lovely home, Emmrich.”
“Thank you, darling! Years of hunting for the perfect furnishings have paid off, I believe.” He closed his front door and began removing his dowry, as though he had never left. Rings and bracelets fell into the bowl on the table, followed by his glove. His coat was hung on his hat stand with care. “I only acquired that sofa a few months before Bellara began writing to me. A colleague begged that anyone but their family receive it when they died, and I was lucky enough to be considered.” He remembered them fondly.
“Looks comfortable,” she commented politely. He could watch the gears turn in her mind and walked behind her, arms wrapping around her waist.
“Perhaps another time, my love,” he whispered into her ear, and she giggled.
“You did
not
know that’s what I was thinking!”
“Call it plausible conjecture.”
She turned around in his embrace, moving both her hands to his face. She brought him down for a kiss, delicate and soft. He broke away and saw her face, blush and excitement all over. Her hands couldn’t find a place to rest as she traced his arms, now bare to her touch.
“What is it, dearest?”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” she accused.
“Pardon?”
“Your arms, and your hands,” her fingers followed the faintly visible veins over his toned arms to his bare hands, reverent. “They’re very…” she swallowed thickly. “I like them. A lot. I haven’t had much of a chance to appreciate them, they’ve been all but hidden under your gold!” She kissed his shoulder. His hand came to cup her face, basking in her presence.
“Apologies,” his thumb traced her lips. “Is there anything I could do to remedy this grievous error?” Her eyes were dark as she kissed his thumb softly. He watched as she tried to build the courage to ask for something. “Anything,” he reminded her. She seemed to lose her mettle; no matter, he’d help her build it again.
“I’m nervous,” she confessed. He immediately tried pulling away, intending to give her space, but she held him close. “No!” She coughed, surprised at her own assertion. “No. I
really
want to keep going, I’m just… It’s been a while for me, and I want to be good for you.”
Emmrich laughed warmly, utterly charmed. Surely it had been just as long since he had done this; at least a few years since there was another in his bed. He had been so busy with his lectures, corpse whispering, Manfred, and nobody had been interested in the wan, in-between hours of his time.
Who would have thought the impending apocalypse would finally allow him some time for romantic endeavours?
“I am nervous as well, to be truthful.” he leaned forward, forehead against hers.
“Really?”
“Yes, darling. Horrifically.” Her head fell to his chest, hugging him tighter. “Do you still wish to continue?”
“Maker,
yes
,” she mumbled, gripping his shirt. His grin was wide, heart thumping in his chest.
“To the bedroom, then?” She nodded emphatically, lifting her head and detangling her arms from him. He took her hand and led her to the hallway, stopping at his bedroom door, closed for months at this point. He turned the knob and was relieved to see he had left it serviceably tidy. He stepped over the threshold, Mona’s hand in his. More daydreams entered his mind: the chance to have this every evening, retiring to their shared bed, her back against his chest as sleep took them. His heart ached at the prospect.
Not idle daydreams, a vowed future.
She was still in the hall, eyes wide and entranced. He gave her a soft tug, worried.
“Dearest?” She blinked, looking at him then.
“Sorry, I’m just… trying to remember this,” she stepped onto the small rug by the door. “In case we don’t have another chance for a while,”
They couldn’t kill the gods fast enough.
“My darling, you are so precious to me.” He pulled her in while closing the door behind them. The click of the latch made his heart race. “I hope I can show you just--” he paused as she extricated her hand from his and went to the buttons on his vest, fingers still.
“May I?”
“Of course,” he could barely believe the sight in front of him. She set to work immediately, undoing each with little difficulty. The chains between his pockets stopped her rhythm.
“These, please,” as she shook one. Emmrich followed her instruction, undoing them. Their fingers grazed, feeling like fire between them. Soon, his shirt fell open, chest bared to the cool air. Mona’s breath caught the same as it had the other night. He felt suddenly self-conscious, but before he had a moment to overthink, her fingers were grazing through the wiry gray hair that scattered along his chest and stomach, tracing his ribs, holding him in her hands. She placed a kiss against his sternum, soft and loving.
“You’re
so
lovely,"
her voice shook. Emmrich’s confidence replaced his nerves tenfold, heart thundering under her hands.
“Thank you, darling.” He removed his shirt and haphazardly folded it, setting it on the table by his door. “You are utterly resplendent. Now, would you allow me to help you out of your top?” She nodded, smiling.
“You don’t have to ask, y’know,” she started the process of unlacing, and his hands met hers, holding them.
“I like to. I want you to have the opportunity to say ‘no’, should the need arise.”
“That is incredibly lovely, but the only ‘need arising’ is your hands all over me right now,” she laughed, looking into his eyes.
“Is that so?” He smirked, hands loosening the lacing on her stays as her chest rose and fell. He took a moment to steady himself, undoing the last ladder and lifting it. Her arms went up quickly to assist, and he could not tear his eyes away from the vision before him. Pale skin stretched over her collarbones, freckles like stars. He wondered what constellations he might be able to trace upon her. Her breasts dropped gently in their wrapping, and his throat went dry.
Maker
.
She threw her blouse to the side, red curls falling effortlessly around her, soft and enticing. The love bite from earlier was still purple on her shoulder.
“Well?” She raised an eyebrow at him. His hands flew to her immediately. Her skin was blazing under his touch.
“All the times I imagined this, nothing could compare.” He leaned down to kiss her once more. Hands tangled in her hair, and he felt hers in his. She messed up his styled hair instantly, running her fingers through it. Eyes closed, he felt her tongue swipe against his lips and relaxed into her more. It was warm and slick, exploratory in his mouth. He groaned, lifting his head briefly, taking her in. ”You’re the most wondrous sight I’ve ever had the privilege and pleasure to behold.”
She moaned, her body searching for his. “I still need to shut you up,” she laughed, breathless.
“Did you have any specific methods in mind?” he hummed against her neck. The vision from the other night flashed before him again, the heady need for it much stronger now that it had a possibility of happening. His hands traveled down to her waist, soft and pliant under his touch. Her hand grabbed one of his, holding it tight against her. She whimpered, and he looked up, catching her gaze.
“How specific can I be?”
“As exacting as you wish, please.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her chest, emboldened by her dark eyes.
“I need… I want you to… This is hard,” she swallowed.
“Take all the time you need. May I continue touching you?”
“Yeah, yes, of course,” she smiled.
“Thank you.” He was so grateful for this moment. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails scratching his scalp. Perhaps in a few minutes, he might suggest his thoughts simply to put her out of her misery.
“We could— um, I, you… Can you take off the rest of my clothes? Please?” He wanted to tell her how proud he was of her being direct, but he didn’t want to make her more flustered. Praises would be sung later.
“Of course,” he moved instantly onto his knees to remove her pants, unlacing and unbuttoning. She kicked off her shoes quickly, and he slid her pants off one leg at a time. He took a moment to cherish the sight before him. Long, muscular calves, leading to curved hips and plush thighs he wanted to see covered in lovebites expeditiously. His cock stirred in his trousers at the sight. His hand traced her hip softly, fighting the urge to grasp it.
“You don’t have to stop, um, kissing me, if you want.” She was growing more confident, to his great enjoyment. Instead of affirming her once more, he immediately set to leaving kisses all over the exposed skin of her legs. His hands settled above her hips, gripping her waist tightly. She giggled and squirmed. “Sorry, tickles,” she breathed. He hummed in response, always eager to see what her underthings were hiding. His hands lifted higher, thumbing the edge of her breast band as he stood back to his feet.
“May I?”
“Yes,” she whispered, eyes closed. He set to removing the band, hands nearly vibrating with anticipation. They bounced free, and Emmrich went silent. More than a handful, soft with faint, silvery stretch marks and a dusting of her lovely freckles.
Still perfection
.
“You can… You can touch if you want to.” Her fingers ran along his arm, tracing the veins again.
“Thank you, dear heart.” His hands returned to her, thumbs rubbing her waist.
“We’re not even at the good part!” She laughed again, nerves dissolved.
“Every second has been incomparable to the last.” He was so softspoken, scared she might shrink away, or dissipate into another dream as this moment had done so many times before. “I hope you know how much you affect me, my love.” His breathing was ragged, hands finding purchase against her body, pawing and kneading as gently as he could muster.
“I want you to show me, please,” she writhed under him. “Come here.”
He closed the space left between them, hardness pressing into her hip. She gasped, one hand dropping down by where they met.
“Can I touch you?” she asked, sweet voice rough with desire.
“Of course,” he went in for another kiss as she moaned into him.
Her hand went to him, but the tailoring of his trousers made any chance of a real touch impossible. She grumbled in frustration.
“Off,” she paused, “please.”
“As you wish.” He made quick work of his buttons, used to the routine of it. As he pulled them down his legs, Mona gasped.
“You have a
tattoo?”
She was in disbelief as Emmrich glanced at the flowery skull on his thigh, eyebrows raised as though he had forgotten its existence; he nearly had.
“But-- you’re so
proper!”
“I’m ‘proper’, dear, not one-dimensional,” he explained. “A relic of a different time.”
“It suits you,” she decided, reaching out to touch it.
“Thank you,” He smiled, folding his trousers and placing them on the same table with his shirt. He could feel her eyes burning into him. Her hand dropped down again instantly, timid but palpably eager. “You’re such a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”
She moaned, her hand feeling him with curiosity. Her palm was hot against him; he fought the instinct to thrust against it immediately. She deserved to explore him at her own pace.
Finally,
finally
, she wrapped her fingers around him, his head falling against her shoulder as pleasure overtook him. Her shy touch grew bolder as he hissed her name into her ear.
He started to remove his hand from her face, intending to map the rest of her with his touch, but she held it and brought it back.
“You can leave that there, if you like.” She blushed fiercely. She had been so brave, so polite.
How could he say no?
He gently held her jaw as his other hand traveled down her body, grabbing her breast. She hissed; her nipples were apparently quite sensitive. His hand reached her waistband, halting there. Her fingers around him paused.
“Yes, please,” she answered before he could ask.
“So polite for me.” His fingers slipped into them, tugging them down her round ass and curved thighs slowly. His hand returned to her hip, pausing for yet more permission. Flush across her cheeks and chest, breathing shallow, she was a portrait of want in front of him. He captured her lips in another kiss, desperate to feel her moans against his mouth.
“I need your fingers inside me,” she whispered to him, as though it was a fight to say the words.
“Please, Emmrich.”
He could barely contain his beaming grin at her, very happy to hear what she wanted. His fingers felt under the soft curls, wetness covering everything. She was soaked, desperate for him as he was for her. He could barely believe his senses; she was so soft, and warm, and wet
for
him
. He found her clit, rubbing it gently, persistently, making her cry out.
“Please, please,” she chanted, rocking her hips against his hand as her own hand started again. He moved his fingers cautiously, trying to be careful with her. Her free hand gripped his shoulder so hard her nails bit the skin.
Another moment to carry eternally.
One finger found her entrance and slowly, carefully made its way inside. She enveloped him so tightly, velvet heat cutting off all other stimuli.
“You feel amazing, my love,” he groaned as his head fell against her shoulder again. He pulled out, pushing it in again as she shuddered against him, hand grasping him tighter. “So needy, all for me. So perfect, Maker--” his praises were cut short as he felt his thumb between Mona’s lips, licking and sucking eagerly.
“
Mona.
” His voice was darker now. She hummed against him, vibration rumbling through his very bones. Her eyes were hooded and full of desire, devotion. “Is this what you wanted, dearest? Your beautiful mouth occupied while I touch you?” She nodded so forcefully his thumb almost popped out. He removed it, to her charming protest, and experimentally positioned his hand so that two fingers were at her mouth, and before he could say anything, her head bobbed down immediately, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. His heart ached with fondness. “Good girl.” Her moans vibrated through his fingers to his cock, somehow even harder than before.
He had nearly forgotten about his other hand and set to work moving into her again. Two fingers pressed against her entrance. She moaned wantonly, bucking her hips against him. The stretch of her around him sent heat through his whole body.
The pads of his fingers crooked inside her at just the right spot, and she cried out, muffled by him. Her mouth released his fingers, panting as she threw her head back. Her eyes were shut tightly as she rolled her hips against his hand. Her hand lost its grip around his cock, holding his hip.
“Please, Emm—
fuck
!” Another long whine pulled from her. “I need you, I need…”
His fingers were moving faster, intent on having her come for him this evening, the first of many. Her walls fluttered and constricted his fingers while his cock twitched with need. Her slick was running down his fingers and onto his palm.
“You are so
pretty
like this,” he growled, kissing her neck and leaving more bruises for them to find later. She gripped his wrist so tightly he wondered if there would be marks.
“
Emmrich—
“
“Please, my love, I want to feel your body come apart for me.” He felt so close to her divinity as she reached her peak, body wracked and doubling over against him. She shuddered, whimpers falling with every breath. Her forehead was pressed into his chest. “You’re doing so well for me, darling.” He kissed her hair, enjoying the scent of her soap again. His fingers slowly left her heat, and he looked down between her thighs, pink and coated in her wetness.
Her head lifted from his chest as she caught her breath. She gazed at him, blinking slowly, reeling from the aftershocks. Tightly hugging him around his middle, she smiled softly. He gave a chaste kiss to her forehead and lifted his fingers to his mouth to taste her,
finally.
He relished in it, groaning a little obscenely
—
another
sensation to take with him.
“Much better than hot chocolate,” he mused. She turned even redder, eyes huge.
“
Emmrich!
” She shrilled, facing the floor, and he could feel her heartbeat quicken against his skin.
“What's the matter?” he smirked, nose in her hair against her shoulder. “I’m simply enjoying my lover and all her splendor.” He placed another kiss against her collarbone.
“You need to stop before I self-immolate,” she laughed, far less nervous than she had been minutes before. “Can we go to your bed now?”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
On the screen the words 'Fugitive of the Judoon' appeared on screen. The current Team TARDIS shared a worried look; they had a feeling they knew what was going to be shown. The three humans were curious and eager to know what had happened when the Doctor disappeared with Ruth, she had never told them the full story and now they would get to see but the last video still weighed heavy on their minds.
The Doctor took a deep breath, gaining the room's attention. "This video is set a little while after the last one but I don't think you need to know anything about the adventures in-between to understand it." The room nodded, apprehensive about what they would be shown as the video started.
In a kitchen, Ruth prepares breakfast before Lee comes in claiming he had planned to do it as it is Ruth's birthday. Ruth doesn't want anything for her birthday bar a cake which Lee assures her is sorted. Ruth leaves for work
"Anyone else getting horror movie vibes?" Bill proclaimed to the room, only getting silence in return. "No just me, okay then." That earned a few chuckles.
Ruth hands out flyers to pedestrians on her way to Gloucester Cathedral where she conducts guided tours. She tries to encourage tourists by mentioning they filmed Harry Potter was filmed
Martha grinned at the mention of Harry Potter sharing a glance with the Doctor who burst out laughing, soon joined by Martha. Their laughter drew confused looks from the rest of the group. Rory was the first one brave enough to ask. "Do we know what's so funny?"
Martha and the Doctor shared another look, grins wide. Martha was the one who answered, managing to get a few words out between her laughter "Shakespeare…. Witches…. Harry Potter."
"Well, that explained just about nothing." Amy said but she was smiling, the good mood was infectious and everyone had been so tense over the last video, it was nice for a change of pace.
The tourists leave not interested, Ruth talks with Marcia (an old lady knitting). She goes to a coffee bar where Alan the server tries to amke a heart in her coffee
A few people in the room chuckled, that was saying the least.
Alan is suspicious of Lee and tries to warn Ruth but she isn't listening, and is not impressed by his Lee dossier
"He's a bit obsessed with Lee. Who actually creates a dossier?" Rose asked the room at large, disbelief clear in her voice.
Ruth leaves ignoring his warnings. On a Judoon spaceship a scanner targets Gloucester and fires a beam
"Are those rhinos?" Bill asked, blinking at the screen confused.
The Doctor answered, "No." While the rest of the room that had encountered the Judoon, including River and Jack (who should and did know better) answered "Yes."
The Doctor gave the group a stern look, ruined slightly by how her lip was twitching up as if she wanted to smile. She just sighed, turning to answer Bill properly. "I'm pretty sure I will explain later in the video but they are essentially trigger-happy intergalactic police." She paused for a second, in which River nudged her gently. "They just happen to bear a fair resemblance to an Earth rhinoceros, yes." That gained a smile from Bill (she was doing her best to hide it but she loved River and the Doctor's relationship, their interactions were just adorable and she was looking forward to seeing more about them on screen).
On the Tardis, Ryan, Graham and Yaz are watching the Doctor who hasn't noticed their appearance until they ask her
She winced, feeling a bit guilty at the reminder that she had been so distant. "Sorry gang." They smiled reassuringly at her; things made more sense now and all their comments over the adventures between the last video and this weighed heavily on their minds. There was, however, a muttered comment from Ryan about the name though.
They ask what she's looking for, she is searching for the Master
"Ooh, chasing after me dear. That's a reversal of the normal way of things." The Master smirked at her, openly smug about her admitting to looking for him. It quickly soured in his stomach, he knew why she was looking for him and it wasn't just to see him. She ignored him, unsure how to deal with him especially with what this video was going to show. She didn't know if Ruth's reveal would make him smug or furious, he was so unstable and his moods were unpredictable at the moment, even for her. She was also terrified about Jack and River to find out about everything, their reaction wouldn't be pretty, especially with River's upbringing.
She explains the Kasaavin took them but if he escaped she could track him but hasn't been able to find anything. He left a message for her but she refuses to share what the message was. Yaz pushes asking where the Doctor goes on her own, 13 replies with home, and they ask why she doesn't take them - they ask too many questions because they are worried about her
The trio winced, shooting apologetic looks at the Doctor who offered her own apologetic glance back. They had just been curious and rightfully so with all the secrets she had been keeping and the whole mess with the Master, but there was so much history to explain for them to even get a small understanding of how she had been feeling about Gallifrey. She didn't even know how she actually felt about Gallifrey's destruction – she'd always run away and she had hated all the secrets but it had still been her home for a while and she'd had friends and family there.
An alarms sounds with Judoon talking - a Judoon warning transmission
Martha shivered slightly, her encounter with the Judoon was very memorable, they were how she met the Doctor and she had almost died alongside the whole hospital and half the earth. Mickey threw her a concerned look, as did the Doctor. She offered both of them a reassuring smile, she would be fine she just needed a second.
The Doctor explains the Judoon are intergalactic police for hire and they are dangerous. They've put a zonal enforcement field on Earth stopping people get in or out. The Doctor protests their lack of jurisdiction and she decides to slip them in hopefully before people get killed
"That really isn't reassuring. Why are they in Gloucester of all places?" Clara asked bemused. The three companions and the Doctor shared a glance.
"They were looking for someone." The Doctor answered looking a bit nervous.
"Well, that would explain the title of the video." Donna snorted.
A Judoon squad assembles
"What are they saying?" Bill asked curious, tilting her head at the screen as if that would allow her to understand the alien language.
"They're getting their orders." The Doctor answered, fidgeting.
Back by the cathedral, the Judoon appear and start scanning people as Ruth watches worried. Once scanned people are stamped with an X on their hand. Marcia confronts a Judoon asking who they are, they disintegrate her knitting and scan her to communicate in
English
"At least we can understand them now." Rose said, gaining several nods of agreement. The situation wasn't looking good but being able to understand the Judoon made it slightly better.
One of the Judoon offer her compensation for her knitting before removing their helmet to reveal they are space rhinos. Marcia runs and refuses to be catalogued, she runs into the forcefield and gets disintegrated to Ruth's horror
The room was silent, a mix of shock and sadness for seeing yet another person die for no apparent reason except being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Marcia, the brief moments they'd seen her on screen, had seemed like a lovely old lady and hadn't deserved her fate. For the companions in the room who hadn't met the Judoon before it made clear what they were like, and everyone was felling more nervous about what the video would be showing them.
Ruth is scanned and the Judoon declares she is negative for the fugitive match. Back at the coffee shop, Lee enters for the cake he ordered, Alan gives him the cake with the writing 'you can do better'
"Ooh he really doesn't like Lee." Bill cringed.
"The dossier didn't give that away?" Clara grinned at the younger girl.
"Fair enough but like, did he have to ruin Ruth's birthday cake just to annoy Lee?" Bill agreed.
"Yeah, that's more than a bit petty." Clara shook her head.
Lee is annoyed and mutters 'humans' as Alan is ready for a fight
"So, Lee's the fugitive then?" Rose declared. "I mean the whole 'human' comment suggests he isn't right?"
"Yeah, but it doesn't it feel a bit obvious? Like in a movie Lee would definitely be the red herring." Bill argued.
"This is real life not a movie though." Martha argued. "I hope not though for Ruth's sake."
The Tardis lands and the group appear from the cafe's kitchen to Alan's confusion. Lee bolts for the door
"That's definitely not suspicious." Amy drawled from her spot, leaning into her husband who shook his head slightly at his wife.
13 ignores Lee's odd behaviour and moves for the door, Graham hesitates behind and then vanishes
"Oh, so that's what happened to you grandad." Ryan said. Yaz and the Doctor grinned. Graham shook his head in exasperation, sometimes he felt like he was babysitting all three of them.
"I can't believe you didn't even notice." Graham complained.
"We were a bit busy and it's not my job to look after you." Ryan rolled his eyes.
Lee finds Ruth and they discuss the alien invasion, before Lee declares they need to get home now
"He is acting very suspicious." Donna pointed out, gaining nods of agreement from most of the room. He didn't seem to be freaking out over the whole alien thing.
The Judoon show up at the café as Alan tries to close it. When he sees the Judoon looking for a fugitive he offers them the Lee dossier. The Judoon take it but also smashes a mug
"Oh, so now Lee is definitely a target, great." Rory muttered.
Alan shoves the Judoon
Martha and the others that knew the Judoon winced. "That's a bad idea." Martha sighed, she remembered the Judoon and the hospital all too clearly.
The Judoon disintegrate him for assaulting an officer
The group looked down again. Allan may have been petty and suspicious but he didn't deserve to die like that.
At Ruth's apartment, Lee starts to hurriedly pack as Ruth watches confused. She thinks they're after Lee but is in disbelief at the idea, as he encourages her to pack quickly
"Lee absolutely knows something but at least he's trying to keep Ruth safe." Clara said, watching the screen carefully. The episode just kept getting more confusing and so far it seemed to have no link to the Doctor or Gallifrey but it must have to be a part of the secret the Tardis had brought them to see.
Outside the apartment the Judoon have located the fugitive house and start to set up. 13 interferes flashing the psychic paper at them
"Ah the good old psychic paper." Jack grinned. He was excited as he had a feeling that he was going to be showing up soon and was looking forward to everyone's reactions.
The paper declares them Imperial Regulators, as 13 rants about their lack of jurisdiction and the temporal isolator they are setting up which is made to freeze time but causes terrible collateral damage to anyone and anything in its path
The Master leaned forward, looking very excited about such a dangerous weapon. He was getting annoyed with the Doctor who had been ignoring him all episode, whatever they were going to see she didn't want him to know about.
The rest of the group were looking more nervous; they were all doing the maths in their head. Dangerous weapon + trigger happy alien police = nothing good.
Ryan agrees that they aren't using that thing. The Judoon argue the fugitive is highly dangerous
"What did he do for him to be considered so dangerous?" Mickey asked, raising his eyebrows. He aimed his question at the Doctor and current companions who were the only ones who were actually likely to know. The three companions looked at the Doctor, they didn't really know the full story. The Doctor just shifted uncomfortably in her seat, this episode was only going to get worse.
13 continues to argue they can't use the weapon and does her normal Judoon rhyming which Yaz argues mildly with her choice of calling the canal a lagoon so it rhymes
"Don't ruin it for me Yaz." The Doctor pouted, Yaz just rolled her eyes in answer smiling. River smiled softly at her wife, glad to see her in a slightly better mood. She's been uncomfortable and nervous ever since the start of the episode and it was worrying her.
13 attempts to override the Judoon's rules with a fake Earth law that states the potential arrestee is allowed arbitration from a third party, Yaz backs her up
"And now is the time during the trouble where we try to bluff our way out of said trouble." Rose grinned. Others laughed and nodded along, they always seemed to find themselves trying to lie their way out of trouble at some point.
They argue over the arbitration period as the Doctor proposes they go in to talk with Ruth and Lee. They get five minutes as the Judoon aren't up for bargaining
"I'm pretty sure that's not how that works." Rory shook his head while Amy smiled, glad to see nothing had changed with the Doctor.
They finally notice Graham is missing but the Judoon start counting down so they go in
"Hang on, it seriously took you lot that long to notice I was missing?!" Graham said, turning to the others who grinned back a bit sheepish.
On a spaceship Graham wakes up in a very large room. A voice is heard warning him about not moving until he neutralises the laser spikes
Graham groaned before blushing. He had forgotten about this. He looked nervously at Ryan, who glanced back confused. Graham didn't have anything against the kiss (honestly it had been quite good) but he didn't particularly want his grandson to see it, he knew how much Ryan and Yaz would tease him.
Graham is confused by what is going on. Jack Harkness (the voice) neutralises the defences and appears in the room
"Jack!" Rose laughed, big grin on her face at seeing Jack appear. The companions that knew him were all wearing similar grins, glad to see that he was still around to look after the Doctor. He stood up and took a few mocking bows, a grin threatening to break his face in half. It had been a long time since he had this much fun or been this comfortable. He was getting to see so many old friends, people he knew he could trust and spend some proper time with the Doctor (the only drawback so far was the Master and the tension around this big secret. When he sat back down, he was treated to an elbow in the side from the Doctor and a roll of her eyes while River only laughed.
Jack is very happy to see Graham, kissing him
"Graham! You didn't tell us about that." Ryan exclaimed; mouth open in shock. Yaz mirrored his expression, staring at Graham who was blushing.
"Don't worry Graham, he's like that with most people." The Doctor laughed, grinning at Jack who grinned back and then winked at Graham, making him blush further. He hid his face in his hands, trying desperately to hide his blush from the youngsters who were still too gobsmacked to start their teasing.
Graham is still very confused, asking if they'd met. Jack thinks he is joking and hugs him, thinking Graham is another of the Doctor's regenerations. Graham corrects him
"Jack!" Rose berated him, looking like she was about to get up to hit him. "You can't just teleport people and kiss them without knowing for sure who they are!" She nodded to the Doctor who elbowed him in the side again for Rose.
"Ow! I'm sorry. To be fair she's been male for 13 bodies and I was trying to scoop her, wasn't expecting to get a companion." Jack tried to defend himself. The Doctor just grinned and shook her head at the scene, laughing. It definitely brought her back to the old days when the three of them had travelled together before Satellite 5.
Ruth opens the door to 13, Ryan and Yaz who get let in after promising to help. Lee argues that it is a case of mistaken identity as Ruth is still in disbelief about everything. They promise they aren't harbouring a fugitive, but Yaz and Ryan are dubious seeing as their bags are packed
"Police training coming in handy." Ryan laughed.
"More common sense." Yaz grinned back.
The Doctor asks for the truth as Ryan and Yaz search the apartment for answers. 13 scans them with the sonic which tells her they're both human. She pushes for why the Judoon are chasing them
"Somethings up. They definitely know more than they are letting on." Bill declared determinedly.
On the spaceship they are being shot at as Jack reveals he stole the ship
"It never is." Rose laughed. She gave Jack a long look, as did the Doctor, which made him grin a bit more sheepishly. It was hard to forget that he had met both Rose and the Doctor because of a stolen ambulance during his old conman days.
Jack plans evasive action as he double checks Graham isn't the Doctor, Graham explains he just travels with her. Jack used the Quantum scoop and read the wrong signal so got Graham instead, he reminisces on a month at Ibiza 13
"You really don't ever change Jack." The Doctor shook her head exasperated but her grin was wide, she'd really missed him.
Graham asks why he's looking for the Doctor. Jack introduces himself and explains he and the Doc go way back. He also needs to warn the Doctor the future of the universe is at stake. Graham corrects his use of he to she, and Jack laughs eager to see the new regeneration
"And I have to say it is a spectacular site Doc." Jack grinned, nudging the Doctor in the side jokingly who was trying hard not to laugh.
Back at the apartment, the Judoon prepare the weapon. Ryan found nothing but Yaz found a hollow compartment in the back of the wardrobe
"Well done Yaz." The Doctor grinned. "Well done both of you." She hadn't had the chance to say it during the whole mess.
"Hollow compartment in the back of the wardrobe really? Can they get more cliché?" Bill threw her hands in the air.
The Doctor scans the ornate box found, and reveals it is not from Earth. A window breaking distracts them - a warning shot as time is running out
"Your times up and all you have is more questions. Typical." Clara snorted.
13 pushes for answers about the box, Ruth knows nothing and Lee pretends he doesn't either. Lee demands the box as time counts down
"So Lee is absolutely the fugitive." Rose pointed out. The current companions and the Doctor shared a glance which only Bill noticed. Bill still wasn't quite convinced that Lee was the fugitive, it seemed to easy to figure out and nothing in the Doctor's life was that easy.
Ruth is confused by Lee's demands and attitude. Lee asks if the Doctor is in charge to which she replies that it's a flat team structure
The current companions shared a grin with the Doctor as did many of the other companions in a room, the Master rolled his eyes in his corner, still annoyed by the Doctor ignoring him.
Lee asks them to take Ruth out the fire exit at the back and make sure she's okay while he takes care of the Judoon. Ruth protests as 13 presses about the box and who Lee is. He doesn't think it is any of their business but 13 decides with half of Gloucester locked down it is
"Like usual, sweetie. You aren't capable of just leaving trouble alone." River sighed at her wife teasingly.
"Like you can talk. You're worse than me half the time." The Doctor argued back, arms crossed. River just laughed at the Doctor who gave in and laughed as well after a minute.
We're down to 40 seconds, as Lee begs them to take Ruth saying he's made a mistake but can't let her die
"That's sweet. I'm glad he still wants to look after Ruth." Martha said, snuggling further back into her husband, this whole episode was making her tense, it was like the whole room was waiting for something and she didn't like it.
Lee reassures Ruth that he just needs to talk to the Judoon, Ruth isn't in agreement
"They're not overly fond of talking either." Jack said, looking a bit worried. He hadn't really gotten the chance to actually see what was going on in Gloucester, he'd just been trying to scoop the Doctor to warn her, and it was making him nervous. Whatever was going to happen in this episode was important to this big secret and he couldn't figure out why yet, he was sure his presence didn't warren them watching the episode, as nice as that would have been.
13, Ryan and Yaz decide a distraction is needed to stop the Judoon spotting them escape
The three grinned at each other.
Amy just grinned, verging on maniacal. "Ah, the classic tactic for dealing with trouble."
They decide t split up - 13 and Ruth escaping out the back as Lee goes with Yaz and Ryan to talk with the Judoon, Yaz citing she speaks their language as she's police
"Good on you, Yaz." Graham smiled at the girl proud. "You'll get to use your day job for once."
Time is up. They agree to meet at the cathedral, Lee and Ruth say goodbye to each other
The group that had been there winced, they didn't know what had happened to Lee in detail but they could guess, he'd never made it to the cathedral.
Outside the apartment, Yaz and Ryan emerge and tell them to turn off the weapon. Ryan and Yaz start to argue about the lack of fugitives but they vanish
Half the room groaned, having worked out what happened. "Seriously Jack, your timing is terrible." Rose complained, throwing him a look which made him wince a bit sheepishly. He'd noticed the looks the current companions were shooting the Doctor and had figured out his ill-timed scoop likely hadn't helped Lee.
In the apartment Lee keeps his promise and texts the word 'Follow' as the Judoon break down the door demanding his surrender. Lee does and says they can tell their boss they have him
"Question is who is the boss? And when will we finally get some stupid answers?" Nardole muttered, the room mumbled some agreements, maybe this boss would give them some answers about what was going on.
On the spaceship, Ryan and Yaz appear spotting Graham who offers a very quick explanation that they're on a stolen ship being fired at
"It's nice to get the full story now at least." Ryan declared, getting a nod of agreement from Yaz.
They're confused about who Jack is. Jack theorises Yaz is the Doctor
"Wrong again Jack. You're losing your touch." The Doctor grinned at the immortal who put his hand to his heart and mocked offense.
Graham corrects him as Jack is shocked that there is three of them, before commenting he had a dream about that once
"Jack!"
Alarms sound and Jack wars them to grab onto something
"And you always complain about my driving." The Doctor complained. The rest of the room all raised an eyebrow at her.
"Because your driving is terrible, dear. You'd think after all these millennia you would actually have some control, but no." The Master drawled from his corner, gaining some glares form the rest of the room, no one had forgotten what he'd done. The Doctor continued to ignore him, getting frustrated he tried to nudge her through their mental link but was met with a mental blank wall. Whatever was coming she really didn't want him to see.
At the apartment, a humanoid female beams in - Commander Gat. She isn't impressed by their work
"Anyone recognise her?" Donna asked the room. They had all collectively leaned forward in their seats to try and inspect the new person, hoping for answers to this mystery. The answer was mumbled mostly in the negative. The Doctor shrunk in her seat, lost in memories and frustrated with her lack of other memories; she still didn't really know much about Gat.
Gat talks to Lee, calling him old friend and saying they had a funeral for him. She commends him on his hiding place but remarks that they wouldn't stop looking ever
"Okay so they knew each other than he faked his death and hid on Earth. I feel like we're still missing something." Clara summarised what they knew to the group.
"Yeah, like what did he do that made them call the Judoon to track him down." Rose added. Everyone who didn't know what happened was trying desperately tp put the pieces together and failing.
Lee asks how they found him , Gat explains the box was made of a very trackable metal
"Very stupid if you don't want to be found. It must be important than." River said, glancing at her wife who was refusing to look away from the screen. This whole thing, the videos, this secret, everything was frustrating River – she was worried for her wife and she just wanted answers.
LEE: Yeah, well, I wanted to repair it, polish it. My service medal. Honour and courage still mean something.
"So, he was a soldier?" Martha asked. The Doctor could practically see the cogs turning in her friends' heads, she had the feeling if they had a pen and paper, they would be writing down these clues trying to solve the mystery.
"That would make sense." Amy agreed nodding.
They both reach for a drawer but Gat gets there first, sharing that they had the same training before ordering the Judoon to kill him. The Judoon are confused thinking Lee is the fugitive (who is to be captured not killed), but Gat tells them to scan Lee which reveals he is a negative match to the fugitive, confusing them
"Hah! Told you too easy." Bill announced, fist pumping into the air in her excitement. Then she realised what she had done and brought her hand back into her lap a bit sheepish.
"True you called that one." Clara conceded, smiling at the other woman. "But then who is the fugitive?"
The room lapsed into thoughtful silence for a few moments all trying to work it out, while the current companions shared a glance trying not to give anything away.
"Ruth!" Rory suddenly announced into the silence. He continued after seeing several confused expressions. "I mean, Lee seemed desperate to get her away and he's the only one that knows anything."
"That would make sense, and we did start the video with Ruth. But what has she done and why doesn't she know anything about it?" Martha agreed, many of the other companions nodding along.
"More questions! Again. Ugh." Bill complained, gaining chuckles from most of the room.
Gat apologises and calls him a faithful companion before killing him and sending the Judoon after the others
The group winced. They'd been so distracted trying to figure out who was the fugitive they'd forgotten the danger Lee was in, and the danger Ruth and the Doctor were now in.
The Doctor winced for an entirely different reason. If Ruth was her (she was Ruth? Whatever) then had Lee been her companion? Gat had hinted to that but she'd said they'd had the same training so had Lee been Gallifreyan and helped her escape? She hated the idea that she had gotten another companion killed, even one she didn't remember and she hated that she couldn't remember anything.
At the cathedral, 13 pushes for answers about Lee. Ruth is distracted by a text message on her phone - F
ollow the light. Break the glass. Happy birthday. X. She gets flashes of a lighthouse. She denies its from Lee when 13 asks
"Why is she lying?" Amy asked exasperated, there always seemed to be more questions. The Doctor shrunk back further into her seat; she could remember all too clearly the lighthouse. She gained anxious looks from Jack and River who had noticed her shrink down into herself, she offered a shaky smile at the pair, which only seemed to worry them more.
The Judoon arrive and surround them
"That's really not good. How are you going to escape?" Bill bit her lip nervously, she knew they had, or at least the Doctor had but it wasn't reassuring her.
The Doctor tells them to let them go, pointing her screwdriver at them
"Sweetie, your screwdriver can't fix everything no matter how much you love it." River sighed, shaking her head. The Doctor looked back stubbornly, this was an argument they'd had several times over the years and not one she wanted to rehash here in front of everyone.
Ruth asks about Lee and the Judoon show them his death. They scan Ruth who is identified as the fugitive
"Rory was right for once." Amy said, grinning cheekily at her husband who just rolled his eyes at his wife's antics. As much as he liked being right, he wasn't liking the danger the Doctor and Ruth were in.
13 is confused, the Judoon explain the biological shielding. Ruth floors the Judoon and grabs one of their weapons threatening them
"What happened there? It's like she's suddenly a whole new person." Rose asked confused.
River's eyebrows crinkled as a thought suddenly occurred to her, she glanced down at the Doctor who was still watching the screen.
13 asks what Ruth is doing, Ruth replies that its like an instinct. She rips off the front horn of one of the Judoon and activates the communicator on its armour. The Judoon are beamed away as 13 watches horrified and confused
"I'm guessing that's not a good thing, tearing off their horn." Rory asked the Doctor who shook her head, watching the screen worriedly.
"It's a very bad idea."
On the Spaceship they are still being shot at. Yaz wants to be returned to Erath to help the Doctor but Jack is just trying to keep them alive and banters with Ryan
"You haven't changed then Captain Cheesecake." Mickey grinned.
"Oi! That's Captain Beefcake, Mickey Mouse!" Jack joked back. Rose just rolled her eyes at the pair.
Jack is confused about why he didn't scoop the Doctor then asks if there is Judoon near where he scooped them. The Level Seven Enforcement Shield interfered, he then asks if she is safe
The room turned to look at Jack in sync. "When is she ever safe?" River questioned Jack, who shook his head, he really should have known better. The best way to find the Doctor was to find trouble. The Doctor just pouted.
At the Cathedral - the Doctor is scanning Ruth with her sonic as they comment on the complete Judoon retreat and removal of the perimeter
"Shouldn't that be good?" Donna questioned. The Doctor just waved to the screen, she knew she'd explain in a minute.
That's bad news - Ruth dishonoured a captain and made it personal. 13 wants answers
"Okay so not good, just great." Amy sighed.
Ruth doesn't know anything and 13 doesn't have the decryption for the bio-shield that both she and Lee were wearing.
River and Jack were both thinking back through their memories for any kind of devices that could do that, the few they could think of that might do it were nothing good.
Martha blinked suddenly, that sounded familiar but she couldn't quite place it.
Ruth doesn't know what happened and is scared by what is going on. 14 demands to see her phone and reads the message. She theorises the words triggered the real Ruth to protect her
"So, you need to find the light then. Hopefully she knows what that's all about or you're in even more trouble." Clara summarised with a grimace, things were only getting more confusing and dangerous.
They discuss the meaning of the message - Ruth grew up in a lighthouse which she hadn't thought about for years
"A lighthouse. Well, that would definitely have a light." Donna snorted.
Ruth is sure its where she grew up and her parents are buried there - she also hasn't thought about them in years
"Okay that's weird right? Like not the normal 'not thinking about it' more as in 'not actual real memories', right?" Bill asked, waving her hands around to try and get across her point.
"Honestly I think you watch too much movies but you're right it is a bit weird." Clara teased the other woman but agreed.
They decide to go to the lighthouse
"And hopefully we will finally get some answers." Rose announced.
"I wouldn't get your hopes up." Amy said.
On the Spaceship, Jack complains about the ships security. He decides to get the others out of there before the sip's nanogenes attack him
Jack, Rose and the Doctor shared a glance at the word 'nanogenes'. "A stolen ship, nanogenes, lots of danger. Sounds like the day we met you Jack. You really haven't found a new way to make friends after all these years." Rose laughed teasingly.
"Oh, I've learnt plenty and made many new friends since we met Rose." Jack teased back suggestively.
"Jack!" The Doctor elbowed him in the side.
"Ow! Seriously Doc, it's dangerous sitting next to you." Jack complained, rubbing his side, despite his comments he made no move to change seats, he wanted to be near the Doctor when everything fell apart.
He pre-sets the coordinates and gives them a message for the Doctor - that he'll always be there when she needs him and to beware the lone Cyberman. He asks if they have met the Cybermen yet
Those that had met the Cybermen, which was most of the room winced in sync. The Doctor gave Bill, Clara, Rose and Mickey worried looks. They had been the most affected by the Cybermen and she was worried how they would react to seeing them on screen. She knew they would see them as they had been apart of the Master's whole plan on Gallifrey and she wasn't looking forward to seeing that whole mess again as it was.
They haven't. Jack explains a bit about how dangerous they are, continuing his message to not give the lone cyberman what it wants. He gets cut off as he vanishes
"Were you trying to be cryptic Jack?!" Martha exclaimed.
Jack grinned a bit sheepish. "Sorry, thought I'd have more time." He turned to the fam. "You did tell her, right? Not that it matters much now because she just saw."
The group shared a glance. The Doctor sighed before answering. "Yes, they did tell me but we didn't really get much choice in the matter." She saw Jack was about to say something but beat him to it. "It's dealt with Jack I promise, and I'm sure it will be shown soon." That seemed to appease him for now and they let the video play on.
The scoop flickers over the three and they vanish
"Did you make it back alright?" Rose asked the group.
The three shared a glance before Graham answered. "Yes thankfully, but by the time we found the Doc everything was over."
In Ruth's car her and 13 are driving down a track as 13 quizzes her on her past. They discuss growing up - which 13 isn't a fan of
Amy snorted. "That's an understatement Raggedy Man." She could distinctively remember the year of the cubes and several other instances of childishness on their adventures. The Doctor just grinned at her.
13 continues quizzing Ruth who asks if that is what she is doing, 13 admits it is
"At least you admit it." Mickey said, shaking his head, she never really changed no matter what face she wore.
"Did you think she would slip and reveal something?" Yaz asked, she was as curious as the rest ff the room to find out what happened. She knew roughly but none of the details and with the Doctor that was often important.
"I don't really know. I was hopeful for something." The Doctor answered reluctantly. She didn't really know what she'd expected, she'd just wanted answers but the answers she had gotten she really hadn't liked.
Ruth isn't even sure why she's trusting the Doctor. Ruth is getting flashes of pictures but pretends she isn't
The Doctor watched the screen carefully, analysing everything. She knew what was to come but she still wasn't quite sure about it all. She just wanted answers.
They arrive at the lighthouse. 13 looks around as Ruth starts a fire. The Doctor goes up tot the light at the top before spotting a lone gravestone outside and going back down to it
"Okay so you found a grave, why's that so important? Shouldn't you be looking for the light?" Rory asked the Doctor.
The Doctor was too focussed on the screen to answer but River seemed to have noticed what she had and answered instead. "It's blank. And Ruth mentioned both her parents being buried there but there is only one blank grave." Even though she had noticed it she still couldn't figure out what it actually meant.
"So, what's been buried then?" Rose asked apprehensive, the tension in the room was increasing and no one had any answers for all the questions they had.
The gravestone is blank and not a grave. Inside Ruth is looking at the fire alarm which says Break glass and hears voices telling her to break it and follow the light. Outside, 13 starts digging.
Martha gasped, having finally connected everything. "Doctor!" The Doctor just grimaced, nodding her head in confirmation. Martha was the only one that had been around when she was using her Chameleon circuit and she'd seen the Master use it so she wasn't surprised that Martha had figured it out while the others hadn't. But even then she may have figured out what Ruth was but she couldn't have figured out who exactly Ruth was – only the Master had any chance of that. The rest of the room watched on confused but worried. Jack was glancing between Martha and the Doctor trying to piece everything together but feeling like he was missing an important piece of the puzzle.
River looked like she had an idea of what was going on and she didn't like it. She'd never seen a chameleon circuit but the light was regeneration energy and that was distinctively familiar. The Master was unreadable, eyes dark and crazed, he had a very good guess of what was happening and he didn't know what the messy swirl of emotions threatening to break free from his chest meant.
Ruth breaks the glass and golden energy escapes into her, before she grabs a gun and changes clothes into a smart suit.
"So, she has her memories back and she's got a gun but who and what is she?" Amy asked the room, starting to get really frustrated with the lack of answers like most of the room.
Outside
the Doctor uncovers a very familiar sign that says -
Police public call box
"The Tardis! Why is the Tardis there? How is it there?!" Jack asked the Doctor, eyes alight with concern, especially at seeing the Doctor shrink further back into the sofa eyes locked on the screen. He wasn't going to get any answers as much as he wanted to shake her until she answered everything he knew that wouldn't work. The only way to find any answers would be to watch the video.
RUTH: You're probably a bit confused right now. I broke the glass. It's all come back to me.
DOCTOR: This. What is this?
RUTH: That's my ship.
DOCTOR: What?
RUTH: Let me take it from the top. Hello, I'm the Doctor. I'm a traveller in Space and Time, and that thing buried down there is called a Tardis. Time And Relative Dimension In Space. You're going to love this.
(Ruth takes the Doctor's hand and they disappear.)
"Doctor, what's going on? What does she mean? How can she be you?" Rose asked, voicing the thoughts of many of the room, she was edging into hysteria as her eyes were glued to the Doctor.
The Master was watching the screen, analysing Ruth, with an unreadable expression. "You met one." It was a statement not a question. His eyes were wild as he stared the Doctor down, meeting her eyes for the first time since the start of the video.
She nodded sharply at him, "Yes." She took a deep breath before scanning the room, taking in all the confused and worried looks she was getting from her companions, even the fam who had already vaguely known. She finished by meeting Rose's eyes. "It's complicated Rose, you'll find out soon, I think. I promise I'll explain a bit more, just watch for the moment please." She ignored how her voice broke a bit on the last word, things were only going to get worse.
"Doctor!" River tried to complain, desperately wanting answers. The Doctor just turned to her, eyes wide and pleading, they had a staring contest for a few minutes, neither wanting to back down before River reluctantly conceded "Fine but if the video doesn't explain, you will."
Inside Ruth's Tardis, Ruth wakes her up as 13 struggles to understand what is going on. Ruth argues there is no time as Gat will already have figured out where they are. 13 still wants answers as to who Gat and Ruth are
Amy suddenly let lose a loud laugh gaining several odd looks from the group. What could be so funny at the moment? "Sorry, it's just the Doctor's finally getting a taste of her own medicine. Isn't this what we all went though when we first met her?" She tried to explain to the group and as the realisation set in other joined, her in laughing. The Doctor just smiled sadly, happy to see them smiling even at her expense but still angry and confused and worried and emotionally messed up by everything.
Ruth answers that she already said - she'd the Doctor
"So, she's one of your future faces? But what are you running from?" Clara tried to work out, things were making less sense with every passing moment.
"No, she' not my future." The Doctor answered reluctantly but refused to say anymore despite the room's attempts.
The Doctor argues she can't be because she is the Doctor. Ruth thinks she's kidding then asks how she ended up like 13. 13 argues it is the other way round, that she becomes Ruth in the future. they are both adamant they would remember being the other. Nothing is making sense to either of them
"How can she not be your future? You know your past. I know your past faces." River asked the Doctor, face scrunched up in worry and concentration. She was getting more tense as everything unfolded and the Doctor's carefully crafted blank face wasn't helping.
"Please just watch River, I… I just…. I can't explain. Please." The Doctor begged her wife, voice cracking as she struggled to get her words out. River just grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly as if to reassure both of them they were still there.
13 takes out the sonic which Ruth doesn't recognise but it does reveal they are the same person
"So, she's from before you had your sonic. But how can you not remember her?" Clara questioned, frustration and worry lacing her voice. The Doctor just shook her head, gesturing vaguely to the screen, she wasn't going to answer, she couldn't answer. She could feel the weight of the Master's eyes boring into her and was refusing to meet them, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what he was thinking.
Ruth used to work for Gat once - a job you don't apply for and never leave. 13 works out Ruth had been hiding n Earth using a Chameleon Arch to hide her identity from even herself, with Lee as her protector
Martha glared at the screen at the mention of a Chameleon Arch, she really hated that thing.
"What's a Chameleon Arch?" Bill asked, curious as ever.
"It's a way a time lord can hide, they essentially become another species, in this case human, and gain fake memories, it's not to be used lightly." The Doctor tried to explain, eyes dark.
"Have you ever used it? I mean you, like the you we know." Bill asked again.
Martha answered for her. "Yes, she did. I was with her at the time and she had to hide." She hesitated for a second. "It's an absolutely last resort. She screamed for hours." That gained her and the Doctor some horrified looks. The Doctor had been through a lot over the years and anything that could make her scream was very bad. Bill looked guilty for asking, but the Doctor offered her a small smile before focussing back on the screen.
Ruth mockingly congratulates her for working out and gives points to which 13 is offended by
"She can keep the points." Ryan grumbled, Yaz and Graham nodded beside him.
They've been grabbed in a Judoon tractor beam. Ruth tells 13 to let her do the talking, as if Gat works out who 13 is she'll kill them both
"Delightful. You can be killed twice at one time." Jack sighed. "But knowing the Doctor she's not going to keep quiet long."
On the Judoon spaceship Ruth exits the Tardis, rifle ready with 13 following. Gat is waiting. They are surrounded and order Ruth to put the gun down, she reluctantly gives it to Gat
"She can't be you. You hate guns." Amy tried to argue but the Doctor refused to look away from the screen let alone answer. The companions shared a worried look.
Ruth tells Gat not to point the gun at them, she doesn't listen. The Doctor doesn't stay quiet long despite both Gat and Ruth telling her to
"That won't last long." River said, squeezing her wife's hand tightly.
The Judoon argue about Gat just killing Ruth saying they were hired to deliver Ruth to the Division. Gat argues she is there on the behalf of the contracted. 13 talks and Gat finally asks who she is. Ruth interferes saying she is nobody, 13 agrees but pries for answers about what is going on as Ruth tells her to shut up
"Doctor, I really think you should listen to Ruth and not get involved for once." Clara bit her lip, nervous. Several others nodded along, everything was confusing and it was worrying them. This seemed very dangerous even for the Doctor.
Gat reveals this goes way higher than her but the information is confidential. Ruth and 13 argue briefly about the plan before 13 reveals herself to be the Doctor too, to Ruth's frustration
"She's not capable of being quiet even if it will save her life." The Master said, expression dark as he watched the screen. A few of the companions threw him nervous looks which he ignored.
The Judoon scan her and verify. Ruth is in shock about how dumb she is, and the Doctor just kind of accepts it
"Self-burn." Bill declared, fidgeting. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.
The Judoon want two payments for two fugitives as Gat argues two of the same Time Lord can't occupy the same space at the same time. She then mentions Gallifrey to 13's shock. The Doctor scans Gat and finds she is Gallifreyan
The companions all shared a glance. Some things were starting to make sense – at least why they were watching this video.
"If she's from Gallifrey she must be from the past then." Martha reasoned glancing nervously between the screen and the Doctor. Clara scowled at the mention of Gallifrey, even from beyond the grave it seemed they were haunting the Doctor.
The Doctor works out they must be from her past then, Ruth argues she's wrong but 13 persists
DOCTOR: I'm not wrong. I've seen Gallifrey destroyed. Twice. First by a war, second by a lunatic who I'm still trying to find. In my time, Gallifrey doesn't exist. It's gone. Forever. And if you don't know that, you're in my past. So, you are only serving at the glory of ash and bone.
"You say the nicest things, dearest." The Master drawled, trying to get a reaction, any reaction, from the Doctor. He felt triumphant when she shot him a sharp glare before seemingly remembering she was supposed to be ignoring him and turning back to the screen.
In some convolute, horrible way things made more sense now then they had then. Ruth was one of the lives she didn't remember but it left so many other questions that just frustrated her more. Who was Gat? Who was Lee? How long ago was Ruth? Was this the first time she'd escaped? Who had she worked for? Was it the mysterious Division that she'd seen in the matrix?
Gat calls it a trick, but 13 offers her mind and they make contact. 13 shows Gat the destroyed citadel. Gat still thinks it is a trick and raises the gun again as Ruth warns her not to
"Sweetie, did you really think that would make the situation better in anyway?" River asked the Doctor who glanced at her and shrugged one-heartedly. She hadn't really been thinking at the time, too confused with everything going on.
Gat fires the gun despite the warning, it backfires and kills her. 13 works out Ruth sabotaged the gun, they argue about the moral high ground
The Doctor glared at the screen, seeing it again reminded her of the fact she was responsible in some way for both Gat and Lee's deaths, even if she couldn't remember who she had been when she had been there. Yet more deaths on her conscious. She really hated guns and the way the whole room had flinched at Gat's death – a small voice whispered in the back of her head, you're responsible for that.
The Judoon declare they have witnessed a crime, but Ruth picks up the gun and argues they are in interstellar space where there are no laws so no crime. Ruth recalibrates the gun and threatens the group
"You can't be serious. There's no way you can fight your way out of there and you hate guns!" Rose threw her hands in the air; this whole video was seriously messing with them all.
The Doctor argues they never use weapons. Ruth tells her to shut up, as she warns the Judoon to stay away. The Judoon promise to always fulfil a contract
Yaz, Graham and Ryan shared a glance before turning to the Doctor who had flinched. "That's why you were -." Yaz couldn't finish her question but the Doctor seemed to figure out what she wanted to say and nodded, offering her an apologetic frown. Her loud mouth was what had got her captured by the Judoon and separated from her fam.
Back in Ruth's Tardis, they track 13's but can't get too close so she offers to drop her by her flat. 13 is still in shock about how Ruth can be her as she knows her life. Ruth states one of them has to be wrong as the Tardis materialises and Ruth kicks her out
"Unfortunately, all the evidence points to you being the one who is wrong Doctor." Jack said quietly, the words landed heavily on her chest, he was right and it hurt so much.
In Gloucester, the Doctor walks along the quay deep in thought before Yaz, Ryan and Graham arrive. They ask where she's been before mentioning Jack Harkness says hello.
Jack winced, as much as he had wanted to see the Doctor again, he apparently had terrible timing. The Doctor nudged him gently a small sile on her face, she seemed to know what he had been thinking. "It's okay Jack, thanks for the warning and keeping those three mostly safe." He nodded reluctantly.
In the Tardis, they share Jack's warning with the Doctor before asking about who Jack is. The Doctor answers he's an old friend
"Seriously Doctor? Don't I deserve a better introduction?" Jack attempted to tease the Doctor but it fell flat as she just muttered a "Yes, you do." In response which made him feel even worse. Whatever this secret was that the Tardis wanted to show them, he hated. He hated the way it was eating at the Doctor and ruining what should have been a happy thing – spending time with her friends and family.
Ryan liked him, he was cheesy in a good way
"He's always been like that." Mickey rolled his eyes, shooting the newest companions and Jack a grin. It seemed to break the tension slightly and he received relived grins back.
13 agrees and asks if he said anything more about the Cybermen. They say he was cut off before asking about the Cybermen - the Doctor says they're one of the most dangerous species she knows. Ryan makes a sarcastic comment about not being able to wait to meet them
"I definitely could have waited. Would have preferred to never have met them actually." Ryan joked but there was a serious undertone, it had been a very close thing with the Cybermen.
"Yeah, definitely nor my favourite alien." Bill grimaced, hand going to her chest as if feeling for the hole in her chest or the fake heart. Others in the room grimaced as well, the Cybermen were very dangerous and hurt most of them in some way.
Graham asks if they are in their future. The Doctor replies they always are somewhere. They pry about what happened with Ruth and the Judoon. 13 tells them Ruth was the fugitive and Ruth was her. They ask how that's possible but 13 doesn't know even as Graham reassures her there must be a simple explanation
"I really wish that was true Graham." The Doctor chuckled darkly, gaining concerned looks from the rets of the room but she refused to look any of them in the eye.
DOCTOR: Time is swirling around me. The Master, Captain Jack Harkness, Ruth. Something's coming for me. I can feel it.
RYAN: Let it come. You've got us.
DOCTOR: Ryan, I've lived for thousands of years. So long I've lost count. I've had so many faces. How long have you been here? You don't know me. Not even a little bit.
The Doctor took a shuddering deep breath before looking up towards her current companions. "I'm sorry Ryan. I shouldn't have spoken like that to you." She trailed off before she could make excuses, he didn't need to hear those, he already knew most of them. What she said may have been true but she didn't have to throw it in his face or declare it like that.
Ryan stared at her for a minute before nodding his acceptance of her apology. He understood a bit more why she'd said that now and while he probably knew more than most of the other companions about why they were here, he still knew very little and honestly everything was worrying him.
Yaz defends Ryan, as Ryan argues that they do know her - she's the Doctor and her past or future don't matter, they know who she is now. The three declare that whatever happens they'll be there to help whether she likes it not not.
"Thank you, all of you. Seriously, thank you." The Doctor took a deep breath, eyes bright, shining with unshed tears. "You're my family too." She glanced around the room. "All of you are. No matter what happens or has happened" River squeezed her hand in comfort, pulling her closer so she leaned against River's shoulder. The rest of her companions, of her family, gave her reassuring smiles. But none of them were doing very well at hiding their worry.
An alarm sounds. The Tardis is siding with them, offering a distraction. It works - multiple alerts across three continents on Earth. They decide to have a quick look.
"I guess that's finished for now." The Doctor sighed; she took another quick look round the room. "Let's have a break, we've been watching for a while now." She saw several people eager to protest, desperate to get more answers but she beat them to punch. "You'll get more answers soon I promise, but we all need a break and to stretch our legs. Come on." She pushed herself to her feet and out of River's clutches, determined to have a break from everything.
That seemed to be enough for the others and they slowly dispersed, getting to their feet, stretching and moving through to the kitchen and corridor. The Doctor watched them go, trying desperately to decide if she could get away with hiding for a while or if she was mentally prepared for some more emotionally charged conversations that she knew she would have to have.
Soon she was left alone in the main room with Jack and River who were now standing on either side of her, like bookends or bodyguards she thought with a mental snort. Even the Master had slunk away, hopefully away from the rest of the group – she made a mental note to keep an eye out for him in case of trouble.
The Doctor made the mistake of looking up at the pair on either side of her. River was staring her down, expression stern. "Explain." When she didn't start speaking immediately, River continued. "Please, Doctor. We're worried about you. We just want to help, we love you."
That only made her feel more guilty, especially knowing she couldn't even explain fully. "I can't River, I'm sorry. It's part of what the Tardis wants to show us I think and you'll need to see it with the others. Please just trust me, you'll find out soon enough." The Doctor pleaded with her wife. When River's expression wavered, she knew she'd won and it tore at her hearts.
Jack had watched the pair carefully. "Come on, let's get something to eat. I think we'll probably need the break." With that he marched out of the room with a final glance at the wives. River watched him leave, before turning back to the Doctor, eyes sad. "I trust you. I don't like any of this, but I trust you."
The Doctor watched her leave, leaving her alone in the movie room. She took a deep breath before following, she needed to have some serious conversations.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The twins were quarreling, Atsumu claimed he had a good spot to hide his snacks. Osamu just listened with no interest as if he knew already where the spot would be. You were lost in your thoughts again thinking about how you should deliver the news to them. You stared at the drink for too long that you didn’t notice both Atsumu and Osamu were looking at you.
They stopped quarreling instantly and sat in front of you.
“You okay, [Y/N]?” Atsumu asked.
“Are you having a problem? Talk to us. We will help you.” Osamu said.
Atsumu put on the table the three snacks he tried so hard to hide them from Osamu. Osamu took one of them and opened it. Atsumu didn’t complain.
“I actually have been thinking of telling you two about- umm- news that I had just gotten a week ago.” Your hands were still wrapping the cup. The twins were listening to you intently, as always. Osamu ate the snacks right from the plastic, right next to the owner of the snack who seemed to be completely didn't aware that his snack had just got stolen.
“I got accepted at the University of Melbourne for my Master’s study and I-“
“MELBOURNE?!”
Both Atsumu and Osamu stood up at once. Some of the snacks in Osamu’s grab flew out and left only 1/2 in the plastic. Atsumu still didn’t notice the things that just flew out was his snack.
Wow, that startled me.
You backed away a bit, shocked by their responses.
“Yeah, Melbourne. Australia.” You said word by word, making sure the twins heard it right: the city and the country.
Atsumu suddenly took out his phone from his pocket and typed something real fast. After several clicks, he showed the phone right in front of your face and almost shouted,
“That is like 8,120 km away from Kobe!” You were not sure if he was simply stating a fact or he was complaining.
“Y-yeah. Melbourne is that far from here.” You were confused at what Atsumu was trying to imply.
“When are you going, [Y/N]?” Osamu who seemed to have his expressive emotion under control asked the question calmly, but you could totally tell that he wasn’t at all calm internally. He was just as shock as Atsumu. He had stopped eating the snack.
“This August. Like, about in six months.” Both of them sat in unison with no time gap in between their movements as if their knees were giving up to stand any longer.
“Wh- why don’t you just study in Japan? Like Tokyo University, or Kyoto University?” You titled your head at Atsumu’s question.
“Please don’t misunderstand. I am really happy and really proud of you that you- you could pursue further study in Australia but- but- but that is really from here and what if- what if I want to see you, you will be really far and I wouldn’t be able to see you.”
Atsumu’s words were scattered. He himself was aware of that but didn't bother to correct it. Though so you got the idea of what he was trying to say. That was what you had been thinking since morning on how you should deliver the news. You knew it very well that such news would cause some chaos in which it was happing right now.
Tears slowly raced down Atsumu’s cheeks. He didn’t know he was crying. He didn't notice it. And you didn't know what to do. All you could do was to offer him some tissues in which he took it and unconsciously wiped the tears that he didn’t notice had fallen down.
“Why are you going all emotional and crying, Tsumu?” Osamu’s reassuring hand was on Atsumu’s tensed shoulder.
“I- I am not crying! This is just dust entering my eyes.” Atsumu tried to deny it while kept wiping away his tears with the tissues you gave to him.
“I am just as shock as you too, Tsumu. I didn’t expect at all that [Y/N] would go somewhere really far from us.” Osamu freed his hand from Atsumu’s shoulder. “But let’s just support her ok? She wants to study higher, it’s her dream. Let’s support her as much as we can.” Osamu drank his cup of warm tea and tried to contain his tears.
Atsumu nodded.
“Thank you, Atsumu, Osamu.”
Your cheeks were wet with tears too. You wiped it with your hands as quickly as possible so that Atsumu and Osamu wouldn’t have to pull out dozens of tissues for you.
“I- Yes, It’s my dream to be a professor. I want to study higher. I applied and got accepted. I am really happy. But- but as much as I feel happy when I got the news that I will be studying in Australia for two years, I am just really sad knowing that-“ You wiped your tears that kept flowing out like water pipe more vigorously with your two hands.
“I will be really really really far from both of you. I- I won’t be able to meet you two for two years, and two years is a very long time.” You gave up wiping the tears, you let them raced down your cheeks.
“But I have my own reason, another reason why I chose a very far place to study, a far place to go.” Your hands were on your knees, you were looking down at your thighs. The tears all fell onto your jeans and absorbed them all without leaving anything behind.
Osamu and Atsumu offered you five pieces of tissues each. You took all of them and back on wiping your tears again. This time you used the offered tissues all at once hoping that they would do the job properly wiping the tears that seemed to keep racing down with no end.
“I am sorry. I-“ Your throat was busy inhaling the air while you were crying out loud. You couldn’t form any words. The cry wouldn’t let you say even a single word. You were sobbing real bad.
“It’s okay, [Y/N]. Don’t apologize please.” Osamu said with his eyes that had gone wet with tears.
“He is right. You did nothing wrong.” Atsumu said. “You are trying to reach your dream. You are working hard on it. So, don’t stop chasing your dream. We will support you, no matter what.” Atsumu said with one drop of tears sliding down his right cheek.
You cried for another several minute before you settled down. Atsumu and Osamu, who had their emotions under control much faster than you, sat at where they had been sitting at, to be with you, to give you whatever support you needed right now.
Atsumu’s face changed instantly as if he just realized something very important.
“[Y/N]!” His eyes widened.
“You said that you will be going in August, right? When is the exact date?”
“Not sure yet. Why?” Your eyes turned red, the aftereffect of crying too much.
“Olympics! Are you still in Japan during the Olympics? Will you watch my-“
“I am. I will watch you play at the Olympics court.” You smiled softly, with red cheeks and puffy eyes. “Don’t worry. I will go see you win the game, Atsumu.”
Atsumu’s eyes were spilling out tears again. This time it was tears of happiness.
“Why are you crying again, Tsumu?” Osamu asked in a teasing tone trying to make the atmosphere relax.
“I am not crying, this is just dust.” Atsumu claimed.
“Stop blaming my restaurant. It is clean, no dust. It is your eyes that have the problems, not my restaurant.” Osamu defended his restaurant as he looked away to contain the hot tears that filled up his eyes.
“Are you crying too, Samu?” Atsumu mocked him, laughed out loud with tears still streaming down his still-red cheeks.
"I am not!" Osamu said with tears that were too streaming down his cheeks.
You wiped the last tears on your cheeks and held both of their hands.
“Thank you, Atsumu. Thank you, Osamu. Thank you so much!”
And that they buried their heads in their other free arm and cried as loud as they could.
Thank you very much, Atsumu, Osamu.
You gripped their hands and softly caressed them.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jasnah lingered in the map room, straightening her papers, still thinking.
Dalinar and Adolin remained as well, discussing a few last tactical points.
Dalinar gazed toward the map, though his eyes were distant.
One of the former bridgemen guards opened the door and stuck his head in. "Me and Paco's shift is over, and Relo and Arn from Bridge 13 are taking over now, Sirs and Brightness, in case you need any more guarding this evening."
He nodded, hastily gave a salute as if he'd just remembered, and closed the door.
Adolin snickered and shook his head.
"It is curious you wound up with a group of bridge slaves as your guard," Jasnah said.
"I presume you identified them as Radiants and managed to get them before Sadeas realized their value?"
Dalinar looked up at her, knocked from his reverie.
"Not at all.
You haven't heard how Sadeas betrayed us at the Tower, then?"
Adolin's jaw clenched and he looked down at the table.
If I find out who killed Sadeas, I’m buying them a bottle of the finest violet.
"Apparently not."
Dalinar's face hardened.
"Sadeas deliberately got us surrounded by the Parshendi and abandoned us, not just pulling away his army, but all the bridges.
You've seen the Plains, so you can imagine how that left us entirely trapped.
I thought Adolin and I and all our soldiers were dead.
From bits and pieces I heard afterward, apparently Kaladin was planning to escape with his bridge crew, but saw our army, and the betrayal troubled them enough to risk themselves to come back for us."
Jasnah raised an eyebrow.
Always exercise skepticism.
"Perhaps they thought they'd have a better chance if you owed them something."
Dalinar shook his head.
"It wasn't that.
They thought they were throwing away their chance at freedom.
Kaladin was downright hostile to me at first."
Jasnah quirked a slight smile at that.
Adolin nodded.
"He certainly wasn't trying to suck up to us.
He took charge like a lighteyes and started ordering everyone around like they were new recruits, including me!
I did take a disliking to him at first because of that, at least until he saved my life
again
in that duel."
"I did manage to pick the most eventful possible couple of months to be stuck in Shadesmar, didn't I?"
"You did, cousin.
I was a fool and got myself into a fully disadvantaged duel, so Relis brought
three
of his friends to fight me. Renarin came to help, but, well, he hasn't had much practice with the sword.
Father called for any other Shardbearer in the audience to join, and when none did, bridgeboy jumped in with nothing but a spear."
Jasnah's eyes widened.
"Surely you knew he was a Surgebinder by then."
Adolin shook his head.
"I was sure something was strange about him, but couldn't figure out what.
I'm pretty sure he broke someone's Plate
with his feet
and then stood back up a little while later like nothing had happened.
Plus the way he dodged...nobody can do that.
Oh, and there was the time he fell out of a window while fighting the Assassin in White."
"How high was the window?"
Adolin shrugged.
"Maybe a hundred feet?"
"And you
still
didn't figure out that he was a Surgebinder?"
Adolin's brows furrowed.
"How were we supposed to know what all that meant?"
"People repeatedly surviving where others do not is a classic sign of Surgebinding ability.
His time in the bridge crews alone might have been enough of a signal to someone looking closely."
Adolin huffed.
"Well we didn't know that!"
Dalinar's shoulders slumped.
"I thought after my announcement about refounding the Knights Radiant that anyone with the right abilities would come forward."
"And you had just named Amaram the head of your new order. Were you already aware of what Amaram had done to him?"
Dalinar nodded.
"Kaladin told me but I was still investigating."
"And you're really surprised he didn't tell you he was a Radiant?"
Adolin pressed his lips together.
"Cousin, you do have a way of making a man feel slow-witted."
Jasnah sighed.
"I suppose these things are always obvious in hindsight.
You would have to know what to look for if there's nothing as obvious as, say, running on the ceiling."
"I did directly ask him once," Dalinar said.
"After he survived a two hundred foot fall and, I'm fairly sure, a fight with a chasm fiend--to bring Shallan back," Adolin said.
"Though I guess now it's obvious that she survived with Radiant abilities too." He stood up straighter.
"Say, how long did it take you to figure out Shallan was Radiant? You knew before getting back; I know that's why you set up the betrothal."
Jasnah sighed.
"She's the one who found me out, I have to admit. I didn't even believe her until she pulled us both into Shadesmar."
"Hah!" Adolin said, pointing at her.
"In hindsight it's possible I should have been suspicious of her drawing abilities.
Though in my defense, that is very particular to Lightweavers, and only vaguely referenced in historical documents."
Adolin lifted his chin and put his fists on his hips.
"You're not twelve anymore," Jasnah said, swatting in his direction.
"And besides, need I remind you your own brother was a Radiant, right under your nose, for months, and you didn't even realize until he volunteered the information?"
Adolin deflated.
After a moment, he looked back up at her.
"And what about you?
How long had you been keeping this from us?"
Jasnah looked back down at the table, chewing her lip.
"Since the night Father died," she whispered.
Dalinar's eyes widened.
"That long?"
She nodded.
"I still wonder if it was connected.
I fell into Shadesmar and Ivory seemed to be attacking me, and that was when we formed our bond, though I only realized that later.
Right after I came back to the palace, I heard the shouting from the assassin's attack."
She and Dalinar shared a long gaze before she broke away.
Nomon was just peeking above the horizon, adding a blue cast to the room.
They seemed to collectively take this as a sign that it had grown late enough they should go.
Jasnah cleared her throat and made her voice firm.
"Well, it's clear identifying Radiants isn't as simple as one might think, and the process is often upsetting for many of the people going through it.
I'll compile a document more extensively detailing signs to look out for.
That should be useful to us as well as your nascent coalition."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Flings aren’t anything foreign to Gojo Satoru.
He’s met loads of people through his life, most of them ending up beneath familiar white sheets with him or caged in between his arms and a wall as he memorized the taste of their lips with his own.
They all are so different from each other, features and personality, but they all still have one thing in common.
They come and go. They never stay. Or at least Satoru makes sure they don’t.
It’s not like he’s afraid of love,
no no
, if he were to find that someone then he wouldn’t shy away from letting himself be cut open to expose the vulnerability he possessed by that person. It’s just… The person hadn’t still made their appearance in his life.
But it’s different now,
he thinks as his electric eyes pierce through honey skin as he sits with their side turned to him-- grin light yet no sign of emotion written on their face.
I think I’m in love.
He’s been watching them the whole evening (more like 15 minutes, but who’s counting?), his eyes haven’t been able to look anywhere else ever since they sat down a few bar stools away from him.
Beautiful,
beautiful, beautiful-- who allowed you to be so beautiful?
Satoru has found people attractive, sometimes even cute, but this was the first time he found someone so beautiful. It almost felt like he was unworthy to even look in the first place.
Long hair tied in a loose bun with a few strands hanging over their face, a nose with a cute little bump and skin so warm and golden as the sweet touch of the gentle sun. It’s a face you would see on the front page of magazines, a face that would make anyone’s knees go wobbly if they were to stare you down… Whichever. They got it all.
And suddenly, the face of the beauty themself turns their head to meet Satorus eyes and looks at him for a moment. Then their brows lift in question as to why-are-you-staring with the same grin before they look away and continue to nurse on their drink.
Satorus grin widens. Yeah, he’s in love.
.
Satoru is more than lucky enough to see him again.
It wasn’t on the same tropical outdoor bar hidden between endless stores and restaurants downtown-- which was no surprise, Okinawa really had a lot to offer-- where he saw him for the first time.
Standing in the middle of Nishihama Beach, tote bag hanging off his shoulder with his sandals in one hand and toes buried in the warm sand, he watches a familiar frame stand just a few metres away from him by the shore as they look over the glittering blue.
He wants to step closer, to reach out and ask them who he is. But it seems like they beat him to it.
“Didn’t know I’d gain a stalker in Okinawa… Interesting.”
Honeyvoiced,
Satoru notes as a familiar warmth washes over him from the sweet melody.
Warm and liquidy.
He thinks he could listen to them speak forever, he thinks a voice as sweet as theirs could guide him to a state of endless calm.
“I’m not stalking you, we just happened to be at the same spots at the same time.’’
Satoru finally inches closer, the sand slowly morphing into gushy beneath his feet with each step, he’s never been so nervous to share warmth with a person before.
He stops beside them, shoulders barely brushing as he looks out to admire blue meeting orange.
It’s beautiful, the picture of two ends of different colors meeting has always been a beautiful sight to him. But it’s nowhere close to the person beside him, putting it to shame and crushing it beneath their foot like the remains of a burning cigarette.
“Gojo Satoru.”
“What a fancy name for my stalker… Getou Suguru.’’
Getou Suguru, Getou Suguru, Getou Suguru…
A beautiful name for the embodiment of the sweet mix of honey and sugar. Everything about Getou Suguru was revealed to be something beautiful.
“It’s good to finally be able to put a face to the name, Getou Suguru.”
Getous gaze doesn’t seem to waver as they turn their head to stare Satoru down, almost as if they’re searching for something in him. A reason that was unknown and impossible to uncover, because they were so hard to read it hurt. But it seems they don’t find it as they look away and hum out a tune to blend in with the crashing waves.
‘’Likewise, Gojo Satoru.’’
And Satoru lies awake at night, staring at the popcorn ceiling of his hotel room as the same three words repeat in his head like a mantra.
Likewise, Gojo Satoru.
Likewise, Gojo Sa--
He’s absolutely losing it.
.
They meet again and again. Same spot and time every single evening.
Satoru likes to think that they were meant to be, that the universe decided to place them in each other's paths and then let themselves do the dirty work until strings would connect their pinkies.
But he’s not sure what Geto Suguru wants, he’s never sure. Hell, he doesn’t even know if they truly enjoy his presence.
No matter how much he tried, how much he’d let words spill out from his mouth and gaze linger, in return Getou would just look at him with a light smile and glinting eyes before they looked away.
Irritating, but also intriguing. It turned him into a man of wonder.
He wonders (oh he wonders) how it would feel to be the receiving end of blurs of emotions by Getou. He wonders how euphoric Getous' smile would look and he wonders how he’d look with the apple of his cheeks burning a vibrant red.
He wonders how vulnerable Getou would look beside him on his bed as they’re enveloped by sleep and with dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks.
Satoru doesn’t ponder, he doesn’t get on his knees to beg. Because you can’t force a person to tear open the shells to uncover the raw and nasty.
But then he suddenly trips over his feet on the familiar sand of the same beach their second meeting held place in as they lick away the droplets on popsicles and Getou laughs. Satoru stares, blue eyes swarmed with shock and blooming love.
They laugh. They laugh and their nose scrunches up and they kick their head back as melodies spill out of their mouth. It’s a little high pitched and all over the place, like someone just slapped a bunch of random notes onto paper and called it a day.
I think I just heard the most beautiful song to ever be played in the world,
there’s embarrassment bubbling low in Satorus belly. But he doesn’t care.
Satoru laughs too, he feels like maybe things are turning out for the greater.
.
Two weeks into summer paradise and Satoru still feels like he’s dreaming.
Sometimes, he has to be reminded that this is indeed
reality
. That this isn’t some twisted dream creating a love story for him to wake up from and yearn for the warmth this love makes him feel.
The Okinawa sun might be warm enough for any living organism-- to the swaying palm trees and thrilled tourists who weren't familiar with a tropical climate.
But it does not compare to you, my darling one.
Satoru gazes down at Getou, who’s crouched down and watches the grains of sand slip right through their fingers like an hourglass.
Because the love I feel for you envelopes me like a warm fuzzy blanket.
“You’re staring again. Are you sure you’re actually not a stalker who’s out to kill me?’’
Satoru blinks back to reality, a habit he’s gotten used to these past few days, before he sends them a sly grin.
“Maybe I actually am one. If I were you, I’d make sure to keep the door and windows locked at night.’’
Getou doesn’t crack a smile, but he catches the amusement dancing in their eyes before they shake their head and mutters something that sounds like
stupid
.
Satoru is stupid, more than so. And maybe the blossoming love he possesses for the person beside him is the main pillar of his stupidity.
“Maybe if I wasn’t smart enough,” he continues slowly, a tiny smirk etching over his features. “Then I wouldn’t have done this…!”
Splash!
Water clings to skin and what used to be a perfect t-shirt, white fabric turning transparent as droplets trickle down on honey skin.
He still looks as neutral as ever as he slowly gets back up on their feet, which was more nerve wracking than anything, pushing damp hair away from their face.
“3..2..”
And Satoru runs, more like attempts to, laughter bubbles out of him and he kind of fears for his life as he feels their presence hot on his heels.
Body crashes into body from behind, both of them toppling over into the waves and Satoru feels like he could conquer the world for once in his lifetime.
And he is reminded that this is indeed not a dream, but reality.
He relishes it all, even the cold water covering him from head to toe as they both wrestle for dominance.
He doesn’t want it to ever end.
.
Gojo Satoru finally finds the guts to ask Getou Suguru out on a date.
All it took was an usually charming man to stumble over his words, fiddling with his fingers and eyes looking anywhere but the person on the receiving end to look at him in curiosity.
“Can I… Can I take you out on a date?” He had finally asked, lungs screaming for him to calm the fuck down as he felt himself grow almost lightheaded.
He’s never been this nervous to ask someone out.
But no one would put it past him, really, not especially when the person in question was an angel in disguise.
“Depends. Are you paying for everything?”
Getou had grinned a little wider, smile reminiscing of an imp but still as angelic as one can ever be.
“Sure, if that’s what you want.” Satoru had scratched his neck sheepishly and he finally took the courage to gaze up at them through white lashes.
It was silent for a moment or two, the waves singing and heart creating an unsteady rhythm filling the silence.
Is he going to say no?
Is Satoru about to get reje—
“Okay— I’d love to.”
And here they are, on the said date that Satoru himself had asked them out on, sitting across each other in the outdoor seating area of a restaurant with a view over the water he found on google.
Getou doesn’t mind how Satoru steals fries from his plate as they speak amongst themselves and almost looks a little pleased, cheek resting against the palm of their hand as they watch Satoru speak fondly of his memories back home.
Satoru doesn’t know if he sings broken tunes of the past out of nervousness, or if it’s because it
looks
like Getou is listening, but he feels moondust dust every corner of his throat and leave him almost gasping for air.
Their words are filtered out to any passerby by the humming music playing from the restaurant's speakers, playing songs that speak highly of the concept of love and to be in love.
And Satoru realizes that he can relate to those silly love songs as he watches Getou, that the sweet melody and fluttery words are rough descriptions of what resides in him.
The shy sun kisses their skin and their eyes seem to sparkle like diamonds and he realizes that to be in love isn’t something to be afraid of.
That to be in love with Getou Suguru is as beautiful as a blossoming flower garden.
Before the current song can finally find its peace and give the next song its shine, the wooden chair lets out a disgusting creaking sound as he pushes it back.
He’s then standing in front of Getou, hand reaching out and sunglasses sliding down Satorus nose to reveal glittering eyes.
“May I have this dance?”
Getou looks surprised, which is a new look added to his mental collection of
faces Suguru can make
, before they blink and offer him a smile.
“You may.”
They both giggle as Satoru takes his hand in his own, pulls them up with a gentle tug before arms slide around each other (like they were always meant to be there) and gravitates closer to one another.
Their bodies fit like two puzzle pieces.
Getou reminds him of the feeling when you’ve been looking for this specific piece for a while, trying other pieces to see if they fit just right but always left disappointed, but then the last piece’s tiny bud fits into the little hole and connects and you’re just so
relieved
.
Perfect…
Satoru muses to himself as he begins to sway them back and forth, a familiar beat of a song he ever so treasured finding their ears.
We’re perfect.
The sky may be starless / The night might be moonless
Satoru isn’t sure, but they look almost a little shy from the looks they’re receiving right now. He watches the way their eyes cast downwards to instead look at their connected torsos.
Satoru grins.
Cute.
He squeezes their waist, thumbing at the tiny bit of exposed skin on their lower back as they continue to sway. It feels smooth and silky beneath the pads of his thumbs.
He wonders if he would ever be given the chance to map out every mole and imperfections on their skin, with lips and fingers, and lay a gentle kiss to remind him of the beauty they bewitch.
But deep in my heart there’s a glow / For deep in my heart
He watches the sunset grace Getous illuminating skin and caresses the highlighted features, the pink and orange casting its color over them like the sun reflecting on the moon.
But there’s no need for the sun to give them its support, because Getou already shines bright enough that even a shooting star is afraid to pass by.
“You must be thrilled to be dancing with me like this, going from my stalker to my date and all.’’
Satoru has the nerve to blink at them in slight confusion, before a laugh slips past his lips and shakes his head fondly.
“No way you could tell, I thought I was hiding it so well.’’ They laugh in harmony, a melody like the birds singing to the rising sun.
I know that you love me / You love me because you told me so
There were many moments with Getou that Satoru could label as beautiful, but to have the man of your dreams in your arms and to feel his heartbeat become one with yours was an euphoric experience.
So euphoric and beautiful--heavenly even-- that he feels his insides twist in agony, yet he couldn’t bring himself to stay away.
But he supposes it was okay for him to feel a little pain, he thinks as he feels a head rest against his chest, a supernova bursts against his ribcage. For Getou he’d try to endure.
Because in the end, Getou Sugurus love made Satoru feel like he was sinking in an ocean made of crushed stars.
I memorize every line / I kiss the name that you sign / And, darling, then I read again right from the start / Love letters straight from your heart
There could have been a meteor rain above them, the tides could’ve changed patterns, the song might have finished a long time ago.
But none of it matters to Gojo Satoru, because he’s finally discovered that his apartment in Tokyo could never compare to the warmth of Suguru.
“Home,” Satoru whispers, hand reaching to cradle Sugurus cheek like porcelain as his face inches closer to close what’s left of the infinity between them.
He kisses them as the planet stops rotating beneath their feet.
You’re my home.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Rick was sitting in a cell talking to Daryl when Glenn came running in full speed.
"There's a guy...at the gate...screaming for you," the young man panted.
Rick stood already making his way out of the prison and heard Daryl grab his crossbow and do the same. "What does he want? Is he with Woodbury?"
Glenn shook his head. "I don't think so, man. He won't say anything other than he wants him out there now."
"Him? I thought you said he was yellin' for me?" Rick asked, confused.
"Not you, dude. Daryl," Glenn explained.
"Me? Who the hell would be hollerin' for me? Ain't no one I know here, 'cept Merle. And he'd know better than to go yelled around the gates bringing in walkers," Daryl drawled.
"Yeah, he's bringing in walkers. Killin 'em too, with the big ass awesome broad sword. It's insane."
"Broad sword?" Daryl asked at the same time that Rick asked, "Friend or enemy?"
"I don't know, man. Doesn't seem to friendly. Seems pissed actually."
They had finally made it to the doors exiting the cell block into the yard. As soon as they got outside they could hear the man shouting.
"Daryl Dixon! You get your ass out here at let me in. Now!"
"Oh, hell," Daryl muttered and if Rick didn't know any better he would swear the hunter had ducked behind him to hide.
"Daryl? You know that guy?"
"Don't you hide you bastard! I just saw you hide behind that cop!" the man continued to shout.
As they drew closer to the guard he could see the other members of the group had filtered in from their places in the prison, drawn to the unusual scene. Rick couldn't get a clear look at the man from this distance, but he appeared to be a short younger man and in between shouting was wielding a huge sword like he had been born to it.
"Yeah, I know 'im," Daryl said from behind Rick. "You might as well let him in. The only reason he's not already is cause he don't wanna get shot."
"Daryl!" Carol exclaimed. "We can't just letting someone like that in here."
"He ain't dangerous," Daryl replied just as the man beheaded a three of the walkers with one slash of his sword. "Much," the Dixon tacked on.
"Daryl! I swear to Merlin, if I'm not in there in the next minute, you will regret it!" The man broke in.
Daryl huffed, but yelled back, "I'm workin' on it!" In a quieter voice he mumbled, "Ya' damn evil voodoo bastard."
"I heard that, you dumb redneck!"
Daryl looked sheepish and rubbed at the back of his neck as a small grin worked it's way to his face. Rick was raised an eyebrow at Daryl's behavior.
"Daryl, Carol is right. We can't just be letting in strange men here," Rick tried to reason, but Daryl sent him a glare.
"No one gave you any trouble when you let Michonne in. I'm telling ya'. He ain't dangerous, trust me."
Rick stared at what he had come to think of as his right hand man and knew that he did trust the man. With a nod at Daryl he motioned for the gate to be opened. Within seconds the outer gate was sliding open. The man outside the gate quickly dispatched the walkers and stepped in side. When the outer gate slid shut, the inner began to slide open. As soon as there was enough space the man strode quickly into the compound. He marched up the path quickly with eyes only for Daryl, completely ignoring the guns that were being pointed at him. As he got closer Rick noted that the man was in his early to mid twenties and was rather small to be handling the weapon that was now being sheathed along his back. As the man walked up he continued to shout.
"About damn time! Do you know how long I've been out there. My sword is covered in zombie guts now, Daryl. Are you happy now? I leave the country for a week and look what happens. 'I just want to go see my brother, Harry' you said. 'I'll be back before you even know I'm gone' you said." Rick could hear a faint British accent to the man's words as he got even closer. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get back here from across the ocean, Daryl? All airplanes grounded. All ports shut down. I finally make it back after a month and you. weren't. there. Where are you? Still in Georgia! Do you know what I had to do to get here to you?"
The man was standing toe to toe with a abashed looking Daryl, poking him in the chest. Everyone was loosely standing around the pair, just gaping at the unusually quiet hunter. Everyone knew the man had a temper and didn't like to be touched, but he was just standing there. Rick decided to get some answers.
"Sir, why don't we just calm down here. What's your name?" Rick asked in a soothing tone. The only thing this accomplished was to have the short man whirl around and glare at him as if just realizing Rick was standing there.
"Don't you talk to me like I'm a nutter! You have no idea what I've been through to get to this man," he snapped.
"Now, now. Everyone has been through a difficult time. Why, I woke up to find the world like this after a coma. It took me days of searching to find my wife and kid. All I'm saying is maybe we should calm down a bit,"
"Days! Days, you bast-" the man was cut off as Daryl came up behind him and threaded his arms around the shorter man's waist. Rick watched, stunned, as Daryl leaned down to rest his chin on the man's shoulder.
"I'm safe, Harry," Daryl said lowly.
"But-"
"But nothing. I'm safe," Daryl cut him off.
The man, Harry, turned in Daryl's arms so they were face to face and Rick noted all traces of anger had bled away. "You weren't there. I was so worried."
"You know I can take care of myself, darlin'," Daryl replied and Rick eyes went wide when he realized where this was going. He looked around at some of the others. Their expressions ranged from confused to really confused.
Rick's suspicions were confirmed when Harry raised up on his toes to press his mouth against the hunter's. The kiss was returned with fervor and quickly became heated. Several of the others were gaping at the sight, but most had turned away while their faces burned bright red. Rick coughed, hoping to make the couple aware of their company, but when Daryl just lifted Harry off the ground and the smaller man's legs wrapped around the hunter's waist, Rick gave up subtlety.
"Ok, That's enough guys. Daryl? Hey, Daryl?" The man just waved his hand in a dismissing gesture in Ricks direction, not breaking contact with the other man. When he started hearing the breathy moans, Rick got serious.
Glen snickered behind the pair and called out, "Hey, Daryl. You got something on your face, man."
"Hey!" Rick shouted.
Daryl groaned and pulled back, still not releasing his grip on the other man's ass. He leaned in and whispered into Harry's ear. When the black haired man nodded, Daryl lifted his head to look at Rick.
"We'll be back in a lil' bit," the hunter told him.
Harry looked over his shoulder at Rick with a huge grin on his swollen lips. "More than a little bit," he said with a wink. Then there was a pop and they were gone. Completely. As in not there anymore.
"What the hell!" Rick yelled.
It was hours before they showed back up, this time in the prison cafeteria while the group was eating and discussing the days events. Some of the others proposed sending out a search party for the missing Daryl, but Rick assured them that it seemed like the man knew exactly what was going on. When the pair appeared in front of them with another pop, the group startled. Daryl's arm was wrapped around Harry's shoulders and shorter man's arm was wrapped around the hunter's waist. They were both grinning like idiots and Harry waved at the group.
"Sorry about before. I've been kind of a mess the last few months. My name's Harry. Harry Potter-Dixon."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“You're deplorable. I should have expected this honestly. How dare you intrude on…” The rest of Gale’s sentence cut off when a slender, cold, pale hand clamped around his mouth. Too fast for Gale to track, the vampire spawn had moved behind him, embraced him, and shut him up.
“Shhh. Quiet wizard.” Astarion whispered low in Gale's pierced ear, “I’d like to point out, you're here too. If they see us, you're just as culpable in this little peep show”. Astarion paused for a few beats of Gale’s heart before he heard it calm, “Now, if I let go, you'll be quiet and I'll explain why I'm here. Agreed?” He angled Gale's head back just enough to look him in his eyes and the glare Gale gave him could have frozen a large lake.
The wizard nodded despite his restricted head movement and Astarion let him go. He straightened his purple robes in a huff, “I doubt you can talk your way out of this one. I've still half a mind to expose you for the deviant you are.”
The vampire spawn rolled his eyes but grinned, “As if what kind
deviant
I am hasn't been obvious from the beginning but there’s no need to talk when I can
show
. Watch and learn
wizard
.” He emphasized the last word like it was something nasty and turned his attention to the surrounding forest. A river with a pebbled shore, tall trees all around and just up the river, he could see you. It was your bath time after a long day of exploring and killing things. All that blood needed to be washed off and what better place to do it than the river, quite a ways away from camp, and a location that gave you some modicum of privacy. Which he was currently violating by being here but in his mind, he had a good reason.
Astarion crouched low into the underbrush and motioned for Gale to do the same. They moved through the brush and trees together, Astarion quiet as a falling leaf, Gale, less so. Slowly and steadily, they made their way closer to you, coming to a stop behind some trees not far from where you’d slipped into the water, free of your clothing. There was a small clearing with a waterfall that pooled into a basin before continuing into the river.
Astarion had accidentally stumbled upon this place, and you, one night after hunting through the forest for a bite to eat. You'd decided to take a late night dip but not just any late night dip, it was something magical. You'd cast dancing lights across the water. Blue, purple, and green reflected off the water casting shapes against your naked form while you washed the grime away. But as distracting as that was, it was the music that kept him there.
You had to be using minor illusion or something. The sounds were like nothing he'd ever heard before. A steady drum beat maybe? With weird reverberating sounds but all the noises weaved together into a melody. It was captivating. He sat there, hiding behind a tree in the dark just listening until you finished your bath and the music stopped.
Every night since he'd try to sneak away when you went to take your bath just to hear the strange music you created and hoped the camp didn't notice. Apparently it didn’t work since Gale found him. He didn't really want to share this with the wizard but the last thing he needed was Gale causing a scene.
“This is wrong, we shouldn’t be here.” Gale whispered. Astarion took a glance back and saw Gale’s facial expression didn’t match his words. He was staring intently at you, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“How could you satisfy a goddess when you can't even keep it together looking at the human form? Mystra must have been terribly disappointed.”
Gale was probably going to retort with something he thought was clever when it started. A repetitive beat that sounded something like a drum mixed with a frog's croak. “What is that?” Gale said a little too loudly for Astarion’s liking and he shushed him. The wizard sighed in exasperation but shut up. They both listened intently as the strange noises kept coming and then you started swaying in the water when the lyrics began.
“.
.You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you…
”
Astarion had seen this sight a few times now so he watched Gale who didn't know what to do with himself. The man’s face had turned red from embarrassment and Astarion could hear his heartbeat speed up. Gale clearly couldn't look away and had been willing to out Astarion for the exact same thing he was doing now. What a hypocrite. Not like Astarion didn't already know Gale had a thing for Tav but the man was practically drooling.
“...I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside…”
Your singing voice mixed in with the lewd lyrics, pulled Astarion's attention back to you. The gold rays of the setting sun bounced off your curves and edges. Water ran in rivulets down your skin accentuating every part of you. You bounced your hips to the beat, swaying back and forth, clearly immersed in the song. Astarion thought about his intent to manipulate you, the strides that’d he’d made towards endearing you to him, but watching you here, like this, he was surprised what a catch you were. Even if he couldn’t be all in on you, he would at least somewhat enjoy spending an evening together with you if all went according to plan
“...I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God
”
Where did those lyrics even come from? Clearly you had some depraved ideas running around in your head to create something like this.
As the song ended. You sighed and started washing your hair under the waterfall. There was usually another song right after one ended but it didn't happen. And then he felt it. Your presence as your tadpoles connected and he instantly knew he was fucked.
Your thoughts slithered into his head “
You're seriously peeping right now?
”
“
Well Darling, you are playing some rather unique, alluring music. How could I not be enticed
?”
“
Fine. You can stay but ditch the wizard.
”
“
Happily
”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Dean hears the tinkle of the bells on the side door and balances one more set of plugs on the tiny shelf, then closes the glass cabinet and turns.
God
dammit
.
“Hey, man, I’m really sorry, but you’re gonna have to leave your coffee at Gabe’s or drink it there,” he sighs, stripping off his glove and slingshotting it into the trash can. Fucking three-pointer, right there. “Food’s unsanitary, can’t have it in here.”
“Oh,” says his customer, wide-eyed, “my apologies. I’ll be back shortly, in that case.” Dean has a couple of seconds to take a good look before the door tinkles again and a wave of coffee blows through the usual vaseline-and-disinfectant smell of his shop.
He’s got half a mind to just fucking board up that glass door between his side of Physical Graffitea and Gabe’s, but it
does
bring in a ton of customers, so he won’t. He makes a mental note to bitch at Gabriel to put up more
no food/drinks
signs on his side, and then his brain turns right back to the guy who’d just walked back into the coffee shop.
It’s not like weird people never come in. Weird is good. Dean likes weird people. This guy, though, looked cookie-cutter suburban for all ten seconds that he’d been in – sensible collared shirt, sensible jeans, sensible fucking
wingtip oxfords
.
He mentally shrugs, pulls out another glove, and opens up the wall cabinet again. There are three more shelves that need to be re-arranged because of last night’s shipment, plus the glass display under the counter. And probably the
other
wall case, too. It’s Ash’s day off
and
Jo’s not going to be in until 4, so he can’t shove it all onto her until then.
He sighs.
Ten minutes and a shelf and a half later, the door chimes. Cookie-cutter is back, hands in his pockets, and peering interestedly at a row of bone and horn jewelry.
“Can I help you out with somethin’?” he asks, because as much as he’d like to keep quietly going about his business, it’s also his business to
make
business.
“I’m just admiring the artwork,” the guy answers. Dean tries not to stare, he really does, but there’s something about the clean lines of the way that tucked-in shirt hugs his hips that’s unfairly nice. Dean forces himself to check out the guy’s ears instead – those are weights he’s looking at – and realizes that he doesn’t even have a standard 18G ear piercing.
“Ah, that stuff’s meant to be shown off, not sitting in a case,” Dean sighs. It really is. Honestly, he’d be wearing a pair of those catalox filigreed tunnels if he ever decided to not be stingy. And if they weren’t hundred-fifty-dollars-each leftovers from Crowley’s days. He closes the cabinet yet again and walks up to the case, next to cookie-cutter. “Those are mammoth bone, by the way.”
Never let it be said that he doesn’t like showing off. Just a little bit.
The raised eyebrows he gets in response are priceless. He chuckles.
“Yep, those beauties are carved from fossilized mammoth. Over 30 grams each.”
“Surely that’s too heavy for hanging weights,” murmurs cookie-cutter, and frowns at the jewelry. Dean’s nearly speechless. This guy looks like he’s the type to say ‘gauges’ instead of ‘stretched ears’ (or worse, to call the whole shebang barbaric), but apparently, Dean is being much too quick to judge by appearance.
“Nah,” he says, “weights aren’t meant to be worn for a long time, anyways.”
“Various cultures would disagree. I apologize if I’m intruding, but are you from Kansas, perhaps? Or southern Nebraska, maybe, or northern Missouri.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown for a loop.
“I–
why?
”
“You’re exhibiting the low-back merger, along with some short-a raising,” he rattles off casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “Of course, you’ve also got some significant Texan influence, what with your monophthongalization and vowel breaking.”
Dean stares.
A full twenty seconds pass.
“Forgive me,” says cookie-cutter with a sigh and tight lips, “I keep forgetting it’s not polite to go without preface. I study dialectology.”
“Dude,” Dean finally says, “I still have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
Okay, yeah, he’s officially being categorized as ‘weird.’ This is probably the most interesting,
weird
thing to happen to Dean in a long time and, despite himself, he’s actually
intrigued
.
“Dialectology is the study of a language’s dialects,” he explains, with a patience that makes it obvious he has to explain this at least three times a week. “I, personally, have taken an interest in dialects of American English, and I can usually guess where someone is from.”
“Just based on how they talk?”
“Yes.”
“Damn,” says Dean, grin creeping across his face, “that’s badass.” He realizes he’s still got a glove on so he pulls it off and walks it to the trash can. “I am, actually, from Kansas,” he continues. “Kinda grew up all over, though. Stayed in Dallas for a while.”
“Interesting,” muses cookie-cutter.
It occurs to Dean that he should introduce himself and learn this guy’s name, but the introvert in him hisses like an angry cat at the thought of being social, on top of Gabriel wanting him and Sam to go out to dinner tonight to meet his new-in-town-cousin and
socialize
. His job might involve brushing elbows with lots of people, but that doesn’t mean he
likes
them.
The side door jangles harshly, making moot his entire train of thought.
“Heya, Dean-o,” calls Gabriel loudly, Shit-Eating Grin #9 plastered on his face and half a pastry in his hand. Dean slams a fist on the countertop.
“Gabriel, for fu– for
god’s sake
, stop bringing food in here!” he snaps. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s not sanitary?”
“Oh, good,” Gabe says, ignoring him completely and turning inexplicably towards cookie-cutter, “you’ve met already.”
“
What?
” Dean realizes that both of them said it at the same time, which means he’s not the only one confused as fuck.
“Dean,” says Gabriel, and Shit-Eating Grin #9 turns into Cocky Smirk #14, “meet my baby cousin, Castiel.”
Castiel smoothes down his tie out of habit, takes a short drink of water, and straightens out his cuffs for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Looking nice doesn’t mean you have to wear a
tie
,” grumbles Gabriel from next to him, sprawled inelegantly as ever in his chair. “I bet you anything, Dean’s gonna drag his ass here in a flannel shirt.”
“The standard I hold myself to has nothing to do with the standard others hold themselves to,” Castiel replies stiffly.
“Hey, Gabe!” booms someone from behind them, and Castiel turns to find arguably the
hugest
human being he’s ever seen loping towards their table.
“Heya, Sammy,” says Gabriel cheerfully, and nods towards the person borderline sulking behind him. “I see you convinced him to ditch the flannel.” Sam is the younger brother, Castiel remembers, and Dean is the brother he met earlier. Sam makes a face at Dean, who glares right back, then extends his hand.
“I’m
Sam
–” Castiel remembers to
shake
his hand after Gabriel kicks him under the table. “–and I heard you already know Dean.”
“Yeah, we met,” says Dean, and smiles politely. It’s a little distant, a little plastic, but it still lights up his face and gives Castiel an excuse to take a long look.
He’d already come to the conclusion that sitting across from him is probably one of the most gorgeous people he’s ever seen, but he takes a step back to look at him more objectively. Dean’s grin shows off a lone stud sitting under the middle of his bottom lip (he can’t remember the name for it, but it’s something with a Latinate root, labio, labium, labrum) and a perfect set of cheekbones. The lighting in the restaurant is low so he only catches a short glimpse of long eyelashes and the quick-bright flash of a ring in his nostril and, for a handful of milliseconds, Castiel is transported back to India, back to dim red light filtering through thin cotton, gold jewelry glinting dully through the haze of sweet-sharp incense.
The waiter comes by and they order drinks and appetizers and food; Sam is talking at a mile a minute and the more he talks, the more Gabriel indulges him with witty banter, Castiel notices that Dean relaxes until his smiles are unfiltered and his laughter is genuine.
One hand keeps his notebook open so he can jot down all of the features of the Northern Cities Shift that the waiter exhibits, and he’s halfway through transcribing the waiter’s most recent visit when Dean interrupts him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, amused and genuinely curious. Castiel holds up a hand in the universal wait gesture, finishes the sentence, and sets down his pen.
“IPA transcription, right?” Sam blurts excitedly.
“Yes,” he replies, surprised. “Not a lot of people guess correctly.”
“But what
is
it?” presses Dean, chin in one hand and leaning forward. Gabriel groans loudly.
“Oh, god, don’t get him started,” he complains. “He’s gonna tell you where you’re from, and he’ll never shut up once he gets going.” Dean shoots him an easy grin.
“Yeah, he already did that,” he says, and Castiel makes a soft, bashful noise. Intelligent though he might be, a braggart he is
not
.
“I told you I study dialectology,” he starts. “IPA is a way of representing every sound with a symbol, a sort of universal phonetic alphabet.”
“So you write something down, and anyone can read it off and pronounce it correctly.”
“Yes,” says Castiel, surprised again.
Very
few people catch on this quickly. “I would like to write a dissertation on the Northern Cities Vowel Shift, hence the move here, for graduate work. I’m lucky that Gabriel lives so close to the university.”
“Wait, you’re a grad student here?” asks Sam, and he’s so excited that Castiel is worried he’ll shoot off like a rocket. He nods in confirmation. Sam is instantly endearing to him, throwing his emotions wide open for everyone to see. He glares accusingly at Gabriel. “You never said anything!”
“You never asked, kiddo,” replies Gabriel with a maddening smirk.
“In any case,” Castiel continues with a furtive glance to check if the waiter’s coming, “I’ve been transcribing what the waiter said. He’s a fairly advanced shifter, and I could use this.”
“What Cassie means to say is that he’s an eavesdropper,” Gabriel says. Castiel glares at him.
“A linguist needs to be able to–”
“I know, I know,” laughs Gabriel, cutting him off. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You guys are coming over for a beer, you know.” He changes topic with a nod at Sam and Dean.
“
Hell
yes,” says Dean loudly, smacking the table with his palm and earning a glare from the old couple a table over. Gabriel sneers at him.
“Convenient, how you’re only social when you know I buy the good beer.”
Castiel knows there’s no malice in it and he catches himself chuckling quietly; it’s surprisingly easy to fall back into step with him and, by extension, it’s easy to feel comfortable around Sam and Dean in a way he’s really only ever felt comfortable around Gabriel and Balthazar and Anna. If it’d been glaringly obvious over the phone to what extent Gabriel had taken Sam and Dean under his wing, it’s practically tangible now.
Sam is warm and open in a way that’ll attract anyone; Dean is guarded, careful of his emotions and careful in choosing who he’ll open up to. By some miracle, he thinks he’s found himself in that tiny circle. He’s known these men, this
family
, for less than twenty-four hours but there’s something tugging at him that this is something he shouldn’t let go of, something he can’t afford to let slip. Gabriel values these people to an extent that’s almost absurd and if that’s not a reason to trust them, he doesn’t know what is.
The first thing Dean does at Gabe’s (other than cracking open one of his beers) is to unbutton the top of his shirt. Sam had forced him into what he called a ‘nicer’ button-up, some dark cottony thing (he doesn’t understand why the nice, soft, worn, plaid flannel had merited an ‘ugh,
Dean
’), and he’d bitchfaced until he tucked it in, too. Fancy dinner be damned, Sam’s still getting itching powder for this.
He sighs and unbuttons his cuffs, too, as Gabriel bangs around next to him in the fridge and fishes out three more beers. Sam’s voice is carrying from the living room as he motormouths the living shit out of Castiel.
“Dude, I don’t know how much longer your cousin’s gonna be able to deal with Sam,” he grunts, rolling up one of his sleeves.
“He’s patient,” Gabe says with a shrug, “and polite. At least Sam shuts up when he drinks.”
“Yeah, thank
god
,” mutters Dean, and finishes the other sleeve. He follows Gabriel into the living room but misses the couch in favor of helping himself to the sound system. He’s had extra copies of most of his favorite albums here for at least three years, so he sets his beer down on a side table and decides that tonight is a
Physical Graffiti
sort of night. Ha, ha.
“Your brother talks a lot.”
Dean nearly drops the side A/B vinyl. Castiel just fucking materializes out of nowhere at his elbow, regarding the sleeve with a regal sort of calmness that his cousin rarely displays.
“Jesus christ, dude, you need to make noise when you walk,” he says, and clears his throat to recover. “You a Zeppelin fan?”
Castiel frowns, and Dean’s hopes plummet.
“I’ve never...” Castiel gestures towards the stereo. Dean sets his jaw.
“Alright, then you’re about to be educated,” he declares, and lets the album play – not too loudly, but loud enough. He taps the sleeve as ‘Custard Pie’ starts rumbling through the speakers. “This is
Physical Graffiti.
” Castiel’s frown disappears.
“Oh,” he says, and Dean can practically see the lightbulb. “Graffi-
tea
. And your shop– bodily,
physical
art. Graffiti. Clever.” The first semblance of a grin Dean’s ever seen spreads across Castiel’s face. It’s gorgeous. He chooses to ignore that. “I’m sure it took a good amount of convincing for Gabriel to approve that.”
“It was worth it,” Dean says with a shrug. “He thought it was lame, you know,
Physical Graffitea?
Who the hell’s gonna come in? Joke’s on him now, though. We get, like, 90% of the coffee-drinking, cafe-food-eating, pierced, tattooed student population through our doors.”
“How did you end up working together?” Castiel asks, taking a sip of beer, and Dean definitely does
not
watch the way his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on the mouth of the bottle. “Gabriel isn’t one for details.”
“Oh, man, it’s kind of a long story.” Dean runs a hand down his face and tugs on his plugs, a habit he never checks that tends to weird people out. Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t seem to care. “I moved out here four years ago. I met Gabe completely by accident, actually. Knew someone who knew someone, that kind of thing. Crowley and Gabe and I were all looking for a new place to start up business, so we figured we might as well do it together.” He takes a long draught of beer and leans against the bookcase. He is so not used to telling this story. Most people just don’t
care
, they just want their tattoo and breeze out. “Sammy started school here a year ago, ‘bout the same time Crowley went back to the UK.” He shrugs. “Long, complicated, boring story, but that’s basically it.”
Dean shifts his weight. It’s a little unnerving, the amount of staring that Castiel does, because Dean can’t remember the last time someone gave him such absolute focus. Especially when telling some dumb story.
He hasn’t even known the guy for twelve hours but Dean can already tell that Castiel is awkward where he’s charismatic, quiet where he’s brash, thoughtful where he’s insensitive, and as clichè as the yin-yang thing might be, he could definitely learn to dig this.
Life goes on. Sam starts school in two weeks – he’s
already
stressing – and Dean shamelessly spends nearly every other night with him at Gabe’s, drinking in Castiel’s company.
Things shift. Castiel starts joining Gabriel when he visits him and Sam, and then sometimes it’s just Castiel, and Dean will keep a constant stream of music going so that everything from early AOR to the peak of hair metal keeps playing softly in the background. Dean has never been more glad that he only lives a block and a half away from Gabriel.
The shop gets progressively busier as students trickle back into town for the new school year, and as just-turned-18 freshmen discover that they can do Rebellious Teenager Things like get tattoos and piercings.
“Oh my
god
, just sleep with him already,” says Jo the Saturday before Sam starts school, completely exasperated.
“
Excuse
me?” Today, of all days, he is not in the mood for dealing with anything. He’d had two complete dumbasses come in for consultations and he’s been booked the whole day, an hour of which was spent with fucking
four
giggling sorority girls. He’d kicked out the three not being tattooed after the first hour. He’s got five unread texts and a missed call, and his phone chirps yet again from his pocket.
“You’ve been waxing poetic about him for the past four weeks,” she says stubbornly. “Either sleep with him, or–”
“Give it a rest, Jo,” he snaps. “I clock out at seven. Seriously, just give me fifteen minutes of goddamn peace.” She sighs and crosses her arms.
“Just think about it,” she says, more gently this time, and he knows there’s an underlying
fine, I give up
there. Dean snorts and moves past her into his room. Fifteen minutes is barely enough time to let the autoclave run through everything so he’s definitely going to be going home later than anticipated tonight, and by the time he finishes cleaning and disinfecting, he’s past being in a foul mood and he’s just
tired
.
“I’m headin’ home,” he mutters, leaning his elbows on the counter next to Jo and running his hands down his face.
“Go get some sleep. Or beg some coffee out of Gabe.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He straightens, pulls Jo into a one-armed hug, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“Go
home
, Dean,” she laughs, and ducks out from under his arm. The door tinkles. “Hey, Castiel.”
“Coffee, man,” says Dean tiredly. “Not in here.”
“I’m in the doorway,” Castiel fires back, deadpan. “I’ve yet to set foot on your premises.”
“Told you he’d bitch,” says Sam from behind him, all floppy hair and a grin. “Gabe’s got coffee for you back there, figured we’d err on the side of caution since you didn’t answer any of Castiel’s texts.”
“Thank
christ
,” Dean sighs, and pushes past both of them into Gabe’s cafe. “See ya, Jo.”
“Hey, whoa, Dean–” He can hear Sam scrambling so he turns around, eyebrows up. “We’re gonna finish eating here, so you’re on your own for dinner.”
“‘Long as you can haul your own asses home,” Dean grunts, and makes a beeline for the paper coffee cup waiting for him in Gabriel’s hand.
He drains the 20oz coffee before he even parks (which is honestly a little impressive, given that the shop’s not even on the other side of the old downtown area), grumbles his way up the stairs, and makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet.
He’s a glass and a half into the Hunter’s Helper and sprawled across the couch with
The Empire Strikes Back
on in the background when Sam opens the door, hauling his bike on his shoulder and talking animatedly to Castiel about something-Latin-something-something.
Dean groans inwardly and stares up at the ceiling. Today of all days, he doesn’t need Sam and Castiel making doe eyes at each other. He’s a mopey little shit and he wants to mope in peace and
not
think about how Castiel seems to prefer spending time with Sam, how Sam is always around Castiel, how Dean is, in this respect, like in every other, gently pushed to the side.
He is
very much
allowed to be a bitchy teenager after a long day at work.
Sam and Castiel are making the usual racket that accompanies making a place for their bikes in the apartment and he blindly turns up the TV.
“That bad of a day, huh?” calls Sam from the kitchen, but his voice is sympathetic. Dean grunts.
“What are you watching?” Castiel asks, leaning on his forearms against the backrest of the couch.
Dead silence.
Artoo whistles.
We’re not going to regroup with the others,
answers Luke.
We’re going to the Dagobah system.
“Oh my god,” says Sam from the kitchen. Dean’s bolt upright and much closer to Castiel than he’d calculated.
“You’ve–
what?
” Castiel just looks between him and the TV. “No. Shut the fuck up and sit down, you’re spending the rest of the night with George Lucas.”
“Oh my
god
,” Sam mutters again, this time completely exasperated.
Dean’s stuck in the middle of a moral dilemma. By all means, he
should
be introducing someone to Star Wars starting with the original trilogy, as it
should
be, but at the same time, those dumb prequels are there for a reason. Unfortunately.
Castiel parks himself on the couch like he belongs there, which, for some reason, really fucking warms Dean as he’s digging through the DVDs.
“We’re going to start with Episode I and if anyone asks you, you’re going to tell them you started with A New Hope.” Sam makes a gagging noise from the kitchen. “Shut up, Samantha. That goes for you too,” he snaps.
Sam’s still chuckling snarkily as the opening blares and he settles in on the other side of the couch. Dean ignores him; sitting here, on the worn-out couch between Sam and Castiel, is the most comfortable he’s been in a long time.
Dean’s alarm goes off way too early the next morning – early, considering the very adult decision he’d made last night to stay up until four in the morning marathoning Star Wars and having more fun being drunk than he’s had in at least a year – but work is work, and he has to be in before 10 to open.
He runs his hands down his face, scrubs at the stubble that’s getting out of hand. Dean’s not entirely sure how he’d managed to shed most of his clothes before passing out but he doesn’t bother putting them back on, ambling across the hall into the bathroom in boxers because clothing just isn’t worth the effort. He feels slightly more human after washing his face and brushing his teeth, which is when he realizes that there’s noise in the kitchen which means breakfast and
praise jesus
.
“God
damn
, Sammy, you nev–”
And then he freezes like a deer in fucking headlights because
that’s not Sam
.
Castiel is equally as frozen as he is, with a fork in one hand and something sizzling on the stove behind him, but that’s not what matters, what matters is that Dean feels
buck fucking naked
without a shirt on, without pants on – not because he’s body-shy (
hell
no, he knows he’s a fine piece of ass) but because without clothes, Castiel can see his tattoos.
He realizes he’s hunching his shoulders up like a freaked-out cat, arching over, and that Castiel is definitely going to take this the wrong way if he doesn’t offer some kind of explanation.
Sorry, it’s totally cool that apparently either you broke in or slept here, but you can see my tattoos and that freaks me out. No big.
Dean takes a deep breath, pushes his freak-out into his Very Adult Freak-Out Box, and walks up to the stove. Castiel is still staring at him like he’s going to explode at any second, but Castiel is staring at
him
, at his face. Dean knows exactly what it looks like when someone’s trying to avoid staring at your skin, but this isn’t it. There’s a flood of something warm in his chest.
“Bacon, eggs, and toast? Damn, dude.” He slides a grin towards him. Or, at least, tries to. “If I paid you, would you do this for me every morning?”
“This is a hangover breakfast,” Castiel replies, voice rougher than normal, and now Dean can definitely tell that he looks worse for wear.
“D’you sleep on the couch or what?” he asks, trying to be casual, because the last thing he remembers from last night was when Sam had called Castiel into his room to double check a something in one of his books or his notes or... something. Castiel hums an affirmative.
“Sam brought out an extra comforter and some pillows.” Dean pulls two plates out of the cabinet (Sam’s not gonna be up until, like,
noon
), fishes some mostly-dry mugs out of the drying rack, and starts on the coffee.
“You know, ‘mandala’ is a Sanskrit word,” says Castiel carefully. Dean can’t do much more than barely glance at him, meet his eyes for a split second before busying himself with the percolator. He self-consciously tucks in the tattooed elbow in question.
“Yeah, I know,” he answers, and all of a sudden, the tension skyrockets. “Traditional mandalas, they–” He turns around, takes two steps towards the hallway, turns back to face Castiel, then takes half a step back into the kitchen. “I– okay, just to clarify, I don’t have, like, a no-clothes freakout thing, it’s just that no one’s really seen–”
“Dean, it’s okay,” Castiel says, low and quiet. “I’m intruding. You shouldn’t have to bare your soul to everyone who sees you.”
Which, naturally, completely throws Dean for a loop.
“
Oh
.”
He’s never thought of them as his
soul
. They’re all a part of him -- he can’t imagine life without Vonnegut calmly watching everything from his forearm, without the perfect lines on his side, without the rayed sun-star over his heart that matches Sam’s. He’d never thought of them as his soul, but now that he considers it, it’s completely true.
And here he is, in his kitchen,
baring his soul
to Castiel.
And it’s
okay
.
Cas gives him a short, small smile, and piles a fucking mountain of eggs onto a plate.
Cas still spends more time talking to Sam, but Dean’s the one who learns more about him. He learns that Cas likes his scrambled eggs with ham and green onion, and that he likes his coffee with half-and-half (which is totally not the reason it starts appearing in the fridge). Cas is a fan of Eastern European fantasy literature and he spent the majority of the last two years between India and Europe; he’s got the majority of some PBS special called
Do You Speak American?
memorized because he’s seen it so many times. He’s beautifully passionate about language, even though most of their communication is a mug slid across the counter, a movie on in the background, coffee waiting for him after work, extra help grading homework.
Slushy rain slogs against the windows for what feels like the tenth day in a row; Dean loves this weather way too much, but, as he browses plane ticket prices to John Wayne Airport (and holy shit, an airport named after
John Wayne
), he thinks it’ll be kinda nice to see what a Californian winter looks like. January is still three months away, but he should’ve gotten this crap done earlier.
Sam murmurs slightly botched Latin from the kitchen and Cas murmurs back in freakin’ perfect Latin, clerical pronunciation, flawless declension. Dean catches every few words, but he knows the quote, anyways.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
“Yo, Denzel Washington, you know tonight’s
your
night for dishes, right?” he yells in the general direction of the kitchen. “It’s almost eleven.”
“Fine,
Ellen
,” snarks Sam loudly. Cas walks into the living room, chuckling, and hovers over his shoulder.
“California?” he asks.
“Body Arts Expo in January,” Dean says, leaning back in the chair. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining the warmth radiating from Cas or not, but it’s nice, regardless. Cas hums, interested, and he leans over Dean’s shoulder to reach for the mouse when there’s pounding on the front door that sounds like half a Roman army.
Dean gets up, frowning, and checks the peephole before opening the door.
“Jesus christ, Jo, what happened?” he asks after she storms in, eyes brimming and absolutely fucking
furious
. Cas has some sort of silent exchange with Sam and then he’s practically running towards the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” Sam presses, when it’s obvious she’s incapable of non-yelling speech and thus isn’t talking. Jo takes at least five deep breaths.
“Mom’s pissing me off,” she says, carefully. “She keeps treating me like I’m ten.”
And then everything just fucking goes to hell because she’s sobbing into Sam’s shoulder within a span of seconds. Dean starts quietly panicking because as much as he loves Jo, he’s got no idea how to handle emotional things like this. He turns and Cas is
there
at his shoulder like he’d fucking teleported, holding a hot mug of something that smells heavenly.
“Here,” he says, holding it out towards Jo. “Gabriel taught me how to make his hot chocolate.” Jo reaches out for it, sniffles nice and wet and manly, and takes a long drink.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, and a couple of stray tears make tracks down her face. Sam makes a
you can go now
face; Dean rolls his eyes.
“Got any more of that?” he asks Cas once they’re back in the kitchen. Cas just smiles.
Sam walks through the kitchen approximately forty-five minutes later, looking tired in just about every single way possible.
“Crisis averted?” asks Dean, keeping his voice down.
“Crisis averted,” Sam sighs back. “I’m gonna go crash. She’s gonna spend the night here, talk to Ellen tomorrow. You know how it is.” And with that he stumbles off towards his room. Poor fucker has
school
tomorrow. Cas frowns.
“If Jo’s on the sofa–”
“My bed’s more’n big enough, if you’re not squeamish about sharing,” says Dean, aiming for casual and missing it by at least seven astronomical units.
“I’m not,” Cas murmurs, and looks oddly at Dean. He clears his throat and pours a tall glass of water, then walks it over to the living room, willing himself with every fiber of his being to
calm the fuck down
.
Jo’s curled up like a cat under the blankets, and he leaves the glass for her on the coffee table before kissing the top of her head and heading back to the hallway.
Cas is already in his room, hands at the buttons on his collar (no inappropriate thoughts, Dean Winchester,
no inappropriate thoughts
), and Dean swallows several times before fishing a clean t-shirt and sweats out of his closet.
“Here,” he says, and holds them out to Cas. “Your clothes are probably a bitch to iron, no point getting ‘em wrinkled.”
He pulls his shirt over his head and shimmies out of his jeans with fucking
agonizing
casualness as Cas steadily unbuttons his oxford, drapes it neatly over the back of his chair, then steps out of his own pants before folding them in half over the shirt. Dean’s half-surprised to see that Cas is ignoring the sweatpants in favor of just a t-shirt and boxers.
No complaints.
The bed dips when Cas slides under the covers with him and Dean’s practically
swooning
; the sensation is so strange but so welcome, and if it’s a little weird that they fall asleep facing each other, it’s no one else’s business.
Dean wakes up at precisely 4:13 in the morning from one of the most vivid nightmares he’s ever had. He lies in bed for a couple of minutes, trying to breathe, trying to stop panicking.
He used to field-strip and clean his dad’s guns on nights like this. Practiced motions,
old
motions, fluid and easy like breathing. The noise never woke John, drunk and dead to the world, and it was like a lullaby for Sam.
It’s out of the question now, so Dean gets up as quietly as he can, shuffles over to his desk, and starts drawing in the weak light coming through the window.
He captures the terror in his dream-Hell, the tortured souls, a hand –
his
hand – holding the knife, the too-familiar torture-master’s twisted face. He captures the way radiant light finally burst through the stinking clouds of ash and sulphur and he captures the hope on the faces of all the other souls, but something about the angel that rescued him resists. The face isn’t right, the wings aren’t right, nothing’s right except for a hand, gripping him tight, and his shoulder still tingles where it was burned in the dream.
Dean’s not big on omens or dreams or any of that hoodoo crap, but there’s something about this one he really can’t shake. He’s on his fifth try of the wings when the comforter rustles.
“Dean?” Oh,
christ
, the way Cas says his name, all sleepy and rough, burns right through him in ways it really shouldn’t.
“Sorry,” he whispers back. “I wake you up?”
“No,” says Cas, voice low. “I had a... strange dream. Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Uh, couldn’t sleep.” He knows Cas knows it’s a lie, but he’ll explain in the morning.
“Come to bed, Dean,” murmurs Cas, and fuck everything, he so could’ve chosen a better way to phrase that. Dean swallows.
“Yeah,” he finally breathes, and drops the pencil back in a jar before sliding back under the covers, honestly a lot closer to Cas than he’d intended.
Cas’s eyes search his face, glimmering faintly in the darkness, and then he reaches out and puts his palm on Dean’s still-bare shoulder.
It feels right.
Dean’s awake before Cas the next morning; he steals a couple of seconds to admire how completely relaxed he looks when he’s asleep, long eyelashes painting shadows on his cheeks, no trace of the typical furrow in his brow. He’s so totally screwed, he thinks for the thousandth time, but he’ll deal with it.
He gets out of bed (again), quiet and slow so as not to wake Cas, and checks his phone.
Jo Harvelle
>> I’m heading home fyi. Sam locked the door behind us, he’s at school and I’m gonna go to the roadhouse
Sasquatch
>> Jo’s heading back to The Roadhouse. I think she’s feeling okay, for now.
They’re from roughly an hour and a half ago; he types back a reply after closing his bedroom door behind him as quietly as possible.
Jo Harvelle
<< Ok I how you’re doing better. Don’t worry about coming in to the shop today,. Ash and I can deal without a piercer for the day
<< Hope*
Cas is still asleep by the time he finishes showering; he contemplates shaving the half-beard he’s been growing out of sheer laziness, decides it’s not worth the effort (for the fourth day in a row), and heads for the kitchen.
He makes a quick detour to put the B-side of
The Times They Are A-Changin’
on; it’s not often that he gets in a Bob Dylan mood, but whatever. It has nothing to do with the fact that Cas has an unchecked obsession with this record. It’s not even Dylan’s best – at least in Dean’s
superior
opinion – but he’s the last person to judge musical taste. Well, except when it comes to Sam and Gabe.
So he starts on some omelettes and coffee and toast and bacon, hums along as he stirs half-and-half into Cas’s coffee, and by the time ‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’ is on, Cas pokes his head into the kitchen.
“‘Morning,” says Dean cheerfully, because it’s obvious that Cas woke up less than two minutes ago and his hair is sticking up everywhere. He drops himself into a chair and Dean passes him his coffee, steadfastly ignoring how.... kind of awesome this feels.
“Jo left?” Cas rasps, after taking a long drink of coffee.
“Yeah.” Dean slides the warmer omelette onto a plate and hands it to Cas, then puts his own back onto the pan. “She and Ellen do this every so often. I get it, though, they’re–”
The racket his phone makes cuts him off, and he stares at the
Ellen Harvelle calling
in fear before swallowing and answering it.
“Uh, hello?”
“Thank you for telling me where my daughter was last night,” comes Ellen’s voice, sharp and familiar.
“I, um–”
“Save it,” she sighs. The pan’s started smoking; he fumbles with the phone, says, “shit, hang on a sec,” and switches it to speaker on the countertop.
“Are you guys– is everything cool?” he asks, flipping his omelette over and wincing at its half-burned state. Cas snorts at him.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” Ellen replies. “And you really think I didn’t know where she’d go? After finding the three of you all squeezed together Jo’s bed every time John had a bad night? I thought you were smarter’n that, boy.” He can feel his ears turning red as Cas starts covering his laugher.
“Yeah, well....” He clears his throat. “I’ll talk to you later, Ellen.”
“Thanks, honey,” she says, and Dean hides a smile as he hangs up.
“Interesting,” says Cas, eyes sparkling with mirth. Dean sneers elegantly at him and goes to change the record out of spite.
“What time are you teaching today?” Dean eventually asks around a mouthful of egg.
“One-thirty.”
“Perfect.” Dean swallows and grins. “I’m in the shop at two, I’ll drive you to campus.”
“We’ll need to stop by my house,” Cas says, then yawns enormously with his arms over his head and his whole body arching into it. Dean accidentally inhales some coffee, coughs, and then drains the rest of his mug’s contents.
Cas raises an eyebrow at him then gathers his plate and mug and utensils and sets them down in the sink; Dean scoops up the last of his bacon and follows suit. It’s already nearing eleven and they need to get a move on; Dean changes his boxers and throws on some jeans and his favorite henley as Cas takes a quick, three-minute shower and comes out smelling like Dean.
“This is what you were doing last night?” asks Cas, leaning over the sketchbook on his desk.
“Mm-hmm,” Dean hums back, hunting for a clean pair of socks.
“It’s beautiful,” murmurs Cas, and Dean just side-eyes the fuck out of him.
“Dude, it’s
Hell
,” he says. “That’s what I dreamed about. Tortured souls, demons, you know.”
“That’s why you couldn’t sleep.” Cas phrases it like a statement but it’s more of a question, looking for confirmation. Dean suddenly feels shy, like it’s childish of him to admit to a bad dream.
“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles, and pulls on his socks. “C’mon, we gotta get going if you’re gonna be on time.” Cas looks at him like he
understands
, which is about seven kinds of weird and not something Dean wants to process right now.
He grabs a jacket and his favorite scarf from the coat closet (something Sam had gleefully pointed out was
chic
, whatever that’s supposed to mean – it’s gray and soft and long enough to pile all around his neck, so he doesn’t give a shit), along with a navy-blue, slightly lumpy, hand-knitted beanie that he mostly only wears because Jo had made one for him and a dark red one for Sam. He is
so
ready for this weather.
Cas puts on one of his fucking metrosexual itchy wool cardigan things and then pulls on his trench coat, the one that Dean’s learned to spot in a crowd. He’s got no idea how Cas stays warm like that but it works for him, so whatever.
The stop at Gabriel’s house is slightly longer than intended; Cas makes lunch in his slightly-rumpled shirt from yesterday and then starts practically fucking
stripping
in front of him while Dean’s on the phone with one of yesterday’s consults, rolling his shoulders as he slowly unbuttons and pulls off his oxford, trading it for a clean one. Thankfully, getting changed out of his pants is only
slightly
less pornographic. Dean doesn’t put it past Cas to be completely unaware of what he’s doing.
They’re on campus a bit before one; Dean ends up walking with Cas to his office because they’re engrossed in a conversation about which one of Gabriel’s pastries is the best, and, because it’s such a vitally important and pressing conversation, Dean doesn’t want it to end.
Cas’s ears and nose are pink by the time they reach his building; Dean pulls off his hat and rotates the jewelry in his earlobes, then tugs on them.
“Why do you do that?” asks Cas, all curiosity and zero judgement. His voice echoes unnaturally in the stairwell.
“Huh?”
“You tug on your ears,” Cas clarifies, and walks out into the hallway proper. It’s much warmer in there than it was in the stairwell.
Dean grins and says, “Giving ‘em some play is good. It keeps the circulation going. ‘Specially important when it’s cold like this, just like you don’t wear metal jewelry when it’s freezing, because that’s how dumbasses end up with frostbite.”
“Interesting,” says Cas, and leans forward to scrutinize the jewelry he’s wearing. It’s some of his favorite, actually – gorgeous olivewood plugs with amber cabochon inlays – but he can smell his own shampoo and body wash on Cas and his hair is still rumpled and it’s all so
distracting
. “Those look nice on you.” Dean grins even wider.
“Um, excuse me? Castiel?” Both of them turn to see a short, sort of super adorable brown-haired girl shifting her weight and looking everywhere but Cas’s face.
“Yes?” And Dean can see the shift from Cas-his-friend to Castiel-the-TA.
“I just, um– I was wondering, on the homework? If it’s okay to use Labovian transcription.”
“That’s fine,” says Cas, with a reassuring teacher-smile.
“Oh, okay,” she says, breaking into a nervous smile. “Thank you!”
The second they walk into Cas’s office, Dean bursts out laughing.
“Dude, are
all
your kids madly in love with you?”
“
Excuse
me?” Cas makes a strangled sort of laughing noise and hangs his coat over the back of his chair, then sets his leather satchel on his desk. Dean is forcibly reminded that he’s friends with a guy who owns and uses a leather satchel. He’s also
related
to another one.
“She thinks you’re gorgeous,” Dean explains, trying to hide a shit-eating grin, “that’s why she was all nervous. It’s obvious.” Cas snorts.
There’s a knock on the open door, and Dean half-turns.
“Hey, Castiel, I was wondering if you could proofread something real quick,” says a paunchy, slightly older guy, roughly their height. He’s clearly at the tail end of the graduate program. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No, please come in,” says Cas, glancing quickly at Dean.
“Who’s your–” A pause, and his eyes flick from Dean’s eyes to his nose to his chin to his earlobes. “–friend?”
Dean is
instantly
on edge.
“Zachariah, this is Dean, a family friend.” Dean shakes Zachariah’s hand with a vicious sort of pride at the honor of being called a family friend. “Zachariah and I both TA in the department.”
“Well, I’ll get out of your guys’ hair,” says Dean with a tight smile. “Hey, uh, Cas– I’m at work ‘till nine tonight, so...”
“Oh? Where do you work? On campus somewhere?” asks Zachariah, and there’s a particular kind of sneer curling his lip that makes Dean want to punch his fucking lights out.
“I own my own business,” says Dean, cold and flat, “and if I don’t head out now, I’ll be late. See ya, Cas.” Another curt smile and a nod and he’s out of there.
He’s still so damn put off by that conversation that he nearly forgets to clock himself in. Ash is instantly wary; he knows how bad Dean’s temper can get when he’s provoked.
“What happened, man?” he asks, in that calm voice of his that could pacify a whole plane of crying babies. Dean can feel himself relaxing slightly, being back in
his
environment, in the familiar smell of the shop.
“Nothin’,” he mutters. “Some guy was bein’ a douche, that’s all.”
Dean regrets nothing about his life. Absolutely nothing. He doesn’t regret stretching his ears or any of his tattoos or piercings; he only wishes that people would be polite enough to just leave him alone. He’s never had any huge confrontations over his mods (barring The Diner Incident, but neither he nor Sam will
ever
talk about that), but all of the little ones add up and make him progressively lose his faith in society. His phone chirps.
Castiel Milton
>> I’m sorry about Zachariah. He’s often unapologetically rude in his refusal to mind his own business.
<< It’s ok I’ve dealt with douchebags before. Don’t waste your time apologizing for him. Go teach your class remember to file with your students
<< Flirt* dammit
>
> I don’t flirt.
Dean puts his phone back in his pocket and takes a deep breath. It’s more touching than he’d care to admit, that Cas was worried about him being upset.
He spends the hour before his first appointment drafting a tattoo – a sun/moon themed half-sleeve for next Thursday – and he’s satisfied with it so far. The appointment goes smoothly, too, since it’s just filling the color on last week’s linework; the dude he’s working on is just the right amount of talkative, and it turns out he’s also a fan of Springsteen so Dean gets to listen to
Born To Run
as he works. Not bad at all.
Sam comes in and flops down on the couch in their front room approximately twenty minutes later, and Dean shoos him into Gabe’s place because the kid is seriously in need of some coffee and nutrition. He wheedles food out of Gabriel on his break and helps him tie Sam’s shoes together, where he’s sprawled gracelessly in an armchair. He’s back at the shop when Sam wakes up, but hearing the reaction is just as good.
Cas stops by a half hour before the shop closes, while Dean’s cleaning and disinfecting, and Dean’s back home with Sam and the Miltons before he knows it.
This
, he could get used to.
October blurs into November blurs into December and the next thing Dean knows, he and Sam are making plans to spend Christmas Eve with the Miltons before their customary Christmas Day with the Harvelles. Bobby’s coming out from South Dakota this year, which is a fucking momentous occasion, and Dean is both anxious and excited about introducing him to Castiel. He knows that Bobby is gonna like him, though, because Cas is so very much family now that it’s absurd.
He’s got all of his presents bought and wrapped – in proper wrapping paper, even. Dean’s always been total crap at gift-giving so he’s really glad that no one he knows is into it. He usually just gives and gets one thing per person.
His phone rings, way too early in the morning. He picks it up without looking at caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Dean, my siblings are coming for Christmas,” blurts Cas, without preamble.
“What?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and turning over on his back. He can hear Gabriel in the background, sounding frustrated.
“They decided that they want to spend Christmas with us,” Cas huffs, clearly irritated at the prospect. “They’re... They can be difficult, if you don’t know how to deal with them.”
“So? Sam ‘n I’ll just stay home if it’s too crowded at Gabe’s. We’re talking Balthazar and Anna, right?”
“No,” says Cas quickly. “Well, yes, Balthazar and Anna, but I don’t want you to stay home. I’d like to spend the holidays with you.”
“Aw, Cas, I feel my heart growing two sizes too big,” Dean teases. “If it’s cool with you that Sam and I crash your family time, we’ll do it.”
“Thank you,” breathes Cas, and Dean can feel his gratitude over the phone.
“Just next time, don’t call this early,” Dean chuckles. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Yes. Thank you, Dean. I mean it.”
They hang up and Dean tosses his phone somewhere near his feet, then scrubs a hand over his face and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know much about Cas’s and Gabe’s family. They don’t like to talk about it; Dean gets it. He doesn’t really talk about his family, either. He’s learned that their family is huge and mega-religious and that it was hard for them to escape, as Gabe had let slip one night while fantastically drunk. Cas has a grand total of five siblings but only two he keeps in contact with – Balthazar, older than Cas, who grew up in England, and Anna, a year younger than Sam, who moved to England with him when she started college.
As selfish as it might be, as far as Dean’s concerned, Cas’s family is him and Sam and Gabe and Ellen and Jo and Ash.
They’re
the ones who love him and make him smile and cook food for him and make him coffee and tease him; family don’t end with blood, and they’re the evidence.
Bobby drives into town a week later, and Dean’s hit with a flurry of texts the second he leaves the shower.
Jo Harvelle
>> Dean I can hear the truck it’s like a mile down the road
>> Get our ass over here seriously
>> Your*
>> BOBBYS HERE asking why you’re not and
>> Sam
>> Bring Cas
Ellen Harvelle
>> If u dnt get ur butt here in 5 min im not going to feed u
He hastily towels off his hair and sticks a toothbrush in his mouth.
Cas Milton
<< You’re not busy right? We’re gonna be at your house in like 2 minutes to pick you up Bobby’s here
Gabriel Milton
<<
Get to the roadhouse asap Bobby’s in town
“Sam,” he shouts through the door, but he can already hear sounds of frantic scrambling from down the hall.
Gabriel Milton
>> Oh shit. I’ll take a long lunch today and stop by
“I know, I know,” Sam yells back, “Jo sent me, like, seven texts. Lemme get dressed.”
Cas Milton
>>
You’re lucky I was up early today. Call me when you get here, I’ll be ready to go.
They’re out the door in record time and Sam’s grinning this
grin
, huge and infectious, and Dean can already feel it starting to creep across his own face. The Impala purrs to life under his hands; he blasts Led Zeppelin the whole way to Gabe’s place and from there to The Roadhouse, and Sam doesn’t even complain.
Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and Ash are still outside when they pull up, and Dean can still feel the heat from the truck’s engine when he vaults out of the Impala.
“Hey, Bobby,” he calls, still grinning,
grinning
, then Bobby’s beard twitches in his own approximation of a smile and Dean hugs him, tight and brief. He can smell the old leather of the truck and grease and gun-cleaning oil and everything his childhood was.
“You’re takin’ care of that car, right?” asks Bobby gruffly.
“‘Course I am,” Dean scoffs back, and he knows he’s glowing as Bobby claps him on the shoulder.
“God
damn
, Sam, you grow any more’n you won’t be able to fit in a house,” Bobby grumbles, then lets himself get swept up in a huge, Sam-sized hug. “And I’m guessin’ you’re Cas, right? The boys’ve been singin’ your praises for months.” He sticks out a hand. “Good to meet you, kid.”
Cas shakes it and Dean thinks that if he grins any wider, his face is going to split in half. He looks at Ellen, who’s got one of her rare, soft, I’m-not-going-to-gut-you smiles on.
“Food?” he asks hopefully, and throws in a charming smile. She crosses her arms.
“Get your ass inside, Winchester,” she barks, without real malice. “You too, boys. No point freezin’ our asses off in the snow.”
Breakfast ends up being a three-hour-long affair with way too much food and apple cider and no beer just yet. Gabriel waltzes in as Ellen brings out the pie, slaps Bobby on the back, and eats nearly as much of the pie as Dean does. At 2:04 in the afternoon, Dean remembers he’s supposed to be at the shop four minutes ago; he grabs his jacket and scarf and distractedly kisses Ellen on the cheek while promising to be back for dinner, he’ll close early and send Ash home at three, it’ll be fine. As he’s leaving, Sam and Cas are huddled close together, discussing something to do with the language used in legislation. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it.
He’s lucky it’s a Sunday, because he gets away with closing fifteen minutes early and gets back to The Roadhouse at six, where he catches Sam sneaking a drink from Cas’s beer while Ellen’s in the back room. Dean elbows him and says, “you know
you’re
driving us home tonight, right?”
Sam scowls and Cas laughs, his nose crinkling up in the most endearing way possible.
Dean braves the cold and the dark to head outside with Bobby and a flashlight, where he proves that yes, he’s been taking good care of his baby. They stay out there for an hour, verbally picking apart the Impala, and Dean can’t feel the tip of his nose by the time they head back inside, but he forgets about it as soon as Ellen announces that dinner’s ready.
He ends up really spectacularly drunk and equally as giddy two hours after that, in spite of the truly staggering amount of food he’d eaten. The only things that really stick out to him are belting out ‘Wanted Dead Or Alive’ with Sam and kissing Gabe on the face for bringing scotch, but everything else comes as brief flashes: Cas’s fingers curling around a glass of beer, the way he laughs, full-throated, when Bobby tells a dumb story about the garage, the look on his face when he tries eggnog for the first time, watching him down a row of shots without even getting fazed.
Jo stumbles up to her room at 10:30, yelling at Dean the whole way for having to work Monday mornings when it’s his day off. Dean laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard and finishes his whiskey.
Somehow, the clock flies, and then it’s past two and Sam’s ushering him and Cas into the back seat of the Impala while both he and Bobby yell, slurred, that he’d better not screw her up in any way, shape, or form.
It’s only when they’re back in the apartment that Dean realizes something is off.
“Hey,
wwhhhoa
, Cas,” he says to Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows.
“I’m
Sam
,” he corrects, pointing at himself. Dean shakes his head and immediately regrets it.
“No, no, no, no,” he says firmly, “Cas’s here. Why isn’t he–” He gestures vaguely. “–not?”
Sam rolls his eyes. At least, Dean
thinks
Sam rolls his eyes. Everything is rolling around, at this point. Cas is leaning heavily against the kitchen wall.
“Just go to sleep,” Sam says, and pushes Dean lightly towards his room. He’s struggling to get out of his jacket and button-down and shirt and he catches glimpses of Sam standing in front of Cas in the hallway, his hands at the buttons on Cas’s shirt; Dean makes a sort of half-grumble, half-snort noise and just falls the fuck into his bed with his jeans half-on.
A phone rings at the fucking crack of dawn the next morning. There’s a grunt from somewhere next to him and the screen’s lit up on the floor next to his bed and a pile of clothes, then:
“Dean, hand me my phone.”
Cas reaches over him towards the floor and, in the process, presses his chest flush against Dean’s back (and how the hell did either of them even end up–? and Dean could’ve sworn he’d been wearing pants–) so Dean numbly reaches down, grabs the phone, and hands it to Cas.
“Hello?” He tries to go back to sleep but Cas is still close, much too close, can-feel-his-breath close, and that’s all he can process right now. His limbs feel like lead. “No. Yes.
On a bender
.” Dean can’t help but chuckle at Cas’s tone. The voice on the other end of the phone gets much louder.
“
Oh my god, are you
with
someone?
” comes a filtered, crackly female voice.
“Goodbye, Anna,” Cas groans, and tosses the phone back onto the floor next to the pile of what Dean now realizes is Cas’s clothing. “For the love of god, Dean, please don’t wake me up for at least the next six hours.”
“Uh, yeah,” he manages to choke out, because that’s when it finally clicks that they’re in the same bed, under the same covers, wearing a negligible amount of clothing, and the last thing he registers before passing the fuck out is that that’s
Castiel’s arm
around his waist.
He wakes up some time later to a crippling hangover and Cas curled into his side. Cas’s hair is sort of tickling his shoulder and he does his best not to wake him up as he checks his phone.
Jo Harvelle
>> You works NOT believe how hungover I am
>> Would*
>> It’s not fair Ash doesn’t get hangovers and he isn’t working till 1. You owe me coffee so bad
Sasquatch
>> Are you even awake yet?
His phone ends up somewhere between his bed and the floor and he groans quietly because it’s only nine in the morning and the more of this hangover he can sleep away, the better. Cas is still passed out, breathing slow and steady into his shoulder, so Dean turns in to face him and falls asleep like that, with Cas’s hair tickling his nose every few breaths.
“Dean.”
A hand and gentle shaking and light coming from the windows and Dean just turns onto his stomach and groans.
“
No
.”
“Dean, wake up. You need to eat.”
Back up, that’s
Cas’s
hand on his back now so he pushes himself up, blinks blearily, and tries to come up with something intelligent to say. All he can think of is Sam’s hands on Cas’s shirt.
“You slept here?” he ends up blurting out. “The whole night, I mean.”
“No, I slept on the windowsill,” Cas deadpans.
“Wait–” He racks his brain and comes up with something that involves a pretty dangerous amount of spooning through the haze of alcohol. “Oh.” Then, “Wait, you made breakfast?”
Cas gives him this look, like
does it look like I could’ve survived this morning without breakfast?
and yeah, Cas definitely looks like he’s been through the wringer.
Dean tries to grin but his stomach lurches, so he excuses himself, stumbles into the bathroom, and proceeds to vomit up what feels like all of his intestines and then some.
“Gabriel called,” says Cas from the kitchen when all sounds of retching have stopped. “He’s wondering if we’re still alive, and he says that Jo seems ‘unhappy.’”
“Jo do’en’t ‘ake hango’ers ‘oo well,” Dean calls back around his toothbrush. Everything tastes fucking
squeaky
and disgusting. A chuckle from the kitchen.
“Neither do I.”
“Hey, where’s Sam, anyways?” he asks, after most of the gross is gone from his mouth. He tosses his shirt back into his room from the hallway (it now stinks like sweat, alcohol,
and
puke) and walks into the kitchen to find Cas in rumpled pants and a half-buttoned oxford, sitting at the table and looking like he’s about to pass out. Again. Cas shrugs in response.
“
God
, yes,” Dean groans, and helps himself to the mountain of pancakes. “Cas, seriously, you keep makin’ breakfasts like this and I’mma have to marry you.”
Oops
.
Cas’s eyes are wide and he looks like he’s almost about to be on the verge of saying something but Dean winks exaggeratedly and chuckles, smoothing the whole thing over. Good going, dickwad. He pulls out his phone and dials Sam.
“
Hey, this is Sam! Can’t reach the
–” He hangs up.
“Fine, asshole,” he mutters, and pulls up his texts.
Sasquatch
>> Where did you run off to please tell me you’re not studying it’s winter break
Jo Harvelle
>> Go bug Gabe for coffee. He’s probably hung over too
Cas puts his forehead down on the table with a quiet thump.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up again,” he groans.
“Not at the table,” Dean replies quickly, and pats his shoulder. He gets a muffled grunt in response.
They eventually crawl their way back to Gabriel’s house and find Sam there, sprawled across the couch and with Gabe somehow in the crack between Sam’s gangly limbs and the couch’s backrest. Dean muffles his laughter and takes a picture, definitely not for blackmail purposes.
Cas forces a cup of chamomile-mint tea on him, which tastes like minty, wilted grass, but Dean chokes it down anyways because Cas has promised him in every language he knows that it’ll help settle his stomach.
He warms his hands on the mug and looks around the room as Cas changes into old jeans and a t-shirt that’s nine kinds of faded, under the pretense of definitely not sneaking a look at him. He’s never seen Cas in clothing that’s not pants-and-an-oxford (or boxers and a t-shirt
but he’s not gonna think about that
) but hey, he’s got no complaints. He takes a couple of minutes to study the handful of DVDs Cas keeps in his room. Gabe’s ‘private collection’ consists of every Casa Erotica DVD ever made, but Dean’s not surprised to see that Cas has fancy collector’s editions of classic movies, and a couple of newer titles, and then–
“
Watchmen
?” He whirls on Cas, DVD case in hand. “You like
Watchmen
?”
“It’s a brilliantly crafted social commentary,” Cas says, frowning deeper than the fucking Grand Canyon. “My interests aren’t limited by medium. The Cold War and mid-eighties were a fascinating time period, and
Watchmen
frames the–”
“My god, dude, I could kiss you right now,” Dean blurts out again, without thinking.
“Uh, am I interrupting something?” says Sam from the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable and equally as sleepy.
“No,” says Cas smoothly, “unless Dean intends to make good on that.” Dean snorts to cover his tracks and walks out, still holding
Watchmen
. Gabe turns to look up at him from the sofa.
“Damn,” Gabriel rasps, “you sure as hell look happy.”
“The next time you find a happy person with a hangover, let me know,” he snaps back, and then throws the
Watchmen
DVD into the tray, turns the TV on, and flops down by Gabe’s feet.
This is getting much too out of hand. He’s already reviewed and assessed the fact that his feelings about Cas are way past the point of his dick saying ‘god yes’ and have crossed into the dangerous territory of ‘please don’t leave my life,’ which is a) absolutely terrifying and b) not something he ever wants to admit to, ever, but if his dumb brain keeps up like this, he’s going to seriously mess things up between him and Cas.
He can deal with the unrequited thing. That’s cool. He might be egotistical and over-confident at times, but that’s only to mask the fact that he’s got a big fat zero as far as sense of self-worth goes. He loves his job and he loves his mods and he loves Ash and Jo as co-workers and he loves his family but the bottom line is, he’s a high school dropout with a GED who has nothing to offer to someone who graduated with honors from an Ivy League school. He can deal with the fact that in this respect, Sam is much better than he is. Sam is the obvious choice. He can deal with that, as long as he’s still got a little place in Cas’s life.
A mug suddenly appears under his nose, with Cas’s hand attached to it. The opening title and ‘The Times, They Are A-Changin`’ just started playing on the TV, which is probably what attracted Cas to the living room in the first place.
“You really should finish this,” he says, with one of those dumb adorable not-quite-smiles.
“Yes,
Ellen
,” he sighs back, and takes the mug. Their fingers touch.
Anna and Balthazar fly in from Chicago a few days later and Gabriel forces another nice dinner on them, so, naturally, Sam is freaking out.
“Jesus christ, Sam, it’s not your wedding night,” Dean grunts, and adjusts the uncomfortable collar of his nice, respectable shirt, respectably tucked into a respectable pair of pants. He’s disgusted by his reflection, and puts in the most eye-catching plugs he can find. Rebel against society, that’s him.
“I know, but this is Cas’s
family
,” he says, fumbling with his tie.
“
And?
So’s Gabe.”
He gets a long-suffering
Dean
for that.
The drive to the restaurant only serves to make Sam more and more anxious, and put Dean in a progressively worse mood. Parking sucks because it’s primetime dinner hour at a nice restaurant, and Dean can’t help but worry if someone’s gonna accidentally knock his baby.
“We’ve got a reservation, under Gabriel Milton,” Sam says to the Nice Lady Up Front, whose official title Dean can never remember.
“Dean,” comes Cas’s voice from behind, and he turns to see Cas walking quickly towards them, looking distinctly frazzled. His hair is more haphazard than usual.
“Whoa, is everything okay?” he asks, automatically reaching a hand out towards him.
“I’m gonna–” Sam finishes by motioning towards the waitress that’s walking away.
“Oh,” says Cas, distractedly running a hand through his hair, “yes. Gabriel is parking, and– Dean, I have to warn you, Anna and Balthazar can be a handful.”
“Dude, it’s cool.” Dean shrugs. “They’re your family.”
“So are you,” Cas says quietly. Dean can feel the side of his mouth quirking up in a smile and he puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder, just briefly.
“We should, uh, follow S–”
“Cassie,” booms someone from the door, “aren’t you going to introduce us?” Cas flinches like he’s been electrocuted and whirls.
“Balthazar, this is Dean,” he says after clearing his throat. “Dean, this is my brother.” Dean politely shakes his hand. Balthazar is blonde, with Cas’s bright-blue eyes and lean body, wearing the most ridiculously low-cut v-neck Dean’s ever seen.
“I’m Anna,” says the willowy, equally-blue-eyed redhead. “Castiel’s sister.” She’s got Cas’s shy smile. Dean shakes her hand, too, and nods at Gabe, who looks tired.
“Sam’s over that way,” he says awkwardly, and they weave towards where Sam’s shaggy head is bent over the menu. He jumps up the instant he sees them and introduces himself enthusiastically; Balthazar seems instantly smitten and Anna does a lot of batting her eyelashes. Dean sits in the corner closest to the window and opens his menu to the alcohol.
Cas sits down right next to him and leans over.
“Relax, Dean,” he murmurs, just for him, and touches his forearm. Dean experiences the fascinating sensation of having his heart rate triple while simultaneously feeling all of the tension leave his body.
Dinner is a mostly normal affair; Dean finds himself relaxing slightly after half a beer, but it’s still nothing compared to what it was like meeting Cas for the first time. That was all of his walls crumbling as if they’d never existed, realizing that Cas is good, Cas is okay. This feels more like Anna and Balthazar reaching out, feeling his walls, acknowledging them, and leaving it at that.
He and Sam leave the Miltons to do Various Family Things and head to The Roadhouse. Dean spends the entire time wishing Cas and Gabe were there.
The night passes slowly and the next morning positively crawls. Both he and Sam are mopey and bad-tempered and Dean spends the whole day re-watching his Dr. Sexy DVDs until, at 10:32pm, his phone chirps.
Cas Milton
>> Are you or Sam home right now?
<< Yeah what's up
>> I’m coming over.
<< Is everything ok,
<< ?*
>> I’ll be there in five minutes.
“Sam?”
“What,” he drones back tonelessly.
“Uh, d’you know if everything’s cool with Cas?” he asks, and pauses Dr. Sexy. “He’s on his way here, so...”
“Wait, what?” Sam pads out into the hallway. “Did something happen?”
“I’ve got no clue,” says Dean, frustrated, and hunches his shoulders.
True to form, five minutes later, there’s a knocking at their door. Sam is nearly flattened by the door as Cas storms in, looking more furious than Dean’s ever seen him.
“Are you okay?” asks Sam, quiet and calm. Cas takes a deep breath.
“Cas?”
“My, uh,
siblings
,” he says, enunciating clearly, “can be difficult to deal with.”
Sam opens his mouth and Dean knows he’s about to ask for clarification, if Cas wants to
talk
and
share
, but Dean can tell that’s the last thing he wants right now.
“Hey, sit down,” Dean says, getting up from the couch. “Tonight I’m gonna introduce you to Indiana Jones.” And fucking
bingo
, right there – Cas’s shoulders relax, ever so slightly, and he looks at Dean with gratitude written on his face.
Sam’s asleep halfway through
Temple of Doom
and taking up most of the couch, so that Cas is trapped between Sam’s shins and Dean’s side for the rest of the movie, and he’s yawning heavily by the time the it’s over.
“I’ll shove Sasquatch off so you can sleep,” Dean says, and he’s about to do it when Cas’s arm stops him.
“No, don’t wake him,” he scoffs. “That’s rude.”
“You’re not gonna sleep on the
floor
, and I’m sorry, but Sam hasn’t cleaned his room in years. I’m pretty sure it’s radioactive in there.”
“Your bed’s more than big enough for two, if you’re not squeamish about sharing,” says Cas, and in the half-light from the TV, Dean can see his mouth quirk up. He puts his hands up in defeat.
“Your call, dude,” he says, and gets up to find their extra comforter. Cas is already in Dean’s room by the time he walks back into the living room to throw the comforter over Sam, and he can’t help but flick some hair out of Sam’s face. His brother’s turning into a total
moose
. He also needs to shave those fucking ridiculous sideburns.
Cas is sitting on the bed by the time he goes into his own room, holding his lit-up phone, and looking just plain
defeated
. Dean know he’s absolutely terrible with
talking about it
and words and making people feel better, but he thinks he should at least
try
. He clears his throat.
“So, um, what happened?”
Cas glances up at him and sighs.
“Anna and Balthazar are very loud with their opinions,” he finally says. “Sometimes they don’t realize their hurtfulness.”
Dean nudges at some clothing on the floor with his foot, and shoves it in the general direction of his closet. The only light in his room is coming from his desk lamp and Cas’s phone.
“Yeah, I know how that is,” Dean mutters. A sympathetic ‘sorry’ seems out of place.
“I was also fairly rash in my reaction,” continues Cas. “Gabriel has called four times, Anna’s called twice, and Balthazar three times.”
“Are you gonna call ‘em back?” He sits down on the bed, a respectable distance from Cas. A respectable, three-inch distance. Cas shakes his head.
“It’ll be better if I let this sit overnight,” he murmurs. “I should’ve expected to get into some sort of argument, though. It’s never peaceful when the four of us are together.”
“Yeah, well–” Dean clears his throat. “Family’s real good at getting you pissed off. Sam and I sure as hell know that.” God, he’s fucking
terrible
at this; he lifts a hand with the honest intentions of resting it between Cas’s shoulder blades but he ends up stuck on his lower back, with the knots of his spine smooth under his fingers. He knows he should move but his hand isn’t responding. When Cas leans back into the touch, it seems instinctive. “You, uh, sure you don’t want me to kick Sam off the couch?”
“I’d rather sleep with you than wake Sam,” Cas says, voice low.
“
Ouch
, dude,” Dean replies, and uses a theatrical wince as an excuse to finally move his hand.
“Thank you,” murmurs Cas softly once they’re both in bed and the lights are off. “I’m sure I ruined yours and Sam’s evening.”
“You’re always welcome here,” Dean fires back, a little indignant and a lot more touchy-feely than he’d like. He’s never been one for these bedtime confessionals. “I mean, seriously.” He rolls over onto his stomach and slides his hands under the pillow, turning his head resolutely to the side so he doesn’t do something dumb like stare at Cas.
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas repeats, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut so hard it hurts.
Christmas is the usual food-filled, alcohol-fueled, crazy affair.
It turns out that Balthazar is actually a stunning chef (
and
the person who taught Cas how to cook, which explains a lot) so Christmas Eve’s dinner is probably the best Dean’s ever had. Anna is charming and Balthazar is ribald, and Dean spends the whole dinner pressed tightly between Cas and Gabe at the small table, shoulders rubbing every time either of them moves.
Dean gives Cas a silk-cashmere scarf with a gruff
so you don’t have to steal mine all the time
. Cas’s whole face lights up and Dean thinks yeah, he made the right choice, because the scarf is the same exact shade of blue that Cas’s eyes are.
Dean gives Sam a huge box of books and movies that he always complains about missing on TV or having to renew from the library. Sam’s grin is his favorite thing in the world.
The three of them – Dean, Sam, and Cas – sprint to the Impala and haul in a huge, commercial panini press, all wrapped up complete with shiny bow on top. It’s the closest Dean’s ever seen Gabriel to crying.
Dean has to fight back his own tears when he gets a flat, square-shaped box from the three of
them
, in turn, and opens it to find the rare-as-fuck, expensive, 20th anniversary commemorative Stairway to Heaven set, mint condition. He lets himself get swept up in Sam’s monster hug when he’s finally able to choke out a “thanks, guys,” and buries his face in his brother’s shoulder to hide his grin.
The evening winds itself down after that, and they dig out the eggnog; Dean ends up spending a good amount of time talking to Anna, and notices at one point that Gabe pulls Sam aside. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but Gabriel puts something small in Sam’s hand, covers it with his own palm, and then – Sam must be drunk, god
damn
, because he’s handing out hugs like nobody’s business tonight.
He tries, hard, not to think about the hug Cas gives him when they finally leave.
Dean wakes up the next morning and decides, arbitrarily, to blast some Asia for no other reason than Christmas Day falling on a Tuesday this year.
“Dude,” Sam complains loudly from his room, “
Asia
?”
“C’mon, man, you love this song and you know it,” he yells back, and dances into the kitchen singing along to 'Heat Of The Moment' as loudly as possible.
Sam eventually cuts him off with, “okay, Dean, just– Merry Christmas, okay, will you shut up?”
Christmas Day is another whirl of food and booze and laughter and old holiday music at The Roadhouse. Ellen’s food is top-notch, as per usual, and Ash is wearing a sleeveless cutoff shirt, as per usual, and Bobby is drunk by three, as per usual. Dean takes a rare day to let himself bask in his family, how
lucky
he is to be surrounded by people who yell at him and fight with him and laugh with him and deal with the fact that, essentially, he’s worthless and selfish and undeserving, but who love him despite that.
They might not be a conventional family, but Dean would die for any of them in a heartbeat.
Bobby leaves the Friday before New Year’s, the day after Anna and Balthazar fly back to England; Dean drives Sam and Cas and Gabriel out to The Roadhouse again, where they all have one last beer before Bobby hits the road.
Ellen hugs Bobby and Ash slaps him on the back and Jo kisses him on his whiskered cheek. He shakes hands with Gabriel and threatens his balls if anything happens to Sam or Dean, then shakes hands with Cas, lets Sam hug him, and then, inexplicably, he pulls Dean aside.
“You’ve got somethin’ special in Cas, kid,” rumbles Bobby. “Don’t let it go.” Then, in a gesture more sentimental than he’s ever shown, he gently pats Dean on the cheek, and clambers into his truck.
“What the hell was that about?” snorts Sam, coming up from behind him.
“I... nothin’,” he finally says, dazed, and looks over at Cas. He’s smiling as Bobby pulls away, hands in his pockets and nose pink with cold. “Nothin’ I didn’t already know.”
New Year’s Eve finds him and Sam at Gabe’s place, all four of them squeezed onto the couch and already hammered by the time they’re counting down as the ball drops. Gabriel yells loudest of them all when the new year officially rolls around, and Dean laughs until he cries when Sam full-on grabs Gabriel’s face between his huge paws and kisses him, square on the mouth. Cas is laughing harder than Dean’s ever heard him laugh. Sam turns redder than a stoplight and slumps down against the couch, slurring, “you
assholes
.”
Dean then entertains the idea of kissing Cas and passing it off as
I was drunk
, and immediately dismisses that notion with the distinct aftertaste of self-disgust.
Sam ends up wandering away around 3 in the morning and, thirty minutes later, Gabe finds him passed out on his bed. He shrugs, drops his jeans, and kicks the door closed.
Dean’s thoroughly alcohol-sodden brain finds this absolutely fucking
hilarious
, and he’s still giggling when Cas helps him unfold the sofa bed in the living room and unearth sheets and blankets. He can forget for the night that he’s a full twenty-three years old. Cas stumbles away, laughing to himself, and then with a quiet flick, he turns the lights out.
“You
bastard
,” Dean says loudly, and is overcome by laughter again when he trips over something. He picks out Cas’s dark shape a split second before they collide, shoulders-chest-hips-thighs in a clumsy line.
“Quieter,” hisses Cas back, and then both of them are stifling laughter and stumbling towards the bed. Cas is pulling at his shirt in the dark, fingers fumbling up over his collar, against his neck, and then Dean’s calves hit the side of the bed and he topples over, bringing Cas down next to him.
“We’re gonna be so hungover,” Dean says to the ceiling, goofy grin plastered across his face. Cas is tangled up like a rag doll somewhere near him, warm and pliant, and Dean can feel every area where they’re touching – Cas’s thigh against his knee, a hand splayed across his stomach, their sides pressed together.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
Cas slings himself over Dean’s body and that’s it, he’s gone, he can’t even move. He can feel Cas’s fingers, still searching for something on his chest, neck, jaw, warm breaths curling against the patch of skin under his ear – does he even
know
what he’s doing to Dean right now?
“Dean,” Cas murmurs again, and then there are fingers wrapping around the back of his neck and a nose bumping accidentally against his jaw and oh,
oh
, that’s a mouth, and Dean
can’t
– he can’t deal with this, even though his body’s arching up to meet Cas against his will, even though he’s sweeping the pad of his thumb across Cas’s bottom lip the way he’s always wanted to, but he
can’t
, he can’t do this, he
cannot do this
.
“I–” He swallows, mouth dry. “I can’t–” And shit, one of his hands is half-curled in Cas’s hair and he’s got no idea how it ended up there.
“You are
insufferable
,” breathes Cas, cheek against his, stubble scratching, and Dean’s impressed that he was able to actually pronounce ‘insufferable’ before Cas is gone. He slides off to the side and the warmth is gone, but it’s not a rebuke, not with the way Cas’s fingers trail across Dean’s chest. He misses the contact, misses it
so much
in the split second it’s gone that he immediately reaches out and pulls himself close to Cas.
Cas is out within seconds, breathing softly against his shoulder and with an arm draped across Dean’s hips. Dean lies awake much longer, much more sober than he’d like, drowning in how little he deserves this.
The next morning is positively
brutal
and Dean swears he’s hung over for the next three days. Cas spends the rest of the week slowly gearing up for the next quarter, and Sam festers in anticipation and anxiety for his new classes. The only ray of light, Sam constantly repeats, is that Cas is TA for the Language and Law course he’s taking.
Dean, in turn, scrambles to make sure all of his paperwork is done for the Body Art Expo – seller’s permit, health license, re-doing his bloodborne pathogens certification just in case. He also spends a fair amount of time digging through his sketchbooks and folders upon folders of half-finished doodles, trying to find something suitable that could pass as a portfolio. Or something. He eventually whirls into Gabe’s kitchen, slams an inch’s worth of art down on the table, and makes the three of them pick five
somethings
each. To his surprise, Cas picks out the still-half-finished sketch from Dean’s nightmare all those months ago, where there’s a hand gripping his shoulder tight.
He cleans up the pieces that are unfinished while Sam powers through his first week of classes; Cas is the one who drives him to the airport, since Sam has classes and Gabriel’s working. Cas drives a 2008 Prius (and Dean complains about him being a hippie for the whole drive) and stays with him for the whole check-in procedure, as his nerves get steadily worse and worse.
“
Relax
, Dean,” he murmurs at one point (Dean’s about to twist his driver’s license in half) and then leans in and puts a palm on his lower back. One simple gesture, and 90% of the tension is gone. He is so, so screwed.
He manages to get his bags checked without incident – he has the airline employee assure him at least three times that the bigger suitcase has been marked fragile, because there’s no way he trusts an airplane to not damage his favorite tattoo machine – and then Cas gently prods and nudges him towards the security screening and Dean
can’t breathe
because he’s an hour away from being hurled through the air in a dinky metal tube.
“Airplanes don’t even look aerodynamic,” he hisses vehemently.
Cas, bless him, is infinitely patient.
“You’ll be fine, Dean. I promise.”
“Yeah,
right
.”
“Remember to call Sam when you land,” Cas says, and the corner of his mouth turns up. “I’m sure he’ll want to know all about your
ordeal
.”
“You know, I might still be able to get a refund if I cancel fast enough,” Dean says quickly, shifting his weight and fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag. Cas does the closest approximation of an eyeroll Dean’s ever seen him do.
“Here,” says Cas, and in one smooth motion, he pulls something out of his pocket, steps much too close to Dean, and fiddles with something on the side of his bag for a good ten seconds.
“Whoa” is all Dean can say when Cas steps back (too far, much too far away now), because
whoa
. There’s a keychain dangling from one of the loops on his bag, a round, silver medallion with Jimmy Page’s symbol on one side and Bonzo’s on the other.
“Good luck charm,” Cas explains, and smiles just a tiny bit wider.
“Thanks, Cas,” he manages to whisper, and then they’re hugging and it’s
weird
because Dean doesn’t do hugs. Cas is warm and solid and lean in his arms and Dean breathes him in, breathes in Gabriel’s house and the cold chill from outside that still clings and the light smell of his aftershave.
“Have fun,” Cas says, when they eventually pull apart. Dean realizes that his hand’s stuck on the slope of Cas’s neck and that Cas still has a hand on his side and wow, this is
awkward
, but Dean resolutely refuses to let go.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back, and Cas’s eyes are so fucking
blue
. He clears his throat. “I should, uh...”
“Go,” says Cas, and that stupid smile is back on his face. He uses the hand still on Dean’s side to give him a push; Dean reluctantly slides his hand away and moves into the line.
“And relax,” Cas calls after him, “you’ll be fine.”
Dean looks back once he’s through security, after putting his shoes and flannel shirt and belt and jacket and scarf back on, and grins at Cas, who’s standing on the other side, hands in his trench coat’s pockets and flyaway hair a dark smudge against the huge windows.
He nearly has a heart attack seven separate times on the flight and thanks every deity he can think of for Gabriel reminding him that his phone can play music, too. Metallica sort of helps remedy his anxiety but when he finally lands in Orange County, he doesn’t even stop to flirt with the hot blonde stewardess, just scrambles to be first off of the plane.
The airport is small and crowded and there’s a fucking
statue of John Wayne
in the baggage claim area. Dean takes a picture of it and sends it to Sam, then dials his number.
“Hey, Dean,” he answers brightly, and with that, almost all of the tension and leftover anxiety in his chest dissolve.
“Heya, Sammy.”
“How was your flight?” Sam asks, and Dean can see him snickering.
“Uh, nice, thank you,” he replies stiffly.
“At least you landed,” Sam reminds him, much too cheerfully.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later, asshole,” Dean snaps, and Sam’s laughing as he hangs up.
Pre-reg and set-up are long and boring and Dean actually breaks a sweat helping some other artists and piercers set up their booths, because it’s fucking 68 degrees out in January. He ends up running into Sara Eberle, which turns him into a blabbering fanboy when she
remembers him
and confirms his appointment for Saturday afternoon.
He scopes out a couple of stick-and-poke artists and then finds himself in the chair at 5 the next afternoon, getting a kao yord yantra hand-poked by a ridiculously serene guy named Mike, who spent the last 15 years traveling between Thailand and Malaysia and Tibet.
He remembers a really shy girl watching nearly the whole process – she had messy, short black hair and bright blue eyes, which is definitely not the reason she stood out to Dean.
Friday’s half-day passes in a blur – between getting tattooed, getting appointments, and three people who’d just sat down, stripped, and said ‘find some skin and tattoo it,’ he’s had no time to call or text back home. When he finally trudges back into his hotel room, his phone is chirping petulantly at him.
Jo Harvelle
>> Is Ignacio Barrera there omg get pierced by him so I can live vicariously through you
>> Buy some jewelry for me too
>> And this time remember that I’m 27mm NOT 1”
Sasquatch
>> Knee-deep in work yet?
>> Wow, guess so. Let me know how it goes.
>> If you come back with drunk tattoos I’m going to laugh so hard.
>> I would say “don’t forget to eat,” but I figure that’s not a problem with you.
Ellen Harvelle
>> Good luck kiddo have fun :-)
Gabe Milton
>> Get your ass tattooed. I’ll be checking when you get home ;)
Cas Milton
>> Sam assures me it’s not disruptive to be texting you. Enjoy yourself, хорошо проведи время, diviértete, amuse-toi, hab Spaß, and help me keep Sam from worrying too much. He misses you. I do too.
He grins and calls Sam.
“You’re not actually going to get your
ass
tattooed, are you?” Sam asks, without preamble.
“It
is
tattooed, pipsqueak,” he snarks back.
“Oh.
Ohhhh
, yeah.” He hears a low murmur in the background. “Cas says hi, by the way.”
“What, so you’re bummin’ over at Gabe’s place again?” Dean puts the phone on speaker and sets it down in order to tenderly remove his t-shirt and admire the still-red yantra on his back. Sam chuckles.
“Yeah, Cas and I went out for dinner and Gabe was working, you know how it is,” he says, and Dean’s heart drops. An uncomfortable, familiar thought-fear-feeling worms its way into his stomach.
“Well–” He’s interrupted by a monstrous yawn. “–give Cas a pat on the head and Gabe a nice, big smooch for takin’ care of your ass.”
“Uh, yeah, Dean,” says Sam with an awkward, almost-nervous laugh, “
sure
.”
Dean makes some excuse about waking up early and jet lag and ends the conversation. He ends up falling asleep to vague dreams about chasing after dark wings.
The knot of worry in his chest takes root overnight and grows, snaking tendrils into every inch of his skin, and all he can think about when he’s not tattooing is
Cas
– the way he’ll smile at Sam sometimes, the way they have of huddling together to work on something, the way Cas listens when Sam’s talking and talking about something that excites him.
(It never occurs to him to look at the flip side of the coin.)
The second that needle hits skin under his gloves, though, he’s sucked into clean lines and soft colors and that
thing
that apparently he’s gotten well-known for – Ash says ‘all the blogs online’ love the way he fills color but Dean can’t really see anything special about it. It’s not very
traditional
and it’s washy and watercolory but hey, at least he makes good money for it.
His hand’s cramped up like a bitch by the time his appointment with Sara rolls around; she teases him for missing some spots while shaving and cleans up his knees and ankles for him. This is usually where he’d be turning up the charm, getting tattooed by a really ethereally gorgeous woman, but there’s something so
Jo
about her that Dean keeps the banter strictly outside the bounds of flirting.
Right before she lays over the transfer paper, Dean’s phone makes a racket from where it’s stuck in his discarded jeans.
“Go ahead,” says Sara, with a smile and a tilt of her head. Dean fishes the phone out, stares at the
Cas Milton calling
in warm disbelief, and answers.
“Hey, Cas.”
“Hello, Dean,” comes Cas’s low rumble and fuck, Dean’s filled with a warmth he shouldn’t be feeling. In less than two seconds, all of his worry dissipates. He realizes, belatedly, that he’s grinning. “Am I interrupting?”
“Nah, you’re good. What’s up?” Sara mouths at him and indicates that she’s gonna start with the transfer paper; he nods back at her.
“Oh,” says Cas, “I didn’t have a particular reason for calling. Sam and Gabriel are busy, and it’s very quiet without you.”
Dean chuckles because, oh, the
irony
– Cas is trying to say ‘I miss you’ to someone who has an even harder time choking out ‘I miss you too.’
“Man, you’d have a field day here,” he says instead. “Tons of people with weird accents.”
“Really?” Dean can see the way he’d lean forward, way past any normal boundaries of personal space. “California English, no doubt, and probably some fantastic examples of Chicano English.” Dean laughs and says he’s got no idea what Cas is saying.
The end up talking all the way through Sara’s multiple corrections of the pattern, and Dean fumbles through an explanation when Sara says, “Alright, hun, I’m gonna get started,” and the sound of her gun rattles over the phone.
“I’ll show you on Monday,” he replies, grinning, when Cas asks what he’s getting tattooed.
“I hope you aren’t taking Gabriel’s suggestion seriously, then,” Cas fires back, and Dean can perfectly picture the wicked, teasing look in his eyes.
“Whatever, dude,” Dean scoffs, and Sara’s smiling wistfully up at him by the time he hangs up.
“Boyfriend?” she prompts, needle moving purposefully across the side of his calf.
“Nah,” Dean says, going for off-hand, and his laugh comes out forced. “Just, uh, good friend of mine. Kinda like a family friend.”
Sara just keeps looking at him, much too long to be comfortable, and then nods like she gets it.
“You’ve got it bad, huh?” she finally murmurs, mouth turning up wryly.
“No way,” Dean scoffs automatically, but he can feel the tips of his ears reddening. Sara gives him another
look
and gently pats his knee with her free hand.
Sunday finds him hobbling around the expo, trying to move his still-tender new additions as little as possible. He tattoos nearly ten more people after his second session with Sara, then winces his way to where most of the booths selling jewelry are as the expo winds down. There’s a pair of rough-faced amethyst plugs his size that are just
begging
to be bought so he sighs and splurges, then buys Jo a really stunning pair of plugs hand-carved from rutilated quartz.
The expo winds down quickly and it’s actually chilly when they’re taking all of the booths down; Dean gets a solid couple of jetlagged hours of sleep before heading back to the airport, sadly without Cas to see him off this time. His return flight includes a stopover at O’Hare, which is a fucking
blessing
, and he’s still so traumatized by his flights that he even lets Sam have a quick hug at the airport.
Gabe and Cas are over a half an hour after he and Sam get home, at which point Dean is hobbling around in basketball shorts and trying to find a way to lie down on the couch without actually touching his legs to it.
“Damn,” sighs Gabe wistfully, “so it wasn’t an ass tattoo.”
“That’s beautiful,” Cas murmurs when Dean gingerly sits down and ends up resting his feet on the coffee table. “The level of detail is incredible.” He shakes his head disbelievingly and sits down next to Dean. “It suits you very well.”
Dean
preens
. Of course it’s fucking beautiful,
Sara Eberle
tattooed it – he’s solid black from his knees to his ankles, broken by swirls and eddies of crosshatching, loops of flesh-tone breaking the black ink. He doesn’t think he’s ever loved a tattoo more than this one.
He takes a swig of beer, savoring it with his eyes closed, when a light touch on his shin makes him jump and nearly spill half the bottle down his shirt. Cas’s hand is hovering an inch over his leg and he’s got this sorrowful, apologetic look on his face.
“My apologies,” he says, holding his hands up the way you would to a freaked-out animal. Dean snorts.
“No, no,” he says back, setting the beer down, “you just, uh– wasn’t expecting it. ‘S kinda tender.”
“
May
I touch it?” asks Cas, carefully moving his hand back down towards Dean’s leg. Dean shrugs.
“I guess. Just, uh, be gentle. Still hurts like a bitch sometimes.”
“Cute,” says Gabe cheerfully, flopping down on the loveseat next to Sam. Dean rolls his eyes and tries his best not to shiver; Cas’s fingers are dancing softly down his legs, tracing patterns he hasn’t memorized yet, grazing so fucking
tenderly
across his skin that he thinks he’s finally going to go crazy.
The Friday before his birthday, Dean wakes up on the Miltons’ couch at some ungodly hour in the morning to quiet noise in the kitchen. The morning sun is filtering weakly through dark-bellied clouds and there aren’t many lights on, but he’s got an idea of who’d be up this early.
“Cas?” he croaks.
“My apologies,” Cas whispers back, standing close with a coffee tumbler in hand, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Dean.” And then – he thinks he might be dreaming this – Cas leans over the back of the couch, gently pushes his fingers through Dean’s hair. By the time he’s at the door, Dean is dead asleep again.
He wakes up again somewhere in the region of 9:30 to Gabriel and Sam banging around in the kitchen this time; he sits up, rubs his eyes, and grabs his phone.
Cas Milton
<< What time are you done today, I’d kill for Ellen’s burgers for lunch
A yawn and a stretch later, he runs a hand through his hair and heads for the kitchen. It smells like Gabe’s doing french toast and his stomach growls in anticipation, but when he rounds the corner, the world stops dead.
Sam’s got this goofy grin on his face and he’s leaning down as he folds up the sleeves of his flannel, leaning down to kiss the smirk off of Gabriel’s face.
Back the fun bus the
fuck
up.
Dean makes a choked sort of indignant noise and Sam and Gabe look like deer in headlights and then Sam’s yelling
Dean, wait, hold on a second
and Dean doesn’t even know where he’s going.
“What the hell is going on, Sam?” he hisses, looking between his brother’s earnest, too-big eyes, and Gabriel’s silhouette in the kitchen.
“You didn’t–?”
“No, Sam, I
didn’t
, so I’d like you to explain exactly
what the hell is going on
,” he snaps.
“I– well–” Sam swallows and runs a hand through his hair. “Dean, I thought you
knew
. It’s not like either of us was hiding it.”
“He’s nearly
six years
older than you,” Dean says, much louder than intended.
“He’s
family
,” Sam fires back, even louder.
“Sam,” he starts, angry now, but Sam cuts him off.
“I can make my own decisions, Dean,” he snaps. “I don’t need
you
to be Dad, too.”
Dean is outside and slamming the door before he knows it.
The drive back to their apartment is filtered through an angry, red haze; he’s only home long enough to change into clothes he didn’t sleep in. The reason the house is empty serves to make him even more upset, and the next thing he knows, he’s headed to campus.
Cas Milton
>> I’ll be done at 10:30. I’d love to have lunch with you.
<< I'm going to campus right now. Sam and I had a fight I kinda need to talk to you about something important
>> Wait in my office. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
He fumes his way through the steadily-falling snow and he knows he’s being rude to the people he’s shouldering through to get to the ling department, but he can’t bring himself to care. The door neatly labeled with
Castiel Milton, TA – Language and Law/Dialects of America
is ajar so he nudges it open and drops himself into one of the chairs.
The clock reads 10:31 when Cas walks into the room; Dean jumps to his feet and they shuffle awkwardly for a second before Dean just blurts out, “did you know about Sam and Gabe’s–?” and Cas stares at him. “That they’re– you know, a... a
thing?
”
“I–” It’s the first time he’s ever seen Cas speechless. “I’ve... had my suspicions, Gabriel has always been extremely fond of Sam, but–”
“Hey, Castiel,” chimes in a third voice, and Dean has to exercise monumental self-restraint to not punch Zachariah right in his smug face. He’s leaning casually on the doorframe, eyes flicking between Dean, Cas, and the three inches of space between them, the way Dean is curved around Cas and their arms are brushing together. “I, uh, hate to interrupt you and your
friend
, but could I borrow you for a moment?”
“I’m afraid not,” says Cas, low and dangerous and
oh
. “Dean and I have a bit of a family emergency going on right now.” And then he just blows out the door, right past Zachariah, and Dean can’t help sending a smug smirk over his shoulder as he follows Cas down the hallway.
“It’s something more, isn’t it?”
Cas’s voice is soft over the Impala’s deep purr.
“Nothin’,” Dean mumbles, and pointedly stares through the windshield.
“Dean,” says Cas, and he
knows
that Cas can see right through him.
“It’s just–” He runs his palms over the steering wheel, feeling all of the familiar bumps and nicks in the leather. “Sam has this way of... bringing Dad into our arguments.” He exhales. “I don’t know, man. I need some time to think about this.”
“Gabriel is much older than Sam,” Cas says, and runs a hand distractedly through his hair.
“I know,” Dean replies, frustrated. “God knows Sam’s smart, but I’m scared he doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”
“As much as I care about your brother, I’m worried that Gabriel could either be his usual blunt self and unknowingly or accidentally pressure Sam into something he isn’t willing to do–”
“Cas,
jesus
, I don’t wanna think ab–”
“–
or
, Sam could be seeking to experiment and chose someone whose feelings for him are much more than experimental.”
The light is red, so Dean takes the opportunity to stare at Cas in disbelief.
“You’re serious,” he says.
“Of course,” Cas deadpans back. “Gabriel’s actions and feelings have long been outside the realm of platitude. I’m surprised you didn’t notice that earlier.”
“Gabriel is
Gabriel
, though,” Dean grunts. “He flirts with everyone.”
“Regardless, I hope both Sam and Gabriel know what they’re doing,” Cas murmurs, and leans his head against the window. Flurries of snow keep dancing in halos around his dark hair through the glass and Dean only realizes the light’s turned green when the asshat behind him honks.
Sasquatch
>> I’m staying the night here. We need to talk tomorrow.
“Wonderful,” Dean mutters, and throws his phone into his bag with more force than necessary. Jo looks over at him sympathetically; he clears his throat. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah. Look, Dean–”
“Drop it, okay?” He leans his elbows on the counter. “It’s bad enough I gotta talk to Sam about this.”
“Go home, have a drink,” she sighs, and squeezes his shoulder. “Ask Cas how it went.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He turns his collar up before walking out into the near-blizzard; Jo waits for him to lock, gives him a brief, rare hug, and heads home.
Driving through snow, Dean thinks, would be really great if he didn’t worry so much about his car. He loves winter for its quiet and, somehow, it’s even more ethereal from inside a car – silent save for the engine, soft and pale and
cold
, the stark whiteness of snow set off by dark clouds.
As much as he loves winter, he’s eternally grateful that his and Sam’s apartment complex has a parking garage. He pulls out his phone again as he climbs the stairs.
Cas Milton
<< Hey is everything ok with you and Gabriel? I'm home if you wanna stop by or sow thing
<< Something*
<< Gonna make dinner too idk if you ate
>> I’ll be over shortly.
Well, okay. He opens the fridge and realizes he’s still got a tray of steak tips he’d bought to make a stew (contrary to what everyone around him seems to think, Dean is actually a great cook, thank you very much). He shrugs, pulls out a pan, and starts heating up some oil to sear them in while he peels potatoes. There’s a knock on the door about thirty seconds after he sets them on the stove.
Cas looks... irritated. It’s better than full-on pissed, that’s for sure, but it still means that something unpleasant must’ve gone down.
“Is, uh, everything–?” He gestures vaguely. Cas heaves a sigh as he strips off his trench coat and the three layers he’s wearing underneath, until it’s just him in an old t-shirt and those jeans with a hole worn through the knee. Dean’s surprised. Cas doesn’t often do casual.
“I think...” Cas pauses, rolls his shoulders. “I think they have it figured out. Neither of us gave them enough credit, though that’s understandable, due to the circumstances in which you and I found out.”
Dean takes a deep breath and nods.
“Okay,” he says, and nods again. “
Oh
-kay. So, uh, dinner?” He jabs a thumb towards the kitchen and tries a smile. Cas’s mouth twitches up.
They eat on the couch and Cas ends up roping him into watching one of Sam’s movies, something called
The Prestige
that Dean is wholly unprepared to love as much as he does by the time the credits roll.
“Cas?” he asks tentatively, because Cas is slumped over like he’s half-asleep. He gets a grunt in response. “You spendin’ the night?”
“Copula deletion,” Cas mumbles. “Common, for you. If you’d like me to, I will.”
“Yeah, I–” He clears his throat. “That’d be, uh, nice.”
Cas sits up and stretches so that the worn cotton of his shirt rides up and, for a brief second, shows a strip of pale skin. Not that Dean looks. Then, to his surprise, Cas gets up, yawns, and pads his way into Dean’s room.
Dean frowns, picks up the dishes, dumps them in the sink, then peers into his room to find Cas sprawled across his bed and already dead asleep, still in the same shirt. He snorts and goes back to do the dishes.
Two in the morning finds Dean at his desk. The street lights through the window are just barely bright enough for him to see what he’s drawing and he can hear Cas’s deep, even breaths behind him; he knows sleep is going to come soon.
In the meantime, though, his hand is just
itching
and he needs to get this out before he can sleep. He’s been thinking about that old Hell-dream he had, about the angel and the light, and he thinks he’s finally got it – dark, shimmering wings flared impressively, a face full of focus and a wild sort of exhilaration, holy and righteous and beautiful.
He lazily scribbles some more shadows and stifles a yawn; he’s done here, and it’s time to sleep. Cas is taking up most of the bed and Dean does his best to clear himself a space free of Cas’s limbs, which ends with Cas unconsciously curling his fingers into the front of Dean’s shirt.
For about the thousandth time that day, Dean regards his situation. He still can’t shake how woefully fucking
inadequate
he must be in Cas’s eyes, and even if now Sam isn’t an option for him, there’s no way Cas would ever stoop so low.
Worthless
.
The thought is almost comforting in its familiarity, like the poison whisper of Alastair in his head, the way he used to snarl
not good enough, Winchester, you have to scratch ‘em till they bleed and bleed and bleed
only this time, the tables are turned and he’s the one bleeding. His arm tingles with phantom pain.
He squares his shoulders and closes his eyes and the last thing he remember thinking before he slips away is that, somehow, the angel turned out looking like Cas.
The next morning, when Sam walks quietly into the apartment, he and Dean blurt out, “okay, so I overreacted,” at the exact same time. Sam runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.
“I didn’t– look, I’m sorry about what I said,” Sam explains, earnest and wide-eyed, “and I coulda said it way better, but I think you need to trust me on this.”
“Yeah, you coulda,” Dean says stiffly. “I had reason to worry about you, Sam.”
“I know,” he mumbles.
Dean shifts his weight. He is
terrible
at this kind of thing. He has no idea how to explain what he’s feeling because he doesn’t
know
what he’s feeling – honestly, he’s still pretty fucking weirded out because
Sam
and
Gabriel
? and he’s worried about Sam and worried about Gabriel and there are really no words for this kind of thing.
“Just... don’t be dumb,” he finally says. Sam scoffs in an attempt to lighten the mood, which, surprisingly, ends up working. Dean squeezes his shoulder and thinks that even if it’s gonna take getting used to, things are gonna be okay.
It all goes to hell the morning of his birthday.
He’s never been particularly fond of birthdays (what’s there to celebrate? only his sixteenth and eighteenth and twenty-first
really
mattered), but at least he can use the ‘it’s my birthday’ excuse to get away with doing shit that annoys Sam.
Like blaring Led Zeppelin the second he wakes up.
“Yeah, okay, happy birthday,” Sam grumbles, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he slumps down in a kitchen chair.
“I shoulda quit you,” Dean croons in response, “looooooong time ag–” Sam takes a halfhearted swing at him and he jerks back, laughing, then turns the stereo down.
When they’re done with breakfast and the runout groove has been making muted pops for fifteen minutes, Sam goes to shower and Dean changes the record. He goes for some Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young because he’s sort of in the mood for folky stuff, and then he realizes that Stills’ ‘4 + 20’ is on the record he’s holding.
If he’s honest,
this
is why he doesn’t like birthdays – the way he always manages to work himself into a deep session of corny introspection that makes him fucking hate everything.
The song isn’t helping, he thinks, as Stephen Stills softly sings that
four and twenty years ago, I come into this life, the son of a woman, and a man who lived in strife
. All of his early memories deal with John, John yelling, John being absent, John moving them on a monthly (sometimes weekly) basis just to chase after something that could possibly earn them some money, John working any job available, John trying to make time for his boys, John trying to make money to support his boys, trying to do the best by them, trying so hard and being so earnest, trying and falling short every time.
And he worked like the devil to be more.
It kinda goes to show that his most important birthdays were always about Sam – the only ones that really mattered were when he could finally get a driver’s license to drive Sam to school when John was gone, and when he finally became a legal adult (but he doesn’t want to think about that, though, not when it skirts so closely to the narrow escape from his personal hell).
Admittedly, he’s come pretty far from the broken shell of a person he used to be. He’s nowhere near
fixed
or
good
or
worthwhile
but he functions, he’s able to make people happy through what he does, he has some pretty fucking incredible people around him. He’s got Jo and Ash and Ellen and Bobby, Sam and Gabriel. He’s got
Cas
. Maybe not in the way he wants Cas (but that’s ridiculous, he doesn’t
want
things, he’s not allowed to want things) but he’s so fucking grateful to have Cas, any way he can get him. He knows he doesn’t deserve a friend like Cas, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t grateful from the depths of his soul.
Stills gets to
night after sleepless night, I walk the floor and I want to know, why am I so alone?
before Dean just fucking gives up and changes the record, puts on the triple A-side Stairway to Heaven single he got for Christmas instead. He’s not gonna ruin his own mood on the only day he can get away with purposefully annoying everyone else.
They go to Physical Graffitea for lunch and meet Cas there; Sam wolfs his food down and hurriedly kisses Gabe (Dean pointedly looks away) before catching a bus to campus and since Cas is done with classes and teaching for the day, he and Dean loiter for a while before heading back home.
“I had to find out from Gabriel that it’s your birthday, you know,” says Cas as Dean fumbles with the lock, fingers frozen to the bone.
“Birthdays aren’t all-important,” Dean snorts. The lock finally turns and he walks into the (mercifully warm) apartment, sighing. “I’m twenty-four now, so what?”
“So you’re as old as I am, for one,” Cas fires back, eyes twinkling, as he sheds his trench coat and shakes snow off of his shoes.
“Yeah, whatever. The only thing that birthdays are good for is having an excuse to be an asshole.” He waggles his eyebrows and winks at Cas. “So in how many languages can you call me awesome?”
Cas deadpans something in Russian and shakes out his coat, eyebrows up.
“You just insulted me, didn’t you?”
“I called you a pig,” Cas says matter-of-factly, and nudges past Dean to get in the coat closet. His face is so
perfectly composed
that Dean can’t help it, he dissolves into laughter and then Cas starts chuckling too and they’re caught against the door of the closet and, okay, Cas is more than a little close and he smells like the cold and then Dean’s body is moving without his permission, pitching way too far forward, and he kisses Cas.
It’s brief.
Cas’s lips are chapped and his nose is cold.
Dean stumbles back once he’s able to regain control of his body and stares. Cas is looking right back at him, cool and level, and then Dean
panics
.
“I’m gonna–” He lurches for the front door and nearly trips over himself, grabs the doorknob, then whips around to see Cas still
staring at him
. “Cas, I’m sorry, I really crossed a line and I’m–” He swallows nervously and grabs for the doorknob again. “I’m just gonna go and–”
“Dean.”
Don’t you fucking open that door
, says Cas’s face, stormy and righteous and bearing a really creepy resemblance to the angel from that stupid dream Dean can’t let go of.
“Look,” he starts, brain wildly trying to find some sort of reason or excuse, and then Cas is
close
again, crowding him against the side of the couch.
“The only reason you should apologize,” Cas says, low and quiet, “is if it was a mistake.” Dean blinks stupidly for a couple of seconds while he tries to put two and two together.
Four
, shouts his brain, unhelpfully.
“What?”
Cas frowns at him, then reaches out and fixes his necklace so that the clasp is at the back of his neck. The amulet feels like lead.
“I thought it was obvious how I feel about you. Evidently, I was wrong.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about the weather, the same way he talks about everything.
Dean stares, hapless, as Cas walks back and actually puts his coat in the closet.
“Wh– you
what?
”
“Next time I fall for you in every single way possible, I’ll be sure to spell it out for you, clearly, in every language I know.” Cas’s voice is soft now, with that delicate edge of teasing that always hits Dean in all the right places.
“I– you–” Dean swallows,
tries
to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Cas, I can’t.” His voice breaks on that last syllable. Cas looks at him, looks through him, and crosses his arms.
“You poor, selfish bastard,” he murmurs, “you don’t think you deserve this, do you?”
If it’d been anyone else, Dean would’ve decked them. Instead, he just stands there and
takes it
because that’s what he is – a poor, selfish bastard who knows he doesn’t deserve this. Cas’s words just confirm it.
“There’s stuff I’ve done that I’m not proud of,” he finally says, unable to meet Cas’s eyes. “Pretty bad stuff, okay? I mean, you’re–” He gestures at Cas, in his neat oxford shirt and nice pants. “–and I’m a high school dropout who tattoos for a living.”
“Dean,” says Cas again, and this time his eyes are soft and earnest and then Dean spills everything, tells him all of the things that only Sam knows.
He tells Cas the truth about his family, about John and Sam and Mary and himself, about when he started tattooing. He tells Cas about moving city to city every few weeks or, if they were lucky, every few months, because John always drank his way out of holding a steady job. He tells Cas about doodling on receipts and scraps of take-out bags in the car, to pass the time.
Doodles turned into artwork and the first time they’d met one of John’s old Marine buddies, covered neck to ankles in tattoos, that was it. He’d been bright-eyed with ambition at first – scrimping and saving to buy his first kit, begging and charming butchers into giving him leftover scraps of pigskin to practice on, buying the cheapest ink possible.
He’d been fifteen, sixteen back then and fighting with the law to get a GED as fast as possible; sometimes the seedier tattoo parlors would take him on for the few days they’d be in town and he’d be able to make a solid hundred bucks (if he was lucky) to feed Sam, buy him school stuff, keep his clothes looking nice.
And then they wandered into New Orleans as a hot July turned into an even more hellish August, and Dean met Alastair.
Alastair had been rough and brash and cruel and he took Dean in with a wicked grin, gave him a gun, and told him to use it like a knife. Alastair’s shop – no one knew what it was really called, they just called it The Rack – had been a place where people screamed as they got tattooed, held down by Alastair or whatever gang boss had sent them there while Dean would scratch and scratch, purposefully destroying the skin, purposefully doing it wrong, just to earn money to scrape by.
He’d cried while tattooing a woman once, as she begged him to stop. He’d tucked hair behind her ear with a shaking hand, leaving smudges of bloodied ink on her face, and apologized.
Alastair turned the knife on him for the first time that night.
John Winchester died of alcohol poisoning three weeks before Dean turned eighteen. The second midnight hit on his birthday, he took the Impala, shoved a sleepy Sam into the back seat, and drove for fifteen hours straight before pulling over at a rest stop to pass out.
They’d pulled up to Bobby’s garage, bruised eyes from lack of sleep, and Bobby had taken them in without a word.
Sam had started high school locally, near Bobby’s place. After spending a year without tattooing, plagued by nightmares and haunted by the screams, Dean had made the executive decision to just
move
. Somewhere up north, somewhere cold and calm and the opposite of New Orleans’ oppressive heat. He’d forced Sam to stay in school, stay in
one
school, to not fuck up the most important part of his education.
“And I guess you know the rest,” Dean finally whispers, licking his lips. He picks at the label of his beer. “I don’t deserve the kindness that
anyone
has shown me.”
Cas just keeps looking at him, shoulders and thighs still pressed against his, and Dean can’t bring himself to meet Cas’s eyes. Cas sighs and pulls out his phone.
“I can drive you back to Gabe’s,” mumbles Dean. Cas shoots him an unreadable look.
“I’m not leaving,” he says. “I’m telling Sam to go to our house after classes instead of coming here. I get the feeling you’d prefer to not talk to him right now.”
“You’re not–?”
“What I
am
doing is brewing you a coffee,” Cas says quietly, then fucking
kisses his forehead
before getting up from the couch and going to the kitchen.
Dean lets his face fall into his hands. It feels weird, to finally confess to someone everything he’s done, everything that makes him such a worthless excuse for a human being. It’s not only weird, it makes him feel
lighter
. Like it’s okay, somehow. He’s been internalizing everything since Mary died and he started taking care of Sammy, building up walls and a cocky exterior, but now that he’s fucking
bared his soul
to Cas, offered it up for him to scrutinize, he feels lightheaded and dizzy.
When Cas comes back with coffee in his favorite mug, Dean accepts it with shaking hands. He takes a long drink, savors the bitter burn down his throat, and sets the mug down before slouching over and rubbing his forehead. He’s still shaking and he can’t swallow and he can’t breathe and it still feels like the world’s gone and upended itself, until Cas puts a hand on his back and suddenly everything slows down.
He turns and Cas is right there, less than a handspan away, and those stupid ocean-blue eyes are all full of
it’s okay
. Dean
hates
being comforted – he hates pity and sympathy and
are you okay
s, he’d rather deal with a stressful situation by himself like A Grownup – but it’s different when Cas’s hand starts to curl around his side.
“I’m gonna kiss you,” Dean mumbles, and reaches up to hold Cas’s face between his hands. “That’s okay, right?”
Cas just leans forward and kisses him in response, light and soft, and Dean fucking
melts
. He slumps forward against Cas and buries his forehead against his shoulder; Cas keeps an arm wrapped around his back, fingers carding idly through the hair at the base of Dean’s neck.
“I have no idea how I haven’t, like, scared you off yet,” Dean croaks, muffled, “but goddamn, I’m glad I haven’t.”
“You sell yourself short much too often,” Cas murmurs back. “I am both lucky and proud to be a part of your life.”
Dean’s spared trying to scramble for an answer when his phone rings.
“Sam?” he answers, frowning.
“Hey, uh, what’s going on?” asks Sam. “Cas said–”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean sighs. “I just need to talk to him about somethin’.”
There’s a pause. A much-too-long pause.
“Okay,” says Sam, in that tone of voice like he’s up to something.
“Seriously, Sam, forget about it. I’ll see you at The Roadhouse around five, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam says again, still sounding like he’s
plotting
. Dean hangs up and sighs, then takes another long swig of coffee.
He and Cas kill the next hour and a half watching Star Wars – Cas knows those are his safety blanket movies and puts on
Return of the Jedi
, god bless him – and Dean tries not to think about it. The big
it
. The fact that he lays across the couch when Cas goes to the bathroom with the intention of being spiteful, but when he comes back, Cas just slides in next to him as if it’s commonplace, as if they’d been doing it for years. Or the fact that he catches himself doodling idle circles just under the hem of Cas’s shirt, callused fingertips smoothing over his warm skin.
Even though everything between them is different, nothing has changed. Cas still nags at him to dress nicely the way he would on any other ‘nice’ occasion (
it’s my fuckin' birthday, Cas, I do what I want
) and Dean makes sure Cas takes his own scarf instead of bogarting one of Dean’s – but then Dean finds himself pressed up against Cas, gathering him up, oversized coat and thick sweater and scarf and all, carefully kissing him while still trying to get his mind wrapped around the fact that this is okay, this is good, this is something he’s allowed.
He reluctantly pulls back and shifts his weight, puts his hands in his pockets.
“Hey Cas?” Cas reaches forward and fixes the collar of his jacket. “Um... thanks.”
It’s utterly underwhelming and lame as fuck; he’s horrible at gratitude and Cas knows it, but judging by the way he hooks his fingers into Dean’s belt loops and pulls him in for another kiss (Dean can hear his breath catching when he teases at Cas’s lip with his teeth), Cas knows exactly what he’s trying to say.
Dinner at The Roadhouse is loud and raucous and just the way Dean loves it, shoveling down his very most favorite kind of burger and his very most favorite beer, with Cas next to him on one side and Jo on the other and Sam and Gabriel and Ash on the other side of the table.
Sam makes fun of him for choosing ‘Radar Love’ at the jukebox and singing along to the whole thing (it’s a song about a dude who’s in love with his car and Dean can totally relate,
so what?
) and then Jo puts on REO Speedwagon’s ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’, which Dean gags at, but he’s also (sort of) drunk enough to justify singing along to it with her.
Sam, bless him, sets down his drink and mocks a terrible waltz with Jo for a few seconds before passing her off to Dean, and he grabs her and twirls her around, laughing because it’s so fucking goofy and they’re acting like they’re six years old and he
loves
it. He looks at Cas while Jo’s trying to get her breath back from laughing so hard and Cas is grinning like an idiot, nose crinkling up and everything, and Dean knows he’s never gonna forget that blissed-out look on his face. He grabs himself a beer and sits down next to Cas and he can’t stop smiling when Cas slides a hand onto his knee, warm and solid, and Dean is so fucking tempted to just wrap him up in a hug, right there in the middle of The Roadhouse.
Gabe calls for an afterparty at his place, but everyone groans because it’s a Thursday and all of them have work tomorrow, so Dean and Cas end up heading for the Miltons’ while Gabe bickers with Ellen, one arm slung around a food-coma’d Sam.
When they reach the parking lot, Dean ends up crowding Cas against the Impala, fucking desperate because he’d spent all that time so close to Cas and not doing
this
, kissing every gasp out of his mouth, curling his hands urgently into his clothes.
Cas pulls away and grins at him, sly and dark like he’s never grinned before, and Dean can’t help lurching forward and kissing him again before Cas gasps that they should really,
really
get home.
Dean beats Cas back to his own house and he’s leaning against the Impala as Cas pulls into the driveway, fully prepared to give him a nice
ha ha, I beat you
speech, but Cas slides out of his car with fucking
business
on his face and then Dean’s meeting him halfway, pressing their mouths together with an almost embarrassing level of need.
Cas pushes both of them towards the house and follows up when Dean’s back hits the front door, crowding him insistently against it; his mouth is deliciously warm compared to the below-zero air around them, and Dean makes an impatient noise when Cas takes longer than half a second to unlock the door.
They make it inside and less than a foot past the door and then Dean’s hands are pushing Cas’s trench coat off and Cas shrugs out of it in one fluid, ridiculously fucking
attractive
motion before Dean grabs at his shirt and pulls them together again because five seconds without Cas’s mouth on his is a waste of time.
They shed clothing with each step, on their way to Cas’s room – Cas nearly trips, toeing out of his shoes, and Dean has to struggle to unlace his boots – and the next thing he knows, he’s pushing Cas up against the back of his bedroom door, nudging a knee between his thighs, mouthing a line down his neck. Cas makes this
noise
and it goes fucking straight down to Dean’s dick and oh,
yes
, he can definitely dig the way Cas’s fingers knot tightly into his hair.
“Dean,” he pants, “
bed
.”
And yeah, okay, he’s not gonna argue with that. They gracelessly pull and shove each other across the room, shedding pants, hands grabbing at remaining vestiges of clothing, and then Dean’s slowly unbuttoning Cas’s shirt, mouth following his fingers.
Cas’s stomach is winter-pale, broken by a dark line of coarse hair trailing up from his boxer-briefs, and Dean kisses his way back up to Cas’s heaving chest, bites at a collarbone, makes his way up a thundering carotid when Cas throws his head back.
At this rate, neither of them is going to last long.
Cas’s hands insistently pull at his shirt and Dean gratefully strips it off, throwing it onto the floor with the rest of their clothes, then refuses to stop kissing Cas even as he expertly wiggles out of his boxers one-handed. Cas arches up to get rid of his own and
christ
, Dean’s brain blanks out at the blissful touch of flushed skin against his cock. He swallows Cas’s gasp, bites at his lower lip, falls in love with the way Cas’s fingers dig desperately into his back.
Dean grins at him, breathless, then slides his way back down to Cas’s hips. It’s fucking delicious, the way Cas’s breath catches when he licks a line across one of his hipbones, teases his way down, runs his hands up Cas’s sides.
“Is this okay?” he breathes, mouth so close to Cas’s dick that he can feel the warmth. Cas
snarls
and curls a hand into Dean’s hair. He swears he can feel his eyes roll back.
“Fuck, Dean,
yes
,” he growls, and holy shit, there’s something so filthy about the way Cas’s perfect mouth forms the obscenity that Dean nearly fucking loses it, right then and there.
He licks an agonizingly slow stripe up the underside of Cas’s cock and then proceeds to go down like the fucking champ he is. Cas’s breathing goes erratic in under a minute, fingers curling spastically into the sheets, and Dean scrambles his way back up, hips-chest-neck-lips, because he needs this so badly it
hurts
and Cas is gasping into his mouth and he doesn’t even know whose moans are whose any more.
Cas pushes him over onto his back and follows through, wraps a hand around both of their dicks and expertly finds a rhythm they can both work to. Dean’s short of breath in an embarrassingly short amount of time and oh holy
christ
he isn’t going to last much longer at all, the way Cas is leaving a stinging line of bites down the side of his neck, the way their sweat is making everything slick and smooth, and then he comes with a hand fisting into dark hair and Cas’s name on his lips. Cas follows him less than a millisecond later, muffling a moan into his shoulder, and Dean’s left seeing stars for a full minute.
He presses a kiss into Cas’s sweaty hairline and exhales, long and slow. He definitely can’t remember the last time sex felt
this
good. Cas hums quietly and kisses Dean, deep and slow and good, then pushes himself up and makes a face at the sticky mess on their stomachs. Dean laughs breathlessly, feeling sixteen all over again as Cas grabs a box of tissues and they clean up.
Dean is fishing around on the ground for his boxers and Cas is running a hand through his hair (and
damn
, does sex hair look good on him) and they end up staring at each other, wide-eyed in the semi-dark.
“So,” Dean says awkwardly.
“So,” replies Cas, even and cool.
Dean supposes this is where they have A Talk about whether they’re
partners
or
lovers
or any of the other equally-terrible labels that he absolutely hates using and he thinks he’s started panicking because he has
no idea
how to voice what he wants. He’s never allowed himself to have what
he
wants; he’s always pushed it away in favor of giving Sammy what he wants, because Sam’s concerns are much more important than his own, and he’s worthless, anyways.
But he wants this.
God
, he wants it.
“So I guess...” He gestures at the space between them. Cas levels him with a look and then picks up his boxer-briefs, slides them back on like he’s got all the time in the world.
“You’re asking whether I’d like our relationship to move past this fumbling attempt at platitude,” Cas says wryly, mouth turning up at the corner.
“
Yes
,” Dean says, and snaps his fingers. “That.”
He pulls on his own boxers, just to have something to do with his hands, but he and Cas end up gravitating towards each other and there’s still a huge part of his brain that’s in shocked disbelief even as Cas’s thumbs sweep over his hips.
“Ordinary friendship never really worked, did it?” murmurs Cas, and their noses touch. Dean snorts.
“Okay, to be honest – and don’t laugh at me, Cas – I always thought you had a thing for Sam,” he manages to say around choked-back laugher. In retrospect, the thought is bafflingly ridiculous and he pulls Cas close, loving the way Cas’s laughter rumbles through his chest and both of them are still flushed and it feels so good to feel Cas’s skin against his.
Sam and Gabe should be home soon and he really,
really
doesn’t want to get caught naked (again); his t-shirt is next to Cas but he ignores it in favor of kissing him instead, because this is something he could
really
get used to. He can feel Cas grinning against his mouth and he slides a hand around to the small of his back and right then, the door bangs open.
“Oh, good,” says Gabriel, completely unconcerned, “you’re not naked. We’re home now, just to let you know.”
“Jesus
christ
, Gabe!” Dean yells (it’s not a shriek, it’s a
yell
); Cas looks like he could murder. Gabe just winks and sprints out of the doorway. Dean follows him after throwing a t-shirt over his head and getting his jeans (mostly) on and when he bursts into the kitchen, it’s to the sight of Gabriel and Sam sitting at the table. Sam has his hands neatly folded on the tabletop.
Well, shit.
Cas bumps into Dean’s shoulder as he races to finish buttoning his shirt; the damage is done, though, because Cas has the most blatantly obvious sex hair
ever
in the history of getting caught in the act. It doesn’t help that Dean’s shirt is on inside-out, or that their clothes are still strewn incriminatingly across the floor in a line that leads straight from the front door to Cas’s bedroom.
“So,” says Sam, and Dean runs through every possible version of
I swear I’m not a hypocrite
his brain can come up with. “That took you guys long enough.”
“I’m sorry?” blurts Cas. Sam laughs, a little incredulous, and leans back in his chair.
“Come on, man,” he says, looking back at Dean, “You know Bobby thought you guys were, like, a
thing
, right?”
“What the hell,” Dean sputters.
Gabriel rolls his eyes and tilts the chair back on two legs. Dean’s still scrambling to try and figure out just what the fuck is going on. He keeps expecting Sam to react the same way he did, hurt and angry and confused.
“You guys are kind of... immovable object/unstoppable force,” says Sam, wrinkling his nose. “It was only a matter of time.”
Gabe’s chair legs hit the tile and he snaps his fingers.
“Speaking of which,” he crows, “you owe me twenty bucks, Sam!”
“Hold on a second,” Dean barks. “You were
taking bets
?”
Cas crosses his arms; Gabriel shoots them both a huge smirk as Sam sighs and pulls his wallet out.
“Sam bet it’d take you guys till spring break to get your shit together,” he explains, and plucks the twenty-dollar bill out of Sam’s reluctant fingers. “My money was on the end of the month.”
Dean looks at Cas, incredulous and indignant; Cas just runs a hand through his hair, succeeding only in making it stick up even more.
“Doesn’t this... I don’t know, weird you out?” says Dean, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Because wow,
fuck
, this is awkward beyond belief – he’s sort-of-maybe-dating Cas and Sam is Doing Things with Gabriel so it’s all like some sort of creepy not-incestuous boyfriends-in-law thing that Dean is just
not
going to think about.
“Come on,” says Gabriel, and Dean’s surprised at how soft his voice is. “How thick are you? Sam and I have, for serious, been expecting this for weeks now.” Cas’s hand grazes against Dean’s. “I’ve never seen either of you happier than when you’re around each other.”
The days blur into weeks blur into months as the snow melts into slush and Dean and Cas figure how to work around each other, how to stop covering things up and let them be. Dean learns that Cas likes sleeping on the side of the bed closest to the wall and that he doesn’t really snore, and he slowly finds all of the places that make Cas suck in a breath and bite his lip (under his ear, his collarbones, the side of his ribcage, the small of his back – Dean worships them all).
He learns how to drive with a hand on Cas’s knee and that while neither of them are really into PDA, he really likes kissing Cas goodbye if he walks him to his office, right where his jaw slopes up to meet his ear. He also learns to absolutely fucking
love
the look on Zachariah’s face when he sees the two of them, like he’s smelling something gross and trying not to show it.
Cas, in turn, learns about Dean’s body, about all of his little nicks and scars, finds the place on his left arm where the word ‘worthless’ is still visible under the black, if he squints; Cas kisses the scarred letters and tells Dean that he’s not, that he deserves to have been saved from Alastair. Dean thinks his heart’s going to burst.
He eventually succeeds in caressing all of Dean’s tattoos with those long fingers of his, outlines The Hermit on his back, mouths at Vonnegut’s birdcage on his thigh as Dean’s hands fist into the sheets, digs his fingers into the lines down his side while yanking him closer, traces the pentagram over his heart. Dean tells him about every one of them, sometimes while their sweat’s cooling, sometimes when the morning sunlight paints Cas’s face and makes a bright halo in his hair.
Dean’s discovered quickly that Wednesdays are the bane of his existence, because Cas has a night class and a graduate seminar and he usually doesn’t even get to see him until close to ten at night.
He’s finishing up wiping down one of the glass cabinets when he hears the bells chime on the side door, and he’s elbow-deep in disinfectant so he doesn’t even bother turning around.
"Sorry, man, we're closed, but we open tomorrow at eleven," he calls from somewhere in the sink region.
"I was hoping you'd make an exception for me."
Dean turns around way too fast, dripping more than necessary on the floor, and grins when he sees Cas in the doorway
"What're you doing here? I thought you had your discussion thing tonight." He watches, confused (but hey, without complaints), as Cas shrugs off his coat and drapes it over one of the couches, then stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks, rolls his shoulders, and shrugs.
“We got done early,” he says. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Well, fine. One of the syntacticians was doing a dress rehearsal of sorts for presenting her paper, and I decided that, ah, I had more urgent business to take care of.” He wrinkles his nose at ‘syntactician’ and Dean can feel his mouth twitching up because if there’s one thing he knows about Cas’s studies, it’s that he hates syntax with a passion that almost equals how much he loves dialectology.
"Playing hooky to come see me?" chuckles Dean, amused and enamored.
"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something."
Cas’s tone turns serious and Dean sets down his rag with shaking hands.
Here it comes.
Of course
this couldn't last.
Of course
things were too good to be true.
The second-long pause Cas leaves stretches out like years inside Dean's head as he replays their entire relationship – their entire
friendship
– and tries to figure out where he screwed up. He doesn’t know whether he’s going to vomit or just fucking stop breathing.
He decides he went wrong somewhere around the time he was born.
"I want a tattoo."
It takes Dean a good ten seconds to parse that as
Cas + want + tattoo
and not
Cas + want + nothing to do with me
.
"I–” He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Well, shit, Cas, you know I’m the last person to try and persuade you out of tattoos.”
"I want you to do it,” Cas says, dead fucking serious, and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Now. Tonight."
Dean
panics
.
“What?” he croaks, and tries to even out his breathing. It doesn’t work. “No way, Cas. I can’t.”
He can’t, he
can’t
do this to Cas, not to Cas, because that’s leaving a permanent mark on Cas, on his skin and on his life and oh,
fuck
, this is rattling through Dean’s fear of commitment (shut up, at least he
knows
and
recognizes
that fear) and shaking him to the core, blood running ice-cold. He’s 99% sure he’s having some kind of panic attack right now.
“Why not? I have total confidence in you.”
Well, Dean thinks, that makes one of them.
“Cas–” he starts, but Cas cuts him off almost immediately.
“This is something that I’ve wanted for a few years now. I’ve thought it through.”
His tone is calm and patient but there’s a glint in his eyes. He came expecting Dean’s resistance and he came
prepared
, that fucker.
“Let me see it,” Dean mutters, gesturing towards the paper. Castiel hands it over and Dean unfolds it. It’s a bunch of non-English, non-Roman characters – not Russian or Arabic or Greek or any of the Asian languages Dean’s familiar with, but simple and with a kind of visual poetry to them. In spite of himself, Dean sorta likes it. Even though he’s got no idea what it is.
“It’s my name in Enochian,” says Cas, answering his question, and Dean can hear a quiet note of pride in his voice. “After I did some digging on the etymology of my name and came up with Enochian, the idea has been chasing after me.”
“Well, uh,” Dean mumbles, “I mean, it’s not difficult or anything. Simple stuff like this ends up looking good almost anywhere.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Castiel replies, loosening his tie right there in the middle of the shop like this is a thing that’s actually going to happen. “I was thinking the base of my neck, between my shoulder blades, about as big as it is there.”
He nods towards the paper and strips his tie off, turning to toss it onto the couch by his coat. As much as Dean generally likes Cas taking off his clothes, this is nowhere near okay.
“Ash is great with lettering, we can–”
“Dean,” Cas growls, and holy
fuck
, that’s both terrifying and arousing at the same time. “I want you to do it.”
“Cas–” Dean doesn’t even know where to start. He licks at his lower lip and runs a hand over his face. “You know I’d– I’d do anything. For you. Uh.” Wow,
shit
, way to be articulate, Winchester. “I just– why’d you have to corner me like this, man?” He lets out a weak laugh.
“If I’d asked you would’ve said no,” he answers, and tugs the hem of his shirt out of his pants. The way he does it should definitely be fucking illegal.
Dean swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut. Something much warmer than fear zooms to the front of his brain when Castiel hitches his shirt up high enough to briefly expose a strip of skin along his stomach.
“Cas, tattooing someone makes– it runs deep, man, it’s leaving my mark on your skin for the rest of your life.”
Cas raises an eyebrow.
“You think I haven’t considered that?” he rumbles, eyes icy. “You are the only person I would trust with this.”
“But this...” He runs a hand through his hair. “There’s a thing between artist and client, I’m leaving something
permanent
on you, and–” Dean’s fumbling and he knows it, but he can’t do this to Cas, can’t find the words to explain away the horrifying knot of tension in his chest. When Cas finally decides that he’s had enough of him, the last thing Dean wants is for him to be saddled with a lingering reminder. Cas doesn’t deserve that.
“This thing, does it exists with every trendy little sorority girl?” Cas crosses his arms and stands straight, real heat in his tone now as he watches Dean shift nervously.
“No,” Dean insists, “of course not. But–”
“Did it exist with that pair of newlyweds who wanted their initials on each other’s wrists?”
Cas pushes on, rounding the counter that Dean had been so glad to keep between them, steps right up into Dean’s space until all he can see are steel-blue eyes and a set jaw.
“Yeah, but Cas,
newly
–”
“Dean.”
Cas stops him cold with one word and a look. Dean tries to take a step back but he’s out of room; something clinks on the shelf behind him and he glances up and back, but the stony seriousness is still on Cas’s face.
“What about Sam?”
Silence reigns.
Sam
. If he’s honest with himself, tattooing Sam had probably been what had pulled him out of the horrifying slump-slash-actual-depression after Alastair – even after he’d started tattooing here, after he’d started at the old shop with Crowley, there’d been something broken in him. Seeing the trust in his brother’s face, though, that’s something he’ll never forget.
It’s the same thing that’s all over Cas’s face.
“No, there was no
thing
with them,” Dean admits under his breath. “Not like this.”
“Then you admit that your reluctance is not entirely due to your sense of professionalism.”
“It’s me putting a permanent mark on you!” Dean says, loud enough to fill the little shop, but Cas doesn’t even flinch. Dean can feel the echo of old scars on his left arm. Worthless. “You don’t want that, Cas. Don’t ask me again.”
“Dean,” Cas says softly, reaching out to touch Dean’s arm, “did it ever occur to you that that’s exactly why I want you to do it?” Dean tries to look away – he can’t face this, he
literally
can’t face this – but Cas catches him with a hand on the side of his face. “
Dean
. I trust you completely, and you know that. This is what I want.”
All the anger drains out of Cas’s voice until there’s nothing but quiet reassurance there; he’s practically
pleading
and it hits a spot in Dean’s core that’s usually reserved for Sam. Dean keeps trying to look at Cas in the eyes but he ends up moving from eyes to mouth to jaw back to eyes and, finally, he exhales the breath he’s been holding.
“Okay.”
Cas leans in and kisses him, soft and slow and lingering, and Dean lets himself quietly think that
maybe
he’s made the right decision.
“Okay,” he repeats, murmured against Cas’s mouth, and runs a hand up his back. “I’ll, uh... yeah. I need to prep some stuff.”
He kisses Cas again, briefly, and then walks into his room. Cas seems to realize that he needs some time because he doesn’t follow; Dean takes a couple of seconds to hyperventilate, grips the edge of the counter with shaking hands – he breathes in, out, in, out, closes his eyes, takes one more long breath, and lets it out slowly. His hands are still shaking when he starts re-disinfecting all of his equipment but, for some reason, he finds himself calming down when Cas walks in.
Once everything has been meticulously sanitized, Dean drifts his way to Cas, hands coming up to slowly unbutton his shirt. Everything feels slightly surreal; Cas leans gently into him, one hand sliding under the hem of his t-shirt. When Dean finally reaches the last button, Cas shrugs out of his shirt, slim shoulders rippling.
“Dean,” he says quietly, “thank you.” Dean kisses him again because he can’t find words, communicates everything with his mouth instead, swiping a tongue over his bottom lip, exhaling softly.
“Ready?”
Cas takes a deep breath and nods. Dean runs his hands over Cas’s shoulders, down his back, mouths over a knot of spine, before prepping the skin and laying the transfer paper over. He makes Cas nitpick at the placement for about ten minutes before asking him another seven times whether he’s
positive
that he wants this, if he’s
absolutely sure
this is where he wants it.
Finally, he gets up and shuffles through the abridged collection of records he keeps in the shop. He’s got one of those weirdo, old-school record players that can play both the A-side and the B-side since they’re upright – he’d found it ages ago at a thrift store, covered in dust and barely functional, and he’d fixed it up himself in that year he’d spent at Bobby’s. He decides on Kansas’s
Leftoverture
tonight, since it’s kinda been a while.
It takes everything he has to will his hands not to shake when Cas sits down on the stool in front of him. The Enochian symbols are a stark, ghostly blue on his skin; Dean runs a gloved hand down Cas’s neck, across his shoulder.
“This is gonna hurt,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Six words he says to every single client, every single time, since the day he left New Orleans.
Cas turns his head, just enough to look at Dean out of the corner of his eye. His expression is soft.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he says softly. “I have faith in you.”
Eight words he’s never heard before.
Eight words that shake the foundations of his life, rattle him hard enough to clear the rubble, just enough for everything to finally fall into place.
The gun buzzes in his hand and the first line comes out cleaner than ever, dark and sharp against Cas’s skin. Cas is totally relaxed and oh, it does wonders for Dean’s nerves. He feels Cas’s hand slide onto his knee and he wishes he could actually press himself close against Cas’s back; he can feel Cas humming along to ‘Carry On Wayward Son’ under his hands.
Dean loses himself in the rhythm of ink and art and music, and he thinks about the road he’s driven so far.
He’s never liked the idea of fate and predestination. He’s a pretty big fan of Do What You Want and, honestly, it
works
. He’s never tried to walk some imaginary path set in front of him – he’s just always done what’s best for Sam, what’s best for them and, sometimes, what’s best for
him
. If he hadn’t made shitty choices (well, okay, double-edged sword – most of his shitty choices involved shit for him and a better life for Sam, and no regrets) then he never would’ve learned.
Life sucked for him for a
long
time. This profession has changed his life so much, for the worse and for the better and now for the best – the evidence of how honestly incredible his life is sits and lives and breathes underneath his fingertips and he asks this monumental, incredible thing of Dean, and
Dean can make him happy
. Dean can give Cas what he wants and he can make Cas happy.
Without having suffered through Alastair, without having lived away from Sam for four years and without having met Crowley and Gabriel and without this shop, he would’ve never been able to get past Alastair and he never would’ve tattooed Sam or been able to improve his work or get closer to the Harvelles (Ash included, he’s
practically
a Harvelle) and he’d never have met Cas. Or... fallen for him.
Fallen for him
, Dean thinks again, firmly, because that’s an acceptably neutral phrase that omits a lot of feelings-stuff he’s not prepared to deal with yet. He wouldn’t change a thing, if it means he wouldn’t have met Cas.
Considering a life without Cas is like a punch to the gut. It’s so coldly horrifying that he instantly shoves the thought away and concentrates instead on the warmth under his fingers and the steady rise and fall as Cas breathes.
“Cas?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible, and he can hear his voice break slightly. The hand on his knee tightens in response.
Cas’s tattoo heals beautifully, not to toot his own horn. It looks great on him and Dean feels a vain sense of pride every time he gets the chance to run his fingers over it because even though the thought of his mark being on Cas’s skin is still scary, if he’s honest with himself, he kinda loves that he’s a part of Cas. In a
totally non-girly way
.
Business booms for Dean. Ever since the expo, Ash says, the number of hits on their website-slash-blog has been growing exponentially, and Dean usually gets at least one email a day asking for a consult. His wait list starts dipping into the next year. According to Ash, his name is getting pretty big in the mod community (which fucking
astounds
him) and when he dazedly tells Cas, Cas tells him that of course he’s getting well-known, of course he deserves this.
Sam and Cas get more and more stressed as spring break creeps up on them, but then Sam suggests spending those two weeks in South Dakota with Bobby and it takes all Dean has to actually wait for Sam and Cas to finish up their last day before break, instead of peeling out the second Sam says
hey, let’s visit Bobby
.
It’s been ages since he last visited South Dakota (the last time was Sam’s high school graduation – he wasn’t gonna miss that for the world) and
driving
, taking his baby halfway across the country, through miles and miles of nothing and cracked roads, he’s already itching to leave.
Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man
, springs to the front of his thoughts, and the Allman Brothers tell it like it is. Dean always feels twitchy if he doesn’t take at least a four-hour drive twice a month or so, so the prospect of a twenty-hour, thousand-mile drive to Bobby’s is heaven on wheels.
Cas and Gabriel are on board immediately when Sam tells them; Cas positively
salivates
at the thought of going to a dialect area he’s never been to and Dean is really excited because not only is he going on a road trip, he’s going on a road trip to see Bobby, and he’s going on a road trip with Sam and Cas and Gabe to see Bobby.
Weirdly, as they’re packing up the Impala, Dean remembers what Sam had told him on his birthday, all those months ago – that Bobby had actually thought there was a
thing
between him and Cas over Christmas.
Bobby
, of all people. Gruff, sure-footed, no-nonsense Bobby had pulled Dean aside and essentially told him to keep Cas close.
Well, he’s sure as hell been following that advice.
They plan for an overnight stop in Chicago and leave on a rainy Saturday morning; as Dean watches the view slip from urban to countryside to city to suburbs to farmland, he realizes how absolutely, unbelievably
happy
he is.
He’s still scared –
god
, he’s scared, scared of what this means and what he feels – but things are right with Cas in a way things have never been right before; Cas blows through all of his careful walls like they don’t even exist and he sees everything ugly that’s in him and
stays
, not in spite of it but because of it, becomes a part of his family because he wants to be, not because he was born into it. It’s terrifying.
He’s still scared, but as they’re nine hours into the drive to Bobby’s place – the radio’s singing that
a gathering of angels appeared above my head, they sang to me a song of hope and this is what they said
– Dean looks at Sam and Gabriel in the rearview mirror, sprawled out and dead asleep, looks at Cas, head resting against the passenger-side window and fingers curled loosely between Dean’s, and he thinks that it’s okay to be scared.
EPILOGUE
[six years later]
“Really, Castiel, I’m so happy for you,” says Kathleen, smile wavering and eyes bright with tears. “This is amazing.” Cas has to fight his own grin back.
“Thank you,” he says, and puts a hand on her shoulder. “I need to get to my office, though, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Yeah, of course,” she says, and sniffles before pulling him into a quick hug. He adjusts his bag and heads down the hallway, where it’s apparent that Raul has already shared the news with absolutely
everyone
, since he’s interrupted at least four times by a
Professor Milton, congratulations!
He finally makes it to his office, shrugs off his coat, drapes it over the back of his chair. He’s barely got time to take a sip of coffee before his lanky TA for American Dialects bursts through the doorway, glasses askew.
“Is it true?” he blurts out, practically
shaking
with excitement. Cas smiles at him. “C’mon, Professor, is everyone pulling my leg or is it legit?”
In answer, Castiel holds up his left hand, where a wide silver band glints from around his ring finger.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a normal day.
Well, maybe
normal
wasn't quite the word for it.
Normal
was subjective in just about any context, downright laughable in Peter's case. He was a superhero. He went out in a skintight suit and fought people in alleyways. What he called normal, most people called 'horrifying' and 'therapy-inducing'.
Relaxing
was a better word, perhaps. It was supposed to be a
relaxing
day. Take a leisurely stroll around the city, do some people watching, buy a greasy snack from a food truck. Maybe see that movie MJ had made an offhanded comment about—which, coming from MJ, was the highest of praise—or rack through the library shelves for a book he was vaguely interested in but would never actually have the time to read.
He figured he'd earned it. He had busted his butt all week, tracking down drug lords and stopping up-and-coming supervillains from taking over the city and, worst of all, studying for midterms. Didn't he deserve a little break? Would it really be so terrible if he took one day off? What could happen?
A citywide alien invasion, apparently.
Peter was in the middle of scarfing down his second churro when he first heard the explosions. He dropped his snack on the pavement in his surprise—a terrible tragedy, since these were the first churros he'd actually had to pay for in months. Most of the street snacks he got these days were gifts from that vendor on 9
th
Avenue who'd promised him free food for life after Spider-man saved her from getting crushed under a flying piece of rubble.
He didn't even have time to properly mourn his loss before the screams started, and all hell broke loose in the street.
"
Why," he whined to himself, dusting the sugar off of his hands in disappointment as he watched his fallen churro disappear beneath the stampede of panicking New Yorkers. “Just...
why?
”
For all his complaining, he wasn't actually as surprised as he should have been. This kind of luck was, unfortunately, pretty standard in his life. To be honest, he was lucky to have gotten
half
a day to himself before he was interrupted by some major emergency.
With a mournful sigh, he began his search for a decent alley to change in.
If he'd been in a more familiar part of the city—somewhere closer to Midtown or Greenwich Village—he probably would have found a place in no time. There, he'd already mapped out the best spots—the ones hidden from view of passerby, the ones that didn't smell so overwhelmingly of trash that he had to actively fight the urge to gag, the slightly less contaminated ones that were safe enough to provide cover when he had to dig a bullet out of his belly. But not here. Here, he was stuck peering around the corner of each and every alleyway on the street, only to be disappointed every time.
"Occupied...occupied...ugh, smells like something died..." he muttered as he passed them. Apparently, the mass panic from whatever chaos was happening down the street had sent most civilians ducking into the alleys for cover. He grimaced. That was going to make changing into his suit a challenge. Even if he managed to find a vacant alley, there was no guarantee somebody wouldn't barge in while he was changing.
That would be...awkward, to say the least.
Peter let out an exasperated groan as he passed yet another alley already claimed by panicking passerby. “Come on! It's not even prime crime hour! Why can't there be a
single
alley open?”
Just as the words left his mouth, an alley came into view—empty, save for the rat scurrying behind the dumpster.
Not perfect
, he lamented as his eyes skimmed the heaps of overstuffed trash bags,
but passable.
The Hulk-sized dumpster would provide more than enough cover for him to get changed behind, even without the additional bulk of all the overflowing bags.
But before he could so much as step a foot in the alley, a familiar tingle pricked at the back of his neck. He barely had time to register the warning before a bone-rattling explosion shook the ground and knocked him off of his feet, straight into the trash heap.
For an unsettling minute, Peter couldn't hear anything past the ringing in his ears. High-pitched and shrill, yet dull and muted as if he were hearing it from underwater. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to pass and eventually, it did. It always did.
Once he could trust himself to stand without immediately falling on his face, Peter pushed himself to his feet, brushing discarded food bits from the garbage off of his clothes.
“Well,” he mumbled, mostly to test if he could hear his own voice, “that wasn't ideal.”
He nearly jumped out of his skin when he was answered by a sharp growl, stumbling backwards so quickly that he almost landed on his butt in the garbage again. He snapped his head around, searching for the source.
Peter didn't know what had expected, but this certainly wasn't it.
A pale gray creature, highly reminiscent of an alien from some low-budget 80's sci-fi flick, was walking past the entrance of the alley.
An
alien.
Peter didn't know whether to freak out or geek out.
It was chattering indecipherable garble to itself, slowly advancing on something seemingly around the corner, just out of Peter's view. Possibly a civilian.
Peter's eyes widened as they fell on the freakishly large gun in its hands
. Yeah, not good
.
“Hey, E.T.!” he called, scrapping the idea of changing into the suit first. Plans changed when civilians were in danger.
The alien just ignored him.
Rude
.
"Hey, E.T!” Peter repeated, louder. “I thought you went home!"
This earned more than a few strange looks from nearby civilians, but they chose to disregard him, the senseless idiot, in favor of fleeing the scene. The alien, however, didn't even glance in his direction. It gargled out a growl as it hefted its weapon, which whirred with building power as it began to glow.
Desperate, Peter picked up the nearest object—some medieval-looking cosplay hammer that, on second thought, was a
really
weird thing to find lying in the middle of the street—and chucked it at the alien's advancing form, hoping to take the creature's attention off of its victim. To his surprise, though, it sent the alien flying to the other side of the road, right into a brick wall.
Peter frowned at his hands, then at the hammer now lying beside the alien's prone body.
Huh.
He knew he had super strength, but that hammer had been
light
. An object that light should not have been physically able to send a six-foot alien flying across the street.
He decided not to dwell on it. He could literally stick to walls and lift things ten times his weight. Captain America had a shield that could bounce around a room like a DVD screensaver without losing momentum. Physics just wasn't what it used to be.
His gaze drifted from the strange weapon (possibly a misplaced stage prop for some Broadway show) to the seemingly unconscious alien. Naturally, his curiosity was much stronger than his sense of self-preservation, so he decided to cross the street to examine the creature.
Upon closer inspection, the alien was a lot less cool than Peter had hoped—kind of like an insect/dinosaur hybrid with full-body eczema. It's weapons, on the other hand...
"Oh, wow," he murmured, nudging at the alien's familiar glowing purple gun with his foot. “That brings back memories.” Hopefully, this time the tech wouldn't be stolen and repurposed by high-tech weapons dealers. That was an all-around disaster that he'd rather not repeat.
Peter was startled out of his thoughts by a loud groan. His body tensed instinctively, ready for an attack despite the lack of warning from his spider-sense, but one glance in the direction of the noise proved his reaction unnecessary.
A large, muscular surfer-looking guy slowly pushed the large piece of rubble that had held him captive off of his chest, coughing at the cloud of dust that rained down on him as a result.
Peter squeaked and rushed forward to help him.
"Oh my gosh! Are you okay, sir? Are you hurt? Here, let me help you." He offered a hand to the stranger, internally smacking himself for not noticing the poor civilian trapped under a heap of rubble just a little bit earlier. It was literally his
job
to help people out of these situations.
The man blinked wildly, as if just waking up, but accepted Peter's hand and pulled himself to his feet. "I am well," he answered in a deep, accented voice. "Thank you, young sir."
Peter lifted an eyebrow at the strange wording, but didn't say anything further as the man brushed the dust off of his clothes and cape, then...
Wait...
cape
. Hair. Muscles.
"Holy gym shorts," Peter breathed. "You're Thor."
Thor, the literal freaking
god of thunder
, beamed down at him, and suddenly Peter didn't care that aliens were invading New York. If it led to this glorious moment, meeting a deity in the flesh, then he would gladly fight an entire armada of eczemic aliens.
Though there was an eighty percent chance that Peter was about to ruin the moment by fainting out of sheer joy.
"You are correct, young child!” Thor affirmed with a smile, oblivious to Peter's internal elation. “And what is your name?"
"Oh, um, I'm Peter," he answered, somewhat lamely.
Completely
lamely. "Peter Parker."
"I'm delighted to meet your acquaintance, Son of Parker," Thor said graciously. But then his brows furrowed, and his smile settled into more of a determined frown. "But there are more serious matters to attend to.”
He turned away from Peter—which was probably for the best because Peter was still trying in vain to push back the embarrassing smile that threatened to seize his face—and braced his feet apart as if preparing to do a squat. But then, mid-squat, he paused. Frowning, he craned his neck around to scan the street. “Where did I put my hammer...?” he murmured to himself.
Peter just stood there, grinning stupidly at the hero, until it dawned on him. "Oh. Oh! It's right over here, Mr. Thor!" Peter realized. "Here, I'll go ge—"
He was cut off by a loud, inhuman shriek. And then, out of absolutely
nowhere—
or at least it seemed that way to Peter, who had not been expecting it in the least—an alien dropped from the sky and onto Thor's back, knocking him to the ground. Two more quickly followed, piling on top of the man before he could do anything about it.
"Thor!" Peter yelped as a fourth alien joined the pile. The god understandably didn't respond to him, as he was too busy kicking aliens off of his body. But for every alien that he knocked down, it seemed two more materialized out of thin air to take its place. It reminded Peter of those zombie horror games, where every time you kill a zombie you turn around and
boom,
there's more. He suddenly felt a bit bad about all those times he and Ned had poked fun at those games for their lack of realism.
Peter started towards him to help, but paused. Right now, he wasn't Spider-man. He was Peter Parker. He couldn't just go and beat up a bunch of aliens with his bare hands and expect it not to be suspicious.
But at the same time, he couldn't just leave Thor hanging. While Peter had no doubt that Thor could easily demolish a handful of armed space zombies, he'd feel like a total dipwad if he didn't help out in some way. Besides, the guy didn't seem to be all that observant, so he was probably the least likely Avenger to connect the dots between Peter and Spider-man.
And Ned would probably murder him if he didn't immediately seize the opportunity to fight aliens with Thor.
So, picking Thor's abandoned hammer off the ground—it'd worked like a charm with that alien earlier—he charged the writhing heap of alien bodies attacking Thor. With just a few swings of the hammer, the pile was cut down to half the size, and a glimpse of Thor's cape was visible through the chaos.
"A cuddle pile!” Peter exclaimed in mock excitement. “And you didn't invite me?" He felt kind of stupid saying it, seeing as the aliens didn't understand him and Thor was gaping at him like he'd just confessed that he preferred to guzzle mayonnaise straight out of the container, but it would have felt wrong heading into a fight without some kind of quip. He brought the hammer down over one alien's head, then swung it back up into another's jaw. "Not cool, guys, not c—”
He trailed off as he swung the hammer in an arc, caught a bit off guard when it gave off bright yellow sparks on contact with an alien. “Whoa. Electric hammer
?
" He gawked. "That's...actually really cool."
After knocking the final alien out with a good blow to the head, Peter gave closer inspection to the hammer in his hands. "Wow, dude, this thing is
awesome
. How on earth does it generate its own electricity?" He flipped it once in the air and caught it, watching in amazement as sparks danced over it. "Like, I know you're the god of thunder, but I didn't know your hammer had magic powers too! That is
so cool.
I want one. Like, I won't get it, obviously, 'cause I don't want to steal your thunder—no pun intended.”
He grinned at his totally-intended pun, but Thor didn't react to it. Not even a twitch of the lips.
“No? Wow, tough room.” Peter chuckled awkwardly, suddenly regretting his entire existence.
Thor just stared.
“Okay, yeah, that was a dumb joke,” Peter admitted, starting to turn red. “Sorry. Here's your hammer, Mr. Thor.” He held out the weapon to it's rightful owner, wishing he could slink back into the alleyway and bury himself among the piles of garbage, never to be seen again.
But Thor didn't move to accept his hammer. He just stared at Peter with what was possibly the most bewildered expression Peter had ever beheld.
Peter continued to hold the hammer out toward him for several seconds before it just became too awkward. He lowered it slowly, clearing his throat. "Um, okay then. I guess I'll just...leave this here." He set the hammer on the ground in front of the hero's feet gingerly. Thor still made no move to grab it. Made no sign, in fact, that he'd heard Peter at all. It was pretty unsettling. "So, um, yeah. Nice to meet you."
The closest to a response that Peter received was a blink. That seemed to be all he was going to get, though, so with a short nod, Peter trudged backwards into the alley.
As much as he would have liked to stop and agonize over his lost pride for the next few hours, he had a job to do. Without hesitation, he shrugged his backpack off of his shoulders and unzipped it, preparing to do his usual quick-change before charging into the fight. But just before he could pull his suit out, he froze at the sound of a whimper.
Slowly, like a teen who'd been caught by their mom sneaking food at one in the morning on a school night, he turned around.
Two girls, eyes wide with the unadulterated fear that can only come from a citywide alien attack, stared back at him.
Several seconds of uncomfortable silence passed between them before Peter slowly and deliberately zipped his bag back shut. “Uh, hey. You good?”
The older girl shushed him frantically, pointing to the end of the alley where one unconscious alien's feet were just visible.
“Yeah, I know. Aliens,” he muttered, and left to search for a better changing spot.
But just as he found a suitable place, there was a loud explosion and a shrill, screeching noise that absolutely killed his heightened senses. He winced, clamping his hands over his ears, but the sound almost immediately petered out, replaced by deafening clapping and cheering.
Safe to assume the Avengers had taken care of it, then.
A small smile graced his features. "At least I didn't have to suit up," he said to himself. Small consolation, perhaps, but he'd take what he could get.
Peter slipped out of the alley and back onto the main sidewalk, sidestepping the piles of flaming rubble left from the fight. Along the street he could see other civilians doing the same: peeking their heads around the alley corners, testing the waters. Peter had seen enough superhero fights to know what would come next. Once everyone deemed it safe to come out of hiding, they would all stampede through the city in a mass exodus to escape the scene, to check on their families, to return to the safe familiarity of their homes. It would be utter chaos here on the main street. Anywhere, really.
The quickest path home would be straight through the scene of the battle, since it was the path of the most destruction. Nobody ever wanted to take that route, what with all the scattered debris and the property damage and the occasional bloody corpse. He'd just have to hurry, before the police and firefighters arrived and marked the area off-limits.
So, hefting his bag onto his shoulder, he turned around and began to make his way down the broken road. It was a long walk home from this part of the city, but since the subways tended to shut down after superhero battles with widespread damage, there weren't many other options.
He barely made it to the end of the street before he heard, "SON OF PARKER!"
Peter froze.
Thor
. If the accent didn't give it away, the outdated vocabulary made it unmistakable.
Crap.
He turned slowly to face the god, silently preparing for more embarrassment, but was rendered speechless at the sight of the Avengers.
The Avengers
. All of them. In all of their muscle-clad, superhuman glory.
If Peter hadn't already met them—laughed with them, fought with them as Spider-man—he probably would have fainted. He'd actually grown quite used to them when he was in costume. But as Peter Parker, ordinary nerd from Queens? He felt like a Chihuahua in the presence of German Shepherds. A Hershey's among Lindt's.
He gaped silently at them as they stared back, evidently as confused as he was. The lone exception being Thor, of course, who wore a beaming smile that greatly contrasted his unreadable stare from earlier.
"Thor, buddy, you wanna explain why you've brought us to some high school kid?" Iron Man asked flatly, helmet retracting to reveal Tony Stark's unimpressed stare. “This isn't like that time with the puppy, is it? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you have teenagers where you're from.”
Thor ignored his teammate. Instead, he turned and looked Peter straight in the eye and
smiled.
Peter felt every ounce of blood drain from his face as Thor strode towards him, hammer in hand.
His brain scrambled frantically for any reasonable explanation as to why Thor had singled him out. Best case scenario: he was commending him for helping with the aliens. Worst case: Peter had done something horribly wrong in the two minutes he spent helping Thor, and was about to pay for it with his life.
But upon reaching Peter, Thor simply held the hammer out to him and dropped it. Peter's hand shot out to catch it by the handle—
thank God for enhanced reflexes, or his toes would've been crushed
— very nearly dropping it when it let off a spark upon contact. His eyes flitted uncertainly to Thor's for an explanation, but Thor's triumphant grin only raised more questions.
"Um...thanks?” Peter said politely. Was politeness even the correct response to this situation? For all he knew, dropping your hammer into someone's hands was a gesture of extreme rudeness on Asgard. Maybe he should be offended. “I think? I'm not sure I—do you need me to hammer a giant nail, or something? What exactly is this supposed to...?” Peter's question trailed off as his gaze returned to the other Avengers.
They were all staring at him like he'd suddenly sprouted a second head, or eight hairy spider legs to complete his chosen theme. Which, as far as he could tell, he hadn't. Peter reviewed the last thirty seconds in his head, but he didn't
think
he'd done anything out of the ordinary. Did he allow his supernatural reflexes to show when he caught the hammer? Was the hammer actually really heavy, and he just hadn't noticed because of his powers?
What was going on?
"This Midgardian child is worthy!" Thor announced grandly, and possibly loudly enough to rival his own thunder. Like, seriously. Peter understood why this guy was called the god of thunder. He'd always wondered why they didn't call him the god of lightning, or the god of storms or whatever, but it made sense now.
Peter was so startled by the volume of the statement that it took a moment for him to process the words. “I'm sorry, what?”
"Only those who are worthy of the power of Thor may wield the hammer," Thor explained, as if that cleared things up. Which it did not. At all. If anything, it just raised more questions. “And the hammer has deemed you worthy!”
"...Well, that's neat,” Peter said, after a pause. Perhaps if he pretended to have a clue what they were talking about, he could escape this whole situation sooner.
"I don't think you get it, kid," Stark murmured, and apparently he'd had a dramatic mood change in the thirty seconds since he last spoke, because the sarcastic undercurrent Peter was fairly sure he'd picked up on before was nowhere to be seen. The guy looked almost troubled. "None of us can lift the hammer. Except Viz, but he's not even human."
Peter gulped. So it
was
a strength thing. Within two minutes of meeting the Avengers without the mask, he'd done something to make them suspicious. Fantastic.
"In fact, I do not believe I have ever witnessed a mere mortal such as yourself wield Mjolnir." Thor gestured to the hammer dangling from Peter's index finger. "But you have been deemed worthy!"
Peter frowned. That was the third time Thor had used that strange wording—it was starting to seem more significant than weird. "Yeah, you said that. Worthy of what, exactly?"
"Ruling Asgard," Thor stated, ignoring the way Peter's jaw dropped, "and of bearing the power of Thor."
Peter didn't have the first clue how he was supposed to respond to that, so he just gave a nervous little laugh. “Sorry, sir, but I'm pretty sure you're mistaken. I'm definitely not worthy of ruling...whatever you called it. I'm just a Fr—" Peter just managed to cut himself off before he could blow his entire secret identity by saying 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man'.
Wow.
Real smooth, Parker. Clearing his throat awkwardly to account for the sudden pause, he clumsily amended, “I'm just a freshman in high school.” Which wasn't technically true—he was a sophomore. Whatever. If it covered his near slip-up, it didn't matter if they thought he was a year younger.
"No!" Thor looked indignant, almost offended. "Mjolnir is not capable of misjudging a warrior. You must be truly mighty indeed, to be deemed worthy by my hammer!"
"Mighty?" Peter squeaked. The hammer sparked with a small burst of electricity to accentuate his point. And his voice crack, unfortunately.
"Yes, son of Parker!" Thor affirmed. "You fought very mightily today, indeed!"
"Um, thanks,” he managed. “You too.” He grimaced as the words left his mouth
. Man
. That was just—
cringe
. Why did he say that? “I mean, I know that's like, your job—and you're, you know, the god of thunder—but still... good job, I guess.”
The Avengers just stared at him with weird expressions, and he made a silent vow to himself to never speak again. He just got more awkward with every word.
And he'd thought his first impression with them as Spider-man was bad.
Ha
. He'd gotten a second chance at a first impression, and he
still
managed to screw it up.
Things were starting to get way too awkward, and Peter was getting desperate, so with an internal grimace he spoke up. "Wow, look at the time!” Peter spared a quick glance at his wrist before realizing that he didn't have a watch to glance at. Awkwardly, he lowered his arm. “I gotta run. I've got, uh,
things
to...do
.
Right now. Away from here.”
If he kept talking, he was pretty sure he would embarrass himself beyond redemption. So without another word, Peter darted around the corner and out of sight of the Avengers.
The Avengers stood, baffled, as the teenager skidded out of sight, still holding Mjolnir. Thor didn't even chase him down—just stood there grinning as the Avengers gaped at the spot where the kid had been standing.
Finally, Bruce broke the silence with a whistle. "A freshman in high school...?"
"Forget his age," Tony interrupted. "He lifted Thor's magic hammer. Not even Mr. Good and Righteous here was worthy." He gestured one armored hand at Steve, who stared at the ground, deeply perturbed.
"Thor...who
is
this kid?" Clint hadn't lost his dumbfounded expression.
"He called himself Peter Parker," Thor answered proudly. "He slayed multiple Chitauri warriors in mere moments. And Mjolnir has deemed him worthy of my power."
"So let me get this straight," Rhodes cut in. "This high school kid is now capable of summoning lightning and flying across the sky with your magical hammer?"
"Indeed."
"And we're not even vaguely alarmed by that?"
Thor frowned, clearly not concerned with the prospect. "If Mjolnir has deemed him worthy, then I trust that young Peter will not use it in any harmful way."
“Right.” Rhodey cast an annoyed glance to the sky. “If your magic hammer thinks he's worthy, then clearly we should just trust him. Thank goodness we don't have to worry about him abusing this newfound power.”
Thor shrugged, either ignorant or indifferent to the biting sarcasm in Rhodey's tone. “He will be unable to abuse this power as long as the hammer is not in his possession.”
“He just ran off with it,” Sam pointed out.
“I have faith he will return it,” Thor replied, without a trace of doubt or irony.
Rhodey raised an eyebrow. “He'll
return
it?” He turned around to share a quizzical look with the other Avengers, as if to affirm that they were hearing the same nonsense. “I don't know about Asgard, but here on Earth, teenagers are the most irresponsible, impulsive beings you'll ever see. You really think he's just going to come back here and return your—”
“Mr. Thor!”
Rhodey and the rest of the Avengers turned around to watch in disbelief as the teenager in question skidded around the corner, sneakers protesting the movement with an angry hiss against the gravel. He halted, wide-eyed and flushed, as soon as he made the corner, as if suddenly doubting himself, but then cautiously stepped forward.
“I—um. I forgot to give you your...hammer. Thing. Back.” He gestured to the hammer in his right hand, providing clarification that nobody really needed.
Before Thor could step forward to reclaim his hammer, Tony spoke up. “Kid.”
The boy looked expectantly at him.
“Nice work today.”
The other Avengers exchanged surprised looks while the kid's face lit up like the New York skyline at night. “Wow. Thank you, Mr. Stark. That means a lot, I—” He trailed off mid-sentence, as if reconsidering what he was about to say, then settled on, “Thank you.”
Tony hummed—his way of acknowledging the kid's words without having to respond with sincerity—then gestured to Thor. “Well, if you don't mind, Zeus here will be needing his hammer back.”
The smile snapped off of the boy's face in an instant as his eyes widened. “Oh, yeah! Yeah, of course.” Clumsily, he handed Thor his weapon, offering an awkward, tight-lipped smile in lieu of something to say.
“Many thanks, Son of Parker,” Thor said earnestly. “You have not only proven yourself worthy of my power; you have proven yourself worthy of my trust. I hope to fight by your side another day, young warrior.”
“Um,” the boy interjected, shifting uncomfortably, “that's...nice, and all, but...I'm fifteen. I don't even have my driver's license. I don't think I should be fighting by anyone's side.”
Thor just chuckled lowly, clapping a bloody hand on the boy's shoulder as if congratulating him on making a funny joke. Not seeming to know how to respond to that, the boy just gave an uncomfortable smile in return before graciously removing Thor's hand from his shoulder.
“Well, anyway, I've gotta scoot. I have that...thing. To go to.”
“Right. That thing,” Natasha repeated dubiously, as skeptical as ever.
“Yes.” The boy backed slowly toward the street corner as he spoke, avoiding meeting any of the Avengers' eyes.
“The thing that, apparently, is more important than meeting the Avengers,” Sam added, for specification.
“Yes,” the boy replied, more hesitantly.
Steve leveled Sam and Natasha with a disapproving look. “Go on, son,” he told the boy. “Don't let us keep you back.”
As the boy disappeared around the corner for the second time that day, Tony hummed in contemplation. “Thor, you said his name was Peter Parker?”
Natasha sighed, knowing Tony well enough to know where this was going. “Tony, don't.”
“I didn't even say anything.”
“You can't just invade this kid's privacy like that. He deserves a normal life.”
“I didn't
say—”
“
Tony.”
“What?”
Natasha shared a long-suffering glance with Steve. “Promise me you won't dive into this kid's personal files on the internet.”
“Geez, Romanoff. You make me out to be some kind of stalker.”
Natasha's glare didn't waver.
“Fine!” Tony threw his hands up in the air in defeat. “I won't look into this potential asset. I will ignore the fact that a random teenager on the street was able to wield Thor's hammer. I will look the other way entirely just so he can continue the boring, mundane life of a teenager. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” Rhodey cut in.
“Alright, fine,” Tony sighed, accepting his defeat. “We'll leave the kid alone.”
The rest of the Avengers nodded their unspoken agreement as the sounds of cars honking and civilians rushing home began to rise above the silence of the battle's aftermath. They watched as the Department of Damage Control trucks rolled in to begin the long task of clean up. As vendors returned to their carts. As New York City snapped back into normalcy like a rubber band, as stubborn and resilient as ever.
“...But if we ever ran into the kid again, y'know, in passing—” Tony started.
The rest of the Avengers groaned collectively.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Nobody would call Spider-Man unobservant. Most anyone who had even spent two minutes talking to Peter Parker would tell you he was incredibly unobservant. So it was a wonder that these two people were one in the same, not that anyone but Ned and MJ knew that.
And now, just a week past his 20th Birthday, Peter had been considering changing that.
After graduating MIT, snagging two degrees along the way, Peter felt like he had done the work and learned all he could, and yet, Peter found every year of further restricting his time and commitment to Spider-Man to be a drain on his passion for anything. Now, Peter was fairly sure that what he wanted to do more than anything, was pursue his heroing full time and without the added complications of being labelled a vigilante. And maybe getting paid for it too, that would be really great.
All of that being decided, there was only one thing he had to do. Sign the Accords, revealing his identity, and accept the Avengers open invitation to join. If a 15 year old Peter had looked at that list, he would have scoffed at the posibility of being an Avenger, but 5 years had changed a lot.
Of course, as Peter prepared to hit call on the number Tony Stark had given him years ago with the emphatic invitation to join, Peter felt anxiety clutching at his gut. What if the invitation hadn't been as open ended as Tony made it seem? Maybe they no longer needed a spider guy.
Taking a deep breath, Peter hit call as he stared out at the late afternoon city scape from his seat on the edge of his apartment building. Here goes nothing...
...
Tony was mostly enjoying the evening with his people. All the Avengers, plus a cozy Pepper snuggled up next to Natasha, were spread out amongst the lounge of their shared floor watching, of all things, The Princess Bride. Steve, Bucky, and Wanda had never seen it before and when Pepper found out she made Natasha make everyone else gather that very evening.
It was a typical evening when nothing dangerous was happening, oddly domestic, and yet exactly what Tony needed these days. Or, almost exactly what he needed. An energetic, lithe form flashed through his mind then and Tony couldn't help but think back to 2 years before when the elusive Spider-Man had saved his life during a particularly nasty fight.
Tony hadn't seen the blast coming and the next thing he knew he was being carried in arms rather lean for their steady strength. Spider-Man had gritted out in a voice that Tony thought sounded a bit deeper than the young hero typically held, "I've got you."
Tony was no stuttering school boy but it had been downright romantic if you asked him. And the clearly homemade spandex the Hero wore had been more form fitting these days than before it seemed. Maybe he had grown more than he thought he would with his active lifestyle as his lean yet powerful musculature seemed to be suction sealed within the suit.
Tony had only managed to get out a quick, "Thanks Spidey." before the Hero saluted him and swung back into the fight. Tony had definitely NOT stared lasers at Spider-Man's infamous ass on his departure, no matter what Steve and Bucky teased him about that night in bed.
Now, Tony couldn't help but wonder how the Hero was doing? He'd been less active over the past two years and though he still popped up a few times a month, it was clear that the young man had been busy with other things more than normal. Tony wished he didn't feel so sad at that idea. It was perfectly normal for Heros to take breaks or even stop.
It was at this point that Tony's phone began to buzz in his pocket. Pulling it out swiftly Tony saw a number he didn't recognize, never the best sign on a phone as protected as this. Curiosity won out over caution in the end though, and Tony quickly stepped around the corner to not disturb the others as he answered the call.
"Who is this and how did you get my number?" Tony couldn't help with edge in his voice, hoping he didn't regret it.
"Oh..umm, sorry to bother you. If this is Mr. Stark it's... Spider-Man. If not then-" Tony recognized that rambling, even though the voice did sound a bit more, mature?
"Spider-Man, you finally called." It's all Tony thinks to say at first, he's too surprised at the coincidence. He'd just been daydreaming- er, thinking about the Hero.
"I did. And I know it's not very polite to respond to an invitation so late, but...I was wondering, if the opening is still there..." Tony heard the anxiety in Spider-Man's voice before his words clicked. His invitation to join the Avengers! Tony felt somethign warm burst in his chest as he quickly moved to ease his fears.
"I said it was open ended, didn't I? You've more than proven yourself to the team, though you know what you'd have to give up for this, right Spider-Man? I don't want you to feel pressured." Tony wanted more than anything to find out who was under the mask, but he cared about Spider-Man and didn't want him to be forced out into the public eye if he didn't want it.
"I know, Mr. Stark. When you first asked me I...well, I still lived with my Aunt at the time and I couldn't put her in danger like that. I also wanted to finish college before deciding to give this a full shot. With those things behind me, I can say without a doubt in my mind there's nothing I want more than to be a Hero with you and the Avengers. It's what makes me happiest." Peter managed to keep himself rather calm and controlled throghout the empassioned speech, Tony could practically feel the maturity wafting through the phone, it was sexy.
Tony wished the guy was here so he could...well, maybe he'd better take a cold shower first if just his voice made Tony feel this hot and bothered. "You're gonna be the best of us, I'm calling it now."
...
Approaching the Avengers' Compound Upstate Peter was nervous. What if they decided he wasn't good enough, or just changed their minds in general. Maybe he'd be turned away at the gate. Peter felt a touch of claustrophobia in his suit, though he quickly waved that away. None of his worries were founded in reality, he reminded himself. Therapy had been good at MIT.
Besides, he wasn't claustrophbic, he was just tight. He'd not actually put the suit on in about a month due to vigorous finals and graduation ceremonies and apparently he'd gained a touch more muscle in that time with his on campus gym visits to blow off steam.
His thighs and ass in particular felt like they were pushing the stretchy material to it's limits. He probably should have chilled with the squats, but his workout buddy had said they were important to do every day, he'd always been so happy to help Peter through excercises.
Peter finally got to the gate and as he entered the camera frame, Tony's familiar voice called out. "Welcome to the Compound Spider-Man. Did you walk here?"
Peter felt his cheeks heat up under his suit. Peter had managed to make it through school without racking up unmanageable debt, but he certainly didn't have a car. He felt a bit childish, but wanted to mask that. "Yeah, felt like an easy jog this morning!"
Tony laughed through the speakers before a buzz sounded and the gates opened. "Just follow the path all the way up and we'll meet you at the end."
"Will do." Peter smiled at the camera, then remembered his mask was on and awkwardly started walking forward.
Unleashing some of the tension he'd been holding, Peter enjoyed the beautiful sprawling lawn of the Compound, the pristinely maintained garden and fountains throughout. Would this be where he lived now? Soon all of the Avengers would see his face, would they be disappointed?
The thought of a big dramatic reveal ending in disappointment churned Peter's stomach. So, Peter decided to make the reveal as undramatic as possible. He'd give them time to see him coming and make up their minds before he even got there. Still a ways off from the Compound, Peter pulled off his mask and tucked it into the backpack he'd brought with him.
Continuing on and feeling a loosening in his chest, Peter knew he'd made the right decision. No more secrets anyway, right?
His steps became less stuttered in anxiety and more fluid, his shoulders straight and head held high.
...
Watching Spider-Man move through the gates, Tony calmed his smile of excitement and moved away from the screen of camera feeds to join his teammates by the front doors.
Everyone had been pretty happy to hear the news of Spider-Man's acceptance of their invitation. For though Tony selfishly sold it as his invitation, it had really been a unanimous agreement that Tony hadn't even needed to initiate.
Apparently the Hero had been silently saving everyones lives in battles since he began joining them. He was efficient, strong, and though the incessant rambling of his earliest days came off as more fear than humor. He had calmed with the years and his humor was now knife sharp and welcomed by all but his enemies. All in all, he was a delight to be around and felt like a breathe of fresh air when things got a little stifling in the group.
Tony found the gang all suited up for training, which would take place after Peter signed the accords and SHIELD was satisfied with who he turned out to be.
Speaking of shield, standing to the side Tony was still slightly shocked to find Fury himself with Agent Coulson and Agent Hill flanking him. The three were in deep discussion but Tony saw their spy training kick in to track his entrance to the room. Tony waved at them, Phil waved back, Maria gave a nod, and Tony would swear that Fury smirked but it was too short to notice.
Tony hoped they didn't know he'd been stalking the Hero's arrival in the control room, but they likely did. Moving past that trio to his team he noticed the slight air of tension.
"Why is everyone glaring at Steve?" Tony asked with some amusement.
"They're just jealous." Steve said with horribly concealed smugness. "I won rock paper scissors and get to spar with Spider-Man today."
Tony is taken aback, "You did this without me?"
It's Clint who responds, "Don't even start, Tony, you get to build him a suit, that's way more time."
Tony doesn't even try to conceal his smugness, "That's true."
"Wait, I think I see him." It's Natasha and her voice causes all heads to suddenly turn to look out the glass front of the entry way to the compound. It's Natasha again who speaks her voice showing some surprise, "He already took his mask off."
This causes even the reserved SHIELD leaders to move toward the window to get a better view of his approach.
Tony at first notices the brown hair starting to get a bit shaggy. His skin is bright and lightly tanned. Still too far to make out much in the way of facial features, Tony takes in his slightly taller stature, and fuller form. The light bouncing off the white marble walkway shined on his sleek spandex and seemed to catch on the powerful musculature underneath.
Spider-Man moved assuredly and without any tension. His hips swayed with his steps and his attention lazed from side to side as he took in his surroundings with some awe.
"He's gotten bigger." It's Bucky who says it, almost too quiet for Tony to hear.
Tony can't help but agree, the young Hero is looking more like a lithe adonis than he used to. And now that he is only 50 feet away from the front doors, Tony is able to see the plump lips, button nose, and dimpled cheeks filling out the gorgeous face of the man. His eyes were big, and round like a doe.
"He's younger than I would've thought." Wanda says and Tony thinks he hears some sorrow in her accent. "At least his face appears that way."
Tony thought back, Spider-Man had been active for, what, five years now? He tries to imagine the youthful face he's looking at now minus five years, it's an alarming thought.
"I always figured that was why he kept his face hidden." Natasha's voice wasn't harsh or judgmental, only understanding. "He wanted to grow up first."
"Do you think he has?" It's Vision who raises the question, not unkindly, in that way only Vision can.
Tony speaks up as he moves toward the door to meet Spider-Man, "I think he has."
...
Fury has known about Peter Parker for the past 4 years. Once word began to spread of a possible enhanced operating in Queens, he'd dispatched Agents to find out Spider-Man's identity. Normally, if his highly trained agents were unable to do this within a year, Fury would be alarmed.
However, Spider-Man was clearly not a normal case, in Fury's eyes. He be could reckless, sure, and a secret identity was always a possible danger, but Spidey himself had shown a startling lack of personal agression, tendency for property damage, or even failure.
He'd, seemingly without meaning to, stopped several high profile SHIELD targets before they could escape SHIELD clutches and never seemed to care much for details he shouldn't know. Fury had accidentally caught himself thinking about Spider-Man as one of his agents from time to time.
So, upon his Agent's failure, Fury had actually decided to no longer press the issue. That was one week before Fury had been abducted and miraculously saved by a civilian named Peter Parker who'd been forced to reveal his remarkable abilities to save Fury from certain death.
The young man had gotten Fury to safety, and then sat himself down next to the man to wait for SHIELD to pick him up. When they did, Fury had staunchly gotten his Agents' attention off Peter and told the youn gman to stay safe, slipping him his number should an emergency ever arise.
Fury couldn't help but discover Peter's identity once he had his face, though he kept that information securly locked down and never told anyone else. He had to admit he felt a strange sort of protection or pride for the young man, still only a boy really.
So, standing here now, Fury did not watch Peter approach the building, instead, watching the reactions of his Avengers. Fury already had an idea of Stark's fondness for Spider-Man, so he was unsurprised to see the man watching Peter now with clear desire.
Fury saw a matching look in several of the men's eyes, namely Steve, Bucky, Bruce, Sam and Thor. Fury wasn't sure why but his protective insticts kicked in a bit at their obvious attraction. Fury knew they would never hurt the young man, but he didn't need anyone distracted or overwhelmed when they're just joining something like this. And Fury knew that Peter had a tendency to be a bit naive and trusting. He was a good natured person and not all the Avengers were so squeeky clean.
Fury made a mental note to tell Romanov and Maximoff to keep an eye on the young man, just to be safe.
...
Peter was about 10 feet away from the big double doors of the entirely glass front when the door opened and Tony in all his handsomeness stepped out. Peter came to a stop as he was momentarily nervous again, but he quickly recovered and smoothly kept moving until he was close to Tony.
Peter held out his hand, "Hello, I'm Peter Parker."
It seemed Tony was the one caught off guard by this, though he also recovered and grabbed the younger man's much firmer hand to shake it. "Welcome to the Compound Peter. I'm Tony."
Peter laughed then, not mean in anyway, just light and musical, "I do know who you are. Though it's nice to finally meet face to face."
Peter realized they were still just shaking hands slowly, but Stark seemed kind of stuck again and so Peter gently pulled his hand back, which seemed to start up Tony again.
"Right, of course. Well, come on inside and meet everyone." Tony ushered Peter inside and now Peter was able to take in the full crowd that had been watching his approach.
Peter remembered to breath as he one by one shook hands and met each of his idols (and secret crushes) face to face. Peter quickly realized how good they were at introductions as Clint and Sam especially had him laughing and talking good naturedly very quickly.
Peter was also surprised at how affectionate the Avengers seemed to be. Especially Thor, he made some comment about Earth customs when Peter had held out his hand and instead pulled the smaller man into a tight hug. Peter had been a bit breathless on his release and not becuase he was being squeezed. Thor's adonic body felt unreal against his.
It seemed only Natasha, Clint, Vision, and Wanda didn't give his shoulder a squeeze or his back a friendly pat. Though thier friendly smiles and words of welcome were no less kind to Peter.
Then Peter found himself turning and seeing a man he hadn't seen in a few years. "Hello, Mr. Fury! It's nice to see you again!" Peter held out his hand to Fury and found the man quick to clasp it and give a firm shake.
"Hello Peter, I hope you've been keeping out of trouble." Though the words seemed scolding, everyone in the room could see it had none of the sharpness behind it that it normally did. Fury even seemed to have the ghost of a smile dancing across his face.
Peter took his words very seriously. "I have, I promise. MIT ended up being a bit more than I could handle while seeking out trouble. Unfortunately I had to let Spider-Man take a bit of a backseat the last two years." Peter feels the familiar pangs of guilt whenever he mentions his time off. He'd been working through that particular problem when he'd had to stop seeing Tom his Therapist due to graduating.
"Wise decision. Though I know it wasn't an easy one for you." Agents Hill and Coulson flanking Fury are shocked at such open affection being shown from the man. There was practically an unspoken 'I'm proud of you' in that last statement. Hill clears her throat a bit when she realizes Fury is too distracted by his fatherly feelings toward Peter to remember to introduce them.
Fury straightens a bit at her look of concealed amusement, then turns back to Peter. "This is Agent Hill my number 2, and Agent Coulson my number 3. We're just here to oversee the signing of the Accords and Avengers contracts. We'll get to that shortly."
"It's an honor to meet you both, Agent Hill, Agent Coulson. I'm Peter Parker. Well, you both probably already knew that!" Peter smiles at them both.
Neither Agent contradicts his statement, though they both can't wait to corner Fury about keeping his knowledge of Spider-Man from them.
"Wait, you already knew who he was?" It's Sam who slings the accusation at Fury, though Peter notices most of the Avengers seem to mirror this.
Fury just turns unimpressed eyes on the team, "Of course I did." Conveniently leaving out the part that it was an accident that gave him this knowledge.
Peter can't help but laugh at the absurdity of this situation. His laugh clears any tension from the room and soon everyone is joking and moving toward a large conference room with a meeting table fit for the large group.
Peter gets led to one end of the table with several contracts laid out for him and the team fills out the table around him Fury takes the seat opposite Peter with Hill and Coulson flanking him.
"Alright, lets gets this part done quick!" Tony shoots to Fury as he sits to Peter's left. "I want to show Peter the Lab."
"After this is team training, Tony." Steve's authoritative voice chimes in then, though he too looks like he's ready for this part to be done.
Peter realizes that the Avengers must each have mixed feelings about these documents, and the events that unfolded when the first ones were created.
"None of you actually need to be here for this part, and I know you know that." Fury calmly states, and Peter glances at each of the Heroes, not seeing denial. Maybe they just didn't want him left alone with people until they trusted him not to be a villain of some sort.
"Young Parker must be surrounded by his fellows in arms when he joins!" Thor bellowed as a if it were a decree and thus Peter was guided through the signing of the Accords and his Avengers contract.
Peter was keeping a calm facade though inside he felt like fireworks were going off. This was like in one of his wildest fantasies. He was being welcomed with open arms by both the Avengers and the heads of SHIELD. His days of operating just outside teh law are done, and Peter is not going to miss that part one bit. Peter even felt like Fury was being extra careful in going through the more confusing sections of each document. When Fury mentioned pay, Peter almost spit out the sip of water he'd taken.
"Are you serious?" Peter got out after swallowing.
Tony cut in before Fury could, "That's just the initial rate, there are yearly raises and that's to say nothing for hazard pay-"
Peter has to stop Tony's rambling as he clearly has the wrong idea, "No, Tony. That's not- I meant to say that...that's a lot of money." Peter finished that much mroe lamely than he meant and his face heated up as he glanced around at the smiles he was getting.
Tony looked a touch embarrased, though he too was fighting a smile. "Right. Well, you'll more than earn it."
Once these formalities were done, Fury and his agents took their leave, though Fury pulled Natasha and Wanda aside to say something to them before they did.
Peter was finding no time to get stuck in his head as he was being led from one conversation to the next. Peter was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed with the amount of attention on him though, and yet the men's smiles and affectionate touches made Peter feel really good.
Natasha and Wanda returned to the group and Peter made eye contact with them, noticing a spark of something, maybe amusement, in their eyes. Upon their arrival Steve speaks up, gaining everyone's attention. "Okay Avengers, lets get to warmups!" Peter sees everyone get to their feet smoothly and begin moving toward the door, then it hits him that 'Avengers' is him too now.
So with an ear to ear grin and dimples popping, Peter joins his new teammates.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jaskier stayed in bed with Geralt after the abrupt end of their conversation, not wanting his husband to think they were fighting, but once Geralt started snoring he slipped out of bed to the living room. Ciri would be up for her first night feeding soon, and that was when Jaskier’s shift would truly start. Until then he could do whatever he wanted.
He went into the bathroom, collected all the towels and put them in the washing machine. After he put the soap in and started the machine he moved onto the living room and tidied the small, cluttered space. Why should he do anything for himself? What was the point? Wasn’t everyone happier this way?
Could they be happy in Elmston?
He was distracted by this sad, self-indulgent line of thinking until he heard Cirilla over the baby monitor, which he kept on him like a pager during his overnight shifts. She wasn’t crying yet, but she’d started to smack her lips in her sleep, which meant the crying would start soon.
By the time it did he had the bottle ready and was at her bedside. He lifted her from her crib and brought her over to the rocking chair. She fit so perfectly into the crook of his arm, looking up at him in the dark as she drank from her bottle. Six months ago this had been a fantasy. She’d been in the NICU and all Jaskier cared about was getting her home.
And now she wasn’t enough?
She should be. It wasn’t as if he had anything more concrete to spend his time on. Parenting at least gave him a goal and a clear path.
Geralt had always been the one with a plan. He was the one with a job lined up before graduation. He was the one who knew exactly what he wanted to do and was willing to do the work to get there. Jaskier had always just sort of followed him around.
He loved music, of course, but a career in the performing arts was a lot harder to pin down than an open spot on a rugby team. Most of the reason he’d applied for graduate school at all was to feel like he was doing something, and not just following Geralt around. The remaining reason was simple hope that the program might get him a job, since as of right now he had no clue where to look.
Honestly, he’d been shocked to be accepted with his academic record, and he knew his participation in the touring choir had done most of the heavy lifting. And that had been a fluke! He hadn’t even really been auditioning. Why should he let his series of unplanned life decisions get in the way of Geralt’s incredibly promising career? Why did he think he had that right?
Neither of them really even liked Southaven. Geralt had never fully acclimated to the heat, it was far away from both of their families, and the only reason they’d moved here was because of his job.
Jaskier might’ve remained in this doom spiral all night, but Cirilla had finished eating and she needed his attention. Moving as if on autopilot, so familiar with all of the steps, he burped her, changed her diaper, put on a fresh onesie and then rocked her until she fell asleep.
He was good at this. There was nothing wrong with just being good at this.
Back on the couch after Ciri was sound asleep again, Jaskier turned the TV on. He’d hoped a comfort show might distract him, but the draw wasn’t quite strong enough for his stretched-too-thin attention span. He pulled out his phone and searched up Elmston.
It was several hours north of here, closer to his parents than he’d been in years. Their rugby team had a good record. Not quite as good as Southaven’s, but Susan would remedy that quickly enough.
The city itself was smaller than Southaven too. In fact it was the smallest city to host a major league rugby team. That might be nice. But what would that mean for him? Less opportunities certainly.
At one point this wouldn’t have bothered him. A few years ago he’d had so much more going for him–more opportunities than he’d had time to take advantage of. Now that he was out of graduate school though, no longer connected with his peers, his teachers, or the industry his freelance work had dried up. Even if it hadn’t, when was the last time he’d had the brainpower or the energy to compose? It had been a fucking battle to sit down at the piano at all today.
Ciri started crying again before he had the time to fully consider the implications here.
It wasn’t time for her next bottle yet, but Jaskier had been next to her when she fell asleep and gone when she woke up, and sometimes that was enough to get her all worked up. He rushed to scoop her up before she woke Geralt.
“Hey, I’ve got you. It’s alright baby. I’m here.”
She sniffled, her lip jutted out in its adorably tiny pout, but the wailing ceased as soon as she was cradled against his chest.
“Yeah, there you go. You rest baby, I’m not going anywhere.”
Simply being in his arms was enough for her to calm down and fall back asleep.
He was enough for her.
He hated to admit she might not be enough for him.
Jaskier stayed in her nursery the rest of the night, willing her presence to calm his out of control thoughts. They persisted though, through the sleeping, crying, feeding, and changing they continued to race around his head, trying to form some sort of logical conclusion that didn’t involve him being a bad father or husband.
He crawled into bed a little before his shift ended. Ciri was sound asleep by now, and he was confident she’d stay that way for the next half hour until six rolled around and it was Geralt’s turn. The thought of having to talk to him stressed Jaskier out, and acknowledging that just made him feel worse. So instead he rolled over, back to his husband, and fell asleep.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The bench creaks under Frank’s weight.
It’s one of those brittle autumn afternoons – the sky’s low and heavy, the air is sharp and just slightly humid. Much drier than New York usually is, this time of year. Frank sits on a bench near the edge of the park, his shoulders hunched a little. He’s not hiding, but he’s definitely not expecting company. The book in his hands is worn, its spine soft and pliable.
The Book of Disquiet
by Fernando Pessoa.
Pages catch light a little, as it seeps through the old parchment, edges frayed and feathery from too many thumbed turns. It’s not an easy read – not in the way procedural reports or war manuals are easy. Frank can handle those with little brain power… But this? This is fragmented. Lonely. It reads like a diary of someone who existed solely in his head, instead of in the world.
Franks reads it nice and slow… because he
has
to. The words aren’t difficult, but the ideas are – and sometimes they hit a little too close to home. The way Pessoa writes feels like he’s not in a big rush to be understood. And Frank’s used to that – he’s used to long silences, he’s used to things that don’t explain themselves.
From his bench, he has a good view of people in the park: a couple arguing quietly in a language he has never heard before, a man in a business coat staring at his cell phone, a kid dragging his scooter along the paved trail because he’s tired of riding it, a woman tossing a tennis ball for her pitbull. No one looks twice at him – which is what he’s going for, really – until
someone
does.
It’s a kid in his early twenties, maybe, just barely old enough to drink. Skinny jeans, a scarf that looks like it costs more than Frank’s entire outfit, sans boots. He’s got a satchel and a notebook under his arm. He stops, tilts his head, and he takes in the couple of scars that wind down Frank’s jaw like a small vine. He takes in his calloused fingers paging through the book. He takes in his haircut.
“Didn’t take you for a Pessoa guy,” the kid says, a small smile twitching on his face. His tone skates the edge between genuine curiosity and condescension. Frank doesn’t answer right away.
Fucking children, man.
Was Frank a little shit at his age, like this?
Probably. But Frank was a little shit with a gun in his hands, so he figures it balances out… His eyes flick over one of the lines:
“To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.”
He closes the book and looks up at the kid. “You think you know me or something?” he asks.
The kid blinks, taken aback. Or maybe just pretending to think about it. “I mean, like… most guys like you are reading…” He shrugs, searching for a word that won’t make him sound like a pretentious douchebag. He fails. “...not that.”
Frank studies him. Kid’s young, skinny, clearly academically inclined – or pretending to be. You know how these kids are these days, performative. He’s probably never had to clean someone else’s blood off his hands, let alone his own – he’s probably never had to wonder if the things that make him human are just the things the universe hasn’t forced him to give up yet.
Good. Pretentious douchebag or not, Frank wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Anyone
.
“Pessoa writes like… hm… like he’s not sure if being alive is really worth all the trouble,” Frank says, finally. “Some of us get that.”
The kid doesn’t have an answer for that, really… he stands there for a beat too long. Then, he mumbles something about “fucking Marines, man” and turns to leave. Frank furrows his brow at that… look, Frank’s not blind. He knows he sorta gives off military vibes – but to get so close…
“Hold up,” Frank says, his hand reaching out to stop the kid. He doesn’t touch him, but he gets close. “...What made you say ‘Marine?’”
“Your accent.”
Frank blinks at that. “Oh.”
“Yeah… some of us get that, too.”
The kid turns and leaves – and, this time, Frank lets him go, before cracking the book back open, his thumb resting on the cover. He watches the park for a moment – the movement of people who will never know him, who will never know his name – and he thinks about a line that had caught his attention, earlier today:
“I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book.”
It feels too much like truth for him… and probably for that kid, too. The wind scatters a few leaves at his boots, and the world keeps moving as he stares back down at the book.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The weeks flew by quicker than anyone realized. Peter fit like a puzzle piece, completing the Wayne family. He did wonderful in school, taking after Tim’s genius. He was the Vice President of the Academic Decathlon group at Gotham Prep, inheriting Dick’s leadership and spirit. The teen volunteered and worked in the homeless shelters across Crime Alley, taking likeness from Jason. He cared fiercely for his family, falling perfectly into line right next to Damian.
He was Peter Parker-Wayne, orphan from New York, who loved his family. Nothing could change that.
August turned into September, and September became October. Peter quickly found a way to balance both his nightlife and his academics, taking tips from the other school-aged vigilantes. Spider-Man was
officially
part of the Bats and Birds.
Gotham loved him. The hardened citizens of Crime Alley looked to him like they did to Red Hood, feeling safer under his watchful gaze. The homeless community learned his patrol routes and would cheer him on, offering help wherever they could. In return, he paid for plenty of meals and hotel stays.
He was Spider-Man, son of the Batman. Nothing could change that.
Peter dropped his backpack at the end of his bed, sighing deeply as he fell face-first onto his blankets and pillows. The tired teen let his eyes fall shut as his limbs relaxed one by one. Within minutes, he was limp against his comfortable bed, on the verge of dozing into a late-afternoon nap.
Knocking on his bedroom door made his eyes shoot open, and the teen dramatically groaned loud enough for the person in the hallway to hear. He rolled over and sat up, pushing off of the mattress and approaching the door. He swung it open with a glare that lacked any real malice.
“Rise and shine, Pete!” Dick grinned, his mere presence shocking Peter out of his tired state. The man had been away on a mission for almost two weeks, and was not expected to be back in the States for at least another three.
“I– holy shit!-” Peter smiled wide, rushing without a bit of hesitation to wrap his arms tight around Dick’s middle. The older brother laughed, holding the teen by the shoulders as he was hoisted off the ground and spun around. “You’re back early!- That’s- What are you doing back?”
“We got done early!” Dick shrugged and chuckled, not releasing Peter once he was set back down onto his feet. “Figured I’d come by and check in, I know you got nervous about me being gone.”
“No shit.” Peter huffed. “They needed
Nightwing
in space, of course I was gonna be nervous.” He rolled his eyes, leaning into Dick, who took control of the embrace. “You’re probably excited to sleep tonight.”
“Well, actually…” Dick hummed, trailing off a bit and looking to the side. “...I thought we might go get dinner? We can pick up Jay, too. He doesn’t know I’m home yet.”
“Dinner sounds good.” Peter mused, shutting his eyes. “Y’know what I’ve always wanted to try?”
“What?” The older brother asked, starting to slowly sway back and forth on their feet. The soothing motion would have lulled Peter to sleep right then and there if the prospect of food were not right in front of him.
“Batburger.”
“...You’ve
never
had Batburger.” Dick stated plainly, as if trying to believe his own statement. “...There’s
no way
–”
“
Yes
way–” Peter snickered, pulling away from the embrace and pointing a playfully accusatory finger at Dick’s chest. “Alfred cooks nearly
every
night- I barely get to eat fast food anymore!”
The older brother raised his hands in mock surrender, snickering along with him. “Okay you’ve got a point– we can get Batburger. You still cool if Jason comes?”
“I’d be offended if he didn’t.”
“As amazing as it is to know you’re home, what do you
mean
Peter’s never had Batburger?” Jason asked with wide eyes and appallment, looking between the brothers sitting on his couch.
“I’ve never tried it.” Peter shrugged, smiling. “Alfred cooks all the time, so I don’t really eat fast food much.”
“That’s a
sin
in this family.” Jason hissed, grabbing his brown leather coat off of his kitchen counter. “You two drove here in your car?” He asked Dick, who confirmed with a thumbs up. “Go start it. We’re going to Batburger. I heard there’s a new menu item.”
“Isn’t all the food themed around Batman and the Robins?” Peter asked, standing up and pulling his Robin themed jacket back on. “What’s the new item?”
“Spider Salted Caramel Shakes.” Jason noted from memory, ushering the two toward the door.
Peter’s eyes widened in both surprise and glee, and there was a new pep in his step. “Are you
serious
? There’s
Spider-Man
themed shakes there?” The joy in his voice was obvious, and made both of the older men smile.
“I think so.” Dick chuckled. “I assumed you knew since you asked about going.”
“Hell no, I didn’t know!!” Peter scoffed. “Come on, I wanna try one of
my
shakes!-”
The booth comfortably held all three brothers, who chatted idly about anything that came to mind. Obviously since they were in public, Dick could not debrief them on his mission. But based on his subtle gestures and innuendos, Jason and Peter figure out that it went well. Him being home so early was evidence enough.
“Hey, is it true that Gotham doesn’t do Halloween?” Peter asked, sipping on his half-full cup. The delicious salted caramel shake stood no chance against him.
Jason nodded at his question, swallowing his bite of his burger before verbally responding. “Thanks to Scarecrow, it’s kinda illegal. There’s too high a risk of him pulling some shit.”
“Blüdhaven is in a similar boat.” Dick sighed wistfully. “We’re too close to Main Gotham to try anything.”
“That’s
so
shitty.” Peter complained, tapping his fingers on the table. “My aunt and I loved Halloween. We would hand out candy together almost every year.”
“Oh yeah?” Dick smiled. “So it’s your favorite holiday then?”
“No, but it was hers.” The teen smiled back, fondness wrapping his heart in a warm hug. It felt like a hug from May, and he committed the feeling to memory. “She was really great.”
“You don’t talk about her much.” Jason commented, no push to his tone. “What about your old friends back at Midtown? Didn’t we run into one of them at the Library once?”
“You mean MJ?” Peter asked, getting nods from both brothers. He hesitated, trying to find the best things to say. He did not want to reveal too much. “Yeah, she was in town for Academic Decathlon. She... didn’t recognize me though.”
“Bummer. I would’ve loved to see you bring home a girl.” Dick teased, earning a kick under the table from Jason.
“Or
boy. Or no one.”
Peter held back a laugh, glancing between the two. “I like girls, no doubt about it.”
“Respectable.” Dick smiled.
“Your loss.” Jason shrugged, pulling a giggle from both Dick and Peter. “So did you
like
MJ?”
“You could say that.” Peter nodded, looking down into his shake.
“Then tell us about her. And whose Ned?”
“Ned’s my best friend.” The teen hummed. “He’s a genius, but more on the nerdy side. He’s really into video games, sci-fi flicks, vintage comics…”
“Geeze, he
sounds
like a nerd. Definitely the type of person you’d befriend.” Jason teased.
“Be nice.” Dick hissed, but smiled at Peter. The teen took it as encouragement to continue. In the past, telling Tim about Tony had felt right. In this moment, telling Dick and Jason about his old friends felt even better.
In a way, it felt like he was preserving them in his memories. Now, in this universe, traces of his old friendships would exist in the minds of the Waynes.
“MJ is amazing.” Peter could feel a flush starting to rise to his cheeks, but he tried to ignore it. “She’s smart, funny, and so passionate about
everything
. She cares about a lot of things, but pretends to be this stoic person. I think it’s a defense mechanism.” He shrugged, glancing up to his brothers.
“Not what I imagined your type to be,” Jason admitted with a shrug. “But; I digress. Have you tried talking to her?”
“Not since I last went to Queens.” Peter admitted, a bit ashamed. “I barely remember it, but I think I went by her job. Ned was there, but they didn’t recognize me. I left pretty fast. Well–” He quickly corrected himself. “She
recognized
me as that kid from the library.
Not
as Peter.”
“Damn, do you think she’s pretending? Or could it be something else?” Jason questioned carefully.
Peter thought for a few seconds, trying to pick the best response. While Peter thought, Dick stood to refill their drinks, taking their cups to the nearby drink fountain.
“...I think she just… Genuinely didn’t recognize me.” He admitted softly, looking down at the table. “I don’t blame her.” Because it would be impossible to blame someone from a different universe.
“Would you ever consider reaching out to her and Ned again?” Dick asked gently, tilting his head slightly in pure curiosity as he sat back down. Peter smiled sadly at them both.
“Honestly, not really. I’d be better off letting things rest instead of trying to get involved again. They seemed happy, and I don’t wanna ruin that for them.”
“...You’re a good kid, Peter.” Jason hummed, taking another bite of his burger and speaking through his chews. “You’re a damn good kid.”
“I know.” Peter smiled. “I’ve been working on it.”
“Oh yeah? Gone on some adventure of enlightenment?” Dick teased, taking a long sip of his soda. When Peter nodded, the man raised an amused brow. “Where to?”
“Gotham.” Peter replied without hesitation. “It was unplanned, but I think it’s worked out well.”
“Gotham is the
least
enlightening city in America, Peter.” Jason rolled his eyes. “But I guess it
did
work out, considering you’re here with us now.”
“Yeah, I am.” The teen let a small, real smile fall onto his features. It was mirrored by the two men sitting with him. “I couldn’t be happier.”
“Just the spider I wanted to see.” Tim grinned at Peter from his spot sitting on the staircase. Peter had just stepped inside, finished getting dinner with the two oldest brothers, and squinted at Tim skeptically.
“What did you break?” He questioned, fully expecting for Tim to have some question or request regarding either Karen, his Iron Spider suit, or both. Both were likely the answer.
“I–” Tim paused, suddenly glaring playfully with a scoff. “I didn’t
break
anything, I just wanted to see you. Is that so bad?”
“Maybe.” Peter teased, relaxing when his brother admitted that nothing was wrong. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to check in before you went on patrol is all.” Tim hummed. Peter took that as his cue to join the teen, sitting next to him on the steps in the main foyer. “I’m staying in, so I think tonight is just you, B, and Damian.”
“What about Cass and Steph?”
“Both sitting in with Babs tonight.” Tim smiled. “She’s been working a lot with them. I think she’s teaching them the Oracle systems.”
Peter’s eyes widened at that, eyebrows shooting to his hairline in surprise. “
Really?
” He grinned. “Shit, where do
I
sign up to learn?” He joked, earning a quiet laugh from Tim.
“I could teach you, y’know.” Tim hummed smugly. “I taught myself a few years ago.”
“No shit.” Peter bemused with a smile. “I might have to take you up on that sometime. If I’m ever grounded from patrol again, I don’t wanna sit around like the last few times. Maybe working with Oracle and her systems might be good.”
“That’s what I usually do.” Tim admitted. “Being the metaphorical man-in-the-chair is a good breather from the harshness of field work.”
“It sounds fun, honestly.” Peter agreed. “Why aren’t you patrolling tonight? Any particular reason?”
“Alfred insisted I take a night to sleep.” Tim rolled his eyes. “You know how he gets, and you can’t exactly say
no
to Alfred, so…”
Peter immediately nodded in understanding, not asking for further elaboration. The butler had doted on every member of the family in that way, including Peter. Being grounded from patrol was commonly done by the oldest member of the family, contrary to popular belief. Bruce himself was occasionally victim to Alfred’s groundings.
But it was one of the many ways that the elderly man showed he cared, so how could the family think to deny him? Besides, most of the time he was justified in grounding them.
“Enjoy it for me.” Peter teased, elbowing Tim before standing up, stretching his arms high above his head. Somewhere down the hall, a clock struck eight p.m. The teen took the familiar chime as his cue to leave Tim be, giving him a smile and a promise to hang out the next day.
He escaped up to his bedroom on the second floor, shedding his school uniform and throwing on black sweats and an old Batgirl t-shirt gifted to him by Steph. He pulled it over his shoulders, rushing out the door with his phone in hand. He barely passed a glance to his open journal on his desk, the pages forgotten as he excitedly made his way down stairwells and hallways to get to the Batcave.
Once down, he was quick to change into the Iron Spider Mark II. Unlike the Spider Armor,
this
suit finally covered his entire body. It fit snugly against his form, shaping itself to him with the recycled Stark nanotech.
“Is Bruce coming down?” He asked quietly, clasping his web slingers around his wrists. They left a comfortable weight on his forearms, and he experimentally used them to propel himself up to the roof of the cave. Peter landed upside down, feet flat against the uneven roof. The nearby bats skittered away with annoyed squeaks and screeches, but Peter ignored their complaints.
“Bruce Wayne is opening the Clock Door as we speak. He is joined by Damian Wayne.”
“Cool, thanks Karen.” He smiled, using two lines of webs to pull himself into a sitting position, now criss crossed above the cave floor. He looked down, waiting patiently. It only took a few seconds for him to hear two sets of footsteps along with chatter from Bruce and Damian.
Uninterested in their conversation, he watched as they entered the space. The father and son momentarily split apart to get changed, and while they were in the changing rooms, Peter dropped down silently. He landed with no noise, rising from his crouch to stand at his full height.
Damian stepped out first, his black and red Robin uniform padding his small frame. His domino mask was still in his hands, not yet pressed to his eyes. He spotted Peter and paused, mouth twitching upwards in what
could
have been a smile.
“Hey, Robin.” Spider-man smiled, also maskless at the time. “Ready for tonight?”
“Tt.” Robin clicked his tongue, glaring at the other vigilante with a distinct lack of amusement in his eyes. The look disappeared as he pressed his Domino to his face. “Hardly. Tonight is no different than any other patrol, Spider-man.”
“Oh, c’mon! When’s the last time you and I got to patrol together?”
“Two days ago.”
“That doesn’t count!” Spider-man scoffed, putting his hands on his hips and leveling Robin with an unamused stare. “Spoiler trailed us the entire time.”
“Batman will be tailing us tonight.” Robin reminded dutifully, sweeping past Spider-man and trodding up the steps to reach the Batcomputer. Spider-man frowned in his wake, eyes following him up the steps.
“Not if we lose him.” Spider-man suggested quietly, a challenge embedded in his tone. He did not miss the way that Robin almost paused before sliding into the chair at the long keyboard. “C’mon, we should race while we’re out. I think it’d be fun!” He approached Robin from behind, exaggerating his footsteps as to not alert the kid.
“Are you
looking
for a reason to embarrass yourself?” Robin huffed, typing fast and loading up a few case files. “With any hope, tonight will be uneventful. Why should we make it any harder?”
“For fun?” Spider-man shrugged as he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms as he watched Robin work.
The cases that the younger vigilante pulled up were small and mostly inconsequential. There was nothing
big
happening at the moment, meaning that the night would mainly be filled with routine maintenance and check-ins. Peter looked forward to catching up with Webster. It had been too long since he saw the man last.
“Patrol can be fun, but we need to prioritize Gotham.” The gentle voice of Batman said, grabbing Spider-man’s attention. The older vigilante walked up the steps in his full uniform, his cowl held in one hand. “Never underestimate a quiet night in this city, Spider-man.
Anything
could happen.”
Spider-man sighed, but nodded dramatically. “Sure, sure. I get it. Anything to note tonight, R?” He asked, looking back at the screen.
“Negative.” The kid huffed, cracking his knuckles under his padded gloves. “Tonight should be as straightforward as they get.”
The teenager sighed dramatically, pulling away from the desk. He tapped the hearing aid nestled in his ear, which activated the nanobots around his neck to extend out and form the mask over his face. “We can at least play I-Spy.”
“We’ll see.” Batman mused, pulling his cowl on and adjusting it over his face. “Spider-man, will you be riding with me or Robin?”
“Is neither an option?” Spider-man asked, looking back. He already knew the answer, but he figured it never hurt to ask.
“It’s raining too hard for me to trust you swinging all the way to Central Gotham, Spider-man. Once we arrive,
then
you can swing on your own.” Batman huffed, but Spider-man’s quick nod of compliance made his shoulders relax a bit.
The teen vigilante hated to be confined when it came to patrol, but after the last few months and his history of getting into trouble when running alone, he relented rather easily. “Whatever you say, B. I’ll ride in the Batmobile, there’s heating.” He grinned, ignoring the mildly offended glare that Robin was giving him from nearby.
The three departed for patrol less than ten minutes later, the sound of Robin’s bike revving sporadically under the growl of the Batmobile.
Spider-man was released from the Batmobile like a dog being taken off of a leash in a park. The moment the doors unlocked, he was climbing out of the low seat and using his web shooters to pull himself up the nearest wall. He smirked as he heard Batman rush to follow, his door slamming shut.
Robin had parked nearby, and thanks to his enhanced hearing, Spider-man was able to hear the younger vigilante approaching. So, he waited on the roof of the relatively short apartment building that they had parked next to, tapping his foot in a playfully impatient way.
Batman ascended the fire escape, landing behind Spider-man just as Robin pulled himself over the edge of the roof nearby. The boy scowled, glaring outwardly at Spider-man.
“I do not understand your haste. Tonight will be easy, yet you’re already rushing.” He complained, a bit of fire in his voice.
“I’m just excited, Robin.” Spider-man shrugged, and tousled the kid’s hair when he got close enough. Robin ducked away with a deeper scowl than before. Spider-man pretended not to hear the quiet huff from Batman. It was the closest thing to laughter they would get while on patrol.
“Oracle, advise Robin and I. Karen should be able to handle Spider-man.” Batman spoke into his earpiece, watching as the two boys started to wrestle on the roof. Spider-man rolled on his back while Robin tried pinning him down, the two going back and forth with weak jabs and brotherly insults.
“Got it, Batman.”
Oracle replied after a moment, and Batman tuned in momentarily to the sound of her rapid typing.
“If you wanna start off simple, there’s an active crime scene two blocks over. Police reports are mentioning a gas leak, potentially linked to either Scarecrow or Poison Ivy.”
“Thanks, Oracle. Karen, what do you have for Spider-man?”
“Hi, Batman. I’ve organized a task list for Spider-man based on his previous patrols. Tonight, he is planning to check in with Crime Alley’s homeless community and leave a few goods with some of the population. His route should take him through the heart of Crime Alley. If Red Hood patrols consistently, then they will cross paths at least twice during Spider-man’s errands.”
It always made Batman feel better when Spider-man crossed paths with the other vigilantes of the city. The teen tended to prefer being alone, but having the others there to check on him throughout the night always eased something in the man.
“Anything else planned?”
“Nothing concrete. Spider-man mentioned wanting to rendezvous with you and Robin closer to the end of the night so that he could finish patrol with you both.”
Batman’s heart got impossibly warmer, and he spared another glance towards his two sons. Currently, they were circling each other like wrestlers in a ring, both crouched down and throwing baseless taunts at each other. They were both smiling.
“Sounds good. Thank you, Karen.”
“Alert us if Spider-man requires assistance, I doubt he’ll ask us himself.”
Oracle teased, but there was an earnest nature to her voice.
“Of course, Oracle.”
Satisfied with the plan for the night, Batman approached his sons just as Robin pounced at Spider-man, arms encircling the teen’s torso and dragging him to the ground. Robin’s body curled around Spider-man’s middle, pulling himself around the teen. Spider-man’s back hit the ground with a metallic thud, and by then, Robin had circled to his front, sitting on his middle victoriously.
“Jesus
Christ
, Birdie–” Spider-man huffed out a laugh. “I gotta stop letting you win–”
“Psh-
please
.
Letting
me win is an overstatement. I overpower you fair and square.”
“Whatever you say, Chickadee.”
“Chicka-
what–”
“Boys.” Batman drew their attention, engulfed in the shadows of his cape and cowl. The vigilantes pulled apart, Spider-man standing with a huff as he rolled out his shoulders. “Follow standard procedure tonight. Spider-man, Karen’s made me aware of your plan for tonight. Notify us should you need backup.”
“Heard, big B.” Spider-man grinned under his mask, giving two thumbs up. “Seeya later! Robin, you owe me a rematch–” He snickered, turning and leaping off of the roof. Half a second later, the
thwip
of webs was heard as he pulled himself into the night.
Batman grumbled something under his breath about staying safe before focusing his attention on Robin. “We’re aiding in an investigation involving potentially toxic gas. I assume you have your rebreather?”
“When do I not?” Robin questioned, as if insinuating he left it at the cave was a sin in itself. He pulled the collapsable item from his utility belt, snapping it around his face with a huff. “You
know
I know better than to leave something like this behind.”
“I was just making sure.” Batman appeased, following his son’s actions and snapping his own rebreather into place over his mouth and nose. “Now, follow me. This is still a developing case, having happened over the last few hours. There’s little information for us to go off of here.”
“Understood, Batman.”
Spider-man never felt more free than when he was swinging around Gotham city. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and ignored the pungent smell of sewage that encapsulated the city, he could almost imagine that he was in New York. It was those moments lost in his mind that tended to ease the nervous beating of his heart.
There’s no place like home, but dammit, Gotham was pretty damn close.
The teenage vigilante’s first stop was at an overnight convenience store, where he sauntered inside with a mental shopping list forming. He grabbed a handheld basket and scoured the aisles, dropping in emergency first aid kits, nonperishable foods, hygiene products, reusable water bottles, pocket-sized flashlights, batteries, and any other useful items that came to mind.
He approached the counter to pay, and after a short conversation with the clerk about weather and Arkham breakouts, he left. In his wake, three crisp one hundred dollar bills laid flat on the counter.
For the next half hour, Spider-man sat on a roof and put together small bags. He hummed along to the music playing softly through his earpiece, nodding his head to Green Day as he packaged the supplies. It took less time than he assumed, and in no time, he was swinging through the city once more.
Despite it being October, Spider-man almost felt like Santa Claus. He dropped down near homeless camps, being careful not to disturb anyone who was sleeping. He left bags of supplies and encouraging notes anywhere he thought they would be found by the people who needed them most.
Those who slept would later wake up to find fresh supplies, food, and water within reach. Those awake got the gifts and inspiring conversations. Spider-man gave out dozens of hugs that night.
He listened to the stories that the homeless population of Crime Alley had to offer him. He sat around a barrel fire with a group of veterans, soaking up their deployment stories like they were water. He swayed in a hammock made of webs, listening to a mother soothe her young twin children to sleep. He sipped from a water bottle, nodding along to a story of sisterhood being told by the girls who stood on the street corners.
Spider-man came across Red Hood twice. Both times, they would stop for a few moments to check in on each other. The older man scolded Spider-man for coming into Crime Alley without telling him beforehand, but his words lacked any real malice.
Besides, both of them knew that Red Hood was more than happy to see Spider-man, even if it was unexpected.
At their second meeting of the night, which was just past midnight, Red Hood went over some firearm safety with the younger vigilante. The pistol that he had been gifted on his birthday was strapped securely to a holster on his thigh, and he had yet to need to use it. Despite that, Red Hood always preached that it was better to be prepared than ignorant, especially in a city like Gotham. So for about twenty minutes, the two went over the basics of how to use the weapon once more.
Spider-man wanted to remark about how this was their eighth time going over the
basics,
but he knew that it made Red Hood feel better, so he bit his tongue with a comfortable smile. Red Hood’s doting made his chest warm.
Their lesson was cut short by an explosion.
It was far enough to not affect them, but close enough for them to see the flames and hear the sound of rubble crumbling.
They needed no conversation or contemplation to start racing across rooftops towards the damage. The closer they got, the more potent the smell of Gotham’s contaminated harbor became.
“Explosion in the harbor. It’s from an unoccupied warehouse, but that doesn’t mean it was empty. If anyone was camping there for the night we can expect casualties. I’m checking CCTV and contacting GCPD.”
“Affirmative.”
Batman responded to Oracle on the main line, and everyone connected could hear the sound of the wind as it flew by. It seemed everyone was running to convene at the harbor.
“So much for a quiet night, Robin–” Spider-man huffed, trying to lighten the mood before the family of vigilantes would meet face to face.
“Wh–” Red Hood stammered, anger bubbling in his throat. “He said it would be
quiet??
That’s jinxing it in our line of work!!-” He complained, unholstering his guns as they got closer to the scene. The smell of smoke quickly started mixing with the harbor, making the stench somewhat more bearable.
“My apologies, I was not aware that you were so superstitious. I assumed better of you, Red Hood.”
“What about me?” Spider-man grinned, sliding down a metal-plated roof and landing in a roll inside a fenced-off area of the harbor.
“I have learned to only expect foolishness from you, Spider-man.”
“Girls, girls, you’re both pretty.”
Oracle huffed.
“I’ve called in Black Bat. She’s seventeen minutes out. Hold it down until she gets to the scene.”
Spider-man resisted a shudder when Batman emerged from a nearby roof, undetected. He still thought it was weird how he struggled to sense the vigilantes with his Peter Tingle after working with them for a few months. It was something he was actively working to improve.
“Oracle, any insight as to how this happened?” Batman asked, followed by Robin. The two approached Red Hood and Spider-man before turning toward the scene before them.
The warehouse walls were old and eroded, easily crumbling under the force of the blast. Angry orange fire blazed from the building’s core, clawing at anything left standing and leaving ugly black scars on any touchable surface. Through the smoke, it was hard to detect a source, and harder to tell if there were any casualties.
Sudden gunfire from multiple angles sprung the vigilantes into action. Spider-man’s instincts directed his body, making him use his webs to pull both himself and Robin away from the gunfire. They stuck to the nearby chain link fence, the teenage vigilante gripping the younger boy by the back of his armored vest to keep him anchored to the fence.
Red Hood and Batman ended up back to back, circling each other. The former retaliated with his own gunfire, shouting profanities and complaints into the smoky night air. The latter did most of the movement for them, keeping them in a consistent turning motion that deflected gunfire and limited the possibility of any bullets meeting their targets.
Robin and Spider-man quickly detached from the fence, separating to flank the gunmen. The shooters were located on either side of the burning building, far away enough to avoid the heat, but close enough to be covered by the thick black smoke.
“Just found your insight, Batman.”
Oracle hissed into the main communication line, frustration and anger bubbling in her tone.
“It’s Hugo Strange, he’s–”
Spider-man was disconnected from the communication line automatically by Karen, whose voice replaced that of Oracle’s.
“Hi, Spider-man. You have seven targets ahead of you. I’m activating your infrared lenses.”
He nearly sputtered out an opposition, but bit his tongue as he fell into the motions of dodging flying metal and bullets. He rolled on the concrete, crawled across the ground, and used his web shooters to slingshot himself into the smoke.
His knees connected with shoulders that he forced to the ground, incapacitating by grabbing the unseen figure’s head and slamming it hard into the ground.
His arm shot out to attach webs to a nearby assailant, dragging them closer. Once within range, he ducked his head to avoid the swinging butt-end of a rifle while kicking out his right leg. His boot connected to the figure’s knee with a solid
crack
, making the man crumple to the ground. He did not hesitate to keep him held down with webs, body moving on its own.
“Karen, connect me back to the Oracle line–” Spider-man demanded, standing fast and leaping once more into darkness. He was barely able to make out the remaining five figures using his infrared lenses. He could still hear the shouting of Red Hood through all the gunfire.
“Spider-man–”
“Karen,
now–
” He hissed, gloved hand pushing the barrel of a rifle away just a second before it started firing once more. He barely avoided a bullet to the side by twisting his body, falling into a low crouch that he used to run down the gunman like a Football linebacker.
“I’m trying to protect you, Spider-man.”
“Karen!!!” He shouted, slamming the third man’s head into the ground in the same manner he did to the first man. “Just do it!!!”
“Robin, Spider-man–”
Batman hissed through the line as it sparked to life in Spider-man’s ear.
“Reconvene away from the smoke, we need eyes on each other–”
“Boys, Hugo Strange is closing in with backup.”
Oracle alerted.
Spider-man hissed through his teeth in frustration, pulling the pistol off of his thigh and firing into the smoke. He watched the faint outlines of the remaining four figures fall in quick succession before running away from the smoke.
He entered the clearing to find Red Hood standing over a man, gun aimed down as he shouted. “You’ve got three fucking seconds before you get your brains blasted, you
sicko–”
He hissed.
Nearby, Batman had met with Robin, and was quickly checking the young vigilante for injuries.
The clearing was full of bodies.
Black Bat emerged from the darkness nearby, hopping the fence and rushing the Red Hood’s side. She pushed him back by the arms, stomping on the downed man’s chest as she went. The quiet argument between the two was indecipherable through the sounds of the city and the chaos surrounding them.
“...Batman-” Spider-man called, jogging over to the man. He took a knee fast, grabbing Robin by the face and turning his head back and forth. “Robin- are you good, dude? How many were on your side??-”
“Twelve.” The kid complained, but it sounded more like an inconvenience than anything upsetting. “I handled them
fine.”
“Jesus- I only had seven-” Spider-man winced, releasing him and standing back to his full height. “Batman, what
happened?
Karen cut me out of the main line in the middle of everything.”
Batman looked back toward Red Hood and Black Bat, staring for a few moments before speaking quietly. His utility belt was suspiciously low on batarangs, and Spider-man got the feeling that he would find quite a few laying around the area and lodged into the men on the ground. “Red Hood’s been… sensitive on the topic of Hugo Strange since your kidnapping. I cannot blame him for his desire to protect you.”
Spider-man wanted to be surprised, but he knew Red Hood. He knew
Jason.
He expressed his love for his family by protecting them, and it just so happened that in this case, that meant gunning down the men who worked for Hugo Strange.
Spider-man’s sixth sense went haywire over the next few seconds, causing him to assess the scene frantically. It was only after he saw the glint of a gun through the smoke did he spring to action, webbing both Batman and Robin as he pulled them out of the way of the second wave of gunfire.
“The recovery period in Gotham
sucks
apparently–” Spider-man complained, ducking down to avoid the spray of bullets and Robin and Batman finished rolling out of the way. “Give us a break before round two!!!-”
The teenage vigilante did not need to see his allies to know that they were falling into place around him, continuing where the fight was left off. Black Bat and Red Hood worked side by side, picking through the criminals closing in on them. Robin and Batman traded places, feet moving in light steps to narrowly avoid bullets.
“Oh, but this is really round
three
for you, dear Peter.” The chuckle that followed the sentence sent a shiver up his spine and made his chest clench painfully. Spider-man almost faltered, but was quick to recover from the shock of hearing his actual name out in the field.
He looked up as he catapulted around the clearing with his webs, craning his neck to search for the source of the voice while he flipped through the air and rolled on the ground. He was the fastest moving target in the fight, and somehow, he had garnered a majority of the attention from the men armed with guns. Bullets flew left and right past him, and his instincts twisted his body in inhuman ways to avoid being hit.
“You won’t recognize me, how could you? After all, you were asleep for a
long time
the last time I saw you in person.”
Spider-man’s eyes were drawn to the billowing cloud of smoke and fire coming from the center of the destroyed building. From it, a figure slowly stepped out, shrouded in shadow and reflected light from the flames.
The man was right about one thing; Spider-man did
not
recognize him. He had a wider build, with tan skin sheened with sweat from being so close to the flames. His head was bald, but a neatly squared beard of black and gray hair defined his jaw and sideburns. He had on round lensed glasses that completely concealed his eyes, but his wide and maniacal grin said everything that Spider-man needed to know. He skipped over the pristine lab coat, pressed black slacks, and brown work boots as green started crawling into his vision.
“That’s right, my boy. I’m so glad to get to meet you formally. I put a lot of work into you, and I’m happy to see how you are developing.”
“Cut the small talk, Hugo and take me to dinner first–” Spider-man hissed, redirecting his movements to go toward the man. It took less than three seconds for him to land right in front of Hugo Strange, the blast of heat from the flames lacking the strength to stop the vigilante from approaching with rage and malice. “You
ruined my life–”
“Ruined? No, Peter. I
saved
your life.” The scientist chuckled, lifting his hands placatingly and taking a small step back. Spider-man’s advancements faltered for just a moment, leaving him standing a few feet away. Their conversation was backed by the sounds of shouting and gunfire.
“You tried to
kill me.”
Spider-man argued.
“Now why would I do that?”
“Psh- I don’t
know,
you tell me, you freak!!” He shouted, grabbing his gun off of his thigh once more and pointing it toward the man. He stared down the barrel of the pistol, locked in on the man’s head. “Thanks for being bald, you’re giving me a
really good
target.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Hugo hummed.
Spider-man clicked off the safety. “Why’s that, Mr. Clean?”
“Because
I
brought you here.”
Peter’s ears began to ring as the weight of what he said settled into his chest. He adjusted his grip on the gun, not trusting himself to not drop it. “...What’s that supposed to mean.” Peter knew that his ignorance would get him nowhere, but ignoring the oncoming truth felt better than facing it head on.
“It’s simple, really.” Hugo Strange chuckled, slowly lowering his hands. Peter tensed in response, jutting the gun forward as motivation to speak. “I ran an…
experiment.
I needed a subject, and you…” He hesitated before smiling wide. “Rather, your
body,
was available. Dead in your own home, I wondered if I could bring you life somewhere… different. Somewhere
new.”
Peter’s spine ran cold.
“Have you figured it out yet?” Hugo tilted his head as Peter’s vision blurred green. “Peter Parker,
I’m
the reason you’re here in the first place. I
saved
you from the eternal death brought down on you by that
space tyrant.”
Somewhere, Peter swore he could hear someone shouting for him. The noise fell onto deaf ears.
“But now I’m bored of you.”
Peter barely had time to react to the movement of Hugo Strange’s arm. He barely had time to attempt to dodge. His Parker luck had finally caught up to him once more. There was a moment where he questioned his sixth sense, wondering why it did not activate when faced with the threat of Hugo Strange.
He wondered why he felt nothing other than fear when the man before him pulled a gun from the depths of his coat, and why he did not react quicker.
The bullet stung white hot in his temple before everything went dark.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Sasuke slammed a fist into the training dummy, panting hard. His nerves shook with the dummy at the impact. It was not the bruising, aching pain he'd been hoping for—this was just uncomfortable. He growled.
The hair on the back of his neck rose. He spun on his heel, hands up, to see Kakashi-sensei. "Yo, Sasuke," he greeted. Sasuke didn't bother replying. Kakashi-sensei strode towards him, steps slow and steady. Tensing, Sasuke followed those movements with his body until Kakashi-sensei stood directly in front of him. His hand stretched out towards Sasuke, and Sasuke, despite himself, closed his eyes in a flinch. He sensed an influx of chakra behind him, then Kakashi-sensei stepped back. "There. Now there's no danger of it falling over," Kakashi-sensei said, gesturing towards the dummy. "Have a go."
The dummy now had a slight glow to it. Sasuke side-eyed Kakashi-sensei, who just nodded towards the dummy. Fine then. Widening his stance, Sasuke levied a kick at the dummy with all his might. His leg hit the wood with a resounding crack, and this time, this time it
hurt
. The dummy held, though, implacable. With reluctance, Sasuke backed off. It
would
be nice to train with the thing without fearing it would fall apart. He could train his chakra control while he was at it too. Guess Kakashi-sensei could teach well, sometimes.
Kakashi-sensei didn't leave. He just stood there behind him, and Sasuke could feel his eye studying him, observing him, taking him apart and
looking underneath the underneath.
The skin on his back crawled, and with every passing second, feeling like his bones were just going to rattle out through his skin, Sasuke wanted more and more that Kakashi-sensei would just
go away.
"Sasuke—"
"No," Sasuke burst out. "No, whatever you're gonna tell me, or ask me, about me getting my revenge, I don't want to hear it. Whatever reasoning you’re gonna try to spin or bullshit excuse you’re gonna spit about how you won't train me, don't tell me, ok? I already know you won't, so just shut up about it!" He cut himself off with a clack of his teeth, hunching over onto the dummy.
Kakashi-sensei still didn't leave. Instead, he came to his knees next to Sasuke, grasping his shoulder with a grip that felt disgustingly reassuring. "No!" Kakashi said urgently, trying to meet Sasuke's eyes. "No, Sasuke, I…"
He didn't finish. He left his thought unfinished, like he couldn't figure out what to say, and that hesitancy was completely unlike the Kakashi-sensei Sasuke knew. Despite himself, he shot a glance at him.
It was like meeting his gaze had been a trigger. Kakashi-sensei unleashed a torrent from his tongue, and worse, the ever-present veil over his eye lifted. Sasuke had never wanted to look away from a genuine expression more in his life, snapping his eyes back to the dummy. "Sasuke," he began, "Your goal is dangerous"—he talked over Sasuke's scoff—"
it is dangerous.
In more ways than one. As your jounin sensei, your prosperity, your success, your
life,
a large portion of it comes down to
me
. I am responsible for teaching you enough so that you don't only survive, but live, fully." Sasuke was listening intently now, even as he kept his eyes tracing over the swirling wood grain. "I see now," Kakashi said slowly, "that I became uncompromising. I don't want to see you die, Sasuke, nor do I want to see you swallowed by your own nothingness. I have seen too many people fall to that." He sighed heavily. "I taught you Chidori so that you could stand a chance against Gaara, but also to buy some time."
"Time?"
"Yes." He sounded weary. "I had hoped that it would satisfy your hunger for strength for some time while I tried to come up with a way to set your sight on a different path. I still hope for that."
Sasuke stared at Kakashi-sensei. Was he provoking him on purpose? But no, there was nothing but grim determination on his face. He really
was
speaking plainly.
"I can't be too stubborn here. You stayed, after all."
No.
Was he really…? Sasuke tried to quell the swelling hope in his chest.
"I will train you. But know, Sasuke, I have
not
given up on you or your future."
He
was.
Finally. Finally, finally, finally. He could have fallen to his knees, so dizzying was his elated relief. "When? When do we begin?" he asked, breathless.
"As soon as I've recovered."
***
Kakashi lurched back into the house, mind in a daze.
Sasuke had looked so damn
happy.
He wished he could feel the same. Yet, as wrong as it felt to help Sasuke with his revenge, there was also relief that he was
doing
something. It was okay. He'd make it work. As long as they weren't stuck in limbo, the possibility of a better future existed.
Still, he was
tired.
The past couple of days had just been one exhausting event after the other, and Kakashi just wanted to rest. Some peace. Comfort.
He somehow made his way to his bedroom. Collapsing onto the futon, he closed his eyes to the world.
"Naruto! Sasuke!" Kakashi called out for the boys, searching frantically. But the rain came down thick, slowing his movements and smearing across his vision like jelly. "Naruto!" he yelled again. "Sasuke!"
"Boss!" Pakkun came bounding out of the rain, a stricken expression across his pug features.
"Pakkun!" Kakashi ran towards him. "Have you found them?"
A yes or no would have sufficed—it was all the answer that was needed. Or at least, it should have been. But Pakkun hesitated instead, holding back his tongue behind his teeth.
No.
It was the last resounding thought before the world swallowed Kakashi within itself, dark, isolating, suffocating him under a silence so deep he couldn't hear his own heartbeat. His chest heaved as he breathed, but he could not hear the exhales, could not feel any oxygen circulating within his system.
Then: a pinprick of pain. The darkness spat him out to see Pakkun with his jaws clamped around Kakashi's hand. "Boss!"
Kakashi didn't bother assuaging his concern. He said, "Take me to them."
Pakkun released his hand and pivoted, running back towards where he came from. Kakashi followed, black tendrils of dread chasing after him. They cannot be—they
couldn't be…
Iron and copper stung his nose, close enough now that he could taste it, searing the back of his tongue.
The trees thinned out ahead, spears of light striking through where the forest opened. One more lunge, and they burst into the Valley of the End.
Kakashi’s eyes flashed around wildly, tree, rock, statues, river, blood,
them.
There they were, on the opposite bank of the river, strewn like scraps, frayed and torn.
There was another body beyond them, larger, a man's body, equally battered.
The earth cratered when he landed. He turned them over, Naruto first, then Sasuke. They limply flopped over, and Kakashi flinched when their arms slid and slapped the ground, splattering blood. Hoping, praying, he pressed two fingers to their jugulars, ignored how cold their skin felt, ignored the pools of blood under them, ignored the charred gaping hole in Naruto's stomach, ignored the flesh of Sasuke's chest grotesquely twisted into a spiral, and waited, and waited, and waited, every passing second a reverberating hammer blow to his skull.
Thunderclouds crashed above him, sparking lightning like flint. The rain continued to pour, unrelenting and heavy, yet it did nothing to wash away the blood. The water slid off instead, like oil. The clouds struck their flintstones again, and lightning ran headfirst towards solid rock, where it gleefully destroyed the cliffside above them, shattering it with an earsplitting crack. Dazed, Kakashi watched the boulders plunge into the ground around him, knew he should move, but stayed where he was, fingers on his dead boys' necks.
What was the point anymore?
It became dark. A shadow fell above him, quickly growing in size. Dully, Kakashi lolled his head back to see a boulder plummeting right above him, ready to squash him into the earth. He closed his eyes.
A force hit him to the side, just in time for the boulder to smash the earth instead of him. Kakashi stared at it, uncomprehending. Why wasn't he underneath that boulder? And then a thought flashed through him like panic: who was under it instead?
Kakashi straggled to his feet, slipping in the mud as he lurched towards it. Naruto and Sasuke were underneath that thing. He had to get them out, get them out from under there, save their corpses at least if not their lives. With all his might, he shoved against the boulder, only to fall to his knees as it moved away as easily as a ball of paper.
He looked up to assess the damage.
Eyes popped out of sockets, bones crushed to splinters, flesh and blood and viscera and organs pounded to gelatin. Blond and ebony hairs stuck out of the mess, the only thing that made them recognizable as anything that was once a living human being.
He couldn’t—he couldn't stay here anymore, he had to leave! Run away! But his feet kept slipping, mud and blood and fat making it impossible to find a good foothold. His legs slid out from under him, so he began to crawl backwards, desperately trying to pretend that he was dragging through mud and nothing else, when his hand hit something solid.
Kakashi stalled. What was the point in looking? In turning around to see what new horror his mind had come up for him? But like clockwork, his head obediently creaked over his shoulder. Tiny gears moved his eyes to see smashed legs and a broken spine, a solid torso that topped with a head of long, brown hair.
***
Iruka snapped from his stupor with a kunai in hand. Footsteps pounded down the hallway outside his bedroom. With a deep breath, he rose to his feet and crept towards the door, where he waited for the footsteps to come close.
The wood floor beneath him trembled.
He slammed the door open, grabbed the intruder's clothes with one hand and threw them onto the floor of his room, straddling them and pointing the kunai at their neck.
Red looked back at him, black tomoe wheeling in one eye. "Kakashi?!" Iruka gasped.
At his name, Kakashi grabbed Iruka's arms and lurched forward. Quickly, Iruka flung away the kunai before Kakashi could impale himself. "K-Kakashi!" he whisper-yelled, clutching at him so that he wouldn't fall back. "Your Sharingan!" On instinct, he covered it with his palm. "What are you doing with that out? What's going on—"
"Please."
Iruka froze.
Kakashi's hand clamped around his wrist, but he didn't pull it away. "Please," he rasped, "Please, I need to make sure."
Iruka stared.
Ok, first, calm down. Analyze the situation.
Cold, clammy skin, trembling muscles, lank hair, wild eyes. Underneath his palm, he could
feel
the Sharingan eating away at Kakashi's chakra. Then Kakashi tilted his head, just slightly, an unconscious motion made just for the sake of moving, but it was enough for the moonlight bleeding through the curtains to reflect off shiny tracks on his cheeks.
Nightmare.
Iruka was helpless to do anything else but slowly uncover Kakashi's eye. Immediately, the Sharingan began to wheel at a dizzying speed as Kakashi affirmed his reality. He watched his face, taking in every bit of emotion, and it was only then that he realized that Kakashi was without his mask. He immediately glanced away, but not before he caught sight of Kakashi parting his lips.
"Iruka."
Iruka inhaled sharply. The way that Kakashi had said his name, breathed it out with
relief
of all things… For a moment he wished that he could have witnessed the way Kakashi's mouth formed his name.
Swallowing, he grit his teeth against a constricting rush of tenderness, and curled his fingers in Kakashi's shirt to keep them from doing something ridiculous like stroking his hair. "Yeah, Kakashi. It's me."
Then, a slight touch at his neck. Iruka barely suppressed a flinch as Kakashi traced two shaking fingers to his jugular. He was looking for his pulse with a singular focus, eyes glazed but for this one purpose. "Fast," Kakashi murmured.
Heat rushed to his face.
Kakashi carried on, unaware of Iruka's turmoil. "Alive," he said. "Good." His eyes slid away from Iruka to the walls that separated Iruka's room from Naruto's. A slow panic washed over his face. "Naruto," he said, his eyes widening. "Sasuke!" He twisted under Iruka, trying to get to his feet.
Iruka quickly stumbled to his feet off Kakashi's lap. "Wait, calm down, Kakashi!" He grabbed onto his shirt sleeve. "Naruto and Sasuke are fine!"
"I have to make sure!"
"We will!" Iruka pulled him around to face him. "Just, calm down. We can't just go bursting into their rooms, they'll get scared."
Kakashi stared at him for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Right." He took in a deep breath, then another. "Ok."
"Ok."
They peeked into both their rooms, checked for the up and down movement of their breathing, sensed the pulse of their chakra. Kakashi sent his Sharingan spinning, though Iruka could see that it ate at him each time.
He slid shut the door to Sasuke's room behind him. "See? They're both safe," he said, turning to face Kakashi. Kakashi did not look very reassured, though Iruka suspected now that it was less to do with the nightmare and more to do with what caused it.
Iruka ached to ask him about it—he already had a good idea of what it was about, but he wanted to offer an ear, a shoulder, a back, some sort of support so that Kakashi could release some of his grief. He refrained. He himself just barely had that kind of support—Iruka had no idea whether Kakashi had ever been able to form that kind of relationship with anyone.
So instead of the assurances he wanted to offer, he said, "Come on, let's go back to bed," and led the way back to their rooms.
He walked past his own, intent on getting Kakashi settled first before going back to sleep. Kakashi didn't follow him past. "Kakashi?"
Kakashi stood still. Moonlight flooded through the open doorway of Iruka's room, washing out his already pale color until he was barely indistinguishable. "I won't be able to sleep."
Iruka blinked. "Ok." He had figured, but that didn’t explain why Kakashi refused to step past to his own room. Slowly, he walked back towards Kakashi, taking care to keep his eyes below his chin. "So, what do you want to do?"
Kakashi said nothing. Instead, he let silence fall upon them. Iruka bore it, content to wait for Kakashi's answer. Instead, the silence carried on and on, Kakashi never moving from his spot. Iruka could feel his gaze on him. It was heavy, weighty, and—
Iruka jerked his eyes up to meet Kakashi's.
It was
expectant.
Iruka had always been amazed at how much Kakashi could emote with a single eye, but he now had to wonder if Kakashi had to wear the mask out of necessity. Kakashi was an open book. Still, Iruka took the time to read and reread his face to make sure that what he was seeing was correct. "Ok," he answered. "Alright, Kakashi."
So again, he took hold of Kakashi's sleeve and led him into his room. "I'll be right back." He strode to Kakashi's room and picked up his bedding only to throw it away in disgust—it was soaked through with sweat. Striding over to the linen closet, he grabbed a fresh futon and made his way back, almost running by the time he reached his room.
Kakashi stood where he'd left him, standing in the center of the floor, lost and awash. Iruka looked away, busied himself with setting out the futon next to his own. "Here," he said, avoiding Kakashi's gaze.
Like caught in a trance, Kakashi trailed over to the futon. He stared at it for a few seconds before collapsing into it, yet his eyes did not close, turning on his side to stare down the hallway.
Iruka sat down in his own futon behind him, observing. "Kakashi," he said softly, "close your Sharingan."
Kakashi glanced at him from the corner of his eye. It seemed like he was considering protesting, but thankfully, he complied. The effect was immediate—he sunk into the futon, the steel cables and beams of him sagging, succumbing to the weight of his fatigue.
"Kakashi," Iruka murmured. "Sleep."
"I won't—"
"I'll take over watch," Iruka interrupted.
A momentary silence, then Kakashi turned over onto his back, eye wide.
"I'll take over watch," Iruka repeated. "So you can sleep, Kakashi. And if you can't, at least rest your eyes." He smiled down softly at him. "Naruto and Sasuke will be safe."
"And you."
Iruka's breath hitched.
Oh.
He didn't know Kakashi had factored him into this. He opened his mouth, his throat working to come up with an answer, but nothing came out.
Kakashi didn't seem to mind. Instead, with a singular determination, Kakashi decided to make room for himself in Iruka's heart, slip in through the cracks like wisps of wind and shadow: he tipped himself over onto his side, turning his back to the hallway to face Iruka instead. Then he sighed, a release of breath exuding such comfort Iruka felt sleepy just listening to it, and closed his eye.
***
Kakashi woke in a room not his own. He felt no alarm at this realization; rather, he was quite alarmed at his lack of alarm.
Iruka was no longer here. Laying his fingertips on Iruka's futon, he judged that he had left very recently. A sudden chill raised goosebumps on his skin. Quickly, he pulled his arm back inside the blanket and relished in the trapped heat. Using his Sharingan last night, for as long as he did, had not been a good idea. Who knows how long he'd set back his recovery.
Iruka's palm covered his eye, smothering it in a warm, soothing darkness.
The skin around Kakashi's eye warmed and tingled at the memory.
A shockwave of yearning thundered through him then, so strong and sudden it left him breathless, surging up right beneath the skin of his hands and arms, his chest. It did not leave as suddenly as it had arrived—instead, it steeped him in itself, from a boil to a simmer to nothing. Impulsively, his fingers flexed, cramping into fists.
Kakashi stared at the ceiling, his eye dry for how long it had been snapped wide.
What was that?
He blinked the dryness away rapidly. Just the memory of it was enough to bring back the feeling again, his chest serving as the epicenter as it quaked through the rest of him. His body reflexively curled up on its side, some paltry attempt at holding himself together. His hand lashed out to fist into the firm down of Iruka's futon, still warm.
There was a word for this. There was a word for what he was feeling, stemming from a lack of what he should be feeling on a daily basis. He just never bothered to apply it to himself, never wanted to, but the evidence was staring him straight in the face, wasn't it? His own body making itself, its needs, known.
Kakashi grit his teeth and repelled himself from his futon. A shower. A shower was all he needed, soothing, warm blankets of water cloaking his skin.
Coolness bit at his nose, his lips. His fingertips rose to investigate, finding bare, chilled skin. No mask. Iruka had seen him without his mask.
He found that he did not mind it as much as he thought he should have.
Kakashi stalked through the house to his bathroom with his hand over the bottom half of his face.
***
The kitchen was not as empty as he thought it would be, the sun just barely over the horizon. A covered plate and bowl sat on the table, a note on top reading simply "Kakashi". He set the note aside carefully, then lifted the cover. Steamed rice, miso, and grilled fish greeted him. Condensed steam dripped from the cover, and he quickly set it aside to avoid wetting the food. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to eat.
The clacks of wooden chopsticks hitting ceramic filled the empty air of the kitchen, accompanying the sound of his chewing reverberating through his jaw bones, slightly muffled.
Kakashi sighed. He was at once grateful and disappointed that Iruka was not in the kitchen. On one hand, he could use the time alone to figure out his thoughts, plan out what he should do when he next saw him. On the other, the anxiety of that preparation would have been entirely done away with had Iruka been here, even if the encounter would have every possibility of being horribly awkward.
He was curious also. Curious to know what Iruka's reaction would be now to the first sight of him after. Would he dart his eyes away and stutter out an excuse to leave his presence? Would he play at an overexaggerated attempt at normalcy, pretending that the last night never happened? Or would he want to sit him down and—Kakashi's teeth clacked down on the chopsticks at the thought—talk about it, try to air out his vulnerabilities?
When he finally found him, Iruka was sitting on the engawa, a teacup by his side, its wisps of steam curling around him in the chill of the dawn. Casually, Kakashi slumped down next to him, leaning back on his hand. Now, how would Iruka react? The three possibilities ran through his head like a slot machine as he watched Iruka turn his head to face him.
Turned out the answer was none of them. Bankrupt. Iruka's face, at the sight of him, broke into a soft slow smile, and his eyes looked molten with a tenderness that left him shivering in its warmth. "Sleep well?" Iruka asked gently.
Throat dry, Kakashi could do nothing but nod.
At his answer, Iruka looked even more pleased. "Good," he murmured, turning away to gaze out in front of him again. "That's good. I'm glad." He glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "And your eye?"
A question that required a verbal answer. Kakashi swallowed. "My eye?"
Iruka's hand lifted and stretched towards him. His fingertips hovered over his skin before, seemingly realizing what he was doing, jerking his hand back towards himself. "Y-your Sharingan," he clarified, scratching at his scar.
Kakashi ignored the twinge of disappointment and dragged his eye away from Iruka. "It'll be fine," he said. "It'll probably just take a couple days more to heal."
He heard Iruka's hand drop to the wood beside him, how the wood creaked as he shifted his weight. There was then a gentle heat near his arm. It didn't stray closer, tantalizingly out of reach. Kakashi swallowed through a surge of embarrassment. "Thank you."
For some reason, Kakashi's gratitude elicited only shock. Iruka stared at him, eyes blown open.
Kakashi tilted his head, confused and concerned. "What?"
"I…I just didn't—" Iruka cut off his stuttering. He jerked his head away, took a deep breath before meeting his gaze again. "I just didn't expect you to thank me," he said, voice soft. Then he chuckled, cutting off eye-contact to stare at their hands on the engawa. "In all honesty, I thought you might be a little angry."
"What?" Anger? He didn't think he'd shown his anger to Iruka so profusely for him to assume it now. Was he wrong about that? Kakashi bent his head to try to meet his eyes. "Iruka, why would you think that?"
Iruka's lips thinned into a grimace. "I saw you when you were quite…defenseless," he murmured. "I didn't think you'd like that."
Ah. Settling back, Kakashi leaned back his weight on his hand, as if getting comfortable would help negate some the feeling of exposure inherent in answering truthfully.
Iruka probably doesn't even realize how defenseless he's rendering me
now
.
He huffed inwardly.
Well, it's my fault too, for letting him.
"You're not entirely off the mark, but you're not entirely right, either." From the corner of his eye, he saw Iruka's face turn up, apprehensive and open. He looked away, focused on the horizon. The sun had breached the sky now—Naruto and Sasuke would be waking up soon. "A moment of vulnerability like that, if seen by the wrong eyes, could have devastating consequences. Of course I'd want to avoid it. But Iruka," he said, shifting his body to face him, "This whole thing—" he gestured towards the house, the land—"has been made up of those moments. You've seen me through all of it already. You are one of the few I trust to see me in that state." He smiled at Iruka's stunned expression. "So don't feel too bad."
A small, deprecating huff passed Iruka's lips. "There's no way I deserve something precious like that."
"Precious?" Kakashi hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not sure it's something that—"
"It is!" Iruka's hands were curled into tight fists. "It is. To me." His voice wavered on those last words.
Oh hell. Kakashi wanted to look away; the Iruka in this moment felt forbidden to his eyes. Like looking through the sliver of glass where the opaque coating had been stripped away. He wanted it gone, wanted Iruka's smile again. "Maa, I suppose it's a good thing that I don’t really care if you deserve it or not," Kakashi said lightly, laying himself down on the engawa. He'd slept well next to Iruka last night, but not enough, especially given the added recovery time. The sun was warm, and the breeze was cool, floating in a light cloud cover so the sun's rays didn't burn, and Iruka was beside him—his presence alone would have been enough to allow the slow, heavy, rolling waves of torpor to wash over him. With a groan he turned himself onto his side to face Iruka. "So, I'm going to trust you to not let Naruto or Sasuke do something to my face while I take a nap."
Iruka's answering laughter, quiet but genuine, fell on his ears like sunlight on leaves.
***
Naruto's gonna freak if he sees this,
Sasuke thought.
He'd been on his way to the courtyard when he saw them, Iruka- and Kakashi-sensei on the engawa beyond the great room, bodies turned towards each other. Kakashi-sensei had even laid down facing Iruka-sensei. He wasn't sure how long they'd been there, though he could venture a guess from Iruka-sensei's dark circles and Kakashi-sensei's pallid skin.
Sasuke sighed through his nose, annoyed.
They couldn't have done this somewhere else?
They looked so goddamned peaceful, too. It made him cringe, and cringing made him disgusted with himself.
He didn't think he'd ever feel that way again, but there they were.
It wasn't that Kakashi-sensei and Iruka-sensei reminded him of his parents in any way. It was how looking at them together made
him
feel. When he'd catch his parents on a good day, when their affection was evident, he remembered the way it'd make him feel shy and embarrassed but also pleased that his parents, his first and most important example of love, were happy with each other.
His teeth gnashed against it. Jerking his eyes away from them, he stalked up to the dummy, stolidly ignoring them even as he tried to keep his footsteps quiet.
Not that it matters. Kakashi-sensei probably already knows I'm here.
Kakashi-sensei didn't move though. He didn't give any indication that he knew or even cared that Sasuke was there.
He was suddenly furious with him. How dare he, how
dare
he? How dare he deny him his revenge while he got to share in the very thing Sasuke had lost? His home, his love, his people, was he just supposed to let them go? His sense of belonging, his past, his future, all lost, all gone, all destroyed, nothing but bloody viscera packed into the grounds of his clan's land, was he just supposed to let that go unpunished? Yet
Kakashi
got to go find his own?
An overwhelming presence slammed down on him like a tidal wave, crackling with thunderous energy, standing up every hair on his head—a warning. His eyes shot over to Kakashi. A sliver of gray pierced from behind a half-opened eye. The warning faded. There was no anger in Kakashi's eye. Just sad understanding.
No.
It was too much. Sasuke fled from the kitchen, sorrow and fury mixing in his chest like acid, and collapsed onto the floor of his room.
What had it all been
for?
What had
any
of it been for? And why, why,
why
hadn't Itachi just killed him too?
Did he hate me that much?
His vision blurred. Sasuke shook his head and mustered hatred to drown out the burn of sorrow. Hate was easy, hate kept him cold, kept him numb. He could focus.
It's ok, it's ok. Whatever else, Kakashi-sensei said he'd help me get stronger, just focus on that.
Slowly, his breathing calmed as his mind echoed the mantra. His last breath whistled out of him, long and heavy, and he sat back, fists on his knees.
I have my revenge. I have my goal. I'm not
lost
.
Still, no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how much he tried to claw it back to himself, whatever that had kept him grounded he had left it behind in the mud when he'd laid down next to Naruto on the river bank. If he didn't have a tether, he'd be so light without an anchor that he'd float away and dissolve into nothing. His revenge was all that kept him going.
There was no room for anything else. There couldn't be.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
All of them show up when Zhongli invites them to the peaks of Guyun Stone Forest.
Lumine is there first, punctual as she is. As Zhongli had requested, she leaves Paimon behind at Wangshu Inn-- she doesn’t question why, because the tone of his invitation indicated this would be a solemn affair, and Paimon is not exactly the best at handling anything of that subject matter. “I’m here,” she greets as she climbs up the stones overlooking the vast ocean. “From the way you spoke, it sounded like you invited others as well.”
“They will arrive soon,” Zhongli says with utmost certainty.
Sure enough, they do-- Xiao practically drops out of the sky next to Lumine, and if she wasn’t as stoic as she was, perhaps she would’ve stumbled off the cliffside in shock. She does, however, widen her eyes a little when she notices who he has in tow.
“My lord,” Xiao says humbly, before unceremoniously dumping Venti at Zhongli’s feet. “I brought Barbatos.”
“I could have brought myself,” Venti groans, pulling himself up. In his hands he grips two bottles of Dandelion Wine-- Mondstadt’s finest. “Really, it’s the first time we’ve seen each other in centuries, and you send Xiao to come fetch me? Like a lost pet, Zhongli?”
“I was only worried you would be distracted by Liyue’s splendor,” Zhongli replies, the smile on his face betraying his amusement. “...Thank you for using my current name. It is good to see you again, Venti. And I appreciate how you have arrived sober.”
“Hey, I’m capable of keeping my hands off a drink! At least for long enough to share it with you.” The Anemo Archon thrusts one of the wine bottles into Zhongli’s hand. He takes it, but doesn’t remove the cork instantly. Instead, he places it down on the ground besides them.
“I have missed this beverage... but we shall have time for this later.” Zhongli turns to Lumine, his amber eyes almost shining in the dimming light of the setting sun. “...You seem surprised.”
“I’m only wondering what kind of occasion would call for such a cast of characters,” Lumine answers, and Zhongli laughs. Venti shoots Lumine a smile, and then a shrug. From the way Xiao stares intently at his master, it seems he doesn’t know, either.
Zhongli raises a hand into the air, and that’s when she sees it:
A beautiful catalyst of glowing rock manifests into existence, its compartments turning and twirling like a twinkling star. Xiao straightens up, suddenly, the grip on his spear tightening till his knuckles turn ghost-white. “Master Zhongli,” he breathes, “you do not mean...?”
“It is time,” Zhongli whispers, and it is not said to anyone here. “My oldest friend.”
He turns back to Lumine, and the catalyst suddenly comes to rest in her hands. “Oh,” Lumine blinks. “What is this?”
Zhongli crosses his arms. “When we were last here, we had consigned the remnants of the Salt God to the seas of Guyun. I had told you, then, that it is here where the memory of bygone gods should come to rest.”
Xiao reaches out, almost tentatively, to touch the catalyst in Lumine’s hands. “I do not question your judgment,” Xiao begins, but there is something dangerous in the glint of his eyes. “But do you truly intend to
dispose
of her like this?”
“You speak as though I am tossing her memory away, like a child with toys they have outgrown,” Zhongli responds, and his voice is gentle, patient. “No, I am not disposing of her, Xiao. Rather... I have realized I cannot honor her without laying all there is of her memory to rest.”
“Oh, it’s Guizhong,” Venti realizes softly, and Lumine looks at him in confusion.
Zhongli nods. “Lumine. What you hold in your hands is the Memory of Dust. It is the last gift of my very first friend... the Goddess of Dust, Guizhong.”
“Guizhong...” Lumine thinks, for a moment, before her eyes go wide. “The same one from Guili Assembly? Paimon and I read the stone tablets there, for a Sumerun scholar.”
“Ah, so there
are
those who venture into the ruins,” Zhongli hums, and the gentle smile on his face betrays his delight upon learning that the inscriptions have not gone unnoticed. “You are correct. Guizhong and I once protected the people of Liyue within the Guili Assembly. It was... many, many years ago. Barbatos had only just become Anemo Archon, and Xiao had only recently been contracted by me into the duties he still fulfills, two millennia on.”
Xiao exhales deeply at the memory. “We have not unlocked it,” he says quietly, and Zhongli closes his eyes.
“...Xiao is right,” the old archon says, and when he waves his hand around the Memory of Dust, it clicks and twirls, almost responding to him. “Guizhong was a gentle, wise goddess. She taught me the value of humanity... but such kindness is not valuable in a land filled with strife. The Archon War took her life, and in her dying breath, she left me with this gift-- with the hope that one day, I shall be able to unlock it, somehow, to find her wisdom hidden within. Alas, she had no time to begin explaining the riddle that surrounds it. Till this day, it has remained closed.”
He crosses his arms, and when Lumine looks him in the eye, it seems like Zhongli is staring through her and at the vast distances of land she cannot see. “To her, I vowed to forever protect our people. But ‘forever’, it seems, has come and gone. The people of Liyue have proven that they can protect themselves. The time of gods and adepti is over... and as the new dawn rises, it will be the people who carve their own future.”
A pause. “And as Osial was sealed, brought to heel by the power of humanity... I believe I have finally understood, what she meant by her last words.” Zhongli turns around, walking to the very tip of the cliff’s edge, overlooking the blue, blue sea. “Guizhong has passed, so many years ago that the people of Liyue have forgotten her name, save for the adventurers who go delving into dangerous ruins. But her memory lives on: in every contract, in our values, in the catalyst of which you hold in your hands. Her kindness has guided me, and guided Liyue, for hundreds of generations. Now... as my duty ends, so does hers.”
Xiao and Venti guide Lumine up to the cliff’s edge, next to Zhongli. “I had asked you to come, traveler, for I wish for you to record this moment in your mind’s eye-- so it may never be lost to the annals of history.” The catalyst hums quietly as Zhongli reaches out to retrieve it from Lumine’s hands, and somehow, Lumine feels her palms turn inexplicably cold as it leaves. “It... will be difficult. But it must be done. For all humans must learn to let go.”
Zhongli raises the catalyst to the night sky, and for a moment, admires its intricate beauty amongst a backdrop of stars. “Guizhong. Thank you, for living. I have kept you to my side all this time. In my darkest moments, I looked upon your memory in the hopes that you would somehow speak again and give me guidance. But I realize, now, that your wisdom was never inside this dumbbell. It is all around us, in the love of Liyue’s people: the very same love that drives them towards their future.”
Venti reaches out to grab Xiao’s hand. Xiao nearly flinches away, for a moment, before he realizes the Anemo Archon is
tearing up.
“That’s beautiful,” Venti sniffles. “Block-head Morax, all grown up.”
“I held your Rite of Parting,” Zhongli whispers. “The perfume was just as you would have liked it.”
“The... perfume?” Lumine blinks. “Wait. The Rite of Parting for Rex Lapis, was actually...”
“Liyue is strong, now,” Zhongli declares, and a peaceful smile breaks across his face in resolution. “Our duty is done, Guizhong. You may rest now, in the seas of Guyun where all bygone gods go-- and one day, I shall join you.”
He then lifts the catalyst over his head, but before he tosses it, he hesitates. “My lord,” Xiao whispers almost in shock, squeezing Venti’s hand: “You are shaking.”
“I...” Zhongli takes a deep breath. “At the precipice of enlightenment, even the greatest of men may falter. Perhaps I was always human, after all.” Pause. “Because I do not want to let her go. I loved her.”
Click.
Xiao gapes as the Memory of Dust suddenly begins to unravel in Zhongli’s hands. Venti, too, marvels at the sight: its many compartments split open, not unlike the way Glaze Lilies unfurl in the moonlight, petal by petal, blooming beautifully in the darkness. Zhongli, realizing what has just occurred, brings the catalyst back down, staring at the light which emanates from it.
”Guizhong,”
he breathes, almost reverent, and he, God of Contracts, God of Commerce, God of
War,
suddenly seems almost on the verge of tears. “Finally... I--”
“Zhongli, you will
not
toss me into the fucking ocean!”
Um.
Lumine blinks at the sudden, unfamiliar voice. Xiao, on the other hand, positively
recoils,
falling to his knees-- and bringing Venti with him, the Anemo Archon yelping as he gets dragged to the floor. Zhongli just... stares, his amber eyes as wide as dinner plates, and for a moment it looks like he’s hit himself with his own petrification spell.
“My
goodness,”
the unfamiliar female voice continues on, and a heavy sigh rings through the air as the Memory of Dust suddenly flies out of Zhongli’s hand and to Lumine’s side. “Marvelous speech, really. I felt my heart swell with pride as you spoke each line. However, I did
not
appreciate you coming to the conclusion that I wished to be
thrown into the sea
and left to rot with the bodies of the same beasts that killed me. So, overall...”
It’s almost like a fairy, really. A very... blocky, shiny, Geo-construct-ey fairy. “I’ll give you a 6 out of 10,” she hums. “It’s a pass, but not an A. Room for improvement, I would say.”
“Guizhong,” Xiao gasps, “what the fuck?”
“Wow,” Venti hums. “She rhymed.”
“It’s good to see you too, Xiao,” Guizhong-- it’s
Guizhong?--
giggles, and she flits over to Xiao’s side as he gets up. As he reaches out to touch her, clearly amazed, she flies circles around his arm, tickling him. “All grown up! I must apologize, Zhongli has been rather harsh with you over the ages, has he not? So many times I wanted to intervene, but alas, trapped within my own little box I was...”
Zhongli is. Still staring. It looks like he’s either turned into a statue, or is on the verge of a millenia-overdue breakdown.
“Speaking of Zhongli!” Guizhong returns to his side, almost like how an excited child bounds up to their parent to show them the dead rat they found. “Over two thousand years, my dear! Two thousands years just for you to say that you loved me.”
“I... I apologize,” Zhongli says, blinking owlishly at her admonishments. “I took too long--”
“Oh, you misunderstand. It’s not the length of time that bothered me,” Guizhong interrupts. “Us archons do take a longer time to process our feelings. That much is true. I am proud of you for unlocking my Memory of Dust, and would have been just as proud if you took a thousand years more. Now, my darling, the problem isn’t
me.
But first...”
She then travels over to Lumine’s side. “Hello, my dear traveler!”
“Um...” Lumine bows politely. “Hello. I’m Lumine.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Guizhong chuckles, flying circles around her in excitement. “A traveler from a distant star-- how exciting! The stories you must have! Oh, but what I mean to say is... thank you for entertaining Zhongli, especially during that dreadful bout where he had no mora on his person. You had no way of perceiving me, but I was mortified the entire time. Practically dying my second death from second-hand embarrassment.”
Zhongli finally looks away from the glowing rocks, if only out of shame. Lumine, however, smiles at her pain finally being acknowledged. “And
you,
Barbatos! Well, Venti now,” Guizhong greets, rushing over to the bard. “Still wearing your dead friend’s face, I see! That can’t be good for your mental health.”
“Fuck off,” Venti immediately retorts, and the sheer audacity of his curse causes Xiao to reach out and strangle him.
”Bwaah--!”
“Xiao, no strangling!” Guizhong immediately starts to shimmer erratically, like she’s... expressing anger? Xiao lets go upon hearing her words, but glares at Venti all the same. “It is not good to strangle people just for an insult. Even if those they are insulting are your gods.”
“I have done worse,” Xiao immediately says.
“That is. Not a good thing,” Guizhong responds, and though she has no physical form, Lumine can practically
hear
how she buries her head in her hands. “Well-- back to the point at hand. Zhongli!”
She flies back to the retired archon, resting on his outstretched palms, almost like a tamed bird. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was alive,” she finally says. “There was no time-- the corruption was spreading too fast. I had to seal the shattered pieces of my soul in the dumbbell, and that was when my body returned to the dust.”
“I should have known,” Zhongli self-flagellates. “Even the remains of the old gods here are undying. I should have realized that, tenacious as you were, you had a back-up plan.”
“Hindsight is 20/20, darling-- or so those Fontainean glasses-makers say. But I digress: Zhongli, all this time I have been watching you,” she hums. The very light of the catalyst turns warm with motherly affection. “Over the thousands of years, I have drawn energy from the beautiful surroundings of Liyue, enough to now verbalize my thoughts. And what I think is: what a fine city you’ve made, my dear. You have done so, so well.”
Is he glowing, too? Yes, Zhongli’s practically glowing. For one as old as he, to suddenly light up like a child being praised... it’s quite a sight to behold. “With one issue,” Guizhong says, and his world comes crashing down.
“Speak.” Zhongli’s tone is calm, determined. “I will correct what I have overlooked before leaving my mantle as--”
“Oh, no, no, nothing about being Morax and all,” Guizhong cuts off. “I’m just wondering, Zhongli: when
are
you going to confess your feelings to that charming Snezhnayan boy?”
Lumine chokes.
Venti laughs.
Xiao fucking screams.
”What?”
Oh man. Suddenly, a rather menacing mask has appeared on the adepti’s face, and he is positively
overflowing
with a mix of adeptal and Anemo energy.
”Master Zhongli, what spell has that foreigner cast on you?”
“Oh dear,” Guizhong mutters, before she puts herself between Zhongli and Xiao. “Xiao, I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding--”
“Just say the word,” Xiao seethes, “and I will cut Childe down.”
“You will not,” Zhongli responds firmly, and the yaksha’s mask disappears in a flash, leaving nothing but a piercing glare in its wake. “He has not cast... any sort of spell. Of which I’m aware of.”
“Of which you are aware of,” Xiao repeats dryly.
“I think he has,” Venti chimes in unhelpfully. “The spell of dizzying, heart-stopping, jaw-dropping romance has been cast upon our lord of topaz!”
“I see,” Xiao responds, completely serious. “Thank you. I’ll go kill Childe now.”
”You will not,”
Zhongli repeats. He promptly decides the best course of action is to trap Xiao in stone, encasing the adepti in a cage of rock pulled up from the very stone pillars of Guyun under them. Xiao immediately teleports out and balances on top of it. “Stay your hand.”
Guizhong clears her metaphorical throat very loudly.
Zhongli and Xiao immediately turn to face her. “Boys,” she chides, “please talk it out. With words.”
“No,” Xiao answers. He is an immortal yaksha, Bane of All Evil, Conqueror of Demons, and his tone is utterly
petulant.
“Yes,” Guizhong says back, and Xiao’s resolve crumbles.
Venti, on the other hand, decides to pop a cork off one of the wine bottles. “Well, such a momentous occasion calls for a drink!” He sits cross-legged on the floor, and beckons the others to sit with him.
Zhongli, for lack of any other options, gratefully takes Venti’s offer and sits with him. Xiao, still surrounded in a flutter of angry elemental energy, sits down as well. Very tensely.
Lumine awkwardly joins them, and Guizhong flies into the middle of their circle.
“Now, Zhongli,” she hums, “will you do the honors of explaining? Or will I?”
-----
As it turns out, Zhongli is less than thrilled by the prospect of letting Guizhong explain his emotions, so he tries his very best to convey them:
It all started on their first dinner date. Childe had paid for Zhongli’s time (“What the fuck--” “As a
consultant,
Xiao--”) for his incredible expertise in Liyuen culture. Obviously, being Fatui and all, he wished to hear about Rex Lapis, but
something
about their conversation made it a little more than just a history lesson over food.
Soon, Childe was taking Zhongli out for more and more dinners, and their conversations evolved from Rex Lapis to all manners of things: the beauty of Liyue’s seas, its cuisine, the very mountains that decorated the landscape... suddenly, Zhongli found himself meeting with Childe in his own personal capacity, outside of work hours (“That’s a date, my dear Zhongli--” “Yes, a work date--”). Soon, they found themselves talking about nothing at all: their conversations had nothing of substance and yet were filled with a particular brand of delight Zhongli had not found in many, many years.
Zhongli eventually came to the slow, thundering realization that he enjoyed spending time with the Snezhnayan boy. He
enjoyed
their talks over food and conversations about nothing, the way Childe would entertain Zhongli even as he rambled about the most mundane of historical facts, and the way Zhongli found himself not needing to hide anything-- the way he could be
genuine
with the foreigner. With Liyuens, there is a stipulation that something given will one day be something returned; that when others come to Zhongli bearing gifts, they seek to make a contract where they will receive something back. But there is no such thing with Childe, for he empties Snezhnaya’s coffers for their expensive dinner dates without any such contract, not even the unwritten ones of which Zhongli found distasteful-- the unsaid rules of social conduct were worth as much as the paper they were written on (“Which is to say, not at all--” “Heheh, you just say that because you’re a block-head, Zhongli-- waah, Xiao, don’t blow me off--”). Childe simply wanted Zhongli’s company for nothing in return, and Zhongli found their relationship, unburdened by the transactional nature of Liyue... well, he found it liberating. It made him
happy.
This all came to a head when Zhongli tried to buy Childe marriage chopsticks.
“When I realized your plan, Zhongli, I wanted to die. Again,” Guizhong declares flatly, and Zhongli, the great Rex Lapis himself, withers a little under her gaze (if floating fairy Geo Constructs could gaze). “Not only did you try to show your affection through symbolic Liyuen gestures he wouldn’t understand, and not
only
was it a massive skip ahead without even asking him out first-- Zhongli, you made him
pay
for it!”
“He was happy to,” Zhongli answers calmly, but something in his eyes makes him look a little less like Liyue’s former god and a little more like a blundering schoolboy. “He even offered--”
“Zhongli, you do not make someone
pay for their own gift,
much less one you intend to propose an
intent to marry
with.” Guizhong rips into him scathingly. It’s savage. There are no survivors. “Anyway, again, you should have asked him out first. Small steps, my dear, small steps! Mortals do not jump from friendship to marriage the same way we gods raise grand cities from the very rock and dust itself. Such grandiose gestures of courtship are not their style. In fact, you’ll very well scare him off!”
Throughout the whole thing, Xiao looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm. “My lord,” he breathes in exasperation, “why do you have such terrible taste?”
“Oh, Xiao, don’t be sour just because you were too shy to confess to Zhongli a thousand years ago,” Guizhong snipes, and it’s a fucking bullseye. Venti looks at Xiao with the biggest, shit-eating grin, while Xiao buries his head in his hands and screams into his palm. Even Lumine’s mouth twitches up into a smile at Xiao’s expense. “Your time has come and gone, my boy! ...Such a dynamic between master and servant would’ve never made for a healthy relationship, anyway...”
“Guizhong,” Zhongli asks, completely ignoring the bombshell she just dropped about Xiao’s thousand-year-old crush. “I loathe to ask for your help again, especially after I had already resolved myself to move on without looking over my shoulder at the memory of you. But...”
Guizhong glows warmly. “Zhongli, you should never be ashamed to ask for help.”
He lets out an unbidden smile at her sweetness. “Thank you. I do not know... how to begin with confessing to him.”
“Just go up and say it,” Venti contributes, swilling another gulp of Dandelion Wine down his throat. “What’s the worst he can do? Turn you down?”
“Yes,” Zhongli flattens.
“Shh, Venti,” Guizhong whispers, flitting next to the bard’s ear. “He’s not used to hearing ‘no’. It’ll break his heart.”
“I can hear you,” Zhongli mutters.
“You should challenge him to a fight to the death,” Xiao decides to chip in. Everyone turns to him with an incredulous look. “I’ve heard him speak about combat. Even now, he comes to you shamelessly, as if he did not nearly drown the entirety of Liyue, and each time, he asks you for a duel. Your fists shall convey your feelings.”
“Oh my archons, no,” Guizhong wheezes. “Xiao, you are literally the last person to be giving advice on this topic. Also, the goal is to confess, not kill the poor Snezhnayan!”
“Nothing ‘poor’ about him,” Xiao mumbles darkly.
Guizhong flies over to the traveler next, and though she doesn’t have eyes, Lumine can somehow tell the goddess is looking right at her. “What about you, Lumine? Surely, someone as well-traveled as you will be a fresh set of eyes on this situation!”
“I think...” Lumine hums. “I think a love letter will do.”
“Simple. Bold. Genius,” Guizhong says, and she flickers her light at Zhongli. “So? What do you think?”
“...Love letters,” he begins, thinking to himself. “A way to perfect what you mean to say through use of quill and ink, rather than face the challenge of fumbling through one’s speech. A fine notion. However...”
“Hmm, yes,” Guizhong notes. “It doesn’t seem like your style, does it, Zhongli?”
He shakes his head. “I... would like to do it in person.”
“Good! Making decisions,” Guizhong chirps encouragingly, and she rises up a little to look at the moon. “But it’s late. All of you should get some sleep, myself included. We’ll take a crack at this first thing in the morning!”
Venti points at himself. “What, me too?”
Xiao narrows his eyes. “You can sleep?”
Lumine just accepts her fate of constantly being dragged into things. It is destiny.
-----
As it turns out, Guizhong
does
sleep, and not in a very interesting way. She literally plops her catalyst-self next to Zhongli’s pillow and emits a softer, more calming glow, as well as a faint hint of snoring. Though most would find such a noise annoying, Zhongli sleeps better than he ever has in eons.
Xiao, who objected to sleeping in Liyue Harbor, returned to Wangshu Inn for the night, while Venti, ever the connoisseur for merrymaking, opted to give sleep the middle finger and fucked off to enjoy Liyue’s nightlife. Lumine, herself, mostly stared at the ceiling contemplating how she got dragged into this mess before eventually dozing off.
It is almost afternoon when Lumine awakens to the shimmer of lights. “Hey,” Guizhong whispers, “wake up.”
Lumine cracks one eye open, and nearly reaches for her sword before remembering that this isn’t a mini-Geo Hypostasis coming to avenge its fallen kin. Just Zhongli’s dear, disembodied friend. “Zhongli is asleep,” she says in hushed tones, clearly not aware that she’s actually still quite loud. Zhongli, however, continues snoozing peacefully. “Shall we go find Xiao and Venti first? Rambunctious as they may be, they have known Zhongli for over two millennia. They will help him with his confession, I’m sure of it.”
Xiao is relatively easy to find: he is always at Wangshu Inn, lingering upon its balcony. Lumine greets Paimon along the way (“Lumine! What’s the floating light next to you?” “Your replacement.” “Ehhhhh--?!” ...and Lumine pays for another grand meal to leave her food coma’d for another day, because there is enough chaos without Paimon to join in), and afterwards, ascends the newly-fixed staircase to find the yaksha at his usual spot.
What both Lumine and Guizhong don’t expect is to find Venti there, too.
Especially
not Venti laying passed-out drunk and snoring in Xiao’s lap while the yaksha absentmindedly pets him on the head, fingers running through Venti’s hair as he stares over the horizon.
“Huh,” Lumine whispers at first, not knowing if she should interrupt the moment.
”Oh my archons,”
Guizhong gasps, and
now
Xiao hears them. “That’s adorable! I knew you had some gentleness in you, Xiao!”
Xiao immediately grabs Venti by the head and tosses him off the balcony. Venti’s eyes flicker open, and he screams.
“Nevermind,” Guizhong mutters, and Lumine looks over the balcony in shock. Thankfully, being the Anemo Archon and all, Venti quickly summons a gust of wind from under him to blow him back up to the balcony. “You shouldn’t get so flustered, Xiao! It’s alright to show affection.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Xiao lies as Venti climbs back onto solid ground with a grimace. “I found Barbatos within Liyue Harbor, passed out drunk from drinking straight Liyuen liquor from the bottle. I brought him here to keep him safe. My duty extends to my lord’s foreign guests as well, not just those in Liyue.”
Venti rubs his eyes, and a cheeky smile slips across his lips. “Ahhh, is that what happened? Heheh, thank you for watching over me, Xiao! ...Though I would’ve appreciated a gentler awakening...”
“It is nothing,” Xiao responds, so quickly that it must definitely be something. “I hear the cries of help from all in Liyue. When you were about to get mugged, I appeared to save you. That is all.”
Guizhong chuckles, the light of her catalyst-body humming. “But Xiao, don’t you only hear the cries of
native
Liyuens? To have arrived so punctually for Venti, you must have been actively tracking him!”
“Goodbye,” Xiao says, and he promptly disappears.
Venti reaches out to grab him, but his fingers only brush through thin air. “Xiaooo, wow! You’re so rude now! I remember when you were so young and cute, smiling as you showed me how you learnt to play the flute...”
Guizhong zooms over to Venti’s side. “I didn’t know he could play the flute! He never played it in front of Zhongli!”
“Really?” A conspiratorial smirk passes across Venti’s face. “I see! So it was a private performance only for me! Did you also know he can also
sing?
It’s been over a thousand years since I’ve heard his voice, pleasant as a bell’s ring...”
Something in the wind bristles. Angrily. Lumine’s eyes dart around in worry. “Venti, you simply must tell me more,” Guizhong encourages. “I didn’t realize he had such musical talent!”
“All who are granted a Vision of Anemo by yours truly will possess some skills in lyricism,” Venti says with a bow. “Ah, but Guizhong, I do not wish to give up all my secrets of Xiao through sheer altruism! How about we propose a trade-- a contract, if you may, of which can be made?”
Venti winks. Guizhong has no eyes, but her light blinks, so that’s probably a wink back. “Oh, where shall I
start,
Venti? Hmm, perhaps that time two-thousand, six-hundred and eighty-four years ago, after the Cloud Retainer and I had formalized an official calendar system. Zhongli picked his birthday to be the very end of the year-- being as old as he is, he was born before the world of men knew how to track the passage of days through the constellations of stars, and thus had no real birthday, so to speak. That didn’t stop Xiao, though!”
Okay, yeah, the wind blows
very
strongly now. Lumine actually needs to put a hand on her skirt and plant her feet to the ground to not get blown off. “You see, Venti, when Xiao used to consume the dreams of others, he learnt of humanity’s customs as well. Of which included
birthday parties!
Oh, the way he tugged on my sleeve so shyly that morning, his big, round amber eyes looking up to me as he asked... Guizhong, can you teach me how to make
nian gao
for Rex Lapis’ birthday?”
“Stop,” Xiao finally says, and he has re-appeared in front of them in a flash of Anemo and fluttering energy that looks like glowing green feathers. “Please.”
“Ah, but Xiao! Venti and I have made a contract,” Guizhong hums.
Xiao’s eye twitches. “A verbal contract is worth as much as--”
“Oh, that’s just for the formalization of business, Xiao, don’t be such a tightass,” Guizhong replies, and Lumine chokes at the sheer power of her calling one of Liyue’s most powerful adepti a
tightass.
She flies back to Venti’s side, continuing her story. “And so, we set off to find the ingredients together! Ah, but not all was well. When he was preparing the glutinous rice, he smashed the bowl so hard it shattered under the force of his blows! And when I asked him, do hold back on the sugar, my archons, Venti, he tipped in the whole
sack!
He’s always such a sweet tooth, dear Xiao...”
“Enough,” Xiao tries to command, but though his voice is harsh, it may as well be a whimper from a wounded animal. “Guizhong.
Please.”
“But the funniest part, my dear, was when Xiao decided to prepare egg tarts as well,” Guizhong says, and it looks like a blood vessel is about to pop in the yaksha’s neck. “Being trained as a weapon of war, Zhongli never taught the poor boy anything about the trades of the hand and land. ‘Eggs come from chicken, but how?’ Well, I explained, when a papa and mama chicken love each other very much...”
”Please stop.”
“...and Xiao, he followed me into the chicken coop, only to find no eggs! ‘Well, we should ask the farmers’, I suggested, but then, with his innocent understanding of love, he grabbed one of the hens by the neck and placed a kiss upon its be--”
”I will do anything,”
Xiao gasps, and he falls to his knees. “Just stop. Please. Enough.”
Venti finally laughs as Xiao quite literally kowtows in front of Guizhong. Lumine had never thought she would see the almighty yaksha reduced to such a state, but here he is, banging his forehead on the wooden floorboards of Wangshu Inn’s balcony. Guizhong giggles a little before flying down to where Xiao is, glowing softly to beckon him to rise. “Well, your plea is so earnest I simply can’t ignore it,” she hums. “Very well, I will keep your adorable fumblings with the mortal world a secret! On one condition, as you have offered to do
anything...”
Xiao groans. “I shall help with my lord’s...
confession.”
“You read my mind,” Guizhong says with amusement, before flying back to Lumine’s side. “Well, that’s settled! How about you, Venti? Are you still on board?”
“Of course!” Venti gives them a thumbs-up. “I would love nothing more than to see that old block-head Zhongli be happy with another. It’ll make him a little less scary, too.”
The way Venti says ‘scary’ and ‘Zhongli’ in one statement does not quite compute in Lumine’s mind, but perhaps some things are better left to the annals of history. “Perfect,” Guizhong says, and there’s a hint of excitement in the ends of her voice. Excitement of the most dangerous kind. “Come, then, let us draft some plans together! After which, we can present them all to Zhongli for approval!”
-----
“No,” Zhongli says flatly.
Guizhong flickers. “To which plan?”
“To all,” he declares. “But especially to this one.”
Lumine frowns. “I thought that, if you wanted a more personal confession rather than a love letter, having Venti write you a love song to sing to Childe would be a wonderful idea.”
“Oh, that one,” Guizhong interrupts. “Yes, sorry, I missed that. Zhongli can’t hold a tune.”
Venti throws his head back in a laugh. “No, no, I knew that! That’s why I wrote down that Zhongli will
lip-sync
to the sound, and Xiao will do the actual singing in the background!” Xiao’s scowl deepens as he sulks in the corner of the room.
“Absolutely not,” Zhongli sternly states, and his amber eyes glow brightly as he stares down the chuckling bard. “Everyone, I... I appreciate the efforts you all put in. But these plans...”
He points at the scribbled line of ‘play sexy jazz when Zhongli enters the room’. “They are not... ‘my style’, as Guizhong had said it.”
Guizhong lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I know, Zhongli, I know. They’re all a little too... bombastic, yes. But we only wish to help you.”
She flies down to the table, her light shining across the many rejected plans scattered through the papers. “As I said, I have been watching over you all this time,” she begins. “I have seen you love like this before, Zhongli. I knew you always loved me, too, of course, but in a different way-- the way our hearts grow fond of one another as family. But to Childe, it is...”
Guizhong spreads out the compartments of her catalyst-body, emitting a brighter light. “It is a fire, burning within your breast; the very light of divinity from within your amber eyes!”
Venti leans on the table and props his chin up on his palm. “So you’re saying he wants to fuck Childe?”
Xiao makes a strangled noise. Zhongli’s shoulders tense. Lumine puts a hand on her mouth to stop herself from laughing.
Guizhong, on the other hand, elects to ignore Venti’s words and continues with her monologue. “Ahem. Zhongli, all these years, I have seen you fall for different mortals. Love came to you in many forms; once, a woman dressed in all white, singing atop the peaks of tranquil Qingce... once a man wearing a wizened smile and a strong righteousness within his heart... and once, someone who did not fit either binary but you loved strongly all the same, for their shining red eyes and gentle soul spoke to you in the darkest of nights.”
Her voice grows solemn, heavy, and the memory of past loves seem to make Zhongli’s shoulders soften in reminiscence. “I have seen you love them all, in that overpowering, burning way, and I have seen them all die like the flickering flames of a candle before you said a word to any of them.”
Zhongli looks down at the papers on his desk. “There is never enough time,” he says, closing his eyes.
“There never will be, Zhongli,” Guizhong breathes, in the comforting way mothers speak with their heartbroken children after losing a first love. “Even for the gods.”
Though she has no hands to speak of, when she floats into Zhongli’s open palm, her soothing light seems to reach out and take his in hers. “But as you have said yourself, on the peaks of Guyun,” she whispers, and it is so, so gentle, “all humans must learn to let go.”
Zhongli’s eyes open, and there is something within them that is almost sad. “Let him into your heart, Zhongli,” Guizhong soothes. “One day, you may lose him, as you had lost me. But that is alright. For the greatest gift is to have met at all.”
Venti sniffles. Lumine has to admit, it’s quite a beautiful speech.
“So,” Guizhong says, proceeding to utterly ruin it: “Yes to the sexy jazz?”
Zhongli face falls. “No.”
“Drat.” Guizhong clicks her nonexistent tongue as she flies back to Lumine. “Sorry, traveler, but it looks like it’s back to the drawing board!”
Zhongli looks outside the window, and his thousands of years have told him exactly how to tell the time by the passage of the setting sun. “It is getting late,” he says, standing up. “I have an appointment to attend to.”
“Aww, an appointment?” Venti crosses his hands behind his head and leans back. “What kind of work appointment do you have on a weekend night?”
“People die at any time,” Xiao explains crassly. “There are no work hours for a job dealing with death.”
Guizhong, however, is a little more perceptive than the men in the room. “Zhongli,” she asks boldly, “are you going on a date with Childe?”
“I have to leave,” Zhongli answers without answering at all, but that, in itself, is the only answer Guizhong needs.
Unfortunately for her, when Zhongli says he’s leaving, he
really means
he’s leaving. That is to say, he rushes out the door and slams it behind him, before casting a Geo spell to seal it shut as Guizhong’s catalyst-body smashes into it. “Oh,
Zhongli!”
She mutters a few ancient Liyuen curses under her breath, as well as some recent ones, before turning back to three others in the room. “Well, we’re not going to just sit here and let him go on a date without doing
anything,
are we?”
Venti’s eyebrows dance in approval. “I’m always up for an impromptu performance! By the end of the night, we’ll have the two men locked in a lover’s dance!”
“Well... I suppose someone needs to keep you all in check,” Lumine mumbles, which means to say she’s definitely up for some dinner date shenanigans.
“I do not wish to intrude upon my lord’s private affairs,” Xiao says, trying desperately to weasel his way out of this.
“Xiao, it is, frankly, far too late for that,” Guizhong deadpans. “Now, be a dear and teleport us all out of this room.”
When Xiao doesn’t respond, she shimmers rather threateningly. “Or, shall I continue my story about you preparing the egg tart shells for Rex Lapis’ birthda--”
All of them are immediately sent out of the room, so suddenly that Venti yelps and falls flat on his arse as he is teleported from a chair to a not-a-chair. “Oww!”
-----
Xiao, ever the loyal servant, knows exactly how to track his master’s movements. As expected, Zhongli has rushed into Liuli Pavilion, where Lumine had first met him through Childe’s introduction.
“Just a question,” Venti huffs as he summons another wind to carry him up, “why are we taking the rooftop route?”
“Because we are stalking Zhongli,” Guizhong answers frankly, floating weightlessly ahead of them all as Lumine struggles to keep up with two Anemo immortals and a talking sphere. “He would not approve of our interference, so it must be done
covertly.”
As if there is anything
covert
about any of them. Lumine gasps as she finally scales the resting hill rooftops of Liuli Pavilion. “This is it,” Xiao points out. “What would you have us do, Guizhong?”
“Hmmm...” she floats around the top of the building, intrigued. “Zhongli never climbs up to places like these... such fascinating building techniques! My, humanity is truly capable of the utmost ingenuity!”
Lumine tries to get the goddess’ attention back on topic. “Guizhong, I think we’re on a tight schedule...”
“Ah, yes,” she hums. “Well, this is a restaurant, yes? It must have a kitchen. And any kitchen must have an exit for smoke!”
She scans the area, before flying up to the carefully-concealed chimney. “There it is!”
“You mean to say we should climb down the chimney,” Xiao deadpans. “Guizhong, I respect your wisdom, but that is--”
“Yahoo!” Venti immediately pulls the lid off and drops in. “--Aaah, fire at the bottom--!”
Xiao immediately teleports away, and as Lumine peers over the edge of the chimney, she hears the flurried sounds of shocked chefs and Xiao’s hurried footsteps before Venti shouts back up, “I’m okay!”
Lumine buries her head in her hands. “Guizhong.”
Guizhong turns to her. “Yes?”
“I hate men,” she admits, and Guizhong snorts through her disembodied spirit-nose before glowing brightly in agreement.
When Lumine climbs the chimney in a sane, controlled manner, she drops in on quite a scene indeed. The kitchen workers, very reasonably flustered by how Venti just dropped in through the rooftop and immediately landed in a coal fire, are even more distressed by the addition of Xiao, who is now holding Venti over his shoulders with one hand and pointing his spear at them all with the other. “You will say nothing,” Xiao threatens. “Continue as if we were not here.”
“Please do not threaten the poor bystanders with bodily harm,” Guizhong chides as she floats down into the kitchen. Upon hearing a floating rock speak, one of the staff faints onto the floor. “Oh, dear.”
Lumine clears her throat, realizing that she, once again, has to do damage control. “Excuse me,” she says as politely as possible, gently reaching out to push Xiao’s spear away from the faces of the trembling kitchen staff, “may we know which room Childe and Zhongli are having dinner?” Pause.
“We’re not assassinating them,” Venti adds on. “I promise.”
“T-to the right, up the stairs to the top floor,” one of them squeak. Lumine gives them a quick thanks before the lot of them get out of the kitchen and into the hallways.
Liuli Pavilion is a very, very high-class restaurant. Which makes the fact that Childe can easily reserve a seat at any moment a mad flex. Not to mention that he likes to choose the grandest private room at the top floor, too, where the morning rays of Liyue filter in so beautifully and where the night’s stars shimmer upon the decorative backdrop. The four of them creep up the stairs, and sure enough, as they reach the door to the private room, Childe’s laugh reverberates into the stairwell, bouncing off the high ceilings.
“Really, Zhongli? Are you sure you did
nothing
the last few days?” The joy in his voice is sharp and crisp, slicing through everything that he
should
be as a Fatui Harbinger. “Whenever I ask to catch up, you spend ages talking about an interesting rock formation you found on Mount Tianheng, or a pretty bird you observed flying over Dihua Marsh. Which you only spotted for two seconds.”
The sound of pouring tea fills the room. If Guizhong had ears, she would so obviously be pressing them to the door right now. “I see that you know me too well,” Zhongli replies, and Guizhong squees as quietly as she can. “Indeed, my last few days have been more... eventful than usual.”
Through the shadow of the screen door, they can see Childe standing up, before leaning forward to be closer to Zhongli. Xiao scowls. “Eventful, you say?” Childe laughs, and he is close enough to touch Zhongli now. “Well, well! Do tell me more, mister Zhongli. I’m deathly curious.”
“In due time,” Zhongli dismisses, and Childe sits back down. Guizhong huffs in indignation.
“You say that every time,” Childe bats back. “In the past, I thought you were just slow-moving. But now that you know you’re Rex Lapis, God of War himself--”
“I am only Zhongli now--”
“You get what I mean,” Childe continues. “Your ‘due time’ might be after my expiry date, sir!”
Guizhong flies over to the three of them. “This is going nowhere,” she whispers. “We have to intervene.”
Venti pipes up, transforming his fake Vision into a lyre. “I’ll play a romantic tune,” he suggests. “One so thrilling that even the Harbinger won’t be immune!”
“Good thinking, Venti,” Guizhong says. As Venti turns the corner to play out his song somewhere higher up, she turns to Xiao. “Alright, Xiao. While Venti busies his fingers with his song, I want you to use your Anemo skills to cause trouble. Nothing
damaging,
mind you! Just a slight gust here and there to spill some tea. Force them into a situation where they have to touch.”
“...Fine,” Xiao mutters, and he teleports away. Lumine decides not to ask where he’s gone.
“Now...” Guizhong turns to Lumine. “We shall be here on standby, as potential damage control, while we let the boys do all the work.”
Lumine sighs. “Is that really a good idea?”
“I trust them,” Guizhong hums cheerily. “They have their moments, but in their hearts, they both want the same thing as I: to see Zhongli happy.”
With that, she flickers reassuringly. Which makes no sense, how can a light
flicker
reassuringly-- but Lumine is reassured, nonetheless, by Guizhong’s genuine conviction. And so, the two women wait, in baited breath, for Xiao and Venti to act.
And then it comes all at once.
As expected, Venti is the one who moves first, the strum of his lyre filling the room with a beautiful song. “Oh?” They can see Childe’s head turning around in curiosity, while Zhongli’s shoulders stiffen, clearly recognizing Venti’s signature sound. “What’s this? Did you commission a performer for tonight, Zhongli?”
“I did not,” he clarifies, and he rises from his seat. “Excuse me--”
At that moment, Xiao strikes, sending a gust of wind sweeping through the room. Unfortunately, he does not know the meaning of ‘holding back’, so what he likely thinks is a gentle breeze actually blows nearly everything off the dinner table, as well slams open the doors which Guizhong and Lumine were ducking behind. “Whoa--!” Childe holds his arms up, shielding his face. “What’s going on? A typhoon?”
Zhongli turns to his right. Lumine and Guizhong stare back sheepishly.
He has no time, however, to admonish the two of them. For Xiao, who is actually just hanging out on one of the ceiling beams, makes a symbol with his hands before blowing into it summoning another burst of Anemo. This time, it’s angled at the wall, sending a heavy shelf full of expensive-looking displays tipping over, right on top of Childe’s head--
“Childe!”
“Wha--”
In an instant, Zhongli is by Childe’s side, pulling the Snezhnayan to his chest and out of harm’s way. The shelf crashes loudly onto the floor, shattering all the precious artifacts upon it, but to Zhongli, the most precious thing in the room is, thankfully, unharmed.
“Fuck,” Xiao mutters. “Almost had it.”
“Childe, are you hurt?” Zhongli has a
lot
of things to attend to at the moment, but firstly, he traces the skin of Childe’s arm, making sure none of the shelf had hit him. It is at that moment that Venti decides to up the volume, his lyre strings singing out in a crescendo of a slow, moving love song.
It’s a beautiful song, really, in the way that something can be so beautiful is becomes obnoxious.
“Alright,” Childe breathes, just barely cognizant of the fact that Zhongli is cradling him to his chest. “Zhongli. What the hell is going on?”
”Kiss him,”
Guizhong whispers harshly.
“I apologize,” Zhongli says, and he helps Childe stand back up on his own two feet, pulling the man away from his chest. Guizhong sighs as he does so. “It appears we have a few uninvited guests.”
Normally, Childe would reflexively reach for his bow at that phrase. But instead, his eyes flit around the room, only widening as they land upon Lumine and a certain floating rock. “Oh, hello, princess! And, what was your name again...?”
“Guizhong,” she greets, fluttering happily. Childe nearly falls onto the ground in shock.
“I did not mean to greet-- you,” Childe sputters, his finger pointing at the adepti above him instead. “I just... wait,
Guizhong?”
Zhongli fixes Lumine with an intense gaze, his eyes literally glowing like the hum of purest Cor Lapis. “Guizhong,” Lumine whispers, “is Zhongli mad at us?”
“Yes,” Zhongli answers for them, and everyone in the room gulps. “I did not give any of you the permission to intrude upon my private events--”
“Wait, wait,” Childe interrupts, holding a hand up. With one simple action, he stops Zhongli’s earthern wrath in its tracks. The retired archon’s eyes go from a dangerous glint to a curious expression. “Sorry. Just so I get this right: the same Guizhong from over two thousand years ago?”
Zhongli tilts his head, looking at Childe. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Just checking,” Childe says, and then he looks around again, looking shell-shocked.
“Zhongli has told you about me,” Guizhong hums. “Oh, but I knew, of course! I’ve been watching over him!”
“How... interesting!” Childe says, an easy smile finding its way back onto his face. “Well, this is certainly a turn of events, isn’t it? I had thought you were deader than dead, Guizhong.”
Guizhong flies over to Childe. “Everyone did. But archons never really die, do they? Of course, their consciousness can be turned into nothing... but some part of their power, their memory, it will always remain.”
“I see,” Childe hums, and he doesn’t even flinch when Xiao hops from the ceiling and lands on the floor besides him, fixing Childe with the gnarliest of death glares. “I... well, excuse me, I need a moment.”
Zhongli blinks. “Childe--?”
“Talk to you later, princess,” Childe mutters as he makes the quickest exit Lumine has ever seen. Even faster than when he summoned an ancient ocean god and fucked off into the ceiling of the Golden House. He doesn’t even ask Zhongli for a duel or anything, just... leaves. It’s
unusual,
and even for those who don’t know Childe, his sudden absence consigns them to a very awkward silence: standing in the middle of a ruined banquet room, shattered porcelain and spilled tea all over their feet.
A window opens, and Venti climbs in. “Was my song too on-the-nose?”
-----
Zhongli does not say anything to any of them for a full twenty hours after the incident. It is terrifying.
Xiao, ever the prime example of ‘I will solve my problems by running away from them’, immediately retreated to Wangshu Inn after the disastrous dinner date. Venti tried, tentatively, to sing Zhongli out of his sulking state while worried the retired archon would turn around and smash him into smithereens once he reached the end of his rope. Thankfully, Zhongli is not the wrathful being he used to be thousands of years ago-- nevertheless, his silence is deafening, and Venti eventually excuses himself to fetch more Dandelion Wine in an attempt to make amends.
Which leaves the two women behind to fix the mess. Of course.
“Zhongli,” Guizhong pesters. She’s annoyed, at first-- not communicating is a sign of emotional immaturity, something something, don’t go running away back to the mountains the moment you mess up something something. But after Zhongli refuses to speak the whole day, even after they sleep in the same bed (with Lumine awkwardly hanging out on the couch outside), Guizhong slowly realizes that, well, perhaps she’s gone a little too far.
There’s nothing threatening about Zhongli, really. Even after Lumine learnt of his real identity, he had shed (haha because dragon) so much of Rex Lapis that it’s somewhat impossible to connect him to the terrifying tales of olde. The very Statues of the Seven which depict him atop his Geo throne don’t look anything like him: well, they look physically similar, but they lack his very soul. Still, when he says nothing for almost an entire day... prepares breakfast for Lumine and himself wordlessly (it tastes really good, to his credit)... stoicly continues on with his day, reading books and admiring flowers as if Guizhong was not constantly swirling around him, trying to get his attention...
Yes, it’s a little terrifying. As if there is something old and ancient, just barely being held back within him, hidden behind his shining amber eyes.
After the entire morning is spent in quietude, Lumine finally beckons to Guizhong, and suggests: “Maybe we should apologize.”
“Oh, but traveler, I only mean to help him!”
At that moment, Lumine realizes that even the most revered of goddesses, one who Zhongli holds so close to his heart and guides the very foundations of Liyue’s morality-- even
Guizhong
is not above a few human flaws. And one of them, it seems, is an utter, rock-solid stubbornness, not unlike how dust is so difficult to remove from one’s clothes when blown over you in battle. Venti had mused, once, about Zhongli’s stubbornness-- perhaps he got it from someone.
And when immovable rock meets persistent dust, Lumine is left just throwing sand into a statue’s eyes. Zhongli refuses to open his mouth.
Finally, at 4pm sharp as Zhongli is brewing tea, he says: “Every journey has its final day.” And then, as he tips out the piping hot tea, he stops the traveler from nearly burning her lips upon it out of shock at hearing him finally speak. Grabbing Lumine’s wrist, he lowers the cup back onto the table, beckoning at her to let it cool. “I do not wish to rush.”
“Zhongli...” Guizhong sighs. “Time waits for no one.”
“It does not,” Zhongli admits. “But is it not you, Guizhong, who once told me: 赶人生, 赶人死?”
Lumine blinks at the unfamiliar language. “我也跟你说,” Guizhong replies calmly, “赶前不赶后。”
Zhongli laughs, a smile finally making its way back onto his face. “赶就是赶。璃月的岩王帝君赶尽杀绝了全世的魔神; 连自己都留不下。” He turns back to Guizhong, and, though she cannot drink, pours out a cup for her. “I do not intend to repeat Morax’s mistakes. So please, do not rush me towards an conclusion before I am ready.”
Guizhong flies down to the cup, her catalyst-body enjoying its warmth in spite of her lack of tastebuds. “...I’m sorry,” Guizhong finally says. “I had simply-- after not being able to say anything for so long, seeing you love and lose-- no, there is no excuse. I apologize. Please, forgive me.”
Lumine, if only relieved they’ve returned to speaking actually Teyvatian and not some ancient Liyuen tongue, lets out a sigh before finally sipping from the teacup. “Of course I forgive you,” Zhongli hums, and there is something serene about his voice when he continues: “I believe I have begun to understand, now. I had once thought the way you fretted about the people of Liyue, all their little worries and impermanent, fleeting emotions... I found it all unnecessary. Trivial.”
He takes a tentative sip of his own tea. “I have spent centuries, walking amongst the dockyards of our safe harbor, speaking to the people within it. I wondered: what did you see, in all of them?” As he tastes the tea, he smiles. “Their fears, their cowardice... their joys, their bravery. Their love for the land, for their family, for themselves. All these things, I knew of, but in the way a historian knows of their expertise whilst still separated from those events by thousands of years.”
It’s a good tea, Lumine has to admit. A part of her had expected Zhongli to whip up some kind of bitter, ancient herbal concoction.
“I will not pretend I understand everything just yet. In fact, such a thing may not be possible,” he notes. “But I do believe I can try. And even if--” He pauses, the edges of his smile becoming slightly strained, but he smiles on anyway. “Even if a mortal’s life is nothing more than a quiet breath against the eternity that sprawls before us, there is beauty in a bloom that lives for only one night.”
He looks at Guizhong. “After all, if I did not want anything more than what I already had, I would not have been so
furious
when all of you attempted to... ‘intervene’.”
“Oh, you were actually really mad, huh...” Lumine sips away at her tea. It’s a good thing Zhongli’s learnt some anger management, even if it comes in the form of just Not Saying Anything for nearly an entire day.
Guizhong glows softly, rising up to Zhongli’s eye level. “I’ll give you an 8.5/10,” she says, and Zhongli can only laugh at her response. “It would’ve been better if you’d told me that twenty hours ago, or, perhaps, before any of us did anything at all.”
“Us archons take a longer time to process our feelings,” Zhongli hums, using her words against her. “But I shall not be using that an excuse any longer. I am only Zhongli now. Besides...”
He raises his teacup to her in a toast. “You would have stubbornly intervened regardless of what I told you.”
“You are right,” Guizhong admits, and she laughs as well, airy and light.
Just then, a messenger pigeon clatters against Zhongli’s window.
He looks up in surprise, and Guizhong flies over to help open it, pushing against the lever. The pigeon, white as the driven snow, lands on the table, and Zhongli takes the letter off its chuffed chest before it flies away. “There is only one who sends letters to me with a Snezhnayan bird,” he says, and he opens its contents. Guizhong and Lumine, though desperately curious, both hold back, letting the man have his privacy.
Soon, he rises to his feet. “I must go,” he says, and because he already knows what’s coming-- “No intervening.”
“Yes, yes,” Guizhong agrees. “Sally forth, Zhongli. May you go at your own pace!”
And then, once Zhongli closes the door behind him, Guizhong turns to Lumine: “Alright. I’m going to stalk him.”
“What.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Guizhong clarifies. “I just... I
have
to watch. I can’t stand just being here and
not knowing.”
Why does she always get caught up in these situations.
“I’ll come with you,” Lumine says, and Guizhong flies around her happily. “Just to make sure you don’t do anything.”
“Oh, how scathing,” she moans in faux-agony. “Well, let us go, then!”
-----
Guizhong and Lumine tail Zhongli all the way to the peak of Mount Tianheng.
Lumine wonders why Childe would want to meet with Zhongli in a place like this, but once she scales up the mountain to the north of the Teleport Waypoint, she has time to finally admire a view she had ignored in her rush to save Liyue from the Fatui’s machinations. The scenery of Liyue’s magnificent harbor lays beneath them, a burst of color amongst the rocky mountainside, and it is gorgeous.
“There you are,” Childe greets nonchalantly as Zhongli walks up to him. Guizhong and Lumine hide nearly, within a thick bunch of bushes. “You know, this would be a perfect spot for the duel I’ve been asking you for.”
Zhongli looks around. “It would,” he notes calmly. “It is far from civilization, leaving us with little chance of hurting innocent bystanders-- unless one of us is tossed far enough to land on the roofs below.”
“Haha! Well, that one certainly won’t be me,” Childe laughs, and Lumine grips her sword, for a moment, expecting Childe to pull out a bow. But he doesn’t, and Zhongli doesn’t think so either, because, truth be told, both of them know each other too well, their genuine selves worn for too long upon their sleeves during their talks about nothing.
He turns back to look at Liyue. “What an amazing city,” Childe mutters, suddenly solemn. “You know, I can’t even remember how the snows of Snezhnaya feel anymore.”
And then he smiles at Zhongli, in an expression Lumine has never once seen Childe wear. “But I’ll learn it again, soon, for I’m going home,” he says, and, oh, it’s sadness.
“Oh no,” Guizhong gasps, her worst fears come to life. “He’s too late.”
“...Going home?” Zhongli does not let his surprise melt through his features. “Has the Tsaritsa called upon you for new duties?”
“No,” Childe answers honestly. “I’m leaving because the reason why I was still lingering here no longer exists. That, and, well, I miss my family! I’ve been writing letters back and forth, but there’s nothing quite like seeing them face-to-face.”
Zhongli gives Childe a slow nod of understanding. “I see.” And then, “I wish you well on your journey home, Childe.”
“Noooo,” Guizhong whispers in actual agony. “Take his hand! Beg him to stay!”
As Guizhong vibrates in despair, Childe puts his hands in his pockets. “Wow...” Then, takes a deep breath, before letting a loud, yet hollow laugh ring out from his lungs. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Zhongli looks at Childe, finally letting some surprise show on his face. “...Do you want to have your duel with me before you leave?”
“I-- well,
yes,”
Childe sputters. “But the... no, nevermind.”
“It’s me,” Zhongli realizes, and all at once it’s like a meteor comes crashing down on the both of them. “I am the reason why you stayed.”
A gentle wind blows across the mountaintop, and Childe’s scarf flutters serenely in the breeze. “You normally enjoy our talks about nothing,” Childe says, and he fixes his eyes on the view of Liyue rather than on the man besides him. “But yesterday, you wouldn’t say a thing. Your lips were sealed. You were hiding something from me, I realized-- and even when you were hiding your very identity as Liyue’s god, you weren’t like that.”
He crosses his arms, letting out a loud sigh. “And then, all your comrades started messing up the place! It’s a good thing someone as magnanimous as me was footing the bill. Do you realize how much those smashed antiques cost, Zhongli? It’s--” Childe catches himself, and shakes his head. “If you wanted me gone, you could’ve done it without making me empty more of Snezhnaya’s coffers.”
“You misunderstand,” Zhongli quickly says.
“Which part? Everyone ruining dinner, or how Guizhong came back?” And now, Childe’s blue, blue eyes suddenly seem to light up with a fire Lumine has never seen before. “Zhongli, you may not understand human feelings, but trust me,
I
do. And I have heard how you speak about her. Even if she’s-- well, a Geo Construct now, or whatever. I don’t wish to get in the way.”
Guizhong flickers. “Get... in the... oh,
no.”
As she rushes forward, Lumine grabs her, pulling her back into the bushes. “Lumine, I have to-- no--!”
“You promised Zhongli. No intervention,” Lumine reminds, and though Guizhong still glows brightly in protest, she knows Lumine is right.
There’s silence, for a moment. Zhongli, unaware of the struggle between the two women hiding behind them, focuses all his attention on Childe instead. He moves slowly, raising his hand, first, before bolding placing it upon Childe’s shoulder.
“As I said. You misunderstand.” Miraculously, Childe does not move to shove his hand off, instead turning to meet Zhongli’s piercing gaze, glowing amber meeting impenetrable ocean blue.
Childe waits, and waits, and after another painful beat of no words exchanged, finally opens his mouth. “So?” He breathes. “Make me understand, o mighty Rex Lapis.”
“I am not Rex Lapis,” Zhongli declares. “I am only Zhongli.”
And then he leans forward, placing a bold kiss onto Childe’s lips. Lumine promptly hugs Guizhong to her chest to muffle her scream of excitement.
Again, the world stills to nothing, but this time, Childe is the one left staring at Zhongli, like a deer in the headlights. “Oh,” he says simply, before his lips twitch up into a smile.
”...Oh.”
And then he practically lunges for Zhongli’s throat.
Lumine realizes she’s probably eavesdropping on a very, very intimate moment they should not at all be intruding upon, but Guizhong is vibrating very, very excitedly within her grasp, and she’s afraid that if she breaks out of this curled-up position, Guizhong will give away their location. So instead, she stays, unintentionally listening in on every word exchanged between the two.
“I regret-- that I did not tell you earlier,” Zhongli says in between Childe’s kisses, gasped out in the breaths he can spare. “All that wasted time--”
“Oh, do you consider all the time you’ve spent with me to be wasted? How cruel,” Childe laughs, running his hands through Zhongli’s hair, hungrily,
greedily.
“Besides, what’s time to an immortal like you?”
“It is not--” Zhongli exhales sharply when Childe moves onto his neck, placing rough kisses on the thin skin above his jugular. “It is not I who--”
“I know, I’m just teasing,” Childe breathes against Zhongli’s spotless skin. “I was thinking about it, too, when I realized who you are. Who you
really
are.”
And though Zhongli has long believed the unsaid contracts of social conduct to be worth little compared to those carved in stone, the one Childe implicitly agrees to is precious beyond definition. “Actually, no,” Childe chuckles. “You’re just Zhongli. And I’m just Childe, or Tartaglia, or whatever you’d like to call me-- but you’re here, I’m here, and that’s all that matters.”
When glowing amber meets the impenetrable tide of the blue, blue sea, Zhongli realizes that Childe realizes he will always be a shooting star that streaks across the boundless, undying constellations, burning out before he can crash into the earth. But that’s fine; because right now, they’re both here, and all the things that get in the way-- the boat trip Childe had already agreed to go on, the political ramifications of their tryst, his family waiting at home, everything, everything--
“Also,” Childe rasps and he wrestles Zhongli to the ground, “you guys can come out of hiding now.”
Guizhong squeaks.
Lumine raises her head out of the bushes, tentatively studying the two men. None of them seem surprised. “I... thought you did not notice them,” Zhongli breathes. “I did not want to...”
“What can I say? I’m a little bit of an exhibitionist,” Childe states, and Guizhong rattles in Lumine’s arms at the revelation. “What? Don’t give me that look. I’m sure you old gods have done some strange things before. Won’t judge if you’ve
pegged
him or something--”
”I HAVE NOT!”
Guizhong finally bolts out of Lumine’s grasp, and Childe literally loses his shit laughing at her indignant screech. It is possible for a Geo Construct to blush? Somehow, Lumine feels like Guizhong will find a way.
“Well, feel free to stay,” Childe laughs. And then he pulls out a knife made of Hydro. “After all, we’ve still got a duel to go through.”
What.
“You
traitor
,” Xiao growls, and, wait, when did Xiao get here-- a burst of Anemo flings Childe off Zhongli and nearly off the very mountain itself, before the Harbinger manages to regain his composure and plant his feet firmly onto the ground. “I will have your head!”
“Xiao,” Zhongli snaps, “you will
not--”
-----
One interrupted duel and many admonishments by Guizhong later, Xiao grumbles as he sits cross-legged on the ground, nursing a headache from the meteor his very own master sent barreling into his skull. “You know, the Millelith will probably climb up here soon,” Childe says casually, as if his clothes have not be torn asunder by Xiao’s spear. Actually, he’s probably leaning back to show more of his chest on purpose. “Your meteor was pretty noticeable, Zhongli. Did you open a portal and pull it out from the very depths of the abyss itself?”
“Perhaps,” he replies cryptically. Childe huffs at the non-answer. “In any case. Though our conversation was interrupted, I hope we have cleared the air.”
“Very much so,” Lumine mutters. “I’ve heard too much. I need to clean my ears.”
“Yes...” Guizhong flickers, flying weakly around Lumine’s shoulders. “Childe’s declarations while Xiao was trying to kill him and Zhongli was trying to save him... they were...”
“Don’t be a prude,” Childe snaps. “What’s wrong with cheering on your boyfriend and his rock-hard meteor?”
Xiao buries his head in his hands, desperately wishing Zhongli’s meteor had just killed him instead. Just so he wouldn’t have to suffer the innuendos any longer.
“Boyfriend,” Zhongli repeats, and the word tastes rather sweet on his tongue. “I... yes, I suppose we are partners now.”
“You suppose?” Childe tilts his head. “I really got to write it out on paper for you?
I, o Childe AKA Tartaglia AKA insert real name here, pledge my very body and soul to be Zhongli’s--”
“Enough,” Guizhong interrupts, if only because anything sordid Childe might say next will actually cause her to die a second death. “Though, I am so,
so
proud of you, Zhongli. Giving a kiss before even confessing your feelings is a bold move, but fitting when he had already confessed to you in every way except directly! I give you a 9.5/10. A+.”
Zhongli blinks owlishly. “What will it take to get 10/10?”
“Hmm,” Guizhong thinks aloud. “Perhaps if we can get Xiao and Venti to finally talk their feelings out.”
“Goodbye,” Xiao says, and he promptly disappears.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Walking Dead Wizard
Chapter 7
Harry wandered over to the fire pit they had going, it was small and barely lit, night was falling fast and they never risked the fire being bright enough to have walkers stumbling upon them. Sighing softly, he took a seat next to Merle, who was quiet and actually joining them for a change. Normally he just ate in his tent, too out of it to join them at the pit, he and Daryl usually ate beside their tents, occasionally joining them, but it was only when it got really cold. Another thing that amazed Harry, this weather, even at night, it was hotter than it was at home in the UK yet he felt cold, he'd acclimated to the change in weather quite quickly. Carol was passing the bowls of pasta around, giving the children food first, judging by how quickly they began eating they were hungry, but who wasn't?
"Thank you, Carol," Harry said accepting his, giving her a nod, absently eating it listening to the others asking questions here and there. He'd never been one for small talk, except with those he was closest to, it used to be Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna, now it was two guys who were just as reserved as him.
"Do you think this will ever be over?" Amy asked everyone, gazing off into the distance.
"No," Harry stated, speaking for the first time, not looking at Amy but the fire, his pasta bowl clutched in his left hand. "Not in our lifetime, whatever it is, it spread fast and furiously all over the world. Got everywhere real quickly, it was worldwide within days, no virus I've heard of was ever able to do that it's probably wiped out half the world's population in two months. All we can do is hope that they come up with a cure, or this virus could spell our extinction event." giving them the truth. The wizards had tried to contain it before it spilled out into their world, nobody was safe.
"Worldwide? Do you truly believe that?" Rick asked, looking a little pale at the thought. The others were the same; they didn't want to believe it had hit everywhere.
"The virus was hitting Britain before I came here," Harry revealed, picking up a stick and poking the fire, a haunted look on his face. "Wasn't as bad then obviously, but I have no doubt in two months the damage is probably same as it is here."
"You left your family?" Shane said disapproval written over his face.
"Shane!" the women said shaking their heads, very much aware that he had no family.
"I don't have a family," Harry stated, uncaring about Shane's disapproval, he didn't get along with him.
"I'm so sorry," Carol said sombrely.
"Don't be, it happened a long time ago," Harry replied shrugging his shoulders, he was used to people knowing that already; it was a refreshing change that he actually had to tell them.
"How did it happen?" Andrea asked anything to keep her mind off what was out there.
Harry looked up for the first time, his gaze finding Andrea's, before he spoke again, "They were murdered when I was a baby," Harry revealed, he'd spoken more tonight than he had in a while he realized. He ignored the apologies and gasps of shock at his revelation.
"Did they catch the killer?" Rick asked sitting forward.
Harry chuckled humourlessly, "There's no doubt you're a cop, is there?" it was just something an officer of the law would ask.
Rick just smiled a tad.
Harry stood up, making his way back towards his camp, the others watching him as he disappeared into the woods. Harry would have been surprised at the concern written in some of their faces, unfortunately for him he didn't see it.
"I think it's time for the kids to go to bed," Carol said, holding out her hand for her daughter to take.
"Five more minutes please!" Sophia begged "It's warmer over here!" playing to her mothers worries of not being warm enough. She would never have done such a thing if her father was there, but he wasn't so she did.
"Five more minutes," Carol agreed, unable to deny her daughter, it was the happiest Carol had ever seen her daughter.
"Where are you going?" Andrea asked as Amy stood up, concern for her written across her features, worried that Harry's words had upset her.
"I'm just going to the toilet," Amy grumbled, the lack of privacy was annoying to say the least, with that she swiftly made her way to the RV in desperate need of a pee.
Harry was in the middle of relieving himself when the spells he had up around camp went off. It was the only ward he could think of that would help them. Since Muggle repelling charms were out of the question, and there wasn't a Walker repelling charm he'd put up a ward that was used for the wellbeing of someone. It was usually put on a patient, but Harry had put it around the front of the camp just on the off chance it would work. The monitoring charm was telling him someone was dead, and since the Walkers were dead, he suspected it was one. The ward switched off, which worried him, perhaps that's what happened? He didn't know he wasn't a Healer or Medi-wizard. Quickly finishing and righting himself he took off to the area he'd set the wards up, his dagger in hand already, but it was too dark to see anything - not that it was needed. The rattling breaths told him there was more than one; if he had to guess he would say there were at least eight or nine.
"Lumos!" Harry murmured lighting up the area in the woods with a soft glow, "Aww shit. Nox!" there were far too many for him to deal with on his own, not without using Fiendfyre but that could backfire and consume the camp. Bolting back through the trees, keeping an eye on the ground so he didn't end up falling, he didn't want to be a free meal for the walkers. Sliding his wand back into his pocket as adrenaline coursed through him, jumping effortlessly over a large fallen tree he skidded to a halt by their campsite, grabbing Daryl's crossbow and Merle's weapon of choice a sword, he didn't hesitate to throw the weapons, knowing the guys would catch them when he got close enough.
Unsurprisingly Daryl and Merle had gotten to their feet the second they saw Harry running out of the woods, and became tense when he grabbed their weapons. Glancing at each other, before back to Harry, snatching their weapons out of the air as Harry joined them.
"Get the kids into the RV NOW!" Harry shouted, grabbing his gun from its holster now that his hands were free again, well one of them anyway since he still had his dagger in his hands. "Keep your eye on the woods, they caught my scent." he told them, but nobody was moving. "CAROL! Get them into the safety of the RV! Keep watch and hit them in the head if they get close!" he hissed unsheathing her knife and forcing her to grip it in her hands. By then they were already swarming around the camp, the prospect of fresh meat was pushing them on quicker.
Daryl was the first to fire off a shot at the oncoming horde judging by the arrow wedged in one of its skulls. "Nice shot," Harry said over the shouting, firing off his gun which was a lot more silent than the others that was making enough noise to raise the dead…well so to speak he thought with wry amusement. Harry lost all sense of what was happening after that, as he fired off shot after shot, ignoring all screams, yells and shouting.
Jim panicked, backing away from the walker advancing on him, yanking his knife out of the head of the walker he'd just killed only to trip up, his knife clattering noisily out of reach. Scrambling over to try and get it, only for the walker to fall on him, he froze, terrified yet at the same time accepting his fate. This was what he deserved, he had failed his wife and two sons, watched them eaten and he'd ran away unable to do anything, it had haunted him ever since.
Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of the camp members were down, and a Walker was leaning over prepared to bite, firing off a shot, killing it for good this time he turned back around and began firing off again. It was thinning now, only a few more to go, he fired off his last round hearing Merle laughing which caused him to shake his head, only he would find amusement in such a situation.
An arrow flew passed him, causing Harry to turn around immediately on the defensive, to find a walker a few feet from him. Harry nodded his thanks as he raided his pocket and reloaded his weapon, moving around, hearing more growing and ripping flesh, he fired off the gun killing another walker that was eating someone, but Harry didn't know who it was. Kneeling down, he grimaced there was no going back, he brought his gun to their forehead and fired off a shot, killing them mercifully. There was no point to seeing them in agony for hours then watching them turn to kill them, best to end it now.
"Were you bitten?" Harry asked as he helped Jim to his feet, he was much like himself; he didn't speak very often to the others, kept himself to himself.
"No, thanks to you," Jim replied breathlessly, his heart still pounding away, he wiped the disgusting congealed black blood from his face, it was a futile effort.
"Good." Harry replied, bending down he retrieved the knife, pressing it back into his hands, "Don't lose it again." he warned him.
Jim just nodded at him.
"How long do you think it will be before another group of walkers passes by?" Harry asked his eyes narrowed, still very much on the defensive.
"Not long," Merle murmured, "They've run out of food in the cities, might not be so lucky next time,"
"Lucky? Our people died!" Shane snapped angrily, decidedly still on edge by the amount of Walkers that had come across their camps especially at night when they were vulnerable. The only thing he was thankful for was the fact Lori and Carl had survived.
"And you can blame that on yourself, the alarm system we had up would have alerted us before they got close enough to camp," Harry hissed out between gritted teeth, "It was just pure luck that I heard them."
"Alarm system?" Rick asked, getting between Shane and Harry and Merle not wanting a fight to break out. "Calm down brother," Rick warned Shane, there had been too much death without fights.
"Bells," Harry stated sharply, "We had bells with string at each end of the camp, but your partner just rolled on up and dismantled them, claiming they made too much noise and that they would attract the walkers." there was no disguising the disgust in his voice. "We should never have stayed," they'd put them there just in case his spell didn't work, just in case he wasn't there with them when something happened.
Daryl didn't comment, merely began to yank his new arrows that Harry had given him out of the dead walkers heads until he had every single one back in his hands. Shifting his crossbow across his back, he began to wipe them with a rag, and once they were cleaned sufficiently, he placed them in his quiver. Staying within his brothers and Harry's sight, keeping an eye on them.
"We obviously can't stay here," Rick said coming to Harry's side, wanting his opinion.
"Obviously," Harry said wryly, gazing into the darkness, noticing Carol sobbing by the RV but without actually making a sound. Her shoulders were bobbing up and down at the intensity of her crying; Amy and Andrea were trying their best to comfort her. His eyes automatically went to the window of the RV and sighed in relief, Sophia was alright, so it must mean her pathetic excuse for a husband had been killed in the attack. Merle had gone back to his seat in front of his tent, cleaning his sword looking on edge.
"We should head to the CDC," Rick declared firmly.
"And you honestly think its still standing?" Harry asked cocking his head to the side, wondering if he was deluded or just plain hopeful.
"If anywhere has the best protection it would be there," Rick urged, "An answer, a cure even,"
"Have you seen it out there in Atlanta?" Harry queried, Rick was a decent guy, there was no doubt, a leader, and second he came on the scene everyone had looked to him instead of Shane. The shift in things had to wind Shane up; the man was a dictator not a leader.
"Of course," Rick said confused by the question.
"You know what they did?" Harry pushed.
"What do you mean?" Rick asked exasperated.
"They began to blow everything up, surely you realize that was the last option, the army, the marines everything…it's probably all gone, they never stood a chance." Harry answered, "They were gunning people down in public, rounding anyone up with a single sight of a fever, families hiding those that had been bitten in fear of them being persecuted, only for entire families to be taken out like that," Harry clicked his fingers. "Those that weren't found out began to kill themselves and their families to escape this nightmare we've found ourselves in."
Rick winced; vividly reminded of the family he'd found, a man and woman, shot guns to the head, and blood on their walls with may god forgive us written on it. He didn't like to think there were more families who had killed themselves, but he knew they probably had.
"If anywhere is safe it's Fort Benning," Shane argued.
Harry huffed out a sardonic chuckle, why did he bother speaking? It wasn't as if anything he said seemed to matter. Shaking off his thoughts, he moved to sit beside Merle, groaning tiredly, he was glad he hadn't gone hunting today; otherwise he would have been even more exhausted.
"You never answered whether the psycho who killed your parents was caught," Merle pointed out, opening his blue eyes suspicion of what really happened burning in his gaze.
Harry looked around seeing that everyone else was otherwise occupied, "That's because I killed him myself, it was kill or be killed, so I did what I had to. Saved the lives of hundreds of others at the same time, not that they spared any gratitude of course." they preferred to gossip about him, as if he wasn't a person just someone on a pedestal for them to point out all his flaws. Well except the people he'd known. Not that it mattered now, since the world had gone to shit most of them were probably dead now.
Merle just grunted before settling down again. His thoughts turning to the first time they'd ever set eyes on Harry, he'd been high of course, thought he was seeing things.
-0 Flash Back 0-
Daryl crouched down, his fingers brushing over the ground, they were getting closer, the tracks were fresh, and the buck had to be nearby. The thrill of the hunt never ceased to excite him, not that it showed of course. Straightening up, he didn't make a single sound as he began moving again in the direction of the tracks, grumbling at his brother who was making enough noise to scare away the game from behind him.
Still he continued on not saying a word, leaving his brother to do whatever he wanted, but knowing he would follow him anyway. Occasionally kneeling to make sure he was going in the right direction. Signalling his brother with hand gestures now and again, then they saw it, Daryl crouched again aiming his crossbow at the deer, going for the kill, aiming for the heart, it would take it down and quick so it didn't get away. The deer had stopped to graze at the patch of grass, its ears twitching every few seconds.
Then Daryl hit the trigger, his arrow zoomed out, then out of nowhere a man appeared, the arrow went into him. The sound of a car backfiring caused the deer to look up and bolt, sensing danger before Daryl could even think of reloading his crossbow, not that he thought anything, he was just staring completely stunned, unable to believe what he was seeing.
"…the hell?" Daryl muttered, moving closer to see whoever it was, they were unconscious, still not believing it he touched him. "He's real,"
"As real as your chupacabra," Merle snorted in amusement, not believing his brother, things didn't just appear out of thin air especially not people - he must be higher than he thought.
"Get your ugly ass over here and help me get him up!" Daryl insisted trying to get the guy up himself was in no way possible, despite his small stature. "And I know what I saw!" he added indignantly.
Merle almost tripped up, taking a double take when his brother actually sat him up. Squinting slightly, he moved forward and poked it, expecting his finger to go through this hallucination he was having. Only that didn't happen, the person get let out an agonizing groan. Cursing under his breath, grumbling foully he grasped a hold of the man and hoisted him up until each brother had him shoulder to shoulder.
Both brothers looked at each other, both of them wondering what the hell had happened and more importantly how it had happened.
-0 End Flashback 0-
"I'll take the first watch," Harry stated sharply, moving away to the top of the RV, he knew nobody would be sleeping tonight, and if they did it would be sheer exhaustion dragging them under.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jason narrowed his eyes behind his hood and took a potshot at a random goon just because he could. He’d be fine. He was using rubber bullets. Yeah, his finger probably shouldn’t bend that way, but what did Jason know? He was a high school drop out. If Batman didn’t want him breaking fingers, he shouldn’t have asked Jason to keep an eye on this case while he was off being his usual brooding hero self, but in space this time.
And, yeah, he was only supposed to observe, but then some idiots had pulled up with some working girls and tried to take more than what they’d paid for. What was he supposed to do? Call backup?
Okay, so Batman probably would have expected him to call backup, but fuck that guy.
So here he was, shooting at goons while they shot back and trying to do as much damage to their product as possible in the process. A typical Tuesday. It might have been Wednesday by then. Or Saturday. Jason wasn’t great with days of the week. He’d heard that was common with people who didn’t have regular schedules. It probably wasn’t a result of the brain damage.
(Batman had not liked that joke. Damian had offered to give him real damage for comparison purposes. Tim had attempted to subtly high five Damian for the joke and received a jab to the gut for his troubles.)
In the middle of his day dreaming (seriously, were these guys trained by Storm Troopers?), the damage he’d caused had resulted in a stack of crates toppling to the ground. They smashed dramatically upon hitting the ground. He loved it when that happened. It was like getting a piñata on his birthday. He imagined, at least. Should he get a piñata for his next birthday? Did people get themselves piñatas? Or did other people do that? He should hint to Roy that he wanted a piñata.
He was pulled out of his musings by a green glow. For a second, dread spread down his spine as he imagined another green glow that haunted his dreams. But there was no old man smell, so he realized quickly that it wasn’t Lazarus green. (The old man smell was there, alright? It was a side effect of Ra’s musty ass submerging itself in the pit for so long.) When he turned to investigate, he found quickly that the green glow was coming from a rock-shaped source. That could really only mean one thing. He guessed he knew why Bruce had wanted this warehouse watched, now.
“Motherfu-.”
***
So, he was in the Watchtower.
It turns out they had some kind of monitor for the radiation level created by the presence of Kryptonite. Who knew?
The Justice League (the few currently on the planet) had arrived to find him at the scene of the crime, surrounded by goons taken out primarily via high powered rubber bullet to the dick. (Look, he was bored, alright? And it was great marksmanship practice.) So finding a known crime lord surrounded by whimpering underlings curled into fetal position clutching their junk and with a substantial amount of Kryptonite was a bit suspicious. He admitted it did not look great.
For some reason, telling them that he was not responsible for the Kryptonite, only for the nut shots, did not reassure them.
He’d been standing in cuffs listening to Flash and Green Arrow argue about what to do with him,-- his contribution of ‘take me to your leader’ was ignored, which, rude, but okay-- about to slip his cuffs, when he realized he’d never actually been to the Watchtower.
Bruce always gave him a deadpan stare and a grunt when he asked, which he translated to ‘Are you absolutely insane? Do I look stupid to you? Have you hit your head recently and it’s caused you to become delusional? Can I check you for head trauma? I’m concerned. Let me check your pupillary reaction.’
Bruce’s silences really were very communicative.
Flash and Green Arrow were still debating. Something along the lines of ‘blah blah Blackgate blah blah Arkham blah blah Commissioner blah blah blah blah Batman’s gonna kill us with his eyes for entering Gotham blah blah.’ Jason didn’t really care. Jason wanted to go to the Watchtower.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Queen, Mr. Allen, but are we going anywhere any time soon? There’s a show I want to watch and I forgot to TiVo it.”
“TiVo?
TiVo?
Who TiVo’s things anymore?” The Flash exclaimed.
“Oh! Excuse me for missing out on changes in the culture while I was dead.”
“While you were
what?
”
“I said, ‘while I was-.”
Oliver Queen cut in, “
What
did you call us?”
Jason blinked innocently. It was, obviously, impossible to see with the hood on, but he was fairly certain it came across through his body language. “I called you ‘World’s Most Obvious Facial Hair,’ but I’m pretty sure that was in my head.”
Green Arrow’s hand immediately shot up to smooth down his beard, before he dropped it and shot Jason a withering glare.
“No, before. You interrupted us and called us by our civilian names.”
“Did I? No way. You’re telling me my wild guess was
right
?”
“Stop it,” Queen snapped. “How do you know who we are?”
“I was genuinely not joking about the facial hair thing. Like, maybe don’t have a signature goatee if you’re trying to keep a secret identity?”
“This is no joking matter. How do you know us? Where did you get that information?”
Jason blew a raspberry. He hoped the sound came across correctly through the vocoder. Oliver and Roy might be mending fences, but Jason’s plan heavily relied on being a petty bitch and who better to do that to than the asshole who made his son homeless?
“Hey, man. That’s dangerous information to have. People could come after you.” Flash was clearly trying to be the good cop, here. But playing any kind of cop was not going to help the situation. Jason had slapped an ACAB sticker on the Batmobile at one point. He tried to keep up a yearly tradition of vandalizing it. For old time’s sake.
“Oh no. Do you think someone might try to hurt me? I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I’ve never been in any type of trouble before, officer.”
“Stop screwing around. How do you know who we are?”
“Fine. I’ll tell you. Just--.” Jason looked around furtively. Jason shifted closer, like he planned to drop his voice to share the information. Green Arrow took a step closer.
Quietly, Jason whispered “It’s because-”
And when Green Arrow moved another step closer, he kneed him in the balls.
****
So, yeah. The Watchtower.
They’d tossed him in a holding cell and left. Presumably to get some ice for Green Arrow. He’d put some force behind that blow. He had no regrets. He’d briefly regretted not having a camera to capture the moment and then he’d remembered that his hood recorded everything and all was right in the world again.
Honestly, the Watchtower wasn’t all that impressive yet. It kind of reminded him of the Batcave, but with less angst and guano. Now, if Wonder Woman came along, that might make the trip worth it.
Who was he kidding? Kneeing Oliver Queen in balls had already made this worth it.
The doors that led to all the cells swooshed open and The Flash swooshed in right after them.
“So, I’ve got some qu-”
“I want a lawyer.”
“-estions… You what?”
“A lawyer. I want one.”
“You want… You want a lawyer.”
“Yeah. I know my rights. I’ve watched crime shows. I know how this works.”
The Flash cringed at that statement, which had been Jason’s entire goal.
“Those shows really aren’t-- Nevermind. You realize you’re in the Justice League headquarters, right? Not in a police station.”
Jason looked around as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.
“Well, gee willickers, Batman! I had no idea.”
The Flash mouthed ‘gee willickers,’ looking baffled.
“Er, Batman’s not here. He’s back tomorrow.”
It was Jason’s turn to look baffled, not that The Flash could tell under the hood.
“I… know that? What? Did you think I thought you were the Batman?”
“No! You just- you said Batman. I don’t know if you were, like, asking for him?”
Jason stared at him incredulously. This man could not be serious.
“Nooo.” He dragged out. “That’s just something we say in Gotham when we’re being sarcastic.”
“There is no way the citizens of Gotham,
the world’s most depressing city,
are going around saying ‘gee willickers’ all the time.”
Jason shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. We’re whimsical.”
Flash was looking at Jason like he’d grown another head.
“We’re-we’re getting off track. How do you know our identities?”
“Batman told me.”
“I’m serious. Did someone tell you? Have we been hacked?”
“You get hacked every other week by a seventeen year old named after a fast food restaurant, but that’s unrelated.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No. I took D.A.R.E. very seriously as a kid.”
“You’re a drug lord.” Flash deadpanned.
“I died half way through the program. Some things got missed.”
“I don’t even know what to say to that. Let’s circle back to the identity thing later. What were you doing with the Kryptonite?”
“Wasn’t mine. I was just there shooting people in the dick. The Kryptonite was a surprise.”
“Why were you--? No. I’m not getting side tracked. You expect me to believe that you just happened to stumble upon a stash of Kryptonite?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I don’t know why not. I’m a very honest person.”
“I’ve read your file. I know what you’ve done. Eight heads in a duffle bag.”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with being honest. I can decapitate people without lying. It’s called multitasking.”
“I don’t think it is, actually.”
“Is disagreeing with everything I say really the best interrogation technique?”
“I don’t think anything I say to you is going to get you to tell me what I want to know.”
“Maybe bring Wonder Woman in here. Use the lasso? Maybe then you’ll believe I’m telling the truth.”
“I have to warn you, when men joke about Wonder Woman tying them up, it doesn’t usually turn out well for them.”
“I’m dead serious. Use the lasso on me. It’ll be the closest thing I’ve had to therapy in years. And you’ll see I was telling the truth the whole time.”
“You literally said Batman told you our identities.”
Jason nodded solemnly.
Flash huffed and shook his head. “Whatever it doesn’t matter, anyway. Wonder Woman is off-world with Superman and Batman, anyway.”
“Ugh!” Jason exclaimed, throwing himself down onto his cot in a huff. “I wanted to see Wonder Woman. What a waste. I should’ve just slipped the cuffs and walked off while you guys were arguing like I planned to. The Watchtower is way less interesting than I thought it would be.”
“How do you know we call it that?” Flash exclaimed, throwing his arms up.
“I told you! Batman told me!” Jason threw his arms up in imitation of Flash.
“You know what, fine. You can just wait until the others are back from their mission and
they
can interrogate you!”
Flash turned to storm out and Jason called after him.
“Can you send Queen in next? I want to hit him in the balls again!”
****
Queen did come in again. His glare was furious and his hand was discolored from the ice he’d clearly been handling recently.
“You know,” he leaned in toward the cell, clearly trying to be threatening. But he’d never seen Dick after 36 hours awake and starting to twitch every time somebody talked at him. The younger ones didn’t know to fear that, but Jason and Bruce always started slowly inching away from him, sharing glances in some of the few shows of solidarity and connection that they now showed. “You really should tell us what you know before the others get here. They’re not as nice as us.”
“Are you seriously telling me that you’re nicer than Superman?”
“Stop twisting everything we say!”
“Stop saying stupid things!”
Queen did what could only be considered stomping on the ground like a toddler before marching back towards the door.
“Oh, come back! I thought we were bonding! I’ll braid your hair if you braid mine!”
But he was already gone.
****
Jason dozed off and on for what had to be a few hours before getting bored and deciding to break out of his cell. Maybe if they’d given him a book, he might’ve stayed in his cell like a good little prisoner. Well, that depended on how good the book was.
They hadn’t even given him his phone call! He was just going to call for pizza and direct the delivery guy to a zeta tube to further worry and baffle the resident league members, but, alas, that plan would have to be saved for a later time.
He made his way through the halls, stopping at the occasional port hole to look at Earth from above. He had to admit, it was pretty impressive. He wondered if they were ever positioned in a way that let them see the Great Wall of China.
He wandered until he found what he realized with delight was the kitchen. The clock on the microwave indicated it was about 8 in the morning. It seemed like everyone up here was still asleep, which he was sure Batman would get on them about, but that was someone else’s problem to deal with.
He dug through the cabinets, managing to find flour and sugar. The fridge revealed butter and eggs. He pulled out all the ingredients he’d need for pancakes and got to work. They were almost done when his helmet, which he’d removed and set on the counter, gave a soft trill. He’d set it to alert him once there was movement in the station.
He ambled over to it, checking the state of the bubbles in the last few pancakes he had in the pan on his way over, and looked at the alert. Seems someone (or several someones) had arrived via ship.
He plated up the last of his pancakes and poured syrup generously over them. He wandered down the hall with his plate of pancakes, not trying particularly hard to be stealthy. He left his hood behind in the kitchen. If he couldn’t go back and get it, Bruce would fetch it for him, if only to see the images it had caught of him kneeing Oliver. The man might pretend to be all ‘I am the night,’ but he secretly loved screwing with his teammates, Oliver most of all due to their history. Well, maybe Hal Jordan most of all. Hard to tell.
“-not only brought a hostile onto the Watchtower, but also lost him.” Batman’s voice growled from down the hall.
Jason snickered quietly. Batman lectures were hilarious when they weren’t directed at him.
He headed in the direction of the voice, drawn by the sounds of someone who wasn’t himself getting lectured like a moth to flame.
“-complete lack of alertness. Why was there no one on watch? Why were additional surveillance protocols not put in place? Entering Gotham in the first place was unacceptable.”
“Hey, we got a Kryptonite alert!” A voice protested.
Jason edged closer, peering around a corner and taking a bite out of the pancake he was holding in his hand. Green Arrow and The Flash were standing before Batman looking like children being scolded for being up past their bedtime and not cleaning up their toys.
“You think I don’t know what’s happening in my city? The situation was handled. Now, I have a Rogue missing somewhere on the station, no idea where the people who obtained the Kryptonite have gone, and Superman was unable to enter the Watchtower to debrief because you decided to bring the Kryptonite
here.”
“Well, how were we supposed to know that?”
“You’re meant to know that what goes on in my city is not your problem.”
“Okay, well, maybe we can shelve the lecture for later and find the murderous crime lord that’s somewhere in the Justice League headquarters?” Queen protested.
“No need.” Batman said gruffly. “He’s right there.”
Batman tilted his head to indicate Jason’t location.
Green Arrow and The Flash whirled around to stare at him. Wonder Woman turned more gracefully and leveled him with a cool glance. Jason grinned and wiggled his fingers at her around the pancake he was holding.
“Hi, Wonder Woman. Big fan! Want a pancake?”
She continued to stare at him coolly, unphased.
“You broke out of containment to make yourself pancakes?” The Flash broke in incredulously.
“Well, yeah. You guys didn’t feed me. I was starving.”
Bruce, who was sensitive to Jason’s food issues due to how he grew up, narrowed his eyes at Green Arrow and The Flash.
“You didn’t feed him?” He asked calmly. “We don’t often keep prisoners here, but we treat them humanely. That means we feed them and treat their injuries. Did you take him to the med bay?”
“What? No! We didn’t even fight him!”
“You said you encountered him in the middle of a fire fight. It didn’t occur to you that he might be injured.”
Barry shuffled backwards, inching behind Oliver without him being any the wiser.
“He seemed fine! He wasn’t even bleeding!”
Bruce turned to look at Jason. Jason returned his look with wide, innocent eyes, cheeks puffed up with a mouthful of pancakes. He chewed and then swallowed.
“Not so much as a concussion check. I could’ve died.” Jason informed him solemnly.
“Hmn.” Batman offered, narrowed eyes rapidly turning to a glare directed at the two league members he found lacking.
“Are you- What is happening here? I don’t understand.”
“No one does.” Jason said, nodding wisely.
Bruce turned his narrowed eyes on Jason, always displeased when Jason tried to downplay Jason’s importance to him.
“Pancake?” Jason offered, holding out the plate to Bruce.
Oliver snorted. “Good luck with that. He only just started accepting food from Superman. And Superman’s, like, the most trustworthy person in the world.”
Bruce maintained eye contact with Oliver as he reached out and pulled a pancake from Jason’s plate.
Oliver and Barry gaped, and even Diana’s eyebrow winged up a little. Still maintaining eye contact, he took a bite. He turned back towards Jason.
“These are good. You made them from scratch?”
“Mhmm.” Jason said around a mouth full of pancakes.
“They’re different from Agent A’s.”
“Agent A always holds back on the sugar. It’s like he thinks the world is still rationing it.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Oliver exclaimed.
“I’m having breakfast with my dad. Obviously.”
“--What? You--.
What?
”
“Obviously.” Bruce said, completely dry. “Try to keep up, Oliver.”
“What the
fuck?
His
dad?
This menace is your
child?
You raised a
crime lord?
”
“I raised a vigilante. His mother, Talia, raised a crime lord. She’s disappointed. She hoped he would follow in her footsteps and become an assassin.”
“An assassin? I’m dreaming. No, I’m hallucinating. Something in the Gotham air is making me hallucinate. Your
son?
He
decapitated eight people!
”
“Teenage rebellion.” Bruce said mildly.
“He
kneed me in the balls
.”
“Did he?” Bruce asked, sounding impressed.
Jason grinned. “Yeah. I’ve got it recorded.”
“Hm.” He said, which Jason translated to ‘we’re making popcorn and watching that when we get back to the manor.”
“Wait, so you were telling the truth when you said Batman told you our identities?” Barry said, incredulously.
“Yeah, I do that a lot.”
Bruce’s hand made its way to Jason’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll be taking my son home. He needs a medical check and a meal.”
“
If there’s nothing else?!
” Oliver exploded.
The sound of Oliver’s meltdown vanished behind the doors of the closing zeta tube, and the
whoosh!
of it taking them back to Gotham.
But Jason made sure to blow Oliver Queen one last raspberry on the way out.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“I want to adopt Sorek.”
In the ringing silence that follows his words, Jim can’t make himself tear his eyes away from Spock’s face. Spock’s reactions are subtle, but Jim considers himself a connoisseur in picking them apart—it comes in handy during situations like this.
So Jim watches, and he waits.
And he waits.
Spock hasn’t stiffened. His eyebrow hasn’t lifted. His eyes haven’t wavered from their contemplation of Jim’s own.
Jim’s almost scared that he sent the poor vulcan into shock what with his utter lack of a reaction. But then Jim glances at Spock’s mouth, and the corner twitches.
Spock is
amused
.
“You
knew
?” Jim sputters. That corner of Spock’s mouth lifts just the tiniest bit in response, and it’s all the confirmation Jim needs. “I only just realized this myself a half hour ago, and you fucking
knew
?”
“Given what I know of your behavioral patterns concerning those you deem in need of your compassion, in addition to your easily observable fondness for Sorek, I estimated a ninety-three point five six percent likelihood that you would choose to pursue this course of action,” Spock says, as cool as that. Jim’s still gaping at him. “When I came to this conclusion four point seven hours ago, I also hypothesized that you would seek my assistance in this matter, both because of my Vulcan citizenship and because I am your first officer.” He takes a step closer to his bed and gestures to the various padds strewn across its surface, “I have been preparing accordingly.”
Jim somehow gains enough control of his gross motor functions to pick up the padd nearest him and look at its contents more closely—it’s a dossier of Federation laws concerning cross-species adoptions. He looks at the rest of the padds; there’s Vulcan citizenship laws, Starfleet protocol for having minors aboard active duty ships, Vulcan adoption procedures, a transcript of the benchmark case
Ja’ri vs. Starfleet
.
"
Spock
,” Jim breathes out, completely overwhelmed by the gesture—not quite believing that Spock knows him so well, that's he's already started
researching
, that he trusts Jim with a member of his own endangered species.
He feels gutted, feels undeserving of that kind of loyalty, and for a while he has no idea what to say.
“I don’t—” he tries. “I just—
thank you
.”
“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” Spock replies. But Jim can read the amusement still playing around his mouth, and he knows that this is Spock’s way of saying you’re welcome without actually having to utter the nonsensical words.
Jim just smiles at him before turning his attention back to the fruits of Spock’s research laid out in front of him. “What’s your report on all this, Mr. Spock?” he asks, waving his hands at the padds. “How am I going to do this?”
Spock enters report mode easily, his posturing stiffening, his arms moving behind his back. “There is precedent for active duty officer to bring their offspring on long, exploratory missions when there are no options for replacement guardianship; therefore, I do not think there will be an issue keeping Sorek on board the
Enterprise
. While there has never been a captain placed in such a situation, I believe Admiral Pike would give us his support in this manner.”
“Alright, so Starfleet will be easy to handle?”
“I believe so,” Spock replies. Jim can see it the moment Spock tenses, and he knows he’s not going to like what comes next. “There is, however, a significant impediment in the form of the Vulcan High Council. Our species has never been open-minded where cross-species adoption is concerned.”
Jim’s heart sinks a little bit. Vulcans are fiercely protective of their children—especially with there being so few of them left. “Is there a way to get around their protest?”
“Yes. There are two circumstances in which they would be forced to allow you to adopt Sorek, regardless of their personal opinions. If you were granted Vulcan citizenship, or if you were able to provide evidence of a mental link with Sorek, then they would have no choice but to accept your petition.”
Jim scratches along his jaw as he takes in Spock’s words. “What would this mental link with Sorek mean?” he asks. "I thought that was something you only did with your bondmate?”
“Not exclusively,” Spock explains. “When we are young, we typically form bonds with our immediate family members that are not as strong nor as intimate as the link we share with our bondmates. I have such a bond with my father still, and my mother and I possessed a similar link, though it was not as strong due to her negligent psi rating.”
Jim thinks it over. Form a mental link with Sorek? It sounds simple enough. “So, would I just need to meld with Sorek or something? I can give it a try.”
“It is not quite so easy as that, Jim,” Spock says apologetically. “The older a vulcan grows, the more difficult it becomes to form such a link. In addition, these bonds are formed spontaneously upon physical contact. The child’s mind recognizes that of their father or mother and calls out to them. It is not a bond that can be forced.”
Jim deflates, sinking deeper into Spock’s bed. He resists the urge to lie back and burrow himself in the sheets. “So, there’s no solution?”
“You have forgotten the alternative option.” Spock says, his voice even and careful. He’s not looking at Jim anymore; his gaze is stuck somewhere over Jim’s head.
“Right, Vulcan citizenship. How do I apply?” Jim’s pretty sure the process must be a lengthy one—vulcans seem like the type of species to have a tedious application procedure.
“I do not believe application is a viable option,” Spock says, confirming Jim’s thoughts. He pauses then, and it’s a long enough pause that Jim starts to get jittery. His anticipation is only heightened by the nervous look in Spock’s eyes.
Spock inhales, then:
“However, you would be granted Vulcan citizenship immediately if you were to enter into matrimony with one who already possesses citizenship.” The words come out of his mouth quickly, and it takes a moment for Jim’s brain to slow down them down and understand them.
When he finally gets it, Jim’s pretty sure his mouth falls open. It takes him a minute to remember how to work the muscles in his jaw. “Spock…” he says slowly, his lips forming the name again after he’s said it. “Are you
proposing
?”
Spock still isn’t looking Jim in the eye, so he can’t be certain he heard correctly.
“I am well aware that the concept of a serious, monogamous relationship is quite disturbing to you, but what I am suggesting need not be so binding,” Spock says carefully. “We need only demonstrate the appearance of marriage to an extent that the High Council will not suspect duplicitous intentions. But, as I am a vulcan and we are not capable of lying, I do not believe they will have any suspicions.
“I would not suggest this course of action if there were any alternatives,” Spock adds, finally looking at Jim. He appears apologetic.
That’s what convinces Jim. “Spock, I
can’t
ask you to do this. It’s too much.”
“It is fortunate, then, that you are not asking me for anything. I am offering, Jim.”
“Spock, this isn’t like when you do all my boring paperwork, or when you lie to Bones to help me avoid my immunizations. You’ll have to
marry
me. Marry
me
, the most illogical human you’ve ever met.”
“I am not suggesting this out of duty, Jim. I am suggesting this as a vulcan who would not see one of my own forced to live with those who would not care for him. Also, you are my friend, and it is my wish to help you whenever I am able.”
Warmth floods Jim’s gut, sending tendrils of feeling all the way to his fingertips, to his toes. “Are we really doing this?” he asks.
“Yes, Jim. We are ‘really doing this.’”
Jim can’t help but laugh.
“Is there something humorous in this?”
Jim shakes his head, “I was just thinking—I’m not sure this is what your older self had in mind exactly when he told us we’d be friends.” Jim sobers quickly after that, thinking about what Spock’ll be to him now. “We’re going to get married, Spock. We’re gonna adopt a kid together.”
“Yes, Jim,” Spock says, his voice deep with some emotion that’s managed to escape from his control. Jim reaches out to grab Spock’s forearm, dragging him closer until he can pull him down onto the bed next to him.
“Well, then, Mr. Spock. Where do we start?”
The most obvious start is, of course, talking to Sorek about all this.
Jim takes the lead on this, since he’s pretty sure Sorek’s still slightly scared of Spock, and abandons Spock to begin all the necessary paperwork. And
damn
is there a lot of paperwork—marriage licenses, requests for family placement, Vulcan citizenship petitions, not to mention all the applications involved in adoption. Jim’s pretty sure he’s getting the better end of this deal. Of this marriage, too—Spock is far too good for him.
Jim waits until after lunch the next day to talk to Sorek. They return to Jim’s quarters after eating at the mess, and Jim waves him over to take a seat on his sofa. Jim sits next to him, taking a deep breath before facing him.
“Is something wrong, Jim?” Sorek asks, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“Not exactly,” Jim says. He reaches out to smooth that wrinkle between Sorek’s eyes—it only makes him frown more.
Jim chuckles a bit and pulls back. “Do you think you’d like to stay here?”
“Stay? As in remain aboard the
Enterprise
?”
“Yeah. Would you like that? I mean, I know you vulcan’s don’t actually ‘like’ things, but would you prefer that? Over having to live with your uncle?” Jim’s rambling, but he’s nervous as hell.
“I would not be adverse to this idea,” Sorek says slowly, obviously still confused by Jim’s random questioning. “But, I cannot comprehend how this would be possible.”
“It’s definitely possible,” Jim says. “I’ll just have to adopt you.”
“Adopt me?” Sorek repeats, his eyebrows flying to the top of his forehead. “Jim, this is quite a drastic measure. I would not ask you to do this.”
Jim reaches forward until he can grab onto Sorek’s shoulders, looking him in the eye to show him how serious he is. “I know this sounds crazy, Sorek, but I
want
to do this for you. I don’t want you to have to live with a Frank, not if I can do something about it. And I
can
do something about this. If you'll let me.”
Jim’s hardly finished speaking before Sorek buries himself in his chest and wraps his strong, skinny arms around Jim’s middle. The embrace is warm, and Jim laughs as he wraps his arms around the vulcan.
“I’m guessing this means you’re okay with it?”
Sorek nods against Jim’s shirt.
Feeling lightened, Jim tightens his hold around him and presses his lips to Sorek’s smooth hair.
After a long moment, in which Sorek nearly squeezes the breath out of Jim’s chest, he pulls back, blushing furiously.
“I apologize for my emotional outburst,” he says, straightening his shirt and looking away. “It will not happen again.”
Jim reaches up and pulls Sorek’s face back towards him, “Hey, listen to me, Sorek; if we do this, we need to get one thing straight first—you
never
have to apologize to me for your emotions. I get that you guys control your feelings, and I'd never try to change that. But you don’t need to explain yourself to me, okay?”
Sorek’s still blushing, but he nods. “Very well, Jim.”
“Good,” Jim says, dropping his hand back in his lap. “So, there’s something else you should know.”
Sorek’s gaze turns expectant again, and nervous.
“In order for this to work, I have to be a Vulcan citizen, and in order for
that
to happen I have to marry someone who’s already a Vulcan citizen. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Sorek’s eyes open wide. “You are going to marry Commander Spock in order to attain Vulcan citizenship.”
“Got it in one.”
“Do you desire to marry Commander Spock? I observed a degree of amiability and respect between you during your interactions, but I was unaware that your relationship was romantic in nature.”
“That’s because it’s not,” Jim says. “Look, we’re only
technically
getting married, just enough to convince the Vulcan High Council and Starfleet. We’re not
really
getting married.”
Sorek’s confusion is tangible. “I do not understand this distinction between technical and real marriage.”
Jim can’t really explain the difference to an eight year old—
Sorry, Sorek, it just means that Spock and I won’t be fucking even though we’ll be sharing a bed.
“Basically, the relationship between Spock and me is gonna stay platonic, we’re just going to occasionally pretend like we’re husbands.”
“Why would Mr. Spock agree to such an arrangement if he does not intend to take you as a bondmate?”
“Spock did a lot of research, and this is literally the only way we’ll get to keep you. But he’s willing to do it, even if it means he’ll be stuck playing house with me.”
“Commander Spock is quite loyal.”
“Yes he is,” Jim smiles. Then he gives a stern look to Sorek, “If Spock and I are gonna be your legal guardians, then you’ve got to drop all this formal crap, alright? No more commanders or misters or captains. We’re just Jim and Spock now.”
“If you wish, Jim.”
“I do.” Jim grins then and runs his fingers through Sorek’s hair, messing it up. “I think this whole parenting this is going to be
awesome
.”
Sorek pulls back, straightening his hair and glaring at Jim. “I find myself suddenly unsure.”
Jim just laughs, “Good. Uncertainty just makes it all the more exciting.”
After Spock gets off Alpha, Jim leave Sorek in his care with the pretext of making them have some vulcan bonding time, but, in reality, he just wants to go find Bones and talk about all of this. Shit’s bound to hit the ceiling anytime now—Jim’s been jumping out of his skin at every sound that comes out of his console, terrified it’s Starfleet Command or the Vulcan High Council.
As Jim leaves Spock and Sorek alone, they give him two distinct looks: Spock’s is knowing, which means he’s already realized exactly where Jim is going, and Sorek’s is panicked, no doubt nervous at the prospect of having to talk to Spock without Jim there as a buffer. But both looks give Jim the courage to initiate the potentially horrifying discussion he’s been psyching himself up for.
Jim can see this conversation going one of two ways—either Bones is going to yell at him for being an irresponsible idiot, or he’s going to get drunk enough that he can pretend not to hear a word Jim’s saying. Jim’s not certain which would be easier to deal with.
So, like Jim always does when faced with impossible odds, he decides to get it over with quickly.
“I’m going to adopt Sorek.”
Bones has barely shut the door to his office when he blurts it out, and he freezes with his back still to Jim. After a long moment, he moves again, approaching the cabinet behind his desk and pulling out a bottle of Andorian ale and a shot glass.
He sits down at his desk, still pretending like Jim’s not there, and pours himself a finger. After he’s downed two shots, he finally looks at Jim.
“So let me get this straight,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He’s looking at Jim like he’s a patient whose symptoms he’s trying to work out. “You want to adopt Sorek.
You
want to adopt an eight-year-old kid. You want to adopt a
vulcan
?”
“I know, Bones, it’s insane.” When Bones pours himself another shot, Jim takes it from him and downs it himself. He hasn’t had Andorian ale in a long time, and it burns the entire way down. “But, Bones, I can’t send Sorek back to New Vulcan. They think the best plan for his well-being is sending him to live with an uncle who already has a family of his own and doesn't give a damn about him.”
Bones raises an eyebrow. “So that’s what this is about. You can’t let the kid be raised by another Frank.”
“That’s obviously a part of it, but it’s more than that, Bones. I care about this kid. He kept me sane while we were locked up on Risa Gamma—I’m not sure I would’ve made it out of there without him.”
“And you think those pointy-eared bastards on New Vulcan are just gonna let you keep this kid because you
care
about him? Jim, you’re the captain of a starship, not to mention the fact that you’re barely twenty seven.”
“Well, you’re right. That’s definitely an issue.” Jim nods, and then prepares himself. “Unless I happened to be a legal Vulcan citizen…”
“Unless you were…” Bones repeats, his face blank. Jim can see the moment when Bones realizes where this is going. “No. There is
no
—” he sputters, his face almost comical in its disbelief and horror. “You’re
gonna
?”
“Yes, Bones.”
“
You’re marrying the hobgoblin?
” he finally manages to spit out.
Jim has a hard time containing his laughter. All of this is worth it just for the look on Bones’ face. “Think of it as less of a marriage and more of a domestic partnership.”
“And he knows about this? He
agreed
to this?”
“It was his idea,” Jim smiles. Bones gags.
“I don’t know who I should feel more sorry for—him for having to deal with your nonsense, or you for having to live with a computer.” Bones shakes his head.
But then he sighs heavily, and that’s when Jim knows he’s got his support. How many times has he heard that exasperated sigh before Bones went along with whatever reckless idea Jim had come up with?
“So you’re really gonna do this, huh?”
“It’s already done,” Jim smiles. “Spock sent in the paperwork this morning.”
“And you’re sure this is what you want?”
“Absolutely,” Jim says, making his voice firm.
Bones relaxes a bit in his chair at Jim’s confirmation. “Well, I haven’t seen you so fanatical about something since that damned Kobayashi Maru, I’ll give you that.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs again. “So, what, are you and Spock gonna play Mommy and Daddy whenever we’re on Earth or New Vulcan and then go back to Captain and First Officer when we’re out in the black?”
“Not quite,” Jim winces, thinking about all the people they’re going to have to lie to. “We have to sell this to the crew, our families. At least until I gain my permanent citizenship status.”
“Have you told Sorek about this?”
“Yeah, there’s no use trying to lie to him.” Jim smiles, thinking about how Sorek had thrown himself into Jim’s arms earlier. “Get this, Bones: the kid is actually
excited
. Have you ever seen a tiny vulcan look excited? Because, let me tell you, it’s fucking adorable.”
Bones whistles. “Well, I’ll be, Jim. I reckon you’ve found yourself a nice, emotionally-repressed family. I just have one last question. With you living together, how long is it gonna take Spock to figure out how you feel about him?”
Jim stiffens instinctively.
He’s never talked to Bones about this before. He’s never talked to
anyone
about this before. It took him a good six months to even admit it to himself.
It’s just something that’s always been there—this attraction to his first officer. It’s easy to pinpoint where
that
part of it started: the moment Spock stood up in a crowded auditorium and adjusted his uniform. But the other part—the
feelings
—he’s not sure when those started.
Staring at Spock’s long, pale fingers during chess, imagining all the different ways they could touch him, those thoughts became commonplace. But one day Jim caught himself zoning out in the middle of a conversation, just grinning stupidly at Spock and not really listening to a word he’d been saying. And Jim wasn’t thinking about sex—no, he was thinking to himself about how much he likes hearing Spock’s voice.
He thought he’d been good at hiding it.
“Am I that obvious?”
“Generally? Nah. I only notice because I know you, Jim," Bones says, looking amused. “Uhura probably knows, but that’s only because she’s scary smart. Don’t worry, everyone else is as oblivious as that soon-to-be husband of yours.”
“What am I gonna do, Bones? You’re right, we’re going to be
living
together, he’ll figure it out.”
“You could always tell him before it gets to that,” Bones says. He’s grimacing, as if it pains him to give Jim advice about it at all.
Jim just shakes his head. “Hell no. You know how Spock is with this emotional shit. I mean, Uhura left him because he couldn’t handle her emotions, how do you think he’s going to handle mine?”
“I suppose you’ve got a point there.” Bones sighs, “Well, Jim, I guess there’s not much you can do ‘cept try and get over it.”
“Get over it?” Jim scoffs. “While pretending I’m
married
to him?”
Bones has the audacity to laugh.
Jim drops his face into his hands and groans. “I am so screwed.”
The comms don’t start coming in until the next day.
Jim, finally cleared for regular duty, leaves Sorek in the care of his yeoman, Janice Rand—who seems quite pleased at the prospect of watching a cute vulcan all day and earning an extra day of leave for it—and reports to Alpha shift on the bridge. He’s barely been in the seat for a minute before it begins.
“Captain, there’s an incoming priority two message for you,” Uhura reports, turning around and shooting Jim a curious look. “It’s from Admiral Pike.”
“I’ll take it in my ready room, Lieutenant,” Jim says, standing and making eye contact with Spock. Spock stands as well. “Sulu, you have the conn.”
Once the door shuts behind them, Jim turns to Spock. “Don’t worry about talking; I know how much you hate lying, and, lucky for you, I’m quite good at it.” He tries to give Spock a cocky grin, but he’s pretty sure it comes out more like a grimace.
He’s good at lying, but he hates that he’s going to have to do it to someone he respects and admires.
Jim takes a seat at his desk, and Spock comes to stand at his shoulder, his arm brushing up against him. He’s not sure if the contact is for moral support or for the appearance of their marriage, but Jim’s not going to complain either way.
Taking a deep breath, Jim taps a few keys on his console until Pike’s familiar face appears on the screen.
“Well, if it isn’t the men of the hour.” Pike’s expression is stern, but Jim can tell there’s amusement there too—a good sign. “You’ve got Command in quite a fuss, boys.”
“You know me, Admiral—always looking to ruffle a few feathers,” Jim grins, leaning back in his chair. It presses his shoulder a little more obviously against Spock’s arm, and Pike’s quick eyes don’t miss the movement.
“You know,” he says, looking between the two pointedly, “When I made you Commander Spock’s first officer, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Didn’t you always say Starfleet needed more officers like me, sir? Officers who leap without looking?
Pike rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure marrying your first officer qualifies for that, Jim.” Pike relaxes in his chair and crosses his arms—it’s not an official call, then. Pike’s eyes look up to where Spock’s still standing. “How did he convince you to do something this impulsive, Spock?”
“I am sure you are familiar with how persuasive Jim can be,” Spock answers, pressing closer to Jim.
Pike laughs. “You’ve got a point there, Spock. Well, I guess if there’s anyone I’d trust not to let Jim push them around, it’s you.”
“I don’t push people around,” Jim protests.
A warm hand falls on his shoulder. The gesture surprises Jim, but it’s nice. He doesn’t have to fake the fond look he shoots at Spock over his shoulder.
"I guess I can see how your particular brands of madness might suit each other,” Pike says, running a thumb along his jaw in speculation. “And anything that pisses Komack off is enough to make my day.”
Jim beams. “So you’ll help us with all this legal shit?”
Pike sighs and shakes his head—it’s a familiar motion to Jim. “Yes, Jim, you’ve got my support. Now, tell me about this vulcan who has the two of you all ready to commit?”
Jim smiles. “His name is Sorek. He’s eight and already smarter than me.”
“I would not say Sorek is more intelligent than you, Jim,” says Spock. “It will take him a few more years in order to surpass you.”
“Oh, just a few more years?”
“I have just said this, Jim. Is your hearing functioning adequately?”
“And how are you going to organize this Sorek’s care?” interrupts Pike. “We don’t pay your officers to babysit your kid.”
“We have drafted an alternative shift schedule so that the Captain and I will not share on-duty hours, thus ensuring that one of us will be available to supervise Sorek at all times.”
“And Spock’s coming up with a curriculum for him,” Jim adds. “Can't let that little vulcan brain of his go to waste.”
Pike nods and looks impressed. “It sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this, Jim.”
“Well, that’s what the old ball and chain here is for, right?” Jim grins at Spock over his shoulder.
Pike shoots Spock a pitying look. “Good luck with this one, Mister Spock. And good luck to you too, Jim. I don’t think you’ll have trouble with Starfleet, but you’ve still got the Vulcan High Council to convince.”
Jim shivers just thinking about having to stare down so many expressionless vulcans. “Thanks for that.”
“Well, I’ll let the two of you get back to work,” Pike says. Then he grins, “Be sure and send me pictures from the wedding!”
Before either can protest this last request, Pike ends the communication. Spock removes his hand from Jim’s shoulder and takes a step back.
Jim turns in his chair to look at him, chuckling weakly. “Well, that went better than I expected.”
“Admiral Pike thinks highly of you,” Spock says, lifting a shoulder slightly. “I am unsurprised that he offered us his assistance.”
Jim snorts and shakes his head. “You know, Spock, I used to think you were cynical.”
“Thank you, Jim.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I know better now, Spock—you’re just as sappy and sanguine as the rest of us.”
Spock glares at him, “Insults are hardly appropriate when about to initiate marriage, Captain.”
000
A few hours later they talk with the Vulcan High Council, and it’s every bit as excruciating as Jim expects it to be. Luckily Spock takes the lead on this one, and he somehow manages to out-logic the most logical beings in the known universe.
And the parting ‘live long and prosper’ with the contained ‘fuck you’ he shoots them is probably the most badass thing Jim’s ever witnessed.
“So that’s it?” Jim asks, cocking a hip against his desk.
Spock, still seated in Jim’s chair, turns to face him. “There are still several more forms to be processed before the adoption becomes official, and we must identify a crew member who will be able to finalize our marriage.”
Jim groans at the thought of someone witnessing their unholy union. “We don’t have to have a ceremony or anything, right?”
“No,” Spock says very quickly. Jim exhales in relief. “We only require the presence of one individual to witness our union and one to legalize it.”
“So we just sign the form and that’s it? We’re married?”
“Indeed. It is quite simple.”
“Huh,” Jim nods, glad he won’t have to get dressed up or anything.
“There is one matter we still need to discuss, Jim,” Spock says, “It concerns our altered living arrangements.”
Jim’s already put far too much thought into this aspect of their marriage. “Well, I think our yeomen will notice if we don’t share a room.”
“I have come to this conclusion as well, and have found a solution. We are due for a semi-annual refit soon, and I believe we can use this opportunity to remodel our current quarters into one better suited for cohabitation.”
“Sounds logical,” Jim nods, pursing his lips. “And until then?”
“I shall give Sorek my room while you and I share your quarters.”
“How do you feel about sharing a bed?” Jim asks before he can stop himself. This is the part of their living arrangements that Jim’s brain has refused to let go of.
“That will not be necessary,” Spock says promptly. “Your sofa will suffice.”
“No way, Spock,” Jim protests. In this, at least, his motives are partially pure. “I’m not gonna let you sleep on the
couch
.”
“Need I remind you that vulcans only require, on average—”
Jim shakes his head quickly, “I don't want to hear it. We’re sharing Spock, no arguments. I promise to keep all my limbs to my side of the bed, and I'll try not to steal all the blankets.”
“Very well,” Spock says eventually, reluctantly.
Jim smiles at Spock smugly, then claps him on the shoulder, “Well, Spock, let’s go get ourselves hitched."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"Can we PLEASE sit down now, Harry?" Hermione asked after Harry had dragged her, Ron, and Neville after him while he systematically searched the entire train twice. "If you haven't found whoever you're looking for by now; you're not going to find them. And look! Ginny and Luna are in the next compartment; let's go in there."
"But…but I haven't found Professor Lupin yet!" Harry protested.
Hermione's eye twitched. "You mean to say we've spent the last twenty minutes traipsing around with all our luggage because you're looking for a teacher?"
"Uh…yes?" Harry scratched the back of his head nervously and wondered why Hermione looked like she was two seconds away from beaning him with her trunk.
"Professors don't ride the train with the students, Harry," Ron added, giving him a look that implied that he was convinced Harry had recently – or not so recently, depending on how you looked at it – suffered a severe head injury. "This is our third year; surely by now you've grasped that fact?"
"I know!" Harry did not appreciate Ron's lack of faith. "But I just thought that Professor Lupin might."
"Why?" Neville asked.
"…because he's weird like that?" Harry suggested.
Hermione sighed noisily. "At least you're not bringing your scar into it this time. Now come on, let's sit down before Harry thinks of somewhere else we can look."
"You know, you didn't have to come with me," Harry said defensively as they headed off to join Ginny and Luna.
His friends exchanged looks. "Yes we did," they chorused.
"After all, who knows what you'd get up to when left to your own devices?" Neville asked rhetorically.
"Good point," Harry deadpanned. "After all, the last time that happened, Sirius and I defiled someone's grave, burned down a house, vandalized a family heirloom, and…expedited… Binn's journey to the afterlife."
It was a measure of how often Harry said things like this that they all completely failed to react.
"I'm sure you had a good reason," Luna said cheerfully. "Except for that last one. I suspect for that you just wanted to spend some quality time with your new guardian."
"There's nothing wrong with wanting to connect to new family members, right Ginny?" Harry turned to the redhead.
She studiously ignored him, as she had been doing all summer. No matter though, they had a long train ride ahead of them and sooner or later, she'd have to talk to him – if only to hex him.
----
Sure enough the next few hours passed very quickly with Harry annoying everyone by ending everything he said with a 'right Ginny?', 'what do you think, Ginny?', or something else to that effect.
Then – just as the conductor made the announcement that they were nearing Hogwarts and might want to start changing – Ginny snapped, "Alright already, I'll talk to you if you just shut up!"
Harry beamed. "Of course, I-" He broke off as Ginny glared pointedly at him and he mimed zipping his lips.
"Good," Ginny said, satisfied. "Now you boys get out of here; we need to change."
Obediently, the boys trudged out.
"Wow, you broke through the silent treatment through sheer annoyance," Ron said, sounding slightly awed.
"And it only took three months," Harry smiled self- deprecatingly.
"Don't feel bad, Harry," Neville said, patting him on the back. "It's not like you even saw her at all during most of June and all of July."
"You can come in now," Hermione said, opening the compartment door and slipping out, followed by the Ginny and Luna.
Once inside the compartment, Ron and Neville began pulling on their robes while Harry had a staring contest with Hedwig. He was fairly certain he would lose as he didn't think owls were actually capable of blinking, but then, you never knew. As he did so, it occurred to him that he and Sirius had completely forgotten to get Ron an owl to make up for the trauma of having to actually spend time with Peter Pettigrew. Not that Ron was likely to accept 'charity' or anything like that. Speaking of owls, though…
"Hey Ron, when did your sister get an owl?" Harry asked, turning automatically to look at his friend.
"…Yesterday. Remember? I wanted to know how she could afford that, even with the remainder of the Galleon Draw paying for our school supplies and she flew off the handle and asked if I was accusing her of being a thief and…well, it only went downhill from there," Ron recounted, a little sheepishly.
"Was this when you were shopping? Because remember, Sirius and I were committing various crimes then."
"There are ice cream crimes?" Neville asked innocently.
Harry made a face at him, then remembered that he was in the middle of a staring contest with his owl. "You blinked while I wasn't looking, didn't you?" he accused. Disgusted, he turned back towards his human companions. "What's her name, anyway?"
"Pigwidgeon," Ron said gloomily. Harry blinked, surprised by the coincidence, but then he remembered: Ginny had named Ron's owl last time, hadn't she? "And how do you not remember our fight? We were still having it at dinner last night until Mum threatened to hex us."
Harry tilted his head back, trying to remember. "Really? What was I doing at the time?"
"You, Fred, and George were giving Mrs. Weasley suggestions," Neville supplied helpfully.
"Oh, that's right! She never did take us up any of them, though…" Harry said.
There was a knock on the door. "Are you guys done in there?" Hermione called.
"Yep," Harry said, opening the door for the girls to file back in.
"Did an Umgubular Slashkilter eat your robes, Harry?" Luna inquired politely.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," Harry assured her. "I've just decided that wearing robes everywhere is a very sheep-like thing to do and so I'm not going to do so except when I'm in class."
"Are you even allowed to do that?" Hermione asked, skeptically.
Harry shrugged. "Who knows? Best case scenario: I'll lose us the House Cup this year."
"Don't you mean 'worst case scenario'?" Ginny asked.
Harry snorted. "Yes, Ginny. By 'best' I actually meant 'worst', how ever did you know?"
"Oh you know, I figured all those wrackspurts you and Luna are always talking about must have set up a colony in your head and so you get confused easily," Ginny replied easily.
"Thank you for being so understanding," Harry told her dryly.
"My pleasure," she replied sweetly.
Well, at least she was talking to him again.
----
It was, Harry decided as he helped himself to some mash potatoes, almost surreal to see Sirius sitting at the staff table. It was even stranger to see casually pointing his wand at Sirius's heart while he ate and Remus keep shooting guilty looks in Sirius's direction. They really should have guessed that Remus's failure to contact Sirius once he was officially pardoned and the real story came out would be to his far too well-developed guilty complex. It had been awhile since Harry had last seen the only competent and not evil DADA professor he'd ever had and so he could be wrong, but Harry was reasonably sure that Remus usually looked a good deal shabbier than he did then. Harry would have been thrilled to see him regardless as he had missed the man a great deal in the six years he'd been dead, but the sight of him in brand-new robes was…just bizarre. Perhaps Sirius would know more. He made a note to speak with his godfather after the feast.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!" Dumbledore greeted them as he stood up. Instantly, the noisy Great Hall grew silent. "I have some staff changes to announce this year. Firstly, Professor Lupin has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
Most people had no idea who Remus was, but once Harry started giving him a standing ovation, the rest of the school soon followed suit. It looked like sheep mentality did come in handy sometimes after all. Remus looked astonished at the applause he was receiving and Snape's wand kept twitching towards Harry. Harry hid a smile. It looked like the presence of two Marauders was getting to him already and he idly wondered whether Sirius had done anything to him yet or if it was just Snape's well-deserved paranoia kicking in. After all, much as Harry loved Sirius now, when faced with the reminder of the boy Sirius had been at Hogwarts, he was forced to concede that they probably wouldn't have gotten along very well. After all, Sirius was violently anti-Slytherin while Harry rarely sought to provoke anyone as hostility found him often enough and Harry could never – not even as a first year – imagine being so irresponsible as to try to feed a classmate to a werewolf for the high crime of being annoying.
Once the applause had died down, Dumbledore continued, "As to our second new appointment, well I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties."
Harry shot his friends a smug look (after all, they hadn't entirely believed him when he revealed Hagrid's new job to them the day before) before joining in with the rather tumultuous applause Hagrid was getting, even without him…encouraging his fellow students.
"We should have known," Ron said thoughtfully after the applause died down. "Who else would have set us a biting book?"
"But you did know!" Harry protested. "I told you yesterday."
"Like Ginny told you about her owl yesterday?" Neville asked pointedly.
"Touché," Harry acknowledged reluctantly.
"And now, for our final staff appointment I am sad to inform all of you that after his many years of quality teaching, Professor Binns has decided to seek out the afterlife and so History of Magic will now be taught be none other than the recently pardoned Sirius Black," Dumbledore gestured to Sirius who – in keeping with his decision to pretend his prison stint had never happened – looked decidedly confused.
Sirius's standing ovation was lead by Harry, Luna, and the Weasley's (who had gotten to know him quite well during their month together in Egypt) and halfway through it, the applause was drowned out by fireworks that exploded and spelled out things like 'Return of the Marauders' and 'Chaos Galore'.
Harry actually had nothing to do with it, so it must have been all Sirius's doing. Remus, he noted, was looking nostalgic as he watched the fireworks, so there was progress being made on that front.
Even better, George Weasley fainted at the knowledge that one of his heroes had returned to the castle. Or he might have been testing one of his inventions; who really knew?
----
"Why are you guys following me?" Harry asked Fred and George as he made his way to see Sirius.
"Good question, Harry," Fred responded jovially.
"Better questions: why did you not tell us that your godfather was one of THE Marauders?" George demanded.
"I guess it just slipped my mind," Harry replied honestly.
"Slipped your mind? Slipped your mind? How could it have slipped your mind?" Fred challenged.
"You knew they were our heroes!" George added.
Harry cocked his head. "Did you guys ever mention that?" he asked curiously.
"I…don't know," Fred confessed. "Fred?"
"I'm not sure, George," George replied. "But he should have known anyway!"
"Absolutely," Fred agreed.
"Well you know NOW," Harry pointed out. "My father was Prongs, Professor Lupin is Moony, Sirius is Padfoot, and if you mention Wormtail in front of Sirius, he will probably hex you."
"Professor Lupin?" Fred asked incredulously. "I guess he must not be as straight-laced as I thought."
"Oh no, he is," Harry assured him. "But he's still awesome, he just needs a little…encouragement, is all."
"Why shouldn't we talk about Wormtail?" George asked. "Who is he?"
"Peter Pettigrew," Harry said shortly. "So needless to say, that's kind of a sore subject right now."
The twins nodded solemnly as they reached the kitchen.
"Why are you meeting him here?" George asked.
"Are you meeting him in here?" Fred wanted to know. "Or are you just still hungry."
"Sirius and I like the kitchens; why not meet here?" Harry asked, tickling the painting of the pears.
As the portrait swung open, Harry heard someone who sounded suspiciously like Nymphadora Tonks complaining, "Oh come on, Sirius, do I have to spell it out for you?"
"You could do that," Sirius said cheerfully. "Or you could just tell me what you're talking about."
"Why am I even here?" Remus wondered.
"Because you love me and this is the first chance we've had to catch up seeing as how you've been avoiding me," Sirius reminded him.
"I have NOT been avoiding you, I just– Hello there," Remus greeted Harry and the twins. "May I help you?"
"Can we have your autograph?" George asked.
"And yours, too, Sirius," Fred added.
"Alright," Remus looked a little surprised, but signed the parchment he was given.
"Why do you want my autograph now?" Sirius asked. "I spent August with you guys."
"But we didn't know you were Padfoot, then," George explained.
"Should I be insulted that they didn't recognize me?" Sirius asked Harry, signing his name with a flourish.
"Nah, just blame the wrackspurts," he advised.
"Ah, yes, how could I forget about the dreaded wrackspurts," Sirius grinned.
"It's why they're so insidious," Harry explained. "So Tonks, what brings you here? Are you even allowed to be here?"
Tonks shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. And don't start preaching about how I should, because God knows students aren't allowed in the kitchens, anyway."
Harry sighed. "Fine, fine…But what are you doing here?"
"I'm waiting for Sirius to acknowledge my existence," Tonks explained.
"What do you think I've BEEN doing?" Sirius asked. "I think arguing with you about whether or not I know what you're talking about is acknowledging your existence just fine."
"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it!" Tonks complained.
It occurred to Harry suddenly what she was most likely talking about. "Sirius, you're the Head of the Black Family," he informed his godfather.
"…I know," came the confused reply. "What does that have to do with what we're talking about?"
"Did you ever get around to kicking Bellatrix out and reinstating Andromeda and Tonks?" Harry asked.
Sirius paused. "That did not occur to me, no. Now that you mention it, though, I will absolutely disinherit Bellatrix first thing tomorrow morning."
"…And?" Tonks prompted.
Sirius looked blank for a second. "And…then I don't have to worry about the likes of her tainting my admittedly Dark family reputation?"
"What about me?" Tonks asked.
"Oh, don't worry, I'll reinstate you and your mother, too," Sirius said dismissively.
"THANK YOU," Tonks said, looking anything but grateful.
Clearly concerned for his fellow Marauder's safety, Remus quickly jumped to his feet. "Now that that's settled, I'll escort you out."
Tonks smiled at him. "I'd like that," she said brightly, pleased at having achieved what she'd set out to do.
"We're going to head back to the Common Room, too," Fred announced.
"Don't stay down here too long; we talked to the House Elves into sending up food for our Back to School Party," George told him.
"Alright, I'll be there soon," Harry promised them. Once he and Sirius were the only humans left in the kitchen, Harry said, "We should make Remus and Tonks spend more time together; they're a really cute couple."
"I cannot believe the word 'cute' just came out of your mouth," Sirius said, horrified. "And why would I want to set Remus up to get-" he shuddered dramatically "- married?"
"Because at least Tonks isn't boring?" Harry suggested. "Besides, I miss my godson. Surely you can understand that."
"I suppose…" Sirius agreed reluctantly.
"Why wasn't Remus on the train this year?" Harry asked. "I looked for him, but I didn't see him."
"Harry," Sirius said in his best 'responsible adult' voice. "I'm not sure if you've realized this during the eight years you've attended Hogwarts, but the teachers don't actually ride the train with the students. In fact, the only adults on it are the snack cart lady and the conductor."
"I know that," Harry rolled his eyes. "Although, in retrospect, it is horribly irresponsible to allow the entire Hogwarts population to travel together unsupervised for several hours while able to use magic. Seriously, people could get seriously injured. I've seen people get seriously injured. Hell, I've both been the injurer and the injuree in that situation…Oh, and the reason I was asking was because last time Remus was in our compartment with us on the ride to school and saved us from a couple of over-eager Dementors."
Sirius thought about that for a moment. "Hm, well, last time I was a fugitive everyone thought was after you and there were crazed Dementors on the loose. This year, nothing really happened."
"I'm kind of surprised about that. I guess I expected Pettigrew to escape custody or else, well…" Harry trailed off, embarrassed.
Sirius laughed at that. "What, you expected ANOTHER prisoner to escape from Azkaban?"
"…maybe?"
"Do you have any idea how difficult it was for ME to do it? Besides, I only managed it because I wasn't crazy-" At this, Harry coughed pointedly, so Sirius quickly amended, "Well, not overly so at any rate. I was sort of sane and I was an unregistered animagus. Now, as you're an animagus yourself, you should know how difficult it is to become one and not every idiot is capable of becoming one. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one in Azkaban. As far as Pettigrew is concerned…you, Ron, and Hermione were thirteen the first time that happened. Well, they were probably fourteen as it was the end of the year, but still! Ron had a broken leg, we had an unconscious Snape to deal with, Dementors attacked, and top it all off, Remus transformed. That was a very long string of bad luck on top of the fact that it didn't occur to any of us to simply stun him. Wormtail really is rather incompetent and as we got some competent people involved this time, there was no way he was going to be able to escape."
"I see," Harry said. "So if there isn't going to be a fugitive out to get me, what are we supposed to do all year? I…don't think I actually know how to handle having a school year without any mortal danger."
"I'm going to reconnect with Remus, you should 'get to know' him as well, I suppose we can have him and Tonks interact during holidays and any weekend she comes by to bother me, you can work on getting Ginny to at least like you, and I fully intend to drive Snape to the brink of madness," Sirius announced.
"Speaking of Remus, what's with his new robes? I've never seen him in anything new and...it's kind of freaking me out," Harry confided.
"Oh that," Sirius waved his concern away. "It would seem that Dobby accidentally replaced all of his second-hand things with brand new items after I may or may not have accidentally given him access to my Gringotts vaults and a galleon."
"How did he react?" Harry wanted to know.
Sirius shrugged. "Not well, but what can he do? His old junk is long gone by now. And like I told him, the recent fugitive and Azkaban escapee cannot possibly look better than the normal wizard with a badly behaved rabbit for at least six months."
"Which means at Christmas..." Harry trailed off.
"I'm going to blow everyone away," Sirius confirmed. "Of course, Snape laughed at that, but everyone knows that he's just jealous because he has notoriously poor hygiene."
"Does he?" Harry asked. "I always thought it was a result of working with so many potions."
"It is," Sirius nodded. "Well, partly. But there are potions that will counteract the effects of all those potion fumes. He just doesn't bother because his hygiene skills have never quite been up to par."
"Did you happen to tell him that? Because let me tell you, he looked rather homicidal at the feat tonight. What did you do to him?" Harry asked curiously.
Sirius smirked. "Nothing yet. It's going to take every ounce of my considerable self-control, but I want to wait until he's so paranoid he can't sleep before I start in on him."
"Spoken like a true Marauder," Harry grinned.
Sirius beamed with pride.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Fan Art - Chapter 30 - msrafterdark - The X-Files [Archive of Our Own]
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Chapter Index
Chapter Index
1. "Mulder, we should be working..."
2. Completion
3. Gillian's Request
4. Sweet Coffee
5. Sunday Morning
6. Sweet and Soft
7. Oh God…oh God, Mulder…
8. Act of Love
9. Breathless
10. Shirtless Mulder
11. Aftermath
12. Reconnecting
13. Wet Dream
14. Impossible Reunion
15. Wrapped in Abandonment
16. Sweet Morning
17. The Sweet Descent
18. Gentle Breath
19. Soft and Wet
20. Taking Care of Her
21. For Herself
22. Blissed Out
23. You're All Mine
24. She Comes First
25. Shared Pleasure
26. Mulder Nude Study
27. Scully Nude Study
28. Worship
29. Early Morning Light
30. Eyes on Me, Scully...
31. But Let It Try
32. How Are You So Perfect?
33. Lay back, Scully...
34. Breathe with me...
35. Tipping Slowly Over
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Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
21.
卡库并不介意被称呼为「山风」，无论是谁这样喊他都无所谓。
除了路奇。
卡库的笑脸消失了。
“你什么意思？”他问。
*发生在床上又是另一回事了。
22.
OP学园学生会 2月14日
路奇的视角：
每年卡库都会提着满满一纸袋巧克力回到学生会活动室，当着路奇的面咯吱咯吱咬着，一边打电动或者写写活动报告，如果盒子里有粉色的信件，他会看也不看直接扔进碎纸机。
“要吃吗？”他经常问路奇，甚至有一次，他把信件粉碎前想了想，问路奇要不要看看。
路奇莫名其妙，摇头拒绝了他，思索着卡库原来在学生中很受欢迎吗？他觉得卡库确实是个讨人喜欢的人，于是把问题抛之脑后继续工作了。
学生的视角：
如果在特殊的日子里你有礼物想要交给学生会长，又不敢亲手交给本人的话，可以去找副会长。好说话的副会长会和善地说“包在老朽身上”，接过巧克力和信件保证替你转交。
不过从来没有人收到过回礼或者回信，可能罗布·路奇性格如此吧。
*推荐所有人看一看OP学院里的CP9学生会设定，可爱。
23.
当罗布·路奇看着年轻人为一点小事雀跃，跟他们临时的朋友勾肩搭背时，他会想卡库生来是个拥有情感的人，但CP9的生活让他的情感没有出口，当然，也不能有出口。
罗布·路奇作为他的同事，他的搭档，一个强大的，不会动摇的同伴，是他唯一安全的情感出口。卡库可以没有顾忌地去接近他，与他筑建关系，罗布·路奇像一个巨大的空洞，任由他倾泻热情。
卡库相信路奇不会为了他放弃使命，永远不会将他置于任务之前，所以他能放心大胆地去喜爱路奇而不用担心为政府带来麻烦，甚至不会担心为对方带来麻烦——那可是罗布·路奇，他能有多少目光放在人的感情上呢？
任性的年轻人，路奇想，卡库就这样把多余的情感打包，沉沉地压在杀戮兵器的肩膀上，自己轻轻松松地上路了。
他从来没问过路奇的意愿。
24.
这是发生在他们逃亡期间的事情。
路奇和卡莉法站在甲板上。
他们没有说话，只是迎着海风吹散身侧的硝烟，生肉灼烧的焦苦气味渐渐在潮湿的水汽中褪去。夕阳洒下来，慷慨地抚摸二人飞扬的长发，金色的光斑映衬着美貌的脸颊，连阴影都知趣地掩盖他们指尖点点的鲜血。
任谁看到都会咬牙切齿地骂一声：犯下如此恶行的人为何佩戴一张如此完美的脸。
“没事了，你们进来吧！”卡库从浓烟滚滚的厨房探出脑袋，把一盘黑黑的东西倒进海里，一边大喊：
“布鲁诺说只要你俩洗一个星期碗，炸厨房的事他就不追究了——以后你俩不准接近炉子！”
25.
在焦灼与高压的任务后用对方的身体发泄压力，是他们之间不成文的惯例。
但这次实在是太累了，连轴转盯梢、跨岛追踪、两人又分开行动，连打盹都不能放松警惕。卡库在爆睡一场和爽一下中天人交战，觉得脑子里嗡嗡地都是任务和目标，急需一些激烈运动让他忘掉这些蠢事。
最终，他还是扯着路奇滚到床上——他眯起眼，在路奇的眼下也看到两抹青黑色——彼此彼此。两人气势汹汹地推搡着对方，一起跌进床铺。柔软的床垫，缠绵的布料，温暖的肉体，路奇手掌扣住搭档的脑袋品尝着。
卡库抓着他肩膀的手力气越来越松，嘴巴也不再回应，最后干脆牙齿狼狈地磕了一下，年轻人含糊地说着什么“抱歉”“大香蕉皮”之类的胡话，脑袋一歪昏睡过去。
“喂。”路奇甚至拍了拍他的脸，用力拧了一下他的长鼻子。卡库还是趴在他身上发出细微的鼾声。
路奇想靠在枕头上翻个白眼，再说几句刻薄话，但是枕头——枕头妥帖地撑起他几十个小时没入睡的脑袋，趴在胸口的卡库发出火炉一样的热量，路奇双眼沉沉，收紧手臂，把鼻尖搭在搭档毛茸茸的头顶，忘了他要骂什么。
……
“我操！”
他俩被加布拉推门的动静惊醒。
喊他俩下船的老狼烫了尾巴一样又冲出去了。
“我操！他俩干死在床上了！”
26.
小时候，卡库常常跟在他屁股后面，挥着手试图引起哈多利的注意。在少年罗布·路奇心情好的时候，他会让哈多利落到小孩的鸭舌帽上。
路奇看着跟鸽子玩耍的孩子，思考着这孩子是否太温和而不适合CP9。
半夜 储藏室
卡库把对面孩子脑袋上的枕头套摘下来，然后拿起一个巨大的手电筒照着对方的脸。
“说。”他抓着对方的领子，“是不是你偷吃了老朽的点心？——什么？真的是你！”
小孩高高举起拳头。
路奇和加布拉站在军舰的舷窗前，难得不争吵的时刻，他们聊起相熟的预备役们。
路奇：“那个孩子性格温和，听话而且黏人，这样的个性不适合CP。”
加布拉琢磨：“哪个孩子？岛上有这样的孩子？”
“卡库，你不是知道他吗。”
“哈！？”加布拉夸张地瞪眼，“温和？每回打架关禁闭都有他。什么听话，我让他跑腿拿个文件他全给我叠成船泡水了。你知道他唯一一次主动接近我是干什么吗？是他跟卡莉法打赌能不能一次拽我十根胡子！我们说的是一个人吗？岛上到底有几个叫卡库的孩子？”
路奇：“……”
路奇：“所以他拽到胡子了吗？”
27.
路人：你的猫看起来很凶。
卡库：没事，他就长这样，你可以摸，他不咬人。
路人：【惨叫】
卡库：哦……对不起，他平时不咬我的。
支离破碎的路人：真的不咬你吗？
卡库：……
卡库：至少我跑得很快：）
28.
CP当然是有收入的，更别说CP9了。虽然没有高到离谱的程度，但WG在这方面并不吝啬——只要你有命花就行。
少年罗布·路奇收到第一笔钱是厚厚一沓一万面额的贝里纸钞，他买的第一样东西是钱包。
加布拉拍着鼓鼓囊囊的口袋哄他一块出去浪，路奇没理他。他给哈多利更换了新的栖木、新的靠垫和新的餐具，订了新的衣物，然后一时想不出还有什么需要开销的地方。
“你有想要的东西吗？”他问小卡库。
卡库迟疑着说了一个地名，路奇算算日程，说可以。小孩欢呼雀跃，于是路奇拎他上了船，前往那据说充满爆米花和棉花糖和气球和摩天轮的梦幻之地。
卡库乐疯了。
路奇看他举着四根棉花糖（“这是老朽的四刀流！”），带着卡通帽子，在过山车上开心大叫着被晃得不似人形。他一路吃吃喝喝，疯玩乱跳，对一切没见过的东西惊叹。
路奇满足了他所有的要求，那么多要求加起来，一沓纸钞也只是跟擦破皮一样看不出变化。
卡库举着一个风车跑过来，把找零还给路奇，得意地绕着他奔跑，展示风车旋转时的纹路给他看。
明明只是几个硬币就能换来的东西，路奇看着他，这么一点点开销，就能让卡库高兴得疯了一样，这其中巨大的不等量让他困惑。
为什么他会为了这种事开心？
路奇看着飘荡的气球、旋转的风车和卡库的脸，咬了一口棉花糖，思考着。
至少他找到了消耗收入的方法。
29.
假如路奇和卡库在幼时并不认识。
卡库第一天到司法岛的时候，一个人站在火车站许久都没有人接应，虽然理论上斯潘达姆已经被通知到了有新成员。
他叫住一位一般路过的特工：“你知道主楼怎么走吗，我需要见CP9的斯潘达姆长官。”
特工为他带路，两个人闲聊几句，卡库笑起来：“我等不及想见到罗布·路奇了。”
“为什么？”特工问。
“为什么？为什么！？那是罗布·路奇啊。”
“罗布·路奇怎么了？”
卡库惊诧：“你真的在这里工作吗？还是说你没在冠昊生活过？”
“我很多年前就离开了。”
“怪不得。”卡库点点头，开始向对方科普：“罗布·路奇他……【溢美之词】，他小时候……【夸张的传言】，而且……【离奇的小道消息】，老朽小时候……【令人羞耻的崇拜之语】。”
“……”
“你到了。”特工把他带到司法塔六楼，“那是长官办公室。”
卡库：“谢啦，你真是好人啊，你是哪个部门的，一会要不要一起在岛上逛逛？”
特工：“你的情报搜集能力还是再练练吧。”
卡库：“？”
大厅
布鲁诺：“你见过新人了？怎么样？”
路奇回忆刚刚的交谈。
“罗布·路奇”“罗布·路奇”“罗布·路奇”“罗布·路奇”“罗布·路奇”“罗布·路奇”“罗布·路奇”……
路奇：“还可以。”
布鲁诺：“...你别笑了，很恐怖。”
办公室
卡库：“……以上就是我所有的入职手续和资料。”
卡库：“长官，顺便问问我什么时候能见到其他人，尤其是罗布·路奇。”
“你不就是跟他一起来的？”斯潘达姆看了门口一眼，“……喔，他回来了。”
卡库从窗户跳了下去。
30.
*关于OP动画《粉丝来信》中提到伟大航路有一本船大工月刊杂志
离开W7的卡库，有在玛丽乔亚偷偷订阅船大工月刊。
加布拉：我看到你在床底下偷藏杂志了，哈哈哈，你小子。
卡库肉眼可见的紧张：你不要胡说。
加布拉：紧张什么？不就是藏黄书嘛。
卡库：……
卡库：是的，我藏了黄书。
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
With Hallowe’en approaching at the end of the week, Hogwarts became lively, and the Great Hall was sickeningly decorated. Draco, however, only appreciated the pre-Hallowe’en treats the house elves slipped him when he was in the kitchens alone.
In contrast, Harry’s dreams were worsening. Sometimes, all Draco could see was darkness, and the dreams’ very emotions—
guilt
,
hurt, despair
—seeped into him. He knew Harry was there, somewhere, but Draco couldn’t find him, and no song seemed to reach.
And the times that Draco could reach out, could draw Harry into his embrace, Harry stopped crying, but he remained quiet, tense.
Draco learnt that Prongs was James Potter, Moony was Professor Lupin; Draco learnt about Tonks—yet another cousin he never knew—and about the death of Fred Weasley.
Draco saw himself, in those dreams. Watching torture. Torturing.
He always woke up with Harry’s head tucked under his chin and Harry’s face streaked with tears. Sometimes, Harry was sleep-whispering,
I’m sorry
.
It’s not your fault
, Draco thought fiercely.
It’s not
.
*
The moment the first decorations for Hallowe’en came up, Harry’s uncomfortable thoughts about Draco rapidly disappeared. He started wandering again and never woke up early enough to accompany Draco to the kitchens.
The Hallowe’en Feast gave Harry a headache. Everyone’s smiling faces, cheerful chattering made Harry sullen and angry. He escaped, feeling Hermione’s worried look against his back, but he
couldn’t
stand all the fucking happiness—didn’t they know that his parents had
died
on this day, seventeen years ago?
He growled, as he dodged yet another clump of students illegally drinking alcohol. The students and ghosts filled the corridors of Hogwarts with too much noise, leaving Harry no place to roam. He stomped through the eighth-year common room and up the stairs. Though, he quietened his footsteps as he entered the dorm room because Malfoy’s curtains were drawn up.
Even on Hallowe’en, Malfoy follows his schedule
. Harry slumped back on his bed.
He couldn’t remember much of his mum—he feared that he had false memories, conjured up from his dreams and the pictures of her he’d seen. But he was certain that one memory was true. He was safe, warm in his mum’s arms, her scent enfolding him. Her voice was a lullaby, and Harry felt himself sleep in a dream—
And then it was chaos. There was Voldemort, and he could hear Mum’s scream, and he could see the Killing curse fly towards him, sickly green, and
“No-no-no!”
His eyes opened, he became aware of a warm embrace, and he thought maybe—maybe it was his
mum
hugging him—and the War and Voldemort was just a dream—
But it wasn’t a dream. His mum had died.
Wetness welled in his eyes. The arms around him tightened. Harry saw the brief flicker of white-blond hair, and he felt the hurt easing, burrowing his head into the hand that stroked him, his face into the chest curled next to him. The person smelt of tea and paper, and a kind of male muskiness.
It’s Draco
, he began thinking, but the rest of the thoughts drifted away when he felt and heard the gentle hum of the song of the stars.
*
Harry’s dream chilled Draco. Harry remembered his mother dying. Harry remembered the strike of the killing curse.
Draco loathed himself. He’d let Harry sleep in bed, had hugged Harry in his sleep without consent. Draco was a
fucking Death Eater
, one of the followers of the very person that
killed
Harry’s parents. The Dark Lord was the direct cause of the very deaths that tore Harry up inside, and Draco had followed that man; had bowed to that man, had his mark permanently burned into his arm.
He turned the water in the shower as hot as he could, but no amount of scrubbing removed the disgust.
Harry was sleeping fitfully when Draco left for the kitchens.
*
When Harry woke up, stretching in his own bed, sunlight streaming in and rather late in the morning, waking up in Draco’s arms felt like an oddly good dream. A flush of shame filled his stomach. He wasn’t...
no
. He
couldn’t
start dreaming about those kinds of things.
The hurt in his chest felt physical, but it was alright; he was not supposed to be happy on the day he was going to visit his parents’ graves.
*
As soon as he could, Draco slipped out of Hogwarts. The moment he left the anti-Apparition wards, he apparated to the private receiving room of the Manor. Draco had barely started relaxing when he was quickly swamped by an enthusiastic Pansy.
“Draco! We’ve missed you
so
much. Are you sure you won’t transfer?”
Pansy drew back enough so that Draco could see Blaise. Draco had missed them
so much,
but where was...
Pansy followed his gaze. “Greg’s still at the reserve.” She scowled at Blaise. “
Blaise
, don’t just stand there! Merlin, you should just see him at Beauxbaton—”
Blaise rolled his eyes, as Pansy dragged Draco over to him.
“Let the man breathe, Pans,” Blaise drawled.
Draco felt his tension draining away. He was safe here. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but his throat immediately constricted and he choked.
Pansy was immediately concerned; even Blaise was frowning. “Did the curse return?” Pansy questioned. She made to examine his jaw, and Draco let her.
“Is it?” Pansy repeated.
Draco closed his eyes and nodded.
Pansy frowned and tucked a lock of Draco’s hair behind his ear. “When did it happen? Why didn’t you tell us?”
He raised his wand, and at their nods, cast a modified
Legilimens
.
When I returned to Hogwarts. I did not want to worry you—nothing could be done while I was at Hogwarts
.
Pansy sighed. “If you say so. Aunt Cissa is waiting for us in the North Orangery for morning tea.”
“Your father’s there too, Draco,” Blaise warned.
I’ll be fine.
Pansy gave Draco a wane smile and hooked her arms around both Draco and Blaise.
The North Orangery was beautifully sunlit, and gentle atmospheric charms kept the room from overheating. Draco could feel Mother’s magic hum about them. Father and Mother both sat at the table. Draco nodded to both of them.
“Draco,” Mother said. She rose from her chair and embraced him. “How are you, darling?”
Draco breathed her scent in, and for a moment, the sharp contrast between
here
and
Hogwarts
made his eyes prickle. When he didn’t reply, Mother placed a hand on his cheek.
“Draco?”
He glanced quickly to Pansy. “The curse,” Pansy said bitterly.
“Draco!” Mother pressed her hands against Draco’s cheeks, checking his mouth, and his throat. “Is it the same?”
“I think so,” Pansy replied for Draco. “Do we still have all the—?”
Mother nodded, determined. “Yes.” She guided Draco to a chair. “Sit, Draco. Have some tea.”
Draco had barely nodded before Mother gave him an absent kiss and started walking swiftly away, commanding Pansy to follow. They swept out of the room, and he knew they would return soon, with books and potions. Even
Father
busied himself, calling house elves and flipping quickly through a heavy tome.
Draco, once, tried to help, but Pansy very insistently pushed him down.
"Be patient, Draco," she chided teasingly.
After that, Draco sat (im)patiently and drank his tea, and Blaise sat next to him, demolishing the pastries the house elves brought.
Father made a triumphant sound and paced quickly over to Draco. He arched an eyebrow at Draco, in way of permission, before he cast a spell on Draco. The spell tingled, and Father nodded. “It’s the same curse,” he called out.
"Understood," Mother said, across the room.
Father nodded at Draco once again and closed his book. He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco did not know what to say—neither did Father, it seemed. In the end, Mother called Father. Father squeezed, just slightly, and he turned and walked over to Mother.
Draco swallowed, and set down his tea cup, overwhelmed with feeling. After being surround by students but alone at Hogwarts, to finally be in the presence of people who did not ignore him, did not attack him—
Father, Mother, Pansy, even Blaise.
Letters weren’t enough to convince Draco that they still cared for him. But this did.
*
After breakfast, Hermione and Ron accompanied Harry to Godric’s Hollow. Harry dearly wished for rain, but the sky remained patchy and the ground dry.
They freshened the protective charms around the graves, and Harry laid down an array of white flowers—roses, chrysanthemums and lilies. Silently, Hermione and Ron stepped away, giving Harry some privacy.
The dream had repeated in Harry’s mind since he woke up. His mother’s warmth, her scent, her voice. The Killing Curse.
Draco.
It felt so
wrong
to dream of Draco. It felt like...desecrating the only memory he had of his mother, and he felt sick for enjoying the dream of Draco’s embrace.
Why couldn’t the nightmares stop after the War ended? After all he had done, had sacrificed, couldn’t he just be
normal?
Go to school, complain about classes, and worry about a girlfriend?
Instead, he kept having nightmares, and Draco appeared in the nightmares, and he was becoming friends with Draco, but Draco never talked to him, and Slytherins were being attacked—
Eventually, Hermione placed a hand on his arm. “You said you were going to have lunch at Mrs. Tonk’s place?” she said quietly.
Harry nodded shortly, not ready to trust his voice.
Hermione patted his arm sympathetically. “Ron and I will head to the Burrow first. We’ll meet back at Hogsmeade at four, okay?”
“Yeah.” Harry forced his lips into a smile.
Hermione looked unconvinced, but let go of his arm. “Alright, Harry.” She walked back to where Ron was, and after they both waved, the pair apparated from the graveyard.
*
It was after a long while before Harry felt ready to apparate to Andromeda’s place.
He landed just beyond the front door, and he was surprised to hear a number of voices from inside. When he knocked, the door immediately opened, revealing Andromeda.
She smiled at him, stepping aside to let him in. “Hello, Harry. Just in time for lunch.”
“Hi, Andromeda.” Harry cautiously stepped in. “Who are...?”
Andromeda smiled. “They’re all in the dining room. You can hang your coat here—”
Harry followed her directions distractedly. The voices sounded vaguely familiar.
“Narcissa is here with her son, Draco, and some of his friends.” Andromeda looked at Harry. “I hope you don’t mind. I read in the papers that you and Draco have put behind your rivalries.”
Draco?!
Draco was here?
Andromeda seemed oblivious to Harry’s mental crisis as she led Harry to the dining room.
Teddy, Mrs. Malfoy, Parkinson, Zabini.
But the moment he saw Draco, it felt impossible to tear his gaze away. Unlike Harry, Draco did not look surprised to see him.
“Harry’s here!” Andromeda announced cheerfully. “Take a seat, Harry, and I’ll bring lunch.”
Harry blinked and looked at her uncertainly. She gave him an encouraging look.
Zabini rose. He looked at Harry only briefly before addressing Andromeda. “Allow me to help.”
Andromeda nodded, and the two headed to the kitchen.
Parkinson, whom had been cradling Teddy, approached Harry first. “Potter. Long time.”
Harry nodded, not knowing what to say. He accepted Teddy, and he was relieved when Teddy babbled at him, grabbing his clothes eagerly. Harry let Teddy’s tiny fist grab onto his finger. “Hullo, Teddy,” he said quietly.
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Potter?” Mrs. Malfoy said, indicating the chair across from Draco’s.
“Er, yeah, thanks.” Harry felt himself flush under their gazes. He busied himself with occupying Teddy’s attention, while trying desperately not to listen to Parkinson’s conversation with the two Malfoys.
“Hogwarts is
entirely
old-fashioned and completely behind the times,” Parkinson was complaining. “They should let you off campus every week.”
There was an odd pause before Parkinson continued, sighing dramatically. “Hogsmeade isn’t Paris, but it’s better than seeing the same bloody walls all the time. I thought I’d go mad!”
“Language, Pansy,” Mrs. Malfoy said, amusement colouring her tone. “Children pick up the oddest things, no matter how young they are.”
There was that odd silence again. Parkinson snorted. “Draco, we are going spend the entire Christmas hols
out
and I’m not taking no for an answer—hey!”
Harry looked up in time to see Draco poke Parkinson on the shoulder. She rolled her eyes back at him. Her eyes immediately met to Harry.
She narrowed her eyes, just slightly, at him. “Potter. How is Hogwarts?”
Harry blinked, momentarily mind-blanked. “Fine, I guess. No one out to kill me this year, so yeah.”
Parkinson cast Draco a look. Draco must have sent Parkinson some kind of message, because she straightened, and faced Harry again. “I—just want to apologise for what I did during the war. For trying to offer you to the Dark Lord.”
“No—that’s fine. I understand,” Harry said hastily. His gaze quickly drifted to Draco, who still hadn’t said a word.
Mrs. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to speak to Draco privately, Mr. Potter?”
Harry’s eyes widened, as Draco rolled his eyes at his mother.
“N-no, that’s fine. Call me Harry.” Harry fiddled with the hem of his jumper. “Mr. Potter sounds a bit weird.” He met Parkinson’s eyes, then Draco. “Harry,” he repeated.
Mrs. Malfoy nodded. “Harry, then. Then please, call me Narcissa.”
Parkinson gave a huge sigh. “
Fine
. Since you’re Draco’s friend. But if I’m calling you Harry, you may as well call me Pansy.”
Draco smiled, and patted Parkinson—Pansy—on the shoulder. Pansy frowned at Draco, and then leaned across the table to address Harry.
“Tell me,
Harry
, how
did
Draco convince you to cast on you?”
“What?” Harry looked wide-eyed at Draco.
Draco gave Harry an apologetic look, and stiffly turned his head away from Pansy.
Pansy poked Draco, looking annoyed. “What?”
“D-Draco didn’t cast anything on me.”
Pansy looked back and forth between Harry and Draco suspiciously. “Then how did you talk? He didn’t write everything down, did he?”
A choked sound came from Draco. Muffled laughter, Harry realised.
“What is it? Tell me.” Pansy poked Draco some more, but Draco shook his head at the table. Suddenly, Pansy huffed. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
Draco touched Pansy’s arm. With a sigh, she turned to Harry again. “Draco wants to cast a Legilimency spell.” Her eyes flickered to Draco then back to Harry. “Not that you have to. Seriously, though, it’s weird being your mouth, Draco,” Pansy added with a whine. “It’s not like you can’t talk
now
.”
“No—that’s fine,” Harry cut in. “You can cast it,” he quickly added, before realising that he didn't want Draco to read his thoughts. His head was whirring, though. Did he hear Pansy correctly? Was Draco
unable
to talk before?
Draco raised his wand with a small smile that stopped Harry’s thoughts. Harry’s eyes and forehead tingled for a moment, but dimly, Harry realised that it was nothing like Snape’s Legilimency.
Don’t worry, I can’t read your thoughts
.
Harry startled. “Wow, that was.” He frowned. “Weird.”
Pansy waved her hand dismissively. “You’ll get used to it. Now here comes the food!”
Teddy twisted in Harry’s arms at the exclamation so Harry shifted him almost upright to watch Andromeda and Zabini—Blaise, Harry supposed—enter the room with plates and bowls of food.
“Help yourself,” Andromeda said warmly. “I just need to pop back and get Teddy’s lunch.”
“Potter,” Blaise said, as he put down the salad near Harry.
“It’s all given names now,” Pansy drawled. “So he’s Harry and you’re Blaise.”
Blaise raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Blaise, hm? I was wondering what my name was.”
It was the oddest thing to feel Draco’s amusement-laughter in his mind.
Blaise, cut the pie.
“Yeah, Blaise. I want some salad too,” Pansy added, smirking.
Blaise rolled his eyes, but good naturedly did as they asked. “I’ve been demoted to waitstaff,” he said woefully. “Aunt Cissa?”
Narcissa nodded. “Thank you, Blaise,” she said, accepting the laden plate.
“And you, Harry?” Blaise asked.
Harry nodded meekly.
*
Once Andromeda returned though, the bulk of the conversation centred on her and Narcissa. Harry made himself busy by eating and fussing over Teddy. He couldn’t help darting looks at Draco though, who seemed to be returning slightly guilty looks back.
When lunch concluded, Andromeda lifted Teddy out of Harry’s arms. “It’s time for Teddy’s nap now,” she said. “Why don’t you go speak privately with Draco?”
“W-why?” Harry took a defensive step back.
Andromeda and Narcissa shared looks.
“Draco, take Harry to the study, will you, darling?” Narcissa said, placing a hand on Draco’s arm.
Yes, Mother,
was Draco’s voice in Harry’s head.
Come on Harry, we better do as they say.
“We’ll be in the lounge, Draco,” Pansy said. She and Blaise were already up.
“I guess so...” Harry said. Draco nodded.
In the study, Draco leaned against the table, and Harry against the closed door.
Mother and Aunt Andromeda want us to talk, so I suppose you should talk
, Draco said, breaking the silence.
Harry frowned though. “But that’s the thing—why don’t you talk? What was Parkin—Pansy talking about?”
Draco visibly swallowed. “Sore throat.” He winced, and so did Harry. His voice was dry and raspy.
Harry stepped away from the door, moving towards Draco. “But it’s not because you’ve been sick for the last month, is it?”
No. I—
“Yeah?” Harry prompted.
Draco grimaced.
It was a curse. Every time I tried to speak, my throat would close up
.
“What?” Harry had crossed the room now, standing just a few steps from Draco. “That’s—terrible. Who would do that? And how could you spell?”
Draco shrugged.
Nonverbals.
It’s fine, the curse is broken now. My throat is just a bit rough.
Harry though was
not
done with it. “I feel like a fucking idiot. I should have known you wouldn’t not talk if you could—”
Fuck off!
“—yeah, yeah—and all those times I pretended to be you—” Harry flushed. “I must have sounded really stupid.”
Loath as I am to say this, you are
not
an idiot. There was no reason you should have known, and I never told you
. There was an odd light in Draco’s eyes as he crossed the last distance between them. He reached out, touching Harry lightly.
And I—I greatly appreciate what you did. Thank you.
Harry stared into Draco’s eyes, closer than they’d ever been, grey and silver glints. He was aware, suddenly, of Draco’s height—just taller than him, making Harry tilt his head back to meet Draco’s eyes.
“Okay,” Harry finally whispered.
Draco stepped away, and Harry tried not to follow his warmth. Harry scrambled for something to say. “About the curse...”
Do you really want to know about the curse?
“
Yes
,” Harry said strongly.
Draco gave him a suspicious look.
Do I have your silence? To not run off and do something ridiculously
heroic
afterwards?
*
Draco could see Harry struggle to say yes. There were reasons why Draco hadn’t told Harry about it, and one of them was to avoid being Harry Potter’s pity project.
“Fine.” Harry said. He tugged at the bird nest on his head. “I won’t tell anyone. And I won’t run off. Unless you let me,” he added.
Draco scowled.
I mean it
.
I’ll bloody book you a personal dinner with the Giant Squid if I have to.
Harry looked back at him defiantly. “I mean it too.”
Of course you do
. Draco turned and sat down on the sofa. It was too squishy for Draco’s liking, and he struggled to relax. After a moment, Harry joined him.
It was after the trials. Within the hour you returned my wand
. Draco kept his gaze fixed at the far wall.
Not everyone wanted me freed
.
Harry shifted beside him. “I—”
Draco shook his head.
You, Potter, don’t count. Most people do not have a hero-complex
. Draco could remember it clearly. He was still dazed from being told that he wasn’t headed for Azkaban and from the familiar warmth of his wand—a wand that still recognised him despite its brief stint in Potter’s hand. Potter had left quickly, just after Draco had forced out a thanks at his mother’s request.
There had been a lot of shouting, and a lot of screaming. Guards had surrounded him and his parents, to accompany them out of the courtroom and to the nearest Floo. But the guards weren’t vigilant enough. Or perhaps it was one of
them
whom cast it.
After you left, someone cast a spell. It hit me. They might having been aiming for my father, but—it hit me on the arm. It was only a brief sting, and in the chaos, I did not notice anything more.
Draco breathed.
The guards pushed us through the Floo, and Mother called out the destination. And then, when I tried to speak...I just started to choke.
Draco turned to Harry and was surprised that Harry’s gaze was fixed so firmly on him. Draco tried to relax, to break the tension.
It was all quite shocking and scary, I assure you. I had to write things down, or have Legilimency cast on me whenever I wanted to say something. I, of course, eventually found this modified-reverse-legilimency, and became
stunningly
fantastic at non-verbal magic.
Draco looked at Harry pointedly.
You may clap, minion.
Harry cracked a grin and clapping obligingly. “Amazing,” he added.
Draco nodded imperiously, and continued when Harry stopped clapping.
Then we—Father, Mother and I—found the curse and determined the cure. So I could speak by the time I returned to Hogwarts, September.
“You said ‘Potter’ to me at the Welcome Feast,” Harry said slowly.
Yes.
Harry’s eyes darkened. “Then someone cast the curse at you again. Maybe the same person—or group of people.”
Draco reluctantly nodded. It was on his way to the first breakfast at Hogwarts. A cluster of seventh years came up from behind and—the rest was the past. Draco rolled his shoulders and stood up.
Now you know the story. I think that’s enough talking.
“But—you can’t just leave it—” Harry protested, quickly following Draco. “If you weren’t so amazing at non-verbals, you’d be almost be—be without magic.”
Undoubtedly their intentions.
Draco turned sharply.
Look, it’s over. I can spell, I can talk and their plan failed miserably. There’s nothing more I can ask for. And you gave your word, Harry
.
Harry startled, green eyes widening. “But—”
You gave your word.
Harry visibly deflated. “Is there anything I can do?” His shoulders slouched, and his head bowed minutely enough that he peered at Draco through his lashes.
Draco was struck with the image of Harry in his dreams. Defeated. Meek. It was a far cry from the person standing in front of him, but it was a reminder of Harry’s horrid childhood and Draco lost the resolve to snap back.
Look, Harry, I just want to get through the school year.
Draco huffed.
But if it makes you feel better, I am not adverse to having the Saviour-of-the-Wizarding-world as my personal guard. You’ll have to follow me around, always half a step behind me to the left and watching out for miscreants. And at night, you’ll have to stand outside the door and watch out for more miscreants, and at meal times, you’ll have to taste my meals in case of poison and—
Harry laughed. “Okay, got it, your Highness.”
Draco smirked.
I like that. You may continue calling me
your Highness
. Or perhaps
your Majesty
. Or Draco Malfoy, the greatest wizard on Earth.
"
May
be," Harry said dubiously, but he was grinning again.
*
After that, they returned to the lounge room, where Andromeda was already setting up some wizarding board game. Harry had a surprisingly good time, even if everyone was thoroughly thrashed by Andromeda. Once Teddy woke up, Andromeda and Narcissa retired whilst Harry and the Slytherins (or, ex-Slytherins) entertained Teddy. Winners were determined by what hair colour Teddy had, but it was hard to tell, since Harry, Blaise and Pansy all had black hair.
Harry was reluctant to leave first. After all, who knew what
those three
would be plotting the moment Harry was gone? But eventually, time cut close and Harry had to go.
“You’ll come over during Christmas won’t you, Harry?” Andromeda asked, leading Harry to the door.
Harry smiled. “Yeah.”
Andromeda smiled back. “It was good seeing you today. Now, look after yourself.”
“I will,” Harry promised, and turned on the spot, apparating to Hogsmeade.
*
“Harry, you’re almost late!” Hermione was the first person Harry saw.
“But he
isn’t
late,” Ron interjected, rolling his eyes.
Hermione ignored Ron. “Did you have fun at Mrs. Tonks’?”
“Yeah.” At Hermione’s and Ron’s expectant faces, Harry elaborated. “Narcissa Malfoy was there too, along with Dra...” Could he call them by their given names?
Yes
, he thought firmly. “Draco, Pansy and Blaise.”
Ron reddened. “Really? First name basis now?”
“They’re not so bad when they’re not out to hurt you. Or with a Teddy in their midst,” Harry said defensively.
Hermione gave him an unreadable look, then smiled. “I’m glad you had a good time. Everyone else is already at the Hogs Head.”
Harry nodded and was content to follow their lead.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"IT'S FINALLY HERE!" George yelled a week and a half later at breakfast.
"SAVE ME, HARRY!" Fred begged.
Harry winced as they were only sitting three seats down from him and looked up to find that the post had arrived. To be more specific, it appeared that Molly had finally gotten around to creating the perfect Howler. Harry knew from years of her acquaintance that the longer it took after an incident she didn't approve of to receive a Howler about it, the worse it would be. Idly, he leaned over and muttered, "Muffliato" as he tapped the smoking red letter.
"You're a lifesaver, mate," Fred told him seriously.
"I know," Harry agreed.
"Hey, it looks like you made the front page again. It's about the Playoffs this time," George said, eyeing the Daily Prophet that had just been dropped in front of Harry.
Harry Potter and the Pentawizard Playoffs
By Rita Skeeter
"That sounds like the name of a book or something," Harry complained. "Although that is an idea…"
"Doesn't the Daily Prophet have any other reporters?" Fred wondered.
"Maybe they're on hand to check her facts," George suggested. "She spelled Krum's name wrong in her notes and didn't even bother getting Cedric's, so if that's in there then we'll know SOMEONE edited it."
Harry Potter is a fourteen year-old-wizard attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That is probably the first introduction he's been given since that dreadful night thirteen years ago that both orphaned him and freed us all.
Potter has been known by many appellations since then. The Boy Who Lived. Gryffindor's Golden Boy. The Boy Who Silenced. Hero. Pentawizard Playoff Champion.
As everyone is no doubt aware by now, the Triwizard Tournament was initially scheduled to take place at Hogwarts this year and Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory were accordingly chosen to represent Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts respectively. Then something unexpected happened. Fred Weasley was chosen to represent the newly founded Harry Potter School of Awesomeness and Harry Potter himself was chosen to represent an American school.
Harry's new Headmistress was not available for comment, but the Headmaster of the Harry Potter School of Awesomeness – our very own Gilderoy Lockhart – had this to say," Fred is an outstandingly creative, albeit unconventional, student and he has my full confidence."
Weasley is not alone in his promise. Krum is an international Quidditch sensation from Bulgaria, Delacour is the daughter of a prominent French official and widely rumored to be part Veela, and Diggory is the top of his class and the son of an important ministry official.
How does Potter stack up against this? Very well, actually. His test scores have declared him a prodigy, but he hasn't let it go to his head. A close friend of Potter's, Draco Malfoy, had this to say, "Harry's a good guy who doesn't take life too seriously. Of course, I can't vouch for his sanity, but we all have our faults."
When questioned about his entry into the Playoffs, Potter insisted that although he did enter to challenge his abilities, he only entered under the school bearing his name and his nomination as an American candidate surprised him as much as anybody else. Is this a conspiracy? Are the Americans trying to steal some of Potter's glory for themselves? This reporter intends to find out.
Potter is most often found in the company of his three closest friends, Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Muggleborn Hermione Granger. Granger, along with the youngest Weasley, Ginevra, and the daughter of the Quibbler editor, Luna Lovegood, are the three stunningly pretty teenage girls competing for Potter's affection. Which one will be his source of strength throughout the Playoffs and, ultimately, win his heart? Only time will tell.
"Well that's just…" Harry trailed off, searching for the right words. "At least there's no mention of me crying this time."
"You cried during your interview?" George asked skeptically.
"Oh God no," Harry assured him. "I guess threatening to sue her for libel paid off then."
"Hey, Harry, do you have any idea what the first task is going to be?" Fred asked. "I know they said they want to see how well we adapt to high-pressure situations and all, but if your scar has any idea then that would be great. The best pranks involve a good deal of preparation, you know."
Harry snapped his fingers. "Oh, right. Follow me." With that, Harry made his way to the Hufflepuff table. "Hey Cedric."
"Nice article," Cedric greeted him. "I notice it was very interested in your love life and the other contestants and I seemed kind of like an afterthought. Well, except Fred, but then he was from the HARRY POTTER school, so…"
Harry shrugged. "You should be glad you made the article at all. I think they actually hired fact checkers after that one time I sued them for libel."
"Because of those articles about your secret life as a drag queen?" Cedric asked. "I remember those."
Harry grimaced. "So do I, unfortunately. I think that's why they avoiding mentioning the fact that my 'school' is girls-only. Anyway, my scar knows what the first task is so if you want to know, I'd suggest you follow me."
Cedric immediately stood and followed him out of the Great Hall and into a deserted classroom.
"What's he doing here?" Fred complained.
"Yeah, where's your Gryffindor Pride, Harry?" George added.
"Sorry guys," Harry said apologetically. "But my scar has no Gryffindor Pride and it won't tell me what the task is unless I tell you both, so…"
"So what is it?" Cedric inquired.
"Dragons," Harry said simply.
"I must be going deaf," George announced.
"Me too," Fred said. "Because I could have sworn that I just heard you say 'dragons.'"
"There is no way in hell Dumbledore would expect us to fight a dragon," Cedric said flatly. "I refuse to believe it."
"No, we're not fighting them," Harry agreed. "Although that might actually be easier, all things considering."
His fellow champions and George all paled considerable, wondering what could possibly involve a dragon but be worse than fighting it.
"We're supposed to steal a golden 'egg' from nesting mothers."
"You know, now that I think on it, fighting a dragon wouldn't be all that bad, really," Fred said, sounding strangely high-pitched.
"Don't worry, we'll think of something," George assured him.
"You're positive?" Cedric asked seriously.
Harry nodded grimly.
Cedric closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Shit."
Harry shrugged apologetically and hurried off to Potions.
On the way he ran into Luna. "I got a reply from the Headmistress," she told him.
"Really?" Harry was curious. "What did it say?"
Luna just smiled at him and continued on her way.
When he got there, he found the Slytherins 'discussing' the article and was immediately grateful at how much…milder this version was than the previous one. Even if he didn't really remember what the first article Skeeter had penned about him had said, he knew it had been painful. And that had been when she'd been on his side!
"Stunningly pretty? GRANGER?" Pansy was shrieking. "What was she judged against – a chipmunk?"
"I wouldn't talk if I were you, Pansy," Harry said as he came to stand behind his rather vexed Muggleborn friend. "Seeing as I heard you came in third."
----
Seeing as how Harry already knew what the task was and what he would be doing against it, he opted for sleep rather than meeting Hagrid and seeing the proof of it once more. He was kind of curious what fifth kind of dragon they would be flying in, but not enough to get out of bed for it. After all, he was a growing boy. Kind of.
The day of the First Task, McGonagall personally escorted him there. "Now don't panic," she told him. "Just keep a cool head…we've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand…the main thing to do is just do your best and nobody will think any worse of you. Are you alright?"
Harry snorted. "Why Professor, anybody would think that trying to steal an egg from a nesting mother dragon was dangerous and kind of irresponsible to ask of a fourteen-year-old."
"You know?" McGonagall looked surprised. Harry merely tapped his forehead and she sighed. "Of course."
"Don't sweat it; I'll be fine," Harry promised. "Besides, if I don't kick some major ass on this, Draco and the Hufflepuffs will never let me live it down."
"If you're sure," McGonagall said dubiously.
"I am," Harry said firmly. "Thank you for the concern, though."
McGonagall nodded jerkily and left him at the entrance to the tent.
"So…am I the only one who thinks that just by showing up we should probably be put on suicide watch?" Harry said brightly as he entered the tent, breaking the gloomy atmosphere.
"You should have been on it the minute you went after that troll third year," Cedric said frankly. Huh? Third year? That had been his first…right, Cedric was two years older.
"How can you be zo calm?" Fleur demanded. "We could very well die!"
"In the first task?" Harry asked incredulously. "No way; if I die I'm going to do it at the third where all the press is."
"Professor Lockhart recommended much the same thing," Viktor said. "I vasn't sure vhether he vas serious or not, though."
"Well, he's not Sirius," Harry made the obligatory pun, "but you should take him seriously. If you want your death to be remembered, going during the third task is the way to go, right Cedric?"
"Why are you asking me?" Cedric asked.
"Graveyard?" Harry said, seemingly random.
"Run like hell," Cedric replied, having been asked this a good four dozen times since he'd been chosen as a champion alone.
"I don't vant to die during the Playoffs at all," Viktor protested.
Harry shrugged. "Then don't worry about it."
"Only champions in the tent, boys," Ludo Bagman said, eyeing Fred and George, who were plotting in a corner. "Now I may not know which of you is which, but only one of you is a champion."
"About that," George said. "The Goblet of Fire said that the champion was 'Fred Weasley' and I legally changed my name last week, so I am now, legally, 'George Fred Weasley' and as such I am entitled to compete as well."
Bagman looked gobsmacked. "I'll…have to run that by the other judges, certainly, and I'll get back to you before it's your brother's turn. Now, the task is to collect a golden egg from a nesting dragon. There are five models and you will pick a miniature of the dragon you will face out of this bag." He waited, but the champions (and George) all spectacularly failed to react. "Oh come on," he said, annoyed. "You could at least pretend to be surprised!"
Obligingly, Harry gasped. "Gosh, this has got to be the most unexpected event I've ever encountered! Dragons? I don't think I've even seen a dragon!"
"That's a little over-the-top, don't you think?" Cedric asked.
Harry shrugged. "I'm reacting for six people here; take it or leave it."
Fred was the first to choose and got the Welsh Green. Cedric was second with the Chinese Fireball. Fleur was third with the Swedish Short. Harry actually got to pick this time but somehow ended up with the Hungarian Horntail again. Viktor was last and he got the previously unseen Peruvian Vipertooth. Harry thought it was kind of strange that while everybody else got different dragons, he was stuck with the same one – and the hardest, too – but then again it might be kind of odd if none of them were a duplicate.
When Bagman pulled him outside for a 'quick word' right before running George's name change by the other judges, Harry cut him off with some advice. "If you're betting I win the Playoffs, make sure that your bet does not preclude a tie. I don't really see that happening, but you never know. I have been known to be stupidly noble like that."
Cedric and Fleur, Harry presumed, did the same thing against their dragons as he didn't see why anything he did would have made the do otherwise. Fred and George's attempt – apparently the judges had voted in favor of letting them both compete? Strange – lasted less than five minutes and Harry had to admit that he was curious about what they could have possibly done.
Then it was his turn. Sure, he was older and wiser now and probably could have done something spectacular…but on the other hand, he REALLY liked to fly. And he was amazing at it, so why should he mess with success? And just to avoid the uncomfortable standing around with everyone wondering what he was doing or if it worked, he had Neville bring his broom down with him, so he only needed to summon if from the crowd.
After flying around for a bit and successfully irritating the Hungarian Horntail to the point where she left her nest to go chasing after him, he totally copied Viktor (who, since he had yet to go, would look like he was copying Harry) and cast a Conjunctivitis Curse at the dragon before swooping back down to grab the egg. Since – unlike Viktor – he had the sense to lure the dragon away from the eggs before casting the curse, she didn't smash any of the eggs so his precious points should be secure.
"What did you guys do?" Harry demanded as soon as he saw the twins. "And why is Luna a judge?"
"I transfigured a rock into a sheep and stuck a modified canary cream on it. When the dragon ate it, it transformed into a canary, Fred grabbed the egg and threw it to me," Fred explained.
"If it turned it into a canary, how was it modified?" Harry asked, feeling oblivious.
"Because they don't normally work on dragons," George explained.
"We needed two people because while I was getting the distraction/immobilization ready, Fred was sneaky closer to the nest and then since the canary cream only lasted for a minute, it was all we could do to get it back to safety before it transformed back," Fred continued.
"As for Luna, when George and I went out there to see if he could compete, Luna explained that even though the Headmistress for the Salem Witches' Academy was too busy to come personally, she had authorized Luna to act in her place and that included judging," George concluded.
"Wow," Harry said admiringly. "I should have thought of that."
"That may have been too insane even for you," Cedric suggested.
Harry shuddered. "Don't say that!"
At that moment Krum stormed into the medical tent. "I did not copy you!" he hissed.
"I never said you did," Harry pointed out, confused.
"They do," Viktor said, gesturing towards the crowd. "And this despite the fact I could not even hear vhat vas going on from the tent!"
Harry shrugged. "Sorry." With that, Harry went to go find his friends to see if they could tell him how the other champions did.
Apparently Cedric had just managed to avoid an injury when the dog he'd transfigured a rock into lost the dragon's interest, but his shirt did catch on fire, much to the delight of all of his fangirls when he was forced to remove it. Fleur managed to avoid getting her skirt on fire this time and as for Viktor…half his eggs still got smashed.
Madame Maxime gave Fleur ten, Cedric, Fred, and Harry a nine, and Viktor a five. A little favoritism, but one point (or two, given the Second Task) wasn't going to win or lose anyone the Playoffs. Crouch gave Harry a ten, Krum a five, and everyone else a nine. Dumbledore gave everyone a nine except for Viktor, who got another five. Bagman gave Harry a ten, Fleur, Cedric, and Fred a 7, and Krum yet another five. Karkaroff gave Viktor a ten and everyone else a five. Lockhart gave Harry and Fred both a ten, Fleur and Cedric an eight, and Viktor a five. Luna, after some long hard deliberation, gave Fred a ten for creativity, Harry an eight for showing off, Cedric and Fleur a nine for a solid performance and Krum a five.
"Vhy vas it alvays a five?" Krum wondered.
Harry shrugged. "You smashed half the eggs you get half the points. That sounds fair."
"So that's Fleur with 57, Cedric with 56, Fred with 59, Harry with 61, and Krum with 40," Hermione announced.
"And I'm currently winning because I have TWO people with blatant favoritism on my side. Although it pains me that my own school representative voted against me…" Harry said, shaking his head ruefully.
"That's what you get for showing off," Luna said sternly.
"Isn't that the point of the Playoffs?" Harry demanded.
"You were taking requests," Luna pointed out.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The Justice League knew one thing for certain about Batman: he didn’t trust
anyone
. They said it as easily as they would say any other fact. The sky is blue, Flash needs to eat, and Batman doesn’t trust.
They were comfortable with the fact that out of everyone on Earth, they were probably the closest there was to people that Batman
trusted
.
~~
They were in chains, watching as a bomb counted down.
15…
Superman tugged at his restraints, somehow unable to get out of them. A glance at the rest of the League showed them to be in the same position, despite their various enhancements and strengths.
12…
They wouldn’t be able reach it in time. Even if they somehow
did
manage to get out of the chains, it would be too hard to disarm the bomb in the time that would be left.
11…
“We won’t be able to make it,” Flash realised with dread.
They watched in horror as it continued to count down, and finally Hawkgirl was the first to stop struggling. “If we must die, at least we will die with honour, amongst fellow warriors.”
“I would kinda prefer not dying at all,” was the response as it continued to count down.
As soon as that was said, a large blue and black blur flipped into the room, running towards the bomb. The figure stopped for just long enough to send the League a thumbs up. At this point, however, it was more likely that they were enemies than allies. As soon as that was thought though, the bomb stopped ticking and instead there was a loud beep.
“Ha! Got it,” the man said. Then he turned back to look at the Justice League, a large smile on his face. His gaze fell on Batman and he crossed his arms, going as far as to raise an eyebrow.
The man had black hair, with a tight black body suit. The only colour on it was blue in the shape of a large bird, stretching over his chest, and blue streaks on his knuckles. His eyes were covered by a blue domino mask.
“Hey, B, you do realize that
cellphones exist
, right? I’ve literally just moved across the river. Call once in a while.
It doesn’t have to be this dramatic,
” he said as he waved at the bomb behind him, walking to help them out of their chains.
Batman frowned, and the figure stopped untying them to put a hand on his hips. “It’s been a while, huh?” he said, and they looked around at each other trying to figure out who he’d been talking to.
Batman stared at him, and the figure crossed his arms. “You know, a thank you would be nice. It’s not like I just saved your life or anything.”
Batman nodded his head at him, but didn’t do anything else.
“C’mon, you can do it. Words. Thank you, Nightwing.”
Batman sighed, and then in a longsuffering voice, “Thank you, Nightwing.”
The rest of the League looked at each other in confusion. By this point they were speechless.
“It’s been a few months, hasn’t it? I wonder, when
was
the last time we talked?”
He looked at Batman, a challenging look on his face. When Batman didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone.
“Three months. And that was for
work
.” He rolled his arm. “We should really catch up sometime, shouldn’t we?”
When they were all standing on the ground, he stepped back and looked at Batman again.
“How about we do brunch, Friday at 11.
That
safe house in Bludhaven. Bring your new friends!”
And then, without waiting for an answer from Batman, he backflipped out the window, and they could all just
feel
Batman rolling his eyes.
They stood in silence for a second, staring at where he had been just before.
Then, a barrage of questions. “Who
was
that? Do you know him?
How
do you know him? Was he another Gotham vigilante?”
Batman ignored them all, instead choosing to turn away and try to get out his grappling hook.
“No, no, you can’t just drop something like that on us and then
leave
. Who was that?” Barry crossed his arms. “I, for one, am not finishing this mission until we know.”
He was rewarded with a batglare, but Batman shook his head and answered anyway.
“That was Nightwing,” he said, in a tone that showed that he thought that it should have been pretty obvious.
He then turned back and, ignoring everyone else, got out his grappling hook again as he got ready to leave to continue the mission.
Before he could leave though, he heard Diana yell after him, “We’re going to the brunch whether you like it or not!”
~~
‘
That
safe house in Bludhaven’ turned out to be a run-down apartment in what had to be the worst part of town, even just judging by what they could see.
When Barry pointed this out, Nightwing just laughed. “It’s Bludhaven.
Every
part of town is the worst part of town,” he’d replied as if it was somehow normal.
They were all sat down around a table in costume, Batman and Nightwing sitting next to each other as the rest of the League eyed them suspiciously.
There was a lot of food on the table, which, seeing how Barry was eating, was probably a good thing. Before picking up any of the food, Batman had eyed Nightwing warily, who just laughed.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t actually cook anything. I stole it from Jay.” That seemed to satisfy Batman, who had started to eat after that. The superheroes had then started to make small talk amongst themselves.
“So, like. Who actually are you?” Green Arrow finally asked, looking at Nightwing.
“I was waiting for that to come up,” he said to himself. “Like I said, Nightwing. I’m Batman’s first lovechild with justice!” he said and started laughing. Batman just turned away, not saying anything in response.
Martian Manhunter then spoke up. “I was not aware that Batman had a child.” He said it so calmly that no one was sure whether he was just joking, or if he had picked up a loud thought in the air. However, they all nodded and muttered their agreement.
Nightwing stared at them for a second, as if they’d said something completely ridiculous, before he started laughing uncontrollably.
And kept laughing, and he’d fallen over in his chair. He made no effort to get up, and just kept laughing.
Batman started moving closer to him and took out a small spray bottle, but Nightwing just shook his head and kicked him away. “Stop it, B,” he said as he tried to wipe his eyes, “I’m not hit by Joker gas or whatever, this is just…
oh my god
,” he laughed again, “This is the funniest thing I’ve heard in
ages
. ‘I wasn’t aware that Batman had a child,’
oh my god
, B without kids,
he wishes
.”
Batman moved back and sat in his chair. “We get it; you can stop laughing now.”
“I
really
can’t.” He tried to wipe his eyes again, but was stuck on his mask. He shook his head and turned back to the Justice League, trying to usher them out the door.
“I’m sorry, it’s just,” he chuckled to himself again, struggling to catch his breath as he turned to Batman. “We’re so
glad
you’re
socialising
now, Batman.”
With that all eyes were on Batman again. Superman was the first to say what they were all thinking, as he raised his eyebrow.
“…
We
?”
Batman was gone before he’d even finished the word.
~~
No one sees Batman again until the next League meeting, not for lack of trying. The other human members had gone in their civilian identities to Gotham, trying to have a chance to question him, but each time they came back empty-handed.
A few had gone back to Bludhaven to visit Nightwing and try to ask him about it, but he’d just shook his head and laughed.
“I’m not ruining this, absolutely not. This is the best entertainment I’ve had for ages,” he said each time, before flipping back to whatever he was fighting.
They knew Batman was still at work, though. He’d been in the news for defeating some villain or another in Gotham a couple times, and they all knew what that meant.
He was avoiding them.
Usually, they’d have thought nothing of it. It was Batman; he had all sorts of strange habits. Even Martian Manhunter, who could
read minds,
had given up on trying to figure him out. However, this time they were seeking him out for a reason. They
had
to know.
Even at the meeting, he doesn’t say a word about Nightwing, or any other “child” he might have. He’s focused completely on the mission, and tries to ignore any questions they have.
But then the mission leads them to a place that makes them
think
they’ve figured it out, for a few seconds at least.
It was an unusual mission; someone was running around a heavily populated city, and was going around picking off a
very large
number of politicians who were rumoured to be corrupt, as well as the occasional criminal. It wasn’t something that the League usually went for, but it had been a slow week. That might have usually been good, but just because there were no villains running around didn’t mean that they could slack off.
It took them a while to find the guy behind it, but when they finally got a look at him it seemed like it should have been a lot easier; he looked like he could be no older than twenty, with a red helmet, motorcycle jacket and a few guns – and for some reason he also had a red bat, similar to Batman’s, on his chest.
And somehow he’d been doing it all
on his own
.
The League showed up when he was about to take out the next guy, and he took one look at them and groaned.
He looked around at them until he found Batman, who was –
suspiciously
– at the very back of the group. The teen glared at him (or so they assumed; it was hard to tell with the helmet) for a few seconds before groaning again.
“Oh my
god
. You’ve got to be fucking
kidding
me, what the fuck. I thought I told you to keep out of my business, what is this,” he gestured to the Justice League. “Seriously, were you listening to a word I told you? Fuck, this is why I don’t come home if I can help it.”
Batman put his head in his hands, which on its own was out of the ordinary. As the teen continued to rant, he shook his head, before growling out a simple, “
No
.”
The teen stopped his rambling and instead put a hand on his hip.
The thought passed through the entire League’s head at once.
They’re related
.
It made sense, in a way. That must be why he didn’t talk about his kids; one was a murdering vigilante.
Flash put an arm around Batman and tried to be consoling. “Hey, man, I think we get why you don’t talk about your kids now. I mean, it must be weird knowing that you’re
you
and one of your kids went and became a weird, violent vigilante, right? I don’t think any of us are gonna judge you for it or anything though, don’t worry about it.”
Batman just shake his head, and Flash gets a slight idea that he
might
have said something wrong. That’s just before the teen starts talking again.
“Seriously?
Oh my god
, B, you can’t be serious. You haven’t even told them about us? Wow, oh my god. I’m offended. We go through all the trouble of not killing each other on Father’s Day or at family dinners, and this is the thanks we get? Oh my god. Wow. The other are going to be so offended, oh my god.”
Batman’s head is still in his hands, and the League gets the slight idea that he’s crying internally. What comes out of his mouth, however, is, “
They are happy that I’m socialising
.”
Red Hood stops shouting and starts to laugh now, his large shoulders shaking. The League are ready to ask what he meant by “the others” but he just shakes his head and starts to root around in his jacket pockets for his grappling hook.
Before he can fire it however, Batman seems to decide that nothing he can do can make it any worse, and calls after him.
“Does this mean you’re still coming to dinner tomorrow?”
Red Hood starts cackling again, and calls back, “Abso-
fucking
-lutely, if only to tell them about this,” before he fired his grappling hook and took off.
They watched after him, and Diana raised an eyebrow. “Can
we
come to dinner tomorrow?”
“
Absolutely not
.”
They tried their luck with, “What did he mean by
others
?” but when they turned to hear Batman’s answer, he was already gone.
“Fucking
ninja
.”
~~
The next time it happened, they were on a mission in Gotham. This in itself was pretty amazing; Batman usually didn’t let any metas or anyone enhanced inside
his
city, so they figured they wouldn’t push their luck and try and ask any questions.
It was totally unexpected, but it happened when they were on the rooftops. They’d started off in ne end of the city, and had to get to the other end to actually be where they needed to be, and Batman had –
of course
– said that he knew a quicker way to get there than through the streets.
And, so, there they were, on the rooftops. They’d stopped on one for a few seconds, when a girl wearing purple showed up out of nowhere and landed a solid punch on Hawkgirl, knocking her to her feet.
The Justice League were more than ready to start fighting back, ready for the worst – it was
Gotham
, after all – before another teen wearing a red costume showed up in the shadows behind her and started yelling.
“No, wait, Spoiler!
That’s the Justice League
, oh my god! You just punched
Hawkgirl
!”
The girl took a few steps back, yelling back, “Yeah, Red Robin,
I kinda noticed that already
!”
Then the two teens were both fully visible, and the League took a few seconds to look them over. They didn’t seem to be hostile – at least, not anymore. They were both clearly quite young, as well as scrawny – they were really well outfitted though, and their costumes were obviously expensive.
The girl was wearing mainly purple, with blue boots, gloves and a blue mask. She had a purple hood over her hair, but some of it had fallen through – from what they could see, it was long and blonde. She was wearing a black belt and though at this point she seemed very nervous, she was obviously well trained.
The boy’s costume was mainly a bright red colour, with black gloves and black patches on his pants. His hair was black, and he had a matching black domino mask covering his eyes. On the left side of his chest were two R’s in a circle. He had a red cape that was the same colour as the red on his suit. He was wearing a black belt, that was clearly full. He too seemed nervous, but ready to fight if need be.
Both the teens looked nervous, flailing around. The boy extended his hand towards Hawkgirl, looking to pull her up but Shayera just shook her head, using one hand to push herself up while the other was clutching at her jaw.
Wonder Woman regarded the two vigilantes, a smile on her face.
“That was a great hit,” she said, looking over them both. “Are you two new heroes? You seem quite young, but your skills are already very impressive.” They both seemed very uncomfortable being under her gaze, so instead she smiled at them and turned to Barman, who she knew would be able to answer her question – after all, he knew everything that was going on in Gotham, right?
However, when she looked at him, he had turned the other way, and Martian Manhunter was looking at him in that way he sometimes did, that meant that he was so mentally uncomfortable that he just couldn’t ignore it.
The rest of the League turned to look with her, and gaped.
“
No way
,” Green Lantern was the first to speak up about it, “Please tell me that they’re not…”
Red Robin cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. Hi dad, nice to see you’ve made some friends?”
And that was when Spoiler lost it, laughing so hard that she doubled over. “Red, can’t you see how uncomfortable he is already? You can’t make fun of your dad like that!” She continued laughing, before she straightened again. “However!” she said, putting up a finger, “He is not
my
dad, so guess who
can
?”
Batman groaned, and even Red Robin was chuckling now.
“You spend all your time at our place anyway, we all consider you family, so how come you can and I can’t?” he said as he laughed, and Spoiler just shoved him away, grabbing her grappling hook and firing it off.
“Sorry, Hawkgirl! B, I’m coming over for dinner tonight and telling everyone about this, because apparently I’m family now!”
The Justice League were, once again, left speechless. Batman just looked at them for a second, before continuing to run across the roof.
Somehow that still wasn’t the end of it though, as later that night, the League saw in front of them a figure wearing a costume that was almost completely black, except for an outline of a yellow bat and a yellow utility belt. She was wearing a cowl similar to Batman’s, and a cape that was ripped at the ends.
When she saw Batman she didn’t say anything, but waved gleefully at him, and when he waved back she rushed forward and hugged him.
She then disappeared down the side of the building, only to be seen again when a drug dealer and his thugs were tied up at the corner of an alley.
They all stared for a few seconds –
Batman hugging?
– before Green Arrow turned to Batman.
“They’ve
got
to be the last ones, right?”
Batman fled before anything else could be said.
~~
“They were
young
. Mid-teens, at the most. There’s no way there can be any others, right?”
Everyone else nodded in agreement. “I just wanna know where they’re all
coming
from,” Green Arrow muttered. “Termites?”
Green Lantern started nodding. “Right out of the woodwork,” he agreed.
They all agreed that it was strange though, that Batman was able to hide this many children and vigilantes from them.
“The people of Gotham have to know about them, right? How come there’s nothing about them in the news, like, ever, then?”
Everyone shrugs. “
Gotham
,” is all Superman muttered in reply, as if it explained everything. From everyone’s nods, it seemed like it did.
Flash shook his head and smiled. “I think it’s
adorable
,” he said and laughed. “There are so many of them. Imagine Father’s Day in the Batcave! Do you think they all get him presents?”
The others laughed, and Flash paled. “Just… please don’t tell him I said that.”
~~
None of them expected any other kids to appear, but by that point it had become something of a running joke, so they kept their eyes open just in case. They were waiting for it, even though they knew nothing would happen.
They were proven wrong when another mission brought them to Gotham. Batman was wary, as usual, of letting them in the city but he eventually agreed, if only because the mission was to retrieve a crate full of Kryptonite that was being transported through his city.
Before the mission they joked about running into more batkids, but nothing prepared them for when they actually did.
They met on the rooftops again, though this time, luckily, no one was punched. The first kid was wearing a costume with a yellow chest and black tights. He, like so many of the batkids, had a bat on his chest, the black contrasting with the yellow around it. He had a cowl similar to Batman’s and Black Bat’s, except his was yellow with black over the eyes.
The second was wearing an all-black bodysuit, and a grey utility belt. She had short black hair with the top dyed blue, and was wearing a blue domino mask.
They seemed to be patrolling, with the boy in yellow speaking into a comm in his cowl and the girl laughing at something. They seemed to be about to grapple off the building, when they caught sight of Batman and the League and stopped.
Unlike the others, neither of them stopped to talk or hug Batman, and instead the boy waved awkwardly. Batman waved hesitantly back, and that seemed to be enough for him as he then shot his grappling hook and dived off the building.
The girl shrugged and then smiled and waved as well, and put both thumbs up when he waved back. She then got her grappling hook out and followed the boy.
They all looked at Batman. “First:
holy shit
how many do you have? Second: they both barely acknowledged you,” Flash said with a laugh. Batman sighed.
“That’s Lark and Bluebird. He’s new. She’s
trying
to be mad at me.”
~~
At the end of the mission, Superman grabbed a hold of Batman before he could leave. “They
had
to be the last ones.”
Batman just looked away and cleared his throat, and everyone gaped.
“How many are there? Where are you
finding
these kids?”
Batman remained silent.
~~
For the next one, they were at the Watchtower. Superman had been trying to use the computer, when all of a sudden it shut down, instead leading to a blank green screen.
Batman sighed, and the rest of them looked at each other in confusion.
Was someone trying to hack into the Watchtower?
Green Lantern voiced the thought, and they jumped when they received a response.
“Sort of. Your security is
terrible
, I’m fixing it. Why hasn’t B done anything about it yet?” a computerized female voice spoke.
They traded a look.
Another
of Batman’s kids.
“He tried,” Superman sighed, “We made him go to sleep.”
“…Alright, I can respect that.”
Then there was silence for a few minutes, until Flash spoke up.
“Are you another one of Batman’s kids?”
There was silence, before, “Not really. I have a dad, B’s more like… a weird uncle or cousin, who I see way too much of but mostly love anyway.”
They all looked to Batman, who seemed torn between looking exasperated and flattered.
Then they turned back to the screen.
“Seriously though, how many of you are there? Because we didn’t think there were
any
, but there are so
many
. Where is he finding you.”
“Mostly? We either show up and he accepts it, or he catches sight of a poor orphan who needs help and it tugs at something in him and he
adopts
.”
“Has that happened with many of you?”
“Adopting? …
At least
five of us. And this is totally unrelated but, Batman, right now, Spoiler and Red Hood are at the manor and painting each other’s nails. I’ve saved all the pictures to your computer.”
They looked at each other and Batman sighed, before saying quietly, “Thank you.”
~~
The next time they meet one of them, it’s because she wanted them to.
They were on a mission,
once again
, in Gotham. Batman was all but ready to just ban them all from his city so that things like these wouldn’t happen in the first place.
They were in the middle of a fight when she appeared on a rooftop. She had long red hair and a black mask covering the top of her face, two large bat ears coming up out of the top. Her costume was mainly black, with red boots, red gloves, a red utility belt and a red cape. On her chest was a red bat. The lights shining behind her managed to accentuate all the colours that were in her costume, reflecting reds onto the wall.
Without a word she dove into the fight alongside Batman, keeping to his side and deflecting any attacks that came his way. The rest of them spared a glance to the two vigilantes, watching in amazement as this person they’d never seen before kept up with and
beat
Batman to the enemies.
“Batwoman,
leave
,” Batman growled out, and it clicked in all their heads.
Another bat.
She continued fighting, managing to level a glare his way in the middle of it. “Absolutely not,” she said. Her voice was coated in annoyance. “I’ve seen your injuries, I’m not letting you go home with
more
.”
Batman just glared at her, and they got the sense she was rolling her eyes. Without looking his way she knocked out another thug.
She looked at Batman. “Don’t think I won’t knock you out, because I will.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Batman growled, and he didn’t retreat from the fight completely but he moved back to the edges of it, which still didn’t seem to please Batwoman. She said nothing more about it though, instead taking his place in the fight.
When it was down she walked back to him and put one hand on his elbow.
“Now, come back with me or I drag you. Either way, you’re getting to the Cave.”
Batman levelled a stony glare at her. “We have mission reports.”
“Are they digital? Get one of them to do it.”
Batman sighed, before turning to the League. “Flash, you’re on mission report.”
Then he turned his back and started walking somewhere with Batwoman.
Everyone stared at them walking away, speechless once again.
“So, there’s no way she’s actually like, his kid, right?”
~~
After all that, they were confident that there would be no more children or other ambiguous relatives showing up from Batman’s life. After all, how many could there possibly be?
(…Catwoman didn’t count.)
This meant that they were totally unprepared for what they would see when they finally entered the Batcave.
Batman was getting ready to tell them his secret identity, and they all started looking around to give him time. If Batman had to gather the courage, it would have to be good, right?
Around the cave there was what seemed like decades worth of costumes and tokens collected from various villains. A lot of them they identified as costumes belonging to the newer heroes and members of Batman’s family that they had only just recently met.
Most of their attention was caught, however, by the giant computer in the middle of the cave. It was gigantic, and someone was
using it
.
They looked at each other and all seemed to silently laugh; the same thought had been in all their heads.
It’s another batkid
.
They were all still surprised, however, when the chair squeaked and Batman’s head popped up, as he let out a small growl.
Green Arrow gaped. “
No
.”
Their chair spun around slowly to reveal another child, probably not even having reached his teens yet, sitting in the chair stroking a cat that was in his lap.
He was wearing a costume similar to many of the others on display, with a red top and black pants, with large green boots. He had an R on his chest, and was wearing a black and yellow cape, along with a green domino mask.
In short, he looked like a walking traffic light.
The cat was black with white spots, and he was petting it like he was a second-rate Disney villain.
He glared at the League, before looking at Batman. “Father,” he started and Batman groaned, “who are
these
?”
“How many kids do you
have
?” Green Arrow yelled in disbelief, and everyone else just gaped.
Superman turned to Batman and put his hand on his shoulder. “Batman, you’re my friend and I admire you a lot, but… I think you have a problem.”
Batman sighs and turns to the kid, who is so tiny he would barely reach most of their chests.
“Robin, you were supposed to be in bed hours ago,” he growled, “Go to sleep.”
The kid,
Robin
, shook his head, causing them to gape at him again. “No.”
Batman glared at him, and the kid just glared back. “I’m not leaving this spot. Alfred is
asleep
on me.”
Batman put his head in his hands. The kid smiled, satisfied that he’d won, and turned back to the Justice League. His eyes raked over all of them, before stopping at Wonder Woman.
“Wonder Woman. Father tells me you are a worthy fighter,” he started.
“
Please
don’t,” Batman said more to himself than Robin.
Robin just smiled. “I challenge you to a duel,” he finished, before adding, “As soon as Alfred wakes up.”
Batman shook his head and sighed. “He did it.” Chances were that he was crying under his cowl.
Then the door to the cave opened, providing an opportunity for Batman to turn away from everything that was happening in front of him.
At the top of the stairs was what seemed like a butler. “Master Bruce,” Batman ignored all their
looks
, “I believe now may be a bad time to mention it, but all the children are upstairs waiting for you to
formally
introduce them.”
Batman sighed and glared at Robin, and none of them knew if it was because he hadn’t done as he was told or if it was just because he was the only kid there that he
could
glare at.
Diana seemed to finally be able to talk again. “Is he at least the last of your kids?”
Batman. “Mostly. Some come in and out.”
Silence for a second.
Then, “
What the actual fuck
?”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Ghosts of the Treasure
The night was grim and heavy. Thunderclouds loomed over the sea, the wind howled in the sails, and Finrod’s
Free Wind
struggled against the rising storm. Waves slammed furiously against the hull, the ship heaving on the crests and plunging into churning whirlpools. Salt spray lashed the deck, washing away boot prints and making the planks as slick as glass. Lightning flashed in the sky, briefly illuminating the raging waters before everything was swallowed once more by pitch darkness.
The storm advanced slowly but relentlessly, drawing the ship into its roaring web. Salt water stung the face, soaking clothes to the bone, hair clung to the forehead, and thunder echoed in the chest like the blows of a giant hammer. The wind shrieked through the rigging, tightening ropes until they creaked with complaint. Finrod noticed his crew whispering, exchanging glances and crossing themselves more frequently. One man gripped a rope nervously, another clutched a talisman, and a sailor murmured a quiet prayer — his lips trembling, but his voice steady.
To distract them from the growing tension, Finrod nodded to his boatswain Jack, who decided to lift their spirits the old-fashioned way — with a story of the sea.
The crew gathered near the mast, sheltering from the lashing rain under the sails. Drops ran down the ropes, hanging from them like shimmering threads. The air was thick with salt and moisture, and the cold crept under their clothes. The wind howled in the rigging, drowning out Jack’s words at times, but still, the men listened intently. Jack began to tell an old tale of ghostly sailors guarding sunken treasure.
“They say,” he began with a grim smile, “that on the sea floor lie chests full of gold, silver, and precious stones. Hidden there by the spirits of those who died aboard ships — ships lost in battles or buried beneath the waves in terrible storms. These souls never found peace, and now they guard the treasure, letting no living soul near it. And should anyone dare to take it — the ghosts of the sailors will rise from the depths and drag them down into the dark waters…”
The crew listened with bated breath, the storm only adding to the eerie mood. Waves pounded the hull like angry fists, trying to tip the ship. Somewhere atop the mast, a torn piece of sail flapped, creating a strange, jagged rhythm like a drumbeat. Finrod watched his men with a faint smile — they knew the stories were just tales. And yet, each of them still cast a wary glance toward the sea, as though expecting to glimpse shadows on the waves.
After the tale ended, silence settled over the deck, and for a moment even the wind seemed to die down. Finrod was about to speak words of reassurance to his crew when suddenly, ahead — straight on their course — a strange sound broke through. It wasn’t the usual roar of the wind or crash of the waves. It was a moan, low and drawn-out, like the voice of the sea itself. In the darkness, something glimmered — perhaps lightning reflected on water, or maybe an unnatural glow. Finrod squinted, trying to make out what it was.
Suddenly, from the thick fog rolling in from the sea, the outline of an old, half-ruined ship began to emerge. It didn’t appear all at once, but slowly, as if surfacing from another world, taking shape within wisps of ghostly mist. Its hull was coated in silt and seaweed, as though it had spent centuries on the ocean floor, now risen from the deep. It moved as though untouched by the storm, the wind and waves flowing around its dead form. The sails were torn, the masts broken, and an eerie glow emanated from the hull, like the light of deep-sea phosphorescence.
The crew froze, watching in terror as the ghost ship approached. Someone cried out, another stepped back instinctively, and even Jack, known for his cynicism, went pale, clutching his wet collar. Finrod, frowning, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, though he knew a blade would be useless against such a thing.
The ghost ship seemed to be heading straight for the
Free Wind
, not slowing — but just before impact, it stopped. On its deck were vague shapes — not quite men, not quite shadows — faint figures in the shimmering light, moving slowly as if water streamed from their forms. One of them slowly raised an arm — in greeting, or perhaps in warning.
A dreadful creaking filled the air, as if the old ship’s boards groaned under unbearable pressure. A flash of lightning lit it up — and in that very instant, it vanished. As if it had never been there. All that remained was thick fog and the sense that time itself had paused for a heartbeat.
Finrod exhaled and looked around at his crew. Their faces were twisted in fear, but no one said a word. He himself couldn’t explain what he had seen. A mirage? A trick of the light? Or truly an encounter with the spirits of sailors guarding their hoard? One thing he knew for certain: the chill that had run down his spine was too real to be an illusion.
Minutes later, the storm began to subside. But it wasn’t the usual calming of the sea — it was as if nature itself had stilled, bowing to an unknown power. Finrod gave the order to return to their posts, and though the crew said nothing, they moved quickly, eager to work, eager to forget what had just occurred. Yet even after the sea calmed, each man still felt the cold gaze of shadows watching them from the deep — and none dared laugh at ghost stories again.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Gibson gets off the phone, stares at it for a good long minute, then gets up and walks out of his office to the sofa area, where his underlings are doing their best to look like they've been gossiping, and not keeping an eye on his office. They always do this when it's a call from Torchwood One. He really does wish that he had a private line in, like Harkness does with his wristwatch of marvels that's able to send and receive telegrams. But since it has to go through reception like all calls, they all know exactly who's calling.
It's Myra who breaks first. "If you tell us what's causing that furrow I'll get you a cup of tea, sir."
"You wouldn't hold tea to ransom, would you, Myra?" He asks.
"The kettle's on the blink and Myra seems to be the only one who can sweet-talk it at the moment until she's got time to check the wiring." Lucy mutters. "So yes, she can. And will."
"Entirely unlike when you were holding that shortbread to ransom last month." Powell says.
"That was a finite resource. That I won." Lucy responds.
"You won it in a darts match, Lu." Susan says. "That Jack got you into by pretending he'd done something to his thumb when it was his turn. So it was by rights community property."
"Winners keepers." Lucy says airily. "Anyway, Gibson, what did London have to say?"
Gibson sighs. "Your brother's coming down."
"And? Edmund coming down isn't normally Torchwood One news." Lucy says.
"He's accompanying one of our eastern European compatriots." Gibson says, putting his hands into his pockets. "Dobrev. As you know, Pevensie somehow got to be Dobrev's main contact. I've seen the man's reports, but never met him in person, and nor has anyone in the current crop of Torchwood One. Harkness, you've been here the longest..."
"Not in person, sir." Harkness says. "Only had contact through reports and mail. He's supposed to be mad as a hatter and absolutely thrives on chaos. Has a knack for causing it, too."
"Edmund says it's considerably more than a knack." Susan says.
Gibson sighs. "Tell me." he feels like this job is one long headache or unpleasant surprise.
Susan takes a sip of her tea and says calmly "Telepathic, empathic, able to incite chaos - especially crowds - able to project unease by presence alone, and has a nose for power and magic."
"Sounds like one of my old girlfriends." Jack says. "Does he throw things when he's cross?"
"Wonderful." Gibson says. "Anything else I need to know?"
"He and Edmund are shagging." Lucy says.
"Is there something in the water?" Gibson winces.
"Given that the spy trade specifically trades on those used to operating at the edges of society, I'm rather surprised you don't have more." Susan says pointedly.
----
Edmund and Dobrev get off the train, and Edmund gets hugged by Susan and Lucy. "You're looking well." Lucy says. "And this is Dobrev, I take it. is it Stefan or Dobrev?"
Dobrev smiles slyly. "Stefan tends to only be for those I know well."
"Or take your shirt off around." Edmund says dryly.
"And not all of those." Dobrev says, grinning at him. "Your sisters are definitely interesting. I believe they have potential."
"Given what Edmund's told us, I'm wondering if your definition of interesting isn't something we should be wary of." Susan says.
"Oh, it's always an idea to be wary of me." Dobrev says. "That's part of what makes it fun."
Susan takes Lucy aside as Edmund and Dobrev sort out their bags. "is it just me?" Susan asks, tilting her head in the two spies' direction.
Lucy glances back. "Not just you. The photos don't do him justice. they could be twins. The hairs on the back of my neck were even rising, just like they used to around him. Edmund really wasn't kidding about the feeling you got around him. I don't know whether I want to shag him or run screaming."
"It could just be a general type. Remember that merchant from the Lone Islands?" Susan asks.
"Yes, but he wasn't nearly so obviously intelligent." Lucy says. "One of his girlfriends stabbed him for double-crossing her on a deal."
As they're walking, Edmund catches up with them. "Do I want to know what you two were whispering about?"
Susan glances at him. "What do you think?"
Edmund tilts his head in acknowledgement. "True. So, opinions?"
"He appears to be a very dangerous man." Susan says. "You have deplorable taste in men, Edmund, you really do."
When they get to the docks, Dobrev looks around with interest. "So what are the pubs like around here?"
Edmund narrows his eyes. "Don't you dare. I know that tone of voice."
"I was merely inquiring about the decency of their beer." Dobrev says, doing a very bad impression of innocence.
"Try anything without telling me and we will be having words." Edmund states.
Susan and Lucy exchange glances. If they hadn't thought Edmund was in deep earlier, that just confirmed it.
Downstairs, Dobrev doesn't look the slightest bit impressed with all the technology, but then it's not as though they're familiar with the Eastern European set up. Harkness is giving Dobrev a considering look after they've made introductions. "have I met you?"
"Quite possibly." Dobrev says. "I get around."
"And older than you look, too, I'm betting." Jack says.
"I'm sure you couldn't possibly have any opinions on the subject." Dobrev says lazily.
Gwyn and Myra look fascinated. "I do like seeing two people who get by on their charisma come face to face with each other." Gwyn says. "It's almost as good as one of those noir films. First to blink."
"Except I don't tend to feel like I'm watching a cat play with a mouse when Jack does it." Myra says. She thinks for a second. "It is a bit like when Edmund and Susan team up, though. Watching people be bamboozled by the Pevensies is really impressive."
----
Dobrev walks into one of the back rooms to find Harkness going over a large cork board covered in notes and pictures on the wall. He makes an amused sound. "This is a little obsessive."
"It's a side project." Jack says.
"Do they know it exists?" Dobrev asks, walking forward to trace a line from one picture to the next of the same person, only about a year younger in age, but somehow an awful lot younger in aspect.
"Possibly." Jack concedes. "They know I'm trying to figure them out. I wouldn't put it beyond Lucy to come in here and add things just to see if it confused me further. She likes dangling things that look like clues but just waste your time."
The subject of the board is the Pevensie family. Specifically, their origins. The photos start in the 1920s and go through to the last few years. There's lines and notes and questions tacked up, with the occasional place and in one case, the picture of a castle. Dobrev traces his finger across that one. "I think this may be thought of as reaching a little."
"You'd think." Jack says, rolling his shoulders. "That's turned out to be one of the more likely ones."
"So what theories have you run through and dropped?" Dobrev asks. "Entertain me."
"Oh, there's plenty." Jack says ruefully. "I started with thinking they were like you and I. Older than they look. They're too wise. Too old for their looks. Far too much experience, especially when it comes to fighting."
"And what got you to drop that one?" Dobrev asks. "It's a nice theory, but I can tell you they're not of any of the long-lived."
Jack huffs. "Simple. There's nothing on them, no records of them or sightings before, like you find on people who don't age. There's *always* sightings. A relative who's the spitting image, or a nephew, or son. especially in this day and age. it used to be a lot easier, since you had to sit for a portraits, not just have someone catch you on camera. There's nothing for these four. There's no trace of family members who look 'just like them, isn't it fascinating how nature does that'. Susan and Edmund take after their father, Peter's his mother's and Lucy's a fusion, but even Peter looks a little like Robert Pevensie. DNA bears it out." He gestures at the school photos. "Even if that was the case, they wouldn't have grown, and that's very obviously documented."
Dobrev smiles slightly. "You can thank the British school system and its obsession with producing yearly photos for that."
"Yeah. Sometime soon they're going to learn how to produce really impressive fakes, but for now you're stuck with replacing a head or using a double when you take the photo, and getting a plausible match for four people is more work than almost anyone could achieve. The Nestene could do it, but the Nestene don't age. or bleed. Or hold up to scans as flesh and blood. they'd have to produce millions of copies to pull off ageing gradually, not suddenly sprouting half an inch overnight." Jack grins. "Besides, while the Nestene can plan, the plans are never long term. So I looked about for something else. I discovered the linchpin fairly quickly. The flashpoint is this house." He taps on a picture of a large house in the middle of the countryside. "They spent part of the war there when they were evacuated and school the rest of the time. Something happened in that house. Talk from the locals in Devon says they changed from normal children - they'd been seen by locals employed there - to what they are now in the first few weeks. One day quite normal children, the next, what they are now. Which made me automatically think ..." He gestures to Dobrev, inviting him to complete the sentence.
"Possession." Dobrev says, grinning. "Not a bad guess. However, possession is implausible since the entity possessing them wouldn't have their memories. It would account for the personality change, but it wouldn't account for the fact that their memories of childhood and what happened in the weeks before are completely intact."
"Precisely." Jack scrubs the back of his neck. "It's almost like they got stuck in a time loop, only that wouldn't have made them appear older. I've been in one, it doesn't give you life experience, it's just boring. The same thing over and over."
"You discounted being spirited away by the fairies." Dobrev says. "These isles are full of tales of people being away for one night and a hundred years pass."
"Problem there is that there's no age discrepancy." Jack grins. "Any more suggestions?"
Dobrev looks thoughtful, then asks. "Fell through a localised rift and de-aged when they came back?"
"Doesn't work like that." Jack says firmly. "We should know, we live on top of one. Seen plenty who've fallen into a dimension running on faster time than we have in this world and come back out again. They've all aged - five, ten, thirty years in the space of a day, sometimes being spat out years before they left this world, like the Weeping Angels do. The mind would be scrambled as it is." Jack sighs. "Not to mention all the de-ageing tech I’ve seen wipes the memories, since it's not able to cope."
"Pity." Dobrev says. "It's a nice theory. So what's the picture of the castle got to do with your most plausible one?"
"A good portion of their skills are suited to medieval times. Sword fighting, longbow, the fact that in all their stories they never, ever even mention any technology or advances beyond that period. Not even cannon." Jack looks vaguely nostalgic. "When the human race finally figured out what to do with gunpowder, an awful lot changed. Anyway. Add in their other experience, the way they automatically lead, and the fact that when they forget themselves they act like rulers and nobility, I’m going with past lives and reincarnation. Humanity puts an awful lot of stock in the concept, with a nagging consistency of gaining the majority of memories when they get a shock or built-in trigger. It's the only thing I've found that really explains the sheer wealth of experience but lets them age and keep previous memories."
"So you're going with medieval nobility." Dobrev says, sounding amused "It's a good guess. I'm not sure where all their experience of non-human creatures comes in, though."
"The tales are around for a reason." Jack grins. "There were always sightings down the ages. It's quite possible they were more common and open about it back then - it's not like there aren't tapestries with the occasional unicorn in it." he pokes a picture of a centaur, then folds his arms and fixes Dobrev with a look. "However, you know, don't you?"
"I might." Dobrev says. "Edmund could have told me. However, we're spies. We don't share secrets unless it would benefit us."
"Sure I could make it worth your while." Jack says, suggestive grin in place. "We've got plenty of things you might find interesting."
"Nice try." Dobrev grins. "Sadly for you, I'm a little protective of Edmund."
"Can't say I didn't try." Jack grins.
----
Edmund's sleeping peacefully when the voice intrudes on his sleep. "Wake up."
Edmund shakes them off and falls back under.
There's a shake, this time. "Wakey, wakey..."
"No." Edmund mumbles.
"Edmund, we do have to get up, comfortable as this bed is." The voice says.
"S' right. Very comfy bed. leave me to sleep." Edmund mumbles.
Stefan pokes him. "What part of 'time to get up' do you not understand? We're supposed to be meeting the mermaid this morning, and she swims with the tides. As I've heard you say, time and tide wait for no man."
"All of it. I'm choosing to ignore it. they can do it without us." Edmund says, burrowing his head deeper into the cushion. It really is a very comfortable bed. impressively so, given that it's not an expensive hotel. That's when he feels the blankets being tugged off him, and in his half-asleep state, just misses his grab for them. "Bastard."
"Do you want me to leave you with no hot water?" Stefan asks. "I believe you're the one who extols its wondrous properties."
Edmund looks at him blearily. Stefan's sitting on the edge of the bed, blanket in his lap, chin on hand, looking very amused. "I just want to bloody sleep. have the hot water. See if I care."
Stefan chuckles, reaching out to stroke his collarbone, saying in a fond fashion "You were always incredibly stubborn, Son of Adam."
Edmund jerks awake at that, sitting bolt upright and staring at Stefan. "...What did you just call me?" He asks. No-one ever calls him that. Not here.
Stefan raises an eyebrow, cool as ever, hand still on Edmund's collarbone. "I wasn't aware it was an insult."
"...You called me Son of Adam." Edmund says, a little shakily. "Only people from there ever called me that, and then only the ones who weren't - and the only one who -" He takes a deep breath. It can't be. but all the horrible, horrible details add up, slotting into place like they've always been doing in the back of his brain, only he didn't want to see. The place he met him and the fierce pride in it was possibly the only thing he didn't know before, and that was because he knew him there, not here. Stefan even mentioned it, he dropped enough clues. The only thing about him right now that's really different is the setting and the smell, but then it's not as though Stefan's constantly surrounded by it any more. Edmund swallows, the point on his collarbone where Stefan's fingers are resting feeling incredibly sensitive right now. He swallows again, getting the name he kept banishing to the back of his mind out. "You - Bacchus?"
Stefan smiles. Half fondness, half devilry. "And here I thought you'd catch on sooner, my Edmund." All Bacchus.
Edmund glares at him, dislodging his hand, the dread being quickly replaced by something that feels like the annoyance he usually feels when Bacchus is playing games and half anger. "I spent this whole time telling myself I was just seeing things and unfairly comparing the two of you, and now you tell me it's some game you were-"
Stefan - no, Bacchus - grins. "It was very entertaining." He says, tracing a line down Edmund's breastbone.
Edmund bats it away, only Bacchus moves his hand back. "Seriously, keeping me on a string - if nothing else, intelligence is not a *game*, Bacchus!"
Bacchus raises an eyebrow. "And yet you all seem to call it that. Intelligence is a very, very entertaining and rewarding game, and I've been planning interesting things. I can see why you like it so much." Pause. "And then you turned up, which made it even more entertaining. My Edmund, always so good at working from the shadows." He leans forward, putting his hands on either side of Edmund so Edmund's forced to lean back. "And having so much fun, weren't you? We make quite a team."
Edmund groans, lying back and staring at the ceiling. Sadly, it's just blank paint and gives him absolutely no help. He tilts his head up to look at Bacchus. "Anyone else, I'd accuse you of playing with my feelings and walk out, but for you it's bloody typical behaviour. Even the sodding minotaur hunting."
Bacchus grins so widely it's like the sun, moving forward. "You know me so well. And here I feared your memory of me had dimmed over time."
"Still not going to forgive you." Edmund scowls, running his hands over Bacchus' wrists on either side of him.
"Now where would be the fun in that?" Bacchus asks.
"Just so long as you don't start making the furniture sprout leaves again." Edmund says.
"The problem there is that in this climate, the owners of the hotel would probably sell it to the nearest allotment farmers for mulch." Bacchus says. practically pouting.
----
The morning is actually quite nice, and everyone settles in on a bit of the decking that's by the water when it's high tide, quite close to the front entrance of the reception of Torchwood.
Edmund looks out over the water. "I can't believe they can swim through this murk. It must be like trying to swim through ink, the amount of pollution in the water round here."
"Apparently they use masks to deal with it." Jack says, watching the boats go by. "She should be here soon enough."
Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes of boat-watching, there's a ripple in the water and a shadow below them, and a dark head of hair emerges close to them, pulling off a mask, as Jack said. It looks a little like a modified, much sleeker gas mask. The face that goes with the dark hair is pale and greyish, with the sheen to it that you get on dolphins. Still, take that away, give her a normal skin tone - oh, and different eyes, hers are black, again like a dolphin's, or a shark's - put her in a dress and you'd swear she was a welsh native. well. as long as you ignored the gills over her throat and the webbing on the hand she uses to push her hair out of her eyes. and the sharp teeth. Apparently they occasionally breed with the locals, so mermaids off Britain are pale skinned, mermaids off Hawaii are dark skinned, and mermaids off Norway tend towards blond.
"Hello, Jack. Still waiting for your Lonely God, then. I see you've brought your fellow rift guardians." She hoists herself up onto the rope hanging down from the dock holding the fenders, now high enough that she can rest her arms on the dock. Her tail's a good five feet long, not including the trailing fins.
Jack smiles. "They insisted on tagging along. Everyone, Angharedd. How's your cousin?"
"Dewi is very well and told me he wants that shark tooth back." Angharedd says.
"No chance. I won that fair and square." Jack says.
"That's what I told him." Angharedd says. "If he will play dice with his things, he should be prepared to lose them."
Davies comes down to the water, holding a tray of tea, handing the mugs out. "I can't believe you brought tea." Jack says.
"It's common courtesy." Davies says, handing one to Angharedd, who takes it and sips from it where she's resting on the rope. "It's nettle, the closest I could get to seaweed."
"Appreciated, thank you." Angharedd says, sipping it. "You land-dwellers fascination with drinks as part of negotiations and social occasions is always quite odd. But appreciated."
"We find it more relaxing." Susan says. "and it aids the voice when talking. Do you need introducing to anyone who wasn't here last time?"
Angharedd shakes her head slightly. "I've met all of you, aside from your brother. Though I do wonder at his presence here." She says, looking pointedly at Dobrev. "The one who comes. I see you you claim your consort, god of chaos."
Edmund whips his head around, then winces. "Consort? really? I'm not -" Dobrev grins. "...I really hate you sometimes."
"You always do." Dobrev says.
Susan, normally so composed and unshockable, suddenly drops her tea, the mug falling from nerveless fingers, staring at Dobrev. The crockery cracks and smashes on the decking, tea going everywhere, and Jack stares at her, then looks in the direction she's looking, trying to see what she saw. Because to shock Susan Pevensie, it has to be out of this world. Except what she's looking at is Edmund and Dobrev. Who are currently respectively looking uncomfortable and smug. "What happened?"
Susan takes a breath, picks up her mug and composes herself, saying in an extremely irritated tone. "I've just been informed that my brother's lover really is Bacchus. Not bears a resemblance to. Is. pardon me for being a little startled."
"Bacchus? Isn't that the name of the Roman god of wine?" Jack asks, looking back at Dobrev, who just raises an eyebrow in response. Still looking smug. Lucy's staring, looking flabbergasted, though any second now she'll either start babbling or looking smug, depending.
"Yes. Dionysus originally." She grits her teeth. "God of wine, wildness and chaos. Edmund, how long have you been keeping this from us?"
Edmund sighs. "This morning."
"I hope you tried to throttle him." Susan says, glaring. "For all our sakes. But honestly, Edmund, *Bacchus*?"
"It appears I really do have a type." Edmund says, looking pained.
Jack folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. "Okay, so for those of us not in the loop, Dobrev is a presumably immortal being who used to have fun roaming the Mediterranean a few thousand years ago creating havoc. What I want to know is how you Pevensies know what he looks like to do the comparison, because absolutely none of your stories involve anything that even sounds remotely like the Mediterranean. Did the Greeks use the same model for all their statues?"
Susan rolls her eyes. "Of course not. However, rest assured that my family knows exactly what Bacchus looks like, Edmund especially. And no, I'm not going to give you an answer to satisfy your curiosity."
"You Pevensies and your secrets, you're worse than a whole contingent of Mytraxians." Jack grumbles. He pauses, then grins as a thought occurs. "So if Dobrev is the god of wine, guessing Edmund's going to be pretty popular if they decide to chuck the spy trade in and start stocking bars."
"That all depends on the punters' taste in wine." Susan says.
Angharedd cocks her head at the family drama, sips her tea, and waits calmly for it to stop before addressing Dobrev again. "What do you want, One who Comes? You usually haunt the shores of warmer waters to the east."
Dobrev smirks. "The oncoming storm is approaching, the universe's herald of change. The world's going to become a far more interesting place as regimes and certainties crumble in the years to come."
Edmund eyes him. "We've just been through a world war, that wasn't enough for you?"
"And you all hid back in your caves when it was over." Dobrev snorts. "What's coming is far more entertaining."
"The question is who wants to tell Gibson that we've got a god out here as well as a mermaid." Davies says.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The two spent the rest of the movie wrapped in warmth, laughing, teasing, and talking about anything and everything. The world outside didn’t exist; there was only them.
“Hey, cariño,” Rio said at last, her voice softer than the flickering film light around them. “Can I ask you something?”
Agatha turned her head, studying her carefully. “Of course, darling. Ask me anything you wish.”
Rio hesitated, nerves flickering in her usually steady eyes. “This is serious for you, right? You don’t… want to see other people? You want to be mine, and only mine?”
Agatha’s lips curved into the faintest smile, but her eyes were full of sincerity. “Yes, Rio. I think I’ve been yours since the moment our eyes met in that conference room. I don’t know how to explain it, but it felt like my body and my soul already knew you. When our eyes locked for the first time, my heart fluttered, and for the first time in my life, my soul rested. And you’ve noticed, haven’t you? For a so-called serial womanizer, I haven’t taken a single other woman to bed, or even tried, since I met you.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with honesty.
Rio nodded slowly, her throat tight. “And I want you to know it’s the same for me. I know I fought it, pushed it away, but that was because of two things. First, my professionalism. And second, because of how much I felt for you, even in such a short time. It scared me, Agatha. Still does.”
She drew in a breath, her voice dipping lower, more vulnerable than Agatha had ever heard. “I know we both carry scars from past loves. But I want us to try, really try to create something new, together. I may not be ready to go public yet, but please know this: I care for you. Stronger than I ever have for anyone, even Valkyrie. And admitting that terrifies me.”
Agatha blinked at her, stunned by the weight of the admission. For once, she didn’t have a quip, no flirtatious remark to dodge the intensity. Instead, she reached out, cradling Rio’s face between her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea how much that means to me. I know how much Valkyrie meant to you, and for you to say that… to trust me with that truth…” Her thumb brushed gently across Rio’s cheekbone, soft and reverent. “I won’t take it lightly. I won’t take you lightly.”
Rio swallowed hard, eyes glistening.
Agatha leaned in, pressing her forehead against Rio’s. “You terrify me, too, darling. Because for the first time, I actually want forever. With you.”
For a long, breathless moment, they stayed there, holding each other in silence as the lake shimmered in the distance and the fire crackled softly, sealing promises neither of them had dared to make before.
“Will you be my girlfriend, cariño?” Rio whispered, her voice barely more than a breath against Agatha’s lips.
Agatha’s smile broke wide and bright, laughter bubbling out of her like champagne. “Yes, a thousand times yes. Took you long enough to ask me.”
Before Rio could say another word, Agatha closed the gap, kissing her like her life depended on it, like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
Rio kissed her back with a ferocity that left no space between them. She shifted, straddling Agatha, kissing her like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. When she broke away, it was only to trail her lips along Agatha’s jaw and down her neck.
Agatha moaned softly, tilting her head to give her more access, her fingers threading through Rio’s hair to hold her close.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you will forget all the past women you’ve fucked,” Rio’s breath was hot against her ear, her voice a low growl that sent a shiver racing down Agatha’s spine.
“Fuck, let’s take this inside,” Agatha whispered, her voice trembling with need.
In one smooth motion, Rio stood and lifted her effortlessly, Agatha’s legs wrapping around her waist. Their mouths crashed together again, desperate and unrestrained, both unwilling to let go. Every few steps back to the cabin, Rio stopped, pressing Agatha against a tree, kissing her harder, as though the world itself might split apart if she didn’t.
By the time they reached Rio’s door, neither was thinking clearly, only of each other. Rio kicked it closed behind them, pinning Agatha against it, their kisses deeper, hungrier, the air between them electric and undeniable.
Rio got to work, stripping Agatha of her shirt with practiced ease before expertly sliding off her black lace bra.
“Were you planning on me fucking you tonight, hermosa?” Rio asked breathlessly, cupping one of Agatha’s breasts and bringing it to her mouth.
“I have been hoping you would fuck me at some point,” Agatha managed, her words breaking as her head fell back against the door, a loud moan escaping her.
Rio latched onto her nipple, tongue and lips working hungrily while her free hand palmed the other breast. She twisted the sensitive peak just enough to make Agatha cry out in pleasure.
“Oh fuck—just like that!” Agatha pleaded.
Rio obeyed, harsher this time, sucking hard on her nipple until Agatha was trembling beneath her touch.
“Such a good girl, so responsive for me. Are you wet for me, darling?” Rio whispered against her ear.
Instead of answering, Agatha seized Rio’s hand and shoved it down the waistband of her pants and underwear. The sudden wet heat nearly undid Rio, making her groan low in her chest.
“You are soaked, darling. Is this all for me?” she asked, fingers sliding through Agatha’s slick folds, teasing everywhere but where she craved most.
“Yes, all for you, baby, please just touch me,” Agatha begged, locking eyes with her. Her pupils were blown wide, her breath ragged, every inch of her body straining toward Rio.
Rio loomed over Agatha, her gaze sharp and unreadable, drinking her in as if she were the only thing that existed. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air thick with the weight of anticipation, Agatha’s breath shallow, Rio’s chest rising and falling like she was trying to restrain herself.
Agatha smirked faintly, though her body trembled under Rio’s grip. “You’re staring at me like you’re about to devour me,” she teased, voice low and wavering.
“Maybe I am,” Rio replied, her tone dark but reverent. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this.” She dragged her thumb slowly across Agatha’s lower lip before leaning down to kiss her again—firmer this time, lips demanding, then softening into something almost worshipful.
When she finally pulled back, she whispered, “Tell me if you wish to stop at any time,
mi vida.
”
Agatha’s eyes fluttered open, locking with hers. “I will, darling. Now, please just fuck me.”
A sharp exhale escaped Rio, her restraint fraying. She brushed a strand of hair from Agatha’s face, her touch gentle despite the fire in her eyes. “First, I want to taste you. I have dreamt of what you would taste like for many years.” Her voice cracked with reverence, pupils blown wide.
Agatha’s lips curved in a sly grin as her eyes flicked down Rio’s still-clothed body. “You’re overdressed,
amor.
” She started to rise, reaching for Rio’s shirt, but Rio caught her wrists with lightning speed, pinning them against the headboard.
Agatha moaned at the sudden display of dominance, her body arching.
“You like it when I’m rough with you, don’t you, darling?” Rio’s tone was teasing, sharp, as she leaned close enough for her breath to brush Agatha’s ear.
Agatha could only answer with another loud moan, twisting beneath her. She tried to lift her hips for contact, but Rio easily pressed her back down with the weight of her palm against her lower stomach.
“Impatient little thing,” Rio murmured, her voice dripping with amusement.
“Please, Rio,” Agatha gasped, her tone breaking.
Rio smirked at the plea and shifted back, keeping her dominance unshaken. “You will take what I give you,” she commanded, every word carrying steel. In one swift motion, she hooked her fingers into Agatha’s pants and underwear—black lace to match the bra she’d stripped away earlier, and ripped them off in a single, decisive tug, flinging them aside without hesitation.
Her eyes returned to Agatha’s, smoldering with both hunger and control. “Mine,” she whispered, the word more a vow than a claim.
Rio seized Agatha by the waist and dragged her toward the edge of the bed, her movements swift and commanding. Dropping to her knees without hesitation, she gave no buildup, no warning—only raw intention—before diving in. The sudden contact made Agatha cry out, her back arching as pleasure ripped through her.
Rio groaned against her, the vibration sending another jolt through Agatha’s body. Fingers tangled in Rio’s dark hair, Agatha pulled her closer, desperate, clinging as if she couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.
“Just like that, oh fuck—don’t stop!” Agatha screamed, her voice breaking as her head thudded back against the bed. Her hips lifted urgently, chasing every flick and pull of Rio’s mouth.
Rio’s eyes flicked upward through her lashes, watching Agatha unravel beneath her touch. Her technique shifted seamlessly, quick flicks of her tongue melting into harsher, possessive sucks that drew cries from deep in Agatha’s chest. Agatha’s hips rolled and ground against her, each movement more frantic, more needy.
“So good, fuck me, you are so good at that, baby,” Agatha panted, breathless.
A smile curved against Rio’s lips at the praise. She slid two fingers to gently part Agatha, exposing her further, before attacking with sharper precision. The rougher flick against her clit tore a scream from Agatha, her body jolting off the bed, only to be pressed back down by the strength of Rio’s arms holding her steady.
Then, just as Agatha was about to beg for more, Rio pulled back. The protest barely left her lips before she gasped, her body filled suddenly, two fingers sliding into her with deliberate force.
“Such a good girl for me,” Rio purred, her voice husky with control. “Are you going to cum,
mi vida?
”
“Yes! yes, Daddy!” Agatha screamed, the word slipping free before she even realized.
Rio’s head snapped up, eyes locking on hers with sudden fire. Surprise flickered across her features for only a second before it melted into something darker, hungrier. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t even thought of it. But Agatha had just revealed more than either of them anticipated.
Rio’s pace grew harsher, driving into Agatha with unrelenting force. Each thrust of her fingers curved just right, striking the spot that made Agatha jolt and cry out, her body trembling with every movement.
“More! Please, baby, more!” Agatha begged, her voice ragged. She had always been the one in control in bed, but now—pinned, undone, commanded—she found herself craving submission more than she could admit.
“Call me Daddy again, baby, and I will give you whatever you want,” Rio growled, her words both promise and demand.
Agatha blinked, startled for a split second, before a sly recognition curved her lips into a smirk. “You like it when I call you Daddy, baby?” she teased, her breath breaking into gasps as Rio’s fingers continued their ruthless rhythm.
Rio answered only with a low, primal growl, thrusting harder, filling her completely. “Don’t test me, darling,” she warned, her tone thick with restraint.
“Fuck, Daddy, just like that. Fuck me harder, Daddy. I can take it!” Agatha moaned, her back arching clean off the bed. The pleasure was unlike anything she had ever known, more consuming, more devastating. Rio seemed to read her body like a map, giving her everything she needed without hesitation.
Lowering again, Rio sealed her mouth over Agatha’s clit, sucking with punishing intensity as she added another finger, her rhythm merciless. She alternated between rough thrusts and harsh pulls of her mouth until Agatha was crying out her name again and again, her voice breaking as release overtook her.
“You’re mine when you cum for me, do you hear me?” Rio muttered against her.
“Yes!! Yes, baby, I’m yours!” Agatha screamed, her words tumbling out unbidden as she shattered, writhing as her climax ripped through her.
Rio held her firmly, drinking in every last tremor, licking her clean with hungry reverence. Only when Agatha was left boneless on the bed did Rio slowly rise, sliding her way back up to claim her lips.
The kiss was deep, consuming, Agatha groaning into it as she tasted herself on Rio’s tongue. When Rio finally pulled away, her voice was dark velvet.
“I’m not done with you yet, darling.”
A weak laugh escaped Agatha, breathless and wrecked. “I don’t think I can survive round two.”
“You’ll survive,” Rio smirked, brushing her lips across Agatha’s cheek. “You’ll beg me for it.”
She stood, commanding Agatha with a gesture to move further up the bed. Still groggy and weak from her mind-blowing release, Agatha obeyed, dragging herself upward while never breaking eye contact with her bodyguard.
Rio began to unbutton her plaid shirt, deliberately slow, savoring the hunger in Agatha’s gaze. One button at a time, teasingly undone, until at last she stripped it away and tossed it aside without care. Her bra followed, the garment slipping to the floor as her bare skin came into view.
Agatha’s breath hitched. She swallowed hard, her eyes devouring every inch of Rio—the sculpted ridges of her abs, the sweep of tattoos carved across her skin like stories she longed to trace with her tongue. Her lips parted unconsciously, a flick of her tongue wetting them as her hunger grew. The night was young, and she intended to taste every inch of her.
“Do you like what you see, darling?” Rio asked knowingly, her smirk widening.
Agatha licked her lips, voice low and hoarse. “You already know the answer to that.”
Rio’s hands dropped to the button of her jeans, sliding the zipper down with agonizing slowness. She dragged the denim over her hips, each movement deliberate, aware of the awe in Agatha’s eyes. When the jeans hit the floor, she stood tall, clad only in her underwear.
Agatha could only stare, wide-eyed and unashamed, drinking her in. Rio was beautiful in a way that felt almost impossible, her arms strong, her stomach defined, her thighs powerful. To Agatha, it was as if she were gazing upon something beyond mortal, a cosmic entity, maybe even death herself, because her heart nearly stopped the moment Rio began sliding her underwear down as well.
Rio smirked, standing unabashedly in her full power as Agatha’s hungry gaze swept across her body. The actress made no attempt to hide her awe, openly staring, her lips parted, her chest rising in uneven breaths.
“Careful,
mi vida,
” Rio said, her tone soft but commanding. “If you look at me like that much longer, I might forget to go easy on you.”
Agatha smirked weakly, though her voice trembled. “Who said I wanted you to go easy?”
“You may regret saying that,
cariño,
” Rio chuckled darkly, her voice low and rich with promise. She opened her nightstand and pulled out a harness fitted with a thick strap-on—seven inches long, green in color, with a solid girth.
Agatha’s eyes widened, a gasp leaving her lips. For a moment, nerves flickered across her features, but her hunger quickly returned, pupils blown as she bit her lip. She couldn’t help but stare, her body aching at the thought of Rio using it on her.
“I haven’t taken something that big in a while, Daddy,” Agatha admitted, her voice trembling slightly, the edge of nerves softening her bravado.
Rio’s expression softened immediately. After slipping into the harness, she climbed onto the bed, her movements slower, more deliberate. She leaned down, cupping Agatha’s cheek and kissing her gently. “I’ll be gentle at first, baby, don’t worry. And if it gets to be too much, just tell me.” Her words were soft, protective, an anchor beneath the storm of desire.
Agatha nodded, reassured, whispering against Rio’s lips, “I trust you.”
Rio smiled faintly before sitting back. She grabbed lube and slicked the toy slowly, her eyes never leaving Agatha’s. The moment was so intense it felt electric. Her groan slipped out as her hand moved, almost involuntarily.
Agatha tilted her head, voice curious, innocent. “Can you feel it, darling?”
Rio’s breath hitched, her cheeks flushed. “It’s rubbing against my clit, baby,” she admitted, her voice husky.
Agatha’s lips parted, her moan soft but desperate. “So when you fuck me, you’ll feel every thrust as well, Daddy?”
Rio’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as another groan escaped her. “Yes, baby. Every single one.”
She crawled higher up the bed, positioning herself between Agatha’s spread thighs. Agatha welcomed her eagerly, legs opening like an offering, gaze locked on Rio with a hunger that burned.
Rio dragged the toy through her folds, coating it with the wetness that still lingered. Agatha whimpered at the contact, her hips shifting restlessly. Slowly, deliberately, Rio pressed in, an inch at a time before pulling back, repeating the motion, going deeper with every pass.
“I’m ready, Daddy. Please fuck me with your cock,” Agatha begged, desperation lacing her tone.
“Beg louder, baby. I can’t hear you,” Rio ordered, though her voice cracked with restraint. Her own body was strung tight, trembling with the effort it took not to slam into her wildly.
Agatha broke. “PLEASE, DADDY! Please put your cock in me. Fuck a baby into me, please! I need it so bad. I’ll be good, I promise!”
That shattered what little control Rio had left. She pulled out completely, then slammed all the way in with a single, brutal thrust. Agatha screamed, her whole body arching and writhing as pleasure consumed her.
Rio groaned loudly, the pressure of the harness against her clit sending shockwaves through her own body. She leaned forward, never slowing, sucking a nipple into her mouth while her hips drove relentlessly. Her tongue flicked, her teeth grazed, and then she moved to the other breast with the same hungry attention before biting and kissing her way up Agatha’s neck. She left marks as she went, hidden, tucked away where no camera would ever find them, but where Rio would always know.
“You feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock, baby,” Rio growled into her ear, her words rough, primal.
Agatha’s voice broke in another moan. “Fuck me from behind, Daddy. Spank me, pull my hair, and choke me.”
Rio faltered for half a beat, her thrusts stuttering as she stared at Agatha in surprise. She’d known Agatha liked it rough, but hearing it, hearing her beg for it made her even wetter, her control slipping further.
“Are you sure, darling?” she asked, her tone darker now, but still carrying the thread of care.
“Yes,” Agatha gasped, eyes wild. “Please.”
That was all Rio needed. She pulled out, flipped Agatha effortlessly onto her stomach, and forced her onto her hands and knees. She gripped her hips and thrust back in hard, this time not holding back.
Her rhythm was brutal, each thrust deeper, harder, rougher than the last. One arm snaked around Agatha’s throat, pulling her back until her spine pressed against Rio’s front. At this new angle, the cock slammed deeper, striking places Agatha didn’t know existed, while the pressure against Rio’s clit grew unbearable.
Agatha came again, screaming, but Rio didn’t stop. She pressed her back down against the bed, her thrusts merciless. With every stroke, her hand came down sharply on Agatha’s ass, the sound echoing in the room.
Agatha cried out, the mix of pain and pleasure overwhelming her. She tried to crawl forward, her body shaking from release, but Rio dragged her back with a growl.
“You can take one more, darling. I know you can,” Rio murmured in her ear, her voice both a command and an invitation. “But if you want me to stop, you only have to say so.”
“No, I can take it, Daddy,” Agatha panted, her body trembling, skin slick with sweat. She was completely undone, but the fire in her eyes told Rio she meant every word.
That was all the permission Rio needed. With a guttural sound in her throat, she drove back into her, primal in her rhythm, every thrust fueled by raw need. She had never been this rough, never let herself lose control like this, but with Agatha, it was different. With Agatha she didn’t want restraint.
The bed shook beneath them, their moans filling the room until they were almost indistinguishable from one another. Agatha’s voice broke in pleading gasps, Rio’s groans grew heavier, and then, like a tide crashing all at once, both stuttered, both breaking apart at the same time, cumming hard together.
Rio collapsed beside Agatha, chest heaving, her body spent. The harness dug into her hips uncomfortably, and she tore it off with little care, tossing it aside onto the floor to be dealt with tomorrow. For now, she wanted nothing but the warmth pressed against her.
Still catching her breath, she reached to her nightstand, pulling out a pack of wipes. Quietly, almost tenderly, she cleaned them both—sliding the cloth over her own thighs and then carefully between Agatha’s legs. She lingered on Agatha’s skin with reverence, wiping away sweat and slick with the gentleness of someone who wanted her partner comfortable above all else.
Agatha let out a small sigh of contentment and curled into Rio’s side, nuzzling against her chest. Rio instinctively wrapped her arms around her, pressing a soft kiss to her damp forehead.
“I wasn’t too rough, was I,
mi vida
?” Rio asked, her voice suddenly shy, uncertainty creeping in after the storm had passed.
Agatha chuckled tiredly, shaking her head against Rio’s skin. “Darling, that was the best fuck I’ve ever had in my life. You knew exactly what I wanted without me even asking. I didn’t know you had that side in you, but gods, I’m so glad you do. It was so fucking hot.”
Relief flooded Rio, her tense shoulders easing as she let out a soft breath. She smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from Agatha’s face. “Get some rest,
cariño,
” she murmured, kissing her softly.
Agatha’s eyes were already half-closed as she mumbled, “I owe you a few orgasms. Don’t think I’ll forget.”
Rio laughed quietly, her chest tightening with fondness. She watched Agatha drift off, a soft smile curving her lips. Within moments, she followed, slipping into sleep with the woman she never thought she’d find pressed safely against her side.
Morning light spilled faintly through the curtains, painting soft gold across the tangled sheets. Rio stirred first, blinking against the glow. Her body ached in the best way, muscles humming from the night before. She turned her head slightly to find Agatha sprawled against her chest, hair messy, lips parted, still deep in sleep.
For a long moment, Rio just watched her. The usually sharp, guarded actress looked so peaceful like this, unguarded, vulnerable, safe. It made something warm and dangerous stir in Rio’s chest. She brushed a strand of hair from Agatha’s face and pressed a feather-light kiss to her temple.
“Mmm,” Agatha groaned, eyes fluttering open. Her voice was rough with sleep. “You’re staring at me.”
Rio smirked. “Can you blame me?”
Agatha cracked a crooked smile, stretching languidly like a cat. “No, but I was hoping for breakfast in bed after the way you wrecked me last night.”
Rio chuckled, brushing her thumb along Agatha’s jaw. “I can cook,
cariño.
But don’t expect anything fancy given what we got in our pantry.”
Agatha rolled onto her side to look at her, eyes glittering with amusement despite her exhaustion. “Oh, I don’t care if it’s burnt toast and bitter coffee. After last night, you could hand me cereal in a dog bowl and I’d thank you.”
Rio barked a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” Agatha said, propping her head on her hand. Her expression softened then, sincerity slipping through the teasing. “You took care of me. Not just during, but after. That means more than you think.”
Rio’s chest tightened. She wasn’t used to hearing things like that, and she covered it with a shrug. “I told you, I’d never hurt you. Not for real.”
Agatha reached over and traced the edge of one of Rio’s tattoos with her fingertip. “I know. That’s why I let go with you.”
Silence lingered, comfortable, before Agatha’s smirk returned. “Also, I distinctly remember promising you I’d make up for a few orgasms I owe you. And I’m a woman of my word.”
Rio raised an eyebrow, amused. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“Details,” Agatha yawned, then burrowed back against Rio’s chest with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Later. But don’t you dare let me off the hook.”
Rio chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “Trust me,
mi vida,
I won’t.”
They lay there in silence, the kind that spoke louder than words—two women who had spent the night tearing each other apart and now found themselves stitched closer together.
For the first time in a long time, Rio let herself relax, her guard lowered. She wasn’t just protecting Agatha anymore. She was falling for her.
By midmorning, the cabin smelled faintly of coffee and frying eggs. Agatha padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair still messy but eyes bright. Rio was at the stove in flannel and sweatpants, sleeves rolled up, spatula in hand.
“Now this is domestic bliss,” Agatha declared, leaning against the doorway. “The badass, special forces bodyguard who could kill a man with her pinky finger, making me scrambled eggs.”
Rio shot her a look over her shoulder. “Keep talking and you’ll be eating them off the floor.”
Agatha gasped dramatically. “Threats before breakfast? You’re cruel.”
But she came up behind Rio anyway, sliding her arms around her waist and resting her chin on her shoulder. “Smells amazing. You’re already dangerously close to becoming my favorite person.”
“Already?” Rio muttered, but the pink creeping up her neck gave her away.
After breakfast, Rio suggested a hike around the lake. The path was shaded, winding through pine and birch, sunlight streaming through the branches in golden stripes. Agatha, in her designer jeans and sunglasses, looked far more like someone about to step onto a magazine cover than into the woods, but she kept up without complaint.
“Admit it,” she said as they climbed a small rise. “You brought me here to test if I can survive outside of Hollywood luxuries.”
Rio smirked. “Maybe. And so far, you’re passing.”
“Of course I am,” Agatha sniffed. “I’m excellent at pretending.”
They reached a rocky outcrop overlooking the lake, glittering under the sun. Rio watched as Agatha fell quiet, genuinely soaking it in.
“It’s beautiful,” Agatha murmured. “You were right. I get why you built your life here.”
“Not my life,” Rio corrected gently. “Just a place to breathe.”
Agatha’s hand found hers, fingers lacing together. “Then I’m glad you let me breathe with you.”
Later that afternoon, Rio insisted on teaching Agatha to fish. That lasted all of five minutes.
“You want me to put a
worm
on that hook?” Agatha exclaimed, holding the bait between two fingers like it was toxic waste.
Rio nearly doubled over laughing. “It’s not going to bite you.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re terrifying. I’m delicate!” Agatha protested, though she was smirking as she said it.
“Delicate,” Rio repeated flatly, still laughing.
Agatha huffed, dropping the worm with a yelp when it wriggled. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m retiring from fishing. Permanently.”
Rio reeled her in with an arm around her waist, still laughing. “Fine,
Hermosa.
We’ll stick to s’mores and wine. That’s more your speed anyway.”
By late afternoon, the sun was warm enough to coax them into the lake. Agatha waded in first, squealing when the cold water hit her legs.
“Darling, this is
freezing!
” she cried, splashing water at Rio.
Big mistake.
Rio arched a brow, then charged. Agatha shrieked and tried to run, but the water slowed her down. Rio caught her easily, scooping her up over her shoulder.
“No, no, no—Rio!” Agatha kicked, laughing hysterically. “Don’t you dare!”
Rio tossed her straight into the lake with a splash.
Agatha surfaced, sputtering and laughing. “You’re evil!”
“You started it,” Rio said smugly, treading water.
Agatha splashed her with both hands, sending water straight into Rio’s face. “And I’ll finish it!”
They chased each other across the water, shrieking, splashing, dunking. It was childish, ridiculous, and perfect. By the time they dragged themselves back onto the shore, both were breathless with laughter, dripping wet, hair plastered to their faces.
Agatha collapsed onto the grass beside Rio, still laughing. “I haven’t had that much fun in years.”
Rio turned her head to look at her, chest still heaving from laughter. “Me either.”
And then Agatha leaned over and kissed her—salty, messy, still damp from the lake, and Rio kissed back like there was no one else in the world.
The rest of the weekend unfolded in much the same way. Agatha gave the orgasms she promised to Rio with her mouth and fingers, and she even rode Rio’s face and abs. They cooked simple meals together, walked the trails, lay under blankets by the fire, watching movies projected on the lakeshore. Agatha teased relentlessly, but Rio, who once stiffened at every flirtation, now gave it back in shy, careful doses, her confidence growing each time.
At night, they curled up together in Rio’s bed, sometimes talking until dawn, sometimes letting silence say everything. Agatha never thought she’d find peace in the quiet, but with Rio, she did.
And Rio, who had sworn never to let her guard down again, found herself wanting to hold onto this, for as long as life would let her.
Sunday evening came too quickly.
The cabin was quiet as Agatha folded the last of her clothes into her suitcase. Outside, the lake caught the last glow of the setting sun, the water turning rose-gold, as if reluctant to let them go. Rio moved through the space with practiced efficiency, checking the locks, setting the alarms, and making sure everything was ready for their departure.
Agatha lingered in the doorway, watching her. “You really don’t want to leave, do you?” she asked softly.
Rio glanced up, then sighed, letting a rare vulnerability seep through. “This place is the only spot I’ve ever felt completely… safe. Like the rest of the world can’t touch me here.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at Agatha. “And now it feels different, because you were here with me.”
Agatha’s chest tightened. She crossed the room, laying a hand on Rio’s cheek. “Then it’s not just your safe place anymore. It’s ours.”
Rio closed her eyes, leaning into the touch, savoring the moment before reality called them back. “I like the sound of that.”
They stepped out onto the deck one last time, the air cool, pine-scented, the hush of the woods wrapping around them like a blanket. Agatha leaned against the railing, eyes on the horizon. “I’ll miss this. The quiet. The normalcy. Just… us.”
Rio slipped behind her, arms winding around Agatha’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder. “We’ll come back,” she promised. “Whenever it gets too loud out there, we’ll come back here. This place isn’t going anywhere.”
Agatha turned her head just enough to brush her lips against Rio’s temple. “Hold you to that, darling.”
For a long while, they just stood there, letting the silence and the fading light settle into them. Two women who had found something unexpected in each other—peace, laughter, fire, and something dangerously close to love.
When they finally walked down to the waiting car, hand in hand, the cabin stood behind them in shadow, quiet and steadfast. A secret they’d carry with them back into the chaos of the world.
And though leaving felt bittersweet, both knew it wasn’t goodbye.
It was only the beginning.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
VOLUME 4 - The Butcher of the 2nd Floor (Interlude) - Begins!!!
When Kai walked out of the tunnel, there was anger within him
.
He wasn't clueless unlike before.
Kai had already learned about the 2nd floor during his stay with Marine Roland.
The size of the city would keep becoming smaller as one goes up
, Roland had told him.
But only the Royal City has the size to be truly called a city
.
Kai found himself facing the immense Wall again.
The City of Trades!
After making sure that Kai was a Chaos' Contestant, and not an Order's spy, the guards had let him in through the gates. The process itself had been quite easy. Kai just had to reveal a part of his Stats to the guards, showing his Code Name and System.
After getting in, Kai had been strolling around, taking a measure of his surroundings.
Finally, he decided to head to Ser Morgan Tussy.
"Where's Silver Hunters Guild?"
The man in front of Kai didn't reply. He looked at Kai up and down and then puffed his left cheek, making a fist with his right hand near his mouth. "Want one? 50 Mission Credits…"
The look that Kai gave him scared the man away.
"Big Brother…" someone spoke from Kai's behind. He could already sense the presence, but in such a crowded place it was impossible to pinpoint who was friendly and who was not.
Kai turned around and found a little boy looking up at him. He seemed 7 to 8-yr-old and had signs of dead bruises on his face.
A resident?
Kai guessed, sensing no Mana or Spiritual Energy from him. Non-Contestants represented the greatest share of cities at least till the 4th Set, he had heard.
"What do you want?" Kai asked, giving a heaviness to his voice.
"I heard you are looking for a guide," the boy said.
"Don't lie to me," Kai smiled thinly. "You have been following me for quite some time."
The boy shuddered but didn't back away.
"50… Only 50 Mission Credits," the boy said, raising first three, then hurriedly five fingers. "For 50, I will be your guide. I am very good at it. You can ask about Little Hao to anyone."
Kai didn't care about reputations as long as he got what he wanted. People here were strangely adamant about telling anything without Mission Credits. At least he would get to know more than Guild's location in this way.
"How will you get the payment?" Kai asked. "You aren't a Contestant."
Little Hao gulped. He looked left and right twice over his shoulders.
Then he took a card out of his pocket. It looked like an ATM card, with a black stripe running over one of its surfaces. But on the other side, many numbers were blinking in and out of existence, as if it was just a hologram.
"What is this?" Kai asked, seeing the boy putting the card back suddenly.
Little Hao gaped at Kai. "You don't know?!" he asked, disbelievingly. "You must be new, then. It's a
Credits Storage Card
, made for non-Contestants. It won't work for Contestants, but non-Contestants can use it freely."
Is that why he was so jumpy while taking out the card?
Kai guessed.
If just any Contestant could access my Mission Credits freely, then I would be jumpy too.
"What… what are you smiling for?" the boy stepped back. "I swear Contestants can't use it."
Kai killed the uninvited grin on his face. "OK," Kai nodded. "30 Mission Credits and tell me about the major things in the city."
Little Hao groaned. "Follow me," the boy said, without looking back.
Even while walking, Little Hao's neck didn't stop twisting here and there in search of possible Card predators for the next 30 minutes. "There are three major organizations within 1000 km of the Yellow Sea Gate," the boy said, almost whispering. "One is the which you are looking for,
Silver Hunters Guild
. Then there is
Thousand Armor Smithy
. Everyone knows about that one."
Kai saw the boy taking a sharp right turn as if he was hoaxing someone.
"The last one is the strongest organization on both the 2nd and 3rd floor," the boy continued. "
Thunder Faction
."
Kai's eyebrows jumped, hearing the familiar name. "Tell me more about this Thunder Faction."
"Ugh!" Little Hao scratched his head. "I know little. The only thing they talk about these days is the
Golden Mage
."
"Golden Mage?"
Little Hao grunted in reply. "Yeah," he said. "They say she is the most talented magician in the last 100 years of Thunder Faction. She is quite beautiful too."
Kai smiled.
Shae was just a newbie some 12 days ago when I met her
, Kai recalled.
How come she became the most talented magician of Thunder Faction? Arlen, my dear friend, are you still selling vegetables to her?
Little Hao pointed straight. "There, behind the Pillar of Trade. Can you see that massive silver tower? That's Silver Hunters Guild."
Kai could have called even the Pillar itself enormous.
It was nearly 300 ft tall with a blackish metallic shine. Thousands of reliefs of miscellaneous things from weapons to potions, and from beasts to runic characters were carved on it.
Behind the pillar was another silver building. It went on and on until Kai's neck had almost bent ninety degrees backward.
"They say the top of Silver Hunters Guild goes to the 3rd floor," the boy whispered.
Kai looked down at the boy and saw the sneer lingering at the corner of his mouth.
Does he think I won't kill him?
he wondered.
Little Hao, not knowing that he was playing with fire, glared at Kai. "I think I have told you enough," the boy said. "Now my 30 Mission Credits."
The notification appeared in front of Kai then.
…
[
Credits Storage Card ID:
K22GOO
is requesting a payment of 30 Mission Credits
Do you accept the transaction?
]
…
"If I request the payment on this Id, can I get the Mission Credits in reverse?" Kai asked gently, accepting the payment.
For the first time, a complete horror-struck expression appeared on the boy's face.
When the card in his pocket beeped as a sign of receiving payment, Little Hao jumped, running away.
"
Oh, boy!"
Kai shook his head, stepping in Little Hao's direction.
*
*
Huff! Huff!
Little Hao panted, his lungs searching for air in the congested tunnel of the city.
The streets were empty, but wolves were hiding in every corner, behind every shadow that seemed to flutter. The boy ran. To his mother, to home, to the only place where he could safely deposit today's Credits.
Three more turns. Three more, and he would reach home. A home with a door that anyone could break, but won't.
Thump!
A punch to the nose took Little Hao off guard, sending the boy rolling back, his nose bleeding.
The boy looked up and found three burly men standing over him. From his squinting eyes, it seemed the boy knew who they were, but hadn't expected them to be here.
"Little Hao," the fattest of the three said, massaging his knuckles. "Hand over all the Credits. Your mother owes me so much that even her cunt can't clear the debt."
"Ah!" the boy shouted, his body founding the lost strength. "Don't bad-mouth my mother." Little Hao rushed at the man, but the other two appeared from his side and kicked him. Another flurry of kicks and punches followed until the boy looked like any other rag in the street.
One of the men took the card out of Little Hao's pocket and threw it over to the fattest man. "Now, listen to me," the man said, biting the card between his yellow teeth. "Give me its Id and we will not go to see your mother after this."
The other two with him laughed at the threat, jeeringly.
"Ne… Never!" Little Hao spat out defiantly. Another punch at the back of his head rewarded his bravery.
"I will ask…" the fattest began, but his voice got cut off.
"I know the Id."
All three looked forward and backward, but the entire street was empty.
"Up here, you morons."
They looked up. A white-haired and hazel-eyed young boy was looking down at them; on them. In his right hand, a black saber glistened silver under the sunlight.
"Who are you?" the fattest man demanded, backing up. "Who…"
Kai descended on him before the man could complete his question
.
*
*
Kai fumbled with 6 cards in his hands
.
"2500 Mission Credits," Kai mumbled. "So, even low-life hooligans are richer than me."
Three headless bodies were lying around him, with Little Hao in between them, glaring up at him. Kai matched the boy's stare and smiled. "What?" he asked, taking out the 7th card. "You want your card back?"
Little Hao looked through his blood-covered eyes, but fear kept him from asking for the card back.
"I will give it to you," Kai said, crouching over the boy, "if… if you tell me something which others don't know."
The boy gulped and managed a nod.
Kai put the card back into the boy's pocket and sat down beside him.
"Go on," he said. "I don't have all day, you know."
"My father…" the boy said with a pained expression. "My father was a High Priest…"
Somehow, strangely and mysteriously, Kai just didn't want to hear what the boy was going to tell him.
For the first time, the thing within his chest shuddered when there was no beast around to devour. In all his life before and after his resurrection combined, Kai had never felt like this before.
It was a feeling unknown.
"He told my ma," the boy continued. "He told that above all the Organizations, even above the Empire, there are temples called the
Temples of Tower
."
Temples of Towers?!
Kai frowned.
"Only the nobles and few high-level Contestants know of their existence below the 7th floor," the boy said. "My father could only tell the names before he died."
Kai waited without urging the boy.
Little Hao listed.
"
Temple of Byagoona; HE who is the Master of Many-Faced Beings
…
"
Temple of Amon-Gorloth; HE who is the Distorter of the Reality
…
"
Temple
…
" The boy trailed off, catching his breath.
"
Temple of Hastur; HE who is the Devourer of all Luck.
"
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Korra paused to straighten her frock coat and smooth a hand over the wolf-tail of hair that rose from her occiput. As she had habitually done all day, she semi-consciously checked that her new sword was still strapped to her back and grinned when she felt the black leather inside her grip. Once her ritual was complete, she raised a fist and knocked thrice on the steel door she stood in front of.
From beside the door, a small chrome speaker embedded into the wall blared out a crackling ‘
yes?’
.
“Avatar Korra here.”
The lock beside the door handle buzzed faintly, and the whole thing swung open on invisible motors. Clearing her throat and shaking her arms out, Korra stepped into the office of the Academy’s Superintendent.
She paused just over the threshold to examine her surroundings and the man within.
Admiral Zhao was an ancient man whose back was so bent over that he nearly disappeared behind his mahogany desk. He was also further weighed down by the vast amount of medals on his wrinkled Navy uniform and an ostentatious gold and gem-encrusted Spirit symbol hanging from his neck. His sparse burnsides were white with age, and atop his head, the last few strands of his hair had been scraped into a topknot.
The students of the Naval Academy thought he was the laziest, most ancient, and senile Admiral around. No one, including the Admiral himself, denied that. However, some whispered that long, long ago, when he was young, Zhao had been a prodigy Naval officer for the Imperialist Fire Nation. Some even claimed that he’d almost captured Avatar Aang.
Korra believed it. There was a glint in his eye that seemed too clever for his elderly feebleness.
His office resembled him: ancient, old, and entirely devoted to naval warfare and ships. There were few hints of any of the miraculous mechanical wonders and inventions of the last century, as if the Admiral refused to evolve with the times. The furniture was all brown and of a style seventy years gone, though polished to a sheen. The bookshelves sagged under the weight of massive tomes that covered every possible facet of naval ships, history, weapons, tactics, strategies, and a host of other topics that Korra couldn’t comprehend.
And ships; there were ships everywhere. Model ships in glass bottles. Pictures of ships, massive oil paintings, and framed schematics. Even ships in the harbor that she could spy through the large glass windows.
From experience, she knew she hated this office. Being the Avatar was the only reason she’d not gotten expelled from the Academy for her many destructive bending antics, but being the Avatar couldn’t stop her from getting summoned to his office for harsh scoldings. He couldn’t punish her, not really, so verbally berating her was all he could manage; not that he seemed to mind, as he took every opportunity he could to do so with glee.
(She was still grumpy that he’d personally contacted Master Tenzin after she’d tried practicing her latest custom bending move - that she’d dubbed the fire rock catapult - and accidentally nearly set the fort’s powder storage on fire.)
“Do you know what the other students get in trouble for?” Admiral Zhao had once mumbled angrily at her, spittle running down his cheek the entire time. “Fraternizing with each other. Drinking. Gambling. Stealing extra rations. Those I can handle. What I have a problem with is Avatars who
collapse my main dormitories’ southern wall with earthbending
.”
When the summons to his office had come right after graduation, she was lost as to the reason. Knowing the Admiral, though, she was fully expecting a closing tirade before he could no longer appreciate his only joy in life and
finally
collapse dead. Which, she thought, what could he even rant at her for now? It wasn’t like she was his student anymore, as of that afternoon. Now that she had her commission,
she
was technically
his
superior.
However, as she glanced around the room, she realized that there were more in attendance besides her and the Admiral. Along with Admiral Zhao, who sat behind his desk, and Master Xai Bau, who was examining a book on rudder mechanics, there were two other individuals.
One was already seated in a leather chair in front of the Admiral’s desk. He was on the older side of middle-aged, with a larger-than-life grin and a black mustache that drooped down over the corners of his lips. Though he was slightly portly, he was not necessarily out of shape, and behind his round glasses, his eyes twinkled with a vast intelligence. The other stood by the windows and looked out at the ships in the harbor. He was dressed in a crisp Navy officer’s uniform, like Korra’s, albeit less wrinkled, and with far more medals. She could see by his decorations that he was a Commodore, and when he turned from the window, she could also see from the sharp lines of his cheekbones and chin that he received
a significant
number of suitors.
“Ahhhhh, Avatar Korra,” droned Zhao. “At ease.”
Korra stood down from her reflexive salute and adopted a stance with her hands behind her back. Again, she wondered if she should be so deferential now that she was his superior.
“Admiral Zhao, Master Xai Bau.” She nodded and glanced pointedly at the other two.
The incredibly handsome young man crossed the room in two long strides and stopped before her to salute her as crisply as any veteran. “Commodore Iroh at your service. It's an honor, Avatar.”
“The honor is all mine,” Korra replied, and genuinely meant it; even Mako didn’t have his facial structure. “Iroh as in?...”
Iroh grinned and stuck his hand out for her to shake. “As in Fire Lord Zuko’s grandson, yes.”
She took it, and if she squeezed a little just to test his strength, well, that was purely accidental.
The final man to introduce himself stood up from his seat and stood beside Iroh. Strangely enough, though he
seemed
tall from a force of personality that Korra had felt the moment she’d stepped in the room, he was physically quite short. “Hiroshi Sato,” he said genially and shook her hand politely. “Founder and owner of Future Industries.”
“Oh, Mr. Sato, nice to meet you.” She nodded approvingly. “Your latest invention was really neat. Spectacles that shade themselves in the sunlight? Genius.”
“Well, Avatar, that means a lot coming from you!” He laughed and slapped her on the arm. “Ouch. Solid.”
“Come in, Korra,” Xai Bau grumbled. “I have a ship to catch soon and no time to waste.”
Her Master, Hiroshi, and Iroh all took seats in front of Zhao’s desk, which left her to stand. Awkwardly she paced to the end of the desk, sat with one ass cheek perched on the surface, thought better of it, scrambled to the window where Iroh had been, but was too far away, so she slunk back, and eventually landed up standing slightly beside Zhao, where his ancient body had to swivel to see her.
Maybe he would turn too fast and snap his neck
, she thought gleefully.
“So uh - what's going on?” She asked, quite professionally.
If his snort was anything to go by, Zhao didn’t agree. “We are assigning you your first command.”
Korra’s eyes grew wide, and her grin cracked across her face. Behind her back, where no one could see, her fists squeezed together tightly. “Fantastic! Will I be patrolling the contested waters of the Earth Empire? Sailing to resolve the Water Tribe War? Hunting down pirates? Oooooooh, hunting down pirates sounds like a perfect fit for my skills.”
“Nope, none of that,” Zhao grunted, then scratched his butt. Korra caught Hiroshi wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Iroh can tell you.”
Iroh sat ramrod straight, much straighter than Korra, who liked to splay out and spread her legs when she could. “You’ll be commanding elements of the Fifth Fleet in an escort mission for Future Industries shipping.”
Korra blinked. Her mouth turned down into a frown faster than the wind could shift. “... Escort?”
“Yes, please.” Hiroshi’s smile was kind, but there was a sharp element to it, like he could, in a moment, turn it into a weapon. “With the turbulence from so many different groups on the high seas, our valuable shipments to and from the Far West have begun to be tempting targets.”
Her frown fell further as she straightened up and folded her arms over her chest. She
knew
how the lines of her forearms intimidatingly stood out in that stance, even through her coat’s sleeves. “Escort,” she flatly stated. “I’m the Avatar. You’re trying to assign me escort duty?”
“Not
trying
,” remarked Zhao, “
commanding
.”
“I’m the
Avatar
.” Korra tried again, injecting even more steel into her voice. “You’re commanding me?”
“We are,” Iroh said gently and much more kindly than Zhao.
Still, Korra’s hackles were raised, and she ground her teeth as she responded. “I thought that as Avatar, I was the highest rank possible.”
Her Master tapped his leather foot on the ground once, a gesture Korra was familiar with as a warning. “Avatar Korra, you are still young. You are not yet even nineteen (“I will be four months,” Korra grumbled out of the corner of her mouth.)
and
might I remind you - you have not yet been able to airbend nor unlock the Avatar State. Ergo, you are not yet the master of all four elements -
regardless
of your title or reincarnated spirit.”
Korra was silent save for her heavy breathing. She had learned years ago that while Tenzin was a (relatively) safe space to complain and gripe in front of, Master Xai Bau was not. He did not tolerate weakness, and the longer she went without being able to airbend, the more he pushed her past her limits in training and reminded her of her failure.
When she didn't respond, he continued. “
Therefore,
until you have gained more experience as a member of the Navy and become a fully realized Avatar, your missions will be assigned.”
Zoah grunted, and a squeak of flatulence escaped. “Though I do not hold well with the White Lotus (Is it true you whiteys are part of the New World Order?), your Master speaks the truth. You may be the Avatar - er, sort of - but you’re still Navy personnel, and young.”
Korra made no secret of how she felt about being so disrespected; not that it was a new phenomenon, as this was how she’d been treated by her elders for years. She glowered, her lip curling upwards to show a flash of white teeth, but before she could snarl out something unwise, the extremely chiseled Iroh jumped in.
“Korra, pardon me, I know that you’re, of course, the Avatar. We all know that.” He gestured around at the older men, though only Hiroshi smiled and nodded. “This is important, though.”
Hiroshi was quick to agree. “Yes, indeed. Avatar, the convoy you will be escorting is of the
utmost importance
.”
“And,” Iroh quickly added, “it will be making stops throughout the Iron Main.”
Gnawing on her lip, Korra considered this new information. The Iron Main, the mysterious expanse of sea that every nation throughout the world salivated over, were mysterious islands that lay amid a deadly sea, unexplored and undiscovered until near the end of the Hundred Years War. These islands now brought many riches back to the Old World, not the least of which was black iron. These metals powered the industrial explosion and the ongoing arms race in every nation. Great treasure ships, entire convoys of riches, sailed the dangerous seas from these islands, transporting their swollen holds to company, kingdom, and republic alike.
The riches weren’t what concerned Korra so much as the adventure and the importance of being the Avatar who ended the scourge of pirates.
No one denied that the future of the world was the Iron Main. For over seventy years, all manner of civilizations attempted to imperialize these new waters. Yet after decades, their hold was tenuous at best. The seas were rife with warlords, rebels, mutinied Naval warships, privateers, tales of monsters and strange beasts, supposed nature that defied common scientific knowledge, and, worst of all, pirates.
All manner of rumors, legends, and myths were told about these waters, and they were so wild as to be unbelievable to Korra. She wrote all of it off as crazed sailors looking to weave a yarn for their mates, or a trick of the eyes at night. Who would believe that there were sea snakes the size of three ships prowling waves as tall as the skyscrapers of Republic City?
As if Hiroshi was somehow listening in on her thoughts, he quietly added, “Think of it - The first Avatar to bring civilization to the most uncivilized parts of the world. An achievement worthy of the greatest Avatars: Kyoshi, Kuruk, Aang.”
She knew what Hiroshi was trying to do, and while she couldn’t deny that what he said was an extremely tempting concept, neither was she stupid, which was an impression
many
people seemed to have, for reasons she hadn’t yet been able to fathom. They were trying to convince her that by sitting her ass on an escort mission, she would live up to the expectations of an Avatar that Aang had set.
Did she have a choice, though?
It certainly did not seem like she did. They were commanding her once again, and once again, she was going to let them.
“Fine,” Korra grunted. She gritted her teeth and spat out, “I’ll do it. On one condition.”
Master Xai Bau frowned. “You will do it regardless.”
Her mouth set in a firm line, Korra looked to Iroh. He studied her for a moment before nodding. “What is your request?”
“I’d like to request Lieutenant Mako and Bolin be under my command.”
Zhao nodded arrogantly. Master Xai Bau raised one eyebrow. Iroh smiled a frankly distressingly beautiful smile. And Hiroshi fiddled with his glasses and winked at Korra, his mustache twitching up with his lips.
The men turned to discussing specifics amongst themselves, effectively dismissing her, which suited Korra just fine.
She turned to look out the window at the fleet of ships in the harbor. Their sails were furled underneath colorfully proud flags that flapped in the wind and the great cranes that loaded wooden crates into their hulls. Over each ship, flocks of seagulls swooped over the dozens of dinghies ferrying crew and supplies to and from the moored ships, their cries so loud that they could be heard even through the window.
Korra sighed to herself and felt a pang of wistfulness as she watched the birds.
Fine,
she thought to herself with not a little touch of righteous hauteur,
she’d do the escort operation. And if - when - it got attacked by pirates, she would capture a notorious pirate, become a hero, and use that to show the world that she was their Avatar.
*
Air Temple Island was always a breath of fresh air, at least for the brief moment between her arrival and whatever fruitless training Tenzin would assign her that day. Rolling her shoulders, Korra hopped off the ferry to the dock and loosened the tension from herself as she waved to the crew of the ferry. Overhead, seagulls and pelicans vied with sandpipers and terns for food, their screams and cries creating a familiar, raucous clamor. Waves slapped against the pier’s pylons, the breeze tickled her nose, sea lions barked from the sunlit rocks, and a small boy of about five was two seconds away from ramming into her stomach with a wind-propelled hug.
“KORRA!” The child shouted.
As Korra had anticipated, he launched himself forward like a cannonball from the fort’s artillery. She barely had time to step to the side and weave a slide of water that caught him from his flight, slid him around, and plopped him right in front of her.
“Good afternoon, Meelo!” She said and scooped him up to place him on her shoulders.
Once up there, he gripped the hair tied atop her head and yanked on it. Her eyes watered as she shouted and pulled his hands off. “What have I told you about doing that?!”
“I don’t remember,” he said, and Korra rolled her eyes upwards to glare at him.
He just beamed down at her.
While she trudged up the carved stone steps towards the monastery complex at the top, Meelo filled her in on what had happened since she’d last visited him and his family. According to him, it mostly involved farts and finding new methods of air bending to annoy his older sisters. Both of which Korra supposed were not far off from usual.
They found his mother, Pema, in the kitchen amidst a cloud of delicious scents and hot, humid air. With her was the middle child, Ikki, whose face lit up with a delighted smile the moment she saw Korra pop her head in.
Pema shot a quick smile at Korra before sighing at Ikki. “Ikki, let Kor -”
“KORRA!” Korra winced as Ikki’s shrill scream pierced her ears. “How are you? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you still kissing that hot boy? (“How did you know about that?!” Korra tried to ask.) What’s his name? Did you shoot a gun? Dad won’t let us shoot guns, he says it's unnecessary with airbending, but I think we should be able to because I think it would be -”
“- Ikki,” Pema warned again. “Let Korra be.”
She and Pema exchanged looks; Korra’s grateful, and Pema’s sympathetic. “Hello to you, too, Ikki, and Pema. What are you guys doing? It smells delicious.”
“Mom’s making lunch!” Ikki shouted again, though fortunately this time it was less shrill.
“
We’re
making lunch, Ikki,” Pema warned.
But her admonition was too late. Ikki was already clinging to Korra’s right leg and participating in a tongue sticking out contest with her brother.
Pema’s sigh was distinctive and perfected. “Ikki, leave Korra alone.”
“She likes it, Mom!”
“I also like walking,” Korra said, and stuck her tongue out at Ikki.
As her two children and the young woman known as the Avatar descended into childish antics, Pema sighed again. A large black pot behind her began to steam and bubble, her sign to turn around and manage the mass of food preparation once again.
“Tenzin is in the main courtyard,” she said without turning around.
“Thanks, Pema!” Korra yelled at her as the three of them raced out of the kitchen.
The sun was getting higher in the sky and filling the open-air monastery as they wandered through hallways of bamboo and stone. Monks and air nomads alike nodded at Korra or greeted her with a mellow ‘good morning, Avatar’ as they moved out of her way, and her rambunctious passengers, way.
More than anyone else, the air nomads knew how to build refreshing architecture. Tenzin was always trying to guide her and others towards harmony with nature, a deeply ingrained Air Nomad belief that was evident in how they built their temples. Facing south, the interconnected buildings were designed to allow for free movement of air and sun, and built atop the rocky island so that one’s view was of gentle waves and the Republic City skyline across the bay. Prayer wheels and depictions of the spirits were common features and created from splashes of orange and red, and pink on the gray rocks.
Despite the Fire Nation’s best attempt to wipe them out, a few Air Nomads had survived the genocide. Now their children, and children’s children, were slowly rebuilding their culture and society. Tenzin, widely considered a leader of the nomads, usually resided here, on Air Temple Island. From this home, he could participate in the United Republic on behalf of the air benders while also being within sight of the gigantic statue of Avatar Aang that had been erected in the bay. His presence drew others; both non-bending monks who wanted to be part of their nomadic, peaceful way of life and air benders who came to learn or return to their nomadic ways after the Diaspora.
Eventually, she and her cling-ons arrived at one of the largest cloisters, the carefully curated gardens with covered walkways that brought so much peace to the temple. A group of air acolytes were seated in Sukhasana, their legs crossed over one another with hands in their laps and eyes closed. In front of the group, facing them, was the airbending master Tenzin.
And beyond Tenzin was a blackened lump of wooden panels, their once beautifully painted surfaces now no more than hard, charred wood.
Korra and her group of arguing children came to a halt far enough away that their incessant quarreling wouldn’t disturb the meditation. She swallowed heavily, past the lump in her throat, and the temper beneath that.
*
“Woah, what is this?!”
Her steps bounding, Korra took several of the wide paved stairs on her way to the top of the cloister. Beyond her outstretched finger was a series of uniformed gates made of wooden planks that had been positioned upright in a tight cluster. Each one was slightly wider than her, though much taller, and they were tightly crowded together, forming narrow passages between them.
Behind her, Tenzin more serenely strolled to the top, alongside Master Xai Bau. The air bending master and her reincarnated self’s son ran a hand over his bald pate. “A tool from my ancestors that I have rebuilt. Its purpose is to teach the most fundamental aspects of air bending.”
He and Korra, along with Tenzin’s oldest child, Jinora, approached the gates while Master Xai Bau stayed back along the perimeter, carefully observing the first lesson ever between the airbending master and Avatar.
“How does it work?” Korra had asked.
Instead of answering, Tenzin had stepped forward. Korra watched with awe and a twinge of jealousy as he swept his arms up and around. In time with the movement of his arms and a graceful planting of his feet, a gale flowed out around him and through the gates. They responded eagerly, each one spinning balletically as if on greased joints.
“The air spins them. Now your goal,” he said, “is to make your way through, as the air flows, and make it to the other side without touching the gates.”
“Seems easy enough,” Korra had said and cracked her knuckles.
Tenzin bent over to pluck a leaf. He blew on it gently and sent it into the whirling dervish, where it flowed amongst the gates without impacting a single one. “Jinora, would you demonstrate for the Avatar how this works?”
The teenage girl smiled shyly at Korra, who grinned widely back. She’d only just that morning met the young airbender, but she took a liking to her already. Jinora might have been Korra’s younger by a handful of years, but she held herself like her father in many ways.
Jinora stepped into the gates, and like the leaf, she flowed. Not one of the gates touched her as she wound her way through.
Korra stared hard, studying Jinora’s lissome movements; the way her feet glided over the ground, the sweep of her arms, and the serene deliberation etched across her face. Meanwhile, Tenzin spoke to her. “Spiral movements and letting yourself
be as the breeze
are what is most important
.
When you meet resistance, you must be able to switch direction at a moment’s notice.”
“Or smash through,” Korra added.
Tenzin snorted a laugh, and Korra shot him an unseen, quizzical look. That hadn’t been intended as a joke.
Jinora soon exited the other side and bowed to the two of them. Then she blew more air through the gates that had begun to slow and set them spinning again.
“Would you like to try, Korra?” Tenzin offered.
“Absolutely! I got this!”
She charged in, aiming for the gap between the gates, just like Jinora had done. She could visualize it, could see her opportunity and the path that lay beyond. She would nail this, just like she had nailed firebending and waterbending and earthbending, and
finally,
she would be a fully realized Avatar. She would unlock her spirituality and the Avatar State and put to rest all those who doubted her ability to be enlightened. She would finally end the nightmares of the man with the scraggly beard and eye patch towering over her -
- The first gate hit her in the head. The next hit her in the ass. The other hit her in the arm, then the chest, then the head again, and finally her left leg.
She spilled out of the gates onto her front and lay there panting and quite shocked.
When she stood up, she found Tenzin sighing and rubbing his bald head wearily. “Patience, Korra. You don't need to throw yourself into the challenge or be so stubborn. Alter your path as the wind flows around obstacles.”
“Again,” she commanded, and charged in without waiting.
“Korra, you must not rush in so willfully!”
Again.
“You need to find your peace within the storm or the storm will defeat you every time.”
Again.
“Go
with
the air, let yourself move! Stop seeking to fight your way through!”
Again!
“Be as the leaf and feel the movement of the wind!”
Until finally, at some indeterminate point in time, she’d reached her limit. One last insult of a gate to the head and the distant admonition of Tenzin pushed her over the edge. Anger and impatience and utter obstinance built up and exploded out of her mouth as a frustrated scream of fire. The inferno consumed her and the gates in a ferocious, all-consuming hunger.
When she stood panting in front of the smoking ruin of the gates, all she saw before storming away was a disappointed Tenzin, and behind him, an unsurprised Xai Bau.
*
The meditation had begun to end. Monks were bowing to Tenzin from their sitting positions and climbing to their feet. Tenzin himself was rising as well, and his children detached themselves from Korra to sprint over to him, crashing into him and upsetting his balance, as well as his calm demeanor. She watched as his eyes rolled to the heavens and back as he tiredly pulled the two apart.
“Korra’s here!” Shouted Meelo.
“Yes, thank you, Meelo, my ear is not yet deaf, despite your best attempts.” Tenzin sighed again and strolled past Korra with a
good afternoon, Korra.
She fell into step with him and together they strode without speaking to an isolated balcony that looked out over the shifting seas of the bay. Beneath them, the sharp rocks at the bottom of the cliff received a hissing wave that smashed against them before retreating as a collection of foam.
Beyond that was the statue of Aang, erected to portray him as he was when he ended the Hundred Year War, still a child barely older than Jinora. Korra wrinkled her nose as she stared at it. The architect for the massive statue had perfected Aang’s juxtaposition; boyish yet authoritative, strong yet humble, unyielding yet flexible. She wondered what Aang thought of the massive statue being the first thing visitors to Republic City by way of sea saw. She wondered if she would ever get to ask him.
“So. A Naval graduate,” Tenzin said.
She leaned forward, elbows on the railing, and let the onshore breeze tousle her wolf tails. “I ship out next week.”
Tenzin hummed, though the noise was closer to an upset bear grumbling about its ruined nap than a neutral sound. “You already got your orders? That was fast.”
She turned her head and stared at him. “You didn’t know I was being assigned something?”
“No,” he sighed. “No one told me.”
Since that fateful day they had met, the two of them had learned to tolerate one another, despite their rocky relationship. Not that that stopped them from fighting after Korra had done something foolhardy or from yelling at each other after yet another failed attempt to unlock her airbending. But at the very least, he was kinder in his approach than the White Lotus’ instructors, though far more exasperated.
Korra finally turned from the statue of the man that everyone expected her to be and faced the man who only expected one thing from her, one thing she could not give him, no matter how many times she tried. “How’d I look up there though?”
Finally, a grin cracked his weary facade, however small and reluctant it was. “Very smart. I am quite proud of you.”
Tenzin sighed as he folded his arms and stared off at the statue of his father. “He would be too.”
“I doubt that very much,” Korra grumbled. She picked at a hangnail and turned away from the bay.
“He would, and one day he'll tell you himself,” Tenzin insisted. Then he hesitated and quietly said, “Your parents are proud of you, too.”
Korra’s spine stiffened. “Now
that
is a lie.”
“Korra, how many times do I have to tell you -”
“- I get it, Tenzin.” Korra took a step away. “I gotta go. Just wanted to stop by and say goodbye.”
She had gotten five steps away when he called out to her. “Wait, Korra.”
When she turned around, she was surprised to see his face solemn. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes, and his voice was softer than she thought she’d ever heard it. “Please be safe. The high seas are far larger and far more dangerous than I believe you could ever imagine. I fear… well, never mind what I fear. Just be safe.”
An abrupt feeling of wistfulness overcame her, and she took five long steps back to crash into him with a hug so tight it earned her a grunt from him. “Don’t worry, Tenzin. What could go wrong? After all, I’m the Avatar.”
Atop her head, she felt his chin move as he whispered, “That’s what I am worried about.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“As this oracle speaks:
A mortal with a god’s mark leaves the womb.
He shall see his mother wither inside and enter the tomb.
This will occur, to prove the times upon us will be adverse.
22 years from this oracle’s last spoken verse:
The First Sun’s child shall end her reign.
The God of Life, her son, that by Nichirin and Flare cannot be slain.
The First Sun will betray Life and violate the ancient laws once again.
Life’s flesh will be rended and burned by his kin.
He will be thrown from the sky and land broken, a pitiful thing.
The mortal shall find and take him under his wing.
The God of Life will spend three years under the mortal’s tutelage.
The mortal shall fight the First Sun’s original violation.
He will fail and his twin will forsake him.
In righteous anger the crimson blade shall be honed.
Life will fight and claim the throne.
The First Sun will set upon the horizon.
She will not rise again.
The Second Sun will warm the world.
And unless fate changes, forevermore.”
Sengoku Period
The oracle then collapsed. The scribe and the priests rushed to her aid.
An albino snake slithered out of the temple while the inhabitants were distracted with the dying woman.
Once out of sight of any mortals, the snake grew in size and changed in shape, until it was a man with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a snake.
He had flowing long blond hair and red eyes. His serpentine lower half was pure white.
~
22 years later, The God of Serpents entered Yake-Tsisia, the realm of the sky gods.
He met the eyes of the child who greeted him upon his arrival. Solaeris, the God of Life.
“Good afternoon, Solaeris. Where is your mother? I have urgent news to share with her.” Phaerosar inquired.
“I’ll call for her. Please wait here, Lord Phaerosar.” Solaeris answered, with a bow. He ran off to find his mother.
Phaerosar scowled in the child’s direction. He was not angry with the boy, but at the way he had been raised. Solaeris’s upbringing was less than ideal. The God of Life was being kept subdued. Cyra, his mother, was paranoid.
Paranoid that her violation of the ancient laws would encourage the other gods to revolt and force her from the throne. To prevent this, she made sure that her son, currently her only child, was in no shape to be an heir.
Cyra was pregnant with a daughter, and she would likely be raised in a similar way.
It was blood boiling, Cyra’s callous nature. Despite being the Sun Goddess, she was cold, cruel, and power hungry.
Solaeris was never taught how to use and control his power, and he was not allowed to assume a form older than a 10 year old mortal boy.
He was taught to submit to and fear authority.
Phaerosar knew what would happen once the sun fell behind the horizon. He knew what would happen after he omitted several of the prophecy lines in his report to Cyra. However, this was what fate demanded, and as he was responsible for it, he could not chicken out now.
Once Fate was decided, it could not be changed.
~
Solaeris loved to stand on the edge of Yake-Tsisia and gaze at the night sky. He was not supposed to awake so late. If his mother caught him, he would surely be in trouble, but he was just unable to settle down tonight. His mother had been acting oddly ever since Phaerosar left.
Cyra approached Solaeris, being careful not to alert the new threat to her rule. She held the ceremonial dagger in her right hand, ready to strike. Solaeris screamed as he felt his body erupt in solar fire. Through the haze of flame, pain, and shock, Solaeris barely felt the knife enter his stomach.
~
There was a crash and then fire erupted from a nearby construction site. Yoriichi Tsugikuni knew that the work there was paused for the night, but the workers slept near the site, and may be in danger if the fire spread.
He took off in the direction of the blaze.
He arrived to find the workers already evacuating their sleeping areas. In the distance, some workers were gathering sand and water to throw on the flames from a nearby river.
“Hey, sir! Stay back, it’s dangerous!” One worker called out to Yoriichi. “Come with us to somewhere safe!”
Yoriichi helped the workers evacuate. They were impressed with his calm and steady approach. This was worse than any sort of fire the workers had ever experienced. Many of them had superficial burns just from the heat radiating from the flames.
“Hey, there’s someone in there!” Called the same person who had warned Yoriichi.
Yoriichi turned to investigate. Sure enough, there was a small body in the fire, in the center of the blaze. A child that was crumpled, bleeding, and on fire. He appeared to be the source of the blaze.
“Clear me a path to the child, now!” Yoriichi commanded.
“It’s too dangerous!” “You’ll die!” “Kid’s as good as dead in this!”
“Do what he said.” The head of the construction project rebuked his charges. “That is the man who saved my child from a demon, and everyone able will do whatever is necessary to save that one! Clear Tsugikuni a path!”
The men scrambled to obey. They started throwing dirt at the flames to smother them.
Yoriichi's patience ran out. As soon as the flames were to a point that he would most likely not end up dead, he rushed in.
Judging from the wreckage, the child had fallen from a tremendous height, and hit the ground, which somehow triggered the fire. But amazingly, he was still alive. With his ability to see people as though the skin was not there, Yoriichi could see those small lungs struggling to breathe in, and that little heart beating rapidly. The little heart that was pumping
golden blood.
'What are you?'
The child was no longer actively on fire, but he was badly burned. Yoriichi quickly scooped him up, but was careful to be as gentle as possible. The child groaned. The sound was extremely hoarse, to the point it was nearly inaudible.
Yoriichi hurried out of danger.
~
Solaeris woke up in an unfamiliar place. His body ached. It hurt to breathe. The sun was warm on his face. He was covered in white linen bandages. He did not know why he was wrapped up like a mummy from the Egyptian Pantheon. Had whoever brought him into this room thought he was dead?
He peeled off the strip on his right arm and nearly fainted. His arm was a mottled mess of serious burns and lacerations.
He quickly wound the linen back, but he could not get it right. He realized that he was lying on a soft futon.
Solaeris got painstakingly to his feet. He walked across tatami mats to the door. He slid the door open as quietly as possible.
There was a man cleaning some red liquid from his sword.
The man was not a god, but he had the mark of one. Solaeris was confused, but he was not in the habit of approaching someone with a sword.
The man sheathed his sword and spoke. “Good morning. I’m glad to see you awake. My name is Tsugikuni Yoriichi.”
Solaeris pointed at himself. “Solaeris.”
“Solaeris. You are not human, but you are not a demon, either. What are you?” Inquired Yoriichi.
“I’m the God of Life.”
Yoriichi tilted his head. “You understand me, but I do not understand you. Do you speak Japanese or just know it verbally? Can you read it?” Yoriichi asked.
Solaeris pointed at his ear and nodded, and then pointed at his mouth and shook his head. He pointed at his eyes and shook his head.
~
Yoriichi had to hand it to the kid, he was clever. Solaeris was intimidated, Yoriichi could tell by the way his muscles were tensed so much that they were trembling slightly.
“I can teach you, if you’d like. It’s good to see that the fire did not damage your voice. Oh, yes, you were in a very serious fire. I rescued you and brought you here. This is my home.” Yoriichi explained.
Solaeris nodded. He sat down, but not in seiza position. All the signs showed that Solaeris was not Japanese nor had knowledge of the culture, so Yoriichi did not comment. He could teach the child etiquette alongside language.
Solaeris had noticed a slight change in Yoriichi’s expression and was trying to figure out what he did. Yoriichi could tell that Solaeris believed that he had offended him.
“Do not fret. You may sit however you’d like, especially when you are so injured. Would you like me to brew you some tea? I can add herbs to help with any pain.” Yoriichi offered.
Solaeris relaxed, but only slightly. He nodded.
Yoriichi took off his haori and wrapped it around the child. Solaeris was stunned by the gesture.
Yoriichi walked over to the fire, where a pot of water was starting to boil.
He placed some tea leaves and herbs into a cup and poured the water in. He placed the cup in front of Solaeris. He laughed a little when Solaeris tried to drink it immediately.
“You’ve got to let it steep. It’s not tea yet.”
Solaeris put the cup down and knocked it over by accident due to his shaky hands.
Solaeris froze, watched the steaming water spread across the tatami.
Solaeris actually groveled, repeating a phrase that sounded like a desperate apology in whatever language he spoke.
“No, it’s okay. Accidents happen. I’m not upset. It’s just water and some leaves. Here, let’s clean it up.”
Yoriichi spoke soothingly. He could tell that wherever Solaeris had come from, it must have been miserable. He grabbed a towel and helped Solaeris clean the spill. He made another cup and placed it on a table to steep.
“See, it’s alright. No harm done. Why don’t I teach you some words while it steeps?”
~
“Now, this tea will be bitter. If you don’t like it, we can add some sugar.” Yoriichi pointed to the objects as he spoke.
“Tea. Sugar.” Solaeris repeated the words in Japanese and then pointed at the respective objects to show that he understood what Yoriichi was trying to do. He picked the cup up with both hands this time and took a sip.
The man was right. The tea was strong, but Solaeris found that he did enjoy it a little.
Yoriichi taught him more words as he drank the tea. The herbs did seem to soothe his aching body somewhat.
~
“This kanji I know. Kami, God.” Solaeris tapped on the character in the wasōbon. “You asked me what I am. I am a god. The god of…” Solaeris pointed to every living thing he could see. Birds, plants, bugs, himself, Yoriichi. “Of… all things that breathe. What lets them breathe. Not the body part.”
Yoriichi believed Solaeris’s claim immediately. He could see that Solaeris wasn’t human, he had seen it right off the bat. He was humanoid anatomically. The only things that tipped Yoriichi off were Solaeris’s pointed ears and golden blood, the latter of which could only be seen if the child were bleeding or through the Transparent World.
Solaeris was warming up to him. His muscles were no longer tensed. He was making constant eye contact. Solaeris was likely taught that eye contact was respect, like in some foreign cultures, since the
child was being respectful in most other aspects.
Yoriichi gave him the benefit of the doubt that any rudeness was just from ignorance.
“Do you mean life, of living things?” Yoriichi asked him.
“Yes! Both of those. The idea and the things.” Solaeris clarified.
~
Later in the day, Yoriichi handed Solaeris something he did not recognize. It was shaped like a pyramid and made of small white grains. It was wrapped in some kind of green paper. Yoriichi had one for himself, too.
“This is an onigiri, Solaeris. It is a filled ball of rice. The filling can be anything, but this one is filled with kelp. The wrapper is dried seaweed. You eat it all together. Try it. If you don’t like it, I can make you something else.” Yoriichi explained. He took a bite of his own onigiri.
Solaeris took a small bite. His face lit up. He liked onigiri. He had never tasted mortal food before, but he enjoyed it very much. He devoured the rice ball quickly.
Yoriichi laughed softly, and then became serious.
~
Yoriichi watched Solaeris heal from his wounds at a supernaturally fast rate, but the damage on his mind healed much more slowly. The only scars left on him were psychological.
When Yoriichi left in the night to fight demons, he would find Solaeris in exactly the same position and location when he left. Yoriichi’s heart ached, relating to being given such a poor hand in childhood, although he had no idea how old Solaeris was. Even Solaeris did not know how old he was.
“We do not keep track of age. There are more important things than that when you live for centuries.”
~
Yoriichi told Solaeris about losing his wife and unborn child. He took Solaeris to the place where they were buried.
Solaeris knelt and placed his hand on the ground. Flowers bloomed from the soil. Spider lilies. Blue spider lilies.
“These flowers grow only in the realms of the gods. Now they grow here too. They will only grow here.”
Yoriichi felt tears run down his face. He wanted to embrace the child.
~
When Yoriichi had reunited with Michikatsu and they both returned to the house, Solaeris had finally moved while Yoriichi was gone. Solaeris had heard the approach of numerous footsteps and hid.
“Brother, this is Solaeris. I rescued him from a fire and took him in.” Yoriichi explained, seeing Michikatsu’s bemused expression at the sight of Solaeris. “Solaeris, this is my twin brother, Michikatsu. He’s a samurai, and I slew the demon that attacked his camp.”
Solaeris bowed. Michikatsu stared at the child. “That’s an odd name. It’s not Japanese.” He blurted.
“No, it isn’t Japanese. I’m not sure what language it is. However, gods don’t set much store by nationality, it seems.”
~
Michikatsu had half a mind to steal his brother’s sword and whop him upside the head with the hilt for saying something so foolish. But his brother had never lied to him before, but a god?
However, Yoriichi fixed him with an almost pleading look, and Michikatsu decided that he could at least play along. He owed his brother his life.
“Okay. What are you the god of, Solaeris?”
“Life.” The child looked terrified of Michikatsu. It was pitiful. He reminded Michikatsu of Yoriichi when they were very young. He didn’t look much like a god. He looked like a traumatized child.
~
Two weeks later
It didn’t take long for Michikatsu to start growing attached to the child. He didn’t believe that Solaeris was a god yet. A precocious child, certainly. The child had a natural intelligence that lay hidden behind ignorance and innocence. He assumed that wherever the kid came from, he was treated as one. It didn’t explain why Solaeris was, for lack of a better word, so tentative about things. It was pitiful. Solaeris would ask permission to do almost anything, and he would beg for forgiveness when an accident happened, regardless of whether it was his fault or not.
Michikatsu eventually began to feel less pity for him. He helped teach Solaeris Japanese when Yoriichi was busy teaching the Demon Slayer Corps breathing styles. Michikatsu was impressed with Solaeris’s ability to learn languages. His speech was already losing that just-learned formality.
One day, Michikatsu awoke before the crack of dawn, feeling like someone was watching him.
This had happened before, many times. Solaeris was afraid of getting into trouble with the brothers.
He would stare at them if he needed something at night, fighting inner demons to decide to wake them up and ask for whatever he needed or to just wait until morning. Michikatsu had gotten used to this, but it still creeped him out.
“What is it, Solaeris?” Michikatsu yawned.
“Someone wants to speak with you and Yoriichi. Right now. She says it can’t wait. I’m sorry for waking you up again.” Solaeris whispered.
Michikatsu sat up and rubbed a crusty bit of rheum from his eye. “Solaeris, in the future, don’t answer the door for someone you don’t know, especially this late at night, or I guess early in the morning.”
“I know her. She’s Izharia, Goddess of the Mist. I’m sorry.”
Michikatsu looked into Solaeris’s pleading eyes and relented. “Alright, invite her in. I’ll wake up Yoriichi. And stop apologizing for every little thing, please!”
“Sorry…”
Solaeris walked off.
“Yoriichi. Yoriichi, wake up.” He prodded his brother’s shoulder.
Yoriichi opened his eyes and glanced at the clock. “What’s the matter?”
“Apparently, a goddess wants to talk with us.”
Michikatsu said, skeptically.
~
Solaeris entered with a woman who was dressed like a shrine maiden, but Yoriichi knew better. He could see the golden blood in her veins that marked her as a goddess.
“I apologize for coming to call so early in the morning. My name is Izharia.” She introduced herself. “I know that you do not believe my claim,” she directed at Michikatsu. “So allow me to offer proof.” She cupped her hand under her chin and blew into it. A little ball of swirling mist formed in her hand, her breath condensing into the stuff.
“I promise this is completely harmless. However, if you do not trust me, as you have no right to, you may refuse.”
Yoriichi watched Michikatsu struggle to decide. If Yoriichi gazed into the Transparent World, he would be able to watch the metaphorical gears turning in his twin’s head.
“Brother, I can see no ill intentions in this woman, and I can tell that her powers are not a Demon Blood Art. Even if you do not trust her, you trust my judgment, correct?”
Solaeris nodded encouragingly when Michikatsu glanced at him.
“Yes, I trust your judgment, Yoriichi.” Michikatsu relented. “I’ll accept this ‘blessing.’”
Izharia did not smile. “Very well. I doubt that you’ll regret it. Hold out your hand, Tsugikuni Michikatsu.” When Michikatsu did so, she continued. “I, Izharia, Goddess of the Mist, bestow upon this mortal the blessing of Unveiled Sight.” She placed the little ball of mist onto Michikatsu’s outstretched palm. The Mist snaked up Michikatsu’s arm, his pectoral, neck, his cheek, and swirled around his eyes before dissipating.
~
Michikatsu was speechless. He felt like someone had finally given him the right glasses. He could see auras of power surrounding Izharia and Solaeris, and sense some invisible force of potential in his brother, like Yoriichi could, in theory, possess the level of power that a god possess. He could not see into the Transparent World, which gave him a spike of envy, green and creeping, towards his brother.
“This is an honor. Forgive my skepticism, both of you. I can see now that you were not lying.” Michikatsu finally managed to find his tongue.
~
Solaeris listened intently to Izharia as she spoke. She explained what had happened to Solaeris and vaguely described the prophesied future. “Solaeris is destined to be the next Sun God.”
When that declaration sank in, Solaeris couldn’t believe his ears. Sun God? Him? He was weak, lesser god. A child! He couldn’t be the leader of the gods!
Izharia stood, and looked at Solaeris with an unusually tender expression. Izharia was detached and formal, a little ignorant when it came to emotions.
“Solaeris, you may not think so now, but you have the potential to be great. I hope you can grow into it.” Izharia vanished, leaving a sheen of tiny water droplets on the floor where she had been standing moments before.
Both brothers stared at Solaeris.
“I think,” Yoriichi ventured, “Solaeris should train as a Demon Slayer. If he’s destined to be the Sun God, it’s only fitting he learn to defend himself.”
“I’m not opposed to that. What do you think, Solaeris?”
“I want to learn!” Excitement fell into Solaeris’s melting pot of emotions. He wanted to wield a blade like Michikatsu and Yoriichi. He wanted to meet the Hashiras that Yoriichi had told him about and see their special techniques.
~
Yoriichi started training Solaeris’s body and lungs to be able to handle regular strenuous activities. It was not as slow going as he expected. Solaeris was used to walking everywhere and could run two kilometers at a fast clip.
Yoriichi was patient and encouraging, but not coddling. Neither he nor Michikatsu pulled any punches.
Solaeris spent most of his first training session being whacked by a wooden sword. He spent the second one being whacked almost as much, but he had managed to duck a few of the swipes.
Solaeris learned quickly. He had so much potential. Yoriichi was eager to tap into it.
He began imagining himself as a god. Not out of arrogance or greed but of natural curiosity.
Golden blood flowing through his veins. Divine strength powering his already mighty limbs.
It was a childish fantasy.
A few months later
The Okayata appraised Solaeris. He had requested to speak with the supposed god privately.
“I believe that the Tsugikuni twins told me the truth. You are the God of Life. However, I do not think that this is a concept to spread around. What would happen if the demons got wind of you?” He asked. “I think it is in our best interest that you disguise yourself as a human.”
“I can change my form, but I don’t know much about humans. You, Yoriichi, and Michikatsu are the only humans I’ve ever met.” Solaeris said, ashamedly.
“Take inspiration from us, and we can go from there. Does that sound like a good idea?”
Solaeris considered that. He didn’t have any better idea. “Alright. I’ll try that.” His appearance shifted like a mirage. His hair turned black and his ears became rounded.
“A good start. Humans don’t have eyes like that, try making them look, how would I word this, more mundane, I suppose.” The Okayata corrected.
Solaeris’s eyes changed to match Yoriichi’s exactly.
“Ah, now you look related to Tsugikuni-San.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Solaeris was indignant.
“Nothing about him or his character, but many people know that his wife and unborn child were killed by a demon.” The Okayata raised his hands placatingly.
“I’m sorry for my outburst.” Solaeris’s eyes became pale blue. “How is this?”
“I believe that is perfect. Now, it would be a good idea to choose a Japanese name to go by. I find nothing wrong with your name, but it does stand out.”
“I don’t know many Japanese names.” Solaeris replied, again looking ashamed.
“I have many books full of names. There are Demon Slayers who choose different names, for many reasons.” The Okayata gave Solaeris a large stack of wasōbon books. He felt a little overwhelmed, but he began flipping through them.
“Akai Izanshi. I like that name.” Solaeris decided after a while.
“I rather like that name too. Very well,
Akai-kun.
You may go.”
Solaeris bowed, grabbed his shoes, and left the room.
~
Yoriichi and Michikatsu were both surprised when an unknown child emerged from the room.
“That is a very useful ability, Solaeris, and I agree that your identity should be kept secret.” Yoriichi said, seeing Solaeris for who he was through the Transparent World. Michikatsu looked bewildered.
“It’s me, Solaeris. I’m just pretending to be human so the demons don’t find out that I exist and so my mother doesn’t know that I’m alive. I’m using the new name Akai Izanshi.” Solaeris explained quickly.
“I understand now. I also agree, that is a good thing to do.”
“Come with us, Akai-kun, and we’ll introduce you to the Hashiras.” Yoriichi offered.
~
They found Hanae Yuri in the gardens, gathering medicinal plants.
“Hanae-san! Good morning. This is Akai Izanshi. He’s going to be training as a Demon Slayer.” Yoriichi held a reassuring hand on the little boy’s shoulder. Yuri could tell just how much Yoriichi cared for him. She thought he, Akai, was adorable. He had such pretty blue eyes.
“Hello, little one. My name is Hanae Yuri. I’m the Flower Hashira.” She turned her attention to Yoriichi. “He seems very young to be a Demon Slayer.”
“He’s older than he looks. Thirteen years old.” They had decided to present Solaeris as that age before he met the Okayata.
“That’s still really young, Yoriichi-San.” She admonished.
“He’s quite precocious. I’ve trained him on my own time, and I am very impressed with him. It would be a waste to wait any longer.” Yoriichi countered gently.
Yuri gave in. “Well, alright, fine.”
Yoriichi walked off to allow them to talk and get to know each other.
Akai knew a lot about nurturing plants and offered tips on how to have more effective and bountiful vegetation.
“Adding fish, animal waste, or dead animals when planting can act as a good source of food for the plant.”
“What was that last one? Dead animals?”
“It’s nature. The decomposing body will turn into nutrients.”
The idea was morbid, but it did sound like Akai knew what he was talking about.
~
Kazuyoshi Iwamoto heard two sets of footsteps approach from behind as he prayed near a small shrine. One was familiar, the other was not. The treads stopped.
“Let’s not disturb him. We can come back later.” Yoriichi whispered to someone.
“No need. I just finished my prayer, Yoriichi-San.” Iwamoto turned to face them.
“A child? What is your name?”
“My name is Akai Izanshi.” Answered the child.
Iwamoto appraised Akai. The child was very young, that was clear.
“Mine is Kazuyoshi Iwamoto. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“This is the Stone Hashira.” Yoriichi said.
“Indeed. How old are you, Akai-kun?”
“Thirteen. I’m older than I look.”
Yoriichi confirmed with a nod. Iwamoto made a quick prayer for Akai to do well as Yoriichi gave them space to talk.
Akai was fascinated by the idea of religion. He asked a lot of questions, and Iwamoto was happy to answer.
“It is outrageous to other Buddhists, my use of necessary violence against demons, killing them, as they are living things. However, I feel that I am doing a good thing, because demons feed upon the lives of humans.” He explained. Akai’s curiosity and eagerness was endearing.
“I don’t get it. You’re saving people, so why are the other Buddhists mad?” Akai pouted angrily at the idea.
Iwamoto chuckled at Akai’s indignation. “It does not upset me, Akai-kun.” He ruffled the boy’s hair.
~
It was time for lunch. Solaeris headed to the dining area. Iwamoto, who was fasting, stayed behind to meditate. He met back up with Yoriichi, who introduced Solaeris to Enjūro Rengoku and Yūzuke Mizuhara, the Flame and Water Hashira, respectively.
“So, you adopted a kid?” Rengoku asked.
“No, why do you think that?” Yoriichi replied.
“Well, he’s living in your house, eating your food, wearing clothes you had tailored to him, and being trained by you,” replied Mizuhara.
“You make a good point. Perhaps I should amend my statement. I have not
officially
adopted Akai-kun.”
Solaeris beamed. Yoriichi thought of him as family. He felt like he belonged here with mortals more than in the godly realms. The mortals treated him well, even though they did not know he was a god.
As they ate, two people came to join their table. Yoriichi introduced them as Shin Kaminari and Suzaku Ōtori.
“Who’s the kid?” Inquired Kaminari.
“Akai Izanshi. He’s a new trainee. Oh, and these are the Phoenix and Thunder Hashiras. The lady is the Phoenix and the man is Thunder.” Yoriichi said.
Rengoku grinned. “By ‘new trainee’, he means ‘basically my own child.’ It’s just not legal yet.” Yoriichi’s expression was unreadable, but Solaeris knew he was amused.
Ōtori smiled gently. “Well, that’s wonderful. It’s nice to meet you, Akai-kun.”
She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
Kaminari spoke next. “Yes, it is nice to meet you.” They sat down together at a different table.
~
After lunch, Yoriichi took Solaeris to meet the Wind and Mist Hashiras. The Wind Hashira was arguing with the Mist Hashira about the latter being too forgetful.
“That’s Takeshi Hayate and Mōkarō Kuze. Wind and Mist, respectively.” Yoriichi introduced.
Solaeris wanted to come back later and not add himself to the argument, but Hayate had already noticed them. He conceded the argument, albeit reluctantly.
“Whatever, it’s not like you’ll remember any of this later. Who’s the kid, Tsugikuni?”
“This is Akai Izanshi, my newest trainee.”
“Doesn’t look like much. How old is he, ten?”
“Thirteen. He’s older than he looks.” Yoriichi said calmly.
“Well, let’s hope he can keep up. I won’t go easy on him just because he looks wimpy.” Hayate sneered.
Solaeris wasn’t sure he liked Hayate very much. He hasn’t even spoken to him yet, and he’s already insulting him.
“Thank you, Hayate-sama. I would feel insulted if you did go easy on me.” Solaeris replied. He wanted to say something more cutting, but that was the safest comeback he could think of.
Hayate scowled. “Good. I hope you can handle it, shrimp. And don’t call me ‘Sama’. It makes me look stuck up. ‘San’ is fine.” He walked off.
Kuze watched the interaction blankly. He bowed to Solaeris respectfully. “I apologize in advance if I forget you, Akane-kun. My memory is poor.”
“It’s Akai, and no apologies necessary, Kuze-sama.” Solaeris smiled warmly.
“Akai… I’ll likely forget in a few minutes, but why do you appear to be not human? Were you born so?”
Solaeris’s smile faltered. “You must have some form of Unveiled Sight.”
“Unveiled Sight? That sounds strangely familiar…”
~
Yoriichi took the two to a private room to talk. He went outside the room to keep a lookout.
Solaeris briefly described the idea of gods and their realms.
“When I refer to the Mist, I mean the force that veils the divine from the eyes of mortals. Some mortals aren’t fooled by it. We call that ability Unveiled Sight. The Mist can also manipulate memories to an extent. I wonder if your memory problem and your ability to See are connected.”
“That does make sense. Aren’t you worried that I’ll forget all of this?” Kuze asked.
“That’s a possibility. I am not the God of Mist, so I cannot solve your problem. I wish I could. I hate to watch suffering. However, all gods can manipulate the Mist. I can ensure that you remember this, and how important it is to keep this to yourself.”
“Thank you for doing what you can, Solaeris.”
“Perhaps I should make it so you remember my false name too.”
“Forgive me, Akai-kun.”
“No need, Kuze-sama.”
“It is very strange to be called ‘master’ by a god.”
~
Overall, Solaeris respected the Hashira, and he liked most of them.
He met the Shadow Hashira, Kagero Uzui, late at night. Solaeris was helping the kitchens by shucking a bucket of peas.
Uzui introduced himself and bowed when Solaeris introduced himself as Akai Izanshi.
“I’ve got a mission. I don’t have time to talk.” He sank into the shadows and was gone.
Solaeris went back to shelling the peas.
~
One year later
Solaeris had grown quickly. Yoriichi called it a growth spurt. He now looked the age he had been claiming to be- thirteen. He was trying to have his body age like a mortal’s.
On July 14, the Hashiras celebrated his “fourteenth” birthday. He had no idea that mortals celebrated this event. His gift- a Nichirin katana. Yoriichi had finally deemed him ready to use a real sword instead of a wooden one.
Solaeris was the only Demon Slayer other than Yoriichi to master Sun Breathing. He thought he could see Michikatsu throwing severe envious looks his way when he thought no one was looking. Michikatsu refused to speak of it when confronted.
Solaeris unsheathed the blade. It turned black, further solidifying his aptitude for the breathing style. Everyone was happy for him, even Hayate admitted that Solaeris was a “gifted little shrimp.”
~
Two years later
Solaeris was a gifted warrior, an excellent Demon Slayer. He quickly rose through the ranks.
He was now thought to be sixteen.
He was assigned on a mission when the battle between Muzan and Yoriichi went down. He returned to the Corps to learn that Michikatsu had betrayed them and killed the Okayata.
When Yoriichi returned, he told Solaeris of his failure to kill Muzan and of letting Tamayo go free.
Solaeris watched as Yoriichi was first encouraged to commit suicide, and then as he was banished from the Demon Slayer Corps.
The newly appointed Okayata asked to meet Solaeris privately.
“Akai Izanshi, I must first express my sincere apologies for what happened today.”
“May I speak freely, Okayata-sama?” Solaeris asked, a rare hint of steely anger in his tone.
“Of course, you may speak freely.”
“Thank you. I think that you have made a very foolish decision. You have just driven out the most powerful Demon Slayer to have ever lived. The first Demon Slayer to survive an encounter and battle with Muzan Kibutsuji! The man who invented breathing styles!” Solaeris had tears of anger in his eyes. He was fighting to control himself.
“I will not claim to know how you must be feeling. I also regret my decision, but I cannot undo it.”
“Why? Honor? To hell with honor!”
Solaeris shouted at the Okayata, saying a lot of very insulting things. The Okayata bowed his head and allowed him to vent his anger.
When Solaeris had finished, the Okayata dismissed him and promised that there would be no trouble, and that he had every right to feel the way he did.
Despite this, Solaeris was bitter and resentful. He was fighting to reign in his powers, fighting to remain in control. He picked up a mission so that he could physically release his rage.
A mission to a lonely little fishing village complaining of a “sea monster.”
Instead, he found a god.
“Solaeris, I am Aquilatus, God of the Waters. I do not believe that we have met. Come with me, please.”
Stunned, Solaeris followed Aquilatus into Yake-Vaimiti, the realm that aquatic gods dwelled in.
“About the mission you received, that was fabricated. There was not a demon in that village.”
Inside of a beautiful underwater cave, a meeting room had been set up. Ahaviru, the God of Love, Phaerosar, the God of Fate, Izharia, Goddess of the Mist, Aquilatus, God of the Waters, and a goddess whom he did not know.
The unknown goddess spoke next. “I am Dawasara, Goddess of Death. My mother is Cyra. I am your sister, Solaeris.”
Solaeris was speechless. It wasn’t hard to believe. He could see his mother’s genes in Dawasara.
“We’ve been keeping you hidden from Cyra all these years,” Izharia said. “She knew you hadn’t died. Aquilatus saw her attempt to destroy you.”
Phaerosar smiled coldly. “Cyra has now violated our laws twice, and both infractions have the penalty of death. She confirmed her fate the moment she set you aflame.”
“Solaeris, you know that you are destined to be the God of the Sun. I told you this three years ago. The full story is that you are destined to kill Cyra.” Izharia explained.
“Kill her? Kill my mother? Isn’t that a direct violation of the laws you just mentioned?”
Phaerosar twirled his hair with his index finger. “Not quite. Not since you’d be delivering punishment for her two violations.”
“You keep mentioning two violations. Her trying to kill me was one. What was the other?”
Ahaviru spoke next, gravely. “She assisted a mortal doctor in secret, so that she could make a creature to fight for her in case we decided to rebel. She is the reason that demons exist. She is responsible for Muzan Kibutsuji.”
“No. That’s… not possible. It can’t be possible! No one, not even her, would be that paranoid!”
“It is possible. She was paranoid enough to try and kill you. Her fears cloud her judgement. She should have realized that Flare could not kill anyone related to the Sun.” Phaerosar countered.
~
After that meeting, Solaeris reported back to the Demon Slayer Corps and reported that the rumors of a sea monster were false and that no demon was present in the little fishing village.
“You look shaken, Akai-San. What’s wrong?” Yuri asked him.
“I’m fine, Yuri-San. I’ve just heard something hard. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I hope you work through it.”
~
One week later
Cyra found him. He had just killed a demon in a secluded forest with a thick canopy. The sun was setting, and the trees blocked the light from touching the demon. Solaeris was in the guise of a mortal, but she could sense his true identity. She attacked him without warning, aiming to drive her dagger into his heart.
Solaeris had years of training with Yoriichi under his belt. He side stepped before the dagger touched him. He drew his sword and went on the offensive, slashing Cyra’s chest open.
Cyra pressed him, screaming in rage. “You dare harm your mother?!” Her dagger flashed in the air. She had learned that Flare was useless. They fought on skill alone.
The Mist that Solaeris was using to conceal his true form burned away.
Both of them were clever fighters, but Solaeris had the most recent experience. Cyra relied too heavily on her fire, her Flare, during battle. And, fate decreed that he would emerge the victor.
~
Yoriichi ran to investigate the source of the commotion. Flashing fire and shouts of rage. It looked like two demons were fighting. Despite his banishment, he continued to fight demons. Only, he fought them independently of the Demon Slayer Corps.
“Stay back. This is a matter between the gods.” Izharia grabbed his wrist as he saw Solaeris fighting a woman who looked a lot like him.
“That is Cyra. Do not intervene. This is Solaeris’s destiny alone.”
Yoriichi wanted to intervene so badly. Both gods were injured already. Golden blood watered the grass. The side of Solaeris’s head and his cheeks were cut open. His shoulders, arms, wrists, the side of his neck, even his legs were wounded. Cyra had a gaping slash in her chest, bleeding profusely.
Then, Solaeris unlocked the Demon Slayer Mark. Everywhere he had a wound, a red flame mark appeared. It was exactly like Yoriichi’s, only he had several all over his body. As Yoriichi processed this, Cyra screamed but stopped abruptly. Her head fell to the ground. The sun dipped fully below the horizon.
The dim halo of sunlight vanished from Cyra’s head. It reappeared, bright and vibrant behind Solaeris’s head.
“For her violations of the ancient laws, Cyra has been dethroned. I, Solaeris, her eldest and only son, accept my inheritance. From this time on, I am the God of the Sun! I take on the duties alongside my authority over Life!” Declared Solaeris.
The Mist dissipated. All the gods had turned up to watch the battle, despite knowing how it would end. They cheered and swarmed Solaeris, lifting him into the air.
“Ave, Solaeris! Hail the God of the Sun!”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
(Start Misato Ikari Harem House)
A pregnant and naked Misato sat on her bed as she was seen applying makeup. Ever since she awoke to this voyage, she had adopted the life of casual nudity. Though a part of her suspected this place was making her more of a pervert by the day.
Asuka was planning to go clubbing with Hikari likely to celebrate their pregnancies. Rei wasn’t much of a party girl, but she was coming along as well. This left Misato alone with the bun in the oven. Just then Shinji walked in wearing only a towel yawning a bit.
“Hey Shinji.” Misato greeted when she saw her husband walk in. The Age Gap used to bother her for a time but now she was so used to sex that the gap didn’t bother her anymore.
“Hey, Misato.” Shinji greeted in return to his pregnant lover. Misato smiled and sat up as she carefully walked over to Shinji. Her pregnancy was advancing further then she anticipated that she was starting to suspect there was more than one baby inside her. Hal had yet to confirm it, but Misato felt it was harder to move sometimes. Shinji smiled and kneeled down where he rubbed his head against Misato’s pregnant belly.
Misato smiled happy that Shinji was embracing what will be his oldest children before they were even born. “So excited to go clubbing?” Misato asked as she smiled to Shinji.
“A little bit.” Shinji admitted as he had never been clubbing before.
“Don’t worry I’m sure Rei ad Asuka will show you a good time.” Misato said as she sat down on the bed. “As you can see, I’m not going much of anywhere at the moment.” Misato said gesturing to her pregnant stomach.
“Your still beautiful Misato.” Shinji confessed as this got Misato to gush at the boy.
“Oh, that’s sweet and saying sweet things get you rewarded in all the right ways.” Misato said as she took Shinji and brought him to their bed. It was clear what Misato wanted some pleasure. During the short journey Shinji was being peppered with kisses from Misato all while they moved closer to the bed.
Once they were on the bed Misato climbed atop of Shinji’s massive cock while smiling. “It’s still as fearsome as before.” Misato said a bit of pillow talk before they get to the good stuff.
“Just be careful.” Shinji said reminding Misato she had precious cargo growing in her womb.
“Trust me I won’t do anything to put the baby at risk.” Misato said as she had to go cold turkey for the duration of the pregnancy. Already she had plans to drink the moment after she had given birth. With that Misato began as she slammed her pussy down on Shinji’s cock impaling herself onto the tower of pleasure.
Needless to say, the feeling Misato got was divine and from the look on Shinji’s face the feeling was mutual. Misato in turn began to ride up and down on Shinji’s cock balancing her large pregnant belly as her preggo pussy squeezed her lovers cock.
“This cocked knocked me up and it still so fucking good!” Misato called out as she rode the cock like a buck. “If teen cock is this good then I want to keep having it!” Misato called out only for Shinji to push up causing Misato to moan in pleasure.
“Teen cock?” Shinji asked teasingly to Misato.
“Sorry I mean Shinji cock!” Misato responded as she continued to ride Shinji. But then Misato yelped as Shinji pushed her on her back and the next thing, she knew he was pushing his cock into her spread pussy holding her pregnant stomach almost religiously.
It truly was a sight to behold for anyone in the house as Misato’s tits bounced about her milk leaking out. As Shinji saw this he did not hesitate to latch onto her nipples and suckled on them drinking her breast milk. “Shinji don’t hog it all, it’s for the baby!” Misato moaned while Shinji invaded her deepest parts for his pleasure. Shinji’s speed and fury increased as Misato could feel it. “Shinji! Shinji! Shinji! CUMMING!” Misato cried out and soon her pussy released her love juices as her tits sprayed out their milk all while Shinji released his cum into her pussy. “So good! So Good!” Misato slurred as her eyes crossed from the pleasure Shinji unleashed into her.
“You feel good.” Shinji said as he laid there with Misato a bit.
“I know I taught you everything you know after all.” Misato said boasting at her success of making Shinji into the perfect lover. “Anyway, don’t you have to get ready?” Misato asked recalling that Shinji had a party to go too soon.
Just then Asuka barged in nearly catching the pair by surprised if not for her nudity. “Hey Shinji change of plans Hikari can’t make it and…” Asuka began only to see the state the couple was in. “Oh, come on you had to go for the MILF, didn’t you?” Asuka bemoaned as she then smirk towards Shinji. “You know if you needed some ass, you should have told me.” Asuka added in a sultry tone showing she was itching to go, a round. Asuka was even twerking her ass for Shinji’s amusement as Shinji watched how it moved mesmerized by the German girl.
It didn’t take long for Shinji to move on Asuka as he dragged her into the bed with him and Misato. The two pregnant sluts were now in bed with Shinji only Misato was laying on her side with her head resting on her hand watching Shinji ravage the girl.
Shinji was showing Asuka no mercy as the German girl was being filled with Shinji red hot bitch breaker cock. Likely he was channeling all his past frustrations with Asuka into ravaging her. Asuka was not overly fond of the vanilla stuff, but she does enjoy it on some occasions. However, their current copulation was not one of those occasions. Asuka could feel Shinji invading her, pummeling her womb with his battering ram of a cock the same cock that had already knocked her up.
For his part Shinji was enjoying the feeling of Asuka’s pussy around his cock. Leaning over her the two began to share a sloppy lustful kiss exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues. Speaking of tongues, they were performing a form of dance as Asuka could feel her mind going blank from all this pleasure.
“Yes. More. Yes.” Asuka moaned between kisses as she felt Shinji going deep inside of her.
“Asuka your getting tighter.” Shinji moaned out as Asuka giggled to this.
“I’m about to cum.” Asuka let out as Shinji in response increased his speed intent on getting to Asuka’s orgasm. Asuka wrapped her arms around Shinji’s torso digging her nails into his back while also hooking her legs around his waist, she wanted Shinji for all his worth. “Yes, keep going! Make me Cum! Make me Cum!” Asuka cried out and soon enough she reached the cliff. “CUMMING!” She cried out as her back arched out and she released her love juices.
At the same time Shinji released his cum into Asuka’s pussy once more bathing her insides with his cum. Asuka cried out in pleasure as she felt Shinji’s cum reaching deep into her core. Soon enough Asuka rested on her back as Shinji flipped off of her and laid there between Asuka and Misato all the while Misato had been masturbating to her improve porno.
“That was great.” Shinji said catching his breath as Asuka then smirked a bit before she rolled atop of Shinji.
“And who said we were done.” Asuka said while fondling her breasts. “The show has only gotten started.” Asuka said with a clear cocky smile.
Misato meanwhile wasn’t worried since Asuka brought this on herself. “Now she’s done it.” Misato said ready for the ravaging of Asuka’s life to begin.
(Scene Break several hours later)
“What happened?” Asuka wondered as she woke up after passing out. “Wait what?” She seemingly said as she then tasted something familiar in her mouth. “Shit did I pass out? Fuck.” Asuka cursed as Misato was sprawled out asleep next to her while Asuka had her mouth invaded by Shinji.
“Well, it’s not so bad I guess.” Asuka mused before digging into the sausage in her mouth. “I get to enjoy this bitch beater.” Asuka added as she continued to enjoy this cock. Asuka could go for a few more rounds once she’s rested. A shame Hikari had to cancel on her today, but Asuka wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth especially it got her to enjoy some of Shinji.
(TBC)
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"Why is my tablet saying that I have a facebook notification?" Asked Leonard, strutting on the bridge, said tablet in hand. "I don't
have
facebook."
"But you added me like, a week ago," Ray said confused from his seat.
"I made you a facebook account," Sara explained, and Leonard narrowed his eyes at her.
"First of all: how dare you," he pointed the tablet at her. "Second of all: why in hell did you think that it'd be a good idea do add Ray in
my
friends list?"
"Ouch, harsh much?" The scientist commented, a hand on his chest dramatically.
"Could you
stop
being old just this time, Lenny?" Poked Sara, a small smile on her lips. "Mick said you'd never put up an account yourself, so I decided to do it."
"Do you know the trouble it was for me to erase my existence from the internet?" He asked serious.
"I heard about it," the blonde nodded. "But you-"
"Don't."
"-are a he-"
"Sara."
"-ro now, Len!" She concluded anyway, more to provoke him than anything else. "People want to be friends with heroes."
"I ain't nobody's friend."
That was a lie, and everyone knew that, so there was a chorus of protests, from Mick's ironic
Sure thing, pal
, to Kendra's very offended
THAT'S NOT TRUE
.
"Look, it's a very low key facebook page, Leonard," Sara argued getting up from her seat and taking the tablet from his hand. She typed the complex security lock he had set his electronic with (she figured it out while he was gone, he never changed it to something new even after he saw that she knew) (maybe he would reconsider, if she was to be putting him in social media without his consent), and then opened the notification he had gotten. "See? Ray sent you something."
Leonard gave Ray his best death stare. He really didn't like to be sent things. Ray just smiled innocently.
"It's a Buzzfeed test!" He said excitedly.
"This just gets worst, doesn't it?" The crook complained, but Sara was distracted by the link.
"No, it's actually pretty cool," she said. "It's about Stranger Things. Don't pretend you didn't like the show."
"Oh!" Exclaimed Jax. "Please tell me you and Mick had those bikes and would ride around Central City and stuff!"
It was required a lot of self control from Leonard's part to not roll his eyes at the kid, but Mick just smiled. In part, he didn't say anything because he actually did have a bike that was the nicest thing he'd ever have in the 80's, and it was a gift from his grandfather.
"Of course I like the show, it's a nod to the best classics ever," Leonard said instead, and took the tablet from Sara's hand before he sat down the seat right next to hers.
"Send me the link?" Sara asked sitting down as well, and then reached for her own tablet. "Never mind, I'll get it on your mural."
"What test is it?" Mick asked, and Ray was happy to answer.
"It's to see which Stranger Things character you are," his smile grew wider. "I'm Dustin!"
"Of course you are, Raymond," laughed Stein (
Stein!
), which made Ray frown.
For a couple of minutes, however, the bridge was silent as every single one of the Legends took the test to see which character from the Netflix show they were. Even Rip. It had been Ray's idea to binge-watch Stranger Things, since they were once again unable to leave the temporal zone, but it backfired, because they all finished the show in one day, and then no one could stop thinking about it.
"I'm Nancy," Leonard told them, and then shrugged.
"Makes sense," Sara replied, eyes still on her own test. "HA! I'm Steve!"
She and Leonard looked at each other and then high fived.
"You do know that Nancy will end up with Jonathan, right?" Interfered Amaya with certainty.
"She won't!" Protested Jax.
"I'm Jonathan," Mick said.
"Then maybe she will," Nate commented.
"You know polyamory is something that exists, right?" Interrupted Sara, and when both Leonard and Mick stared at her, she smirked.
The Hawks exchanged a look and Scynthian mouthed "
Kill me
", making Kendra chuckle.
"I'll let you know, Amaya," Leonard spoke up. "That Nancy and Jonathan together is too obvious a choice. I'd say they will get together for a while, but they will realize that they are better off as friends."
"Is that what happened?" Scynthian asked against his better judgement.
"Sorta," Mick answered, and Leonard took a deep breath while Sara almost fell from her seat, because she was laughing too much.
"I'm Eleven, obviously," Stein interrupted the awkward conversation.
"Obviously!" Everyone (but Sara, who still was laughing her ass off) echoed.
"Hey, Grey, I'm Will!" Jax patted Stein's shoulder. "You kinda is always saving my ass, right?"
Both halves of Firestorm looked satisfied with their results.
"Well, I'm Lucas," Kendra told them, showing the screen of her tablet.
"That must be the most accurate Buzzfeed test in existence," Leonard said, nodding, and Kendra rolled her eyes at him.
"I don't know about that," said Scynthian. "It says that I'm Jim Hopper."
No one answered at first, but then Mick had to say something.
"If you let us call you Carter, maybe we'd disagree."
"Yeah, man, Scynthian is a mouth full," Jax agreed, and Kendra bit her lip to keep from adding anything else.
"
Carter is not my name this time!
" Protested Scynthian.
"I'm Barb!" Nate interrupted, preventing that discussion to start. Again.
"Oh, Barb is cool!" Amaya smiled. "I'm Mike."
"The best friends anyone can get," Nate raised his hand and Amaya high-fived him. Leonard turned to Sara.
"He's not my friend," he told her, and she smiled. She was sitting with her legs over his. "Too pretty. I don't like competition."
Sara chuckled.
"That's a lie," she pointed. "Competition makes you stronger."
He made a face, but didn't protest.
"Hey, Rip," called Kendra, sitting on top of the holotable. "You didn't tell us what
you
got."
"I got Joyce," the captain said, trying to pass as little emotion as possible in his voice, but then all of them turned to him smirking. "Don't," he warned, and then left the room.
"I agree with Leonard," Stein commented, and some raised eyebrows at him. It wasn't surprising, Stein agreeing with Snart, but somehow it always caught the others unguarded. "That
is
one of the most accurate online tests," they laughed. "Now, Raymond, you happen to know if they have one for It?"
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Perhaps because these past few years were going well was why there was an attack at the first Kage Summit Konoha was hosting. Naruto had been complaining lately about peace meaning there was never something interesting going on, and perhaps this was karma knocking at his door because of it.
It all happens rather fast, and most of the details that allowed this to happen aren’t uncovered until later. One of Mei Terumi’s guards had been a mole for an international terrorist group disgruntled with the lasting peace between the elemental nations, believing that the violent and bloody history between all five of them shouldn’t be so readily forgotten in the name of so called peace. The guard had provided an in for the group of rogue ninja to sneak inside the boarders of Konoha, and during the conference, had finally made their presence known.
There was only five of them, and they had appeared out of nowhere. Kakashi struck one of them down while he was still mid-sentence, discussing the potential intelligence trade of harmless ninjutsu, like those involved in agriculture, as a stepping stone to eventually sharing more and more intel between them all as their relationships foster. Ay easily took down another in the initial commotion.
Seeing two of their comrades fall so quickly did not deter the others. A smoke bomb was thrown in the center of the room, but if they hoped it would veil their escape, or confuse their enemies and give them the upper hand, they were sorely mistake. Naruto watched as Terumi borrowed Chojuro’s blade to strike one of them down as soon as they were in range. Kurotsuchi eagerly crushed the fourth to death with an earth style justu, and the firth one was captured with Gaara’s sand.
“What is your purpose here?” Gaara demanded. “The five of you were not so foolish to think you could stand a chance against the kage of the five allied nations, surely?”
“Allied?” The man scoffed. “I doubt for much longer.”
Their source of intel did not say much more. Before Gaara could stop him, the man had broken a poisonous pill in his tooth and was dead within seconds. Gaara sighed, dropping his limp body, and Naruto surveyed the scene, scratching his head at the assorted bodies laying around. The smoke bomb was still active, and the thick fog was starting to give Naruto a headache.
The first to crumple was Chojuro. All eyes darted to him as he fell to the ground, groaning in pain. The scent of salt water before a hurricane flowed, and it seemed like a domino had fallen, as every alpha within the vicinity began to show signs of a pre-rut, teeth bared, scents flaring. Naruto stared wide eyed as the kages began to growl at each other; even alphas under the command of their kage were snapping, like Temari was with Gaara.
Hell, even a beta like Darui was agitated, picking a fight with Kankuro, who happened to be standing next to him. Naruto watched as utter chaos began to unfold as a rut settled in for all alphas present. Ruts were characterized with extreme aggression and territorial behaviour, and it was clear having so many alphas in one place was skyrocketing everyone’s agitation, believing there to be threats to their pack surrounding them.
“Woah, settle down!” Naruto shouted, trying to break up the fight between Gaara and Terumi. He had to dodge a barrage of lava for his effort, and he quickly wondered if trying to stop them would actually be helpful. Maybe he should just let everyone’s pent up aggression get out for a little bit before he tries to intervene? But what if they successfully leathally hurt each other during that time?
Naruto scratched his head. It was true that he was an alpha as well, but all of his time trying to hold back Kurama’s fury had actually helped him manage to keep control of his instincts. Nature energy had helped harmonize his human and animal instincts, and controlling Kurama, until they became friends, gave him the strength to keep himself in check. Whatever was happening thankfully wasn’t affecting him- Naruto could only imagine the problems he would be causing if he was half as feral as any one else.
Naruto frowned, wondering what had caused this. Ruts don’t exactly happen without any warning, and for every single alpha in this room to undergo a rut at the same time naturally is more than unlikely. The fact that even the betas are acting aggressive is saying something, too, but Naruto can’t quite figure it out.
His eyes sweep across the room. The rogue ninja must have something to do with this… his eyes land on the smoke bomb, kicked under the table in the scuffle between shinobi. Of course! Naruto sniffed the air, feeling a warmth pool his stomach for his efforts of breathing in the concentrated poison, and promptly dived towards the smoke bomb.
It clearly wasn’t a smoke bomb, but a poisoned one, releasing pheramones to force the alphas here into a rut. Naruto held it away from his nose, the smell awful, and opened a window to drop the canister out of the room. Watching it fall, Naruto realized it wasn’t spraying anymore, which meant it was too little, too late. Hopefully opening the window could help spread out the pheromones, but Naruto’s pretty sure if they’re all this far into their rut, it’ll take more than clean air to get them to act right.
Naruto watched as swords clashed and half formed jutsus were used. The rogue ninjas had wanted to force the kage to fight with each other, maybe to cause an international incident, and what better way to do that than by playing on their territorial alpha natures? It was a pretty good plan, Naruto had to admit, considering that it was totally working; everyone had completely lost their fucking minds.
Naruto tilted his head. Something was missing here.
He watched as Chojuro attacked Ay, who promptly punched him hard enough to probably cause a concussion later. Darui and Kankuro were still going at it, though Akatsuchi had joined the fray; Terumi and Temari had begun to scuffle; Gaara and Kurotsuchi were viciously trading blows.
Naruto’s eyes widened. Where was Kakashi?
It was that moment a new scent became apparent. The scents before had been sharp, bitter, and incredibly overwhelming. They were used as a warning, like a flare of chakra, to announce one’s displeasure, and to ward off malicious threats to their packs. They were not meant to be pleasant, so it was disconcerting to suddenly smell something sweet.
It was like a summer rainstorm, a gentle splash of ozone and the faintest buzz of electricity, something warm under your fingertips. It was sweet in a way that couldn’t be described, and Naruto was not the only one who noticed the smell, because the sounds of blades clashing had ceased as the scent began to spread.
Naruto shifted, peering back at the last place he had seen Kakashi. The man was crumpled on the floor, curled tight into himself almost defensively, despite the fights breaking out nearby. Naruto zeroed in on what was visible of his face, flushed a bright pink, sweating slightly, pupils dilated wide.
For a moment, everyone seemed struck dumb by the revelation.
Kakashi was an
omega
.
Naruto only recognises the signs of heat because Jiraiya’s stupid porn books starred an omega. Half of the scandalous fucking they did was while she was in heat, drama caused by the event happening with the worst possible timing, alluring enemy shinobi to her before a handsome alpha shinobi could save her. Naruto found the stories terribly reductive but Jiraiya simply figured Naruto didn’t understand the allure of an omega, since they were now so terribly rare.
It was true that Naruto had never met an omega. Most people haven’t. The shinobi wars had always targeted omegas, since they were incredibly fertile and were often the means of reproduction. Kill those that could reproduce, and future armies would be cut in half was the supposed logic.
Betas had been on the rise for centuries at that point, but with the lack of omegas during the gendered killings of the first three shinobi wars, their population nearly blew up. Betas that populated with other betas could only produce more betas. Betas that were populated with alphas could only produce betas or alphas. The omega genes were considered nearly lost after they were disproportionately killed off, leaving mainly alphas to reproduce.
It was incredibly rare to find an omega, but here was Kakashi, in the throes of heat, smelling like a summer storm.
Chaos unfolded immediately.
All aggression increased tenfold as they fought with each other to claim the sweet smelling omega. Biology had completely taken hold, and Naruto almost can’t even blame them; most of them had never even seen an omega before, and it was near impossible to hold back instincts they likely forgot they had beyond a mild rut-induced desire to fuck something.
Alarm bells rang in Naruto’s head. Omegas were rare, but they still taught some basic biology in class. Alphas sought omegas in heat because they wanted to have sex with them.
Naruto scrambled after the mass of rutting kages.
The first to reach Kakashi was Mei Terumi, who cooed at Kakashi, pulling him into her lap after she had all but stumbled to the ground next to him. Kakashi was practically limp in her arms, whining softly as Terumi tipped his head back, bearing his neck, prepared to simply bite him through his shirt. She had sharp enough fangs to do it, Naruto could see, gleaming in the fluorescent light as she prepared to strike.
Gaara’s sand struck her in the face, making her sputter, and Naruto sent a prayer up to every god that was watching in thanks. Naruto pushes past Temari and Darui, who try to attack him, but Naruto isn’t rut-addled like them, and tries to strategise his next move as Kurotsuchi approached, yanking Kakashi away from Terumi, who was tackled by Kankuro before she could retaliate.
“You’re cute,” Kurotsuchi said, adjusting Kakashi into a princess carry. She scented him, pressing his face against her neck as she tried to sniff at him, relaxing at the sweet scent he was releasing. Kakashi was instinctively nuzzling into her, clearly enjoying the sharp scent of clay and smoke, which had soften slightly in an instinctive response to being near an omega. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
Naruto had to act fast. He pushed Chojuro into Ay, causing them both to stumble. Irritated, Ay’s focuses shifted to the swordsman, and Naruto felt a modicum of pity for the beating the boy was about to take as he dashed towards Kakashi. Gaara was making a move as well, and Naruto apologized before kicking him in the face, thankful the rut slowed his sand enough for Naruto to land the blow.
Finally, Naruto blitzed towards Kurotsuchi, tackling her to the ground. The way all three of them fell was completely graceless, but Kurotsuchi knocked her head against the floor, and that was all the opening Naruto needed, yanking Kakashi out of Kurotsuchi’s arms. Maybe Naruto should be more cautious about the fact that he was about to abandon a dozen incredibly agitated, in rut alphas to their own devices, but Naruto needed to get Kakashi
out of there
at all costs.
He leapt out of the window, body flickering faster than he’s ever managed to do before until he landed on the roof of the hospital. “Hey, Kakashi, you with me?”
He glanced down, finding Kakashi pressed against his neck. Naruto didn’t tend to wear scent blockers since he was usually pretty in control of his instincts and because he didn’t care if people smelled him or not, but he was beginning to regret it. As in control as Naruto is of himself, he can’t lie and say those pheromones didn’t affect him at all. There was a small heat building in his groin, though it was fading the longer he was out of that room, and he was definitely releasing more scent than usual.
He pushed Kakashi away from himself, ignoring the electricity down his spine when Kakashi whined, leaning Kakashi against the maintenance shed and trying to give him some distance. Kakashi was sweating profusely, face still flushed bright, and he instinctively curled into himself when he noticed Naruto wasn’t touching him anymore.
It was incredibly odd seeing Kakashi like this, Naruto had to admit. Calm and always collected, never rankled by anything, always going with the flow and yet here he was, deep in his heat, pitifully whining, releasing more of his sweet, sweet scent to try to entice him.
“Alpha,” Kakashi slurred, tilting his neck slightly. That was a tone of voice Naruto never imagined hearing from him, and now that he has, a furious blush erupts on Naruto’s own face in understanding. Kakashi is in heat. The primary purpose of heat is to attract an alpha to…
“Kakashi,” Naruto tries again, shaking him slightly. “Come on, come on, cool down already.”
“Can’t,” he admitted, curling further into himself. He seemed oddly cozy in his oversized hokage robes, snuggling into his sleeves like a makeshift pillow. “I’m so hot, Alpha… please…”
Naruto ran his fingers through his hair. This was bad. This was vulnerable, was the problem, really. Konoha was a village full of alphas, especially clan alphas, and Naruto was half afraid someone was going to smell a deeply in heat omega and make the worst mistake of Kakashi’s life. He couldn’t leave him, but he did have to do something about the rutting alphas that were definitely either tearing each other apart or tearing the city apart in search of Kakashi.
Sighing, Naruto picked Kakashi back up, carefully trying to hold him away from his neck, needing Kakashi to clear his head. It seemed so unlike Kakashi to lose himself to his instincts… but he supposed it was also unlike Gaara, so the pheromones must be
that
strong if it could make some of the most level headed people he knew lose their minds like this. Which means it was probably incredibly important Naruto gets a doctor involved with whatever is happening right now.
Naruto chakra walks down the side of the building, kicking in a window on the floor Tsunade’s office should be. Nurses stop and stare as he wanders through the hospital, shouting for someone to go find Tsuande for him. A few rush off to do what he said, and a few more linger, gazes fixed on Kakashi, and a chill down his spine knows it’s not because they’re concerned about the fact that the sixth hokage was being cradled in his mentee’s arms.
“What the hell are you making such a big fuss about?” Tsunade shouted, barging into the hallway Naruto had been wandering down. Naruto can pinpoint the moment Tsunade smells Kakashi; her pupils dilate, and she physically restrains herself, gripping the doorway of the room she was leaving so tight the drywall was crumbling under her fingers.
Naruto made half a step back, suddenly wondering if he should have gotten Tsunade involved. Fighting off a sannin while carrying Kakashi was going to be the most difficult task he’s ever faced. He would have better luck beating back Shizune. Fuck.
Tsunade remains perfectly still for a few moments, taking slow, deep breaths before her head suddenly snaps to attention, her eyes burning. Naruto swallows at the sight of her expression, the way she snaps her fingers to the room across from her. “Go in there right now!”
Instinctively following her orders, Naruto slides inside, only mildly nervous when Tsuande slams the door shut behind them. Tsunade doesn’t turn around to look at him for a moment, just braces herself against the door, but she still barks, “Put him on the bed, now!”
Naruto gently, carefully lowers Kakashi to the medical bed, hesitating before tucking him under the sheets. Kakashi whines at the loss of Naruto’s body heat but is contented when Naruto pulls the sheets over him, watching him snuggle into the cheap fabrics. He shifts back and forth, adjusting the pillow he was given before he suddenly began to pull off the hokage robe. Naruto glanced away, suddenly fearful Kakashi was completely undressing, but Tsaunde, now facing them both, wasn’t stopping him.
The sounds of sheets rustling continues for a few moments. Hesitantly, Naruto glances back at Kakashi, dressed in his jonin blues, shuffling the sheets and his robe, fussing over the positions of the fabric. Wordlessly, Tsunade takes off her haori, and Naruto eyes her suspiciously before she places it on the bed. She elbows Naruto. “Give him your jacket.”
Happy to be told what to do, Naruto takes off his jacket, dumping it on the bed. Kakashi fusses with the new material for a few moments, shuffling it around while the two of them watch.
“Hes nesting,” Tsunade states, sounding almost in awe. “I didn’t know he was… Damn that brat for not updating his medical information. He’s listed as a fucking alpha.”
Naruto watches as Kakashi finally contents himself. Suddenly, Kakashi is pulling his shirt off, and Naruto spins on his heels to look away. Tsuande chuckles drily at his embarrassment, but watches Kakashi with a fond look. “I haven’t seen an omega nest in years. Really, I haven’t seen an omega in years. Figured Konoha finally bred them out of the gene pool after all those stupid wars.”
Her expression hardened, turning to Naruto. “What happened?”
“Oh, right! There was an attack at the summit. A couple of rogue ninjas dropped a smoke bomb and it started making all the other kages go crazy! Then Kakashi went into heat, and they all tried to fight each other over him, so I took him here to get treated and help to wrangle the other kages. Last I checked they were fighting each other but I don’t know if they escaped the hokage tower yet.”
Tsunade stared at him for a moment. Without remorse, she smacks him upside the head. “Why didn’t you fucking open with that? You were attacked? The kages were all forced in an artificial rut? They fought?”
“I got distracted, okay? Learning Kakashi was an omega was kind of distracting!”
Tsuande runs her fingers through her hair, muttering to herself before she straightens up, clearly armed with a plan. “Alright. Kakashi has been compromised, so I’m taking temporary control. I’m going to gather a team of chemists and poison specialists to counteract the kage’s rut. Another team of shinobis will be tasked with either hunting them down or separating and containing them.”
Her hard gaze drifted to Kakashi. Naruto blushed, noticing Kakashi had stripped himself naked and was cuddling inside the makeshift nest he had fussed over. Tsunade turned on her heels, blocking Naruto’s line of sight, and her expression was hard once more, demanding Naruto’s utmost attention.
“You weren’t affected by the pheromones the rogue ninja used,” Tsunade notes. “Considering that even Darui was, that’s an impressive feat of control you have. I’m not even attracted to Kakashi and I still had to use chakra to cut off my olfactory senses to avoid making a scene. So here’s what we’re gonig to do- I’m going to trust you to watch over Kakashi while I try to sort through the rest of the mess that was made here. Do not let anyone else inside this room. Got it?”
Naruto opened his mouth to ask a question, but Tsaunde’s expression was one of steel. He settled for nodding.
“After we fix the mess with the kage, Shizune and I will develop something to help Kakashi. It’s been a long while since we’ve dealt with omegas… it might take time. Probably, it’s only going to stave off the affects of the heat long enough for him to decide how he wants to spend the heat.” She already sounds exhausted. “Just look after him for now. Don’t let any one in the room.”
She stared Naruto dead in the eyes. “And don’t you dare fuck him while he’s like this, or I swear I’m going to rip your balls off and force you to swallow them whole.”
“I won’t!” Naruto cried, holding his hands up defensively. “Of course I’m not going to take advantage of him!”
“He can’t say no to you,” Tsunade states, flatly. “Whatever pheromone cocktail they’re using, it pushes people deep into their instincts. He’s going to want you to fuck him and you’re going to have to deny him that. Understood?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Tsunade watches him carefully for a moment, sizing him up. She sighed. “Make sure to get some fluids in him. If you can also get him to eat something, that would be great, but water takes priority. He needs to replenish what he’s sweating off. Don’t leave him unattended for too long, however- that boy smells divine, and you can not risk someone breaking into the room while you’re gone.”
Tsunade looks at Kakashi. He’s whimpering faintly as he tries to hump one of the pillows. Naruto’s face burns hot at the sight of him shamelessly stroking his cock as he grinded against the pillow. He was wearing a medical mask now that he was naked; Tsunade must have given it to him when Naruto had turned around at the sight of him stripping. But every other aspect of his body was on full display, and Naruto couldn’t lie and say his cock didn’t stir at the sight.
Kakashi was unfairly attractive. He was lithe but full of power, muscles rippling every time he moves. Naruto watched his abdomen contract while he tried to grind against his pillow, his thighs squeezing, flexing, while he stroked his cock, long fingers curling around his small length as he worked.
Naruto suddenly wasn’t sure this as a good idea.
“Hopefully it won’t take us too long,” Tsunade says. “I’ll come back as soon as things have settled down to help. Take care of him for a little while.”
Tsunade moves to leave. Naruto opens his mouth to ask if this is really a wise decision, but Tsunade had already slammed the door shut, locking it behind her. Naruto stared at the closed door, then back at Kakashi, watching him adjust in time to see a teasing flash of his cunt, already dripping with slick, staining the pillows and spilling down his thighs.
Naruto sighed, ignoring the heat in his stomach, and settled in the chair next to Kakashi. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth Kakashi’s wild bangs. Kakashi melted into the touch, pushing his head against his hand, as if demanding for more, and Naruto obliged, running his nails along his scalp, feeling the way Kakashi relaxed against him. He gave a content little chirp that made Naruto want to squish his face from how cute it sounded, snuggling into his nest as he appreciated Naruto’s ministrations.
“Are you with me, Kakashi?” Naruto asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. Kakashi would be mortified of his behavior if he was in his right mind. He sighed, watching Kakashi pant slightly from the mild fever the heat induced. “Stupid question. I can’t believe you’re an omega, though. A lot has happened today, but I’m still reeling from that one.”
Kakashi perked slightly at the word omega, opening his dreamy eyes. They were hazy with heat, fogged over and unfocused, but Naruto could feel them looking right at him. Even heat addled and out of his mind, Kakashi’s full attention was surprisingly still rather intimidating.
“Alpha,” Kakashi murmured, rolling towards the edge of the bed, threatening to push himself towards Naruto’s lap. He placed his head on Naruto’s thigh, eager for more bodily contact, and Naruto quietly continued to run his fingers through his hair. “Alpha…”
“Sh,” Naruto murmured, watching Kakashi’s gaze grow glassy. He hoped that maybe Kakashi could miraculously sleep through most of it. “It’s me, Kakashi.”
“Alpha…” A soft breath, the calm before the storm. “Minato-sensei…”
Naruto froze.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Dragons are proud, majestic, magical creatures that inspire awe into those who lay eyes upon them. They also hoard treasure, things under their protection. They guard it with their lives and share a unique bond with it. Even the smallest piece of a dragon's treasure will hold great value to the one guarding it. One of a dragon's greatest treasures is their partner. Once their partner is chosen, a dragon will stay with them for as long as they live and breathe, sometimes even longer than that. So, naturally, dragons will pass this instinct on to their children.
"
You're my bookworm. Don't ever forget that."
"
You mean so much more to me than just one of my nakama."
"I-
I love you. And I know this sounds very sudden, but I will always love you, until the day I die."
Now, because of this bond with their treasure, dragons can be very protective, to the point of slightly possessive. If someone even looks at a dragon's treasure funny, they might as well check themselves into the nearest hospital (or morgue).
"
I only meant to make his pants start smoking for staring at your chest! How was I supposed to know his clothes were extremely flammable?"
"
The ass-wipe smelled like a pervert, so I just told him to keep his paws off what's mine. So what if I had to make my point with my fist?"
"
I'm sorry, but I didn't like the way she was looking at you. I only wanted to blow her outside! I didn't know she'd fall into the pool!"
The main point is this; to mess with a dragon's treasure is tantamount to throwing yourself off a cliff. Onto a bed of spikes.
Now, a little-known fact about a dragon's protective nature is that it doesn't stop at just their own treasure. Because they all understand the bond, any and all dragons will protect whatever is recognized as "a dragon's treasure". And that includes another dragon's partner.
Don't believe me?
Here's a perfect example for you; in Magnolia Town, Fiore, there is a wizard's guild famous for their powerful and destructive mages with hearts of gold. This guild is called Fairy Tail.
Fairy Tail is the proud home of three mighty Dragonslayers, raised and taught by actual dragons; Fire Dragonslayer Natsu Dragneel, Iron Dragonslayer Gajeel Redfox, and Wind Dragonslayer Wendy Marvell.
Fairy Tail is also the home of the partners to these Dragonslayers (though most would say they were just dating, if asked); Celestial Wizard Lucy Heartphilia, Solid Script Mage Levy McGarden, and Rainbow Fire Mage Romeo Conbolt. These three mages love and adore their respective dragonslayer with all their hearts, even when they are surprised by their dragon instincts.
"
That was awesome! And I thought Natsu-nii could eat a lot!"
"
If I'd known you loved to cuddle while I'm reading this much, I'd have confessed to you ages ago!"
"
Don't go sneaking into my bed like that just because you like my scent! When I'm writing, nap on the couch!"
Like all couples, these dragons and their partners have their ups and downs. But they will love and protect each other till the end of time, that is for certain.
Here's their story…
With a huge sigh, Lucy slumped into a stool, her head gently hitting the bar with a soft 'thump'.
"That sounded rather sad. What's the matter?"
Lifting her head a little at the soft voice, Lucy looked up into Mirajane's curious face.
"It's Natsu," she groaned, putting her head back onto the bar. "Erza took him and Gray on a special 'Learn How To Be Real Best Friends Or Die' training trip yesterday. What am I supposed to do for three days without him? Even Happy went with them!"
Mirajane had to suppress a happy squeal as she comforted the blonde mage. Ever since Lucy and Natsu began dating, the two were practically inseparable. Nothing short of Erza could keep them apart for very long.
"Why didn't you go with them?" she asked Lucy as she passed a drunk Cana more alcohol.
"I wanted to," Lucy replied, absently watching Cana down her mug like a shot-glass. "But Erza wouldn't let me. She said I'd be too distracting for Natsu. He wouldn't make any progress with the purpose of the trip."
"Because Lucy-san is no longer a love-rival," Juvia announced, ignoring Lucy's startled jump and mutter of 'where did you come from'. "Juvia will help comfort and share in Lucy-san's misery."
Mirajane, also ignoring Lucy's 'I'm not miserable, per-say', smiled sweetly at Juvia as she passed the water mage's usual drink over the bar. "Ah, that's right, Gray went with them. I'm surprised you didn't decided to follow them."
"Juvia will follow Gray-sama to the ends of the world!" she swore passionately, before deadpanning "But Juvia never wants to be on the receiving end of Erza-san's displeasure. So Juvia didn't dare follow and risk invoking Erza-san's wrath."
The three girls shivered at the thought of an angry Erza. Who knows what the redhead would've done to Juvia if she'd been discovered following them?
With another sigh, Lucy pushed herself away from the bar and stood up. "Well, I guess I might as well head home. While I miss my team and all, it'd be nice to be able to work on my book without them barging in randomly. I'll see you guys tomorrow."
As the two girls said their goodbyes in reply, Lucy walked through the guild to the exit, avoiding a side brawl in the process. Waving goodbye to Levy as she past her, Lucy had to smile at the sight of the tiny blunette curled up with a book in the arms and lap of Gajeel, who also spared a nod in the celestial wizard's direction.
"Um, Lucy?"
Looking slightly down, Lucy saw Wendy standing next to her, looking embarrassed with an adorable blush staining her cheeks.
"What's up, Wendy?" Lucy smiled, fighting the urge to cuddle the young dragonslayer.
"Um, can I walk home with you?" Wendy studied her shoes as she fidgeted, her blush darkening. "Romeo wants to take me out somewhere tomorrow evening, and I want your advice on what to wear."
With a grin that could rival that of Natsu's usual smile, Lucy led the little girl by the hand towards the exit, talking a mile a minute and demanding details. Unnoticed by everyone, especially the chatting blonde, Wendy cast one look behind her to catch Gajeel's eye and winked. The man smirked in reply, and turned his attention back to the girl in his arms as Wendy smiled and began chatting back with her companion.
The next morning, Gajeel was waiting in the guild for his partner, bantering and teasing with Pantherlily, when Wendy came up to their table with a very troubled look on her face.
Lily noticed her first and grew concerned at the look on the normally cheerful Sky Sorceress. "Hello, Wendy. Is something the matter?"
Gajeel's eyes shot to the little girl, silently looking her over and checking her scent. After he was assured that nothing was physically wrong with her, he silently offered her a seat next to his to talk.
"It's Lucy," she quietly started as soon as she sat down. Both man and cat glanced over to the blonde mage, sulking at the bar once again while the Take-Over sisters comforted her with knowing smiles.
"Bunny-girl looks fine to me," Gajeel grunted, turning back to Wendy. "Somethin' happen yesterday?"
Wendy nodded, biting her lip. "Do you remember that guy you and Natsu-nii chased off last week?" At the dawning expression on the iron dragonslayer's face and the bemused one on Lily's, she continued, "Lucy and I were walking to her apartment when he showed up again. I tried to get rid of him, but he managed to get Lucy to agree–"
As if summoned, the door of the guild opened and in walked a stranger. The black-haired man seemed to scream 'tourist', with a Hawaiian shirt and all. He appeared to be young and good-looking, but nearly everyone could see the snobbish aura around him that would make any interested person hesitate and change their mind.
Shaking her puzzlement, Lisanna stepped away from the bar to approach the newcomer, determined to uphold the guild's standard of never judging someone by their appearance. "Hi! Welcome to the Fairy Tail guild! May we help you with something?"
The man, who had been scanning the room, snapped to the petite white-haired girl. Lisanna resisted the urge to punch him as he looked down his nose at her, and held back a shudder when his mouth turned up into a slow smirk.
"No, thank you," he drawled, his deep voice making every girl in hearing proximity suddenly have the urge to smack him. "I'm just looking for someone. But I… appreciate your offer."
With another smirk, the man strode confidently to the bar, where the other Strauss sister hovered uncertainly and somewhat protectively over the celestial wizard still sulking, having not noticed the newcomer heading her way.
"Good morning, Lucy-san," the stranger greeted her once he stood behind her stool, causing Lucy to turn in her seat and straighten herself. "What a pleasure it is to see you again. I thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so."
"Uh, hello again, Anders-san," Lucy replied hesitantly, slightly uncomfortable with his formal and flowery tone. Seeing that Lucy knew the man, Mirajane reluctantly took her leave to give them some sort of privacy.
"Please, I requested yesterday that you call me Jim," He flashed her an attempt at a charming smile, and Lucy stifled a groan
.
Not too far from the bar, two dragonslayers and a cat stared at the stranger talking to the blonde mage. After a few moments observing, Gajeel finally growled, "Let me guess. He talked Bunny-chick into seeing him again today?"
Wendy, busy glaring daggers into the back of Jim Anders, only nodded. Lily eyed the two before shaking his head and grabbing his mug. "I'm going to wait by the door for Levy-chan," he informed Gajeel, who slightly turned his head in his direction to indicate he heard. "Don't go crazy right in the middle of the guild."
Gajeel said nothing as the Exceed hopped off his seat and flew to the doors. Yet if someone had happened to look in the dragonslayers' direction at that moment, the look on
both
of their faces would have given the person the feeling of being hunted.
Jim Anders didn't stand a chance.
"—you said you enjoy reading, yes? I just read a thrilling love story between a girl and a vampire who thinks of himself as a monster, perhaps you have heard of it? I was so moved by the depth and complexity of their love…"
Lucy nodded as Jim Anders babbled on, pretending interest as she silently begged for somebody, anybody, to rescue her. If she had to hear anymore about the book he read (which Lucy had already read awhile back and thought was flat and ridiculous), or how alike the two were (really, Lucy thought that she had nothing in common with the man), or poems about how pretty she was (Lucy was never one for poetry, and she preferred Natsu's blunt way of saying she's beautiful any day), she might just scream and summon Taurus or Loke to toss him out a window.
Damn my politeness,
she thought as she nodded again and forced a smile at the chatty man.
I never should've agreed to meet up with him again. Where's possessive-Natsu when you need him?
Just as Lucy was seriously contemplating summoning one of her spirits to get rid of him, her prayers were answered in the form of a little dragonslayer who appeared at her side.
"Lucy!" Wendy cried happily, hugging the blonde around the waist and pointedly ignoring the man she just interrupted. "Come sit with me and Romeo!"
Lucy could have cried from relief. "Sorry Anders-san!" she told the man now spluttering in protest. "It was nice talking to you!" With that, she hopped off her bar stool and nearly ran for the table where Romeo sat waiting for his girlfriend, the little blunette walking patiently behind her.
Jim Anders was pissed. How dare that little girl interrupt him? And she dragged Lucy away! Grumbling, he settled for glaring holes into the girl's back as she walked behind the celestial mage.
Almost as if she sensed his gaze, the girl in question turned to glance back at the man still seated at the bar. The look she sent him actually made his blood run cold and send a shiver running down his spine. In that one moment, Wendy Marvell looked positively
feral
.
Just as she turned away and the moment passed, Jim Anders felt a presence behind him, one that he recognized. He felt this same presence with another the week before when he was chatting up a petite blunette at the park.
With an audible gulp, he slowly turned around to see the most terrifying creature in existence standing behind him with a grin that matched the one sent his way not moments earlier.
Gajeel Redfox's eyes bore into Jim Anders, who looked like he was about to wet himself. "Guess you didn't learn your lesson the first time, punk."
As she talked with Lucy and Romeo, Wendy noticed Gajeel drag Jim Anders out the back door of the guild. Gajeel caught her eye with a smirk and gave a short wave before closing the door behind him.
Wendy allowed herself a smug grin and snuggled closer to her partner.
No one messes with a dragon's treasure.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jenomis cen Lexentale (Day 15 : Row)
I can’t believe you manage to fit an entire theater in this airship! How big is it, exactly?
I believe the
Astalicia
is half as large as military grade dreadnought, so… I do not have the specifics in mind, but we’ve never lacked for room, indeed!
I admit to some jealousy. To be able to fly the whole world over, while still crafting your art in such a place…
Come now, my friend. The tool may be wondrous, but the real magic happens because of the people, and I could not be blessed with better performers than the Majestic Troupe.
Your production of
The Miracle of the Saint of Nymeia
was simply wonderful, by the way. I left the theater positively enchanted!
Thank you ever so much. I will make sure the troupe knows of your kind words. But enough about me, we have met to talk about our common acquaintance!
Quite so, quite so-
I am eager to disprove what
The Man from the East
lied about, after all. Darren helped me on my life’s most precious work, ‘tis only fitting I try to return the favour in kind.
Even here, you’ve heard of that atrocity?
To my eternal consternation and loathing, yes. So, where to start, where to start? Oh, yes, I think I have it! It may not appear so at first glance, but Master Xirias
is
quite fond of the arts…
___
Jenomis could not believe his luck: he, a Garlean, was now sat in the front rows to one of the most moving performances he ever had the pleasure to witness, a production of
Halone’s Mightiest
performed in the heart of the Vault. He had only dreamed of such an opportunity, knowing full well he would never be able to experience it.
And yet, he was now staring with open wonder at the stage, the players, all of them Elezen clad in armor, were now facing against their foe, a fearsome dragon that aimed to make them burn for their allegiance.
The most wondrous part was that this was no figure of speech: an actual, living and breathing dragon was also on the stage, clearly performing as well as the other actors.
“I still believe the play should have been amended, given what we now know of Ishgard’s history,” whispered his daughter Alma from his side, frowning as she did so. “The dragons are portrayed as unrepentant villains, and the Ishgardians as Halone’s chosen people. Isn’t it exactly the same issue you had with
Garlands of Corvos,
Father?”
“‘Tis true both pieces served as mouthpieces for their respective governments at the time, yes,” agreed Jenomis. “But here, the play has been preserved in its original form. I believe it was the Dravanians that insisted upon it, in fact.”
“You would be right,” whispered their host for the night, the man whose name alone opened almost all doors of the Holy See with deference. Darren was dressed much more aptly for a social gathering than Jenomis had ever seen him before, which made sense, since their interactions mainly happened during the Ivalice expedition. “The script remains unchanged to make sure any citizen of the Holy See remember how the Archbishops managed to flip the narrative so easily.”
As he spoke thus, the dragon on stage roared, scattering the pretend knights to the ground, and earning a gasp of fright from the audience.
“Would it not be better to play this on an open-air stage?” whispered Ramza. “Dragonfire would be hard to control should the dragon’s control slip.”
“Watch,” merely said Darren, as the dragon opened their maw, and the telltale orange glow of dragonfire bathed the stage. But Jenomis’ trained eye managed to notice: crystal lamps held by juvenile dragons, hidden in the stone arches’ shadows!
“Clever,” he chuckled, “you seem very informed of the production and its technical aspects, Darren. Have you hidden from me the soul of stagewright?”
“Focus on the play first, Lexentale,” smirked the Hyur. “We’ll have all the time in the world to discuss after the curtain call.”
___
The play, all in all, was easily amongst the top five Jenomis had ever witnessed. For his two children, it was easily the best.
“Father, did you see what they did with the resurrection scene? I thought Saint Shiva herself was back from the dead! Such a clever use of ice scultpures.”
“That scene brought me chills,” shivered Alma. “And I don’t know how they managed to reverberate her actress’ voice across the nave, but I almost fainted!”
From where they stood, Ashe and Rurula, Darren’s ever present cohort, smirked at the Hyur, who merely shrugged in answer.
“Should we tell them?” teased the Hrothgar, holding his husband closer as he did so. Immediately, the three Lexentales narrowed their gazes on him, suspicion obvious on their faces.
“That I helped the playwright based on my own experience with Shiva?” replied Darren, batting his eyes as innocently as he ever could - meaning not much. “Why, I would have thought it obvious.”
“Aha!” shouted Jenomis. “I knew you had ulterior motives for inviting us tonight. This was all a ploy to show us your skills beyond the stage!”
“Not exactly, no” laughed the Hyur. “I may love theater, but I do not have the time to lead stageplay, thank you very much. But you
did
mention in your last letter a want to explore nex horizons, so…” His gaze diverted, then, as he seemingly heard something from across the nave. “Ah, speaking of the dragon… Ehll Touh! Over here!”
In a showing Jenomis would only ever call wondrous, a red dragon landed right next to the trio of Eorzeans. Yet the sight caused the Lexentales no fear, merely surprise, for the dragon was, against all preconceptions… wearing a hat.
An admittedly very cute hat, he conceded.
“Darren! You came!”
she shouted, grinning widely- for Jenomis could clearly hear in his mind that this dragon, in peculiar, preferred to be referred as a she.
“What did you think? I think the crystal lamps were my best work so far.”
“Couldn’t have done it better myself, my dear apprentice,” replied the Hyur, rubbing the dragon’s snout affectionately. Even but a few years ago, the sight would have likely caused inquisitors to proclaim heresy, and burn the entire assembly down - at least from what Jenomis had heard. “You already know my husband and my best friend.” A wave from the dragon, which was returned by the pair. “I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine, though. Jenomis, Ramza, Alma, meet Ehlm Touh. Craftsdragon extraordinaire, and the claw behind most of the technical contraptions you saw this evening.”
“An honour, to be sure,” immediately replied Jenomis, bowing slightly. “For your work was truly remarkable.”
“I was told I was supposed to make it as
unremarkable
as I could,”
replied the dragon, though Jenomis could almost hear the snort in his own mind. Alma and Ramza chuckled. Teenagers, it seemed, were a concept that transcended even species.
“Oh, rest assured, my eye is more trained on these matters than most. Could I bother you for a while? I must simply hear about your craft. As a matter of fact, I am even currently seeking partners for our tour…”
___
Jenomis cen Lexentale is the Majestic Troupe’s principal. The most famous theater company of the star crossed paths with the Warrior of Light when they unveiled together the mysteries of ancient Ivalice, and in so doing rewrote the end of the legendary play,
The Zodiac Brave Story.
Nowadays, the Majestic Troupe is on tour across Eorzea, benefiting from the warming relations between the Alliance and the newly founded Garlean Republic to bridge the gap between the two cultures. Their current repertoire has also incorporated famous Eorzean stories, and a play about the Final Days and their end is currently being penned.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
✰════°∴,*⋅✲══〖Sunshine's Point of View.〗══✲⋅*,∴°════✰
I groan as I slide out of the truck, my legs wobbly as I stretch them out properly. "Frisk!" I call out, the teenager's attention snapping to me before they take off running toward me. I laugh as they collide with me, grabbing my hands and dragging me toward Asgore. "Can I take them down to the water?" I ask the king, him giving me a quick nod.
The two of us giggle as we stumble down the sand, sprinting toward the water. A wave crashes against the beach as we reach the edge of the water, silence covering us in a comfortable blanket as we stare at the water. I bring my hand behind Frisk's back, giving them a slight push forward. They stumble in the sand, a grin spreading on my face as their feet hit the water.
They look at me, their face full of offense as they grab my hands and drag me in with them. The ankles of their pants are soaked within seconds as we kick water at each other. My laughter fills the air as Frisk's shoulders bounce silently, both of our heads turning to the walkway as a whistle echoes through the air. "COME ON! WE WANT TO GO TO OUR ROOMS, SOME OF US DON'T WANT TO GET OUR CLOTHES WET!"
I look down at myself, realizing my clothes were thoroughly soaked. Frisk looks up at me with a similar expression, before kicking water onto me one last time. I gasp at them, reaching down to pull my foot out of my crocs. "Oh, you're gonna get it now, these puppies are going into sports mode."
Frisk squeals before scrambling to run toward where Blue had been calling us, out-of-breath laughter leaving me as I narrowly avoid tripping in the sand as I begin to sprint after them. I put my hand over my heart as I slow to a stop on the boardwalk, Frisk hiding behind Blue.
"Okay, I'll beat you in a race later, kiddo." I huff, walking back onto the asphalt and toward the entrance of the resort. I run a hand through my hair as I push the door open with my free hand, smiling at the cat monster running the front desk. "Hello! The reservation is under the name Albrun."
The man looks at me, then at the tablet in front of him. While he scrolls through it, I hear the door open behind me. "Alright..." The man drawls, "Albrun, seven rooms all on the same floor," He looks up at me lazily, eyes half closed. "Give me one minute to go get all of those key cards."
I nod at him, watching him walk into the back. I turn around, finding Toriel behind me. "You got seven rooms? Who's Frisk staying with?" My eyebrows furrow at the question, eyes flickering through the glass door to the skeletons and goat monster loading luggage onto a cart.
"They're staying with you and Asgore?" My head tilts to the side as Asgore pushes the entrance open. "You're married, aren't you? I figured you prefer for Frisk to stay with you two, so I got you the same as the skeletons. Two bedrooms, one bathroom." Asgore turns to stare at me, his eyes wide.
I see Stretch cover his mouth behind the king, shoulders bouncing silently. Asgore stutters over his words as I move my gaze back to Toriel, a similar expression of horror on her face. "My child," Asgore says with a nervous laugh, "Toriel and I are... separated. We are not married any longer."
"Oh my stars," I blurt, a flush creeping up my face. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I had no Idea! Uh, if you'd like Frisk can stay with me and you both can have separate beds in your room." I offer, eyes flickering frantically between the royals.
I hear someone behind me clear their throat, spinning on my heel to see the cat monster from before. "I'd offer to upgrade you to fix your situation, but all the rooms on that floor are full." He hands me a bag, "There are two cards in each envelope, they're numbered. If you lose one, come to the desk and we'll give you a new one."
I nod, my face still burning as we walk toward the elevator. I hand the bag to Toriel, sitting on the bench in the small room. "You all go on ahead, I'll sit here and wait for Alphys and Undyne." She nods stiffly, my hands snaking up cover my face. The group piles into an elevator, leaving me by myself for barely a minute.
"Hey, Punk," I hear Undyne call, my hands staying firmly placed on my face. "Where's everyone?" She pauses, "What happened to you?"
"I thought..." I whisper, a groan leaving me as I bury my face further into my hands. "I thought Asgore and Toriel were married. And I got them a two bedroom, with one for them and one for Frisk. And they're not married." I look up at Undyne, "Why didn't you tell me they weren't married!?"
Undyne and Alphys stare at me blankly, before busting into laughter. I wrack my hands down my face and groan for the second time in less than five minutes, standing and aggressively hitting the button on the elevator. "I'm never speaking to either of you every again," I say firmly, Undyne gasping for air behind me.
"No, no," She struggles to stifle her laughter, "I'm so sorry, I thought you knew!" I glare at her, her arm wrapping around my shoulders. "If it makes you feel better, at least you didn't book them the Lover's Escape thing you booked me and Alph." I narrow my eyes at the elevator, glaring holes into the metal.
"S-she's right," Alphys says, taking my opposite shoulder. "It could... could've been worse!"
A heavy sigh leaves me as the doors open, nodding my head as the three of us step in. I click the 6th floor, watching the doors close. "You are right." I rub my face again, trying to exhale the stress of the past ten minutes. "Toriel's up there giving out everyone's key cards, your room should be right next to mine unless someone else stole it."
✰════°∴,*⋅✲══〖✰〗══✲⋅*,∴°════✰
The tv in the small living room plays quietly as I unpack my suitcase, placing all of my planned outfits into the dresser. It's almost empty, except for my toiletries and a few more pieces of clothing. As I grab the last pieces out, I remember that Frisk wanted to head down to the beach before anything else. I turn back to my suitcase, only to find no clothes left in it.
"Did..." I whisper to myself, looking under the bag my toiletries are in. "I must've put it in my beach bag," I walk over to the desk, opening and looking through the barren bag. I blink at it, walking quickly to the door and grabbing my keycard. I pull the door open and walk across the hall to Undyne and Alphys' room.
My knuckles hit the wooden door gently, Undyne calling through the room. She opens the door, looking down at me. "Wassup, nerd?" She grins at me, my eyes looking her up and down. "Like the bathing suit? Alph and I picked them up as soon as you said we'd be going on this trip!"
"Undyne." I mumble, holding eye contact with her. "On the topic of swimsuits, I... May have forgotten to bring mine." She blinks at me, a laugh ripping from her lungs as she leans on the doorframe.
"You're kidding, right, punk? This is a beach resort, the entire point is to be in water and swim." I shake my head, eyes flickering to Alphys as she walks closer to the door. Mischief creeps into Undyne's face and words as she turns to her girlfriend, "Little Miss Sunshine over here forgot a bathing suit."
Alphys' face lights up, "O-oh my stars. This is like a scene out of an anime! We.. We have to go get you a cute swimsuit! If we go now, we can probably be back by the time Frisk wants to go to the beach!" She's wearing a very cute black and white polka dot once piece, similar to the one I would've brought.
"Give us one second to throw on some clothes, then we'll get you shopping." Undyne winks at me as she closes the door, concern courses through my body at the thought of what they may try and put on my body.
After they've gotten dressed, they drag me to the lobby. Undyne's on tapping away her phone; "Okay, so, there's a nice bathing suit place just down the boardwalk. Should only take a couple of minutes to get there, and it won't be hard to find something that looks good on you." She looks away from her phone and toward me as she explains, making me nod slowly.
The casual conversation feels... surprisingly nice. Alphys smiles as we finally make it to the clothing store, Undyne opening the door for the two of us. "M-Mettaton bought this store before he started the res-resort." I nod at her words, looking around at the beautiful, and expensive-looking, clothing.
It takes us a moment to get to the back of the store, my eyes catching on a mannequin with a very small white bikini on one of them. My eyes flicker to the prize tag before doing a double take. "Alphys, why is this bikini 140 dollars?" I whisper yell to the reptile monster. "What are they charging you for? the air where the fabric should be?"
Alphys laughs quietly, turning her back to me to sift through the suits in front of her. Undyne gives me a harsh pat on the back, forcing me to stumble as I catch myself. "Just go look at some suits, dweeb. We'll help you pick something out."
I nod slowly, turning away from the bikini second and toward the one pieces. As I look through the beautiful pieces, I find myself wincing at the price each time. After the fourth swimsuit, I find my way back to Undyne and Alphys. "I think, that I'm just not gonna swim today."
My lips are pressed into a thin line, Alphys turning around with an arm full of suits. My eyes narrow as she speaks, "Wh-why?"
I stare at the suits for a moment longer before looking up to meet her eyes, "I was going to say everything's too expensive, but it looks like you have my whole life savings planned out." Blush dusts her cheeks as she smiles cheekily, "I'll try on four. No more."
✰════°∴,*⋅✲══〖✰〗══✲⋅*,∴°════✰
"Alphys," I call through the door, suppressing a sigh. "I feel like one strong breeze would rip this thing off of me." My eyebrows are knotted tightly as I stare at my reflection in the dressing room mirror. I hear Undyne stifle a laugh through the thin wood separating us; "No, Undyne, I'm serious. My body isn't... built for these kinds of swimsuits.
"C'mon, punk, i'm sure it looks great! Bodies are built for anything, they're bodies!" I groan, hating that she's correct. "Here, I'll give you the next one." I huff as a pink and white two-piece is hung over the top of the door.
I grab it, holding it in front of me. "Absolutely not," I say firmly, putting it in the corner opposite my clothes. "Next. Why does this store even carry that?"
"Damn, babe," Undyne laughs, "Your pick got shot down quick." A black and white bikini covered in stars and moons is handed to me next, "This is my pick." I groan as I shuffle it on, looking at myself in the mirror.
I crack the door open, letting the couple look at me. "I feel like this one isn't horrible. What's the last one?"
"S-so, Sunshine, we..." Alphys laughs nervously, holding a purple swimsuit in her hands. "The others were mainly for fun, an-and wanting to see your reaction. Thi-this is the one we think you'll like." I take it out of her hands, studying it before my eyebrows raise in slight shock.
"I... I'm gonna try it on before I say anything." I close the door, smiling softly to myself at the purple. It's a two-piece with a skirt, a small cut-out going over the middle of my ribs. "I hate to admit it," I hold my hands up dramatically, "But I like it." The couple cheer, wrapping me in a tight hug.
"I'll go pay for it, put your clothes back on, and let's hurry back. Frisk wanted to meet in the lobby at 3, and it's 2:45." I nod, deciding to fight the fish monster on allowing me to pay her back later. I shrug my clothes back on, before heading to the front of the store. Undyne is finished checking out, shoving the receipt in her pocket the second I get close to her.
"I'm gonna force you to tell me how much it cost, you know that, right?" I ask her as we walk out of the store, causing her to shake her head.
"Nah, you'll never figure it out. It'll be the best-kept secret in history." She replies, patting me on the back as the three of us continue to walk down the boardwalk. I never thought I'd be in a position like this in my life. With friends who I'm starting to see as family. Life throws wild things at me, amirite?
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
[Thanks again to Sekishi for the French assist!]
Bond slowly surfaced under the bridge. He kept all but his eyes underwater, still using Q's marvelously compact little oxygen rebreather. Slowly his ears cleared the surface. He heard the hollow plish plash of the river against the metal bridge supports, and further downstream the rushing of the water as the river picked up speed over the rocks.
He tread water patiently, listening for long minutes. No sound of vehicles, no sound of footsteps, no sound of voices. He slid noiselessly through the water to the riverbank, climbing onto the rocky soil. He ran a hand roughly through his short hair to dry it somewhat, before unzipping the waterproof pack at his waist and extracting a small case from it. He took out the earwig and fitted it close against his eardrum.
"007, reporting," he murmured. "Are you there Q?"
"Right here, 007." Bond couldn't help his involuntary smile at the sound of Q's voice. "Status?"
"Just surfaced. Still under the bridge. Anything on satellite view yet?"
He could hear the tip-tap of Q's fingers on the keyboard in the background. "Satellite coverage is spotty. I've rerouted one, but it'll take a few minutes. Stand by."
"Affirmative." Bond felt the tracksuit he was wearing start to dry almost instantly. Another of Q's innovations — no wonder the man hardly slept.
"How is Calais? Can you see the cliffs of Dover from where you are?" Q remarked idly. "I've always thought that sounded...scenic."
Bond chuckled. "Not from under this bridge, certainly, but I could when I was driving. It's very clear today. Or at least it was — we timed it just right, looks like the sun's about to go down any minute." The goal was for Bond to infiltrate the facility right at dusk, in that window of compromised vision between daylight and full night when the floodlights came on.
"And here we are as on a darkling plain / Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight / Where ignorant armies clash by night," Q quoted, his warm rich voice caressing each syllable.
That intimate voice in his ear was enough to send Bond's mind straying. In a different world perhaps Q would have lain in bed with Bond some sleepy morning, murmuring poetry into his ear, his posh voice rough with sleep and breathless with arousal.
Bond shook his head to dismiss the vision. "Let's hope there will be no confused alarms," he said wryly. "Nor struggle and flight for that matter. In and out, and they never knew I was here."
"Ideally, yes," Q agreed, his voice warm with humour. "But since when did your missions ever go as planned?"
Bond snorted his agreement. He spent the next few minutes checking over his gear, loading and holstering his Walther and sliding the digital lockpick into the pocket of his trousers before zipping the rebreather back into the pack.
"Satellite coming online now. No infrared, unfortunately." Q tapped a few more keys. "Looks like it's as we thought...two guards at the perimeter, possibly two or three more inside. Seems all the employees have left. Slackers."
"Not everybody finds it necessary to stay at the office until midnight," Bond chided as he climbed up the bank of the river, careful not to jostle any loose rocks. "They're French — they have wine to drink and mistresses to shag."
"
Connard de buveur de thé,"
Q muttered darkly in Bond's ear. Bond took a moment to puzzle over the translation and chuckled. If he wasn't mistaken, Q had just called him a 'tea-drinking fucker.'
"Pot. Kettle," he said, repeating Q's phrase from a few weeks ago.
He lurked in the shadow of the bridge. It crossed the river approximately fifteen metres outside the boundary of the facility's gate. That would be the diciest part, the run across gravel and through the gate until he could seek cover among the few remaining vehicles in the courtyard.
"Guard coming around now...move on my mark. Five...four...three...two...go." The guard turned the corner as Bond moved swiftly and stealthily toward the gate. It clicked unlocked at his approach, and he slid through, letting it latch softly behind him again.
"Take cover, 007, the next one's coming around..."
Bond fell into a roll, cursing the crunch of the gravel as he came to rest underneath a truck.
"All right, head for the door again on my mark. Five...four...three...two...go..."
Bond made it to the front door. He inserted the digital lockpick into the lock, waiting impatiently. The light turned green and he ducked through the door and up against the wall on the inside.
"I'm in," he murmured to Q.
"Excellent. No cameras inside, so I'm blind in here, but I have the blueprints. Try up the stairs, the first door on your right. All we need is one computer that is networked to their server bank..."
That door yielded easily to the digital lockpick as well. It looked like a typical business office — partly-dead ferns in the corner, a calendar of exotic cars over the desk scribbled with notes — every inch the custom-motor-parts company it claimed to be.
"Laptop," Bond remarked. "Looks like it's docked with an ethernet cable."
"Lovely," Q crooned. "Let's see what my little darling can do."
Bond smirked. "Why Q, I'm blushing."
"The
virus
, 007," Q said acidly. There was a slight pause, and Bond could hear the smile in Q's voice as he added, "
You
won't be my darling unless you bring me back one of the prototype weapons they are supposedly manufacturing there."
"Is that all it takes?" Bond purred, slotting the memory stick into the USB port. "I'd have thought you'd play harder to get."
"Arse," Q grumbled. The red light on the drive flickered for a moment, and then turned green.
"Your little darling is on the loose, Q," Bond said. "Make us proud."
"Beautiful," Q breathed. "All right, we have our toehold. Angela, Iqbal, start hacking. Bond, let me know when you're at the door, I'll check the position of the guards again."
"Affirmative."
Bond pocketed the memory stick. He eased out the door to the office, letting it close behind him.
He made his way back down the stairs in hushed silence, pausing at the exterior door.
"Q, I'm..."
"Arrêtez!"
Fuck.
Bond turned his head slightly. The man was wearing a lab coat and holding a truly massive weapon, of the likes Bond had never seen before. Apparently some Frenchmen worked late after all.
"Posez votre arme sur le sol... ne tentez rien d'intelligent."
"He said, 'Put your weapon down. Don't try anything smart,'" Q translated in Bond's ear, his voice tight with tension. Bond could hear Q's quiet breathing in his ear as he weighed his options.
He turned fully toward the man, eyeing his weapon. He couldn't even tell if it had a safety. It looked like a sniper rifle but with an odd, bulbous shape where the magazine should have been. This must be one of the prototype weapons Q had mentioned, but what the hell did it do?
Well, only one way to find out. Bond slowly reached toward his weapon, pulling it from the holster with three fingers, as if disarming himself. He held it out to the side.
"Lâchez-le."
"Drop it," Q translated softly.
With a quick flick Bond flipped the Walther's grip into his hand, already moving. The man's first shot hit the door with a dull thunk as Bond ducked through it.
"First guard at your two o'clock, thirty metres." Bond could hear Q breathing rapidly, but his voice was calm as ever. Bond dropped the guard with a single shot.
"Labcoat is in pursuit at your six. Second guard coming around the corner, your seven o'clock, forty-five metres," Q relayed rapidly. Bond took cover behind one of the vehicles. Two more rounds from labcoat's weapon hit the vehicle Bond had ducked behind. Bond returned fire, but couldn't get a clear shot without exposing himself to the second guard.
"Iqbal, prioritize decryption of anything that looks like weapons design," Q was saying. A voice said something in return, and Q's voice sharpened to a razor edge. "I don't give a shit if the files are in French," he snapped. "Get a screenshot of the weapon from the satellite and run image recognition. Find the stats and send them to my screen — calibre, number of rounds, range, weaknesses..."
"007," Q's voice was entirely composed when he spoke into the mic again for Bond. "Second guard is on the move. If you fall back behind the second car you should —"
A sudden explosion startled Bond, the bright flash of it blindingly illuminating the courtyard leaving spots swimming behind his eyes. He ducked instinctively, falling back behind the next vehicle. The guard seemed equally surprised, frozen in place and gaping, and Bond managed to take him out with a headshot despite the bright colors still dancing across his vision.
"What the fuck was that?" he growled.
"Explosion, near the door. I don't know why. I didn't see labcoat throw anything. Someone in the building must have done it."
"I don't see him."
"He's between the vehicles at your four o'clock. He seems to be holding position. I don't know why. I don't see any backup coming from the facility, and why they would blow their own door—"
The next explosion threw Bond to the ground, dazing him. He stumbled to his hands and knees, ears ringing, Walther in a death-grip.
"Q," he managed weakly.
Q's voice was sounding increasingly frantic. "I don't know, 007. The vehicle you were behind a few moments ago just...just exploded. Two detonations."
"Grenades?" Bond asked.
"Maybe, but — I still don't see anyone throwing anything. Mines set off remotely? But who would mine their own vehicle..."
"Bloody hell," Bond said. "I've lost him again."
"I'm looking...there's a lot of smoke, the satellite image is bollocks." Bond could hear Q murmuring to himself. "There's something about that blast pattern —
oh!"
Bond heard the epiphany in Q's voice.
"It's exploding rounds," Q stuttered out, his thoughts apparently racing faster than his words. "It's not bullets he's shooting — some sort of projectile explosive. Delayed detonation approximately..." Bond heard frantic tapping as Q apparently replayed the footage. "Thirty seconds after impact."
Q's voice turned dark and covetous. "Oh, I
want
," he said, and Bond found himself completely and inappropriately aroused.
"I'll bring you a souvenir, if I can get the bastard to drop the thing. Just find him for me."
"Still looking, just stay under cover until the smoke clears a — your 5 o'clock!"
Bond wheeled around, already firing. He barely processed the dull blow to his right shoulderblade, compensating automatically as it threw him off his stance. Labcoat fell, half his throat gone, but Bond's mind was just now realizing his situation.
"Q," he said numbly. "Q, I'm hit."
Q saw the whole thing as if in slow motion. Through the grainy, smoke-obscured satellite footage the man in the labcoat suddenly appeared at Bond's back. Q's warning came too late, Bond right shoulder jerking awkardly backward as he turned, still firing.
Almost unconsciously Q started counting.
Twenty-nine...twenty-eight...
Labcoat fell in a bloody heap but Bond's voice was all Q could think about.
"Q," Bond said, his voice emotionless. "Q, I'm hit."
Twenty-six...twenty-five...
Q ignored the chill blooming in his chest. "Can you extract it?" he asked.
Twenty-two...twenty-one...
Q-Branch was eerily quiet. All Q could hear was Bond panting heavily, grunting with exertion as he tried to reach inside the wound with his small knife. "No. It's in the scar tissue — deep, almost at my back. I can't reach it."
"Q" Iqbal's apologetic voice barely penetrated Q's numb, cold dread. "Stats to your screen now."
Q's bloodless fingers stumbled on the keyboard, taking in whole pages at a time. Specifications, test firings...
"I'm sorry, Q." Bond's voice was flat, resigned.
Fifteen, fourteen, think, think, THINK...
"
Run.
Through the gate, to the bridge..."
Bond hesitated not a moment, already running as Q opened the gate with a few keystrokes, still stumbling out his explanation. "Water...get it wet. It might work. Get out as far to the middle of the bridge as you can, dive as shallow as you can." Q felt his voice start to break and he brutally clamped down on his fear. "James, I don't know how deep the river is. You'll have to chance it. I'm sorry. Jump when I say. Stay in the water, keep it wet until we find you."
Ten...nine...eight...
Q was calculating wildly, one second to jump over the rail, two seconds to hit the water...Bond wasn't quite to the middle of the bridge yet, but there was no time, never enough time...
Six...five...
"Now!
Jump!"
Q cried, his voice thick with the emotion he had been trying to suppress.
Bond was pure, fluid motion, veering to the rail, leaping with one foot on the edge and hurtling himself out into nothingness without a moment's hesitation. Q could see him, arms outstretched into the beginning of a dive, before he passed out of the light cast by the facility's floodlights and into darkness.
Q heard a rush of air and water and then nothing, the earwig flatlining as it got wet. Q heard a choked, keening noise that he only belatedly realized had escaped from his own throat and he covered his hand with his mouth.
He breathed in sharply through his nostrils, blinking away the dizziness and shaking that was threatening.
"Get me satellite coverage — communications, military, whatever you can scramble," he barked to his minions. "I need eyes on that river now. Send a retrieval team, stat. Cross-reference with his trackers. We'll need..."
He looked around, shaken again for a moment by the shocked faces turned toward him. Angela was outright weeping as she rerouted satellites, R's eyes shadowed with grief and concern as she looked at Q.
"He's not dead," Q barked, even knowing how irrational he sounded. "He's — he's got the rebreather. We'll need something for the extraction team...some kind of tank to keep the wound wet, and blood and plasma. Antibiotics..."
R nodded. "I'll coordinate with Medical."
"Trackers on the map now," one of the minions said quietly.
Q pulled up the map on the big monitor. Bond's tracker was moving rapidly down the river.
"Outfit a helicopter, I want it on its way within the next five minutes." Q said.
"His body'll end up in the Channel," someone commented and someone else shushed them immediately.
Q refused to turn around, watching the red dot on the map through blurry eyes as mindless, gibbering fear clawed at his chest, struggling to break free.
"He's not dead," he repeated to himself — but quietly, so quietly, so that his minions wouldn't hear the desperation in his voice. "He's not dead."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Besides the hearth, the only light in the room comes from the chunky candles placed on a shelf above the bed, and from a sconce by the door. The single window could use a good wash. There’s no dressing-screen or looking-glass, and the only decor in the room--a threadbare tapestry depicting nothing Sansa remembers from any song--should’ve been mended or replaced years ago. Calling their room at the Black Axe plain is generous, and yet, as she gets ready for bed, Jon finds everything in the room absolutely fascinating. Everything but her. He doesn’t turn around until she’s in bed, clad in a nightgown and safely tucked under the coverlet--and even then he doesn’t actually look at her.
“How’s your shoulder?” she asks, fluffing up the pillow so that she can sit up with her back against the headboard.
Jon rolls said shoulder and gives a nonchalant shrug. “It’s fine. Must’ve looked worse than it was.”
“Your wrist?”
“It’s fine.” He stares at the floor as though it’s affronted him. “I’ll take her remains tomorrow. To Drogon. If Bran helps me, it shouldn’t take too long.”
“I’m sorry you lost her.”
His eyes flicker to her. “You are?”
“She was your only link to your real-- Not real. I’m sorry. Father was your…” Sansa sighs and smooths out the wrinkles in the coverlet. “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”
“When I was at Castle Black, the Maester there, Maester Aemon…” Jon sticks his hand into the pocket of his breeches, finds nothing, pulls his hand back out, and balls it into a fist. After a tired exhale, he walks over to the bed and gestures at the empty spot beside her. “May I?”
“It’s
our
bed, Jon.”
“I didn’t want to presume.”
He settles down facing the headboard, both feet still on the floor. His hand rests between them, but she ignores the impulse to take it. Whatever’s eating at him also ate the comfortable ease with which they’ve interacted, and now tension has seeped into the empty space it left behind. So Sansa folds her hands in her lap and listens.
“Maester Aemon was a Targaryen. He must’ve been my great-great uncle or something, and I had no idea. He was a good man. He taught me things, guided me, helped me. I wish I’d known. I wish he had known. He told me once that a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, and I thought, when I learned who I was, I thought…” Jon shrugs and pulls his mouth into a non-smile. “I wish things had been different. She was terrible. Not all the time, but… I think she must’ve been good, once. But she would’ve hurt you. She would've hurt all of us. And still, I wish things had been different.”
He keeps his eyes on the pillow where he should be resting his head. While Longclaw has been removed and now leans against the wall, Jon still wears his cloak. It smells of lemon cakes, a streak of powdered sugar dusting the fur like tiny little snowflakes. It smells of winter too, as though he belongs out there, belongs to the cold winter's night. As though he’ll sweep out of the room any moment now and wander back to the forest and fade into the shadows.
“I cried when we killed Littlefinger,” Sansa hears herself say.
Her confession deepens Jon’s concerned expression, shadows filling in the lines of his face like water fills in trenches, but it also draws his gaze to her, finally, and she smiles gently at him when their eyes meet.
“He was terrible as well,” she says, softly. “And yet I--perhaps not loved him--but he was the only person I could rely on for a very long time. I was forced to rely on him. He protected me, helped me, taught me things, valuable things, and then he betrayed me. Over and over. And he used me as well. And despite all that, in his own horrible way, he loved me. He did love me. And when we killed him, I cried. I tricked him and I felt guilty, ungrateful. Sometimes I still do.”
Jon nods slowly, gaze drifting back to the pillow as he speaks. “I feel like I created this. That she died because of me. My own kin. If only I hadn’t lain with her.” A shudder travels through him. “I thought it was needed. I thought I had to make her love me to get her armies, her dragons, but it only complicated things. I lied and I lied, and everyone else had to lie as well, and now… We cornered her, made her feel unsafe. We made her lash out. She didn’t come here with the intention to burn us all. We provoked her and then we punished her for it. That’s not right, Sansa. It’s not.”
“No, it’s not. But she would’ve snapped sooner or later, you know that, don’t you?”
Jon heaves a sigh. “Aye.”
Sansa does take his hand then, pulls it to her lap. “Come to bed, Jon. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I don’t know.” He pulls back his hand and flexes it, as if her touch made him feel trapped. “I was thinking I might head back out. Talk to Tormund and Davos. Haven’t spoken to them in a while. For how long was I…?”
“Days. I don’t know. Four? Maybe more. The sun never rose and I lost count.”
“Was I “--the color of his cheeks deepens--”naked the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Did I do”--he swallows--”did I do anything inappropriate? In my sleep or…?”
“No, not at all.”
He breathes out in relief. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Sansa. I don’t ever want that.”
“You’re not. Come to bed. Tormund and Davos will still be here tomorrow.” She ducks her head and looks up at him through her lashes. “You’re not letting me stay in here all alone, are you?”
Jon shakes his head at her, admonishing her dirty trick, and yet he unfastens his cloak and hangs it over the only chair in the room. Then he blows out all the candles and, in the gentle light of the hearth, takes his time undressing, folding each garment neatly, until he stands by the wash-basin in only his smallclothes. She looks away then, out the grimy window that blurs the world outside into a mass of deepest, darkest blue. The water sloshes and splashes. Cloth moves over skin. Jon groans, yawns, as if he’s stretching out his body. Then she hears him by the trunk, and when she looks back at him, he’s in the sleep-tunic she packed for him, his hair tumbling over the collar.
He’s so handsome her heart flutters in her chest. Her husband.
Hers
. Why did it take her so long to see that he’s everything she’s always wanted?
Eager to curl up in his embrace, she turns to him as he lies down; however, he settles down on the edge of the bed, creating ample space between them. He’s facing her, though, so she scoots down under the coverlet and mirrors his pose. It makes her feel little, like they’re huddling together, long past bedtime, sharing secrets under the safety of the covers. Something her mother never would’ve allowed. Back then, Sansa could barely even look at Jon without attracting her mother’s disapproving glare. But now she can look her fill--while Jon looks lost in thought, eyes trained somewhere on the shadows below her chin.
While waiting for him to break the silence and share his troubles with her, she falls into the rhythm of his slow and steady breathing. Outside, the wildlings still sing, and from the common room come the soft tones of the lutist. The sound’s too faint for her to pick out the melody, but she imagines it’s The Night That Ended. She’s comfortably warm and so very safe, and when her eyelids feel heavy, she closes them for a moment of rest.
Jon’s voice wakes her. She can’t remember falling asleep, but asleep she must’ve been for the meaning of his words is lost to her. Only the vaguest echo of it lingers in her mind. Something about Arya? Neither of them has moved, and the sounds around them remain the same, so she can’t have slept for long. She yawns and rubs her eyes and mumbles out a, “What?”
“Arya was right. About a lot of things.”
His voice is so low it nearly gets lost in the background noises and she moves infinitesimally closer to better hear him without scaring him away.
“She was right about my being relieved. I am. I couldn’t have pretended for much longer. Daenerys would’ve seen how I truly felt. She would’ve known I pretended all along. And I don’t want to know what would’ve happened then. Arya was right about my being relieved someone else killed Daenerys. That I didn’t have to do it. Sometimes I thought it would come to that. That the day would come when I couldn’t talk her out of doing something horrible. When a sword would be the only solution. Arya was right about my making a mess. And…”
He rubs at the scar above his eye, works his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is hoarse.
“She was right when she said my actions forced you to marry me. I’m supposed to be your
brother
. Your big brother. That’s all Father wanted me to be. It’s my responsibility to protect you and instead I’ve bound you to me, forced you to pretend for me, and now you have to pretend for even longer, because I made our bannermen doubt my loyalty. I know you said you’re good at it--and you are, you really are--but you must be
exhausted
. Uncomfortable. When this is all over, if you detest me then, if you never want to see me again, I won’t blame you. I'll leave, if that's what you want.”
She’s so stunned by his heartfelt outpour, at how wrong he’s gotten everything, she finds herself gaping at him, the words of comfort he so desperately needs flown away, unspoken.
“As soon as things have calmed down,” he says, mouth curved in an unconvincing smile, “we’ll get that annulment. We’ll move on, live our lives. I promise you. You’ll be free.”
Sansa has to close and open her mouth a couple of times before she finds her voice. “But that’s not what I want. I want to stay married.”
“Sansa, we’ve discussed this.”
“If you tell me one more time you want something better for me, I’ll scream. I want to stay married! But if you don’t want that, if you don’t want to be my husband, if all you want to be is my
brother
, then tell me so instead of pretending you’re doing this for me, because you’re clearly not. I don’t want the annulment!”
“You would. If you knew what it meant, if you knew what you’re giving up, you would want it. You’ve never been with someone you want, who wants you back, but I have. And it’s what you should have. It’s what you deserve.”
Uncertainty reaches into her chest and burrows its sharp claws into her heart. He can’t have been pretending all night, can he? No, he loves her; she knows it. Doesn’t he? But then she is repulsive: a living painting of another man’s cruelty. How could he ever be with her when every touch must remind him of the man who murdered Rickon? The man he nearly beat to death with his own hands.
“Is it- is it the scars?” She presses her lips together to fight the pathetic tremble that threatens to seize her bottom lip. “Is that why you don’t want me? I know I look horrible but--”
“No! No. You don’t. I promise you, you don’t. You’re beautiful, Sansa.”
“Then why?”
“I can’t--” Jon closes his eyes with a defeated groan and then the words rush out of him, sweeping over her like a flood: “I can’t take what I want from you while you’re lying there with your eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it to be over! Do you think I’m Ramsay?” He looks at her then, eyes wide under a furrowed brow. “Do you think I could enjoy that? That morning, when we almost did it, I looked down at you and you looked as if I were about to--” He scrunches up his face and swallows down the awful word. “I felt
sick
. There’s nothing arousing about that! Nothing at all! I can’t do that to you, Sansa. I can’t. Even when we kissed, you couldn’t pull away fast enough! Every time I get close to you, you can’t pull away fast enough. Do you think I didn’t notice you’ve used Ghost as a shield? You don’t
want
me.”
He’s panting, glaring at her, and he looks so tense the slightest touch will make him spring up and away.
But I do
, she wants to say. The words are right there, on her tongue, ready to spill from her lips, and yet she can’t speak, can’t tell him how wrong he is. Can’t ask him why he still thinks so little of himself. This man people knelt in front of willingly, thrust their swords in the air for while chanting the title they chose to give him. This man, who’s the best man she’s ever known and everything she dreamed of as a little girl. Does he still view himself as Ned Stark’s inconvenient bastard? Is he still, deep down, the sullen boy who gathered every slight and insult and wore it around his throat like a millstone?
She’d laugh at how broken they both are had anxiety not stolen her voice--but at least her lips don’t need a voice to confess.
Cupping his cheek, she moves so close to him their noses bump. Then she angles her head and presses her mouth against his, softly, tenderly, with all the love she feels for him--but he only jerks his head away.
“Don’t,” he says. “Please don’t.”
There is so much pain in his voice, she knows she has to find her own voice or he’ll never believe her.
“Will you look at me?” she whispers, skimming the tips of her fingers through his beard. “Please?”
Jon turns his head slowly, the light of the hearth gleaming in his wary eyes.
“I want you to be my husband.” Sansa’s heart beats so quickly it feels as if it’s flying, like a bird pushed out of the nest, trying its wings for the first time, both in awe and utterly terrified at how it soars. “I want you to be
mine
.”
Jon’s eyes widen and in their dark depths hope glimmers, urges her to be bolder. So she moves closer still and cups his cheek again, strokes her thumb down his cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth.
“Be mine, Jon. Let me be yours.” Her eyes flit between his; he looks dumb-struck, mouth agape, as full of disbelief as on the gray winter’s day they reunited. She ghosts the pad of her thumb over his bottom lip and it twitches beneath her touch. “I was never pretending.”
Jon sucks in an uneven breath, his glossy eyes dropping to her mouth as her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“Kiss me,” she breathes out, leaning in. “Please. I won’t pull away this time.”
His lips are eager, desperate, feverish. She’s never been kissed like this before. Never with parted lips and tongue, with a hunger that would scare her had the same kind of hunger not driven her own greedy mouth to kiss and suck and nip. And yet she knows, that even if she’d kissed a thousand men a thousand times, nothing would ever compare to this. Jon’s kisses melt the last of the ice she so carefully sculpted around her heart to seal herself in, to prevent anyone from stealing the part of her that still remained. But Jon is different, has always been different, and to him she gives it willingly, lays it in his mouth and in his hands. Hands that are calloused and large and warm and so very gentle as they find their way under her nightgown. They skim over her thigh and hip, caress the sensitive skin of her waist, ghost over the swell of her breasts. And all the while he kisses her so deeply, so passionately that when he finally pulls away, to tug the nightgown over her head, she feels bereft, as though her lips were created to move against his, as though her mouth was created to welcome his tongue, and they’ve now lost their purpose.
The nightgown flutters to the floor or floats away or something else she doesn’t notice because he’s rolled her over on her back and is kissing her again and she’s moaning into his mouth like something depraved and wanton. She never knew a kiss could be so much more than just the sweetness of lips and tongue, never knew it could wake her body from the self-imposed slumber in which she’s hidden for so long, and make her crave things she only ever dared imagining in her dreams. She fumbles with his sleep-tunic, grabs fistfuls of it, and tugs and tugs and discards to find the smooth, warm skin beneath. The muscles of his back move under her palms as he nestles himself between her thighs, and then she feels him hard against her most intimate parts. Only the thin fabric of their smallclothes separates them.
Fear strikes deep in her belly like a lance of ice, slaking the fire burning within.
“Stop.” She pushes him away with her hands against his shoulders. “Stop-stop-stop.”
“What?” Arousal fogs his eyes; he’s drunk on it. His lips are wet--wet, swollen, and red from her bruising kisses. “Did I hurt you?”
Her chest jolts with too-quick breaths, voice once more fled. All she can do is shake her head.
Jon gives her a comforting smile and strokes back her hair with a gentle hand. “We don’t have to do this. We’ll sleep, all right? Just sleep.”
“I want to,” she says but it comes out as a weak whisper.
“Sansa… We’ll wait. If you don’t want this, I don’t want it.”
She clears her throat and takes a deep, steeling breath. “You lay naked in our bed for days, Jon, I do want it. Want
you
. Believe me. Yes, I did use Ghost as a shield, but not for the reason you assumed.”
Jon’s eyebrows fly high on his forehead and a smirk tugs at his lips, a smirk he does his best to fight, but he loses the struggle spectacularly and beams with such pure delight she can’t help but giggle.
“Drove you mad with my nakedness, did I, lady Sansa?”
“Yes,” she hisses and gives him a swat on his good shoulder. It only makes him laugh, but she soaks up that laughter, lets it loosen the tension in her limbs until she’s relaxed in his embrace. “For the longest time, I thought this could never be anything but awful and painful. I thought it would be something to endure, not enjoy. But I want you to prove me wrong, Jon. I
need
you to prove me wrong.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I am. This is what I want.”
Jon nods, stroking her hair again. “We’ll go slow. I’ll make sure you’re ready. And if you change your mind, if I do something you don’t like, if…
anything
, tell me to stop and I’ll stop. I promise.”
Then he kisses her again and this time it’s slow and good, like the sticky-sweet filling of honey cakes. She sucks the taste of ale, lemon, and sugar from his tongue and she thinks she could lie like this forever, kissing him, twirling his hair around her fingers. But then he returns the favor and the pull of his mouth coaxes back the heat to her core. She’s too shy to tell him to undress, but her hands have no sense of propriety and moves down his chest, his scars rippling beneath her fingers, to the waistband of his smallclothes. His hip-bones are sharp beneath her fingers and his hair tickles her skin. She could easily shift her hand and cup him, but she’s not brave enough yet. Instead she pushes down his smallclothes, and when he slips out of them, she shimmies out of hers, kicking them to the floor.
They’re naked. This is when he enters her, isn’t it? It’s how it goes. She’s brave. She can be brave. She does want it, want him. But Jon doesn't enter her at all. No, his lips find hers again and he kisses her and kisses her until her fears fade away. And then his lips move to her jawline, ghost down her neck, trailing hot kisses along the way that send gooseflesh all over her body. He follows the line of her clavicle, drops a kiss to the hollow of her throat, noses her dragonfly pendant aside to drop a kiss to her breastbone too. Then he cups her breast with one hand and moves his mouth to the other, licks a line up to the peak that springs to life, eager to meet his tongue. His mouth, hot and wet, closes around her breast and sucks--and she sucks in a sharp breath, eyes darting down to see what he’s doing. Jon’s watching her with a wicked grin, tongue swirling around her taut nipple.
“Good?” he murmurs against her skin.
Words escape her. Her mouth is too dry, her mind too drunk on arousal, to form any. She can only swallow and hum and fist her hands in the linen when his lips close around her nipple again and lavishes it with so much attention she feels it all the way down to her core. She doesn’t understand how it can make her want him somewhere else, how it can make her muscles clench and clench as though her body begs to be filled, but it does. His tongue swirls around the puckered tip, plays with it, and the longer he licks and sucks, the harder it becomes to keep her hips still. When he finally releases her nipple, she almost breathes out in relief, but he only moves to her other breast and sucks and licks and even bites, just a little. It’s so good it leaves her whimpering, and when his hand move down her body she spreads her legs readily, like the basest of girls.
But her infuriating husband only massages her hip, smooths his hand along her thigh in calm strokes, so close but never close enough.
“Please, Jon,” she murmurs, rolling her hips. “Please.”
Jon chuckles and kisses his way down her stomach, his beard scratching her skin. She knows his lips must pass her many scars, but he never pays attention to them, and she couldn’t be more grateful. She doesn’t want to think about them now; she wants to get lost in the fog of pleasure, the past forgotten, insignificant. He massages her hips with both hands now, kneading her flesh, while showering the insides of her thighs with wet kisses, moving higher and higher and higher. Sansa holds her breath. In the junction where leg and hip meet, he pauses and tickles her skin with his tongue and she’s so frustrated she doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t want him there. She wants him… Somewhere else. Sansa fists the linen again, bucks her hips, wills him to move his damn hands to where she’s throbbing and needy so he can do something she’s not done herself in much too long. But he keeps dropping kisses to the inside of her thighs, some wet, others as light as snowflakes, and she’s reduced to a whimpering, needy mess.
“Where do you want me, Sansa?” He nips at her hip-bone. “Hm? Where do you want my mouth?”
With a hot surge of shame she remembers the joke about Jon kissing her sweetness, but men don’t do that, do they? And yet she can easily picture Jon down there, his dark curls spilling over her thighs--and the thought of it makes her tingle in the most exhilarating way. Jon takes her hands and cups them over the back of his head, and her fingers tangle in his hair instinctively.
“Where do you want me? Show me.”
Of all the things she’s had to do in her life, this intimidates her most of all: showing him how much she wants something no lady should ever want. But her body’s throbbing and she needs him, so much, and she squeezes her eyes shut and moves his head between her legs until she feels his face brushing against the soft hair there.
Jon groans. “Gods, you’re soaked.”
Her hands flutter away like nervous birds. “I’m sorry?”
“No.” Jon brings her hands back to his head. “It’s good, love. It’s perfect. You're perfect.”
His fingers spread her open and she can’t decide whether she wants to watch him or hide her face under the pillow and ends up just staring at the ceiling, raking her fingers through his hair as she waits for his kiss. Sansa can’t stop a surprised little cry from escaping her when he licks along her slit; can’t stop her hips from shooting up to chase his mouth. He sucks on her folds, explores her with his tongue, tastes every bit of her, and it’s good, it is, but still so incredibly frustrating. Why won’t he just… She gathers her courage, tightens her hands in his hair, and shifts him to where she wants him, keeps him there, her hands firmly cupped over his head. He moans his approval and then his tongue moves, slow and steady, like ocean waves lapping the shore, and now she can’t resist taking a peek. He’s watching her with burning eyes, how her flushed chest heaves with breaths, how her breasts jiggle every time her hips twitch, how she bites her lip to stop herself from moaning. He’s enjoying it, she realizes with a thrill; and she enjoys watching him. The sight of him trapped between her thighs and how, each time he takes another lick, she sees a flash of pink before his tongue flattens against her, mesmerize her.
He snakes his hands under her bum, lifting her even closer to his mouth, and his tongue moves so fast she drops back down and succumbs to pleasure. Everything else falls away. Everything but the feel of his hair in her hands, his beard rasping against her skin, his fingers digging into her flesh, and the delicious sinful pleasure of his mouth where no mouth has ever been before; everything but his appreciative moans, and the wet noises as he feasts on her, and something keening she knows must be her, but she’s lost herself in the bliss of it, and she can’t find it in herself to care. She lets herself float higher and higher while her body takes over. Her hips buck, urging him to follow her rhythm while she presses his mouth closer to her cunt because she needs more, just a little bit more, just a little bit harder, she’s
so close
, and then he sucks at her, tongue fluttering over that sweet swell, and the blood rushes in her ears and a moan is ripped from her throat and she feels her body convulsing. Her hands slam into the bed as the crescendo of pleasure lifts her body into an arc, and then she’s floating, drifting down from her peak, guided back to her body by the slow and light licks of Jon’s tongue until she’s boneless beneath him.
Jon slips his hands from under her and rest his head on her thigh, peering up at her with the most self-satisfied smirk she’s ever seen him wear.
“Did you like it?” he says with such smugness she’d kick him had her legs still worked.
Instead she throws her arms over her head, catching her breath. “It was all right.”
Jon laughs and climbs up her body, spreading kisses on her damp skin. Then he kisses her mouth and he tastes of her, of her cunt. Now that the arousal has dispersed, even thinking the word heats up her cheeks. But she can think that word now, can’t she? Now that he’s supped on hers. On her cunt. His hips are once more nestled between her thighs and when she feels him, his cock, hard against her, she’s still too relaxed to feel anything but contentment. Still kissing her, he reaches down between them and soon she feels the tip of him nudging her opening and a thrill shoots through her, terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She reaches down between them and finds his length, explores it with trembling fingers, learns its shape. The skin is so, so soft, like silk, and she loves how it moves under her touch, loves the way his breathing shakes when she strokes him.
“If you keep doing that,” he mumbles.
She hums her understanding and lines him up. “I’m ready.”
He captures her lips and pushes forward, but as he begins to fill her up, panic rushes back, chases away that satiated bonelessness. Fear sends her stomach and chest quaking, her breaths coming short and fast, mind flooded with gruesome flashes of the past. Jon stops, halfway inside her, but if she lets him pull out now, she’s not sure she can let him in again. So she wraps her legs around his waist to keep him there, still inside her.
“I need to see you,” she whispers, cupping his cheeks to hold his face out in front of her. “I need to see it’s you.”
Her eyes drink him in: the slope of his nose; the swell of his lips, still wet and swollen; the flush of his cheeks; the crease of worry for her between his eyebrows. The love shining in his eyes. Gazes locked, she nods and focuses on him as he pushes all the way in until they’re completely joined. He’s trembling from holding back, from holding still, but he does keep still, letting her adjust, grow comfortable, and she’s never loved him more. It’s Jon, only Jon, her Jon. Her breathing evens out, body relaxing again, and she rocks against him to show him she’s ready. At first, his strokes are slow, careful, measured, and his eyes never leaves her face. So she smiles at him, wraps her arms around him, and clings to the only man in all the realm she trusts completely.
She never thought she’d enjoy this, the feeling of someone inside her, and yet her body responds, each stroke relighting the heat until it simmers deep in her belly. As he starts thrusting in earnest, Jon drops his forehead to her shoulder, grunting in her ear, and she hears herself moan along with him. She even shifts her hips so that he hits her just right, his pubic bone rubbing against the spot he kissed so fervently earlier as his cock brushes an equally sweet spot inside her cunt. She’s impossibly growing closer to another peak. She just needs a little… Her hand moves on its own, down to where they’re joined, where she’s swollen and slippery, and she rubs herself, quick and light.
“
Fuck
.” Jon nips at her throat and each time his teeth rasp against her skin, sparks of pleasure shoot through her body. “Gods, you feel good.”
Chasing the sweet rush of relief, she works her fingers harder, ruts against him, sucks on the salty-sweet skin of his throat. Something inside her tightens--and then another wave of pleasure washes over her, pulling such a loud moan from her it should leave her ashamed, but she doesn’t care. It’s so good, too good, his cock plunging into her as she clenches around him, and she draws it out for as long as she can. Then Jon’s strokes become erratic, and he murmurs, over and over, that he loves her, loves her, loves her as he spills his seed inside her.
When he collapses atop her, head pillowed on her shoulder, she smiles up at the ceiling, fingers trailing lazily over his sweat-slicked back. He loves her. He
loves
her. He loves her for her, not her claim. For
her
.
“Mm.” Jon presses a kiss against her neck. “Are you all right?”
Sansa can’t help but laugh, and it’s the wonderful, free laugh of a young woman without a care in the world. It’s bright and sparkling and free, the kind of laugh that hasn’t bubbled out of her since before King’s Landing. Jon lifts himself up to kiss her and she feels him shrinking, slipping out of her, but she’s not ready for him to move away. She likes the weight of him: it makes her feel safe and loved, as though she still matters, even though he's taken his pleasure. So, before he’s had a chance to roll off her, she hugs him close, keeps him where he is. She could fall asleep like this: sticky and sweaty and so utterly satisfied.
“I love you,” he murmurs, nosing at her jawline, and she smiles so hard her cheeks ache.
“That’s good, because you can’t annul the marriage now.”
“Can’t I?” He props himself up on his hands, grinning down at her. “I’m king. I can do whatever I want.”
“Don’t you dare.” She locks her legs at the ankles, anchoring him to her. “You’re mine now. And I’m yours. From this day until the end of my days.”
Her tone is teasing and her mouth smiles, but her words seem to wash away his grin until he’s gazing down at her with so much love her stomach swoops. He dips down and moves his lips gently over her face, dropping the lightest kisses to her forehead, temples, cheekbones, jawline, chin, and lastly the tip of her nose.
“I’m yours, Sansa,” he murmurs against her lips. “From this day until the end of my days.”
He seals his vow with a kiss, one that's slow and deep and leaves her wanting him all over again. The thought lifts up the corners of her mouth, and he kisses them both, kisses her smile, her neck, her collarbone, her breast, and as she feels him grow hard once more she knows, with a breathtaking certainty and more than a little excitement, that they won't get much sleep tonight, after all. Outside, the wildings still brawl and she thinks she hears the lutist play, but she no longer cares about what song he's playing. She no longer cares about all the people gathered in and around the inn, people who'll want their attention tomorrow, who'll need them to solve everything. Because Jon's in her bed, murmuring sweet nothings into her skin, and tonight, she allows herself to care about nothing but him.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Yaten glanced at his watch. Just two more hours, and he had to pick up his brothers and their entourage from the airport. The honeymoon was over, and he couldn't manage to join them afterward. There was much to discuss with Setsuna, but those matters would have to wait until she was back in Tokyo; they were clearly not suitable for a phone call.
At least he had successfully managed to make Mimete and Tellu disappear from Tokyo, and fortunately, Haruka seemed satisfied with minimal information. However, Kenji had been unusually quiet in the past few days, and Yaten had a gut feeling that the old man was definitely planning something. Since Taiki had published the pictures of their honeymoon, Yaten had to abandon his divorce plans, especially since neither Usagi nor Taiki had given their signatures or consent. The two were determined to hold onto their marriage, even if it existed only on paper.
However, Yaten was initially surprised by the pictures of Seiya and Amy. At first, he thought it was a mistake, but in an extensive phone call, Taiki explained his plan. Yaten was somewhat skeptical but agreed with his older brother; this way, outsiders would see a cohesive picture, and Amy's presence could be plausibly explained.
The silver-haired man snorted and turned his attention back to the large pile of jumbled papers. He was still diligently going through Mimete's documents. He couldn't afford to overlook anything. He had been at this task for five days and was making slow progress. This occupation served more or less as a distraction to pass the time. So far, there were no significant findings from the Chibas or Chibiusa that led him forward. His computer made a brief noise, and he raised his head to the screen. A new email had arrived. One of the men observing the Chiba estate had sent him a report.
Subject: Chiba Family
Hello, Mr. Kou, as requested, notification of the arrival at the Chiba residence. Hiroshi Chiba arrived this morning with his daughter Rei, still without any noteworthy incidents. About half an hour ago, another vehicle arrived, unmistakably Mamoru Chiba and a female companion, for whom we currently have no further information. It is suspected that she is his wife. I will inform you of any additional information as soon as we have it. X
His eyes scanned the lines multiple times, and a dull pang suddenly pierced his heart. Minako. The thought of her shot through his mind like a lightning bolt. Like on autopilot, he grabbed his car keys and ran, not knowing what awaited him. The idea that she was so close drove him to finally leave behind the inactivity.
Arriving at the car, he sat behind the wheel without further thought and drove off. Although he rarely took the route to the Chiba estate, he found it effortlessly. The closer he got to the impressive house, the more nervous he became. His thoughts constantly revolved around how to start the conversation with Mamoru, but he discarded every consideration upon reconsideration.
A sudden thought flickered – ask directly about Mrs. Chiba. However, the uncertainty whether Minako would reveal herself to him permeated his thoughts. He hadn't seen her in five months, and if she was indeed in the villa, she could have at least given him a sign. At least a sign that she was okay. A mix of desperation and anger mingled in his feelings, and he forced himself to think of something else. But the concern for Minako overshadowed everything, and his heart pounded restlessly.
The large iron gate to the property was open, no checks, no guards. Yaten's eyes scanned the area routinely. Only the usual staff he had suspected were in sight, and one of his men, whom he had infiltrated as a gardener.
Carefully, he got out and urged himself to remain calm as he headed for the front door. He was surprised to find that his palms were sweaty – something that never happened. For a moment, he just stood in front of the door, observing the ornate decorations that highlighted the frame. A nagging feeling of unease ran through him, a faint doubt that cast a shadow over his determination. But it was too late to turn back. The silver-haired man gathered his courage and pressed the doorbell.
It didn't take long, and one of the maids opened the door with a friendly smile. "Good day. What can I do for you?" she greeted the guest politely. "I... I heard that Mr. Mamoru Chiba is back. Tell him that I urgently need to speak to him and his wife," Yaten said automatically. The employee nodded. "Of course, would you like to wait in the small salon? Down this hall and then the second door on the right." Yaten was already turning to leave when the woman stopped him again. "Please forgive me, but whom should I announce?" "Kou," he replied curtly and followed her directions to the room. Only now did he realize how little he actually knew about the Chiba estate. Once he was done here, he urgently wanted to familiarize himself with the building plans. After all, they had given him a significant advantage with Kenji.
The Chiba family sat together over a cup of coffee, discussing events and upcoming gatherings. Hiroshi stood by the window, his gaze thoughtful as he only half-listened to his children's conversations.
"Yes, exactly, the meeting of wealthy women is the day after tomorrow. I'm really looking forward to it, especially Serena Kou's project with the homeless sounds promising. But are you sure you want to accompany me?" Rei asked her sister-in-law with some concern. However, the latter seemed determined and nodded. "Yes, I can't postpone this any longer. I need to clarify some things."
"Well, I don't know what to make of all this. First, you ask us for protection, then you marry my son in America overnight and hide there for almost half a year, and now you want to put yourself on display for the others? What's the whole theater about?" Hiroshi interjected, turning to his family and scrutinizing everyone closely. He still wasn't sure what to make of the sudden addition to the family in the form of his daughter-in-law. When his son informed him about the wedding, he already suspected that it wouldn't be without consequences.
"Father, you know exactly what happened back then and that she had no other choice. She knows what she's doing," Mamoru remarked dryly, sipping his coffee and continuing to read his newspaper.
The atmosphere was noticeably tense, and Rei hastily tried to change the subject. "By the way, just before New Year's Eve, Kakashi Kou was here asking for you, Father. He said you should contact him as soon as you're back. It seems to be about some old issues resurfacing or something," she mentioned, not having a better topic in mind. Hiroshi's expression darkened even more suddenly, but before he could respond, there was a knock on the door.
The maid hesitated as she peeked in and said, "Excuse the interruption, but a Mr. Kou has just arrived and wishes to speak with you and your wife, Mr. Chiba. He said it's important." She directed her words to Mamoru. His forehead wrinkled deeply as he skeptically asked, "Which one? There are more than enough of them." The maid thought for a moment before responding, "Um... forgive me, he didn't provide a first name, and since I'm still new, I'm not very familiar with the names yet. But he wasn't much taller than me and had long silver hair tied in a ponytail," attempting to describe Yaten.
Mamoru immediately knew who she was talking about, and his attention shifted to his wife. "Do you want to come with me?" he cautiously inquired, as he couldn't interpret her expression. "No. I'm not ready yet. I know that if I stay in Tokyo again, I will eventually run into him, and I am aware that he will find out everything then, as we can't hide it much longer anyway. But not today, please. I'm still exhausted from the trip, and I need more preparation for that," she said, but the uncertainty in her voice was evident. Mamoru nodded and stood up. "Alright, then I'll go and hear what the impulsive hothead wants from me and excuse you. You don't need to justify yourself to me; we've already talked about it. It's your right to decide who you want to talk to and who you don't."
Mamoru entered the small salon shortly after. The silver-haired man had casually settled into one of the chairs and was eagerly watching the door. Of course, Mamoru had used the brief moment to cleverly place one of his devices in the room. Unfortunately, it was only part of his emergency equipment, but it was better than nothing. At least for the next 48 hours, he could find out what was being discussed in the room. Especially if Mamoru voluntarily didn't provide any answers, it increased his chances of learning something if luck was on his side.
"Yaten Kou. What an unexpected visit. What can I do for you?" Mamoru said, making an effort to appear professional, even though he would have preferred to show his unwelcome guest the door. Yaten had an arrogant grin on his face. "Chiba, good to see you back in the country. I heard you got married and thought it would be a good opportunity to finally meet your wife... after all, you did apply for Minako back then and got rejected. So, where is she?"
"I'm sorry to disappoint you. The long flight was exhausting for her; she has already retired. But I'm sure she'll run into you sooner or later... If that's all..." Mamoru tried to dismiss Yaten directly, gesturing towards the door, but the latter had no intention of getting up.
"Not quite yet; you won't get rid of me so quickly. How did you find a wife so fast? Or is it possible that she is, in fact, Minako?" Yaten asked sharply, and as soon as he voiced the question, he was sure it hit the mark because Mamoru suddenly tensed. Denying it was futile here.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Minako is dead; we both attended her funeral," the black-haired man hissed, clearly more annoyed.
Yaten, on the other hand, rolled his eyes at this statement. "Can we agree not to lie to each other? We've been doing it for the past five months, and it's getting boring. I know she's alive, and I know she married you. You don't need to deny it. Even if she dyed her hair and always made sure her face wasn't fully visible, I have clear evidence that she is still alive. I just don't know why she faked her death and then married you of all people."
Chiba raised a skeptical eyebrow and scrutinized his guest. "If you're so sure your theory is correct, you'll surely spin an answer for the remaining questions. As I said, my wife is exhausted from the journey. If you would excuse me now," Mamoru said dryly, heading for the door. However, Yaten jumped up and barricaded it clumsily with his foot.
"No, I'm sorry, but I won't excuse you. Didn't you listen to me? I want answers," Yaten hissed back, his eyes challenging the black-haired man.
Mamoru, however, pushed the considerably smaller man aside unimpressed. His hand rested on the door handle as he looked at his unwanted guest again. "That has often been your problem. That you never really listened, and I won't go into it any further. What do you mean by that?" Yaten inquired, suddenly becoming attentive. However, Mamoru still had no increased interest in providing Yaten with answers and opened the door. "You can probably figure that out. I wish you a pleasant day. You'll find your way out on your own." With these words, he left the small salon.
Yaten stormed after him into the hallway. "Chiba, not so fast. I'm not done yet," he shouted down the corridor, but Mamoru paid him no attention and continued on his way.
Yaten was about to launch into another tirade when suddenly the clicking of women's shoes echoed through the air. He was frozen in place. The footsteps were undeniably approaching them and stopped behind him. Nervousness suddenly overcame him, and a slight euphoria spread within him as the thought occurred that it might be Minako. When the steps ceased, he glanced over his shoulder and was disappointed to find that the woman was only Rei.
"Can I help you? You're damn loud," she asked the two men, but her brother had already waved her off over his shoulder. "No, we've sorted everything out. Yaten was just leaving. Please show him the door," he called to her without turning around.
Rei watched her brother as he disappeared behind another door, shook her head, and silently accompanied Yaten to the door.
The silver-blond man left the building grumbling and got into his car. He pounded his fists on the steering wheel. He knew for sure that Minako was in that house. It was as if he had sensed her presence, yet she refused to talk to him. What did Mamoru mean by saying he never listened properly? The whole situation raised more questions than answers. Yaten had never had much interaction with Chiba himself, so the implication could only refer to Minako. But what was he trying to tell him?
His gaze wandered over the dashboard, suddenly fixating on the clock. Damn, he had almost forgotten. He had to get to the airport. He quickly glanced at his phone. Three missed calls from Haruka.
> Yaten, I'm already at the airport. Where are you? < Haruka.
>Yaten, damn it, where are you again!!! I can't fit everyone in my car. < Haruka.
> On my way. Something important came up. See you soon. < Yaten.
He gave the building one last look before putting the car in gear and driving away.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Nada
‘
Come’, he said.
She turned, startled. ‘What?’
‘Come,’ he repeated, extending a long pale hand. ‘If you wish to see the mortal world, then we shall go. Now’.
‘Now?’
His expression did not change, but his voice grew softer. ‘Would you prefer that I set an appointment?’
His hand still waiting, she took it in anticipation, smiling wildly. Maybe she had drunk a little too much. Everything had suddenly felt easier, shiner. After her second glass she had felt her shoulder relax, jaw loosen. They had not spoken much after she had left him in his study. He walked fast, swift long steps across the gardens, weaving between guests. She followed, stumbling slightly, glancing around. Her eyes caught Lucienne, who was in deep conversation. Nada suddenly felt a stab of guilt.
‘Should we really be leaving, right now? What about the celebrations? What about Lucienne? Should we not tell her?’ She spoke behind him, as they reached the palace entrance. He slowed and turned to her.
‘Lucienne will be fine,’ he continued as she began to protest, ‘She’s actually a very good librarian, you know,’ he teased. Despite herself, she felt a small smile tug at her lips, though she made an effort not to show it. He pulled her hand closer, and they drew together; she felt the warmth radiating from him. Her stomach fluttered,
am I nauseated?
‘Now,’ he murmured in a low voice, eyes intent, ‘Do not let go’. She held his gaze for a moment, and gave a small nod.
Suddenly, colours swirled and twisted, The Dreaming fell away, she felt as if she was being pulled in all angles, an invisible hand felt like it was twisting her organs, she gagged,
I’m going to be sick-
Then, it stopped. It was over as quickly as it had started. She let go of Morpheus’ hand instantly, doubling over, catching her breath. It felt as though the air had been knocked from her chest. Morpheus laughed quietly behind her, patting her gently on the back.
‘It takes a little getting used to,’ his hand rubbed warm circles, her breathing slowing. ‘You have to do that any time you want to leave The Dreaming? Have the Endless not evolved for… better transport?’ She glanced at him, her tone somewhat light, still bent over. He shrugged, lifting up his arms, laughing.
His laughter. Such a rarity. Reserved only for those who truly earn it.
She rolled her eyes slightly, and against her will, her face broke into a smile.
‘You are ridiculous,’ she giggled, he extended his hand to help her up, she took it. He pulled her up, she drew close, closer than she meant. He held her gaze for a moment.
‘Only for you,’ he murmured, quietly. ‘Shall we go?’ He broke her gaze, and dusted off his robe.
They stepped out of a rain-soaked alleyway in what appeared to be a busy city at night. Bright lights, electric, unnatural, buzzed around them. Nada felt her skin prickle in anticipation.
This is the mortal world?
The air smelt of wet concrete that had sat in the sun too long, only for the rain to come and cool it. The faint smell of cigarettes and food lingered ahead. Loud horns sang into the night, the hum of people lay on the footpath ahead. Morpheus stepped out onto the pavement, smooth slabs of stone, bright lights of reds and yellow reflected in the puddles.
It is so..alive. Life moved faster than The Dreaming.
Morpheus turned and held out his arm. The pavement swarmed with people, each in a world of their own, heading to one direction or another. Only his face turned back to her in the crowd.
‘Where are we going?,’ she shouted over the hum of the city, taking his arm. He shrugged again, playfully. ‘Wherever you want,’ he shouted back, and stepped forward. He weaved in and out of the crowd like a needle through cloth; with ease, naturally, as if he had spent a lifetime doing it. She felt herself grow dizzy, but took pleasure in allowing herself to follow, to lose herself, even if for a moment in the bright lights and indifferent crowds…
He slowed his pace, and turned his head. Music drifted from a nearby doorway that lay beneath the pavement slightly, steps leading underground. He looked at her, as if to ask for permission, and she nodded. He pulled them inside.
As they descended the steps, the hum of the city disappeared, and was replaced with soft-flowing sounds, quiet chatter, and the crackling of the fire. Her foot landed on the ground, old and wooden, the walls cobbled stone. Smoke trailed in the air, and the floor boards creaked as they drew closer to the bar. It was small and cramped, dim, with only candlelight and the fire emitting warm glows. The candles do not float here. It reminded her of the tavern she had told Morpheus about. Few patrons lingered at the bar, each seemingly lost in thought, as if in trance. They all watched the same man; a tall musician centred a small wooden stage, sat on a wooden chair, and..a tall podium near his mouth. Nada nudged Morpheus.
‘What is that..
thing
, he has near his mouth?’ She pointed slightly, and Morpheus replied, ‘It is a device the mortals call a ‘microphone’. It emits sound, making it echo, enhancing it. In the modern age, many musicians use it,’ he paused, and turned to her, ‘Would you like a drink? I believe he will begin to sing, soon,’ he smiled, waiting for her answer. She hesitated.
Maybe I’ve already had too much…but I am here, in the mortal world, for the first time in…an eternity. When will I get another chance?
She smile faintly. ‘Yes, please. I’ll have whatever you have,’ he bowed his head, his hand leaving her back, and strode over to the bar.
She looked around curiously, taking it all in. It was so refreshing. So alive. So addictive.
So fleeting.
Her eyes centred back to the man on stage, his dark curls tousled as he bent low over his guitar. Rouge velvet curtains had been pulled back and tied for his performance. It was as if he fit the stage perfectly. She cast her gaze towards Morpheus, who was ordering their drinks, smiling and chatting to the barman.
He seemed so..relaxed. Normal. Like one of them.
The soft strings of a guitar pulled her attention back towards the stage.
‘
When I, first saw you… the end, was soon…’
Nada froze, her skin prickling for the second time, hair standing up on the back of her neck. It was like nothing she had ever heard, yet it felt familiar. Faintly familiar. The same feeling you get when you find something you have been looking for, and forgotten about, digging it up from the earth, brushing away the soil, sweet relief to having found it, pleasantly surprised at having remembered it existed to begin with. Her ears strained to listen, not wanting to miss a single note. It was alive, breathing, tantalising. Morpheus quietly joined her, handing her a glass of red wine.
She glanced at him from the side, measuring a reaction.
‘This is..interesting,’ he whispered. She laughed quietly. ‘Yes’.
They stood, near to the stage, bodies close without meaning to be. The song swelled, and the voice of its composer sang softly, his face pained, as if in some kind of deep reverence. Such emotion. Such beauty. Such pain.
‘
Give your heart and soul…. To charity’
He looked at her. She looked back.
‘Dance with me’, his hand extended once more towards her, his dark eyes inviting. She placed her glass on a nearby table beside his, eyebrows furrowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘
Cause the rest of you… the best of you…’
She blinked, startled, ‘You-‘ she almost laughed, ‘you do not dance’
‘I do tonight’, he said. It was not a command. It was not a question. It was… something else. A pleading look. His gaze did not relent. For a moment she hesitated, then took his hand in hers. She felt her hand tingle at his touch.
‘
Honey belongs to me…’
He drew her to him, close, one hand at her waist, and the other holding hers loosely. They moved together, slowly with grace. She had braced for stiffness, formality, coldness. Instead, he swayed her, with rhythm and pulse, letting the music pull them like a tide.
‘
If I was born as a blackthorn tree….I’d wanna be felled by you… held by you….fuel the pyre of your enemies…’
The words seemed to pluck at her chest, like the string of a harp, beautiful, sharp, feeling…breathless. She did not look at the stage anymore. She looked at him, his face, half-shadowed, half illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight. His eyes lowered to hers…
he was not as he was. Not as a King, or God. But as a man, who had loved her once… and maybe still.
Her heart fluttered, despite herself.
‘You’re… full of surprises, tonight’, she murmured. The wine warmed her cheeks, she felt her eyes grow heavier. She blamed the second glass of wine, but the truth was much simpler; whenever he smiled, she felt her walls collapse, her anger diminish, her body..warm.
It is the wine. Nothing more.
His voice was low and hushed, lost under the melody, ‘I thought’, he whispered hoarsely, as if the words came without permission, unbidden, and leaned in closer, so his lips brushed her ear, ‘If I gave you the world… it might be enough to keep you’. Her skin grew warm and tingled where his whispers had been, her breath hitched, caught between protest and surrender. For just a moment, she felt herself ache for him, but it passed as quickly as it came, and slightly dizzy, she continued to dance.
She closed her eyes, letting herself forget herself for just a moment.
I am afraid if I move too quickly, this moment will shatter.
She leaned into him, her head resting on his chest, allowing herself to be held, to be swayed. She felt his breath stutter, and heard the brief, yet furious thumping of his heart. A small smile came to her, unbidden. Morpheus did not move, but his arm at her waist tightened, almost imperceptibly, drawing her closer as they continued to sway.
She closed her eyes.
The music will end, as all songs do.
It was perfect, this moment.
But it would not last.
She knew better.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Not everyone on Earth has one, but enough people do that a person with a mark
e
shouldn’t feel incredibly special. One in every three humans will find a design on their skin. Its size and shape varies greatly from person to person, so much so that in the Earth’s history, there has never been a confirmation of more than two people having the same exact mark
e
(though there have been records of more than two people having a match, in the case of polyamory). Billions of mark
e
s have come and gone, and to those on Earth, it has a relatively low impact on their life.
Despite the relative commonality, the Doctor finds the phenomenon fascinating.
Though not a feature exclusive to humans, the pervasiveness of the mark
e
in their society makes them stand out in the Doctor’s mind as the shining example of the strange occurrence. It’s intriguing to him that a human can be aware that someone they’re supposed to be ultimately compatible with is wandering around somewhere else in the world, and then proceed with their own lives as normal. They have a roadmap to, quite literally,
the one
, but few make any grand strides to find them.
While some people with a mark
e
make finding their Match their life goal, most people continue on normally, hoping to stumble across their supposed ‘soul-mate.’ Though there have been periods where certain populations have made finding out one another’s mark
e
as easy as possible, using renderings has created a lot of controversy. Rumors of scams usually crush the idea before it ever really takes flight, and by the late twentieth century, most humans are too wary and doubtful to even consider the idea.
As such, active seeking of one’s Match is a sort of fanciful idea, or maybe a personal journey saved for retirement.
Perhaps, the Doctor sometimes muses, it’s the use of it in media that has led to the disregard that people sometimes treat it with. The usage of the mark
e
as a plot device has cheapened the otherwise vaguely mystical event. Soap operas have hashed and rehashed similar stories using a mark
e
as a cliché plot device. Though the star-crossed lovers motif is now passé, it can be done right. Romeo and Juliet, two who fell in love, but Juliet had a mark
e
that matched Paris’.
Not too original, even for their time, but the Doctor would love to hear anyone say that Shakespeare doesn’t do it best. He
really
needs to visit the original genius. He’s a little amazed he’s put it off for so long.
The mark
e
can admittedly cause a great deal of drama. High school tiffs and, more seriously, when people who don’t Match build their lives together, only for one or both to stumble across their mark
e
. The pull is supposedly so strong that it can undo years of marriage. mark
e
-magnetism, they call it. Obviously not everyone is so flighty, but it happens so often that it’s grounds for divorce and a pre-nup.
A mark
e
is common enough that everyone’s life is touched by it; if not directly, then by relation.
Considering that, it’s no surprise that some of the Doctor’s companions have had a mark
e.
In fact, some of his first travelers, Barbara and Ian, discovered quite accidently that they were a Match.
Barbara’s sensible skirt and long stockings caught on a bristly tree in the dead forest on Skaro, ripping it from the knee down, and scratching her quite badly. When Ian knelt to help, he found her mark
e
; three slim lines, the middle straight, and the outer ones curving out and then in— like a tulip. Back then it was extremely gouache to bandy about one’s mark
e,
and Barbara was desperate to hide it.
Too late.
Ian’s expression had bewildered the Doctor at the time— the Time Lord was so young then, still in his first body. Ian, who usually kept himself well together, stutteringly tried to explain that they were a Match. He fumbled to roll up his cuff, to show the same tulip mark on the bottom of his forearm.
It was awe, the Doctor now understands. The look on Ian’s face was filled with awe and love.
At the time, the experience only led to the Doctor deciding to perhaps read up on the subject when he had nothing better to do. He hadn’t fallen in love with the human race yet, didn’t understand the intrigue that would later keep him orbiting this planet even after nine hundred years. The Doctor remembers thinking the whole mark
e
s and Matches thing was rather silly. Having arranged marriages was a much better way of creating lasting matches; if not for love, than survival. They didn’t have something like the mark
e
on Gallifrey, or most other planets in the universe, come to think of it. Maybe a dozen or so shared this phenomenon.
Naturally, Ian and Barbara were not the only ones he’d travelled with who had a mark
e
. Tegan had one on her wrist, which she tried to cover often with long-sleeves, gloves, and bracelets. He didn’t think she ever found her Match. But granted, it wasn’t really on their docket to discuss when he last saw her in the hospital bed.
Leela had one in the junction of her hip and thigh, something he would never have noticed if not for her preference towards skimpy clothes. Considering her enjoyment for running, climbing, throwing things, tying people up, and just attacking in general, her clothing was well chosen.
Most of his other companions hadn’t shown enough skin for him to know for certain, and he never cared to ask.
Until now.
Torn by war and stripped to the bare bones of who he is, the Doctor in his ninth body finds himself thinking about it again
And it has more than a little to do with Rose Tyler.
His first companion on the TARDIS after so long is fantastic. This bright, young girl smiles and reminds his battered hearts what kindness looks like. After the long, long, long,
long
Time War and all the suffering it wrought, he’d rather forgotten what kindness looked like. And, in truth, he wasn’t sure if he fully believed it existed. So when Rose Tyler agrees to come aboard, he takes her to see the destruction of her planet. He puts a human, a human girl still in her teens, through a quintillionth of what felt. Naturally, even that is crippling.
A small sense of guilt builds in the Doctor’s chest as he watches her look out the window at her planet, burning up in middle of cold space. He realizes then what exactly he’d done. Quickly, he offers to take her back to her era on Earth. He certainly can’t return, but Rose can, so it’s really the only thing choice. She exits the TARDIS slowly, as though worried the earth beneath her will burn if she moves too quickly. The Doctor can’t bite his tongue, so he fills the silence will bitter truths. Because it is true— you think it’s going to last forever until it doesn’t.
This is the turning point in his life after the war. For the first time, he realizes that he really needs help. The Doctor tried to force his companion, a simple human, into his centuries of pain, into his murky nihilism. The fact he might have well scared off Rose Tyler in less than a day is what hits the message home— he can’t go on like this.
He asks Rose if she wants to leave. She pauses, she remembers how to breathe, and then she asks for chips. He stares long enough for her to return to staring out at the crowd of people passing in front of the TARDIS. He expected fear or a bitter quip about how nothing matters when it all goes up into space particles.
But not Rose Tyler, she jokes, “They’re only going to be around for another five billion years or so.”
And as he sits across from her, sharing chips (she’s paying), he realizes that this moment has been one of the first without the pain of the war. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because he spoke about it with Rose Tyler, told her about his planet, showed her the general equivalent happening to her planet, and then she decides to go for chips anyways.
She knows that, technically, every action she makes will one day be worthless by space standards. How she did she put it? ‘All those years, all that history, no one saw it go. No one was looking.’
Less than ten minutes later, she’s taking him to get chips.
She lives so deeply in the moment, he thinks, as her lips curl up at the edges of her mouth. She flicks her salty fingers at him.
And the Doctor thinks that maybe he can’t focus on the now because he lost his ‘present.’ His home planet which kept years for him, had roots even when he didn’t want them, is gone. Perhaps what he needs is to find a new present. London 2005 with Rose Tyler isn’t a bad place to be, he thinks.
Rose shows him the benefits of those roots over and over again because she isn’t just a one-hit revelation; no, she’s an ongoing epic.
Rose proves her capacity for healing in a dozen small ways every day, if not through her gutsiness, then her personality. It’s in the moments when she listens and laughs when he rants. And then more importantly, it’s in the times the Doctor can’t bring himself to talk at all, and Rose will pull him from his mood with questions, a persistent need for adventure, and belief. Rose looks at him like she doesn’t think he’s an old, broken man. She makes him want to be better. The Doctor doesn’t much want to break her hope in the world (he isn’t sure he can, and doesn’t want to hurt her again like he did on their first trip to find out either), so he starts tucking away the darkest parts of himself in the back of his mind. Slowly, the Doctor lets her energy draw out a lighter, happier man. Amazingly, he finds it easier these days to look into the mirror. All because of this simple girl.
He wonders what the world looks like to her that she can smile and cry with empathy as beings of this universe celebrate and suffer. Even after travelling together for a fair amount of time, she still has the same empathy. It astonishes the Doctor, draws him in.
He can’t deny that he’s attracted to her being.
But not denying something is not the same as accepting. Regardless of his stance on the matter, it remains true that they can never be
more.
Too young.
Too kind.
Too
human.
The Doctor tries not to spend much time on the subject, but his thoughts toe the line on occasion, brought out by her tongue-in-teeth smile and optimism. That ends quickly enough.
During their visit to the underground bunker in Utah, the Doctor spies it. A mark
e.
Normally it would be hidden, but Rose is wearing a white tank top, and as she shifts her blonde hair it’s revealed to him.
The mark
e
is on her upper-back, just below where her neck and back join. A smattering of dots. The darker hue of them stands out on her otherwise unblemished skin. The Doctor finds it beautiful, a constellation of all things. And yes, this celestial image is the only thing the Doctor finds is acceptable for her.
He’s still stunned by the discovery. It’s been so long since he’s travelled with humans that he’d largely forgotten about the phenomenon.
“Oh,” he utters.
Rose turns to him. “What?”
“Your back.” He jerks an elbow. “Didn’t know you had one.”
She bites her lip as her hand crawls to the back of her neck. “Sorry. Forgot to cover it. S’been so hot recently.”
“No reason to cover it.” The Doctor quickly continues, “Outdated idea you all grow past in the thirty-first century. Practically parade them about, they do. Besides...”
“Besides, what?” Rose presses.
“It’s beautiful.” He’s honest this time, no qualifiers.
“Yeah?” she asks, pleased and shy.
“Like a constellation.”
Rose laughs. “Always thought it looked more like connect-the-dots.”
“That’s all constellations really are,” the Doctor confirms. “Explains why there’s so many interpretations for what they look like in history. Everyone draws the line differently.”
“Do, um, do Time Lords have Matches?” she asks.
The Doctor shrugs. “Nope. Not in our biology.”
“Just something for silly apes then, is it?” Rose teases. She affects a false sort of casualness as she says, “Not like it matters that much though. Hardly anyone actually meets their Match these days. Might as well just be a free tattoo. M’ just lucky it isn’t anything too embarrassing.”
The Doctor only smiles as he sticks out his hand. She takes it. They walk down the hallway like nothing has changed.
It has.
This is the definitive proof he needs to tell himself, once and for all, that Rose is not his to keep. There is someone out there who, undeserving they will no doubt be, is meant for Rose. She’s taken, even if she doesn’t believe it herself.
Because the Doctor will find the person who is for her and unite them. Rose is too fantastic to never meet her Match. There’s always the chance they might stumble across them in their journeys, but if not, then the Doctor will interfere... Not now though, someday. She’s young, not ready to settle down. Perhaps the Doctor will seek her Match when she’s done travelling with him.
Though the mission of finding Rose’s Match isn’t usually his typical adventure, he’ll dedicate years to it if he has to; both because he wants Rose to be as happy as possible, and also so he can inspect whoever it turns out to be. They’ll have to be pretty damn impressive to deserve Rose.
The Doctor’s hearts are soothed even as they clench unhappily for reasons he won’t entertain.
+
After he learns about her mark
e,
the Doctor relaxes around her (a mistake he’ll realize too late). He’s more willing to hold her hand, to even go so far as to keep eye-contact when she smiles her tongue-touched smile.
He isn’t worried anymore about giving her the wrong idea. She thinks she has strong feelings for him, but the Doctor knows it’s just a matter of finding the right person to pull her onto a safer, better track.
The mark
e-
magnetism will be enough, he knows it will.
Thankfully, her Match is
not
Rickey the idiot. He apparently has a mark
e
of his own, different than Rose’s. They were just two friends who fell into a comfortable sort of relationship, and that eases the Doctor’s mind considerably for explanations he isn’t inclined to examine too heavily.
Despite his resolve that Rose will end up with her Match, that doesn’t mean the Doctor still isn’t concerned when people come onto her. This has nothing to do with the fact that many of which include pretty boys. Despite the fact there is a chance that they could bear the same mark
e
, the Doctor is perhaps overly wary of them. He doesn’t want any of them seducing her to the point where she’ll feel incredible guilt when she abandons them for her Match. Really, he’s trying to save everyone heartache.
There's been a couple calls that have been closer than others (the others being people like Adam and his ilk).
Captain Jack Harkness comes to mind.
It’s apparent from the moment he sees Rose and Jack that they get on smashingly—
better
than average, and most certainly better than people generally do with someone who is a virtual stranger. The Doctor prays that the ex-conman won’t have her mark
e.
He’d rather Rickey the idiot have it than Jack.
After their adventure in WW2 England, Jack joins them in the TARDIS (and isn’t it so Rose to make his exclamation that everyone lives be completely true?). The Doctor pulls him aside the first night and sets the other man on the jumpseat.
There’s a few moments where the Doctor sizes the other man up. Jack returns his gaze with blatantly saucy smiles.
“You shouldn’t get any ideas about Rose,” the Doctor says eventually.
“I get it, hands off the blonde,” Jack replies. “I think we really need more lessons on sharing on this ship. Sharing is caring.”
“Not at all, thanks. And you’re wrong.” The Doctor keeps his face impassive. “She isn’t mine. She doesn’t belong to either of us.”
“What, does she have a boyfriend somewhere?” Jack raises a brow. “I didn’t see that coming. Not with all the chatter about
dancing
between the two of you.”
The Doctor scowls. “Let’s have none of that. You don’t know either of us well enough to jump to those kinds of conclusions.”
“Dancing is dancing, Doctor.” Jack grins. “I would know.”
The Doctor doesn’t deign to respond, merely sniffing.
“So, her boyfriend, what’s he like? Do you think
he’d
like to share?” Jack asks.
The Doctor snorts. “He definitely doesn’t have a claim on her. Thankfully. He’s an idiot, that one.”
“What makes you say that?” Jack looks curious, and the Doctor purses his lips. After a few moments where Jack looks calculating, he seems to understand.
“Ohhhh, she has a mark
e
, doesn’t she? And the boyfriend doesn’t Match, I’m guessing.”
The Doctor doesn’t respond, but that seems to be enough of an answer anyways.
“What’s it look like?” Jack asks, eyes too eager.
“Like I’d tell you,” the Doctor says derisively. “You’re a conman. I bet you know how to fake a mark
e
if you need to.”
“Woah, that isn’t how I roll. I wouldn’t do something like that to her, to anyone!” Jack says, betraying his strong feelings on the matter. “Besides, I wouldn’t need to.”
The Doctor’s stomach sinks even as his blood pressure rises. Thankfully, his superior blood vessels can handle the pressure, so he lets his physiology hover there for a moment, just to look extra threatening.
“What does it look like?” He’s not asking, not really.
“How forward.” Jack smirks. “Since I know you’ll never leak Rose’s mark
e
, I guess I’ll just have to show you mine.” Reaching for his left foot, Jack unties the leather shoe and takes it off along with his sock. He pulls it up to show the Doctor. Inside the arch of his foot is a group of spirals, twisting in every direction.
The Doctor can’t help but exhale in relief. Their chemistry was due to Rose’s vivacity, which is understandable— it’s unavoidable and powerful just like mark
e
-magnetism.
“I’m guessing from your reaction that it isn’t a match,” Jack says, disappointed. The Doctor can’t fault him for that. He isn’t surprised that the conman was somewhat hopeful it would be Rose. In fact, if anything, it makes the Doctor respect the other man a bit more. He seems to know that being Rose’s Match would be a real blessing.
Jack smiles ruefully. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. They say you can feel
something
when you meet your Match. An extra something you’ve never felt before.”
“I wouldn’t know. Time Lords don’t do this Matching business.”
Jack’s eyes are filled with distant sympathy. The Doctor looks away. Hopefully now the conman will stop pushing the silly idea of him and Rose.
“You should follow Rose’s example, get to sleep. The TARDIS probably has a room prepared for you.” Even as the Doctor speaks, one of the nearby hallways lights up welcomingly.
“Alright, see you in the morning, Handsome.” With a wink that still seems too sympathetic, Jack disappears into the TARDIS.
+
Surprisingly, the Doctor is quickly glad to have Jack aboard the TARDIS. Not only is he cheerful and playful, but he also cuts through some of the almost
sexually
charged moments between the Doctor and Rose (which is ironic to the Doctor, considering the ex-conman’s sense of humor). As Rose grins at the Doctor, eyes alit with something mischievous and less than innocent, Jack slips in a dirty quip and all of them laugh, even the Doctor. Although the two humans have outgoing personalities, the Doctor never feels left in the dust. On rare occasion, he wishes he could have back his full claim on Rose’s time, but the moments are few and far between. Jack is (admittedly)
really
good at sharing. Despite that, the Doctor is selfishly glad to see that Rose reserves his favorite smile, the one with her tongue, only for when he is looking at her.
Beyond that, Jack is very handy when it comes to trying to dissuade people from hitting on Rose, because Jack certainly had a protective streak. He radiates an assurance of self that is so powerful, that most people who are anything less than fully confident tend to steer clear.
It’s nice, but the Doctor doesn’t think that because he has a tendency towards possessiveness or anything. Regardless of what Jack has said, it isn’t like that. The Doctor just knows better that Rose does how mating works in most every planet they visit ever. Not his fault. Just doing his job by keeping her from accidently marrying people, really. Wouldn’t do for her to be a universal heart breaker. And if, often, talking is the first step to making a relationship that could
potentially
end in marriage, the Doctor sometimes turns people away. Just if they have that look in their eye that screams ‘I-think-I’m-hot-stuff-but-am-in-reality-beyond-unworthy-of-this-
fantasic
-person'. Coincidentally, that covers most everyone they come across.
Sometimes the Doctor knows his and Jack’s standards for people pursuing Rose are a little extreme, but he doesn’t see much wrong with it. The Time Lord isn’t worried that he’s turning her Match away. If they’re so easily dissuaded from getting to know Rose by a few well-placed glares and an ominous presence, then they really don’t deserve to be Rose’s Match. Rather, they can’t be. The one with her mark
e
can’t be anyone who isn’t as adventurous and free as she is. The Doctor is sure of it.
Jack laughs and calls the Doctor overprotective. He isn’t. He really isn’t. He just wants to make sure that Rose ends up with the one she’s supposed to, the one who has her mark
e.
+
The Doctor examines his new appearance in a window as Jackie, Rickey, and Rose pick up the clothes and food the eldest Tyler left in the streets on her way out the door to help save the world.
It isn’t the Doctor’s mess, really, so he takes the pause to explore his new appearance.
The first thing to come to mind is that he’s definitely not ginger. The second is that he’s younger. His new hair (which is longer and almost fluffy) and slender build is a big change from his previous form. In fact, new-him is much more typically attractive than his last body. Particularly, this look is well suited for Earth standards of beauty, and a specific time period. Like, say, the twenty-first century.
Like, say, the kind of person Rose has shown inclination to—
He honestly has no idea how to feel about this. The Doctor doesn’t know if this change is just a sign that he has begun to move past the war, or if it’s some kind of manifestation of his subconscious. But both of those ideas lead back to one Rose Tyler, so he tries to stop thinking about it. Might be random, of course.
Unfortunately, he can’t help but realize that this is the kind of person who would look good next to Rose. From the looks she shot him on the Sycorax ships, she seems to appreciate new-him. Possibly. Which complicates things certainly, but he reminds himself that when it comes down to it, her mark
e
will be enough to pull her away from this selfish old man.
Besides, hopefully his looks will help convince others to stay away, if only so that he can dissuade the unworthy by projecting an imaginary aura that says Rose is claimed (versus the time he was mistaken for her
father
. That was just unpleasant).
“That’s it then,” Rose says, interrupting his thoughts. He turns to find they’ve gathered all their supplies. Typically, Jackie Tyler is looking at him with narrow eyes.
“No thanks to himself over there! Admiring his reflection while we clean up his mess. Vain, you are,” she says.
“It’s not every day I get a completely new face,” the Doctor sniffs. “Besides, I certainly didn’t ask you to bring your entire pantry to the TARDIS.”
Is that rude? From the conflicted look on Rose’s face where it looks like she both wants to laugh and come to her mother’s defense, he’ll wager it is.
Either way, she has the sense to interrupt before her mother can continue. “Let’s head back to the house, yeah? Christmas dinner is still on, right, Mum?”
“Oh, all right.” Jackie huffs. “But I don’t want this one in the kitchen after what he did to the toaster. Still can’t to explain to Howard why it has sixteen slots and can toast and butter an entire loaf in under a minute.”
The Doctor opens his mouth to defend himself, because she should be grateful, when Rose loops her arm through her mother’s and steers the elder woman away.
She sends him a brilliant over-the-shoulder smile, urging him along the street. The Doctor picks up the pace, grinning. The expression comes much easier, and he wonders at what regeneration has really done for his mood. This face is better suited for smiling, he can already tell. That, he has no doubt, it due completely to Rose.
“Hey, we need to talk,” Rickey says, eyes serious as he falls into step with the Doctor. His voice is low enough the two chatting blondes shouldn’t be able to hear him, so the Doctor follows his example.
“I’m listening, Rickey.”
“
Mickey!”
“Right.”
“You haven’t changed.” Mickey shakes his head as they walk side-by-side. “But I guess that don’t matter much.”
“What do you want to talk about?” the Doctor asks, mostly because he honestly has no idea what Mickey could possibly have to say to him. They don’t exactly get on, do they?
“I want you to take care of her.”
The Doctor stares at him with confusion. “Obviously.”
“I mean it this time! I
need
you to promise to look after her,” Mickey says with such intent in his eyes that the Doctor pauses. The words come not from the determination, but the weary acceptance. Is it his new face that has led Mickey to give up? Is he that good looking? So handsome that Mickey bows his head in defeat? He definitely has the wrong idea about the Doctor and Rose if this is the case. Surely he knows about her mark
e.
They were together long enough for him to have seen it. So why say that to the Doctor? There’s just something
off
about this.
“You’re being surprisingly deferential,” the Doctor notes.
Mickey shrugs. “If I’d known you were her Match, I’d never have involved myself.”
The Doctor pauses. Waits for the sentence to either clear itself up or go away. It does neither, so he retorts with a witty, “What?”
“You’re going to make me say it?” Mickey shakes his head. “Fine. She’s yours, she was meant to be with you, and I never had a chance. mark
e
-magnetism and all that.”
“But.” His brilliant mind scrambles for words. “Her mark
e
—“
“Yeah, saw it on your skin when I was undressing you earlier. Don’t know why you didn’t just say something before. Even Jackie woulda let you be, I think. She has one too, you know,” Mickey tells him. “Her and Pete, Rose’s dad, they was a Match. She’d understand.”
“But I’m...” The Doctor takes a deep breath, urging his respiratory system to keep operating, despite how he wants to indulge in some hyperventilation. Well, what he
really
wants to do is strip right then and there in the street, and he only resists because Rose is still ahead, walking and talking to her mother about Christmas din and streamers for decorations and all these things that
don’t matter
because the Doctor thinks the universe might be irreparably damaged. Mickey’s gaze is what brings him back to the present.
Pragmatism. He’s got to tackle this...
issue
logically. Rose hasn’t said anything, so it seems that (thankfully) she isn’t aware yet. Now he needs to keep it this way.
“Don’t tell her.” The Doctor finally manages to get his thoughts in order.
“She doesn’t know?!” Mickey asks, bemused.
“It’s complicated,” the Doctor settles on.
Mickey shakes his head. “It’s none of my business, but you have to tell her. If not today, then someday.
Soon.
She deserves to know...”
“Probably.” The Doctor knows well that while someone should know, it doesn’t mean they get to know.
“You’re pretty accepting of it,” the Doctor says in lieu of voicing his jaded thoughts.
“Well, I don’t think you deserve her.” Mickey stares him down. “Not at all. But the universe seems to think so, and so does Rose. I suppose that’ll have to be enough, won’t it?”
The Doctor shifts uncomfortably. The borrowed clothing is suddenly stifling.
“I think I’ll pop in the TARDIS,” he calls to the front, making the two women ahead turn around. “Not proper to celebrate the holiday in jim-jams.”
“Wash ‘em before you return them! I’ve no obligation to do your laundry,” Jackie says.
Unlike her mother, Rose’s brow furrows a little, like she can sense his sudden discontent and panic.
Regardless of her thoughts, she smiles. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
It’s such a real question that the Doctor would almost feel pity if he wasn’t so consumed with dread.
…And if he wasn’t seriously contemplating running away to a galaxy and time completely apart from this one.
“Of course.”
Her smile lightens. Rose gives him a small wave before the Doctor turns away and heads down the street, retreating to his fortress of solitude and avoiding Mickey’s searching gaze all the while. The moment the blue doors close behind him, he’s ripping the clothes off, leaving nothing but scraps. His own strength is still uncertain in his hands, he doesn’t know the altered extent of it, but even if he did, he thinks the borrowed clothes would still be in tatters.
As the Doctor looks over his body, he extends the rest of his perceptive senses.
Like the mole, he can feel it on his skin. He never felt the sensation before, never had a mark
e
, so he supposes it’s only natural that he didn’t immediately notice how utterly abnormal it is. Now that he is aware though, he can sense the unusual energy hovering above his skin.
The sensation leads him to his left shoulder, where, among a new collection of freckles, he finds a smattering of circles, darker than his freckles. It’s the connect-the-dots constellation he knows is reflected on Rose’s back. The image feels like it’s branded on his skin, searing the shape deep into his bones. It’s pervasive, so much so that he’s not sure he could ever scrub it away even with all the radiation in the world.
It hurts. Not physically, but like how it feels when his lungs are full of water. The panic is what makes it so painful.
He touches the mark
e
, willing it to rub away like ink or oil from the TARDIS. It remains. He pauses for a moment, leaving his finger on his skin.
There’s a sort of reverence to his touching it. This isn’t
his
mark
e,
no, not at all. This is
Rose’s.
It’s like he’s carrying a part of her with him now, in a physical, visible way he’s never had to face before. Almost like holding her hand, just different (a
good
different, this time).
After some of the panic and disbelief fades, the Doctor manages to analyze the situation. Possibilities for this incredibly impossible occurrence:
Her original Match died before she could meet him.
It happens. The Universe has intervened with Matches before. He’s heard about that happening, when one’s Match dies before they meet, so someone else gets a mark
e
. But it hasn’t happened —
doesn’t
happen— with a non-human, never with a
Time Lord.
As for why the Universe thinks he and Rose could ever be compatible like that is an utter mystery to him.
The Doctor was always meant to be her Match in this body.
But why not his last body? Why wasn’t he born with the mark
e
? If it really was meant to be, it should have carried through all his transitions.
He changed himself into a man who could be her Match.
The last options makes his hands tremble. Did he steal it from someone, from the person who is meant to be with her? Has someone’s mark
e
disappeared all at once, severing the connection between them and Rose?
He doesn’t know what happened, how it happened, or, most importantly,
why
it’s happened. But somehow, he’s sure it’s his fault. Rassilon. He is going to pay for it now. They both will.
Because they
still
can’t be together.
Too young.
Too kind.
Too
beautifully
human.
Nothing has changed. If anything, she’s only proven to himself over time that she deserves a better life than he can offer her. Even for himself, even with the mark
e
she still isn’t his to keep; time and old age will steal her from him one day, if tragedy and accidents don’t.
The Doctor shakes himself from the dark thoughts and heads to the wardrobe. He can ponder this matter further once night arrives and Rose is asleep. He can torture himself with it for days to come. But today isn’t about him, and he promised Rose Tyler a Christmas dinner, a proper one. Even if her mother is cooking. So after settling on pinstripes, Janis Joplin’s coat, and slipping on some plimsolls (to tie everything together), the Doctor heads back to the Tyler residence.
Pushing his troubles aside, not running away like he normally would, is worth it, if only for the glowing smile Rose Tyler gives him as he enters the home.
She likes him. This new him. And he likes that she likes this new him. For a moment he lets it sink in, doesn’t let it be tainted.
They are beautiful, and this sudden connection between them only heightens it.
The mark
e
-magnetism is not myth. Instead, a sudden, indelible pull from within him, and it’s delightful. His psychic powers have heightened it into a nearly tangible connection. All he wants is to follow it to her. When he first woke up, he mistook it for missing her. Now he sees it’s a wonderful symbol of all they are and could be—
But the Doctor knows better than to assume they could have nice things. Before it settles further around her, and Rose notices and can place the sensation as being more than just attraction and good chemistry, he clamps down on the connection mentally. It doesn’t break, doesn’t snap into pieces and disappear like he hopes and fears it might. Instead it goes silent. It’s still there, but he doubts that Rose will be able to sense it.
He exhales in relief when her expression smoothes out, and she resumes eating. Despite that, she still sends glances his way, so warm he can’t help but smile back.
“Where are those jim-jams?” Jackie asks, and the moment between he and Rose is succinctly popped.
+
Later that night, as they hold hands and look up at the stars, both admitting to wanting Rose on the TARDIS, the Doctor thinks about what he should do.
Before he used the mark
e
as an excuse, a way out. Nothing he did or said would be permanent. She’d find her Match and that would be that, a firm goodbye. Having experiences the mark
e
-magnetism firsthand, the Doctor can testify that it is all that and more. It would have
worked
. But apparently her Match is the Doctor. Now, he needs to reexamine how he thinks about Rose’s mark
e
(not his, never his).
His actions now have more permanence, so he knows he needs to be more careful so as not to give Rose the wrong idea. He still can’t help but squeeze her hand, because she smiles at him when he does. It’s platonic, right? Nothing suggesting
more
here.
As Rose heads into Jackie’s flat to sleep for the night, the Doctor sighs and decides he simply won’t make a decision on the matter. Not now. Hopefully Rose will find another place in the universe where she belongs, safe from him.
+
He was right when he assumed the person with Rose’s mark
e
would be undeserving.
+
Despite the Doctor’s resolve to keep things more distant, he can’t stop himself from reaching out for her. Even though the connection is dampened, skin contact between them makes his hearts beat a hemidemisemiquaver faster. (He entertains, for a moment, that maybe it’s more than the mark
e
but quickly evicts that train of thought.)
Then they go to New Earth, and the Doctor finds out just how even more closeness feels, as Cassandra in the guise of Rose makes out with him thoroughly. It’s as if before he changed, her touch was a warm tingle, and now it’s a jolt of electricity. The pulse sends electric charges skittering over his already very sensitive nerves. If he didn’t have a superior respiratory system, he’d probably be gasping. As it is, he can only stare dumbly after her as she steps past him. His voice climbs up octaves he doesn’t think he’s ever reached since he was a young Time Lord, not fully come into himself, as he utters, “Still got it.”
Realizing that it was not Rose, but Cassandra that kissed him, muddies the memory.
Cassandra takes over his body too, but thankfully he manages to keep the bond locked down, even tucked away in his mind as he is. Their entire visit is a mess and he’s only too happy to leave.
He finds it hard to treat Rose with sufficient distance to make sure she knows where they stand without hurting her because increasing their physical distance is the most obvious choice.
Only once does he try to limit the skin-contact between them. After that he stops, because when he pulls his hand away from her seeking fingers on their way back to the TARDIS in Scotland and then turns away to avoid her gaze, her eyes go wide and surprised. From the corner if his eyes, he can see her teasing smile, brought about by her (admittedly) impressive feat of getting Queen Victoria to say ‘we are not amused,' slip clean off her face.
Rose pulls herself together quickly enough, but the repressed uncertainty in her expression tells the Doctor everything she’s thinking— she's questioning whether this new Doctor even wants to touch her, hold her hand like the last him did. Does he even
like her
or does he merely tolerate her when she makes him unfomfortable by seeking him out physically— He sees the cogs spinning, adding unhappiness and self-consciousness to her brightness. And that can never be allowed. Not by anyone. Especially not a man. So after the minute it takes for this event to occur, he shoves his hands deep into his pockets.
"Don't have a quid on me," he says, smiling and hoping she’ll let him remedy his mistake.
She does. She always does.
Rose Tyler's wide smile returns, and she sticks her tongue out a little. "Don't know why I should be surprised. I know you're a cheap date."
She offers her hand again, and he takes hold, squeezing her delicate human ligaments lightly. Her expression brightens, and it's almost worth the buzz in his mind he has to repress and the burning of his left shoulder.
Perhaps he could have gone about it a different way, but what he's learned from that whole occurrence is that he can't hurt Rose Tyler like that. Though he's always aware of the harm others can do to Rose, hurt her physically, break her laugh, make her bitter— he forgot that he too is in a position to do that.
He decides to try and think of another option.
+
But it’s so easy to just pretend things are normal too, delay any real action on the matter. He finds he can run from their problem even as she’s by his side, glowing and gleaming in his psychic senses like his small, personal sun.
Things progress much the same as they always did, even after the incident at the school. Though it was tense at times, what with going undercover in a school filled with Krillitanes, they made it back in one piece. The Doctor and Rose Tyler... and Mickey, in the TARDIS. Admittedly it doesn't have near the same ring as the Doctor and Rose Tyler in the TARDIS, but beggars can't be choosers. Mickey represents everything the Doctor isn't and can't offer. Easy, comfortable, safe, perhaps a bit (more than a bit) boring. He symbolizes all that ties Rose to Earth. Even though they’re all relatively far from the blue and green orb, he somehow brings Earth onboard. Rose, despite her initial reluctance to have Mickey on the TARDIS, seems to at least enjoy being able to spend time with him. Which is what the Doctor wants, of course, but they’re doing boring things like watching football (the intergalactic league, bit still), and laying about the couch like
normal
people. Which Mickey might be (the Doctor doesn’t really know), but Rose most
certainly
is not. He can hardly stand to watch them.
Mickey Smith does not deserve Rose Tyler. The Doctor isn’t sure anyone does, no one they’ve come across is close to being good enough. Maybe that’s why the Doctor was so entranced with the idea of Rose having a mark
e
. They existed, someone to be Rose’s other half, her equal. It was his end-all be-all answer for the fate of Rose Tyler. He never realizes how much he depended on the stability of that excuse until he regenerated.
Now his already-fractured faith in the universe is shattered further.
Because he isn’t Rose's other half, nor her equal. She doesn’t deserve this.
Time Lords aren’t supposed to even
have
a Match, or a mark
e
. Perhaps he should have known better than to doubt anything involving Rose Tyler being simple, but this is above and beyond her usual level of impossible.
And the Doctor thinks that he doesn’t deserve this pain either. It’s cruel to practically tell the Doctor to take and have something he never can. In fact, it makes him so bitter that some days he’s nauseous.
He doesn’t want Rose to
settle
for boring, to let her vivacity fade into normal. But he can’t keep her either.
He’s at an impasse with the universe itself. Which isn’t as unusual for the Doctor as he thinks it should be.
+
The Doctor didn’t mean to trip onto Reinette’s bed, just like he didn’t mean to trip into Reinette’s life. The second event has probably happened due to chance and maybe fate.
It’s likely the familiar combination of fear and alcohol that explains the first.
Reinette is going to die. The history book has already been written on the subject. He’s touching and flirting with a dead woman (and isn't that what he does with Rose?). The thought is almost enough to make him laugh, but he doesn’t quite manage it. It’s a cold reminder that humans
wither and die
—
Reinette leans over him, running her hands down his chest before moving to his buttons and tie. He catches her hand before she gets too far down his oxford shirt. He knows he's giving her the wrong idea by just being in her bedchamber, but he'd been concentrating more on the difference between holding hands with her and with Rose (Reinette's are somewhat cold, and almost dull. He's gotten so used to the warm jolt he gets from Rose's), so he wasn't really paying attention to where she was pulling him. And now he's here, sitting on her bed.
The Doctor isn’t here for sex, and won’t even consider going through with it. But Reinette is warm and willing, and he wants to be close. He wants to hold Reinette because he can’t hold Rose. He wants to stare at her blatantly, to take in all of her, the way he can't bear to do to Rose.
Their recent visit to Sarah Jane only reminded him of why the idea of
them
is terrible, mark
e
or no mark
e
. He understands, of course he does. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
The Doctor is using Reinette for this closeness he seeks. It's tacky, he knows. He's had eleven banana daiquiris and he's purposefully slowed his metabolic rate to cling to this mild haze. Maybe that's why he doesn't protest when Reinette kisses him, though he doesn't even dream of responding. Regardless, it seems she takes that as encouragement, because her hands go to neck before slipping down to his shoulders to push his partially unbuttoned shirt down. Before the Doctor can stop her (again), her hands still and she give a little gasp.
It isn’t a sound of pleasure. It’s a sad sort of exclamation mixed with surprise. He frowns and pulls back. He sees her eyes trained on his left shoulder and the mark
e
practically branded there.
“I am—“ She starts and stops for a moment. “I am not the one for you.”
The Doctor knows that, but he finds it unsettling that Reinette seemingly does not.
“Reinette... She and I aren’t like that.”
“You know who it is?” Reinette says, eyes wide.
“I— yes.” It isn’t that simple, but it seems to say enough to Reinette.
“No, I am glad that you are so lucky as to know your mark
e
.” She swallows hard and gives him a faint smile. “I am glad, my lonely angel, that you are not as lonely as you appear.”
But he is, he is so lonely. He can’t find a way to express the emotion without yelling or having any kind of outburst, so he nods distantly, and allows Reinette to button his shirt up again, her fingers now apologetic and melancholy.
When he steps back into the future, Reinette’s death heavy on his mind, he finds Rose Tyler sitting against the blue side of the TARDIS with make-up running down her face. She rises to her feet and approaches him.
He expects even more tears to come, because he is a truly despicable, careless creature.
Instead, she stares into his eyes for a long time before she speaks.
“Are you alright?”
Now he wants to cry. Guilt, anger, regret, and misery swirl around within him. He steps forward and hugs her tightly. From over her head, he sees Mickey Smith. He seems livid, and the Doctor lets some of the accusations into his hearts to dwell on later. Not all of them though.
Because Mickey Smith doesn’t have a reference for the complexity of his situation, of how difficult it is.
He isn’t like Rose, who chooses to concentrate on his state of being before judgement. She’s one of a kind. The Doctor holds her a little tighter and tells himself he’ll let go any minute now.
+
And then she’s gone.
Their small connection of a mark
e
he kept muted for so long, spirited away. Despite how dim he kept it, the ensuing silence is too loud for him.
He makes it to the beach. There he finds pale sand and her shifting form, too impermeable for him to hold.
The Doctor manages the conversation as best he can. He proposes that she spend her time travelling, maybe she’ll even find her Match.
Because in that world, the Doctor hadn’t been there to steal it.
She shakes her head and answers flippantly. She didn’t exist there in the first place. No one would be Matched across the universe like that, where there wasn’t another of that person there.
The Doctor concedes the point. He’s sad and angry, and frustrated because a part of him is
glad
she won’t be with anyone else, won’t be able to have the kind of connection the two of them could.
He’s selfish and so cruel. It reminds the Doctor why he needs a good person like Rose holding his hand through the universe, but now—
She confesses to him, and he takes the words greedily, despite the fact that he can’t bring himself to say the same. He can’t tell her what she wants to hear. So he waits for the sun to burn out, draws out his words and leaves her waiting on a beach for the
I love you
he can’t provide. It would just cause more pain. He did what was best.
Really.
+
That’s when a bride appears on his ship, Donna.
She’s... loud. Even more so than Jackie.
The perpendicular lines on her hand bring emotions to the top of his skin and the Doctor can’t help but pry into her relationship.
“Is he your Match? This Lance fellow you’re marrying?”
Donna snorts. “As if. No one really finds their Match these days. Especially not at my age. That’s some rubbish if I ever heard it. Finding a Match is nearly impossible.”
The Doctor nods his head slowly in agreement with her words.
“Do you have a mark
e
?” She pauses. “Can aliens have a mark
e
?”
He hesitates too long.
“For my people, not as a rule, no.”
“But with you?” Donna asks, knows.
“Yeah,” the Doctor says. He shakes the mood from his shoulders and pulls her up. “Let’s get you to your wedding.”
Later that night, as he’s getting ready to duck back into the TARDIS, the events rolling around in his head on repeat, Donna asks him a final question.
“What was her name? Your mark
e
,” she clarifies. Donna doesn’t have to; he immediately knows what she means.
He stares at her for a long moment.
“Rose. Her name was Rose.”
That’s all he can really take for one day. He heads into the TARDIS and down the closest hallway where he runs into a door with a color scheme favored towards Gallifrey’s red grass and silver trees. The Doctor clings to the familiarity. In this moment, it’s what keeps him from crying.
He hasn’t slept in two weeks, three days, nine hours, thirty minutes, and twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty seconds. The Doctor collapses into the bed and wills his recent life to just be a bad dream. He wills Rose’s mark
e
away.
+
(He wakes up five hours, seven minutes, eleven, twelve, thirteen seconds later.)
(The mark
e
is still there.)
+
Because of Donna, the Doctor is still alive in this after place, this post-Rose world. He still has breath in his lungs, so he uses it to run.
On the moon, he meets Martha Jones. Part of him knows it's a bad idea, asking her along. Mostly because when he tells her he isn't looking for a relationship, her tone changes and she quickly denies any attraction to him. That false denial, trying to convince both the listener and themselves it's true, isn't unfamiliar to the Doctor. It reminds him of leather and a certain ex-conman who always
pushed
— but Martha saved the world and, as usual, there are no benefits, recognition, or thanks from the people of Earth. The least he can do is take her on one trip with the TARDIS.
Marth Jones is brilliant, but she wants something he won’t pretend to have. She’s infatuated with him, really properly infatuated. He feels a sense of cruelty in his actions towards her, as dismissive as he is of her, because Martha knows about Rose, and has the audacity to try and replace her in his mind—
That isn’t the case, he knows it isn’t. He knows Martha doesn’t have context for the complexity and depth of his and Rose’s relationship. Humans move past relationships so easily. Part of their limited lifespans.
The Doctor can’t forget and even though he likely has hundreds of years left on his lifespan, he doubts he’ll find room in his heart for someone ‘special.’ He already met them, didn’t he? And he’s got a virtual tattoo to prove it. Although sometimes the mark
e
feels more a scar these days.
When Martha leaves, he’s glad. It isn’t because she niggled at him, or tried to get him to see her romantically. No, he’s glad because Martha left when she realized that she deserves better. That’s really the best result he can have when he’s treated Martha the way he has. He can walk out of her life knowing that she’s stronger for their travels, all the good and the bad.
Still, he doesn’t much want to deal with another infatuation (blimey, this face is borderline dangerous at times).
+
Which is why Donna is perfect. In fact, inviting her aboard is one of the best choices he’s made since Rose.
Because as he carefully tells her that he isn't interested in anything besides friendship, she snaps at him—
"I don't want anything to do with you, bean-pole!"
—and he gets a mate. He sort of forgot what that was like. It also goes without saying that Donna is a mate unlike any he's had before.
Donna soothes him by taking his mind off romance. They laugh and Donna yells and gets sassy with all the natives
all the time
. And though Donna is a distraction, she’s also a very keen reminder of Rose all the same— but in the best way. When her immense empathy and compassion emerge from her heart as they travel (surprising both of them, most of all her), he sees the best of humanity, and he’s reminded so warmly of Rose.
In fact, some days he thinks he can sense their bond again. He vacillates between bitter and wistful about the sensation, but he can’t regret it either way.
Perhaps he should have seen the end of this healing process coming because he had a break from the most dangerous forces in the universe for quite a long time now.
Donna comes out from the fortuneteller’s tent, stumbles into him with a tight hug, and later says two words that echo in his mind.
“Bad Wolf.”
+
He’s happy for himself, really, he is. Even though he knows it’s cruel of him to leave without saying goodbye, he doubts the metacrisis him will mind that much. That him gets Rose Tyler.
“You alright?” Donna asks, her mind having slowed enough for civilized conversation, enough for her natural empathy to override any brainy, Time Lord-esque thoughts.
“Fine.”
She stares at him.
“Really, I’m fine,” he restates. “Rose and the metacrisis get to have a life together, can go on that adventure. They can finally properly be each other’s Match. I could never do that.” The Doctor shakes his head.
“I never understood why you didn’t tell her.” Donna’s brow furrows, and after a moment her eyes are suddenly awash with sadness, vague horror, and pity. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?” the Doctor asks.
“The metacrisis-you hasn’t got a mark
e
.”
The Doctor’s body freezes even as his mind races.
“You— can’t be serious,” he says.
“He didn’t pop out of that hand fully clothed,” Donna says brusquely. “I kept my gaze above the waist the entire time but I still caught an eyeful. He didn’t have a mark
e
.”
“Are you sure?! It would have been on his shoulder.” The Doctor grabs her firmly, too intently.
“No, it wasn’t there,” she utters.
“Could it have been somewhere else? Did you see
anything,
anywhere?”
Donna slowly shakes her head. “I don’t— I don’t think so. Nothing that could be a mark
e
. I know what they look like.”
The relative logic of this matter makes a distressing amount of sense to the Doctor, because only two people can have the same mark
e
. There isn’t room for a third, even if it is a partial extension. The Doctor tries to reconcile this information, but finds it’s too painful to really handle. It seems Rose will never be with her Match.
All of it is his fault. If he hadn’t been so subconsciously selfish for Rose and desired to monopolize her love, maybe he could have spared her this pain—
That’s when Donna passes out and his lot in life somehow gets worse.
+
New teeth. New man. New hair. New taste buds. A new, new, new, new, new, new, new, new, new, new, new Doctor.
It’s all very exciting. And a new body means new skin. She was still preoccupying his thoughts when he regenerated. The Doctor probably shouldn’t have gone to see her that final time before he changed. He’s worried she won’t have left his skin, since his mind is still full of her, but as he shifts a hole in his dress shirt up his arm, he finds nothing on his shoulder. No freckles. No mark
e
. A new man without a mark
e
.
Part of him is roiling with indecision, but a larger part of him feels relief.
He should probably get out of the swimming pool now and figure out where he crashed.
+
The Doctor saved the world in under twenty minutes. It’s a new record, he thinks. The record he probably broke was likely set by an old version of himself, and it’s a rather good way to start off this new body.
He’s a new man, and as such, he needs new clothes. Well, at least ones that aren’t in shreds.
As he unbuttons his shirt down the front, his hands stall, and the clothes in his hands drop to the floor. He rips the rest of the buttons down and blinks hard, wishing for it to
go away.
Because on his chest, in between his two hearts, is a familiar connect-the-dots constellation. He raises a hand shakily and touches it.
Gasps
. The same sensation of touching
her
. He didn’t recognize the feel of it automatically, because now it’s a broken link, there is no Rose to complete the circuit, and that deadens the sensation of it on his skin. Touching it is the closest it’s felt like to holding her hand since he last let go. This would be the first time for new-him.
The Doctor’s hearts clench. He regenerated, he shouldn’t
be
that person anymore—
“You’re forceful, aren’t you?” Amelia Pond says from behind him, voice low and alight with some sort of innuendo he can’t be bothered to decipher.
“Amy!” That would be the nurse from before.
The Doctor’s glad he’s facing the other way from Amelia and the nurse while changing. This is something he can barely admit to himself, let alone another person, not when he’s a new-new-new Doctor, one who hasn’t
even touched
Rose Tyler’s flesh. He’s still not far enough away from her, even with the walls of a universe between them. This isn’t fair. The only explanation he can think of is penance.
It’s only the impending return of the Atraxi that enables him to push past the unfortunate discovery.
He hides Rose’s mark
e
. He hides it under a bowtie and tweed. The dim realization that it’s in between his two hearts hurts just as much, if not more, than having it in the first place. He never asked for this, could never deserve this (all the good and bad). He has it, though.
The Doctor swallows hard and tries to put the fact his newly constructed world is still bound by Rose Tyler’s hands out of his mind. Has some Atraxi to scold.
+
Amelia ‘just-Amy-now’ Pond turns out to be just what the Doctor needs. Most of the time. She’s stubborn and adventurous and willful and complains and seems unaware of how vibrant a person she is sometimes, how she can change those around her. She’s also ginger, which is a point of endless envy.
Something he could do without is her coyness. Amy doesn’t have a mark
e
.
It’s due to this, he thinks, that she feels comfortable
pursuing
him. He first catches onto her intent when she pretends to idly ask as he’s navigating them to the directions left on the homing box,
“Sooo... do Time Lords have a Match?
He gives her his new ‘silly-human’ look, which he’s been practicing quite a lot recently.
“Time Lords do not have a Match. It’s a human thing. Well, a handful of other planets have a similar system, like Terriplaxus. We can’t visit there though, the people are otters, not actually otters, but almost like them. Anyways, they live in their atmosphere. Kassiplaxus, great poet from there —she had sonnets that could make anyone giggle— poetically dubbed it an ‘acid pool.’ Not particularly friendly for you or I.”
“So you’re unattached,” Amy says, ignoring his ongoing explanation. His hearts twist at her words and the dotted skin between them seems to burn at the mere mention.
The Doctor gives Amy a dismissive shake of his head. He’s saved from having to answer verbally with words he can’t even compose, by the eventful arrival of Professor River Song.
During their entire escapade with the archeologist, Amy teases the Doctor as she grills River. Amy seems so certain that River is his wife, despite the fact neither of them say a thing on the subject. River’s eyes glimmer at the questions.
Though the evidence is telling, he hopes it won’t turn out to be the case. The Doctor knows that she can’t ever mean everything to him. Not when someone else already does. That’s (sadly) regardless of the status of their existence in this universe.
The three of them survive their brush with the weeping angels, but it is a harrowing experience. So much so that the Doctor isn’t surprised in the slightest by Amy’s request that to go back home, ‘just to visit.’
It’s interesting, being someone’s confidant. Amy slowly explains to him between deep breaths that she is going to get married to the nurse that was hanging about when the Doctor last saved Earth.
Of course, that’s when she sidles up to him and tries to kiss him. Or actually,
does
kiss him. And to his horror, Amy tries to go even further than that. The Doctor splutters.
“You’re getting married tomorrow!” he accuses.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking anything too permanent.” Amy slinks closer. “Besides, us two un-marked people can get up to whatever we want to, can’t we?”
The Doctor barely manages to hide his wince. He has two options: one, explain that he has a mark
e
and is emotionally entangled and might always be (if empirics are to be believed), and also, not really interested in having any kind of interaction with Amy that isn’t platonic. Of course, there will be plenty of follow-up questions, like who is it? Where are they? Why did you abandon them in a parallel galaxy with a clone of yourself without checking if the clone had the mark
e
? Uncomfortable questions like that.
Option two; he could snag her fiancé and try to push them together so Amy forgets about trying to, er, seduce him.
No contest.
The next day he pops out of a large cake with glitter in his hair.
+
Rory enters their life on the TARDIS distraught and largely unhappy. Amazingly, travelling to different time eras and galaxies doesn’t seem to do very much to fix it. The only thing that remedies the hurt look that
always
seems to be in his eyes, is Amy’s affection.
The Doctor doesn’t understand their love, because he is an alien from an ancient galaxy long passed, not to mention a thousand years old. So obviously he doesn’t understand how a touch from someone beloved could soothe and grant peace to a worried heart. Or the ineffable warmth that comes to mind at the mere thought of someone who means everything. Of course not.
He tells not only Amy and Rory, but himself that too.
The human memory is fickle, and it seems that they forget rule number one; the Doctor always lies.
The Doctor doesn’t have the luxury of forgetfulness.
+
End of the world.
Amusingly, the Doctor has been in a situation or location that he could define as ‘the end of the world’ no less than twenty-six times. Perhaps it’s the proximity of this one, but it feels like this is the most harrowing end of the world he’s experienced to date.
He survives though, he survives and makes it to Amy and Rory Pond’s wedding through the hopes of a little seven-year-old alone.
Now, the honeymoon is sufficiently over, they’ve had ample time to settle into their new house in Leadworth, and Amy is likely crawling up the walls with her need to escape for a while; it’s the perfect time for the Doctor to land.
The TARDIS is being a little touchy when he finally hits the dirt of what he expects is likely their garden. He opens the door. Yes, right on the chrysanthemums, which is quite alright with him— they’re an ugly sort of flower anyway. He steps out of the TARDIS as is suddenly hit by a wave of
something.
It’s a feeling half-forgotten from over a century ago. And it is impossible.
“Doctor!” Amy calls out.
“Not the chrysanthemums! Why did you land there? I just planted them!” Rory says, exasperated.
The Doctor doesn’t care. He walks past them, not taking in the colors or shapes around him. All he can think of is the impossible person who he senses in the Ponds’ kitchen.
And it can’t be. It
really can’t be.
But he steps into the room and she’s here.
Rose Tyler is standing beside the table in the Ponds’ kitchen, looking ready to flee on sight. Her body hasn’t changed much, but her eyes are wide and complex. He forgot, for all his perfect memory, the exact shade of amber her irises are. She hasn’t moved. He almost worries that this is during her time using the dimension-cannon. But she hasn’t smiled, or run towards him with reckless abandon. No, she is looking at him like the world is ending, but not in any way related to the stars going out. Admittedly, the world may very well be on the cusp of an end and the Doctor wouldn’t notice. He can’t feel anything except the searing sensation between his hearts.
Rory stumbles over his words as he tries to explain. “Ah, Rose! Uh, this is our friend. He—"
"Visits," Amy supplies.
"Yes, he visits sometimes,” Rory says. Then he pauses, and he seems to understand that there is something so much more at work here.
“This is Rose, our new neighbor.” Amy hasn’t picked up on it. “You might see him around. Sort of an odd duck. But, well.”
“Doctor?” The single word slips through Rose’s lips.
“Rose,” the Doctor exhales.
There’s a moment where they can only stare at one another.
“I’m guessing you two have met.” Rory’s words are slow and through a curtain.
Painfully obvious. The Doctor nods absently nonetheless.
Rose takes a step, two steps, and then five steps until she’s standing right before him. He expects a hug, a slap (maybe both), but instead she waits.
“Where?” It’s a demand, nothing less. Rose knows, the Doctor thinks faintly.
“Between my hearts,” he replies softly.
Rose nods and goes straight for the jugular.
“Doctor!” Amy shouts.
Rose isn’t attacking him though, her hands are hastily, tremblingly undoing his bowtie. He exhales heavily.
“Oh, um.” Rory stutters awkwardly as Rose throws the bowtie over her shoulder and starts on the Doctor’s buttons. “We should— Amy, don’t watch.”
“I’m watching.”
The Doctor doesn’t care what the Ponds do. His gaze is trained on Rose, whose attention is locked onto his shirt.
Despite all her focus, it takes her two minutes to undo the first few buttons with her hands shaking like they are, and he watches her like a star collapsing in on itself. Then, she reaches it, sees the top of the connect-the-dots constellation between his hearts. She sucks in a harsh breath and grabs the sides of his shirt, and pulls, undoing the buttons all at once like he did when he first found her mark
e
on himself after regenerating.
“I think we should le—“
“Rory.” Amelia stops and tries again. “He has a mark
e.
”
Rory utters a small sound of incomprehension.
Rose doesn’t seem to be aware of their audience. She reaches forward and places a palm to his chest, touching her mark
e
on him like she doesn’t believe it exists.
The circuit that was once disconnected completes itself and bursts back into life, making both of them gasp. He doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t try to mute it. He lets the sensation roll painfully through his mind. If fills him with wonderful aliveness, bringing to mind that he was so
empty
before, but it doesn’t matter because she’s here, and he’s full, complete.
“I almost thought you lied to me,” Rose says eventually. “You said that full-Time Lord you had a mark
e
. It hurt my heart to think that you had a Match out in the world, and that I wasn’t it. I wondered if you met them, if they died on Gallifrey. I was glad when you told me it hadn’t transferred over though, because it meant you could belong to me. You told me that was why you never pursued anything serious with me, was because you had a mark
e.
It never crossed my mind that you would omit the most important detail.” She takes a harsh breath.
The Doctor can only watch with his hearts in his throat.
Rose exhales. “You told me on your
deathbed.
You made me promise to not be alone, you told me you loved me, and then you finally admitted that your mark
e
was a Match for
mine!”
Her voice is so pained, the Doctor just wants to reach out for her, but her fingers slacken, slipping down his chest before she removes them altogether and steps out of reach. His metacrisis-self died before Rose. Pretty soon after he left, it seems, because Rose doesn’t look any older.
“You
knew.
The whole time we were travelling. You knew.”
“Only after I regenerated,” the Doctor manages. “I wasn’t— Time Lords don’t have Matches. Then I regenerated and it was there.”
“And you hid it from me,” Rose states.
The Doctor nods.
“Didn’t want to be a Match with a stupid ape?” she asks, and the Doctor is gobsmacked.
“What? No!” he splutters.
“I think that is the case. We wither and we die and you hate us for that, don’t you.”
Old anger, not at her, but at the
universe,
rears up. “I don’t have a choice! Even if I acted on it Rose, I could never keep you! I couldn’t do that.”
“You could! You can!”
“I
can’t!
”
“You
can!”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” he exclaims.
“
Me?!
” she shouts back. “That should be
you!
You lied about the metacrisis-you!”
“I did not!” he snaps. "I didn't know he didn't have the mark
e
! I wanted the two of you to Match and have a relationship and grow old together."
Rose’s hands clench. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”
“Hey!” Amy Pond shouts, interrupting them.
“Sorry, Amy,” Rose says as she realizes they have an audience. She starts moving away from him in short steps backwards. Her body is actually faintly trembling, not that she appears to notice. In fact Rose barely blinks when her back hits the counter. She’s still so young, he thinks. Rose rubs her hand, a spark of light. Yes, that’s a wedding ring he sees. His body shudders.
“Rose—“ the Doctor calls.
“This is not a good impression to make as a new neighbor. I think I’ll just go to my house and sit down for a moment,” Rose says distantly as she escapes out the door. The Doctor automatically moves to follow her, but Rory gets a firm grip on his forearms.
He starts following after Rose anyways, barely noticing that he’s tipping Rory off-balance with his superior Time Lord strength.
“Doctor!” Amy snaps, all fury.
He blinks and stops moving, largely uncertain as to when he started.
“Doctor, are you alright?" Rory asks.
"I don't… I don't know," he admits, finally removing his eyes from the door Rose left from.
He’s standing partially clothed and wholly bewildered in the Ponds’ kitchen, feeling more lost than he has in centuries.
His expression must relay some of that, because Rory gives him a sympathetic look and says, “Let me get you a shirt.” He goes up the stairs to give the Doctor a moment. Unlike her husband, Amy seems intent on getting answers
now
.
"You have a mark
e
," Amy states, eyes narrow. Every so often, her gaze flickers down to the mark
e
still fully displayed on his chest.
"Yes," he replies.
"And you have a Match, and you already know them," Amy says.
"Yes."
"And you didn't think we'd like to know that maybe?!" The redhead's temper finally boils over. "We've been with you for over a year, I’ve
known
you
even longer! And you flat out lied to me! I
asked you
if you a mark
e
and you lied to me."
Beneath the ire is the hurt his lie has caused. But the Doctor is hurting now too.
"It wasn't your business."
Amy’s mouth falls open.
Rory comes down the stairs, offering the Doctor a generic grey T-shirt to wear. The Doctor takes off his damaged button-up and shrugs the grey shirt on. The normal, human-y fibers make him shift uncomfortably. Rory sets the tone when he takes a seat at the kitchen table, clearly inviting Amy and the Doctor to do the same. Part of the Doctor doesn’t want to; this implies an actual conversation about this utter madness, but a bigger part of the Doctor is so tired.
He's so tired that the thought of continuing to hide this part of him is exhausting. He hasn't even dampened their bond yet. Rose’s energy is surging against him, tempting him away to follow the line back to her. And he
can
for the first time in decades and suddenly he doesn’t know what he’s doing here—
However, there is hurt, real hurt in Amy Pond’s eyes, so he slowly lowers himself into a seat.
"Doctor, you're our best friend. It is my business," Amy starts again, sitting with a huff.
Rory cuts in against his wife. "Amy... You know that stuff's private."
"You could have shared with us," Amy persists. "We would've kept it a secret if you wanted us to."
"It isn't about my trusting you." The Doctor pauses to run a hand through his hair. "And I didn't lie to you, not really."
"Seriously?!" Amy asks, incredulous
and
angry now. "On our way to Byzantium, I
asked
you if you had a mark
e
."
"You asked if Time Lords have Matches," the Doctor corrects. "And they don't."
Rory's brow furrows. "But you do? Why?"
Isn’t that the tredecillion treazant question?
"This is a rare moment," the Doctor says with false humor. "I have no idea. No Time Lord before me has had a mark
e
. They looked down on the practice, really. Used to think it was a primitive way of finding a mate. Time Lords chose based on which marriage would be most advantageous, politically, economically, or otherwise."
"I knew you were weird, but I never knew you were weird even for your own people." Amy’s tone is light, and it soothes his mind momentarily.
"We never did get along," the Doctor says wryly.
"‘Did?’" Rory swallows. "Why are you using past tense?"
Amy's eyes go wide.
"They're dead. I'm the last one left."
Amy's mouth falls open in horror, and even Rory looks taken aback by the extremeness of it.
The Doctor pauses. “Have I ever told either of you that I was in a war?”
Amy slowly shakes her head, but Rory’s eyes narrow. The Doctor wonders how much of his time as a Centurion has stuck with him. A soldier knows another soldier.
“There was a battle, between the Time Lords of Gallifrey, and the Daleks. In the end, I was— I—“ He fumbles with his words. “I’m the one who ended it. All of it.”
“What do you mean?” Rory asks quietly.
And then the Doctor does something that surprises all of them, especially himself; he tells the truth.
“I killed them.” His voice is flat when he says it aloud. “I killed all the Time Lords and all the Daleks. The battle was spilling into the universe, and the rest of the galaxy was at risk. Both were too powerful, and everyone was going to suffer.”
“Oh, Doctor.” Amy places a hand over his, water on the edges of her eyelids.
He smiles weakly. After confessing to double genocide, the Doctor wasn’t expecting her kind reaction, but she seems to trust in his intention, she believes the best of him.
“After that, I was in a rather bad place. Not only was I the last of my kind, but the one who’d eliminated them was
me.
” He sighs. “The sudden silence almost drove me mad. Time Lords are a very telepathically sensitive race. We were all distantly connected by the communal consciousness. When the war ended— when
I
ended the war— everything was so
quiet
.”
There’s a long pause before the Doctor musters the strength to continue.
“I was a bit of a mess after the war, as you can imagine.” Understatement of his life. “I was prickly, broody, and just
angry
at everything— especially myself.”
“What happened?” Rory urges him along, breaking his mind from the memories.
“I hadn’t travelled with a companion for a long time. Then, when I was on earth, dealing with a Nestene conscious, I ran into a shopgirl. Her name was Rose Tyler.”
“Rose, as in our new neighbor, Rose?” Rory clarifies.
The Doctor nods. “I saved her, she saved me, we saved the world; it was the usual stuff. But I hadn’t done it in so long, and it felt wonderful. After all, it’s better with two. At the end of the day, I asked her to come aboard.” He musters a faint smile. “She said no.”
“She said no?” Amy retorts, unable to keep the look of disbelief from her face.
The Doctor sighs. “I wonder sometimes what would have happened if I had just let her go... but there was something about her. I knew she was important, special. So I left, battered about the universe for six months before I went back and asked again. I never asked twice before her.” He smiled a little more genuine. “I went back to the second I left and told Rose that the TARDIS travels in time too. And she came with me.”
“When did you find out about the mark
e
?” Rory asks.
The Doctor shifts. “This is where things get a bit more complicated. When I met her, I didn’t have a mark
e
.”
“What do you mean? Is this an alien thing?” Amy asks. “Is it to do with Time Lords not having Matches?”
“Yes. Well, sort of.” He pauses. Telling the truth involves much more disclosure and explaining than the Doctor expected, but it’s unpleasantly necessary for this story to make any kind of sense. “I’ve never explained regeneration to you two before, have I?”
“Regeneration?” Rory asks.
“Time Lords have a trick for cheating death; we regenerate every cell in our body, replace it with a whole new one from a different DNA format. Well, the Time Lord equivalent of what you think of as DNA.”
“A different DNA set? But… wouldn’t that mean—“ Rory starts.
“Yes, we change literally everything about ourselves. We become, in effect, completely different people. New body, somewhat new personality—“
“New taste buds,” Amy whispers.
The Doctor smiles. “Precisely.”
She speaks slowly. “That day with fish fingers and custard. You’d just regenerated, didn’t you?”
The Doctor nods. “Barely finished the physical change. Bits of me kept regenerating through the day though. Think I startled you.”
“That really wasn’t the strangest thing you did.” Amy snorts. “I barely noticed.”
“So when you regenerated, you had a mark
e
then?” Rory asks.
“Er, actually, it was the regeneration before this one, but not the first one Rose knew. I’m the third incarnation Rose has met.”
“Wow. You go through bodies that quickly?” Amy asks.
“I had a tougher time keeping alive back then. Rose Tyler is the definition of jeopardy-friendly. I’m doing much better this time around,” the Doctor counters.
“The last version of you, that’s the one who had the mark
e
?”
“When I regenerated, it was just there.” The Doctor pauses. “No Time Lord has ever had a mark
e
before. Never. I was naturally unsettled by it, but even more so when I realized it was a Match for Rose’s.”
“So you hid it?”
The Doctor nods. “I hid it.”
Amy’s expression is complex, and the Doctor distantly wonders what her opinion is on Matches. Does she find them sanctified? Does she think him detestable? The Doctor isn’t really in a position to disagree at this point in his life. Though admittedly, he really was feeling much better about things as of late.
“Is that why you stopped travelling together?” Rory asks.
“Oh no, you’re mistaken if you think I have that much common sense.” The Doctor sighs. “She was trapped in a parallel universe, couldn’t get back.”
“Oh,” Amy utters.
“Did you love her?” Rory asks, startling all of them with the frankness of the question.
Perhaps it’s his old age finally catching up to him, because at this point the Doctor can’t much seem the point of lying anymore.
“Yes.”
“
Do
you love her? Now, I mean,” Amy continues.
“I don’t think I know how not to,” he admits. “I tried to stop. Believe you me, I tried very hard. Seeing her here today…”
His answer seems to satisfy Amy.
Rory isn’t completely sated. “And she loves you?”
“She did once, I don’t know about now.” The Doctor exhales gustily. “I’ve put her through a lot of pain. I wouldn’t be surprised if she no longer does.”
“She said she was married,” Amy says after a moment, biting her lip. “We were having tea before you arrived. Um, apparently she was looking for new scenery after her loss. I’m guessing it was to someone else…”
The Doctor is more than willing to move on from this disturbingly honest talk of emotions. Even though the thought of clone-him and Rose marrying is not entirely enjoyable, it’s preferred, because after all the work she went through, she got her reward, for a moment, at least.
“Yes, speaking of complicated things. I lost my hand when I regenerated once. A friend found it and held onto it. Later I was damaged rather irreparably, but rather than change my body, I funneled the energy into my hand, which my friend finally returned.”
It’s a testament to both Ponds that neither of them ask questions about a single detail of his summary.
“What does this have to do with Rose getting married?” Rory asks.
“I’m relatively certain a clone of myself was the dashing groom,” the Doctor clarifies. Very important clarification in his opinion.
“You have a clone.” Rory deadpans.
“I
had
a clone. I think he died.” The Doctor frowns. “Rose was stranded in an alternative universe, and I left her clone-me to be with. The clone was mostly human, well in all the ways that mattered. He should have been able to grow old with her, and be a proper Match to her. Only later did I learn that he didn’t have the mark
e
. And it seems like he died too, quickly, if I had to guess. I can’t even get a metacrisis clone of myself to work properly.”
“I don’t think he died too soon,” Rory says after a second.
The Doctor’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
Amy continues. “Rose said she lost her husband, but that they’d been together a long time, twenty-years she said.”
“Twenty years?!” The Doctor splutters. “How could you believe that?! She looks barely twenty-five, and that’s pushing it!”
“She could maybe be in her mid-thirties, I don’t know! Good genes and all that. People get married young sometimes, wasn’t my place to judge!” Amy replies.
“She was lying then.”
“Why lie though? What does she have to gain through making her story look less credible?” Rory asks, bewildered.
Maybe if she’s just telling the truth because lying is too painful these days. The Doctor would get that. He’s just reached that point now. He thinks back to the ring he saw, remembers the dents and dings of a marriage spent running, he now imagines.
“Pretending the two of us aren’t barmy for a moment,” Rory says. “What does that mean though, if Rose said she’s been with him for twenty years but doesn’t look over twenty-five?”
The Doctor’s mind reaches a conclusion too good to be true, so he tosses the idea and works on others. Two minutes pass and he’s considered thirty-two different hypotheses, but the first, impossibly, remains the most likely. Holmes unhelpfully springs to mind.
“Doctor?” Amy presses. Apparently, she’s spent enough time with him to recognize when he’s reached a conclusion, especially one he doesn’t like.
“It’s possible that Rose isn’t aging.”
The Ponds blink.
“That’s perfect!” Amy says after a moment.
He gives her a withering glare, which she then returns, full ginger fury.
“Why isn’t it?!” she demands.
“She’s cursed to my life.”
“Yeah, but if you keep each other company…” Rory trails off pointedly.
“Besides, she clearly still cares about you!” Amy says.
The Doctor splutters. “She practically
ran
when she saw me!”
“Yeah, ‘cause she was overwhelmed!” Amy replies. “Having heard the story, I can see why.”
That’s fair, but he’s really trying not to be too hopeful now. Amy isn’t having any of that though.
“Don’t you see?! There is still time to be each other’s Match!” she exclaims.
“No,” the Doctor says firmly. “She probably hates me. And besides, she already married a clone, someone different, physically and in other ways.” Handy was
human.
And how could the Doctor hope to compete with that?
Rory shakes his head. “Don’t throw away a good thing.”
“I’m not throwing anything away,” the Doctor asserts. “I just understand that there are some things that I can’t… If my story with Rose proves anything, it’s that she doesn’t need me in her life.”
Amy’s mouth opens, no doubt to offer more arguments, but Rory cuts through them quietly.
“Ask her. Before you decide to shut her out. Ask her what she thinks.”
Rory can’t know how much those words pain the Doctor. Or maybe he is aware. Maybe he knows the Doctor well enough to know that all the decisions about his and Rose’s relationship have been made by the Doctor alone. It’s a saga of him trying to pull away while helplessly being drawn towards Rose Tyler— mark
e
or no mark
e
. And he doesn’t see it stopping any time soon. Perhaps it’s time to try a different strategy.
And if Rose cusses him out of her house, it’ll be easier to stay away at least.
The Doctor grimaces but heads out the door.
“It’s the house on the left!” Amy eagerly shouts before the door closes.
The Doctor doesn’t need her to tell him that. The pull is alluring in its insistence. He tries not to pay too much attention to the sensation, but it’s hard to say the least. His pace is helplessly quick and excited. His body is honest about his desires, even though the rest of him isn’t.
There’s an awkward moment when he hovers at the door, unwilling to concede the normative gesture of knocking for a meeting he is certain will be anything but. So he leans his head against the wood of the door and calls out to her.
“Rose?”
There’s no way she can’t sense his proximity. She hasn’t tamped down the sensation, he can tell. The Doctor steps back and waits. After a too-long pause, she opens the door.
Her eyes are red and still complicated.
“We should… talk,” he manages after staring at her for a moment.
“I’ll make tea.” She shuffles through the entrance hallway, leaving him to follow after. Rose leads him to a sparsely decorated living room connected to the kitchen. Everything from the pillows to the few decorations is simple and tasteful, nothing like the garish pink she used to love.
Standing there in this foreign space, wearing a different face and Rory’s tee-shirt, it strikes him how far away they are from where they started.
“How do you take it?” Rose asks as the kettle starts heating up.
The fact that she doesn’t know how he takes his tea anymore makes him more weary than hurt. Another day it might’ve been a stab in the chest.
Stranger, how do you take your tea?
It belies all the intimacy they once held, but today nothing is normal, nothing is as it should be, so he tells her the answer simply and takes a seat at a small, circular wooden table with only two chairs.
Something tells him she doesn’t entertain many people here, and it’s even less likely she’s contacted Shareen or Mickey since she’s been back.
Rose sets a mug in front of him, hands tightly gripped around her own, before she takes a seat across from the Doctor.
And to punctuate the insanity of the day, the only thing that comes to his mouth is,
“How’s Jackie?”
She stares at him before speaking. “Did you come up to my house to ask about my mum?”
The Doctor shifts in his chair. “Not especially.”
“Good.” Rose nods. “Because we have too much to get through. My mum can wait.”
He wants to ask if they’ll be addressing things chronologically, alphabetically, or seismically, because they’ll need some kind of organization system to muddle through. Part of him feels the need to ask
how
she’s here, but a larger part simply doesn’t care at the moment.
“How long has it been for you?” Rose asks.
“Over a hundred years.” He keeps an eye on her expression, looking for a tell of her thoughts.
He doesn’t get one. If anything, her expression closes off more.
The Doctor takes a steadying sip of tea before he returns the question. “How long for you?”
“Fifty years.”
Despite the fact it confirms his suspicions, he still can’t help but choke on his tea. His eyes run over her youthful features, the apples of her cheeks and the smoothness of her forehead. Twenty-five is laughably overshot.
“You still look nineteen.”
“Bad Wolf happened when I was nineteen,” she retorts.
“So this whole time…”
“I suppose so.”
“Amy… Amy told me that you were married to Handy.”
“Don’t call him that. He was you, Doctor,” she corrects softly, fondly, sadly. “But we called him James for identification and if we were in public.”
“James.” The Doctor nods.
“We were married five years after you left.” Rose takes a sip of her tea.
“Did I become that patient as a human?” the Doctor wonders.
Rose makes a hapless gesture. “You have a lot of issues, Doctor. As a human, you had more, somehow. James… struggled to adjust. What with being human, and then genocide…”
Right. The Doctor almost forgot that meta-crisis him would’ve been coping with that. Still.
“Five years though?”
“Wanted to be good and ready.” Rose shrugs.
“By that point I must’ve realized that you weren’t aging though,” he notes.
Her lips quirk. “Yeah. We decided to go through with it anyways, despite all your griping.”
“Well, it isn’t exactly enjoyable watching everyone get old,” he defends his other self.
“No,” she says, suddenly solemn. “It isn’t.”
He curses inwardly as he realizes what he’s said. The Doctor honestly forgot for a moment what exactly they were discussing. When was the last time someone had been around long enough for that fact to apply to them? For it to apply to anyone but himself? Centuries, it seems.
“Right, sorry,” he mutters.
“S’okay.” She bites her lip. “It was hard at first, with Mum. But I had you for a while, and then Tony after. Then Tony had children, and a grandchild by the time I left.”
“I’m glad you weren’t alone,” he says honestly.
“Me too.” She drinks more of her tea. “That’s part of why I came back.”
His hearts lurch with a painful amount of hope. Because even if she doesn’t want his love, being
with her
is more than enough to satisfy him.
“For me?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Rose makes a soft sound of irritation, as though she can’t fully believe herself either.
“I thought you might hate me,” he admits. For leaving you on the beach, for getting you into this, for not telling you about the mark
e
, for never giving you those three words—
“I did,” she says bluntly. “After you—
James
died, for about twenty years I stewed and hated you for so many things.”
Though he understands it, the Doctor can’t hide his wince.
“Well,” he hedges, as he takes a long draught of his untouched tea. He hides his face in the mug for a long moment, gaze trained away from her amber eyes.
Part of him is ready to show himself the door and put this meeting behind him, but the other part is doing maths. Because if James died after twenty years of marriage, plus five years of dithering before committing, and then adding twenty years of apparent loathing, their calculation is still five short of her fifty year timeframe. As if to prove his half-hearted hopes, Rose continues, tone much gentler.
“I more-or-less came to terms with it on the twentieth anniversary of his death.” Rose graces him with a half-smile. “Tony asked me if I regretted it, if I would take any of it back. And I still can’t bring myself to say that I would.”
The Doctor’s hearts skip of beat, the words settling in his mind, but not fully sinking in, because it really shouldn’t be possible. He needs more evidence to prove her mad words to himself.
“You still…
care
about me.”
“I don’t know how to not,” she replies.
The Doctor smiles weakly in disbelief. “I said the same to the Ponds.”
Rose laughs, the tone is a little darker than he remembers, but still so warm, and so her. “We’re a pair, the two of us.”
“Most certainly.”
There is a pause, more comfortable than the Doctor could have hoped for, but the sudden silence only draws attention to the connection between them that has been hovering in the background the entire conversation. It’s warm and human in a way the Doctor hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in since he left Rose on that beach with Handy—
James.
“I don’t…” Rose stops herself. “I don’t know what to do with this.” The energy around her seems to twirl with her indecision.
“I admit I’m also at a bit of a loss. But I assumed that was mostly to do with being a Time Lord.”
“What, there isn’t a file on this in the TARDIS?” Rose asks, tone playful. “You told me there was a file on everything.”
He soaks in her levity. “You’re too impossible for all the Time Lords on Gallifrey to predict. So you can hardly blame them for not coming up with a file for Rose Tyler.”
“S’pose not.” There’s a hint of tongue in her smile. It slips after a moment, as she realizes how quickly they fell back into old patterns. Instead of drawing away like the Doctor suspected she might, she instead says, “Though I meant it when I said I can’t not care about you, I’m not sure I
know
you anymore, and you don’t know
me.”
The Doctor dislikes the thought, but sees the truth of it. Thankfully, it has a wonderful solution.
“Don’t suppose you’d fancy seeing the TARDIS again? Maybe visit a few planets,” he suggests.
She smiles, and this time it’s warm, too-wide, and utterly perfect.
“You know,” he prompts after she takes a beat too long to reply. “She travels in time too.”
Rose laughs. “Okay, I’ll come. Just promise me you won’t drop us on an impossible planet on our first trip.”
“The nerve of you, Rose Tyler! That’s the kind of adventure saved for a fourth or fifth trip at least!”
“Can’t wait.”
With the soft glow of the bond, everything… slides into place, forming a picture he never really allowed himself to imagine. Still distant, still a little unfamiliar in some places, but it’s her. And him.
He quite likes what he sees.
+
“I lied about what I said before.”
Rose sips hot cocoa while sitting on the TARDIS stairs that lead to the mainframe. They’ve just wrapped up their third adventure in Barcelona —the planet, not the city— and subsequently prevented a civil war without necessarily trying to.
“What about? Have you been lying about disliking the bow tie? Because I must inform you, Rose Tyler, that bow ties are very cool.” The Doctor twists his arm to aim the sonic screwdriver properly into the TARDIS’ inner workings.
“So you’ve said.” Her lips curl up, but she isn’t distracted. “I meant I lied about not wanting to change anything I’d done with you.”
“Oh?” he asks mildly, like he isn’t dying to know.
“Mmm.”
The Doctor can’t help but pull off his work goggles and moves closer to her.
She takes a sip of cocoa before talking. “I wish I hadn’t been so afraid to pursue you. I wish I’d danced with you more, and teased you more, and been braver about
caring
about you.”
The Doctor fidgets. “I wasn’t really in a place to receive that kind of attention.”
“No, but I still regret it” She pauses for a long moment. “I think I want to try it now, right my regrets and all. But if you still aren’t in a place to get that kind of attention, then I want you to tell me.”
This is decidedly not a question he’d expected to face when he woke up two months ago. It wasn’t even a question he dared entertain after learning about her presence on this side of the parallel worlds. The Doctor can’t treat her query with anything less than total honesty— it’s the least he can do after all she’s been through to get here.
“I’d like to try. I’m not totally sure, but I want to try,” he says.
“I have time to wait until you’re ready— all I have is time.” She shrugs. “I waited five years for you to come to terms last time. So there’s no rush.”
The bond, constant and warm in the background, suddenly springs forth. The Doctor doesn’t know if he or Rose is more surprised that he’s the one who called it forward. Generally it’s Rose who manipulates it, using it to tug on his soul, to direct his awareness, to remind him he’s not alone— This time, it’s all him. He lets it curl around her, trying to solidify his intentions and certainty in her mind. He wants to
try.
She smiles. Despite the still-hard edges of her expression sometimes, it’s as fresh and true as it was when he first met her all those years ago. Rose reaches a hand forward and cups the underside of his jaw. Her thumb strokes over the skin.
“Me too,” she says.
+
The Doctor is pleased to announce that it takes him four years and three months less time than James to come to terms with loving and living with Rose Tyler for their foreseeable future. And their foreseeable future is long and winding.
He’s never thought of eternity with so much fondness before. But then, he never had the assurance of a Match, of
Rose Tyler,
by his side. He tells her so at night as he holds her to his chest, constellations touching each other.
It takes him nine years to stop calling it Rose’s mark
e
. Something he only ends up growing out of after hearing Rose say
our
mark
e
enough times that he grows accustomed to the ring of it, even in his inner monologues.
One-hundred twenty years and four months after that, they marry in Terriplaxus. The Doctor offers to take her to Earth, but Rose tilts her head and smiles and tells him she doesn’t care. She’s not defined by her planet anymore, she says. The Doctor isn’t either, he realizes, and it’s a good thing.
Eleven hundred nine years later, Professor River Song and Rose Tyler meet on an abandoned ice-cream truck in the middle of a Mandaskarian green fire-fight. (Rose wanted to celebrate Christmas.) They two women get along famously.
Three hundred years and a tremulous brush with Certain Death after, Rose rediscovers the constellation on his scalp, hidden by curled, salt and pepper hair.
From that day in the kitchen when they reunited, it takes Rose one thousand five hundred thirty-eight years and eleven months for her to admit that bow ties are indeed cool, and by that point he’s too eyebrowey to care anymore.
He cares about her though. Always. Forever.
The Doctor isn’t worried about how he runs anymore, about his frantic footfalls through the galaxy, because he can always rely on the constellations on their skins to guide him back to her.
Though really, she’s barely ever a stride behind or a step ahead from him ever.
Dots-on-skin, hand-in-hand, stride-by-stride, they race through the galaxy.
They draw lines between the stars until all of it has meaning, each one a step in their story, and all of the universe is
theirs.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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