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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
It had been three days since Shunsui had been away, and Aizen entered the small ramen stand with calm, precise steps, his presence going unnoticed by most of the customers. The atmosphere was exactly as it had been the last time he was here with Shunsui- modest, cozy, the rich scent of broth lingering in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of aged wood.
This time, however, he was alone.
It was a rare moment when he didn’t have to carry Sayuri with him, and though he had grown accustomed to her constant presence, part of him wanted to see how it felt without that new responsibility weighing on his shoulders. He was not a man who avoided his duties, but lately, he had realized that being just himself- without Shunsui, without Sayuri, without the need to maintain his mask at all times- was becoming increasingly rare.
He sat down on one of the stools at the counter, adjusting his yukata with a calculated motion. The stall owner, a middle-aged man with a kind face marked by years of work, recognized him immediately.
"Well, well... If it isn't the young taichō of the Fifth Division." The man smiled, wiping his hands on a cloth before leaning slightly over the counter. "Where's your talkative friend today?"
Aizen kept his expression neutral, but something in his gaze softened slightly. Young taichō- how many times had he heard that? For so long, he had been defined by his position, by his image. But here, in this small and unpretentious place, he was seen not just as a taichō but as someone who had company. As someone normal.
"Shunsui is busy," he replied with his usual politeness, offering no further explanation.
The stall owner nodded in understanding, grabbing a pair of bowls and starting to prepare the order without needing to ask.
"So, it’s just you today. Still, it’s good to see you here. The same as last time?"
Aizen watched the man’s movements for a moment before answering.
"Yes."
The broth began to bubble in one of the pots, its familiar scent intensifying. He kept his gaze fixed on the man’s careful work, but his mind wasn’t truly present. It was curious- last time he was here, he had been focused on Shunsui, on his gestures, his ever-lighthearted tone, the way he made the space around him feel more relaxed. Now, alone, the place felt different. Not bad, not uncomfortable- just different.
As he waited, he caught the faint sound of laughter from a nearby table. Two young shinigami sat together, exchanging jokes and comments about their daily routines. Aizen didn’t turn to look at them, but the sound stirred something unfamiliar in him. This was a simple, unassuming place where people came to eat, talk, exist.
How many times had he allowed himself something like this before?
The soft rustle of the noren at the entrance drew his attention. His instincts, though slightly slow, alerted him before his mind fully registered the presence approaching. He felt it-
"Well," a smooth, lazy voice sounded beside him, casual as always. "Do you come here often?"
Aizen’s breath hitched for just a fraction of a second, a reaction so minute that only someone truly observant would have caught it.
Shunsui.
He had returned.
"I would have remembered if I'd seen someone this beautiful here before," Shunsui continued, leaning in slightly, as if seeing him for the first time.
Aizen blinked, his mind taking a fraction of a second longer to process what was happening. Shunsui's presence was something he had missed more than he cared to admit, like an empty space suddenly filled without warning. He couldn't quite decide if his reaction was relief, irritation, or something in between- perhaps all of it at once.
His posture remained impeccable, but when he turned to face Shunsui, his gaze carried a quiet weight, something only that man would be able to read.
"So? Do you come here often?" Shunsui repeated, propping his elbow on the counter and turning to Aizen with an amused look. His voice carried that familiar, relaxed charm, as if they were strangers engaged in casual flirtation.
Aizen blinked, momentarily thrown by the approach, but he quickly caught on to the game. His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk threatening the corners of his lips. "Sometimes," he answered smoothly, playing along. "But I usually prefer quieter places."
"Ah," Shunsui feigned exaggerated surprise. "Then I’m lucky to find you here today." He leaned in just a bit, as if trying to create an air of intimacy. "Can I get your name, or is that one of those mysteries a man has to unravel with time and patience?"
Aizen turned his head slightly to look at him, studying each movement. If Shunsui was willing to play, then so was he. "Sousuke," he said, his voice low but controlled, carrying a formality that sharply contrasted with Shunsui’s easygoing tone. "Aizen Sousuke."
Shunsui grinned widely, as if savoring the answer. "Aizen Sousuke," he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue like something precious. "Such an elegant name for someone so..."
He paused deliberately, pretending to search for the right word. "Impressive."
"Impressive?" Aizen arched an eyebrow. "You don’t even know me. How can you say that?"
"Oh, but I’m a good observer," Shunsui responded without missing a beat, gesturing lightly with his hand. "The way you sit, the way you hold yourself, even how you answered my question. All of that says more than words, Sousuke-san."
Aizen leaned forward slightly, the ghost of a smile finally appearing on his lips. "And what exactly does that say about me?"
"It says you're someone who thinks far more than you acts, someone who doesn’t waste time on trivialities," Shunsui said, crossing his arms over the counter while watching him with eyes bright with amusement. "Someone who is, without a doubt, hard to impress."
Aizen let out a quiet sound that could have been a suppressed laugh. "And you think you can impress me?"
"Well," Shunsui said, leaning back slightly but never breaking eye contact, "I think it's worth a try, don’t you? After all, I’m still here, and you haven’t sent me away."
"Maybe I’m just curious," Aizen replied with calculated ease. "Curious to see how far you’ll take this."
Shunsui smiled again, leaning just a little closer, closing the distance between them. "Then, Sousuke-san, how about giving me a chance to impress you? We could start with a simple lunch. And who knows- after that, you might decide whether you want to see me again."
Aizen shook his head slightly, but his gaze was softer than before, clearly entertained by Shunsui’s ridiculous game more than he wanted to admit. "You are incorrigible," he finally said, though there was no reprimand in his tone.
"I’ll take that as a 'yes'," Shunsui replied, calling over the stall owner to order. As they placed their orders, Aizen realized that, despite the absurdity of it all, the lunch was becoming something even more enjoyable. Shunsui always had a way of turning ordinary moments into something memorable.
Shunsui took his time selecting the house special, a bowl filled with more ingredients than he would likely have time to finish. Still, to him, that was part of the experience. Aizen, on the other hand, had already placed his order, waiting in his usual composed manner as Shunsui continued his playful act, never losing that easygoing smile.
"So, Sousuke-san," he began, resting his chin on his hand as he observed Aizen with an expression that carried a hint of mischief. "What does a man as... intriguing as you do for a living?"
Aizen let out a quiet breath, but there was the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. "I work for the Gotei 13," he replied, his voice calm and measured. "What about you?"
Shunsui's smile widened. "Ah, what a coincidence. I also work for the Gotei. But I don’t think I’ve seen you before… perhaps because you’re the type who prefers to keep your head down, focused on work, while I… enjoy wandering off the beaten path."
"That is not something I would take pride in," Aizen remarked, raising an eyebrow slightly. "It makes you seem careless in your duties."
Shunsui chuckled, a warm sound that resonated through the small ramen stall. "Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, Sousuke-san. I take my duties very seriously. I just don’t see the harm in finding a little joy in the middle of them."
Aizen tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating the statement. "An interesting perspective," he admitted, though his tone left it unclear whether it was a compliment or simply a neutral observation.
Before Shunsui could reply, their ramen arrived. The rich, comforting aroma filled the air, and Shunsui leaned over his bowl, inhaling deeply. "Ah, this smells amazing. Excellent choice, wouldn’t you say?"
Aizen simply nodded, picking up his chopsticks and beginning to eat with his usual precision- his movements deliberate, controlled. Shunsui, in contrast, dove in with enthusiasm, savoring every bite as though it were a rare delicacy.
"Even the way you eat is meticulous," Shunsui observed between mouthfuls, his gaze lingering on Aizen with open curiosity. "Let me guess, Sousuke-san: you never spill a single drop of broth, not even by accident."
"I prefer to keep things orderly," Aizen replied simply, picking up a slice of meat with his chopsticks. "There is no need to create unnecessary work."
"That says a lot about you," Shunsui mused, leaning back slightly while holding his chopsticks loosely. "You like to be in control, to ensure that nothing is out of place."
"Is that a problem?" Aizen asked, lifting his gaze from the bowl to meet Shunsui’s.
"Not at all," Shunsui replied, smiling. "In fact, I find it fascinating. Because while you sit here, perfectly composed and in control, I’m sitting right beside you being the complete opposite. And somehow, that seems to work."
Aizen remained silent for a moment, as if considering the words. He took another bite, chewing slowly, before finally responding. "Perhaps because opposites balance each other."
Shunsui blinked in brief surprise, then his smile widened. "Perhaps," he said, returning to his food. "But you know, Sousuke, the more time I spend with you, the more I realize that, despite being opposites, we have more in common than you might admit."
"Such as?" Aizen asked, his eyebrow lifting slightly.
"Ah, that," Shunsui said, leaning forward slightly, as if to create suspense. "You’ll have to figure out on your own. It would be too easy if I told you everything now."
Aizen did not reply, but there was something in his gaze- a flicker of curiosity and amusement- that suggested he was, deep down, enjoying the exchange.
"Tell me," Shunsui began, leaning back against the seat, resting his elbow on the table as he watched Aizen with a smile that could only be described as challenging. He drew out the words on purpose, savoring the moment. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
Aizen paused, chopsticks hovering midair, his eyes slowly lifting from his bowl to meet Shunsui’s. The question hung between them for a moment, as if he were debating whether to acknowledge it. Finally, he placed his chopsticks neatly on the edge of his bowl, clasped his hands together on the table, and regarded Shunsui with his usual impeccable composure.
"Is that relevant to you?" he asked, his voice low and measured, carrying the faintest trace of provocation that only someone like Shunsui would catch.
"Extremely," Shunsui answered without hesitation, leaning in just slightly. "I like to know if I’m competing for your time… or your attention."
"Competing?" Aizen echoed, one brow arching in a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "You seem far too confident to assume you’d have competition."
Shunsui grinned, tapping his chopsticks lightly against his bowl. "Ah, but a confident man knows that sometimes, the challenge is what makes the victory all the sweeter."
Aizen exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, yet there was something at the corners of his mouth that suggested he was enjoying this more than he cared to admit. He glanced at his ramen briefly before responding. "If I had a boyfriend, do you think I would be here with you?"
Shunsui pretended to consider the answer, bringing his chopsticks to his lips as though it were a deep philosophical dilemma. "Hm… maybe," he said, his tone playful but tinged with that effortless charm he wielded so well. "Maybe you’re the type who likes to keep your options open."
Aizen studied him for a moment, his caramel-brown eyes tracing over Shunsui’s face as if calculating the most appropriate response. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying its usual measured certainty. "I am not the type to waste time on… indecision."
"So that’s a no," Shunsui declared triumphantly, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Aizen with a satisfied smile. "No boyfriend. Good to know."
"I never said that," Aizen countered, his voice composed as he picked up his chopsticks once more, effectively ending the discussion.
Shunsui chuckled softly, clearly entertained by how Aizen was handling the situation. "Well, if it’s not a no… then maybe," he mused, leaning in slightly, his gaze playful but carrying something deeper beneath the surface. "Sousuke, you always know how to keep a man curious."
Aizen merely cast a brief glance at him, refraining from answering directly. "I have a daughter," he said suddenly, his voice low but firm, cutting through the relaxed flow of the conversation. He did not look away from Shunsui, who paused mid-bite and lifted his gaze to meet Aizen’s. "It is significant information."
Shunsui's smile widened further, and he leaned back slightly on the bench, setting his chopsticks down on the table. "Ah, so you’re a devoted father," he said, his tone a mix of sincerity and playfulness. "That only makes you even more interesting, Sousuke-san."
Aizen remained still, his gaze fixed on Shunsui, as if assessing his reaction. "Does that trouble you?" he asked, his voice quieter, but carrying a trace of genuine curiosity.
"Trouble me?" Shunsui repeated, leaning forward again and resting his elbows on the table. "Not in the slightest. If anything, it’s admirable." He paused, studying Aizen’s expression. "And, if I may say so, it only reinforces what I said before. You are someone who knows how to care, Sousuke. That is something I respect."
Aizen furrowed his brows slightly, as if processing the words. He expected nothing less from Shunsui, of course, but hearing it spoken so directly still caught him off guard. "It is a responsibility," he finally responded, his gaze shifting momentarily. "One that I do not take lightly."
"Nor should you," Shunsui agreed, his tone now more serious. "But you are fortunate, you know? Not everyone manages to balance such a demanding life with the dedication required to be a parent. And you seem to do it remarkably well."
"I do what is necessary," Aizen stated, his voice calm but laden with meaning. "And Sayuri is… a priority to me. Always."
"Sayuri, huh?" Shunsui echoed, repeating the name as if savoring the sound, as if it were the first time he had heard it. "A beautiful name. And I am certain she is just as remarkable as her father."
Aizen raised an eyebrow but did not respond immediately. Shunsui had a way of making him feel self-conscious. Finally, he murmured, "She is… special."
"I have no doubt about that," Shunsui said, his smile returning as he picked up his chopsticks again. "But now you’ve made me curious, Sousuke. You handle everything with such precision and perfection… do you also cook for her?"
"When necessary," Aizen answered, the formality returning to his voice. "But I prefer to entrust that task to someone who can dedicate more time to it."
"Ah, so you are more of the organizer and overseer," Shunsui teased, taking a small bite of his ramen. "That makes sense. But, Sousuke, just so you know… I cook. Occasionally. Should you ever require assistance."
Aizen shook his head slightly, a quiet sigh escaping him. "You always find a way to insert unnecessary remarks, do you not?"
"It’s part of my charm," Shunsui replied with a playful grin. "And, evidently, it works, because I am still sitting here with you."
They finished their ramen in a companionable silence, the air filled with the soft hum of conversations from other patrons and the gentle clinking of bowls being placed on the counter. Shunsui wiped his lips with a napkin, throwing a knowing glance at Aizen, who was calmly arranging his chopsticks atop his empty bowl. He did not appear to be in a hurry, yet there was something in his posture that suggested he was already preparing for his next engagement.
"Shall I walk you home?" Shunsui asked, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Aizen with that ever-present smile.
Aizen lifted his gaze slowly, as if contemplating the offer for a brief moment before answering. "That would be acceptable," he said, his voice calm, though there was a note of quiet acceptance beneath it.
"Excellent," Shunsui said, rising to his feet and adjusting his haori with a casual motion. Aizen followed suit, smoothing the fabric of his yukata until it was perfectly aligned. Once they were ready to leave, Shunsui spoke again, his usual playful tone returning. "And where exactly do you live, Sousuke-san?"
"The Eighth Division," Aizen answered, as directly as possible, without a hint of hesitation.
Shunsui paused, blinking once as if caught off guard, though his reaction was clearly exaggerated. "Oh," he said, a slow smile forming on his lips. "What a coincidence. I live there too." He tilted his head slightly, feigning deep thought. "Could it be that we are… neighbors?"
Aizen, who had maintained a neutral expression up until then, could not entirely suppress the small smile that threatened to appear. "Perhaps," he said, his tone deliberately dry, yet lacking its usual rigidity.
Shunsui’s grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. He took a step back, holding open the stall’s door and gesturing for Aizen to exit first. "In that case, I suppose it will be a pleasure to find out just how close we live."
"Do not get ahead of yourself," Aizen remarked as he stepped outside, though there was something in his expression, something in the way the corners of his mouth barely lifted, that suggested he was not entirely averse to the notion.
They walked toward the Eighth Division together, their conversation flowing with the same balance of formality and amusement that had shaped the evening. The night air was cool, carrying with it the distant sounds of the Seireitei winding down. Aizen kept his pace steady, while Shunsui, hands tucked into his sleeves, glanced at him from time to time with that knowing smirk.
"You are always so formal, Sousuke-san," Shunsui remarked as they walked. "Or is that merely to maintain an air of mystery?"
"Perhaps I simply prefer not to reveal everything at once," Aizen responded, casting him a sidelong glance. "Some things are better discovered over time."
"Ah, so you enjoy keeping a man curious," Shunsui said, leaning in just slightly as they continued their path. "I like that. It suits your charm."
"Charm is not something I seek," Aizen countered, though his tone was softer than his words implied. He looked briefly at Shunsui, who was clearly enjoying himself. "You, on the other hand, seem to delight in testing boundaries."
"Perhaps," Shunsui admitted, shrugging. "But, from what I can tell, you are the type who knows exactly how far you will allow someone to go. And honestly, I find that fascinating."
Aizen did not respond immediately, maintaining their pace as they neared the Eighth Division. He knew that Shunsui was fully indulging in the role of a persistent suitor, but there was something about the ease of their exchange that he could not deny was… pleasant. As they reached the division grounds, Aizen finally spoke.
"We are almost there," he said, looking ahead.
"Almost home, you mean," Shunsui added, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at Aizen. "I can’t wait to see where you live, Sousuke-san. I bet it’s just as impeccable as you."
"You might be surprised," Aizen replied, his voice carrying an almost enigmatic tone. He maintained his composure until the very last moment. Standing at his doorstep, he was already beginning to bid farewell, prepared to bring this absurd roleplay to an end. The words were forming on his lips with his usual serenity. But then-
His mouth was claimed.
Without warning, without hesitation, with force.
The firm heat of Shunsui’s lips met his before he could even finish his sentence, and in an instant, he felt the impact against the wooden entrance. Shunsui’s strong hands gripped his shoulders, pushing him inside his own home, breaking through any resistance Aizen might have pretended to offer.
The world seemed to tilt for a second, and then the door shut behind them.
"I missed you so much, kitty," Shunsui murmured against his lips, his voice rough, thick with that unmistakable tone of someone returning home.
Aizen blinked slowly, tasting the ramen on Shunsui’s lips, mingling with the heat of his breath. He could stop it- but, of course, he didn’t. He could protest- but instead, his hands slid up to Shunsui’s chest, feeling the familiar warmth beneath the layers of fabric.
"I don’t usually sleep with someone on the first date," he murmured, still teasing, his half-lidded eyes controlled, but the glint in them betraying his performance.
Shunsui smiled against his mouth, his lips brushing lazily before biting down on his lower lip.
"Well, good thing this isn’t our first date," he said, pressing Aizen further inside, his body flush against his, leaving no room for escape.
Aizen didn’t step back, merely tilting his head slightly, allowing Shunsui to lead him with that infuriatingly natural authority.
"Ah," Aizen exhaled, almost as if contemplating. "So, you already know me?"
Shunsui’s hand slid to his waist, fingers squeezing lightly.
"More than anyone else," he murmured against his skin, pressing a kiss into the curve of his neck.
Aizen closed his eyes for a brief second. The role he played blurred into reality in a way almost indistinguishable- but perhaps that was the point.
"Then I suppose I need not worry about defending myself against such an ambush," he said, his tone deliberately neutral, though the way his hands now gripped Shunsui’s shihakusho betrayed any intention of pushing him away.
Shunsui chuckled, a low, satisfied sound, as if he were exactly where he wanted to be.
"Don’t even try, kitty," Shunsui responded. "You already belong to me." He finished, pressing Aizen even harder against the wall, his movements now free of any feigned gentleness. The cold wood contrasted sharply with the burning heat of Shunsui’s body against his, and then Aizen felt it- the teeth, the lips, the hot breath dragging along his neck as Shunsui devoured him with no restraint.
He wanted to leave a mark.
Every bite, every kiss had intent, every touch carried that blatant possessiveness, that undeniable need to claim him over and over, as if ensuring that no one else would ever dare to imagine touching him.
Aizen felt the shiver run down his spine, his skin reacting to the intensity of it all.
"You’re starving," he murmured, his voice low and drawn out, the words barely slipping between one breath and the next.
Shunsui laughed against his skin but did not stop.
Aizen parted his lips slightly, his eyelids heavy as he felt the weight of Shunsui’s embrace, the way he held him, surrounded him, took him in completely. He could have pushed him away, could have demanded more control over the situation- but he didn’t.
Instead, he simply pulled Shunsui closer.
And allowed himself to be treated like this.
Three days had passed, but it felt like an eternity.
Shunsui tightened his grip on his waist, pulling him even closer, his lips trailing up from his neck to his jawline, lingering there before whispering against his skin:
"Three days felt like three weeks."
He took a deep breath, his fingers threading through Aizen’s hair, holding him with a firm touch, as if unwilling to ever let go.
"Every hour away from you feels like this."
Aizen closed his eyes, feeling the weight of those words seep into his mind, sinking as deep as the possessive grip around his body. He inhaled slowly, taking in Shunsui’s familiar scent- the woody notes, the faint hint of sake, the unmistakable warmth, and-
And Shunsui’s hands moved to Aizen’s obi, his skilled fingers undoing the knots with the same effortless ease with which he dismantled any resistance. The fabric yielded under his touch, falling away gradually as he kept his gaze locked onto Aizen’s, capturing every flicker of reaction.
"If I could," he murmured, his voice carrying a tenderness that contrasted with the deliberate precision of his hands, "I would stay with you every hour of the day, love."
Aizen felt the knots loosen, felt the warmth of Shunsui’s words merging with the heat of his own body. His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm, but he knew- he knew Shunsui noticed the slight tremor in his breath, knew that this man understood better than anyone exactly how to unravel him.
He tilted his head back slightly as he felt Shunsui’s fingers slip beneath the now-loose fabric of his clothing, his eyes half-lidded, an unreadable glint flickering in them.
"That sounds like an exaggeration," he murmured, his tone smooth, but laden with that cold, meticulously calculated provocation.
Shunsui smiled against his skin, his lips brushing over his collarbone before biting lightly, just enough to draw a sharp inhale from Aizen.
"It’s not an exaggeration," he answered, his voice low and intimate. "It’s the truth."
The obi slipped from Shunsui’s fingers, landing silently on the wooden floor.
"If it were up to me," he continued, gripping Aizen’s waist and pulling him even closer, "there wouldn’t be a single second of the day where I wasn’t by your side."
Aizen remained silent for a moment, his breath mingling with Shunsui’s, fingers curling slightly against the broad shoulders beneath his hands.
Shunsui pulled Aizen firmly by the waist, fingers sliding lazily over the now-loose fabric of his shihakushō, warmth radiating beneath his touch. His smile was languid, but his eyes held an undeniable intent, his voice low and laced with playful desire.
"Where do you want it, love?" he murmured against Aizen’s skin, pressing a slow kiss into the curve of his neck. "It can be anywhere. The wall, right here by the door, the futon, the bath- "
"Futon," Aizen interrupted, his brow slightly furrowing, his gaze sharp but devoid of any true reprimand.
Shunsui laughed, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he pulled Aizen even closer.
"Futon, then," he repeated, his voice dragging over the word as if savoring it.
He traced a hand down the curve of Aizen’s spine, squeezing lightly before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.
"But you know we’ll end up trying the other places too, don’t you?"
Aizen raised an eyebrow, his expression impassive- though the faint glint in his eyes betrayed the feigned annoyance.
"You talk too much." Aizen murmured, leaning in without hesitation. He wanted contact. And he felt no shame in admitting it.
There had been a time when he would have suppressed this desire, convinced himself that such need was beneath him, a weakness to be eradicated. But not now. Not anymore. He missed Shunsui. Not just his presence, but the warmth of his touch, the weight of his arms around him, the way he held him unhurriedly, as if they had all the time in the world.
Shunsui seemed to understand even before Aizen spoke. Between one kiss and the next, his hands moved with the ease of someone who already knew every inch of the body beneath him. He guided Aizen through the space effortlessly, their lips never parting for too long, the heat between them consuming the room.
Aizen did not question it. Did not resist. He simply allowed himself to be led, consciousness drowning in the rhythm of deepening kisses.
Shunsui slid a hand to the base of Aizen’s spine, pulling him closer before guiding him smoothly to the futon.
When Aizen felt the soft fabric beneath him, his fingers curled around Shunsui’s robes, holding him in place.
Shunsui leaned over him, his lips trailing slowly along Aizen’s collarbone before following a deliberate path downward. His breath was warm against exposed skin, his kisses a mixture of reverence and desire.
He stopped when he reached the burn scar on Aizen’s chest, the skin still slightly reddened where there had once been only pain and raw flesh. Now, it had healed significantly, and soon it would be gone- the passage of time and careful treatment erasing the last traces of past suffering.
But Shunsui did not ignore the mark.
He kissed it with the same patience he used on every other part of Aizen’s body, as if silently declaring that it did not matter how the skin had been marked- it was still his.
Aizen watched, eyes half-lidded, feeling the warmth of Shunsui’s lips contrast with the cool night air filtering through the gaps in the window.
And then he noticed the subtle movement.
Shunsui’s hand slipped into the sleeve of his shihakushō, fingers searching with the familiarity of someone who already knew exactly what he was looking for.
Oil.
Aizen couldn’t help the faint lift of an eyebrow as he adjusted himself on the futon, fingers grazing the soft fabric beneath him.
"You came prepared," he murmured, his voice calm but tinged with something unreadable- not quite surprise, merely a dry acknowledgment of the obvious.
"I always do, love." Shunsui replied, fingers gliding over the now-loose fabric of Aizen’s hakama, gripping firmly before beginning to pull it down, baring him inch by inch. His movements were unhurried, not out of hesitation, but because he intended to savor every detail, every reaction Aizen gave him.
Aizen, for his part, did not resist. Quite the opposite. When he felt the tug, he lifted his hips naturally, making it easier for Shunsui, allowing the fabric to be removed without interruption.
Shunsui let out a low, throaty chuckle, his voice heavy with lazy satisfaction.
"You’re being… very cooperative," he murmured, dark eyes gleaming with that ever-present amusement that always seemed to linger in his voice.
Aizen did not respond.
Shunsui leaned over him again, his body covering Aizen’s with a slow, encompassing warmth, though he took his time. First, he kissed Aizen’s forehead- a gesture of tenderness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment. His lips lingered there for an instant, as if wanting to mark Aizen in a way deeper than any bite.
Then, he found his mouth again. The kiss started slow, a firm but unhurried pressure- a silent promise that he was there, that there was no need to rush. His fingers slid smoothly along Aizen’s sides, tracing invisible lines over bare skin with careful, deliberate touches.
His movements were slow and intentional. He knew Aizen, understood that beneath his apparent tranquility, tension lay coiled- tension stored, contained, always locked under absolute control. But now, Shunsui wanted him to simply feel.
His fingers moved to Aizen’s thighs, massaging the soft skin there, applying gentle pressure with his fingertips. Every touch was precise but never rushed- meant only to relax him, to loosen any lingering rigidity.
He felt it when Sousuke exhaled slowly, the rhythm of his breathing evening out. It was not surrender, but it was acceptance.
Shunsui continued, his hands gliding over his lover’s skin, each touch slow and rhythmic, exploring every inch with patience and precision. He could have skipped this part, could have moved forward knowing that Sousuke was already relaxed enough. But he did not want to.
Not with Sousuke.
A more relaxed Sousuke was a Sousuke who yielded more- and that was precisely what Shunsui wanted.
His thumbs pressed lightly into the firm muscles of Aizen’s thighs, kneading with careful strokes, savoring every subtle response, every quiet breath, each minimal movement that signaled Aizen was giving in just a little more.
Shunsui smiled against his skin, pleased.
"How about you turn over, love?" he murmured, his voice low, roughened by something undeniably seductive. "I could give you a full massage… and I know you love that."
His fingers slid slowly up, tracing Aizen’s waist with light, circular touches.
He wanted Aizen to relax completely. To just feel.
And more than anything, he wanted him to want to surrender.
Aizen turned over without protest, moving with that innate elegance that never left him, even in moments like these. His body shifted smoothly against the futon, the fabric beneath him crinkling softly as he settled onto his stomach, arms resting loosely beside his face. He let out a quiet sigh- not just of exhaustion, but of something more subtle. Acceptance, perhaps.
Shunsui watched for a moment, appreciating the rare privilege of seeing him like this. Aizen rarely let his guard down for anyone. But now, here, he was offering himself to Shunsui’s hands, breathing in slow, measured intervals, allowing himself to relax beneath his touch.
Shunsui reached for the small jar of oil beside him again, twisting the lid open with a soft pop. The warm, faintly sweet, woody scent filled the air, blending with the familiar smell of their room and the heat of Aizen’s skin. He poured a small amount into his palms, rubbing them together to warm the oil before pressing them gently against the expanse of exposed skin before him.
His hands moved over Aizen’s back, mapping out the shape of his muscles with careful precision. He did not apply pressure immediately, only familiarized himself with every contour, every lingering tension.
Aizen’s skin was beautiful.
Even with the faint scars that marked his body, it remained pristine beneath the dim light. He had marks, yes, but they were minimal, almost discreet- small traces of the past that were rarely exposed. Shunsui traced one of them with his fingers, feeling the subtle shift in texture, pressing a kiss to it with an absent-minded tenderness.
But what always fascinated him most were the freckles.
Scattered in irregular patterns, stretching from his shoulders down the line of his spine. As if they had been placed there deliberately, dotting his fair skin with an unexpected detail, hidden from most eyes.
Shunsui smiled, dragging his fingertips over them before sliding his hands up to Aizen’s shoulders, applying gentle pressure, beginning to massage them with slow precision.
"You are a masterpiece, you know that?" he murmured, his voice low, tinged with something close to genuine admiration.
Aizen, eyes closed, released a sound that did not quite form a verbal response- a quiet breath, a controlled exhale, but for Shunsui, it spoke volumes.
He continued.
His thumbs moved along Aizen’s spine, pressing into the spots where he knew tension gathered, dissolving it with practiced strokes. The oil made his hands glide effortlessly, allowing him to follow every curve of Aizen’s back without pause.
And as he worked, as he felt Aizen relaxing more and more beneath his touch, Shunsui knew- knew that this moment mattered just as much as anything that would follow.
He wanted more than just desire.
He wanted Aizen to allow himself to feel.
And judging by the way Aizen breathed beneath his hands, he knew he was succeeding.
His movements remained slow, methodical, thumbs pressing gently into the firm muscles of Aizen’s back, gliding over the warm oil that made every touch more fluid. He knew exactly how to ease the tension from him, how to undo every tightness. He felt the heat beneath his palms, the way Aizen yielded under his hands, and-
And then… he noticed something.
Aizen’s breathing pattern had changed.
Earlier, there had still been a trace of awareness in him, that faint edge of consciousness keeping him subtly alert. But now… now it was different.
His breath had deepened. Slowed.
Shunsui paused, eyes widening slightly as he leaned in to observe more closely.
His kitty…
Had he fallen asleep?
Shunsui blinked, utterly dumbfounded.
He sat in silence for a few seconds, waiting- perhaps it was only a deep state of relaxation, perhaps Aizen would open his eyes at any moment and offer some cutting remark about how Shunsui was wasting time on unnecessary indulgences.
But nothing happened.
Nothing except the steady rhythm of Aizen’s breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, completely surrendered to sleep.
Shunsui groaned, tilting his head back in a mixture of frustration and complete resignation.
"Ahhh…
Seriously?
" he muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled a long sigh.
He looked back down at Aizen, who remained there, sound asleep, utterly unaware of the
tragedy
that had just unfolded.
Shunsui crossed his arms, contemplating the sight before him.
He could wake him. Could lean down, whisper something provocative in his ear, nip at his neck, press his body flush against his and see if he could turn things around…
But then, Aizen’s jaw moved slightly, his breath releasing a quiet, contented sigh.
And Shunsui knew he was not going to do anything.
He just chuckled, shaking his head, then ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the ceiling as if hoping some divine force would grant him the patience to accept his fate.
"I spend three days away," he murmured, reaching for a cloth nearby to wipe the excess oil from his hands. "Three days away from this man…"
He looked at Aizen again and sighed, throwing himself onto the futon beside him, one hand lazily sliding through Aizen’s brown hair.
"...And he falls asleep in the middle of this."
Shunsui let out another low, resigned chuckle before leaning in to place a light kiss on the top of Aizen’s head.
"Good night, kitty," he whispered against his hair. Then, he lay there for a while, simply watching Aizen’s steady breathing, listening to the quiet rhythm, feeling the warmth of his body so close. The scent of oil still lingered in the air, a fragrance he had come to know so well.
He sighed softly, closing his eyes for a moment.
It was fine.
He knew Aizen had not been sleeping properly during the three days he had been away.
Even if Aizen never admitted it, never complained, never let it show in words, Shunsui knew the signs. The slightly wearier eyes, the way he maintained his impeccable posture but carried a different tension in his shoulders- small details that most would overlook, but for him, they were impossible to ignore.
Aizen carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
And now, he was here, asleep beneath his hands, completely at ease.
That meant something.
Shunsui ran his fingers slowly through the soft waves of Aizen’s hair, brushing aside a strand that had fallen over his face.
Maybe he had returned home with entirely different expectations for the night. Maybe he had wanted Aizen in a more urgent, more intense way.
But now, seeing him like this…
He wanted nothing else.
Just the certainty that Aizen was safe, comfortable, resting at his side without the need for any mask, any barrier- that was enough.
Shunsui was just about to accept the fate of the night-
And then, a thought struck him like lightning.
Wait…
Where the hell was Sayuri?
If Aizen had been alone at the restaurant when he arrived, then he must have left her with someone. And now he was here, asleep, completely out of commission, showing no signs that he intended to wake up anytime soon.
Shunsui groaned again, covering his eyes with one hand.
Why does everything have to be like this?
He just wanted to accept what had happened and fall asleep with Aizen in his arms, but now he had to figure out where their daughter was.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to move, carefully pulling away from Aizen so as not to wake him. Even in sleep, Aizen did not stir- which only reinforced Shunsui’s theory that he was utterly exhausted.
Shunsui sat up, rubbing his face before sighing and looking around the room. No note, no visible clue.
He leaned down again, touching Aizen’s shoulder lightly.
"Sousuke," he called in a low voice.
Nothing.
He pressed a little more firmly.
"Love, where is Sayuri?"
Aizen only mumbled something unintelligible and turned his face slightly to the side, sinking deeper into the futon.
Shunsui groaned again, this time louder, throwing his head back in surrender.
He love this man.
But sometimes- sometimes- Aizen made things as difficult as humanly possible.
Now, he would have to handle this alone.
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
WYD?
Ichigo stared at the text on his phone, probably looking like some form of idiot with his mouth open and lollipop just out of reach from it with no movement made to bring it closer. He furrowed his brows and read the three letters all over again, which took less than a millisecond. The absolute gall of that man.
“Well. He’s alive.” It was the first and only thing that came to mind to say. He raised his shoulders a bit as if to say ‘
what do you know
’ and read the text again. Three months of radio silence since the last nude and now he sent that?
“What? Who is?” Tatsuki asked. Only clocking now that Ichigo had gotten distracted from their conversation and lost track of it completely. “What happened? Is everyone okay? Who is alive?” She barraged him with questions. It only occurred to Ichigo now that the way he had said it had made it sound like one of their friends had gotten in an accident and managed to survive, which was not the case.
“No one. Grimm.” Ichigo gave her a contradicting response and popped the lollipop into his mouth so he could have both of his hands when he typed his reply to Grimmjow. “He’s out of deployment.” Tatsuki groaned, slapping her hand to her forehead and then being the nosy friend that she was, leaned against Ichigo and peeked down at his screen. Ichigo paused his reply.
“You can tell he’s back from just
that
?” She asked while scrunching her nose. Ichigo nodded and decided not to go into detail of how Grimmjow only texted that when he was out looking for one thing. Which meant that he was back from deployment and in the city again. He continued typing his response “
Ichigo no,
” Tatsuki whined when she saw it.
You, hopefully
“What?” Ichigo raised his shoulders again in defence, grinning at her because he very well knew what her objection was to that response. A tale as old as time where she said that he could do so much better and that Grimmjow was a prick, to which he responded with that they had great sex and yes Grimmjow was a prick at times but that was the good thing about him being in the military, he was gone so often they didn’t have ‘as’ much time to bicker and fight.
Besides, she ought to be happy, Ichigo thought. They weren’t dating after all. They just had their little arrangement that had worked for them for the last six or so years.
“You know what I’m about to say, I can tell by that look in your face.” Tatsuki gave him a warning finger. Or was it a threatening one? In her case it was usually the same.
“So don’t say it.” Ichigo didn’t bother locking his phone. The only time one could be certain that Grimmjow would answer texts quickly was when he sent booty texts. He usually had his phone in his hand when he fired them off and waited for a response. It might be a result of Ichigo always responding directly, but he tried not to think about that too much.
Sure enough, Grimmjow responded almost instantaneously. Ichigo heard a little pop coming from his phone and saw that a new text bubble had appeared.
7, bring lube
Ichigo didn’t bother responding to that text and locked his phone. There was no need to, it would just be wasted communication between the pair of them. They had already settled everything that they needed to know for a hook up. Things couldn’t be any simpler. Ichigo pressed the lock button on his phone once more and checked the time. It was now six thirty in the evening. If he left within five minutes he should be at Grimmjow’s apartment at seven exactly.
“Alright, you got to go.” Ichigo got up from the couch and went to his bedroom in search of his backpack.
“What?! Are you for real?! We’re hanging out and you’re ditching me for a fuck?” Tatsuki called out to him. Ichigo could hear movement in his living room and before he knew it Tatsuki was standing in the doorway to his bedroom and narrowed her eyes. “
Whore.
”
“Okay first of all.” Ichigo shoved a clean t-shirt in his bag. “You crashed my place unannounced so that gives me every right to kick you out to go and chase some dick. And second of all. I’m not actually going to let him fuck me he gave me thirty minutes notice! If he had texted me at twelve or something that would have been a different tale.”
“So why are you packing clothes and the lube then if you’re not gonna let him fuck you?” Tatsuki stuck out her tongue to Ichigo, who zipped up his bag and came over to her. He swung his bag over his shoulder and then put both of his hands on Tatsuki’s cheeks, leaned in and gave her a peck. They had that kind of friendship, so what?
“I can’t believe I have to tell you, a grown woman and a lesbian this. You can have sex without penetration. You know?” Ichigo had to let go of her quickly after that and dodge, or he’d come at risk of getting a smack to the head. “Besides. When he’s back from deployment he lasts like, three thrusts anyway if I let him fuck me and it’s just way too much work for too little reward if you ask me. He’s gonna whine and complain but in the end he’ll last longer and we’ll have more fun.” Ichigo passed her and went out to the living room again, where he started gathering his phone, wallet and keys.
“Okay that is information I did not need to know.” Tatsuki followed him out into the living room, making some dramatic movements with her arms.
“Besides.” Ichigo opened his wallet to make sure he had his suica card on him. The last thing he wanted to do was stand at the train station and find it was still at home. “That man has never bought lube for as long as we’ve been screwing. So if I don’t bring it we’ll never have lube and then we’ll never be able to fuck. Someone has to be the responsible one in our arrangement because it sure as hell isn’t him.”
“Again, more information I did not need to know.” Tatsuki gave him a punch on his arm, but not hard. More of an affectionate one, for as affectionate her punches could be. Deadpan, Ichigo looked at her when he pocketed his wallet.
“I will tell you more and more of these things so you’ll get the fuck out, so I can go to him.” He told her, deadpan, before breaking out in a smirk. Tatsuki rolled her eyes at him and grabbed her jacket.
“I’m leaving already! Guess I’ll go and crash Orihime’s instead. At least she loves me.” Tatsuki faked a sniff as if she was moments away from crying and went out to the hallway. Ichigo followed, turning off all of the lights.
“You know, you should just ask her out already.” He told her, grabbing his shoes and pulling the sneakers on in one swift movement. Tatsuki on the other hand took more time with the lacing of her combat boots. “She would say yes.”
“You don’t know that.” She responded but in a quieter tone, clearly insecure about it. She stood up and brushed her hands on her pants.
“Actually, I do.” Ichigo followed her out of his apartment and shut the door. Locking it.
“Why, has she told you word for word that she would?” Tatsuki asked in a sharp tone, more mocking than hopeful.
“Well, no, but-”
“If she hasn’t told you word for word then you don’t know for certain that she’d say yes.” She snapped, crossing her arms across her chest and started wandering down the hall to the stairs. Ichigo caught up with her and threw his arm over her shoulders, wanting to comfort her.
“I know she’d say yes if you asked her. Even if she hasn’t actually told me. It’s my gut feeling. Just trust me on this, okay?” Ichigo squeezed her shoulder and then let go, he knew that Tatsuki wasn’t all that much for physical intimacy so he wasn’t going to overstep her boundaries. She huffed, evidently torn between not and wanting to believe him, and also indicating that the conversation was now over.
“I just don’t understand what you see in that guy.” Tatsuki waved with her hand as they descended the stairs. Since Ichigo lived on the second floor they were out on the street in no time. “You don’t even
like
the military, yet you’re over him like a bear is over honey.”
“I’m a slut for a man in uniform.” Ichigo shrugged, seeing no reason to hide it. It was the blatant truth, and had Grimmjow not been wearing the uniform the very evening they met then he probably wouldn’t have given him the light of day. “And I can like the man in the uniform without approving of the movement behind it. If he had been a nurse wearing scrubs I’d have gone down on my knees and sucked his dick.”
Tatsuki grunted. It evidently wasn’t the answer that she wanted to hear.
“Besides, it works out. He has a prickly personality and he gets on my nerves. We don’t have the time to get annoyed and angry with one another because before we know it he’s got to fuck off again for a couple of months and leaves me alone. Besides the semi nudes or nudes he sends sometimes.” Ichigo shrugged. He decided not to mention that the picture he found the sexiest was actually one that Grimmjow hadn’t taken and when he had been fully dressed, in full uniform without the helmet, hair mussed about, cigarette hanging between his lips, some dirt on his cheek and lazily holding his rifle while someone else was changing a tire on some truck.
That picture had gotten Ichigo more turned on than the countless of nudes, dick and ab pics that he had sent Ichigo. He hadn’t even told Grimmjow about that. Because Grimmjow would definitely use that knowledge as leverage.
“Oh you just know it is a match made in heaven when you’re glad the other part has to go away for a couple of months,” Tatsuki said, voice dripping with sarcasm and giving him the sweet eyes. Ichigo decided to ignore it. He thought it was a good thing. After all it was something they were both aware of, recognized and worked with so they wouldn’t get in each other's hair.
“You are impossible. You know that?” Tatsuki swiped her suica card when they reached the station and entered. Ichigo followed after, grateful he lived so close to the station. The only downside was that it was a little bit far from work but rent was affordable. They went up to the platform for the red line. Tatsuki had to use the green one to get to Orihime, but she followed Ichigo to his platform anyhow to keep him company.
“Listen, it works for us.” Ichigo told her with a smile, bumping their shoulders together and was pleased to see he’d have a train arriving in less than two minutes. He’d manage to be at Grimmjow’s apartment at seven like he had hoped.
“Fine.” Tatsuki sighed in defeat. A battle had been won but the war would continue to rage. Still it was enough for now where they could leave each other in peace and in a good mood. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ichigo didn’t comment on how if he’d do that he wouldn’t even be going to Grimm, he wouldn’t even know the man considering how many years Tatsuki pined for someone without even daring to ask them out. It had been painful to watch her the last couple of years trying to woo Orihime without making it noticeable, attempting to plant an idea in Orihime’s head that she was interested ands he ought to ask Tatsuki out. Orihime didn’t work like that, and Tatsuki knew that. But yet here she was.
“It’s just a hook up.” He assured her. He might stay the night, he might not. He didn’t know yet. He’d definitely be back tomorrow morning, probably, for a proper fuck and not just a bunch of foreplay as Grimmjow would call it.
A voice overhead announced the arrival of Ichigo’s train and he opened his arm for a hug. Tatsuki leaned in and gave him one, making Ichigo feel certain that there were no hard feelings between them. “Have fun, you whore.” She smacked him on his arm again when she pulled away, then waved and left the platform just as his train was arriving.
Considering the hour he found the train relatively empty and even managed to get a seat. It was only a twenty minute ride so he took out his phone and played a couple of games to pass the time. After a little bit under ten minutes he had caught up on all of them and just spent the rest of the ride looking out of the window and watching the city change.
There were no big changes, but when he got off the train it felt obvious he was in a different part of the city. The station was larger and the streets much busier. The same chain shops that Ichigo had in his own area were larger here and there were smaller independent shops for coffee, stationery and books, as well as a wider variety of restaurants available. He quickly worked himself out of the busier streets and to the more residential area and found Grimmjow’s apartment building. There he chose to take the elevator however. Ichigo’s own building was an old apartment building that only had two floors while Grimmjow’s was a more modern building and had ten floors, where he had taken up residence on floor number eight.
Ichigo came up to the door, raised his fist and knocked. The door opened pretty much instantly. Grimmjow stood in the doorway, holding a container of take out noodles and wearing a white t-shirt that fit snuggly across his broad and muscular chest. He was still wearing his combat fatigues and his shoes were kicked off into a corner. He stepped aside and held the door open for Ichigo to come inside. A little further up the hall Ichigo spotted his large bag, packed so tightly that it was a wonder it didn’t burst at the seams. He didn’t have to pick it up to know that it was heavy.
“Gods Grimmjow. Did you get home like now or something?” Ichigo asked, kicking off his sneakers and went further into the apartment. It was smaller than Ichigo’s and bordering on small when there were two people in it. He put his bag on the couch.
“Like fifteen minutes ago.” Grimmjow shrugged and continued eating the noodles from the train. Ichigo stared at him.
“You texted me from the train?” He asked. That was… Ichigo didn’t know what to think about that. Tatsuki would have called them both pathetic or something.
“Yeah.” Grimmjow didn’t bother denying it. Finished up the noodles and went into the kitchen to put the container away. “Just stopped to pick up something to eat, I haven't eaten since I left base this morning. Fucking starving.”
Ichigo rolled his eyes and didn’t respond, he sat down on the couch and pulled up one of his legs. “Where were you this time, or is it classified again?” He asked, making quotation marks at the word ‘classified’.
“Some place just outside of Asahikawa in Hokkaido. Mostly training and shit this time around. Was boring as fuck up there. Fucking freezing this last month too. Started snowing there this morning, look.” Grimmjow came over with his cellphone, tapping on it before showing a picture to Ichigo that he had taken that morning. Ichigo saw a mountainside and some trees, as well as an inner court of a military base covered in a thin layer of snow.
“Don’t you hate snow?” Ichigo asked and looked up at him.
“Damn right I do.” Grimmjow scoffed. “Edrad thought he’d be funny and grabbed a fistful of it and shoved it down my neck inside my shirt.” Ichigo laughed at the mental image, he could imagine Grimmjow squealing very vividly and trying to jerk himself away from Edrad, only to grumble for the rest of the day at having a wet back. “S’not funny!”
“Sure is.” Ichigo smirked at him and leaned back on the couch, holding his index finger just a fraction of an inch away from his thumb. “Just a little bit.”
“Fucker. Next time I’ll shove some snow down your neck. See how you like it.”
“Well if you manage to bring snow all the way back from Hokkaido then go ahead. I’ll be impressed if it hasn't melted. Cause you sure as hell wont find any snow here.”
“Did you bring lube?” Grimmjow asked, tossing his phone on the couch and changing the subject. Ichigo zipped open his bag and took it out, tossing it to him.
“You’re not fucking me tonight.” Ichigo warned him. He saw Grimmjow scrunch his nose and open his mouth to protest. So Ichigo cut him off before he had the chance to even go there. “No. You are not. You left this morning and you knew you’d be home this evening. If you had texted me then I might have let you fuck me. That’s just a might. Because we both know you don’t last long when you’ve just come back. You can fuck me good and proper tomorrow.”
“Ugh. Fine.” Grimmjow rolled his eyes, reluctantly agreeing. Ichigo was secretly grateful that Grimmjow didn’t make such a big scene about it. “We’re still getting off tonight though. Right?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t planning to.” Ichigo grinned up at him. He hooked one of his fingers around a belt loop and pulled Grimmjow a step closer to the couch. Ichigo straightened up a little, he let go of the belt loop and stroked his hand over Grimmjow’s bulge. “We’ll get off, and you’ll get to fuck me. Just not in the way that you’re used to.”
“Mm, blow me?” Grimmjow asked, reaching to pet Ichigo on his head. Ichigo pouted a little, still massaging Grimmjow’s bulge and feeling it stiffen a bit under his touch. With one hand he started to open his pants.
“Why, you want to fuck my face?” Ichigo asked, knowing the answer to that question full and well. Grimmjow grinned at him. Ichigo snickered and pulled down the zipper. “Alright. But gently so, okay? Because that’s not the way I’m imagining you fucking me. So don’t you dare spoil the fun just because I swallow.”
“Mhm.” Grimmjow petted Ichigo on his head again. Ichigo slipped off the couch and got onto his knees on the floor, positioning himself right in front of Grimmjow. He tugged down Grimmjow’s pants a little which made Grimmjow lift his shirt. Ichigo took the moment and kissed his abdomen, just above the elastic band of his briefs, then he hooked his fingers and pulled them down.
Grimmjow had gotten half hard from the light bit of teasing that he had done, He kissed the root of his cock and looked up to him. “Tell me we’ll get off together?” Ichigo asked him, kissing his way down Grimmjow’s cock and kept his eyes on him.
“We’ll get off together.”
Ichigo winked at him, stroking Grimmjow’s cock a few times to get him harder before he licked him. Though he enjoyed the feel of Grimmjow getting harder in his mouth bit by bit, all because of his diligent work.
Grimmjow said nothing and kept careful watch of Ichigo, never once taking his eyes off him. Ichigo kept his eyes fixed on Grimmjow in return, making sure that he saw every single lick and every little kiss that Ichigo gave him.
When Ichigo found him hard enough he held him steady, pressing his lips against the tip of his cock. Grimmjow let out a moan as Ichigo took him in his mouth, grabbing hold of the hair on the back of his head instead of just petting him. That was fine with Ichigo. He bobbed his head a couple of times just to wind him up a little and then, with his mouth still over Grimmjow’s cock he let go.
Ichigo reached down to his own pants to open them, feeling how the tug at the back of his head guided him how Grimmjow wanted it at that particular moment. Gently, just like how he had agreed to. Ichigo stroked himself, he had also been getting hard in his pants while he had been working on Grimmjow, the man had that kind of effect on him. And besides, it wouldn’t be fair of him to demand they come together when Grimmjow would go out like fireworks. They had to even the playing field.
Ichigo started to stroke himself with ease, moving his head with the gentle push and shove from Grimmjow until he was moaning louder, getting more worked up than he had any right to be. Ichigo pulled back from him, taking a breath and licking his lips.
“Bedroom.” He told Grimmjow, still stroking himself. He pushed the other away by his hips. “Bedroom, now.”
Grimmjow grunted a response, pulling his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. He stepped back so Ichigo could get up on his feet, but didn’t bother helping him. He grabbed the lube and slipped off to the bedroom. Ichigo stood up on shakier legs but managed, taking the lube with him. He pushed down his pants and underwear, leaving them on the floor for later. In the bedroom Grimmjow had been a step ahead of them and laid out a wide towel for them.
“How thoughtful.” Ichigo grinned, giving him a kiss while stroking his fingers over that sharp jaw of his. The man had no right to have such a gorgeous jaw.
“So now what?” Grimmjow asked after the kiss, starting to strip out of his pants.
“No no, leave them on.” Ichigo grabbed Grimmjow’s wrist to stop him, then kissed him again. “It’s hot as fuck when you wear those, leave them on.” Ichigo told him, Grimmjow started grinning.
“Well, if you insist.” Grimmjow snickered, kissed Ichigo again and then with a shove, pushed Ichigo down on the bed. Ichigo matched his grin, crawling up the bed and opening the tube of lube. “Now, where do you want me?”
“Get behind me.” Ichigo instructed him as he shifted onto his side. Grimmjow did as he was told and turned Ichigo’s head so he could kiss him. Ichigo couldn’t help but comment. “Look at you following orders like a good boy.” He teased, pressing his ass against Grimmjow’s cock. The other hissed.
“Thought you said you weren’t gonna let me fuck you.” Grimmjow ground his hips back against Ichigo. “You’re making it very hard for me to believe elsewise.”
“Oh you’ll fuck me.” Ichigo assured him, squirted some lube on his hand and brought it between his legs, smearing himself until he was nice and slick. He nipped at Grimmjow’s lower lip. “Just not in the traditional sense.” He felt Grimmjow squeezing his hip, and he locked his ankles together to ensure he could keep his legs closed. “C’mere.” He reached behind him, hand still slick with lube and found Grimmjow’s cock. He gave it a stroke and heard the other groan, then he slipped it between his thighs.
“There.” Ichigo purred, instantly feeling how Grimmjow started to thrust against him. “Feels good, no?” Ichigo asked, Grimmjow only made a noise in response. Ichigo started peeling Grimmjow’s hand from his hip, moving it to his cock instead and guided him through the first stroke. “There we go.” Ichigo breathed out a moan, letting himself relax.
“Almost like the real thing.” Ichigo turned his head and found Grimmjow’s lips again. He kissed him and reached behind his head to this time be the one to grip hold of someone’s hair.
“Ngh.” Grimmjow groaned against Ichigo’s lips, seemingly deliberately trying to keep his thrusts slow and even. The grip around Ichigo’s cock tightened a little, it wasn’t painful. On the contrary, it made Ichigo moan a bit louder and recognized it for what it was. Grimmjow tries to rush him closer to the edge, in his own struggle to keep his head and not give in so quickly. It made Ichigo want to reach down and tease him, but that would be mean.
Instead all he did was shift just a little, changing the angle and loving the slick feeling of Grimmjow’s cock rubbing in between his thighs. An indication of what he could have, and what he would have tomorrow. It already made him look forward to when he’d feel that cock in him then, but this was what he had to contend with this evening. Something so close and yet so unavailable.
“Fuck,” Ichigo whined, then moaned. He almost bucked into Grimmjow’s hand, the anticipation for tomorrow had worked wonders. He had to be dripping all over Grimmjow’s hand by now. “Just a bit more, please.” He groaned, giving Grimmjow a tug on his hair. In response he felt a sharp bite on his shoulder that made him hiss. “Tell me what you’ll do to me tomorrow.”
“Hn?” Grimmjow grunted in his ear. “Fuck, I-” Grimmjow groaned again, clearly struggling to string a coherent sentence together, holding on to dear life. His thrusts started to jerk a little.
“Tell me how you’ll fuck me tomorrow.” Ichigo asked again.
“Gonna fuck you with your face right into a fucking pillow so I don’t got to deal with all your questions.” Grimmjow grunted. Ichigo laughed, feeling the sharp bite in his neck again. He could see it, he could almost feel it. Him face down and ass up and Grimmjow deep inside of him. He whined, once again wanting to buck into Grimmjow’s hand.
“Grimm?” Ichigo reached down between his legs, managing to get his hand just so he’d stroke the underside of Grimmjow’s cock. The other made a whining noise. “Grimm, get me off, please.” Ichigo begged him. Grimmjow started stroking him faster, he thrusted his cock in between Ichigo’s thighs hard and quickly. He felt the cum spill into his hand as the other groaned behind him. For a moment the handjob eased up a little, Grimm finishing his orgasm first before his attention went back to Ichigo.
Grimmjow fixed his rhythm and before long Ichigo was moaning again. Now with Grimmjow having had his orgasm Ichigo could buck into his hand with a clear consciousness. He mumbled some, and barely thirty minutes later he too came. He panted, and then relaxed back against Grimmjow. “That was good.” He mumbled.
“Mhm,” Grimmjow mumbled sleepily behind him, clearly content with himself. For a moment they just lay together in silence, brushing the drowsiness of them both. Eventually Grimmjow stirred behind him, and with a gentle push against his shoulder he moved away from him. Ichigo rolled onto his back on the bed and watched Grimmjow sit on the edge of the bed. He reached for some of the towel that he could reach, cleaned himself off and got up, closing his pants. Ichigo stretched before he started doing the same.
By the time he too was cleaned up and went out to the living room to find his own pants, Grimmjow had already opened a window and was leaning out of it with a cigarette against his lips. Ichigo pulled on his pants and came over to him, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention, then made a gesture to indicate he wanted a drag. Without protest Grimmjow handed the cigarette over.
“So how long are you back for now?” Ichigo asked after his drag and passed it back to Grimmjow, exhaling the smoke. Grimmjow shrugged and shifted a bit, leaving more space by the window for Ichigo to come join him.
“I don’t know. Four months probably. S’usually something like that.”
Ichigo looked over his shoulder and into the apartment, then frowned. “Your place is awfully clean considering you just got back. You were gone five months and not a speck of dust.”
“What?” Grimmjow scoffed. “You don’t think I don’t let the place get cleaned before I come back? I cover everything with sheets before I go and the week I find out I get to go home I call this cleaning service to spruce the place up before I get back. The landlord lets them in and locks again when they’re done.” Ichigo raised his eyebrows at him. “What?”
“You find up to a week before you come home and you get a fucking cleaning service before you come back, but you text me when you’re like fifteen minutes away from home for a booty call?” Ichigo laughed. “I now know where I am on your priority list.” He wasn’t surprised by this, and luckily he didn’t feel too bothered about it either. But he did find the ordeal humorous.
“Oh please.” Grimmjow chuckled and took another drag. “The cleaning service needs to be booked in advance. You, on the other hand, are always ready at a moment’s notice, so I don’t need to book you in advance.”
“Book me in advance!” Ichigo let out a bark of a laugh and took the cigarette from Grimmjow’s hand again and took another drag. “You know what, next time? Do book me in advance so I can prep for you. Asshole.” He grinned, smacking Grimmjow on his arm.
“Fine.” Grimmjow chuckled and took the cigarette back, took the final drag and then leaned back into the apartment again. Ichigo followed him in and shut the window.
“Hey, where’s your cat?” Ichigo asked while secretly hoping that the damned thing had finally croaked. If a cat got older than twenty-five years old then they had to have made a pact with the devil for nine-hundred lives instead of nine, and Ichigo was sure that part of Funni’s pact was to murder Ichigo before he ran out of those nine-hundred lives.
“Downstairs neighbour. He’s got two girls who watch Funni when I’m gone. I pay them. Just haven’t picked him up yet. See, you’re above my cat in priority!” Grimmjow called out and wandered into the kitchen, no doubt to get himself a beer.
“That’s just because you’re weird about that cat watching you fuck.” Ichigo paused and sat down on the couch again. “Besides, he always tries to kill me when I’m here. I’m surprised he’s still got teeth left to bite me with.”
“He doesn’t bite you.” Grimmjow came into the living room again and sure enough, with a can of beer. “He’s the sweetest thing there is.”
Ichigo decided not to take the bait and didn’t respond to the comment, and instead he looked around the apartment. It was ridiculous really, how Grimmjow had an apartment when he barely spent half the year in it, in a relatively expensive area of the city too.
“Move in with me.” The words tumbled out of Ichigo before he realised what he had said out loud. Grimmjow blinked at him, stupified and froze, halfway through having opened his beer.
“Pardon?” Grimmjow asked.
“You heard me.” Ichigo said and looked at him. “Move in with me.”
“Uh, why? Where does this come from?”
“Why do you have this place, honestly?” Ichigo asked, reaching for the can of beer. Grimmjow shared it, just like he had shared the cigarette.
“Cause I need a roof over my head, dumbass?”
“Yeah but.” Ichigo licked his lips after he had swallowed the beer. “You’re barely here. You spend half the year, give or take, on a base. And this place is empty. But you still pay rent. And when you are here, you spend, give or take, half of that time in my place in my bed. And you keep paying rent. You’re spending a whole lot of money for a place you only use one quarter of the year. Move in with me, pay half of the rent when you’re actually there and we get to fuck whenever we want. You’ll even be saving money on that damn cleaning service that you hire before you return because I’m there and I’m keeping the place tidy. And, god help me for saying this out loud, but you also won't have to pay two high schoolers or whatever to watch your cat. You’ll be saving a fuckton of money.”
“You’re actually serious.” Grimmjow stated, looking down at Ichigo on the couch. Ichigo nodded, and knew that Tatsuki would give him hell for offering this to Grimmjow but… fuck her. It was his life and if that was what he wanted then that was what he was going to do. Provided that Grimmjow took him up on the offer. For as long as she didn’t ask Orihime out she really had no right to judge.
“Yeah, I am serious.” He looked up at Grimmjow. “Move in with me.”
Grimmjow didn’t respond at first. He just kept looking at Ichigo while he considered his offer, then he started grinning and nudged Ichigo with his foot. “Yeah, alright. I’ll move in with you.” He winked at him.
“Okay then.” Ichigo found himself grinning, then reached for the beer again. Grimmjow passed it over to him.
“You staying the night?”
“I mean, I might as well now.” Ichigo shrugged. “Unless you’re grabbing that bag and we’re heading over to my place instantly to begin the moving process.” He joked, they’d figure out the finer details later. Grimmjow looked at his bag and hummed.
“That really comes down to one question.” Grimmjow mused, then looked at Ichigo. “Do you have your glasses with you or not?”
“My glasses?” Ichigo frowned. “What, my work glasses? No. They're at home. Why?”
“Well, you apparently want me to fuck you wearing work pants. I want to fuck you while you’re wearing those glasses. Your hair all mushed up and those cheeks of you flushing. Bet you’d look right filthy.” Grimmjow grinned, bringing the beer to his lips.
“Oh for the love of,” Ichigo shook his head. “They’re work glasses, they’re only meant to be used in front of a computer, Grimmjow. I’m only supposed to look at things within an arm's length whenever I’m wearing those. If I look at stuff beyond that I get dizzy.”
“So?” Grimmjow raised his shoulders. “Me, my dick and your dick is all within an arm length when I’m fucking you anyway. So what’s the problem? You got them with you or not?” Ichigo laughed and shook his head.
“They’re at home.”
“Okay. So we finish this, we go pick up Funni, and then we head over to your place. Deal?” Grimmjow offered out the beer instead of his hand to shake on it. Ichigo chuckled, stood up and pulled Grimmjow closer to him by one of his belt loops instead. He kissed him.
“Deal. And fine, you can fuck me when I’m wearing those glasses.”
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
Kaeya sighed as Diluc handed him a strip of dried meat from the bag he had created from the Fatui’s supplies. He was sitting tiredly on the cold stone floor and stared at the small fire they had started, well that Diluc had started, but he had supervised the creation so that counted.
“This is certainly annoying,” the cryo user tore a bite off and wrinkled his nose at the saltiness.
Diluc sat down heavily next to him and glared at the pile of rubble and shattered ice above them that effectively sealed them down there.
The entire passage above them had caved in after Diluc had managed to bring them into this lower chamber. While Kaeya had managed to buy them enough time to get out of the way, the rocks had still fallen and sealed them down in this secret domain.
Kaeya didn’t know if it was lucky that there was an entire second level to the domain for them to fall into or if they would have been better off being squashed in the rubble above. Starvation was a much slower and more painful death than being immediately crushed. And if they couldn’t find a way out…
Kaeya swallowed his salty food heavily.
“Did you find anything?” the cryo user looked over at the redhead.
He shook his head, still glaring at the rubble. He aggressively ripped his own strip of meat in half and chewed.
Kaeya stood. “Well, I’m going to look around then.”
Diluc glared at him, opening his mouth to protest. Kaeya cut him off.
“I’m feeling better. Look no more shaking,” he gestured to his legs. “Despite only having one eye, I have a keener sight than you.”
Diluc rolled his two, but didn’t try to argue. Instead, he turned away from him and continued to chomp on his dried meat.
The captain smirked and quickly strolled away before he tried to press him. Because the truth of the matter was Kaeya
was
incredibly exhausted. And he still felt off. It was true he was feeling stronger than he had a few moments ago, he hadn’t been able to properly stand after the strain of holding up the rubble long enough for Diluc to glide them to safety.
But it concerned him that while holding such weight would have normally worn him out, it did seem that his current condition made him weaker. It had taken a lot more concentration for him to draw on his vision. A lot more effort.
It had taken so much energy from him that Diluc had taken one look at his wobbly knees before building a fire and instructing him to stay put while he searched the perimeter. Kaeya couldn’t even pretend that nothing was wrong. He felt as stable as a newly born foal trying to stand for the first time.
Kaeya glanced down at his vision, where it was pinned to the front of his coat. It still shone steadily, but did it seem a bit duller than normal?
“Don’t wander too far,” Diluc’s voice drifted over to him. “We don’t know where those lawlachurls ended up.”
The cryo user waved his hand in the air, indicating he had heard, but didn’t turn. Instead, he kept walking around. Searching the perimeter of the large room. There were ancient paintings decorating the walls. Large, majestic figures were speaking to crowds of people. Three moons floated high above them. Angelic rays of light shone around them.
Kaeya stared at them as he walked past, trying to see if he could figure out how ancient they were. They looked much older than Khaenri’ah. His eye drifted in the direction the large figure pointed and paused.
It was pointing to an abandoned Seelie Court.
His eye and vision flashed as he used his elemental sight. A cyan trail of light danced in the air. He hurriedly followed it until it ended at a small opening in the wall. It drifted inside the hole. Even if Diluc had spotted the trail there was no way he could have fit inside. It was much too small for a grown man to squeeze through.
Good thing he wasn’t an adult anymore.
“What are you doing?” Diluc called over as Kaeya squatted in front of the hole and held his vision in front of him like a torch.
There didn’t seem to be anything hiding in the hole.
“I think this Seelie Court is a mechanism,” Kaeya shouted over his shoulder. “If we lead the seelie back we might open a door to get out.”
Diluc climbed to his feet with a grunt and walked over. “You can’t possibly be thinking about crawling in there.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Kaeya arched a quizzical eyebrow.
Diluc opened his mouth to argue, but clamped his jaw shut. Frowning as no other solution came to mind.
“I’ll be fine,” the cryo user turned his attention back to the hole. “They normally aren’t too far away from their court anyway. It’s probably only a little ways in.”
Kaeya began to worm his way forward, crawling through the opening on his elbows and knees. He held his vision in front of him, its blue light shining in the darkness. Diluc squatted behind him, peering after the cryo user. A flame shot up in his hand, the light of his fire licking at the darkness in the hole. Giving the blunette a bit more light to see with.
“Thanks,” the captain nodded back to him before shuffling forward. Following that cyan trail.
The hole turned out to be the entrance of a small tunnel. Kaeya crawled out the other side and stood. Cold bit at his nose and he shivered. He hadn’t been away from the campfire for long, but he could already feel the sheer cold building around him. His toes were starting to go numb.
The room he was in appeared to be quite large. His footsteps echoing as he took a hesitant step forward, eye scanning the darkness for–
There.
Kaeya jogged towards the seelie as it swayed in the air. Its gentle red warmth washed over him, and his shivering immediately stopped.
“There you are, little friend,” he smiled as he drew close.
The seelie immediately bobbed up and down before drifting back the direction he had come. Vanishing through the stone wall. A loud grating sound shook the air as a massive door appeared and opened. Kaeya stood in the opening with a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face.
“See? Keen eye.”
Diluc just ignored him and returned to the campfire to grab his bag and extinguish the fire.
“Where does this cavern lead to?” Diluc asked as he approached the door again. Peering into the darkness.
“Hopefully to a way out,” Kaeya turned to look back into the dark room. “Lead the way?”
Diluc nodded, stepping forward and relighting a flame to hover above his palm. Kaeya trailed beside him, walking brusquely, but luckily not having to jog to keep up this time.
The ruins were indeed ancient. Years of frost and dust coated the floor and the occasional pile of rubble sat collapsed on the ground. Kaeya curiously took in the rare carved hieroglyphics and murals in, but he couldn’t tell what civilization had created them.
Curious indeed.
Diluc was also staring at the walls and structures as they walked through the ominous passageways. At one point he turned to ask Kaeya a question, but the captain cut him off.
“No. I do not know who made these.”
Diluc frowned. Apparently aggravated about the cryo user’s possible mind reading abilities.
“It’s not my fault that you think so loud.”
Diluc stomped ahead. Kaeya laughed. His giggle echoed around them. He almost jumped at the sound. It felt so foreign to hear such a childish noise from
him.
Stars, he hadn’t felt like a child in decades despite still being a fresh young adult.
He peered down at his hands, slowly turning them in front of his face so he could see how
small
they were. No longer did he have long, strong delicate fingers. No longer did scars litter his hands. No built up callouses dotted his palms. They were smooth and soft. Full of baby fat. Perhaps his first guess at his age had been off. Maybe he wasn’t five, but younger? He wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to tell without a mirror of some kind, and even then, he wasn’t certain he could.
For archons sakes who had a vivid memory of what they looked like as a toddler?
He had been older when he had been brought to Mondstadt so any portraits made of him before his teenage years still wouldn’t be of use. It was purely a guessing game at this point. It was a shame that he didn’t have some adult from his early childhood to help him figure this out. Someone like Dainsleif.
Kaeya blinked in surprised as the image of that blonde knight flickered across his mind suddenly. Archons. He hadn’t thought about that man in years. It felt a bit strange that he popped into his brain so quickly after being absent for so long. Especially since he had tried to forget everyone in his infancy.
Perhaps being a child again was making him nostalgic for the home he had prior to the Cataclysm.
He sighed through his nose. Allowing his hands to fall back to his side. Ignoring Diluc’s quick glance at him. He was just ready to get back to Mondstadt and put this entire affair behind him.
-·=»‡«=·- ꋖꂑꂵꈼ ꉣꁲꌚꌚꈼꌚ -·=»‡«=·-
Neither of them was entirely sure how long they walked before they both felt the need for more food and a rest, but if Kaeya were to guess it had been at least six hours of walking through the dark abandoned corridors. They built a small camp underneath a corner of the latest room they had discovered. Diluc had managed to find some wood amongst the rubble and built a small fire. Kaeya gratefully warmed himself in front of it. Leaning against the wall.
“We should probably get some rest while we are taking a break,” Diluc sighed, pulling out more of that terrible dried meat and handing Kaeya a piece. “We don’t know what is ahead and the last thing we need is to be dead on our feet and run into a legion or something.”
“Mmm,” Kaeya murmured in agreement, taking the food. “I’ll take first watch– Don’t argue with me. Let’s both be honest here, if we were to be attacked, I will not be nearly as helpful in a fight. Plus, if you pass out from exhaustion there is no way I could carry you anywhere. Your rest is a higher priority right now. I will be fine.”
Diluc chewed grudgingly. He sighed. “Fine. But wake me after a few hours. I don’t need much sleep.”
“Yes, yes,” Kaeya waved him away. “I am well aware how little sleep you live off of these days, Master Diluc.”
Diluc glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean between the Winery, bartending, and…certain nightly outings,” Kaeya shot him a sharp knowing look. “You must average what? Eight hours? Ten hours of sleep each week?’
The redhead turned away. “I wasn’t aware you cared so much about my sleeping schedule, Sir Kaeya.”
You aren’t aware of many things.
Kaeya wanted to say. But instead, he smirked and took a bite of his meat. “I am a man full of surprises, Master Diluc.”
The pyro allogene’s countenance turned dark as he muttered, “I am aware.”
If the redhead had been looking at the cryo user, he might have noticed the hurt flash across the blunette’s visible eye.
As it was, Kaeya’s smile never faltered as he bit back. “Ah. My apologies, Master Diluc. I didn’t mean to bring up such an unsavory topic. I was merely voicing my concern at your unhealthy obsession with parading around the city under the moonlight.”
“I do not need
you
worrying about
me
,” Diluc growled. His shoulders growing stiff as he turned away from the captain.
Kaeya’s smile grew sharper. “Of course. How silly of me to think someone like myself should dare to be concerned about Mondstadt’s golden child.”
“That’s not what I–” Diluc glared at him.
Kaeya held a hand up, his smile turning bitter. “No need to protest any further, Master Diluc. I fully understand how you feel about me. I just apologize that you must suffer to be in my presence until we manage to find a way out of here.”
“That’s- that’s not–” Diluc growled in anger and then turned to yank a bedroll out of his bag. “Whatever. Just leave me alone.”
Normally Kaeya would have opened his mouth and retorted, but a sudden sting burned the back of Kaeya’s throat and his eyes stung. Alarm spiked through him as he twisted away in case the redhead suddenly turned to face him and catch the glint of moisture in the lavender eye.
Stars what is wrong with me
, Kaeya blinked the tears away. This wasn’t even one of their worse fights. He must had been more tired than he realized if that was all it took for his walls to crumble.
“As you wish,” he sneered, desperately trying to keep his voice from cracking.
He stood and walked over to a pile of rubble on the opposite side to the fire. He wanted to end this conversation before he lost control of his emotions any further. Luckily Diluc didn’t seem to have any desire to continue the conversation. He had promptly climbed into the bedroll and turned his back to the blunette. Effectively ending any further possibility of continuing the conversation.
Silence fell over the domain and soon Diluc’s heavy, angry breaths smoothed out as he fell asleep. Kaeya climbed onto the rocks and sat peering out into the darkness. But all was still. Nothing had been down here in centuries it seemed.
Kaeya almost wished there had been a threat. It would have been a good distraction. Because his mind was painfully free to wander. So wander it did. Running straight towards the memories he hated the most.
Both of them involved rainy nights. Like most good ghost stories. Which was appropriate because they were the nights he died. The ghost of his past left in the rain puddles. The love he thought he had washing away into gutters and gullies.
The first ghost was created by his birth father. His heavy hand left his shoulder as he walked away to never return. Kaeya staring after him, a hand reaching out in desire to grab the edge of the man’s cloak. To pull him back. To get the man to at least attend his son’s funeral.
The death of a prince. The birth of a spy.
The second ghost was made as a vision shone in the darkness. Freezing the water in the air. It clattered onto the ground, soft little bell-like sounds. It might have been musical, beautiful if not for the horror that crept in his heart as blood ran down his face.
The death of a brother. The birth of a traitor.
Ghosts of lives gone by. Lives he could never reclaim.
That he did not deserve to reclaim.
Because he had betrayed them both.
Kaeya shook his head roughly, pulling himself out of the memories. He shivered as the cold soaked at his bones. He should probably get closer to the fire, but he didn’t want to. Diluc was there and even if he was asleep Kaeya had a feeling that the redhead didn’t want to be near his ex-brother right now.
★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡
★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ
･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ
★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ *
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to see more teasers and sketches of this work
Thanks again for reading <3
★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡
★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ
･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ
★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ *
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to see more teasers and sketches of this work
Thanks again for reading <3
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
2
第四次忍界大战后四个月，火之国，木叶忍者村
“吱呀——”
宇智波佐助伸出手臂，于数月以来第一次，独自推开了木叶监狱厚重的铁门。
阳光刺破黑暗，照亮了他如今惨白消瘦的身形。时值清晨，他嗅到青草和露水的气息，听到飞鸟虫豸的啾鸣。
他眯起眼睛，大脑一阵晕眩。习惯了蒙眼拘束的牢狱生活，这份突如其来的光明和自由，反倒令他感到陌生，一时难以适从。
阴影落下。一个穿着御神袍、戴着火字斗笠的银发身影遮住了门外的光。
“……卡卡西。”
“哟。”曾经的老师朝自己打了个招呼，依旧是那副懒散的模样。也许是注意到自己下意识寻找的目光，他弯起眼睛，“看到是我，你好像有点失望啊。”
佐助收回视线，没有作声。
“鸣人和小樱都有重要任务在身，没法来见你，”卡卡西笑着解释道，“所以假释你的这件差事，只能由我这个新任火影代劳了。”
“嘛……毕竟几个月前的忍界大战，我们木叶的损失最重。再加上这些年战争频频，火之国的叛乱层出不穷，周围四国也是虎视眈眈，大家都在超负荷工作。”他神情轻松，却遮不住他苍白的脸色、眼下的青乌，“要不是实在人手不足，我们也不会这么快把你放出来。”
“当然——你能出来，最该感谢的还是鸣人和小樱。”卡卡西的声音变得低沉，“他们在顾问团和大名面前拼命向你求情，鸣人更是用性命担保，才让你免于死刑。”
佐助呼吸一滞。
“不管你对于我或者木叶有什么想法，鸣人可是从来没有辜负过你、伤害过你。这么多年，他为你付出太多。”他平静地说，“所以，就算是为了你‘唯一的朋友’，也请你别再乱来了。”
佐助沉默半晌。他低头避开对方温和、却带着淡淡责问的视线，过长的刘海遮住了表情。
“……再也不会了。”
卡卡西凝视他片刻，终于点了点头。他重新露出笑容，语气随意起来：“对了，虽然没来，但他们都托我带话给你。”
“小樱的话是——”他清了清嗓子，用夸张的女声说道，“‘不要小看女人的决心！佐助君，我是不会放弃的！’”
这番拙劣的模仿让佐助忍不住勾起了嘴角。他知道这句话的意思——与鸣人在终结谷决战后，他住在医院的那几天，小樱不眠不休地守在自己床边，衣不解带地照顾自己。即使在他被带走关押前，她还再度向自己告白，说她“喜欢”自己、愿意一直等着自己。
佐助一直无法理解小樱的感情。他不值得被任何人喜欢，更遑论喜欢上任何人。然而……
“代我转告她，我的回答还是一样。”他说，目光柔和了几分，“还有……谢谢她。”
卡卡西露出浅浅的笑意。停顿少许，他的表情变得复杂：“然后，鸣人的话是……‘对不起’。”
佐助愣了一下。
“……什么？”
“就是‘对不起’这三个字。”卡卡西叹了口气，“他重复了很多遍。”
“我猜……他说的是，”他补充道，“你身上‘咒印’的事。”
咒印。
佐助的手指无意识地攀上锁骨，那里的漩涡纹路仿佛仍在灼烧。
-
三个月前，木叶地下监狱。
彼时，他被蒙着双眼，像待宰的牲畜一样被拖出牢房。他光脚趔趄地走在阴冷潮湿的走廊里，食物与睡眠剥夺令他分不清幻觉与现实。
佐助本以为这又是一场例行的拷问。审讯室里，精神系忍者会不厌其烦地攻击自己的大脑，一遍又一遍地重复“你有罪”、“你要永远忠于火影”、“你要守护木叶和火之国”，花样繁多的刑具拷打只是让他更加麻木。
然而，这次的黑暗似乎比以往更加深重。
“罪犯宇智波佐助，你叛逃村落、投靠大蛇丸、刺杀五影、颠覆忍界秩序，依律当处以极刑。”
一个冷漠的声音在空旷的房间里回荡。
“经过火影、高层顾问团的讨论决议，并得大名批准，现对你暂缓死刑，执行特殊管控。我们封印班开发了最强力的‘咒印’，来约束你的行动。”
……咒印？
继大蛇丸之后，木叶也打算用这种恶心的方式操控他么？
“咒印将刻在左锁骨下方，人体命脉‘死门’的位置。咒印将以忍界大战英雄、漩涡鸣人感知恶意的查克拉为核心。”
“一旦你对木叶或火之国产生恶意，咒印会灼烧以警告，十秒后将中断查克拉，三十秒将中断神经传导，一分钟——咒印爆炸，破坏‘死门’，你将暴毙当场！”
“任何试图解除咒印的行为，都视为激活，你不要心存侥幸！”
……呵。
佐助在内心苦笑。木叶高层竟对自己忌惮至此，明明已经服罪，却仍然大费周折，要给自己种下如此歹毒的咒印。
随便他们吧。这些措施，他在回村之后也不是未曾预料。
几只粗暴的手撕开他的囚衣，将他猛地按在地板上。冰冷的空气刺激着皮肤，四面八方传来不知多少人的喃喃念咒声，无数道查克拉如丝线般探进他的体内。
下一刻，疼痛燃起——
那真是太痛太痛。仿佛滚滚岩浆注入血管，他的每一寸皮肤都在燃烧，每一处肌骨都在碎裂。无数把刀切割着他的经脉，五脏六腑都在痉挛，这所有的痛楚都汇聚到了锁骨下方——
佐助死死咬紧嘴唇，铁锈味道在口中蔓延。宇智波遗孤的骄傲与自尊，不允许他在木叶忍者面前发出一声哀嚎。
这疼痛无休无止，直到封印班的念咒声终于停下。一个踉跄的脚步声靠近，一只颤抖的手抚上他的脸颊，轻轻拭去了他脸上不知何时流下的泪水。
那只手粗糙而温暖，带着熟悉的气息，让佐助的内心稍宁。然而不久，那只手便离开了他的脸颊，还没等佐助反应过来，新一轮的疼痛陡然爆发！
如同心脏从正中撕裂，一把刀在锁骨处由内向外地切割旋转，一股与自己属性相反的强大查克拉从咒印中心的伤口灌进体内，与周围术式融合，将他的灵魂铐上永久的枷锁。
疼痛终于褪去时，佐助被搂进了一个炽热的怀抱。滚烫的液体滴落在脸颊上，渗进新刻的咒印里，激起身体细小的灼痛。
他心知这个人是鸣人——除了他，又有谁能亲手为自己种下咒印，又有谁会对自己的疼痛如同身受？
“对不起……佐助……对不起……”
鸣人在自己的耳畔呜咽着道歉，仿佛承受刻印的是他自己。佐助原本已经不怎么痛了，听到这句话，疼痛反倒卷土重来，甚至越发地痛彻心扉。
他想问，你为什么要哭，我根本不值得你的眼泪；你为什么要道歉，这明明是我心甘情愿。
在我坠入黑暗的时候，只有你从未放弃过我；在所有人都认为我万恶不赦的时候，只有你愿意理解我。
你已证明了你对我的友情与羁绊，是我几次三番地辜负了你、伤害了你，狠狠甩开了你伸出的手……
所以，我愿承担咒印、忍耐仇恨、守护你珍视的木叶忍者村。
我愿用这条没有价值的命，来赎清我的罪……
但他实在太痛太痛，就连一个字都说不出口。黑暗涌来，他浑身虚脱，坠入了濒死的虚无。
-
“佐助？”
卡卡西的声音将佐助拉回现实。他的指尖还停留在锁骨的咒印上，灼烧的回忆让手指微微发抖。
佐助低下头，怔怔望着咒印四周的封印黑色咒文，以及中间漩涡形的金色核心——那是鸣人亲手雕刻的枷锁。
木叶似乎对这个咒印十分自信，也可能是战后的确人手不足。自从术后的高热中恢复过来，他就被蒙着眼睛，在木叶忍者的监护下执行各种见不得光的任务——镇压叛乱、威慑他国、追杀叛忍、侵略邻村，丝毫不给自己喘息的时机。
咒印也的确足够灵敏，尽管已经克制仇恨，他仍旧在那些令人作呕的任务中好几次控制不住杀意，激活咒印，被强制中断了查克拉。只是，咒印的约束力消退后，他往往会出现极度的恶心和腹痛。也许牢狱的折磨已经让他虚弱了太多……
“……没什么。”
他收回手，整理好衣领，默默抬起头。
卡卡西深深看了他一眼，从忍具包里拿出一份盖着官方印章的卷轴，念道：“罪犯宇智波佐助，自今日起对你执行假释。”
“作为特殊管控对象，木叶不再限制你的日常行动，但你必须无条件完成交付给你的每一项任务，任何形式的拒绝都将被视为叛变。”
“你的死门处已经刻下咒印，它会持续监测你的精神波动。一旦木叶评估你的忠诚度不足，假释将立刻取消，木叶有权立即处决你，无需复议。”
读完，卡卡西将卷轴递给他，而后侧身让开。失去遮挡的阳光重新洒下，刺眼得让人想要逃离。
“走吧，佐助。”卡卡西低声说，目光复杂难明，“你自由了。”
自由……么？
佐助攥紧卷轴，迈步踏进刺目的晨光。身后的阴影一寸寸拉长，他双腿冰冷，不知该走向何方。
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 next few days were filled with armour fittings and weapon appraisals, and by the end of it Shepard felt like a new person. Or, more accurately, like the person she
had
been. It wasn’t quite the same, of course. She did miss her guns, and despite her best persuasions Varric refused point-blank to lend her Bianca, but the set of daggers supplied to her by the quartermaster were a remarkably well-made replacement. And whilst nothing could ever compare to her old N7 armour - which was now buried under four feet of rubble in Kirkwall - the blacksmith created a fine new suit for her in next to no time; he’d even allowed her a certain amount of autonomy over the commission, raising an eyebrow but nonetheless obliging her request for elbow spikes and an N7 stripe down the arm. She smiled as she tried it on for the first time, testing each joint in turn before sparking up a barrier to settle over her new equipment.
“Happy?”
“Absolutely,” Shepard beamed. “Thanks, Harritt.”
Harritt grunted in acknowledgement, still inspecting his work as it encased her. “Now, the main bodywork is onyx for manoeuvrability, but the spikes are Nevarrite for extra clout. Not that I understand why a mage wants to be close enough to elbow her enemies,” he grumbled as he tweaked the position of her pauldrons.
“A lot of mages are working on their close-quarters combat these days,” chipped in Dagna, who had been present for most of Shepard’s fittings and who had - much to Harritt’s chagrin - frequently offered up suggestions on armour modifications. “Helps when you’re fighting Templars to have something to fall back on. This is a nice piece of armour for that.”
“
Nice
?” Harritt repeated, and if Dagna sensed his contempt for the word she didn’t let that deter her.
“Yeah, I like onyx for armour. Nice and shiny.”
“I didn’t make it for the
shine
.”
“It shines a lot with Shepard’s magic,” Dagna continued as she approached Shepard with interest, eyes wide and focused on the blue glow of her barrier. “I never saw any magic like this in the Circle,” she said, reaching out and prodding Shepard’s glowing forearm with no hesitation. “Ha. Tingly.”
“You were in a Circle?”
“Not
in
a Circle like you were,” Dagna answered, still looking at the barrier rather than at her. “But they let me study there - in Ferelden, and then further afield. I learnt a lot, but not this. Can I do a quick experiment?” she asked, rummaging around her pockets and pulling out some sinister-looking metallic object.
“What? No!” Shepard exclaimed, dropping her barrier and taking a step back from the dwarf.
“Awh, it doesn’t hurt!” Dagna protested, but didn’t push it any further. “Well, maybe another time. Maybe if you bring me back some rare stuff from the field, I can make you a masterwork, and then maybe you’ll let me take a sample? Just a tiny one. As a thank you.”
“She already has armour,” Harritt pointed out, sounding remarkably petulant for a middle-aged man.
“New daggers, then,” Dagna persisted. “If you bring me some Fade-Touched Dawnstone I can make your enemies explode,” she told her with a glint in her eye which made Shepard equal parts unnerved and intrigued.
“Exploding enemies?”
“Yeah! It’s just—”
“Commander Shepard!” a stern voice interrupted them as the door to the Undercroft swung open, and they turned to see Sister Leliana marching towards them. “Commander, we need to talk about these documents you completed for our Ambassador.” Shepard groaned inwardly as Leliana waved two sheets of paper at her; she’d been expecting some sort of retribution for them, but not quite this soon. The documents in question had been given to her on her first morning in Skyhold by Lady Josephine, who’d politely asked her to submit her ‘personal details’ to the Inquisition’s record, and the questions had ranged from tricky to impossible; in the end, she’d offered up half-truths and had hoped that they wouldn’t pay too close attention to her answers.
“Is there anything in particular you needed clarification over?” Shepard asked, endeavouring to sound helpful, but it just came out sarcastic; Leliana, who had evidently heard it the same way, narrowed her eyes at her.
“Your name would be a start.”
“I wrote my name.”
“You wrote ‘Commander Shepard’,” she hissed. “Now, unless you mean to tell me your parents named you ‘Commander’—”
“I don’t go by my given name, so you don’t need to know it,” she said firmly. “If I did tell you, people here would just start calling me by it, and then I’d have to leave because it would be utterly unbearable.” Leliana said nothing, instead continuing to glare at her, and Shepard took the opportunity to distract her from the name question. “What about the rest of it? I filled it out as best as I could.”
“Your date of birth doesn’t even make sense!”
“Let me see,” Shepard said, craning her neck to read where she’d scrawled
11 April
on the parchment. “Ah - that’s an honest mistake on my part; I get confused with your calendar. What’s the fourth month? Drakonis?”
“Cloudreach. And which year?”
Shepard knew it would only antagonise the Spymaster, but she just couldn’t resist the old joke that bubbled at the back of her throat. “Every year,” she said, suppressing a smirk as Leliana’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shepard said, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m just kidding - I’m thirty-three.”
“Commander, if you refuse to answer these questions I can and will find out the truth for myself. I will not have anyone threaten the integrity of the Inquisition.” There was an unmistakable threat in the Spymaster’s words, and though it didn’t scare Shepard in the slightest - if anything she’d be impressed to see Leliana come up with ‘the truth’ on her background - she knew, for the sake of all involved, that she needed to start playing nice.
“I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” Shepard offered. “Would it help if I apologised for that unfortunate throwing incident?”
“No,” was the - utterly predicable - response she received. “Now, under family you’ve written ‘not applicable’.”
“Because it’s not applicable. They’re all dead.”
“Ah,” Leliana paused, softening slightly as something other than disapproval entered her countenance. “Well, you have my sympathies. So there is no-one we can document as your next of kin?”
“No family, but you can put down my friend - Liara T’Soni. Speaking of whom, have you heard any reports of a… slightly unusual looking woman out West? Possibly fighting Red Templars?”
“No,” Leliana said, though she surprised Shepard by adding, what looked like against her better judgement, “but if I hear anything of the sort, I shall let you know.”
“Thank you,” Shepard replied, and she meant it. “Was there anything else?”
“Let’s see…” Leliana began, scanning down the document, frown becoming more pronounced with every line. “Ah, yes. Under ‘current or previous convictions’ you wrote ‘none in Thedas’. Dare I ask?”
“I got court-martialed back home, once, but I was cleared. Sort of,” she added, realising as she said it that technically she never
had
been cleared of her terrorism charges; everyone had just forgotten about her trial in the wake of Earth’s invasion.
“So you’re sticking with this story of Corypheus dragging you to Thedas through a Rift,” Leliana surmised, and it was clear from her tone that she didn’t believe it for a moment; there was probably no answer Shepard could give that would make the Spymaster happy.
“Just go ahead and research me, Leliana,” Shepard shrugged. “And tell me what you find?”
Leliana took a step towards her, and for a wild moment Shepard thought the Spymaster was going to attack her, but instead - with what appeared to be a great amount of self-restraint - she turned on her heel and stalked out of the Undercroft. Shepard sighed as the door ricocheted behind her, knowing that was a bridge she would definitely have to build at some point - but actually doing so seemed like a monumental task.
“She’s a lot scarier than she used to be,” Dagna commented.
“How did she used to be?”
Dagna shrugged, turning her attention once more to the metal instrument in her hands. “I met her during the Blight. It’s thanks to her and the Grey Warden that the Circle took me in.”
“You wouldn’t be so fond of the Circle if you were a mage,” Shepard muttered.
“Oh, but you only know the Circle at Kirkwall,” Dagna countered, only absent-mindedly continuing the conversation as she returned to her workstation. “Ferelden’s a lot more relaxed. Although - well, there was that thing with the demons, but luckily the Warden cleared all that up. Wait - I should be saying Queen, shouldn’t I?”
“Demons?”
“Mm,” Dagna agreed, picking up a faintly glowing stone and squinting at it as she held it up to the light. “It was before my time though - Leliana would know more. And Commander Cullen, but I wouldn’t ask him.”
“Cullen’s a Kirkwall Templar,” Shepard frowned. “What would he know about it?”
“He got transferred out of Ferelden not long after I arrived. It’s good to see him doing better. Now, I’ve been tinkering with this rune that the Inquisitor isn’t—”
“What do you mean, ‘doing better’?”
Dagna looked up from her work, seeming almost surprised to find someone else present. “Oh, nothing, just - there were a
lot
of demons,” she said with a sheepish smile. “So, do you want to try out this rune? It does electricity damage - it should complement your magic nicely!”
Shepard got the distinct sense that she was trying to change the subject, but she was far too distracted by the word
electricity
to concern herself with the details of Cullen’s past. “Did you ever think about harnessing electricity for other things? Like… indoor lighting?”
It was a testament to Dagna’s unique fondness of - and skill with - magic that she didn’t scoff at the idea; instead her eyes sparkled at the suggestion, her brilliant mind already whirring over the possibilities. “No, but I don’t know why not - that sounds great! Do you use lightning-based magic like this back home?”
“Kind of. Give me a pen, and I’ll draw you something called a lightbulb.”
---
An hour later and Dagna had created a detailed schematic of a lightbulb based on Shepard’s rudimentary sketch, and when Shepard finally left the Undercroft it was with a large grin on her face. If the arcanist could successfully tackle electric lighting, then maybe Shepard could work her up to omni-tools. It’d probably take ten years, but it was good to have a goal. She emerged in the main hall to find it significantly busier than when she’d passed through some hours ago; besides the usual throng of civilians the Inquisitor was also present, hovering around Varric’s usual writing spot and flanked by his advisers. The Inquisitor, she noticed, was dressed in his field gear and, whilst another run-in with Leliana was not high on Shepard’s list of priorities, she was too curious not to enquire about it.
“Going somewhere?”
The group looked up as Shepard approached them, their responses ranging from smiles from Varric and Josephine, to a nod from Trevelyan and Cullen, to Leliana’s icy glare. “Yes - Crestwood,” the Inquisitor confirmed. “Hawke’s taking us to meet some Warden friend of hers.”
“Great. I’ll get my kit.”
“Ah - actually, Shepard, you won’t be coming with us,” Trevelyan told her, a distinct awkwardness in his posture as he said it; Shepard frowned, taking another step towards them as
surely
she must have heard that wrong?
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. It sounded like you said I wasn’t coming with you?”
“Next mission you’ll be my first pick,” he said, in a pitiful attempt to pacify her, “but we’d already planned this before you’d joined us. Besides, I need Blackwall as a Warden, Dorian as a mage, and Varric because—”
“—because you want to listen to him and Hawke telling stories.”
“Well, who
wouldn’t
want that?” Varric asked with a smile, though it flickered as Shepard turned her glare towards him.
“I’ve made my choice, Shepard,” the Inquisitor told her. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find Blackwall. Varric - see you at the gates in ten?”
“Tough break, Flash,” Varric shrugged sympathetically as he trailed out of the hall behind the Inquisitor, leaving Shepard alone with the three advisers and feeling only marginally humiliated at being sidelined in front of them. And also at being nicknamed
Flash
, which was possibly even worse than her actual name.
“Your new armour looks good,” Cullen offered, breaking the uncomfortable stretch of silence. “The couters might be a bit much.”
“Don’t flirt with me, Rutherford. This is bullshit - what am I supposed to do for two weeks whilst he’s swanning around Crestwood?”
“I don’t know. Something useful? Like filling in Josie’s paperwork correctly?”
“I mean, what’s the point of me even being here if he just wants me to stay at the castle keeping a seat warm?” she continued as though she didn’t even hear the Spymaster’s rebuke. “Is this armour for show? Or does he want me to start doing stage fights for entertainment at dinner?”
“Will you stop going on?” Cullen muttered, rubbing his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“No, I will not!” Shepard said indignantly. “I am not a fucking reserve. I was the first human Spectre!”
“And Cassandra is the Hero of Orlais, yet I don’t hear her complaining like this,” he returned. “Not everyone can be in the field at once.”
“This actually works out well,” Josephine stepped in just as Shepard was readying another retort designed specifically to make Cullen’s headache worse. “Marc— the Inquisitor has informed me he intends to bring you to the Winter Palace, and there is a lot of preparation we will need to undertake.”
“I thought that was months away.”
“I know; only five,” Josephine said, looking worried by the prospect. “Besides our fittings and rehearsal and etiquette lessons you still need to learn about the Game, and how familiar are you with ballroom dancing?”
“That’s a joke, right?” Shepard asked, a small part of her wondering whether being sidelined for the Winter Palace too was preferable to having to take part in etiquette classes.
“Not everything is a joke, Shepard,” Leliana cut in. “It is of the utmost importance that the Inquisition presents itself well at court; if we fail to play the Game to win we will be dead in Orlais.”
Cullen scoffed. “I am sure the Inquisition will survive if one of us uses the wrong fork at dinner.”
“But it is best not to take that risk,” Josephine countered, and Shepard was beginning to get the distinct impression that quenching arguments before they started was her speciality. “I will prepare an itinerary for you, Shepard. We have our tailor arriving in a few days, but in the meantime it would be useful to know your measurements. And yours, Commander,” she added to Cullen, who merely nodded. “Now, Leliana - what were you recommending about cinched waistlines?”
Josephine and Leliana took their leave, animatedly discussing different belts and sashes their tailor could incorporate, and Shepard watched them head back to the War Room with no small amount of trepidation. “They’re not putting the women in dresses, are they?”
“As I understand it, that is currently the subject of a heated debate,” Cullen informed her, rubbing his forehead once more. “But that isn’t important - could you try not to be so antagonistic for once? You’re meant to be on the same side as Leliana, and she is not someone you want to alienate.”
“It was you who made the catty comment about forks.”
“That isn’t the same. All they want from you is a bit of background information - you could just tell them what they want to know. You do not always have to be so
difficult
.”
Out of all their discussions - genial and otherwise - throughout the course of their acquaintance, that was possibly the most infuriating thing he’d ever said to her. She’d told him more about herself than she had to anyone else in Thedas; he knew about Akuze, about Spectres, about Liara - Hell, she’d even once tried to explain the difference between biotics and magic to him. The problem was he never listened. “Why should I tell you anything?” she demanded, folding her arms across her chest. “I have told you plenty about me, and all that happens is I get called a Hedge Mage, or a pirate, or a liar. Even Leliana scoffed when I said about Corypheus bringing me to Thedas through a rift, which is
true
. So, fuck it. Once you all start showing me a bit more respect, I’ll answer your damn forms.”
She expected Cullen to argue back, but he didn’t; instead he looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment, as though finally figuring out the answer to a particularly tricky logic puzzle. “I… have called you all those things, haven’t I?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maker. It really is a wonder you never tried to kill me on the way back to Kirkwall.”
“Believe me; I was tempted,” she muttered darkly, but checked herself with the internal reminder that, as he’d pointed out, they were on the same side now. “But, all things considered, I’m glad that I didn’t.” He smiled in response, eyes creasing at the corners as if ‘I’m glad you’re not dead’ was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him, and it almost made her feel bad for all the time she’d spent thinking of the best way to kill him. “So, if Trevelyan won’t make use of me - have you got any Commander jobs you’re looking to outsource? I can help train recruits, or run drills. Or plan manoeuvres. Or if you’ve got any missions not quite important enough for the Inquisitor—”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have everything under control,” he cut her off with a raise of his hand, and his dismissal wasn’t surprising, but it disappointed her all the same. “Why don’t you take a few days to relax? The Inquisitor will need you in the field soon enough, and you will want to be well rested.”
“I’m not really good at the whole ‘relaxing’ thing.”
“Nor I,” he admitted. “Then perhaps the sparring ring?”
“You’re offering to fight me?” Shepard asked, face lighting up with glee because, even though they were supposed to be on friendlier terms now, the thought of eviscerating him in a spar was still the most appealing pastime she could think of.
“I’m not going within four feet of
those
,” he said, indicating to her spiked elbows. “But the Iron Bull and Cassandra are always looking for sparring partners.”
“If I take them off, will you—”
“
No
.”
“You’re such a coward!” she exclaimed. “You can just cancel my abilities if you’re so scared!”
“If you think you can goad me into a fight by calling me names, you’re sorely mistaken,” he told her, annoyingly smug in the face of her pout.
“Fine. I’ll go and grind Bull into the ground instead, but it won’t be anywhere near as satisfying,” she said, and with a final emphatic huff she took her leave, heading into the fresh air and leaving Cullen to whatever self-important tasks she was undoubtedly interrupting.
“Try not to hurt him too badly!” she heard him call after her.
“No promises!” she shouted back over her shoulder, and for a moment she could’ve sworn she heard him laugh.
---
Unfortunately, the two options suggested to her for sparring were both busy; Bull with his Chargers, and Cassandra with some novel which she refused to let Shepard read the back cover of. As such, she found herself - not for the first time since arriving at Skyhold - at a bit of a loose end. Sera was nowhere to be found, and Dagna was hard at work on her lightbulb, and Cullen had retreated to his office with strict instructions to the men on the door that he was not to be disturbed. She considered going to the library, but all the books there were very serious-looking things on magical theories and the Tevinter Imperium and which, quite frankly, made her head hurt a little. ‘Relaxing’, as Cullen had also suggested, was out of the question. Truth be told, Shepard didn’t really know how to relax; since the age of sixteen her life had been a constant stream of goals and targets with little respite in between. And that was how she liked it. It wasn’t that she needed to work, but she did need to be busy; even her shore leave had been filled with organised trips, her time on the brig spent reading old Earth literature, her days in the Circle passed plotting against the Templars. But now she was stuck, in a beautiful, boring castle, with nothing to do except await someone else’s instructions.
The only other thing she could think of - besides giving up entirely and allowing herself to be assimilated by the Virginia creepers - was to visit her horse at the stables, which… would probably take up twenty minutes, but at least it was
something
. She headed to the kitchens first though to arm herself with a treat for the creature, figuring feeding her might take up an extra five; ignoring the disapproving sideglances from the chef, she began to pick through various barrels of vegetables and bundles of fruit for an appropriate snack for her Mako.
“Hello.”
Shepard jumped, swivelling around to face the voice which interrupted her consideration of the merits of carrots versus apples, and found the strange boy with the big hat - Cole, she thought his name was? - stood behind her, arms laden with a dozen daggers. “Yes, it’s Cole. Thank you for remembering.”
“Hello, Cole,” she said, a little warily. “What are you doing with all the daggers?”
“Keeping them safe. Would you like to help?”
He didn’t wait for her answer; he turned on his heel, barely making a sound as he weaved through the cluttered kitchen and out a side door, and after a moment’s hesitation she followed him, placing her handful of vegetables back on the counter and jogging to catch up. “How exactly is this helping?” she asked as she drew level with him.
“People are scared,” he told her. “The fear brings more fighting, friends against friends, and the pain just gets worse. We need a place to hide them.”
“So you’re confiscating people’s weapons to stop them from killing each other here?” she surmised, and he nodded. “Fair enough. But you better not have my new daggers in that pile.”
“No. You don’t hurt until you have to.” He stopped abruptly as they entered a part of the castle Shepard had not yet seen; they were underground, possibly under the main hall, in a large, bare room that - save for the lit sconces - didn’t look as though anyone had been there in years. The stones underfoot were cracked and worn, cobwebs invaded the corners and dust motes hung heavily in the air, casting speckled shadows up the walls and across faded paintings of vistas she’d probably never see. “Here. Let’s look for somewhere.”
Shepard wasn’t convinced in his choice of hiding place - there didn’t seem to be anywhere to actually stash his daggers, unless he wanted to dump them on the floor - but after a few minutes of searching she found somewhere appropriate; in a smaller room filled with seemingly ancient bottles of wine she located a barrel which, on prising the lid open, she was pleased to find empty.
“What about here?” she called over her shoulder, flinching as she turned to find him already stood next to her. Fuck, he was
quiet
.
“Yes, good,” he agreed, tipping the daggers into the barrel and sealing it shut once more. “If you find any more, put them here. We can keep them safe.”
Shepard smiled at him, oddly pleased at their small act of helpfulness, and she found herself warming to the boy despite his eccentricities. No, that wasn’t right - he wasn’t really a boy, was he? “So, how does a spirit end up working for the Inquisition?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her; the only spirit she’d ever met before was Justice, who’d been far more prickly towards her. Cole, she figured, would probably be more willing to answer questions, but he merely shrugged, hopping up to perch on the lid of their barrel.
“How does a Spectre end up in Thedas?”
Here, alone in an abandoned room, away from the bustle of Skyhold, it didn’t seem quite so unsettling to be with someone who could read her as Cole could. Instead of a confrontation it felt like a confession, a shared burden, a whisper in the night which would never be uttered in waking hours; really, it was a relief, to finally find someone who would - if not understand her past - at least believe her when she spoke of it. “Do you know
everything
about me?” she asked. “The war, the Reapers, that time I had to fight my own clone?”
“You didn’t have to push her,” he said, sunken eyes reprimanding as he looked down at her.
“She tried to steal my ship,” Shepard retorted. “So I take that as a yes?”
“No,” Cole shook his head. “I see what hurts, and what helps. Like… untangling a ball of knotted strings. You have a lot of knots, but it’s not everything.”
“And you want to fix me?” she asked, unable to catch the scorn in her voice in time, but he either didn’t notice it or didn’t let it bother him.
“I want to help,” was his simple reply. “Here.” He pulled out three crumpled sheets of paper from his jacket and handed them to Shepard; scanning them quickly she could see that they were all field reports, addressed to none other than the Inquisition’s Commander.
“Have you been stealing Rutherford’s paperwork? Because if your idea of helping me is irritating him, I’m
totally
on board.”
He didn’t look at her when he spoke next; instead his eyes remained trained on the papers in her hand, transfixed as though they were revealing some great mystery to him. “Hands shake, head pounds, veins still burning blue. He doesn’t want to ask for help, but you can. You know war, even if you wish you didn’t.”
There was something about those words - and the soft, lamenting way the spirit spoke them - that made Shepard’s heart clench. She knew the burden of command all too well, how it gnawed and needled until there was nothing left but the title, but Cole’s words - combined with what Dagna had intimated earlier - seemed to go deeper than that, and it worried her. “Is… he alright?” she asked tentatively, because despite it all - despite his inflexibility and dourness and the fact that
he’d stabbed her
- the thought of Cullen struggling,
hurting
, was one that she couldn’t bear.
“He’s better than he was, but the song still aches inside him. You can help - you already have.” She arched an eyebrow, not quite sure in what way she was supposed to have helped Cullen; aside from the two times she’d saved his life, she’d been a thorn in his side from the very first moment they’d met. She was sure he’d agree with her on that. Cole, no doubt sensing her lack of comprehension, continued. “He saw you, branded and broken, and it hurt him. It wasn’t a solution, because you weren’t a problem. Now he can see the others, too.”
Shepard frowned, still not quite able to translate Cole’s cryptic words. “I don’t really understand what you’re saying. Is he unwell?”
“He’s better,” he repeated, and she sighed, looking down at the papers once more. They weren’t anything particularly important - reports from several scouts asking for advice and further instructions for strongholds in Ferelden - but if they kept her busy and Cullen less so she didn’t mind giving him a hand. There was just one problem.
“I can help answer these, but even if I do I don’t think he’s going to listen.” Cole didn’t reply, and as she glanced up from the documents she realised he was gone; she pivoted, eyes whipping around the room to locate the spirit, but he was nowhere to be found. “Well, I guess that conversation’s over,” she muttered to herself, but her attention was already back on the reports in her hands; apparently the Inquisition were planning to set up watchtowers in the Hinterlands, but the locations they had listed were - in her experience camping there - overrun by hostile wildlife and bandits once the sun set.
Folding the papers neatly and placing them in one of pouches at her belt, she nodded to herself, pleased to - if nothing else - finally have something to do that day. She’d write down her suggestions, and present them to Cullen in the morning. He could listen to her if he wanted - if not, at least she’d be able to say
I told you so
when his towers were mobbed by wolves.
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
Jean had blushed and started coughing and choking when Armin came in with the big news. Connie looked at him with an open mouth.
Maybe he still loved her
he thought.
He wondered how he could have hold on for 10 years. Without even being able to have a decent conversation for at least 4. Connie knew that Jean had sent her a lot of letters, and very often he came in drawings that were scattered all over his desk. Mostly sketches, but it was clear who was sketched. Her eyes were unmistakable.
But he and Jean had each had a string of girlfriends in the last 3 years. Nothing serious for either. He looked at Armin and shook his head slightly. They weren't as stupid as their former commander.
No way.
-I'll never be tricked by a woman...
he said aloud, unconsciously
-What's that, Connie?
Armin looked at him with a sweet, dumbfounded smile.
His face went white.
-Huh? No, no, I said. These roses. They must be for some woman.
Aren't they?
He blurted out.
-Of course they are. for Annie.
Armin replied happily
-Armin, you are just gone crazy.
Connie crossed his arms.
-And you? What are you staring eh horsie ?
Jean went on coughing and then meticulously engaged in wiping his tie with a napkin.
-So .... Mi... ka... Mikasa has decided to come
He said in a shrill voice that betrayed his feelings. Armin turned completely to him
-Yes Jean! Isn't it incredible? I am so happy...
-Ehr... and she... how, I mean, she wrote you...
-No, no, she called me! She called me at the office just a little while ago, through him. Through Hist... I mean Christa.
He said. His voice dropped considerably.
-She is at Christa's
-Ah, I see...
Jean s eyes widened.
-I'm... I'm glad they're together...
Armin gave a quick nod.
-I am sure that it will be good for her to have a little company for a while, at the orphanage.
Connie burst out laughing.
-Remember when that little shrimp made us build the tool shed!!!? Of sure she had a temper since then!
Armin smiled wistfully.
He rested one elbow on the table, a hand on his cheek.
-What is it now? Dreaming of your belle?
-No... I was thinking about that time, about Eren... .... In a way, it was a beautiful time, for all of us. And so...
Jean and Connie fell quiet. Of course it was.
Annie was sitting in the bathtub. She had taken a whole day off to do wedding preparations. But by noon, she still hadn't gotten a single thing done.
Pieck was busy with a medical conference and she was alone as usual.
She thought of Hitch and Mikasa . Would they go shopping with her? Would they help her pick out the cake and the sweets? Would they have been nice to her?
Annie shook her head, her damp hair whipping across her face.
Who am I trying to kid. Mikasa doesn't like me. Not even Hitch. I know she's always thought of me as a weirdo.
Well, she was very attractive and she knew it. She had huge breasts. Annie put her hand on her chest
She's not like me.
He had heard her tell Armin several times what the hell he could see in her. Yes, when she was in the crystal. She was able to hear everything.
Most of the time Armin did not answer or would just make up some long sentence to change the subject.
Once they were alone in the basement and Hitch had questioned her.
-Even locked in this shrine, you're quite popular, aren't you? You don't know how much I hate you.
Annie had started to cry.
She regretted inviting her. Deep down, she knew it was all a sham.
But Armin... he wasn't. With all of her heart, she wished that her instincts weren't playing a trick on her. But no, Armin really loved her. She didn't understand why, but he did.
She had not even written her vows yet.
Angry, she splashed water everywhere.
She couldn't write properly, she couldn't even speak! All she could do was kick and punchlively and non-living things.
Why had Armin wanted her that badly?
Was it some kind of atonement?
She had no memory of where had learned that word, but she had a fondness for it. It tasted like pain... a dull, lingering pain. Not like a wound. Like a memory.
Armin.
She got up and lazily swathed herself in a towel. Then she wandered around the room, brushing the walls with her fingertips. Her hands were smooth and polished now, not a single scratch on them. Annie looked at her NEW ring on the dresser. She picked it up and slipped it on, without even drying her hands. Then she kissed it devotedly.
-You guys shouldn't see each other every night, you know?
Pieck took her arm. They walked into a ramshackle bakery that Niccolo had recommended. Cakes and pastry were said to be great: the bakers who had survived the Rumbling, had banded together in a cooperative and were trying to get business moving again.
-Huh? Why not?
-Well, I don't know what you're going to do on your wedding night when you've already done everything!
Annie pinched her hip.
-Ouch! How prickly you are!
-It's none of your business!
-Come on! You're so shy!
she chanted
-What about you instead? You stupid bitch? Do you like someone? Over there at the Med school?
Pieck nodded.
-Yes, I like someone, but... no change of subject!
-Oh! Nice! Is he coming to the wedding?
- A she, actually.
Annie blushed and stammered.
-Erh...
-So.. you coming with her?
-I don't believe it. I don't think it's mutual, you know? And besides, my heart is still with Galliard.
She sighed.
Annie looked at her in despair and grabbed her sleeve.
-Pieck I'm sorry! So sorry! I am so wicked.
Her friend smiled compassionately.
-You are not Annie. You just have to learn to be happy.
Happy...
Annie turned dark.
Was she not happy at all? Wasn't she? Sometimes she thought she didn't like anything. Not Armin. Not even donuts.
Maybe Pieck was right, they shouldn't have had sex every day. He would get bored.
-Maybe you are right, Pieck. We shouldn't fuck every day, or or he'll get tired of me..
Now it was Pieck's turn to blush. Honestly, she couldn't imagine them doing such things on a bed. Or on a dresser. Oh God, what was she thinking?
-Ehr... well I'm not sure. But... think that: Porco and I didn't do it for two months when we were in the trenches. Two whole months as shifters without could shift back. I missed IT so much. Him.
The two girl walked into the cool, shady hallway, holding hands.
-But then. When we came back from the front, he...didn't want to do it anymore. And me, think about how hurt I was. I thought he was fed up with me. But he wasn't. You know? He told me....
Pieck sniffed a little.
-He told me he wanted to marry me. That when it was all over, he was going to marry me.
A tear trickled from her dark lashes.
Annie looked at her, mouthed agape.
-And then... as you know... well, he died. I mean. So...
she quickly brushed her palm over her eyes.
-I was joking. If Armin wants you, why should you not be with him?
Annie did not know what to say. But her eyes spoke. Pieck took her in his arms.
-Annie, I am happy for you. Be happy too.
So she love me...
-I love you, Annie, after all I 'm your maid of honor.
Annie closed her eyes and rested one cheek on her shoulder.
Damn it, she really shouldn't have invited Hitch.
By the end, she had eaten so many cakes and creams that her stomach was about to burst. Her skirt tugged at her. She couldn't wait to get rid of it. They had been at the bakery for three hours. Niccolo had also joined them at some point. He had become quite famous after returning from Paradis. Something of a war hero, although he hadn't really done much as a prisoner except cook.
Annie selected a couple of cakes: one with white whipped cream flavor and a custard millefeuille. And a huge assortment of donuts. Of course.
-With all the sweets you scoff at, how can you be so tiny?
Niccolo teased her.
-I work out.
Annie chomped
When she was a child, she had wanted a sweet so badly. But her father forbid her. He would forbid her everything. She was supposed to hate him... but yet....Maybe she would go home to him that night. That would make Armin want her more?
But her plans immediately went awry when she met him in front of the bakery, under the light of a street lamp, carrying a huge bouquet of roses.
Pieck elbowed Niccolò.
-That is one hell of a Prince Charming.
The young cook chuckled.
-I think we're all a little jealous
he said.
Pieck smiled wide.
-Perhaps. They 're cute.
Annie greeted them and joined her boyfriend.
-Hi baby
Armin leaned through the flowers to her face.
Annie gave an embarrassed grin.
-There are so damn many. Are they...are they for me?
Armin looked at her slyly.
-What do you think? Even if it is a little bit rude... I should have given some to Pieck as well.
He gave her a wave.
-She's helping you so much with the wedding and... what about you?... What have you in?
He fingered the box.
-Doughnuts. They're for my father. I...
Annie flushed again.
-Armin, I am sorry! Thank you so much for the roses. They're gorgeous. You didn't have to do that.
She said eagerly.
Armin looked at her affectionately
-You don't have to say the lines all the time, Annie. You can be yourself with me.
How often had he said it?
But Annie was feeling more and more stupid and uncomfortable with it. He was so good with words. That's why she'd fallen for him so long ago. She liked the way he talked, the terms he used, bending language to his will. He might have been the demon of Paradis, but she had never heard a boy in Marley talk the way Armin talked. He was simply amazing.
Annie looked straight into his eyes.
-I ... I wanted to visit my father. But I'll go tomorrow.
Armin blushed with pleasure.
-The doughnuts might spoil.
he said without conviction.
Annie passed him. She held out her hand.
-Shall we go?
-Ooo...okay
They walked in silence for a while.
Annie held her box and Armin her roses. It was the most glorious hour. Annie loved the sun drowning into the ocean. It was something that had always lived somewhere - somewhere in her heart. They stopped at what had once been the harbor wall, at a fence erected as an emergency measure.
Annie set the box down.
-Do you wanna fuck?
Armin was so surprised. He almost tripped on the rugged ground.
He pricked his thumb with a thorn and groaned in pain.
Annie looked at a distant point on the horizon.
-I'm afraid you'll get tired of me.One day.
she said in a grumpy voice.
Armin didn't get it. Get tired of what? They had just begun.
-I don't understand, Annie. We have only just begun.
She turned away quickly. The sun stained her hair gold and orange.
-I wish I wasn't so stupid.
-You're not Annie. Stop it, you're acting too weird these days. You're making me worry. .... And I forgot... hehe, I have some good news.
She gave him a quizzical look.
-Really? What?
-Really. But now that you made me think about it. We should fuck first. Then talk.
-Armin! How can you be that rude?
She gave him a slap on the shoulder that made him stagger to his feet.
-Hey Miss, you started it!
Annie's cheeks were burning
-You idiot!
she stammered
They burst out laughing and started to walk home.
Mikasa was on her way to her room to dress for dinner. It had been a bizarre day. They had spent a pleasant evening with the orphanage children, the horses and baby Frieda, and Historia's fluctuating mood had finally settled. Although the phone call to Armin had been a bit forced, Mikasa was glad she had made it. She was also glad not to be alone, while on the other side of the sea after a long time, she hD heard the voice of her precious friend. Her legs were soft. She felt goose bumps. Armin was so sincere. She could feel his happiness and joy from miles and miles away.
She checked her few possessions.
"We are going to go to Mitras tomorrow and I am going to buy you a dress!"
was what Historia had said.
"Indeed, a gown. And then some traveling suits. Mikasa, you'll look wonderful. I know of a spectacular workshop for these kinds of ceremonies!"
Mikasa blushed with pleasure. She still felt guilty, to be honest, but off and on, as if a new lightness had taken hold of her. She was no longer afraid to leave Eren's tomb.
She allowed herself to daydream a little. Then she picked up her notebook and she started writing fast.
Dear Jean.
First, I am so sorry for not answering your letters all these months. (Years?), but as you can imagine, it has not been easy for me.
I don't want to bore you. I just want to apologize for my behavior. I guess you already know. I'm coming to Marley for Armin and Annie's wedding. Yes, I will. I hope you are not angry with me. I know I've been selfish, but I'm filled with joy just thinking about seeing you all again.
I have to thank Historia for pushing me to take this step. I, uh, thank you for the pictures. They are beautiful.
(I think I have said thank you too many times in just a few lines.)
See you in a month
Your friend,
Mikasa.
Mikasa sighed, put her pencil down on the page, and did a few more readings. It was fine as it was. She didn't want to be intrusive. She really hoped that Jean was not angry... but after all... he had never been angry with her once, when they were comrades. Connie, Armin... Annie - they had scolded her, demeaned her. But Jean...had always been so compassionate. His gaze had held her up when she felt she could not take it anymore during the Alliance days. She tried to remember his amber eyes. They always encouraged her.
Mikasa realized that she had never been able to return his kindness.
And she wondered if it was too late now.
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
When he finally returns home after a long day of working hard but accomplishing absolutely nothing, Kaveh starts talking before he’s fully through the door. “I know, I know I’m late,” he says. “But you will not
believe
what Aisha-aunty told me today about–”
Then he finally looks up, sees someone utterly unfamiliar sitting at their table, and stops dead in his tracks, Mehrek almost crashing into his back but righting herself at the last second. “What,” he says.
The kid sneers at him. He looks pale and underfed in a way that makes him look a little bit like a doll, but mostly makes Kaveh want to feed him a million meals and also punch him in the face.
“What, you’ve never seen another person before?” the kid mocks.
First of all
, Kaveh thinks,
rude
.
Of course I’ve seen another person before
. And then,
but never one as scrawny as you
.
Out loud he says, “First of all, rude. Second of all, who are you? Don’t tell me Al-Haitham has more than two friends.”
“Wrong as always.” Al-Haitham takes that spectacular moment to walk out of the kitchen. He’s just wearing his undershirt, which means Kaveh has to quickly glance away before he does something embarrassing, like gaze at him. “He’s definitely not my friend. But I do have more than two friends, not that it’s any of your business.”
Kaveh scoffs. “Who? If it’s not this kid”—“Hey,” the kid interjects, but Kaveh ignores him—“Then it’s just the Traveler and–”
His eyes finally drift down past Al-Haitham’s waist to the little white-clad figure by his side, and his mouth snaps shut as if the hand of God itself reached out to close it. And maybe it did, because the figure at Al-Haitham’s side—Al-Haitham’s friend???—is–
“Hello Kaveh.” Lesser Lord Kusanali smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Distantly, Kaveh hears the kid snicker behind him. But he can;t focus on that right now, because he’s too preoccupied doing the sensible thing and fainting.
—
Kaveh wakes to the sound of Al-Haitham’s voice, which is both grating and, unfortunately, rather soothing.
“Don’t bother, Nahida,” Al-Haitham is saying, which feels vaguely blasphemous to Kaveh. “He’ll wake up soon. See? He’s awake, he’s just not bothering to open his eyes. Hey.” Al-Haitham has the nerve to nudge him. “Wake up. You’re worrying God.”
That makes Kaveh’s eyes snap open, just like Al-Haitham probably knew it would. The thought makes him want to slam them shut again, but he very maturely resists the urge, and instead sits up and plasters on his best grin.
“Lesser Lord Kusanali!” he says, as if he were greeting her at the door instead of while on a divan, having just, you know, fainted. “Welcome to our home.”
Al-Haitham huffs. Kaveh ignores him.
“Please,” Lesser Lord Kusanali says, smiling sweetly. She reaches out a small, chubby hand. “Call me Nahida.”
Kaveh takes it and shakes it gingerly. Her hand is too light, as if she has hollow bones like a bird. “Er,” he says. He’s never played host in Al-Haitham’s house before—he’s usually too scared to greet people at the door, let alone invite them in.
“They’re eating dinner here,” Al-Haitham says. His lips twitch at Kaveh’s shocked glance, unnoticeable to anyone besides Kaveh. “They invited themselves over.”
“Well then, you’d better get cooking,” Kaveh says. He snorts at Al-Haitham’s deadpan stare. “Don’t pout, you big baby, I’m helping.”
In the kitchen, Kaveh washes the rice and puts it into a bowl to soak. Then, he peels the skin off the onion, potatoes, and carrots and cuts the florets off some cauliflower, while Al-Haitham pulls out the lamb and the spices.
They usually take turns making dinner, or Kaveh will pick something up, but they’ve cooked together often enough for them to quickly settle into a familiar cadence. Kaveh will prepare the vegetables and grains because the feeling of raw meat makes him nauseated, while Al-Haitham will do everything else. Al-Haitham is, unfortunately, a better cook than Kaveh, though neither of them like to talk about it.
Al-Haitham likes to tap on Kaveh’s lower back whenever he passes behind him—nothing dramatic, just a second of pressure and then a quick
one-two
. It saves them from more than a few accidents, when Kaveh will back up without looking.
Nahida claps her little hands together when they bring out the biryani, which is either an expression of joy or actual applause.
“Thank you both for your hospitality,” she says.
The kid just looks at the biryani and scoffs. Nahida gently elbows him in the side, and he mutters a “thanks” into his bowl. Kaveh is reminded of why he never wants kids.
The table is silent for a few minutes as everyone tucks in. Nahida clutches her spoon in her fist, while the kid does some weird thing with his hand that makes Kaveh think he’s never eaten a meal in his life.
Nahida swallows her final bite delicately and pats her mouth with a napkin. “This is delicious,” she says. “What’s your secret?”
“If we tell you, it’s not a secret,” Kaveh says, at the exact same time Al-Haitham says, “Chopped mint in the yogurt.”
Kaveh groans. “Do you really have to tell everyone?”
“I told
you
, didn’t I?”
From the way light dances in Al-Haitham’s eyes, Kaveh can tell he thinks he’s being
incredibly
funny right now. The sight almost makes him smile. Almost.
“And besides,” Al-Haitham continues, unrepentant, “they’re our first dinner guests.” He turns to Nahida and the kid. “Not to rush things, but was there a reason you wanted to come all of a sudden?”
“Yes, actually,” Nahida straightens up. “I know this is a big ask,” she says, “but I’d like him to stay with you two for a few weeks.”
“What?” Kaveh says.
“
What
,” the kid says.
Al-Haitham doesn’t say anything, just arches a brow.
“He’s been studying in Vahumana,” Nahida says, looking proud. “He’s written some great essays on international relations—you guys should read them. They’re about Inazuman trade policies. I want him to be the Vahumana representative for this year’s Akademiya Extravaganza, but you see, he’s not very used to interacting with other people.”
That’s the understatement of the year, but Kaveh holds his tongue.
“I’d like him to live with you until the festival, just so he can get more… adjusted to things,” Nahida continues. “I hope it won’t be too much of a hassle, but if it is, please, feel free to decline.”
Kaveh’s about to ask why Nahida chose him and Al-Haitham of all people, but then he realizes that they, as objectively insufferable as they are, may be the only ones willing to tolerate this kid right now. It makes a discomforting amount of sense.
He squints at the kid. “What’s your name, anyways?”
The kid glares back. Nahida nudges him. “Would you like to tell them your name?” she asks.
“No,” the kid retorts.
“Well, I’m just going to call you ‘the kid’ then,” Kaveh says.
“Whatever. This whole thing is silly anyways. I don’t need this,” the kid sneers, and that really seals the deal for Kaveh.
“We’ll take him!” he says.
Nahida looks between him and Al-Haitham. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine,” Kaveh says. Al-Haitham turns to look at him, his brow furrowed.
Are you sure?
Kaveh nods, just slightly.
Not really, but don’t worry.
“He can stay. We have plenty of space, really.”
They don’t, but that’s besides the point. Kaveh has enough self-awareness to recognize that this is an impulsive decision, and probably a bad idea. But he knows this will annoy the living daylights out of this kid, and right now, that’s all Kaveh’s petty self cares about.
Kaveh follows Al-Haitham into their bedroom after he’s settled the kid into his old room. Al-Haitham had seen Nahida off at the front door; with his refusal to crouch or bend over to be on her level, his head was tilted down at a comically sharp angle to meet her gaze.
By the time Kaveh enters, Al-Haitham has already changed into his thin sleep shirt and pants, his hearing aid off and placed on the dresser. Kaveh nudges Al-Haitham to get his attention.
“Hi,” Kaveh signs.
“Hi.”
“You’re not actually super bothered, are you?” Kaveh says. “Because if you are, it’s not too late to kick him out.”
Al-Haitham shakes his head. “But we’ll reassess in the morning,” he adds, and Kaveh knows it’s a joke even though Al-Haitham doesn’t laugh.
They crawl into bed. Al-Haitham takes the side closest to the wall, because he likes pressing his back against the cool plaster during the hot Sumeru summer, and Kaveh takes the side open to the room, because he always has to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Once they’re settled, Al-Haitham slings one heavy arm over Kaveh’s waist, and Kaveh draws mindless patterns into his wrist until they both fall asleep.
They don’t talk about it. They never do.
—
The kid doesn’t do much over the next few days. He just skulks around, doing his homework and trying to look menacing but only coming across as petulant. He feels vaguely evil, but not in a bad way; it’s hard to explain. He also keeps resisting Kaveh’s attempts to put some meat on his bones, but Kaveh’s persistent—so much so that he finds them running low on groceries much earlier than he’d planned.
“Hey.”
The kid looks up from where he’s been glaring an essay into submission. “What.”
“I’m going grocery shopping. Do you want anything?”
“Nothing from
you,
” the kid sneers.
Kaveh rolls his eyes.
Teens
. “What do you like? Sweet things? Pistachios? Cakes?”
The kid wrinkles his nose. It looks reflexive. “Nothing too sweet,” he says.
Kaveh hums. “Just like Al-Haitham,” he says, and leaves before the kid can utter what would have undoubtedly been a scathing reply.
Kaveh loves going to the bazaar, which is good, because Al-Haitham hates it. He loves weaving through the jam-packed maze of stalls and goods and people, loves gossiping with all the aunties, loves the aroma of freshly-ground spices and cooked meat and sugar and parchment in the air. He loves sifting through all of the rumors to find the ones that will intrigue Al-Haitham, loves finding the highest-quality ink and paper and the best deals on fish, rice, and fruit.
“Kaveh!” A woman with violet gems studded in her large golden earrings waves him over. Her table strains under the piles of candy and pastries stacked on large round plates.
Kaveh grins, delighted. “Nour-aunty!” He heads over to her stall, careful not to trip on the dogs and children that run underfoot.
“You’re here early,” Nour-aunty says when Kaveh reaches her. She clucks her tongue. “You’re lucky I still have some of your favorite snacks. And that boy’s.”
‘That boy’ refers to, of course, Al-Haitham. Kaveh’s talked about Al-Haitham’s antics enough times for all the aunties and uncles to know of his living situation—and be squarely on his side, thank you very much—though they’d never say anything to the high and mighty scholars over at the Akademiya. Not that those scholars would ever come here, anyways.
“Thank you, aunty.” Kaveh accepts the wrapped package gratefully, pushing the proper amount of Mora into her hands even as she tries to refuse it. Then he pauses, thinks. “Actually, could I have one more pastry? One of the pistachio ones, not too sweet.”
“Oh?” From the stall next to them, Aunty Zeena leans in, her husband looking over amusedly. “Why all the changes?”
“Well,” Kaveh hedges, hesitant to divulge anything about the kid. Either that kid will find out or Al-Haitham will, and he’d rather not listen to the lecture on ‘security’ or ‘privacy’ or ‘sensitivity’ or ‘tact’ or whatever else Al-Haitham will try to throw at him. “Let’s just say I’ll be buying groceries for three from now on.”
Aunty Zeena gasps. Nour-aunty’s hand flies to her mouth. Even Zeena’s husband goes still. Their little bubble of the Grand Bazaar goes quiet, more and more merchants and shoppers beginning to look over.
“Kaveh,” Aunty Zeena begins delicately. “Do you mean to say that the Dendro Archon visited your home recently?”
Kaveh thinks about it. Surely
that’s
not too sensitive of information to divulge. “Well yes,” he says. “Lesser Lord Kusanali was actually there a few nights ago. Al-Haitham invited her.”
The air erupts into noise. People Kaveh doesn’t know are crowding in, patting his back and yelling something that sounds like “congratulations.” Confused, he bids a hasty farewell to the aunties and books it to another section.
Thankfully, the shopping trip goes smoothly after that. The stall owners adamantly refuse to let him pay for things, which makes Kaveh feel bad but his wallet happy, and they give him the best cuts of meat and the peaches that will take the perfect amount of time to ripen. People keep coming up to Kaveh to congratulate him, too. Kaveh doesn’t really know why, and he’s a little too scared to ask at this point, so he heads back home, content if not a little bemused.
He plans on asking
somebody
about it when he gets home, but then the kid accosts him at the door, bragging about the grade on his latest essay, and all thoughts fly out of Kaveh’s head in favor of totally proving him wrong.
—
He is, unfortunately, reminded of it the very next day, when the door slams open and Al-Haitham stalks in. His eyes aren’t narrowed, just flat, and his jaw is clenched in a way that tells Kaveh that he’s more confused—and irritated that he’s confused—than actually angry.
“Why,” Al-Haitham starts, voice much too loud. He cuts himself off, exhales sharply through his nose, and tries again, softer this time. “Mind telling me why everyone was congratulating me today? About your
pregnancy?
”
Kaveh freezes, looking up at Al-Haitham from where he’s sitting on the divan. Then it hits him like a raging Sumpter Beast, except with less horns and fur and gross saliva. “Oh,” he says faintly. “Oh no. I told them Lesser Lord Kusanali was here a few nights ago.”
Al-Haitham looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “What?”
“Lesser Lord Kusanali! The Dendro Archon! I told them she was here, and they thought I meant it, but I actually meant it in the
literal
way.”
“What other meaning can there be?”
“Al-Haitham!” Kaveh stands and grips Al-Haitham by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “I accidentally told all the aunties at the Grand Bazaar that I’m pregnant! And that you’re the father!”
“I studied
ancient runes
in Haravatat, not the latest street slang.” Thankfully, Al-Haitham seems more annoyed about not knowing the euphemism than the fact that everyone now thinks he’s knocked Kaveh up.
The kid is laughing, which, listen. There’s a time and a place, in Kaveh’s humble opinion, and now is certainly not either.
“This is not the time or place,” Kaveh snaps at him, which doesn’t help matters at all.
“Just tell them you’re stupid, then,” the kid snaps back, “and that you’re actually not pregnant.”
“I
can’t
,” Kaveh wails. “Do you know how long it took for them to warm up to me? I’m a regular! They give me all the best deals now! If I go back on it, they’re going to think I’m a liar! We’ll never get a discount again!”
“Ugh,” Al-Haitham says. He sounds peeved, but Kaveh thinks his ears just hurt. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not thinking about this anymore.” And with that, he stands and slinks into their room.
Silence reigns. Kaveh and the kid share a look. “Want to make dinner?” Kaveh offers, and the kid shrugs.
“You’ve been feeding me too much,” he grouses. “I actually get hungry now.”
Al-Haitham doesn’t say anything about it at dinner, instead letting the kid complain about his annoying classmates and Kaveh chatter about some potential clients. He doesn’t say anything about it that night, either, just slides in bed behind Kaveh as usual.
But Kaveh shuffles himself around until he and Al-Haitham are nose-to-nose, so close that Kaveh can pick out the stripes of color in Al-Haitham’s eyes.
“Haitham,” he says. “Are you still mad?”
“I wasn’t mad.”
“Oh, so we’re talking about it now?”
Al-Haitham narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t ever
not
talking about it,” he says. Then, “So what are we going to do when people expect you to start showing?”
Kaveh hasn’t even thought that far ahead yet. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” is what he finally settles on.
“Fine by me.” Al-Haitham shrugs.
Then, without letting Kaveh roll back over, Al-Haitham pulls Kaveh into his chest, tucks Kaveh’s head under his chin, and goes promptly to sleep. Kaveh wriggles in protest, to no avail. He muffles his groan into Al-Haitham’s unfairly muscular chest.
—
In the morning, Kaveh packs up the last of what he and the kid made last night—a Sumeran twist on what he’s learned is a traditional Inazuman dish—for Al-Haitham’s lunch. The kid appears at his elbow while he’s packing a spoon, takes one look at what Kaveh’s doing, and snorts.
“You’re packing a bento?” he sneers. “What, you get fake-pregnant and you’re his housewife now?”
“Shut up,” Kaveh hisses. “There was only enough left for one person, and he was the one who liked it the most.”
“Because I’m a good cook?”
“Because he likes versions of food that aren’t actually anything like those foods at all.”
“Touche,” the kid shrugs. His second night there, Al-Haitham subjected them all to his version of Sabz Meat Stew.
When Al-Haitham prepares to leave, Kaveh follows him to the door and presses the lunchbox into his chest.
“Here,” he says. “I know you’re not one to skip lunch, but at least you don’t have to waste time walking down to Puspa Cafe.”
“It’s actually a good opportunity to stretch my legs and get some fresh air,” Al-Haitham says, but then adds, “though I suppose I can take the time to read.”
Kaveh smiles at that. “Maybe read some of the kid’s essays,” he says. “He’s starting to get insufferable about them.”
“Starting?” Al-Haitham’s eyes dance.
They look at each other for a long moment, until it’s time for Al-Haitham to leave before he crosses the line from ‘just on time’ to ‘actually late.’ He turns towards the door, but just as Kaveh moves closer to see him out, he turns back, so that they’re standing closer than they were before.
Al-Haitham hesitates for a fraction of a second, then leans down to press a firm kiss to Kaveh’s mouth. His lips are dry and cool, and he smells like perfumed oil. When he pulls back, his expression is carefully unreadable.
Kaveh opens his mouth. “What was that?” he means to say, but what actually comes out is, “Is that my fragrance?”
Al-Haitham seems to relax—though Kaveh hadn’t realized he was tense—and actually has the nerve to smirk. “Don’t push yourself too hard today,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to stress out the baby.”
And with that, he leaves.
When Kaveh turns back, the kid is staring at him from the entrance into the kitchen. There’s something indecipherable in his eyes.
“What,” Kaveh says, just to be contrary.
“Ugh.” The kid rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “You two are going to be
so
disgusting now.”
—
When Kaveh himself leaves their home, he finds himself repeatedly congratulated by the people of Sumeru on his pregnancy—or rather, for being visited by the Dendro Archon. It takes everything in his power to keep the smile plastered on his face.
He’s so stressed about the whole fake pregnancy situation that he manages to forget all about their biweekly TCG night until the day before, when he gets a letter in Tighnari’s rushed, slanted handwriting asking if he’d rather they go to Puspa Cafe instead of Lambad’s Tavern.
I’m sure Al-Haitham has been chiding you plenty
, the letter reads,
but I’ll also warn you to stop drinking wine, Kaveh. Looking forward to seeing you two tomorrow.
Kaveh stares at the words. It’s too late to reply, but he hates the thought of having this conversation in person. Then the idea hits him—bring someone new, so Tighnari will feel the need to be polite and won’t have the chance to ask anything about anything. Besides, Nahida said the kid needed to interact with more people anyways. He turns towards the kid, who finally looks a little scared of him. Good. Maybe Kaveh needs to be eager more often.
“Hey kid,” he says.
The kid leans away. “What.”
“Want to come to game night tomorrow?”
Tighnari and Cyno bring Collei to Puspa Cafe, which is very nice, because she’s a sweet kid, but also very awkward, because, well. Collei, bless her soul, is a little bit of an awkward kid.
“Congratulations!” Collei says as soon as Kaveh’s in earshot.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kaveh sees Al-Haitham’s mouth flatten just slightly, which is the equivalent of a full-body cringe for him. Kaveh tries to beam the thought,
I’ve got this
directly into Al-Haitham’s mind, but from the way Al-Haitham’s expression doesn’t change, he can tell he isn’t very successful.
“Thanks!” Kaveh chirps back, but his mind is swimming with thoughts.
He waits until they’re all inside before he broaches the subject. “Sooo,” he says, “how did you guys find out?”
“How do you think?” Cyno shrugs. “I heard it from the aunties at the bazaar and told Tighnari and Collei.”
Of course he did. Considering he’s the General Mahamatra, maybe the aunties’ definition of “Akademiya folk” is a little bit looser than Kaveh had thought—which makes sense in retrospect, given their acceptance of Kaveh himself.
Kaveh opens his mouth to reply, but Tighnari, whose keen eyes have been scanning Kaveh since they all walked inside, takes the opportunity to cut in.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he says, prying, “but Kaveh, you’re not actually pregnant, are you.”
Kaveh freezes. He’s overestimated Tighnari’s sense of decorum—or rather, overestimated how much Tighnari
cares
about decorum. “Well,” he says, scrambling for an excuse. If they find out he accidentally told everyone he’s pregnant when he’s not anything at all, he’ll be the laughingstock of biweekly TCG game night from now until the end of time.
Then, Kaveh has the best idea he’s ever had in his life. He places a hand on the kid’s shoulder and smiles brightly. “No, but Al-Haitham and I just adopted! This is the kid!”
The kid stiffens under his hand, which is good, because it means he’s too frozen with rage to throw Kaveh’s hand off. Tighnari blinks rapidly, and even Cyno looks taken aback.
Collei is the first to shake off her surprise. Maybe Kaveh misjudged her. “Awww, that’s very sweet,” she offers.
Kaveh brightens. “Thank you, Collei,” he says. What a good kid. He turns to the kid. “Why can’t you be more like her?” he asks rhetorically.
The kid glares and opens his mouth, but Kaveh cuts him off before he can say something truthful and incriminate them both. “Why don’t you two go and play? The adults are talking,” he says.
“Wait,” Cyno says, and it’s Kaveh’s turn to freeze. To his relief, though, all Cyno says is, “What’s his name, anyways? You just called him ‘the kid’ so far.”
Um. “...That’s his name,” Kaveh tries. Beside him, Al-Haitham huffs, barely audible.
“Your son’s name is ‘the kid,’” Tighnari repeats. His ears twitch, which means he’s either amused or suspicious, or maybe annoyed—Kaveh can’t always tell.
“It’s spelled ‘W-A-N-D-E-R-E-R,’” the kid offers, diabolically. “But it’s pronounced ‘Thekid.’”
Collei looks incredibly confused.
“It’s very modern,” Kaveh adds.
Before Tighnari and Cyno can pry any further, Kaveh hastily turns towards the kid. “Off you two go, now. You guys can talk about school and stuff.”
As expected, Collei appears visibly uncertain while the kid looks downright furious, but they both head to a nearby table after a little more nudging from Kaveh.
Once they leave, Cyno crosses his arms. “He’s too old for Collei,” he says sternly.
“What?” Kaveh stares at Cyno before he realizes. “Oh, ew, no! It’s just”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“you’ve mentioned Collei wanting more friends, and the kid doesn’t exactly have that many either, so I thought it’d be nice. For both of them.”
“Huh,” is all Cyno says, but Tighnari seems pleased, tail wagging slightly.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Tighnari says. He elbows Cyno in the ribs pretty hard, if Cyno’s answering wheeze is anything to go by. “Sorry we misunderstood at first—Cyno was so sure he heard the aunties say you were pregnant. I didn’t realize you two were looking to adopt.”
Not with how much you’ve complained to me about your relationship,
he doesn’t say, but Kaveh hears him loud and clear.
Kaveh laughs awkwardly. “It may have come across that way,” he says. “And we weren’t actively looking, but we let some people know we were open to taking someone in. We didn’t really want to share it just in case, you know, we ended up disappointed.”
Tighnari nods, looking sympathetic. “So what will you tell the aunties? Since you’re not pregnant and all.”
Kaveh shrugs. Then he slides his eyes over to Cyno.
“No,” Cyno immediately says.
“Come on,” Kaveh says. “You already go to the bazaar. You just need to tell all the aunties that I wasn’t actually pregnant, and that we just adopted a son, and that it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“Isn’t it just easier for
you
to say that?”
“Absolutely not.”
Cyno shakes his head and groans, but he doesn’t outright say no, which is promising, so Kaveh takes it as a yes.
—
Kaveh still receives congratulations whenever he steps outside, but Cyno must have actually done it, because people start talking about his son instead of his baby and about his adoption instead of his pregnancy. And whenever someone
does
seem to be unaware, Kaveh corrects them.
“Thank you so much,” he’ll say, “but Haitham and I actually adopted!”
And then he’ll pull out a picture of the kid that he took while the kid wasn’t looking, one where he’s not scowling or sneering or snarling and actually looks kind of sweet, all things considered. And then the people will apologize and coo over the picture, while Kaveh magnanimously accepts their apologies.
“He’s
very
cute, isn’t he?” he’ll say. And, “Well, I didn’t realize the misunderstanding at first, honestly, because Haitham and I still call him our blessing from the Dendro Archon. Yes, yes, exactly right—our little blessing!”
These are all things the kid would hate if he ever heard them, which is why Kaveh keeps saying them. And if his smile becomes a little more genuine each time, well. That’s nobody’s business but his own.
The other benefit of convincing people he’s not actually pregnant but still with child is that it nets him a few more clients, ones who want extravagant family homes and have the money for it.
But instead of using the hours between his meetings to catch up on work, Kaveh takes the time to read through the kid’s essays himself. It wouldn’t do for Al-Haitham to actually read them and mock him for slipping behind.
They’re pretty good. Kaveh can see why he’s a rising star in Vahumana, though he catches a few spots where the kid’s arguments could be strengthened and his language tightened. He pulls his quill from behind his ear and scratches notes in the margins. Once or twice, he crosses out a sentence entirely. It feels great.
The day he finishes the kid’s essays is the day he comes home and finds Al-Haitham with a matching stack of papers in hand, each page covered in red ink. Kaveh grins. Dinner is going to be fun.
The kid comes back from a day out with the Traveler to find Kaveh and Al-Haitham sitting at the kitchen table. Kaveh looks openly gleeful, and while Al-Haitham’s face seems stoic, both of them can see how he’s thrumming with gleeful energy.
“What?” the kid says suspiciously. Then he notices the twin stacks of paper in front of them, and his eyes widen. “You actually read them?” he asks, suddenly sounding years younger.
And Kaveh realizes he’s got this kid all figured out. He just needs some acknowledgement and validation—just like Kaveh does—and someone who knows how to read him—just like Al-Haitham does.
To be fair, the kid’s more expressive than Al-Haitham most days, but sometimes, his face seems frozen, as if he’s still learning how to emote. As if he really is a doll. Then, it’s only the years of practice Kaveh has at reading Al-Haitham that allows him to parse the glint in the kid’s eye, the way his fingers curl at his side.
“Yep, and we’ve got feedback.” Kaveh grins, though it feels more like he’s baring his teeth. “So sit down, mister, because we want to get through this by midnight.”
The ensuing debate lasts until the early hours of the next morning, and all three of them sleep through their alarms and spend the morning rushing to get ready. At the front door, Al-Haitham catches Kaveh by the chin and reels him in for their now-routine morning kiss, before all of them dash out the door.
“Have a nice day at school,” Kaveh yells as the kid leaps into the air.
“Screw you,” the kid yells back, but he’s laughing as he flies away.
—
When Kaveh wakes a few days later, he knows it’s going to be a bad day. The light gives him a migraine as soon as he opens his eyes, and his head hurts so badly he can’t do anything but lay there and groan pitifully.
Then a large hand covers his eyes, feeling blessedly cool against his overheated skin.
“Shh,” Al-Haitham soothes. “Go back to sleep. I’ve already contacted your clients.”
Head hazy from sleep and muddled with pain, Kaveh lets his eyes fall back shut. He hears Al-Haitham leave, the door gently shutting behind him.
“What’s wrong with him?” The voice is muffled through the walls. Kaveh presses his head against the cold plaster and sighs in relief.
“Migraine,” Al-Haitham replies. “I keep telling him to not strain his eyes as much, but.”
He starts to say something else, but at that moment, Kaveh falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He drags himself back to consciousness a short while later, his migraine quelled to a dull throb and his mouth feeling like sandpaper. He swallows a bit and grimaces, before that same cool hand is tilting back his chin and a cup of water is held to his mouth. Kaveh drinks gratefully. The water is warm and tastes mildly sweet.
“How long have I been out?” Kaveh attempts to ask after swallowing, but it comes out more like “eurgh.”
Al-Haitham seems to understand anyways. “Six hours,” he says. His hand on Kaveh’s chin remains firm even as Kaveh jolts in surprise. “I already rescheduled your meetings to next week.”
Kaveh catches Al-Haitham’s hand as it starts to drop and presses it to his cheek. He nuzzles in, closes his eyes, and sighs, content.
“And the kid?”
“Here,” the kid says, walking in. Kaveh cracks open his eyes a sliver to see a proffered cup. “Tea.”
Kaveh takes it. “From Inazuma?”
“No. Nahida made it for me when I was–” The kid cuts himself off.
Kaveh pretends not to notice and takes a sip. He can tell it’s supposed to be bitter, but the tea has been generously sweetened to mask the astringent aftertaste.
“Shouldn’t you be calling her something else?” he says. “She is older than you, you know. How about Aunty Nahida?”
The kid rears back. “Ugh, gross. Not a chance,” he says. “And she’s
not
older than me, by the way.”
He spins on his heel and stalks back out the door. “I hope you get an even worse migraine,” he spits, but closes the door softly on his way out.
Kaveh looks at Al-Haitham, and can tell he’s amused by the way his lips purse and the light gleams in his eyes.
“Do you think he’s going through puberty?” he asks, and Al-Haitham lets a huff out that, for him, is just as exuberant as peals of laughter.
—
A few weeks pass. The kid goes to school; Al-Haitham and Kaveh go to work. They keep experimenting with Inazuman recipes at night, and Kaveh and the kid go to the bazaar together to find passable substitutes for ingredients like Naku Weed and Seagrass.
“He’s far too skinny,” Nour-aunty chides the first time they visit, Aunty Zeena nodding in agreement.
“I
know
, right?” Kaveh says, feeling vindicated. Al-Haitham always says the kid is perfectly fine, but that’s because he was also a too-skinny kid before he got buff. “I keep trying to put some meat on his bones, but it’s like he burns fat faster than he puts it on.”
“Ah, the privileges of youth,” Nour-aunty sighs. “Enjoy it while it lasts, dear,” she tells the kid, and presses extra candies into his hands. “Not too sweet, right?” She winks, taps the side of her nose. “Just like your father.”
A few folks comment on how doll-like the kid looks, but Kaveh notices how the kid’s eyes shutter at that and immediately resolves to do something about it. The next time someone mentions it, Kaveh shrugs.
“Is that so?” he asks blithely. “I think I like him much better as a person than a doll.”
When he looks to his side, the kid is staring at him like he’s hung all the stars in the sky. When he catches Kaveh looking, he pastes on a scowl and looks away, and Kaveh has to bite back a victorious grin.
Besides that, the kid bears all the cheek-pinching and coddling remarkably well. Kaveh points out the particularly good stalls to him, and he learns to play those folks like a lyre.
“Oh, I always wanted something like this when, well, you know,” he’ll say, sounding sad and wistful, and they’ll get 40 percent off a painting that Kaveh was eyeing for the living room.
“I never managed to have fresh peaches as a kid,” he’ll sigh, and the uncle will pile on peaches until the basket is close to overflowing.
“You’re so diabolical,” Kaveh will laugh once they’re far enough away from the bazaar to be safe.
The kid will grin in that self-satisfied, knife-sharp way of his. “It’s their fault they’re stupid enough to fall for it,” he’ll say, and Kaveh will pretend to scold him for it.
—
Before they know it, it’s time for the Akademiya Extravaganza. Nahida nominates the kid and, well, all of Kshahrewar nominates Kaveh. They’re accepted fairly quickly as representatives, while Al-Haitham gets roped into playing commentator. He’s paired with Nilou, a nice girl who spends a long time cooing over the kid and how sweet it is for him and Al-Haitham to adopt a kid so old.
“A lot of teenagers just age out of the system,” she tells him. “It really is so sad. You and Al-Haitham have done such a great thing.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Kaveh says, chancing a glance at the kid, who’s too preoccupied with eating the spicy Harra Fruit candy Nilou gave him to react. “Such a shame, definitely. When Haitham and I got this opportunity, we knew we couldn’t refuse.”
“Hm? What’s this?” Another contestant is walking over, whom Kaveh vaguely recognizes. Madam Faruzan, from Haravatat—Al-Haitham’s talked about her research before. “This is your son?” she asks.
Kaveh slings an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, this is my kid!” he says brightly. “Say hello, kid.”
“Screw you,” the kid says, shaking Kaveh’s arm off. He tucks the candy into his cheek so it bulges out like a chipmunk and sneers at Madam Faruzan.
Kaveh laughs, a little awkwardly. “So cute!” he says. It is, actually, incredibly cute.
Madam Faruzan doesn’t seem impressed. “He looks your age,” she points out, which is either very rude or a very nice compliment. Kaveh chooses to believe the latter.
“Thank you,” he says magnanimously, “but I’m not
that
young anymore. And he’s–” He stops and looks at the kid consideringly. “How old are you?”
“Five hundred years old,” the kid deadpans.
Kaveh laughs again, even more forced this time. “Kids these days, right?”
But Madam Faruzan doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s looking at the kid critically, with something like understanding in her eyes. “No, no,” she says. “I see.” She turns to Kaveh. “You’ve done a good thing here, boy.”
Kaveh nods like he knows what’s going on. “Yes,” he agrees. “Haitham and I think adoption is very important.”
That’s apparently not the right thing to say, because Madam Faruzan scoffs at him. “He’s not the brightest, is he,” she says to the kid.
The kid looks back at her levelly. “Don’t talk about my mom that way,” he snarks, and Kaveh chokes on his spit in surprise.
—
When the Traveler asks him about the prize money, Kaveh says he wants to buy a place of his own. He doesn’t know why he says it, not really, doesn’t even know if he means it anymore. He doesn’t know if Al-Haitham hears it, but he can tell the kid does, because he stiffens and his expression slides back into that cursed blankness.
The thing is, Kaveh knows. He’s too good at reading Al-Haitham to
not
know they have… feelings for each other. They sleep in the same bed together, for goodness sake. It’s always been frighteningly easy to fall into this pattern together, of sharing space, of buying groceries for two, of kissing inside the privacy of Al-Haitham’s house. Kissing only in his bedroom, at night, in the dark.
If they had started this years ago, while they were both still at the Akademiya, maybe Kaveh would have wanted to talk about it. Would have demanded that Al-Haitham define what they are, delineate the boundaries of what they are to each other. But when they’d fallen together, years after they first fell apart, he was happy with the way things were.
And he’s happy with the way things are now, he truly is. He likes how he and the kid are the only ones who can read Al-Haitham, the only ones who can really rile him up. He likes how he and Al-Haitham and Nahida are the only ones who can read the kid.
Kaveh likes how good Al-Haitham is with the kid, how he’ll listen to the kid practice his presentations and offer unsolicited feedback on his essays. He likes the way they’ll have debates over the dinner table. He likes buying groceries for three.
He likes how he and Al-Haitham will kiss in the daylight now, and at the door before Al-Haitham leaves for work.
They still haven’t talked about it, because they’ve never talked about stuff like this. But if he had to be really honest, Kaveh would say that he’s always wanted to say it:
I love you
. They’ve never said it, not to each other. It wouldn’t be ‘them’ to say it, if there’s a them that can be defined in such a manner. But Kaveh thinks about saying it often to Al-Haitham, thinks about how he’d react, how his mouth would twitch and his eyes would brighten. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say he dreams of it.
Against all odds, Kaveh wins, albeit with a few scrapes. He listens to Sachin. He smashes the diadem. He finds Al-Haitham and learns about his father. He heads home with takeout, leaves it on the counter for Al-Haitham and the kid without a word, and crawls into bed and falls asleep quickly.
They don’t talk about it when Al-Haitham climbs into bed. Nor do they talk about it the next day, or the next, or the next. Kaveh is quiet and Al-Haitham is quieter. Even the kid stays out of his way.
Finally, the kid walks in one day while Al-Haitham’s at work and Kaveh’s wallowing in bed. “That was stupid,” he says. “You’re stupid.”
“Hey,” Kaveh says, but he’s a little relieved. Visible anger is better than that blankness he knows the kid wears like armor.
“Were you actually going to do it?” the kid asks. His voice very carefully does not wobble. “Buy another house and leave?”
Kaveh sits up and thinks about it for a long, long moment. “No,” he finally says, and he’s relieved to see that he means it. “I think I would have always donated it. Or spent it all on a project.”
The kid walks up and punches Kaveh in the arm. Hard.
“Ow,” Kaveh yelps, and studiously pretends not to see the tears welling up in the kid’s eyes.
“Don’t say you’re going to do something you’re not even going to do,” the kid snaps. He drags his arm across his eyes roughly and turns to leave.
“Hey,” Kaveh calls after him.
The kid stops but doesn’t turn.
“You know I love you, right?” The words fall off Kaveh’s tongue as easily as his name.
“Yeah,” the kid says, roughly. He turns enough so Kaveh can see his face, can see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know.”
After that conversation, Kaveh showers, gets dressed, and leaves the house for the first time in days. He stops by the bazaar and makes his rounds with all the aunties, but he doesn’t buy much this time. He just buys sweets from Nour-aunty and picks up something from the merchant with the expensive but high-quality stationery.
Then he swings by Lambad's Tavern and picks up some fish rolls and their Sabz Meat Stew, which Al-Haitham secretly likes even though he says he can make it so much better himself. Then he goes home.
When he steps inside, he sees Al-Haitham sitting in the living room. Kaveh finds that he’s not surprised at that.
“I got a new pen from the market,” Kaveh says in greeting. “From that stall you like. It’s supposed to have a heavier inkflow without smudging. And I got pastries.” Al-Haitham simply looks at him, which makes Kaveh nervous. “The ones that aren’t too sweet, from Nour-aunty,” Kaveh adds. “You know, I think she’s really warming up to you. Or, at least, the idea of you.”
Al-Haitham stands, puts down the book in his hand, and walks over to Kaveh. He stands close enough that Kaveh can see the fading scar on his cheek, his chapped lips. Can see the way Al-Haitham’s eyes dance.
“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says. “I love you too.”
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
Adolin stared at Kaladin’s sleeping face for some time longer, and then carefully slipped out of bed, holding his breath and watching for any further motion. Kaladin didn't stir. Adolin stood at the side of the bed for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then he searched around the room until he found his robe. He picked it up from the corner where it had been kicked the previous night and put it on. Then he straightened up, glanced around at the discarded clothing scattered across the floor, and blushed.
He slowly started to gather up the clothes, shooting nervous glances at the bed. Adolin had presented at the usual age of sixteen, and therefore his first rut had been nearly eight years ago. He was not a virgin by any definition of the word, but he found himself feeling nearly as uncertain as he’d felt all those years before. Despite his reputation as a charmer and a man-about-camp, Adolin had only ever had sex during rut. Not to mention that almost all of his partners had been betas. His family, like most high dahn houses, primarily hired betas for cycle support. They made up more than half of the population, after all, and were the preferred secondary sex for unpartnered ruts. They were reliable, not prone to the hormonal disruptions that a strong alpha could provoke, and were less likely to become unduly attached after a rut (or after a heat, he supposed, but up until now that had seemed like far less of a concern). A few of his cycle supports over the years had been omegas, but the royal family had a strict policy of only hiring omegas if they were old enough that they didn't go into heat anymore. As far as being a full heat-partner, and an imprinted one at that… this was uncharted territory for him.
He set the clothes down on top of his dresser and started to sort them out by owner, shooting another nervous glance at the bed. Last night had gone… fine, from what he could tell. Kaladin certainly seemed to be feeling better, at any rate. And, (so far, at least) Adolin had been able to keep up. Storms. What had it been, four times? Five times?
Adolin shook his head with a rueful smile. He doubted even the most extreme rumors about his amorous capacities ascribed to him the ability to go five times in one night. Thank the Almighty that the heightened hormones of an omega in heat had such a strong influence on their partners, or else Adolin would have definitely needed to call in a backup crew. And… he didn't know Kaladin very well, but from what he
did
know, Adolin felt quite confident that the absurdly-private, closed-off man preferred a partner to a pack. Despite the abject devotion his bridgemen had for him, Adolin was willing to bet that Kaladin had very few close friends.
Hmm. That was something the two of them had in common. Adolin was
friendly
with nearly everyone he met, and he had a wide social circle, but it was hard to have close friends as a Kholin. Especially as third-in-line to the throne of Alethkar. One never knew who to trust.
Adolin finished sorting the clothes and looked over at Kaladin again. He was sprawled beneath the blankets, breathing slow, his chest rising and falling softly. There was a peaceful look on his sleeping features that Adolin had
certainly
never seen on him while awake.
Adolin hesitated, not knowing what to do. He was growing more and more nervous of how Kaladin was going to respond when he finally woke up. And he was starting to feel quite uncomfortable. Apparently the hormonal effects of heat persisted during sleep. At least, Adolin assumed so, based on the way his dick was acting.
He squirmed, looking away from Kaladin and taking a deep breath. Storms, if someone had told him two weeks ago that the gruff former slave with no sense of humor would be affecting him like this, Adolin would have laughed in their face. Turns out the joke was on him.
Adolin drew his robe tighter around himself and wrapped the tie firmly around his waist, tying it in a double-knot before crossing his bedchamber and slipping into his sitting room. The Kholin fortress was simple, but spacious. Adolin's rooms sat on one side of a small wing of the fortress, Renarin's mirroring his on the other side. In order, Adolin’s rooms comprised a spacious bathchamber with running water, then his bedroom, then his sitting-room-slash-entrance-chamber. He crossed his sitting room, slowly cracked one of the doors open, and peered out into the hall.
Rather than the two guardsmen he expected, no less than five bridgemen stood outside his door. Adolin blinked, grateful he hadn't fully opened the door. He didn't relish the thought of five members of Bridge Four catching a glimpse of the hard-on he was currently sporting for their sleeping captain. Their fascinating, intense, beautiful sleeping captain.
Adolin blinked again and gave himself an internal shake. None of that. That was all hormones.
“Two guards per man plus one bonus, I see,” he said, flashing the guardsmen his trademark grin. The man in the center, a slender makabaki omega, turned around and saluted him. He didn't return Adolin's smile, his expression guarded.
“Yes, brightlord,” he answered quietly. Adolin wracked his memories for the man's name. Sigzil? Yes, that was it. As with most of Bridge Four, he'd been around the royal family on a semi-regular basis since the Tower Battle. He was quiet but pleasant enough, rather soft-spoken, fluent in Alethi but with a strong Azish accent.
Sigzil’s voice broke into Adolin's recollections. “Are you taking good care of our captain? Brightlord?” he asked. His voice was just as quiet as before, but his jaw was firm, and his expression might have been… accusatory?
Well that was a fine how-do-you-do. As if Adolin had
wanted
this.
“I hope so,” Adolin replied, glancing back over his shoulder towards the open door to his bedroom, “I think so? He’s still sleeping.”
The remaining four guardsmen were all betas. One of them (Peet, Adolin thought) huffed and said “If the
captain
is sleeping this late, that either means he's doing better or that he's deathly ill. Never met someone who sleeps as little as he does.”
As the rest of the guards chuckled, Adolin forcibly calmed an unexpected rush of panic that curled through his stomach. It was a joke. Kaladin was
fine.
He forced himself to smile along with the guards.
“Sigzil?” he said, turning to him, “What do omegas eat for breakfast?”
Sigzil gave him a carefully-blank look. “Well, Brightlord,” he said slowly, as if he were unsure whether Adolin was making fun of him, “we are generally fond of eating normal food, the same as betas. The same as alphas, even.”
Adolin suppressed a sigh. “I should have clarified. What do omegas
in heat
eat for breakfast?”
Sigzil looked at him for a moment longer and then seemed to relax. “Sometimes nothing. Sometimes everything,” he said, peering at him. “Hmm… heat is very uncomfortable, brightlord. It is hard to anticipate what an omega may crave at that time, but most types of fruit are a reasonable choice.”
“Perfect,” Adolin said distractedly, glancing back towards the bedroom door, “can you please tell my servants to inform the kitchens? And have them send tea, and some ice, and… well, you would know better than I would. Just have them send an assortment of whatever you think he might like. Uh. You should probably tell them to send some more bed linens as well.”
He felt his cheeks coloring with faint embarrassment at that last request and hastily continued. “Has the palace physician been notified?”
“He has,” one of the betas answered, a tall man Adolin thought was named Drehy. “He’s waiting in one of the workrooms nearby, he says to call ‘when his highness thinks it is appropriate,’ and that if he doesn't hear from you he'll come by at the fourteenth hour.”
“Perfect,” Adolin said, “I'll leave the door to the entrance chamber unbarred. Um. I had better go, I'm not sure how he's going to be when he wakes up…”
He trailed off into silence and then mumbled a goodbye and closed the door. The last glimpse he caught of the dark-skinned omega’s face was concerned.
*
Darkness. Thick, hot darkness, dull wisps like red fog swirling around brown fragments of light. Darkness, and heat, and
pain-
Kaladin moaned as he slowly drifted towards consciousness, recognizing the dull, sluggish colors as an illusion beneath his closed eyelids. Likely a side effect of the sharp aching flashes that burst through his skull with each heartbeat. He tried to blink his eyes open and immediately shut them again with another moan. Another stabbing pulse lanced through his head at the blinding sunlight. Fuck, he hadn’t remembered his captain’s quarters getting this bright, he needed to get curtains or something…
Kaladin squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and curled up, clutching his stomach, suddenly aware of an overwhelming, cramping pressure in his low back. What had he gotten into last night?! He felt… he felt
awful
, he hadn’t felt this ill since… since…
Since…
No.
He snapped his eyes open with a sharp inhale and fumbled a hand up to shade his face, the intense sunlight of the Plains pouring in through an unfamiliar window and turning everything around him to a blinding field of white. He could feel his breathing speed up, his chest tightening as his brain sluggishly worked to grasp the situation. No. Fuck, no… This wasn’t his bed. These weren’t his rooms. And that
smell,
that earthy, intoxicating scent all over the sheets…. that was…that…
Kaladin stifled a moan and scrambled to an upright position, ignoring the twin pains in his head and his back, painspren starting to wriggle up through the sheets and creeping towards him. No. No, not again… this wasn’t supposed to happen, this was supposed to be
over,
he was supposed to be
safe-
He forced his eyelids open, heart pounding, and stared wildly around the room before his eyes caught the sight of an armchair against the opposite wall. An armchair occupied by Adolin Kholin. Shardbearer, horseman, irritating fool… and alpha. An alpha who was staring directly at him, wearing nothing but a robe.
An overwhelming rush of thick, hot panic burst through Kaladin’s chest. He lurched away and scrambled across the bed, falling off the side of it in his haste and hitting the ground with a dull
thunk
. He ignored the flash of pain up his hip and scrambled against the wall, putting his back to it and staring around wildly. Bile rose in his throat as he realized he was naked. He dropped forward onto his knees and pulled a blanket from the bed, holding it to his chest and falling back against the wall, heart pounding frenzied in his chest, his ears ringing, vision going black at the edges.
This. wasn’t. supposed. to.
happen.
Adolin stood up, a look of concern on his face, and took a step towards him.
“Don’t you move!” Kaladin shouted, throwing a shaking hand out in front of him. As if that would do anything. As if that had
ever
done anything. Why had he ever thought it would change? Why had he assumed Dalinar was different? A lighteyes, a royal, an alpha and a father of alphas… How could Kaladin have been so fucking
stupid?
Why had he thought Dalinar would do anything other than stand aside and let this happen, just like every single
fucking
brightlord he’d ever
fucking known?
Adolin held his hands up, palms out. “Kaladin-” he started.
“Shut up!”
Kaladin yelled, scrambling to his feet and stumbling sideways along the wall, one hand clutching the blanket to himself and the other trying to steady himself against the stone. He made it a few steps towards the door before he was overwhelmed by vertigo and nausea. As the room spun around him he dimly realized he’d fallen to his knees, fresh pain searing through his legs to join the pounding in his head and the spasms in his back. He failed to stifle a whimper as he looked up at the alpha on the other side of the room, somehow looming over him despite the distance.
Tingling in the extremities
, his father’s voice whispered in his head,
chest pain, shortness of breath, vertigo, and nausea. All signs of hyperventilation provoked by a panic response. Not fatal, but certainly uncomfortable. The patient should be moved to a quiet environment and calmed.
“Kaladin,” Adolin said again, “please, it’s all right, just relax-”
His voice was lower than normal, thick and strong and honey-smooth, and Kaladin gasped as a nauseating shock of desire curled low in his gut. Fuck this stupid, traitorous,
weak
body,
fuck-
“Don't you alpha-voice me,” he snarled, wrapping an arm around himself as another spasm of pain shot through his stomach. He raised a trembling finger in Adolin’s direction. “Don’t you
fucking dare
try to alpha voice
me!-”
He cut off with a moan and curled forward over his knees. His vision was darkening further. He felt a sudden desire to laugh at the absurdity of his father’s remedy for panic. It seemed an absolutely glaring oversight that he hadn’t included any recommendations for what to do when the fear was over actual, impending harm.
Through his haze of pain and distress Kaladin realized that, oddly, Adolin had stayed on the other side of the room. He hesitantly looked up to see that Adolin had his palms held up again in a gesture of placation. When he met Kaladin’s eyes, he slowly backed up and lowered himself down to the armchair.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice back to normal. It sounded as though he was expending deliberate effort to keep it steady. “I wasn’t trying to alpha-voice you. I didn’t even know I was doing it.”
Kaladin barked out a harsh laugh at that and then broke off into another moan of pain. He tried to edge towards the door again, but once more, he was overwhelmed with nausea and vertigo. He fell forward onto his hands with a whimper and then jerked his head up, trying to keep the alpha in his sight. As his vision slowly cleared, he saw that Adolin was surrounded by the twisting black crosses of anxietyspren.
Huh. That was weird.
Kaladin blinked, trying to focus. Yes, those were anxietyspren all right. Well
that
was a sight he wasn’t used to seeing from alphas in this situation.
Adolin’s hands tightened on the armrests as he stared across the room at Kaladin. He almost looked… nervous?
Adolin swallowed and started to speak again. “Kaladin,” he said, “you can go. I’m not trying to keep you here. There are five members of Bridge Four right outside the entrance chamber, I can get them in here right now if you want.”
Kaladin stared at him dumbly, trying to make sense of the words.
“Just… please,” Adolin continued, anxietyspren still swirling around his head, “please just take a moment and try to remember yesterday. I… it seems like maybe you don’t remember everything, yet… I’ll stay right here, just please, think about it. I won’t get up from this chair, I promise.”
The promise of an alpha. As if
that
meant anything.
He
wasn’t
moving from the chair, though. That was… odd. Kaladin clearly couldn’t defend himself right now, so why would he just… sit there?
Kaladin took a deep breath, vision clearing slightly, trying to control his breathing. He eyed Adolin suspiciously as the pounding in his chest lessened. When Adolin still didn’t move, Kaladin slowly pushed himself back up to a seated position. He sat back and looked down to see that he was surrounded by concentric rings of anguishspren, their jagged, tooth-like protrusions spreading out from him in a grotesque pool. The painspren from before had followed him off the bed and multiplied, swarming over his bruised knees and reaching towards his chest. And mixed in among them all were the wriggling shapes of fearspren.
It all made a pretty picture, the classic emotional omega surrounded by the evidence of his helplessness.
He gave Adolin another suspicious glance and then tried to force some rational thoughts through the screaming noise of his mind.
Try to remember yesterday,
Adolin had said. Why… why would he say that? What… Yesterday…
Kaladin took a slow, shaky breath as his mind struggled to comply. Yesterday… He had started with patrol, and then had spent several hours at the training grounds, with
that
man, as a matter of fact. He remembered… he remembered growing frustration, a pounding in his head as the day went on, remembered that Adolin’s annoying face got on his nerves more and more every time he looked at it…
He’d been in a terrible mood by the time he’d made it back to quarters. Teft had taken one look at him and declared that he was getting sick, which was
nonsense.
Kaladin felt
fine.
Teft had been persistent, though, so Kaladin had finally just let him take his night guard shift and had gone to bed.
And that was that. He had gone to bed, and then… and then he had woken into this nightmare, the recurrent horror that was his life ever since Amaram had betrayed him, taken everything from him and given him up to the non-existent mercy of highborn alphas.
Kaladin shook his head, confused. No… that didn’t make sense. He… He would remember being taken here, wouldn’t he?
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the rest of the memories started to form in Kaladin’s mind. He… he hadn’t been taken anywhere. He’d woken up in his own quarters… absolutely
burning
with need,
soaked,
confused and angry and… and…
And full of a bone-deep assurance that the only person who could quell the fire burning through him, a fire rising faster and higher than he’d ever known, was Adolin Kholin.
Kaladin groaned and slumped back on his heels. The fearspren slowly started to fade, shamespren fluttering down to take their place. Fucking damnation. He remembered, now. Remembered storming through camp, stumbling hazily through the halls of the fortress. Remembered the intense
relief
he’d felt when he’d finally made his way to Adolin’s door, his
fury
at Teft and Leyten- why had they been acting so
stupid
, didn’t they see how badly Kaladin
needed
this- and then… and then…
Kaladin felt his cheeks burning as more shamespren fluttered down around him. The anguishspren and fearspren were slowly fading, although his legs and stomach still crawled with painspren. Crawled with painspren from the familiar cramping pain that accompanied his heats. He hadn’t thought he was due, had never expected this to happen, but… Well, apparently he wasn’t immune to alpha hormones.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Fuck,” Kaladin muttered. He took several deep breaths before looking up at Adolin. Adolin met his eyes with an expression of cautious relief, several of the anxietyspren disappearing.
“I swear, Kaladin, I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said quietly.
“Yeah… yeah, I know,” Kaladin muttered, suddenly exhausted. He ran a hand over his face with a shaky sigh. He remembered more, now. Remembered the dizzying relief he’d felt, when he’d finally fallen into Adolin’s arms and breathed in his scent. Remembered… remembered stumbling across the chamber, supported in his arms… pushing him down to the bed, fumbling with his clothes… the taste of him, the smell of him, the
sight
of him, the wild pleasure of finally,
finally
sinking down onto him, the intense and heady heights of release that only a heat could bring, over and over and over…
More shamespren drifted down around him. Fuck.
Fuck
. Kaladin had never spontaneously imprinted before, but he’d be an idiot if he couldn’t recognize that that was what this was. Damnation.
Fuck
.
Why did it have to be
Adolin?
Adolin’s voice drifted across the room. “You can leave. I… I did this because I thought it was the best choice. If I was wrong, you can leave. Storms… if I was
right
you can leave, I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay, we have the best physicians in Alethkar here to help you transfer partners-”
“No,” Kaladin interrupted, slowly getting to his feet. He swayed, shivered, and wrapped the blanket closer around himself, stifling a moan at the cramping in his low back.
Adolin fell silent. He eyed him warily as Kaladin gave one last, longing glance towards the door and then turned and made his way to the bed. Kaladin slumped down on the edge of it, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head. As his panic had faded, the pain in his stomach, back, and head had redoubled, joining the dull throbbing in his hip and his knees.
Kaladin tensed against another wave of nausea and then shivered. He let the blanket he had clutched around his shoulders drop to the floor and slowly crawled beneath the thick quilt on Adolin’s bed. He turned his face tiredly towards where Adolin sat, stiff and nervous in the armchair.
“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” he mumbled.
Adolin met his eyes and swallowed unsteadily. “Yeah,” he responded, “if you are.”
Kaladin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hating the irresistible sense of consolation that swept through him at those words, hating how much he
needed
it. Hating how much he wanted it.
He opened his eyes and met Adolin’s gaze again. “All right, then,” he murmured, “get over here.”
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 21
Inuyasha stood beside Kirara, his back to the girls, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. "I ain't leavin'," he called over his shoulder, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "So ya might wanna get out and covered."
Kagome couldn't help but laugh, her cheeks still flaming. She turned to Sango, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Guess we'd better do as he says, huh?" she whispered. They both climbed out of the springs, wrapping themselves in their towels with practiced ease, the tension in the air dissipating into laughter.
Inuyasha's ears twitched, but he remained steadfast, his eyes averted from the women. "Sango, get dressed," he barked, his tone firm but not unkind. "Take Kirara with you. We'll be along in a bit."
Sango nodded, her cheeks still red, and with a grateful smile at Kagome, she left with her furry protector. Inuyasha waited until the sound of their footsteps had faded before turning around. His gaze swept over Kagome, taking in the sight of her glistening skin and the way the towel clung to her curves. He couldn't help but feel a surge of desire, a reminder of their earlier encounter.
"Did that idiot see you?" he asked gruffly, the question heavy with a mix of jealousy and concern.
Kagome rolled her eyes, the towel sliding down to reveal her bare shoulder. "No, thanks to you and Kirara," she said with a chuckle. "But Sango's going to have a few choice words for him later, I'm sure."
Inuyasha's expression softened, and he stepped closer, his eyes tracing the delicate line of her neck. "Good," he murmured, his voice low and possessive. "You're mine, Kagome." His hand reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against her soft skin. "And I'm yours."
Kagome leaned into his touch, her heart swelling with love. "Always," she whispered, her eyes locking with his.
Inuyasha's gaze searched hers, the intensity of his feelings written clearly on his face. He leaned down and claimed her lips in a gentle kiss that spoke of his devotion and the depth of their bond. The water on her skin was still warm, their breaths mingling as the kiss deepened. His hand slid down to her waist, pulling her closer to his body, and she could feel the heat of his desire for her.
They broke apart, panting slightly, the air thick with the scent of their arousal. "I should really get dressed," Kagome murmured, though she made no move to do so.
Inuyasha smirked as his eyes raked over her damp figure, the towel slipping down slightly to reveal the swell of her breasts. "You should," he agreed, though his voice held a clear note of reluctance. His hand slid down to her hip, his thumb tracing the edge of the fabric. "But I'm not sure I'm ready to let you go just yet."
Her heart skipped a beat at the way he said that, the raw desire in his eyes sending a thrill through her. She stepped closer, her body fitting perfectly against his. The mating marks on her skin pulsed with a gentle reminder of their bond, and she couldn't resist the urge to press herself against him.
"Oh, really?" she whispered, the challenge in her voice unmistakable. Her pulse raced as she stepped even closer, the heat of his body warming her even through the towel. "And why is that?"
Inuyasha's smirk grew, his eyes darkening with hunger. "Because," he said, leaning in to nip at her earlobe, "I wanna make sure you never forget who you belong to." His voice was a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine, his breath hot against her neck.
Her grin grew, a small curve of her lips as she tilted her head back to look up into his eyes, her own sparkling with mischief. "Oh, trust me, my mate," she purred, her voice a seductive whisper that sent a thrill through him. "I could never forget who owns me."
The words hung in the air, a declaration that sent a jolt of possessiveness through Inuyasha's body. He growled, low and deep, and crushed her to him, his hand slipping around to the back of her neck to hold her in place. His mouth claimed hers in a fiery kiss that seemed to burn away all thoughts of anything but the here and now.
Kagome's towel fell away, forgotten in the passionate embrace. Her skin was slick with water and the scent of the springs, a tantalizing aroma that only served to fuel Inuyasha's desire. He ran his hands over her body, tracing the curves and valleys that he knew so well, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. She shivered against him, her own need growing with every stroke of his calloused fingers.
His tongue slipped into her mouth, tangling with hers in a dance that was both familiar and electrifying. The taste of him, the feel of his strong body pressed against hers—it was intoxicating. Kagome's hands roamed over his broad back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his clothes as he held her in place, his right hand firm on the nape of her neck, keeping her just where he wanted her. His left hand cupped her ass, pulling her against him with a possessive growl that sent a jolt of pure lust through her veins. She could feel his arousal pressing against her, hot and demanding, a silent declaration of his need for her.
Breaking the kiss, she began to pull and push and tug at his clothing with a desperation that matched the pounding of her heart. She was eager to feel his bare skin against hers once more, to reaffirm their bond and to lose herself in the passion that always seemed to consume them. His obi was the first to go, unraveled with a flick of her wrist, followed by his suikan which pooled around his feet. The hadagi underneath was next, revealing the taut expanse of his chest, the muscles rippling as he moved.
"Fuck, you're so hot," Kagome whispered, her eyes roving over his exposed body, drinking in the sight of his taut muscles and the smattering of scars that told a story of battles fought and won.
Her hands didn't waste a moment. They roamed his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles and scars, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. Her fingers danced over his skin like a lover's melody, exploring the landscape of his body with a hunger that mirrored the need in her own core. Her mouth followed the path of her hands, leaving a trail of kisses and nips that had him panting and groaning with desire. Each touch was a declaration of her love and her need for him, a silent promise of the passion that was about to unfold.
Inuyasha's eyes closed, his breath hitching as her soft, wet kisses traveled down his torso. The feel of her warm breath against his skin was torture, a sweet torment that had his cock aching for release. His hands found the small of her back, his claws digging into her flesh lightly as he held her against him, urging her to continue her exploration. His hips rolled, the fabric of his hakama the only barrier between them now, the heat of his arousal searing through the thin material.
Kagome's chuckle was muffled against his throat as she began to untie the knots that held his hakama in place. Her nimble fingers worked quickly, a silent promise of what was to come. "I thought you were going to show me that I belong to no one but you?" she teased, her voice a soft purr that made his blood boil with need.
Inuyasha's grip on her tightened, his eyes snapping open to meet hers. "You do," he growled, his voice a rough whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. "And I'll show you exactly who you belong to, right here, right now."
Her grin turned wicked as she said, "We'll see about that." With a playful tug, she loosened the ties of his hakama, and they dropped to his ankles, leaving him in a state of vulnerability that was both thrilling and infuriating. The mischief in her eyes was unmistakable as she took a step back, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth beneath her. "Sit," she murmured, and the incantation that had been lying dormant for so long activated the rosary around his neck with a sudden jolt.
Inuyasha's body was dragged to the ground, his muscles locking in place as Kagome's power flowed through the beads. He cursed with a grunt of surprise as he landed, his eyes tinging pink around the edges. She knew the spell was only temporary, but it was enough to give her a head start. "If you can catch me," she called out, her laughter like the sweetest music, "you can claim me."
Her bare feet padded softly against the earth as she sprinted away, her heart racing with excitement. The warmth of the spring air kissed her skin, the cool breeze playing with her wet hair. She heard Inuyasha's growl of frustration followed by the sound of his hakama being ripped from around his ankles.
The chase was on.
Their playful banter had always been a dance of power and desire, but this time, there was something different. The mating bond had changed them, deepening the connection that already existed. Kagome felt it in every fiber of her being—a primal, visceral need to submit to Inuyasha's dominance. But she also knew that in this moment, she had the upper hand. The thrill of the chase made her blood race, her heart pounding in her chest as she sprinted through the woods.
Inuyasha had been caught off guard by Kagome's sudden playfulness, but the challenge in her eyes and the smug grin on her face only served to stoke the fire of his desire. The moment the rosary's grip released him, he shot to his feet with a snarl, his eyes glowing with the promise of what was to come. "You think you can outrun me?" he called out, his voice filled with a mix of amusement and lust.
His demon was excited, eager to catch the scent of his mate and claim her once again. With a growl, he took off after her, his movements swift and silent despite the urgency that thrummed in his veins. The forest floor blurred beneath his feet, the rustling of leaves and the snap of twigs the only sounds that marked his pursuit.
Kagome's laughter echoed through the woods, a siren's call that drew him closer. He could smell her arousal, her excitement, and it only served to drive him on. His eyes narrowed, his senses honing in on her, and within moments he had her in his sights. She had paused, her back to him, her breaths coming in quick pants as she tried to catch her breath.
He grinned, his eyes glowing with the thrill of the hunt. She was so beautiful, standing there, the setting sun casting a warm glow on her damp, naked body. Kagome's heart raced as she felt Inuyasha's presence closing in, the ground vibrating slightly with each of his powerful strides. She turned to face him, her eyes sparkling with excitement and challenge.
"Inuyasha," she whispered his name, and just as he was about to reach her, she grinned mischievously and said, "Sit," the incantation leaving her lips with the same power that had sent him sprawling moments before. The rosary around his neck tightened again, jolting his body to a stop, and with a snarl, he found himself on the forest floor once more.
The sight of his eyes, now bleeding red with his inner demon, only served to excite Kagome further. She loved to see him like this, so raw and primal. Her own eyes darkened with a thrill that was part fear, part excitement. "I thought I was your bitch?" she taunted, her voice a sultry purr that seemed to echo through the trees. "Why don't you catch me and put me in my place?"
Then she was gone again, her laughter fading as she vanished into the dense underbrush. Inuyasha's eyes narrowed, his grin turning feral as he felt the challenge in her voice. He knew that tone, knew what it meant, and his blood was on fire with the need to claim her, to show her who was in charge.
The rosary loosened its grip and Inuyasha shot to his feet, his body alive with the power of his demon. His fangs elongated, his eyes blazed red, and the purple marks on his cheeks appeared. His claws extended, sharp and deadly, and he felt his full-demon cock throb with the urge to fuck his woman into submission.
He didn't run after her immediately; instead, he took a moment to savor the thrill of the chase, the scent of her arousal hanging in the air like a siren's call to his primal instincts. He smirked, knowing she enjoyed this new game as much as he did. It was a dance of power, a delicate balance that they both relished in their own ways. With a predatory grace, Inuyasha stalked through the underbrush, his eyes searching for any sign of her.
Kagome felt a spike of fear go through her as she continued to run, the sounds of his faint growls and taunts reaching her ears. The fear was exhilarating, a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that made her blood pulse in her veins. She knew he was there, could feel his eyes on her, and she reveled in the knowledge that she was his prey. The thrill of the chase made her skin tingle, her breasts heavy with desire. She knew that when he finally caught her, there would be no gentle lovemaking—it would be raw, animalistic, and everything she craved.
Inuyasha's ferel grin grew as he smelled the spike in her arousal, his ears tuning to the light patter of her bare feet on the damp forest floor. He moved with a grace that belied his half-demon form, the thrill of the hunt fueling his every step. His eyes searched the shadows, looking for a flash of skin or a glint of light on her wet hair.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the forest in an amber glow that painted the leaves in shades of gold and crimson. Kagome's heart raced, the thrill of the chase melding with the anticipation of Inuyasha's eventual capture. She ducked behind a large tree, her breaths coming in shallow pants as she listened for his approach. The rustle of leaves grew closer, the pounding of his footsteps echoing through the woods like a war drum.
Inuyasha paused in his pursuit, his knuckles cracking as he flexed his claws, his eyes scanning the area with a predatory gaze. The scent of her arousal grew stronger, the sound of her heartbeat echoing in his ears. He knew she was close, could feel the electricity in the air between them as they played out their ancient dance of power and passion. With a sudden burst of speed, he rounded the tree, expecting to find her waiting for him with a smug smile.
But she was gone. The only evidence of her presence was the faint rustle of leaves and the lingering scent of her desire. His eyes narrowed, and he growled in frustration, the sound a low rumble that reverberated through the stillness of the forest. He knew she wasn't far; she was playing a game of cat and mouse that was driving him wild with need.
The scent grew stronger, leading him deeper into the woods, the light fading with each step he took. His eyes adjusted to the twilight, the crimson of his eyes cutting through the shadows like a beacon in the night. His senses were on high alert, every nerve ending tingling with the promise of the catch. The thrill of the hunt had him in a state of heightened arousal, his cock pulsing in time with his racing heart.
He heard the faintest giggle from a nearby bush, and with a snarl, he lunged, his claws slicing through the foliage. But she wasn't there, the sound of her laughter now coming from a different direction. Kagome was toying with him, playing a seductive game of hide and seek that was pushing his control to the brink.
"You're making this too easy," Inuyasha called out, his voice a dark purr that had the leaves trembling. "But don't think that means I won't make you beg when I finally catch you."
Kagome's heart skipped a beat at his words, her breath hitching as she dashed behind a thick patch of foliage. The thrill of the game had her skin tingling, her arousal a tangible scent in the air. She knew he was playing along, but the promise of his dominance had her body craving his touch, eager to be claimed once more.
"Inuyasha," she called out in a breathy whisper, her voice carrying just enough challenge to keep the game alive. "If you can't catch me, maybe I'm not yours after all."
The sound of his deep and primal growl was music to her ears as she felt him closing in, his steps deliberate and powerful. Kagome's own heart hammered in her chest, the thrill of the game melding with the anticipation of their inevitable union. She darted through the foliage, her breasts bouncing with every step, the sensation sending a thrill of pleasure through her body. The forest floor was cool against her bare skin, the slight sting of the occasional rock or twig only adding to the exhilaration of the moment.
Inuyasha snarled, the sound echoing through the woods like the call of a beast on the hunt. He could feel the heat of her desire, the way it painted the very air around him, and it was driving him mad with lust. He followed the sound of her voice, his eyes glowing with a fierce need that was both thrilling and terrifying in its intensity.
Kagome's footsteps grew fainter as she slipped away, her body moving with a grace that belied her human form. She felt the power of her miko heritage coursing through her veins, the same power that allowed her to command him with a single word. Yet she knew that the moment she was in his arms, all power would be his. She was eager for that moment, for the feeling of his fangs against her throat, his cock driving deep within her.
But for now, she was the hunted, and she reveled in the thrill of it. Her breasts bounced with every step she took, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through her body. Her eyes searched the shadows, looking for a safe haven, but she knew there was no escaping Inuyasha's relentless pursuit. The thought only made her wetter, her pussy clenching with the anticipation of his touch.
Inuyasha stalked through the forest, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flaring as he picked up the scent of Kagome's arousal. He was playing the game now, his body thrumming with the excitement of the chase. He knew she was watching him, waiting for the moment he would pounce, but he was in no hurry. He enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, the way her heart raced and her breath grew shallow as he drew near.
He let her feel the warmth of his breath against the back of her neck, his hand reaching out to graze her shoulder before she slipped away again, her heart pounding in a delicious mix of fear and arousal. Kagome could feel the power of the mating bond, the invisible tether that connected them growing taut with every playful near-miss. Inuyasha's eyes gleamed with a predator's delight as he watched her weave through the trees, her movements growing more erratic with every passing moment.
Kagome was out of breath, her chest heaving with the exertion of her sprint. She leaned against the rough bark of a tree, her hand over her mouth to stifle the panting sounds that threatened to give her away. Her heart hammered in her chest like a drum, echoing in her ears as the blood rushed through her veins. The thrill of the chase had her dizzy with excitement, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glanced over her shoulder.
Inuyasha had paused a few feet away, his eyes glowing a fiery red in the encroaching twilight. She could see the muscles in his bare chest tensing, the power of his demon pulsing just beneath the surface. His nostrils flared as he took in her scent, a mix of sweat, fear, and arousal that filled the air around them. The sight of him, so powerful and primal, sent a bolt of desire straight to her core.
Kagome took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt his eyes on her. She turned back around, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. Her breathing grew shallow, the anticipation of his touch making her entire body quiver. She closed her eyes, her senses heightened as she listened to the sound of his approach. The crunch of leaves beneath his feet grew louder, his breaths hot and heavy against the back of her neck.
Inuyasha grinned as he stepped closer to the tree she was hiding behind, the scent of her need thick in the air. He knew she was just on the other side, her pulse racing with excitement. He took a deep breath, savoring her sweet scent, and then with a powerful leap, he vaulted over the tree. His body cut through the air like a blade, the wind rushing past him as he soared above the leafy canopy. For a moment, he was weightless, a predator in his element, and when he landed, it was with a grace that belied his size.
Her eyes snapped open with a mix of shock and arousal as he appeared before her. Kagome's heart skipped a beat as she took in the raw, primal desire in Inuyasha's gaze. His hand slammed against the tree next to her head, his palm mere inches from her cheek. The sound echoed through the clearing, the power behind it sending a tremor down her spine.
"You think you can hide from me?" he growled, his voice deep and guttural. The question was rhetorical, a declaration of his dominance and her inevitable surrender.
Kagome's pulse raced at the sound of his voice, so close and yet so filled with promise. She leaned back into the tree, her eyes locked on his as she panted out a response, "I-I was just—"
But Inuyasha's snarl cut her off, a sound that sent a shiver of pure lust through her body. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist and yanking her towards him. The suddenness of the movement had her stumbling, her breasts brushing against his chest as she was pulled into his embrace. His eyes searched hers, the red in his pupils burning with a hunger that was unmistakable.
He crushed her to him, his other hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. He pulled her head back, exposing her neck, and she felt the heat of his breath against her skin. His fangs grazed the tender flesh just below her ear, sending a jolt of electricity down her spine. "You're mine," he growled, the words a declaration that resonated in the very core of her being. "Always."
Kagome's knees buckled with the force of her desire, but Inuyasha's grip on her was unyielding. He held her up, his body pressing against hers as he claimed her mouth in a brutal, possessive kiss. His tongue delved deep, tasting her, marking her as his own. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching towards him, begging for more.
With a growl, Inuyasha shoved Kagome against the tree, his body pressing hers into the rough bark. His hands roamed her curves, his claws scraping lightly across her skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She gasped into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he kissed her with a desperation that was both fierce and tender. His hips ground against hers, the length of his cock pressed against her stomach, leaving no doubt as to what he intended.
This rutting would be unlike any they had shared before. The mating season had brought out the beast in him, and he was determined to claim her in every way possible. His kisses grew more insistent, his teeth nipping at her lower lip as his hands moved to cup her breasts. He squeezed gently at first, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks until they were both hard and aching for more.
Her breath hitched in her throat as he pulled away from her mouth, his eyes locked on hers. He leaned down, his fangs grazing the column of her neck, his tongue darting out to taste the salty sweetness of her skin. He bit down gently, just enough to make her gasp, before moving to her shoulder, his teeth finding the tender spot where their bond was marked. He sucked hard, his fangs piercing the skin, the sting of pain sending a jolt of pleasure through her body.
Kagome's legs gave out beneath her, but Inuyasha's arms were there to catch her. He lifted her off the ground, her back still pressed to the tree, her legs wrapping around his waist. His claws dug into the bark, the sound of wood cracking a testament to his strength. His hips ground against her, his hard cock pressing into her heat. She could feel his pulse through his cock, the beat matching her own racing heart.
Kagome felt a shiver of pleasure-pain as Inuyasha's fangs sank deeper, his grip on her tightening. He was so hard, the heat of his cock pulsing against her. The bark dug into her back, a sharp contrast to the softness of her skin, but she didn't care. All she could focus on was the feeling of Inuyasha's hands on her, the way he claimed her body with a ferocity that made her feel alive.
"You could never run away from me," Inuyasha murmured against her skin, his voice a dark purr that sent shivers down her spine. His fangs grazed the mark, his tongue tracing the lines of the bite. "You're mine, Kagome, forever."
Her legs tightened around his waist, her nails digging into his back as she felt his cock nudging at her entrance. His claws dug into her ass, the sharpness a reminder of his power and her vulnerability. With a growl, he thrust into her, filling her in one smooth motion. Kagome's cry was muffled by his mouth, the sensation overwhelming. Her body stretched to accommodate him, her inner muscles clenching around his thickness.
The tree creaked and groaned beneath the force of their union, the leaves rustling as their bodies moved in a timeless rhythm. Inuyasha's hips slammed into hers, the force of his thrusts making her breasts bounce. She was soaked, literally dripping with desire, her juices coating his cock as he claimed her with each deep stroke. The friction was delicious, the pressure building within her with each movement.
With his right hand wrapped firmly around her throat, Inuyasha held Kagome in place, his grip tight but not painful. The dominance in the gesture sent a thrill of power through her, her body responding with an intensity that almost surprised her. She could feel his pulse in his palm, the steady beat a reminder of the life that thrummed through his veins. Her eyes locked onto his, the red in his sclera growing more pronounced as he growled with each thrust.
Inuyasha's left hand remained clamped on her ass, his claws digging into her flesh just enough to leave a trail of heat. His strokes grew faster, the slap of their bodies against the tree a testament to their passion. The scent of their arousal filled the air, a heady mix of lust and power that only served to drive them both higher.
"You're mine," he rasped, the words a declaration that seemed to resonate in the very fabric of the forest around them. "My bitch, my mate. You'll never get enough of my cock, Kagome. I'll never stop fucking you, even if you beg for mercy."
The crude words sent a jolt of excitement through her, a mix of shock and arousal that had her pussy tightening around him. Kagome's eyes fluttered shut, her head tilting back as she moaned, the sound echoing through the forest. The tree bark scraped against her back, the pain mixing with the pleasure of his deep, forceful strokes. She could feel her orgasm building, a crescendo of sensation that grew with every grunt and groan that spilled from Inuyasha's lips.
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he backed up a step. The change in angle had her gasping, the suddenness of it making her feel even more vulnerable in his powerful grip. With a low growl, he began to bounce her up and down on his cock, his movements jerky and erratic. She could feel him growing thicker with each thrust, the pressure inside her building until she thought she would shatter.
Kagome's eyes rolled back in her head, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream, her nails scratching at his back as he used her body for his own pleasure. She could feel the mating bond pulsing between them, a living force that seemed to demand more and more.
With a roar of primal lust, Inuyasha abruptly pulled Kagome off of him, the force of his movement knocking the breath from her lungs. She landed on the cool, damp earth with a gasp, her legs spread wantonly before him. His eyes blazed with a fiery hunger that sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back until she was forced to look up at him, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and desire.
He thrust his cock into her mouth, the sudden intrusion making her gag. Kagome's eyes watered, but she didn't resist. Instead, she took him deep, her tongue swirling around his girth as she fought to accommodate his size. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin of his length, the taste of him thick and musky on her tongue. His grip on her hair tightened, guiding her movements, setting the pace of her sucks and licks.
Inuyasha's hips bucked, his breath hissing through his teeth as she took him deeper, her throat relaxing around his knot. It was a sensation she had come to crave during their mating season, the feeling of him stretching her open, claiming her completely. He was so close, the tension in his body screaming for release. His knot grew larger with every heartbeat, the swollen base of his cock pushing into her mouth.
But he held it back. With a growl, he pulled out, the glistening head of his cock shiny with her saliva. He reached down, grabbed her by the hips, and flipped her onto her hands and knees. The leaves beneath her were wet and cold, a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies. Kagome looked over her shoulder, her eyes watering slightly from his rough handling, her mouth swollen and red from his cock.
Inuyasha knelt behind her, his eyes raking over her body, his cock still thick and hard. He took a moment to appreciate the view, the way her ass curved up towards him, begging for his attention. He reached out, caressing her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped. "You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.
And with a snarl, he grabbed her hips, the sound of his palms slapping against her skin echoing through the clearing. He positioned himself behind her, the tip of his cock brushing against her soaked entrance. Kagome's breath hitched, her body tensing in anticipation. In one swift motion, he thrust into her, his cock filling her to the hilt. The sensation was so intense she almost forgot to breathe, the pressure of his knot pressing against her lips making her eyes water.
He began to fuck her with an unbridled passion that seemed to shake the very earth beneath them. Her cries of pleasure echoed through the woods, mingling with his growls as he pounded into her, each thrust hitting that sweet spot that made her see stars. The pain and pleasure mixed into a delicious cocktail that had her panting for more, her nails digging into the ground as she pushed back against him.
Kagome's eyes squeezed shut as Inuyasha's knot grew larger, filling her completely. She could feel the pressure building, the tightness of her pussy straining around him. His strokes grew shorter, his knot swelling until it was all she could focus on, the painful stretch making her whine with need. It was a delicious agony, a reminder of his dominance and her submission to his will.
"You're gonna take it all," he rumbled, his voice low and guttural. "Every last drop of my seed, my little bitch. You're gonna carry my pups." The words sent a thrill of excitement through her, the idea of being filled with his young, of growing their family, making her pussy clench around him even tighter.
"Yes, Inu, yes!" Kagome cried out, her voice echoing through the night, her body trembling with the force of his claim. She could feel his knot sliding in and out of her, the sensation so intense it was almost unbearable. It was as if her entire being was designed for this, to be filled and stretched to the limits by his massive cock. Each time he thrust into her, the knot grew larger, the pressure building until she thought she would burst.
With a snarl, Inuyasha reached out with his right hand and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. The sudden movement arched her back, her breasts pushing into the cool earth beneath her. The sting of pain was a stark reminder of his dominance, of the power he held over her in this moment. His grip was firm, the pull on her hair sending a thrill of excitement down her spine, making her pussy tighten even further around his cock.
At the same time, his left hand squeezed her ass, his claws digging into the soft flesh. Kagome gasped as she felt the warmth of blood trickle down her thigh, the scent of it mingling with their lust in the air. It was a small price to pay for the intense pleasure that flooded her body with each thrust. The pain was a reminder of the bond they shared, of the depth of his desire for her. She pushed back against him, her body begging for more, the need to be claimed completely by him overwhelming.
Inuyasha's breath grew ragged, his eyes locked on the place where their bodies joined. The sight of his knot stretching her, the way her body took him in, was intoxicating. The scent of her blood mixed with her arousal had him going into a frenzy, his hips moving faster and faster. He could feel the pressure building, his seed boiling within him, eager to claim her, to breed her.
With a snarl, he grabbed both of her hips, lifting her off the ground as he slammed her back down onto his cock with all the strength he could muster. The force of the movement sent shockwaves through her body, the pain and pleasure blurring into a delicious haze. Kagome's cries grew louder, her nails scoring the earth beneath her as she pushed back, meeting his every thrust with an enthusiasm that only served to drive him wilder.
His balls tightened, the base of his spine tingling with the promise of release. The sound of her wetness, the slap of their bodies meeting with feral passion, filled his ears, drowning out the distant whispers of the night. Inuyasha's eyes rolled back, his teeth bared in a grimace of pure ecstasy. Each time she took him deep, her pussy clenching around his cock, it was as if she were wringing every drop of pleasure from him.
Kagome felt the pressure of Inuyasha's knot against her inner walls, the promise of his seed imminent. Her body trembled, desperate for the release that was building, her eyes rolling back with the intensity of the sensations. The pain of his claws in her skin, the stretch of his knot in her pussy, it all served to fuel her desire. She had never felt more alive, more wanted, more claimed.
In a final, powerful thrust, Inuyasha buried himself to the hilt, his knot popping into her, filling her completely. Kagome's scream was muffled by the earth as the first hot spurt of his cum shot deep inside her. The feeling of being filled, of being claimed so completely, sent her over the edge, her own orgasm crashing over her like a wave. Her pussy clamped down on his knot, milking him, drawing every drop of his essence into her.
Their bodies remained joined, the warmth of their release mixing with the coolness of the evening air. Inuyasha leaned over her, his panting breaths hot against her back, his arms shaking with the effort to hold her up. The knot grew even larger, swelling until she could feel it pulsing in time with her own heartbeat.
He sunk his fangs into the back of her neck, the bite on her possession mark a declaration of his dominance and ownership. The sharpness of his canines piercing her skin sent a jolt of pleasure through her body, making her orgasm intensify. Her body quivered and spasmed around his cock, the ripples of pleasure crashing through her like a tidal wave. Inuyasha growled, the vibrations reverberating through her, as he felt her pussy tighten even more around his knot. The pain-pleasure of his bite melded with the exquisite sensation of her inner muscles milking him, creating a symphony of ecstasy that had his claws digging into her hips.
The sound of her cries grew as his fangs sank deeper, her blood flowing freely down his throat, mixing with their shared passion. Kagome's eyes rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream as he claimed her, his hips grinding into her ass with a ferocity that left her breathless. She could feel her blood pulsing, the warmth of it spreading through her as it mingled with the sticky mess of their mating. The scent of their union filled the air, a potent reminder of the bond that united them.
Inuyasha's claws dug into her flesh, drawing more blood, his movements growing more erratic as his orgasm intensified. His hips moved in a frenzied dance, the friction of their bodies a sweet torture that had Kagome's nails digging into the dirt beneath her. The pain was exquisite, each drop of blood a testament to her willingness to be claimed by him. Her body responded with a fierce need, her pussy clenching around his knot as she felt his seed fill her up.
As the last waves of pleasure receded, Inuyasha stilled completely, his cock buried deep within her, his knot fully swollen. A groan of satisfaction left his lips as he leaned over her, his fangs releasing her skin. He took a moment to regain his breath, his eyes still blazing crimson. Then, with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of their mating, he began to lick the wound on the back of her neck. His tongue was hot and rough, the sensation of his healing saliva against her skin sending a shiver down her spine.
With each lick, Kagome could feel the pain from his bite subsiding, the warmth of his power sealing her skin once more. The connection between them grew stronger with each swipe of his tongue, the bond between them pulsing like a living, breathing thing. He let out small growls as he healed her, every so often his hips rolling from his seed releasing more and more into her depths. The feeling was comforting, a gentle reminder of their bond and the intimacy they had just shared.
When he had cleaned the wound completely, Inuyasha pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting hers as she turned her head. The red was fading, leaving behind the piercing gold that she had fallen in love with. "Kagome," he murmured, his voice hoarse from his earlier growls and her name on his lips. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder, his knot receding as his half-human side regained control.
Kagome felt a warmth spread through her, not just from the physical connection of their bodies but from the emotional bond that was now even stronger than before. She pushed herself up onto her hands and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes filled with a love so deep it was almost a physical ache. "Inuyasha," she whispered, her voice a breath of emotion.
He kissed her shoulder again, his tongue swirling around the spot where his extended fangs had been, his eyes never leaving hers. "Mine," he murmured, the word a promise and a declaration. She felt him begin to soften, his cock sliding out of her with a wet pop, leaving her feeling empty and yet sated.
With a grace that belied her trembling legs, Kagome turned around and wrapped her arms around Inuyasha's neck, her legs on either side of his hips. He caught her with ease, pulling her closer, his arms like steel bands around her. Her breasts pressed into his bare chest, the heat of their bodies melding together.
Her eyes searched his, filled with a love so profound it stole his breath. "Yours," she whispered against his lips, her voice a soft caress. The word hung in the air between them, a declaration that resonated through their bond like the toll of a bell. Inuyasha's eyes softened, his grip on her tightening almost imperceptibly as he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was both gentle and fierce.
He grinned against her mouth, the playfulness making Kagome's heart flutter. He nibbled gently on her bottom lip, the small sting making her gasp. The tip of his tongue darted out, tracing the line of her lips, licking the slight pain away before he claimed her mouth again. His kiss was like a brand, marking her as his, as if their earlier mating had not already done so.
Kagome's eyes fluttered, her arms tightening around his neck as she lost herself in the sensation of his kiss. His fangs grazed her lip once more before he pulled back slightly, whispering against her skin, "Cheeky wench."
With a laugh, she leaned back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "You loved hunting me, didn't you?"
Inuyasha's grin grew wider, his eyes lighting up with the same mirth. "Keh, you're insatiable," he teased, his thumb brushing over the swollen flesh of her bottom lip. The gentle touch sent a jolt of desire straight to her core, making her pussy clench and unclench around the memory of his cock.
Kagome raised her hands to the top of his head, her fingers delicately tracing the soft fur of his ears. She leaned in, her breath warm against his neck as she whispered, "You know you love it, Inu... the chase, the catch, the claim." She kissed his throat, her teeth grazing the tender skin as she felt his pulse quicken beneath her lips. "Letting that wild demon inside you out to play," she continued, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur.
Inuyasha's half-hard cock grew in response to her words, pressing against her inner thigh. She grinned, feeling a surge of power as she began to grind her hips slowly, taking him in her hand. The feel of his velvety skin against her palm made her pussy clench, the memory of his knot stretching her still fresh in her mind. "Gods, Inu, I love it when you fuck me like a bitch in heat," she breathed, her voice a soft purr that made his cock twitch.
With a low growl, Inuyasha captured her mouth again, his tongue delving deep, claiming every inch of her. The taste of her blood was still faint on his lips, a reminder of their intense rutting. His hips bucked, pushing his cock further into her hand, his need for her growing with each stroke. Kagome's lips quirked up with mischief as she felt his body respond to her touch, her thumb tracing the vein that pulsed with his desire.
Pulling back, she whispered, "Do you know what else I love?" Her eyes glinted with a hint of challenge. Inuyasha's ears twitched, curiosity piqued despite his desperate need for more. He panted, his eyes searching hers as he waited for her to continue.
"I love when you let me ride you," she said, her voice a sultry whisper. "When you're deep inside me, and I can control the pace." She leaned in, her breath hot against his skin as she spoke, her hand never stopping its slow, teasing strokes. His cock grew even harder, straining towards her, eager to be sheathed once more.
Inuyasha's eyes darkened, the gold swirling into a fiery amber. He knew what she was asking, knew the thrill she sought. He nodded, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a knowing smirk. "Climb on, Kagome," he rumbled, his voice a deep purr that resonated through her body. She didn't need to be told twice.
With a graceful movement, Kagome straddled Inuyasha's hips fully, his cock still in her hand. She positioned herself over him, her slick pussy hovering just above his throbbing shaft. She took a moment to appreciate the sight, his cock glistening with her juices, the need etched into every line of his face. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by delicious inch.
The sensation of his warmth and thickness filling her made Kagome moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the stretch of her muscles. Inuyasha's grip on her hips tightened, his claws digging into her flesh just enough to make her gasp. He watched her face, his gaze intense as she took him all the way in, the tip of his cock hitting the back of her cervix with a satisfying thud.
With a soft smile, she leaned her head back, her long hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of midnight silk. "You know what else I love about you?" she murmured, her voice a sweet purr that sent a shiver down his spine. She began to roll her hips in a slow, deliberate motion that had his eyes nearly crossing with pleasure.
"Your strength," she began, leaning back a bit more and placing her hands on his chest for balance. She rocked her hips, setting a slow, languid rhythm that had his cock sliding in and out of her with agonizing slowness. "The way you protect me, no matter what." With each word, she rolled her hips, her movements becoming more deliberate, the muscles in her stomach tensing as she took control of their mating.
Her breasts bounced with each movement of her hips, the moonlight playing off her skin like a lover's caress. She whispered sweet nothings into the night air, her eyes locked onto his, a silent conversation of love and lust that transcended words. "Your gentleness," she moaned, her voice a melody of pleasure. With each word, she tightened her inner walls around his shaft, her muscles pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The sensation was exquisite, a symphony of pleasure that had Inuyasha's eyes rolling back in his head.
"But I also love how you fuck me," she continued, her voice growing stronger, more demanding. "How you take me like the beast you are, how you mark me, claim me, make me feel so alive." Inuyasha's grip on her hips grew tighter, his claws digging into her flesh just enough to leave a trail of fire in their wake. He knew what she liked, knew the fine line between pleasure and pain that she craved, and he gave it to her in spades.
Kagome's eyes searched Inuyasha's, finding the feral need that mirrored her own. "Your power," she murmured, her voice a caress as she leaned in closer, her breath hot against his skin. "It's intoxicating, the way you overwhelm me with it, the way you dominate me." Her hips rocked faster, her pussy clenching around his cock as she spoke, her voice growing ragged with passion.
"Your love," she whispered, her eyes glazing over with the intensity of her emotions. "It's like nothing I've ever felt before, so fierce, so all-consuming." Her hands slid up to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh as she rode him harder, the pleasure building to a crescendo.
Inuyasha's eyes never left hers, the gold in them burning with the heat of his desire. He knew every inch of her body, every sound she made, every breath she took when she was like this, lost in the throes of passion. And he loved it, loved watching her come undone. He felt a surge of pride knowing he could make her feel like this, that he could give her this kind of pleasure.
"Gods Inu," she panted, her eyes glazed with passion as she rode him, "I love everything about you, the way you make love to me." Her voice was a symphony of pleasure, each word a sweet caress that sent a shiver down Inuyasha's spine. "Your sweetness, your lust, it's like a drug," she whispered, leaning in to nibble on his ear. The soft fur of his ear twitched beneath her teeth, and she knew he was getting closer.
"And your adorable doggie ears," she giggled, her hands sliding to cup the pointed tips. She felt his body tense with pleasure, his cock swelling even more inside her. Inuyasha growled low in his throat, his eyes flashing with mirth and desire. He knew she was teasing him, but it didn't matter. The sound of her laughter was music to his ears, a sweet balm to the beast within him.
Leaning in, Kagome kissed the edge of one of his ears before licking around the base, her tongue swirling in gentle circles that had Inuyasha's breath hitching. Her teeth grazed the sensitive flesh before she moved to the other, sucking the tip gently into her mouth. The sensation sent shockwaves through him, his claws flexing against her skin as he fought the urge to flip her onto her back and take her hard and fast.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she pulled away, panting slightly. "And your smug little sexy smirk," she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper that had him growling low in his throat. She leaned in closer, her breasts pressing into his chest as she traced her fingertips over his cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth. "It drives me wild every time," she said, her voice a sweet caress that made his cock throb a load of precum deep within her.
Kagome's gaze dropped to his fangs, the deadly weapons that could end her life with a single bite. Instead, they had brought her unspeakable pleasure. "I love your fangs," she murmured, her voice filled with wonder and desire. She leaned in, her mouth brushing against his as she spoke. "They could rip me apart," she whispered, her breath hot and sweet against his skin. "But instead, you use them to pleasure me, to claim me," she continued, her voice a gentle purr that sent shivers down his spine.
Inuyasha felt the tip of his cock throb in response to her words, the bond between them pulsing with every beat of his heart. His eyes never left hers as she lowered her hands from his shoulders, her fingertips dancing down his arms, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When she reached his hands, she took them in hers, bringing them to her mouth. Her eyes searched his, the love and trust shining in them like stars in the night sky.
Kagome kissed the tips of his claws, her lips brushing against the sharp points that had brought her so much pleasure. The gesture was one of submission, of love, and it made his heart swell with a fierce protectiveness. He felt a shiver run down his spine as she whispered, "I love your claws, Inu." Her voice was a soft purr, her eyes dark with desire. "They protect me, they pleasure me."
The words sent a jolt through him, and he watched as she pushed the palms of his hands against her throat, her pulse beating rapidly beneath his touch. The action was a silent invitation for him to take control, to claim her once again as his mate. And claim her he would.
With a low growl, Inuyasha's grip tightened, his thumbs pressing against her neck gently but firmly, his eyes never leaving hers. Kagome's pupils dilated, her breath coming in short gasps as she leaned into the pressure, the thrill of his dominance sending a shiver down her spine.
"Inuyasha," she moaned, her voice thick with desire. "You're... everything to me." She rocked her hips faster, her pussy tightening around him, her body begging for release. She could feel his claws against her skin, a reminder of his strength and the protection he offered her. His eyes searched hers, the gold in them darkening to a fiery amber that spoke of his own need.
"Your love," she whispered, her eyes rolling back in her head as she continued to ride him with a wild abandon that left her breathless. "The way you protect me, take care of me, it's like nothing I've ever known." Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints on his skin as she leaned back, her breasts bobbing in the moonlight. "It's so...overwhelming," she gasped, her movements growing more erratic.
Inuyasha felt his own climax approaching, the heat building in his balls, tightening them to the point of pain. He knew Kagome was close, her body speaking in the silent language of need and want. He watched her, his eyes locked onto hers, his cock swelling even more as he felt her walls tighten around him. With a snarl, he pulled her closer, his breath hot against her skin as he claimed her mouth once more, his teeth nipping at her lower lip.
Their kiss grew more frantic, their breaths mingling in a dance of passion as Kagome's hips met his in a furious rhythm that sent waves of pleasure crashing over them both. He could feel her pussy clenching around him, the tightness driving him closer and closer to the edge. With a final growl, Inuyasha let go, his orgasm ripping through him like a wildfire, his seed spilling into her in hot, thick spurts that had them both crying out in ecstasy.
Kagome's body trembled with the force of her climax, her eyes squeezed shut as she rode out the last waves of pleasure. Inuyasha's grip on her throat eased, his thumbs ghosting over her pulse as he watched her come apart above him. Her nails raked down his back, leaving a trail of red that only served to fuel his desire for her.
"Inuyasha," she panted, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. The intensity of his gaze sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through her. "I need more," she whimpered, her hips still moving in a desperate rhythm.
With a snarl of need, Inuyasha's grip on her throat tightened, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her neck as he watched her ride him. Her eyes rolled back, her cries of pleasure music to his ears. The bond between them grew stronger with every thrust, every touch, every beat of their hearts.
Kagome's hips moved faster, her pussy clenching around him in a delicious rhythm that had him panting. The sound of their skin slapping together echoed through the clearing, the scent of their mating thick and heady in the air. She threw her head back, her long hair a dark curtain against the moonlit sky, her breasts bouncing with each movement.
Inuyasha's eyes never left hers, the intensity of her passion reflected in the fiery amber of his gaze. He felt himself beginning to soften, the aftermath of his orgasm leaving him momentarily sated. But she wasn't finished with him yet. She ground her hips down, her sensitive clit finding the perfect friction against his pelvis. The sensation was exquisite, sending shockwaves through her body that had her panting for more.
Her orgasm rolled through her like thunder, each ripple more intense than the last. Kagome didn't care that he was still coming down from his peak; she needed this, needed him. Her nails dug into the firm muscles of his back, leaving red streaks that stood out starkly against his pale skin. His hands around her throat tightened slightly, making it difficult for her to breathe, but she didn't care. The lack of oxygen only served to heighten her senses, making every touch, every sensation, more acute.
Her eyes flew open, and she stared down at Inuyasha, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fuck," she croaked out, her voice hoarse with passion. "Fuck, fuck, Inu, fuck!" Her words were a litany of pleasure, a mantra that matched the desperate movements of her hips. Her pussy spasmed around his cock, milking him of every last drop of cum, her muscles tightening and releasing in a delicious dance that had him groaning beneath her.
The gush of fluid that accompanied her orgasm coated him, her sweet scent mixing with the musk of their mating to create a heady aroma that made his senses swim. He felt her pulse against his fingertips, the beat of her heart matching the tempo of the blood pulsing through his veins. His own orgasm had left him momentarily weak, his muscles quivering with the aftershocks of pleasure.
As the last of her orgasm faded, she slumped against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder. His cock, now fully softened, slipped from her with a wet sound that seemed to echo through the silent night. They stayed like that for a long moment, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating in a chaotic symphony that slowly calmed to a gentle rhythm.
He didn't loosen his grip on her throat until she shifted, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. His claws retracted, leaving faint crescent marks on her skin that would bruise beautifully by morning. "Kagome," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the swollen curve of her lower lip where his fangs had scraped. She leaned into his touch, her eyes half-lidded and sated, yet still holding that lingering spark of mischief he adored.
The silence stretched between them, thick with the scent of sex and the humid night air. Water droplets rolled down Kagome's spine as she stretched, arching against him like a satisfied cat. Inuyasha watched the moonlight catch the sheen on her collarbone, the faint bite marks he'd left along her shoulder standing out like dark blossoms against her skin. His hand slid possessively down her back to rest on the swell of her hip, fingers digging gently into the soft flesh.
He kissed her cheek—a whisper of lips on damp skin—then trailed lower, nuzzling the curve of her neck where the bruises had begun to bloom. The scent of their joining clung to her, sharp and primal. His tongue flicked over a tender spot beneath her jaw, tasting salt and the faint metallic tang of blood from earlier scratches. She sighed, tilting her head to give him access, fingers tangling in his hair. He traced the constellation of bites along her collarbone, each kiss a slow press of apology and ownership. His thumbs brushed the crescent-shaped marks on her hips—the imprint of his claws—as he worked his way down her sternum.
A low chuckle rumbled against her ribs as he paused above her left breast. "Still tremblin'," he murmured, breath ghosting over her nipple. It tightened instantly under his attention. He flicked it with his tongue—once, twice—before closing his mouth over the peak. Her gasp echoed off the trees as he sucked hard, pulling the sensitive flesh into the wet heat of his mouth. His fangs grazed her skin, a deliberate scrape that had her arching against him.
"M-maybe..." Kagome stammered, her fingers tightening convulsively in his hair. She tried again, her voice thin and breathless as he switched to her other nipple, biting down just enough to make her cry out. "We... we really should... get back..." His tongue swirled around the aching peak. "S-Shippo..." she gasped, "need to... take him... home..." Her hips jerked as he pinched the nipple he'd just abandoned between his clawed fingers. "And... dinner..." The word ended on a whimper. "Haven't... eaten..."
Inuyasha chuckled darkly, releasing her breast with a wet pop. He slid his hands beneath her hips, lifting her effortlessly before laying her flat on the dew-kissed grass. His body followed, covering hers, his semi-hard cock a heavy, insistent heat against her inner thigh. "What happened," he murmured, his voice low and rough as gravel, his amber eyes gleaming with predatory amusement, "to all that control?" He traced the curve of her ear with the tip of his nose, inhaling deeply. "Hmm? Where'd that bossy little Miko go?"
Kagome’s breath hitched as his knee nudged her thighs apart. She felt the slick slide of her arousal against his skin, the humid night air amplifying every sensation. His teeth found the tendon in her neck, biting down just enough to make her gasp. "She’s right here," Kagome managed, her voice trembling as his hand slid between them, his fingers tracing lazy circles around her swollen clit. "Just... temporarily overwhelmed by her mate." She arched into his touch, her nails scoring his shoulders as he pushed two fingers inside her with a sudden, possessive thrust.
The cry tore from her throat when he sucked her nipple back into the heat of his mouth, his tongue flicking the peak with relentless precision. "Inu," she gasped, her hips rolling against his hand, "s-someone’s gonna come looking for us..." Her words dissolved into a moan as he crooked his fingers, finding that sweet spot deep within her. She could feel the pulse of her own blood, the way her muscles clenched around him, betraying her fear and her need.
He pulled his fingers free with a slick sound, his eyes molten gold as he brought them to his lips. He tasted her, slow and deliberate, his tongue sliding over each digit while he watched her squirm. "Let 'em come," he growled, the vibration low and dangerous. His free hand clamped around her hip, claws dimpling her flesh as he positioned himself at her entrance. "Anyone stupid enough to interrupt an alpha and his bitch, has a death wish."
Kagome gasped as the thick head of his cock stretched her, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around him. The scent of her arousal was thick enough to drown in, mingling with the damp earth and crushed grass beneath them. He didn't ease in, didn't give her time to adjust—just sank deep with a single, brutal thrust that punched the air from her lungs. Her cry was sharp, echoing through the trees. He held her pinned, his body a cage over hers, his fangs grazing her jaw as he inhaled her ragged breaths.
The moonlight caught the sweat slicking his shoulders as he began to move—slow, grinding rolls of his hips that scraped every raw nerve inside her. His claws dug into her hips, anchoring her as he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed home again. "You're mine," he growled against her ear, the rumble vibrating through her bones. "Say it." She choked out the words, her back arching off the ground as he hit that spot deep within her. Her thighs trembled against his hips, her heels digging into the small of his back as she tried to pull him deeper.
Her nails raked down his spine, drawing beads of blood that glistened like rubies in the pale light. He snarled at the sting, his thrusts turning savage and unrelenting. The wet slap of skin echoed through the clearing, a primal rhythm that drowned out the night insects. She gasped his name like a prayer, her body tightening fangs him as pleasure coiled low in her belly. His teeth closed over her pulse point, not breaking skin but promising the claim all the same. Her cry shattered the stillness when he shifted angle, hitting that sweet spot with brutal precision.
"Fucking
mine
," he growled against her damp skin, the words vibrating through her bones. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly, the first tremors of release building as his pace became erratic, desperate. The scent of her arousal thickened the air, intoxicating and raw. His claws dug deeper into her hips, lifting her to meet every punishing thrust. She felt the tension in his thighs, the tremor in his arms as he fought to hold back—waiting for her.
Kagome’s vision blurred. The world narrowed to the heat of his body, the stretch of him inside her, the scrape of his claws branding her skin. "Inu—" Her voice broke as the coil snapped. Pleasure tore through her, violent and shattering. Her back arched off the ground, a silent scream on her lips as her body convulsed around him. He snarled, a feral sound of triumph, and slammed home one last time. His release flooded her, hot and possessive, his hips jerking against hers as he spilled deep.
He rolled his hips in slow, grinding circles, the swollen head of his cock kissing her cervix with every possessive thrust. His amber eyes burned into hers, fierce and primal. "Gonna watch you swell," he growled, the rumble vibrating through her bones. "See your belly grow round with my pup." His claws tightened on her hips, possessive and claiming. "Mark you inside and out 'til everyone knows whose bitch you are."
Kagome gasped, her nails raking down his sweat-slicked back as the words sent shockwaves through her. The image flooded her mind—his hand splayed protectively over a rounded stomach, the fierce pride in his eyes when strangers would see. She arched against him, her inner walls fluttering around his thick length. "Yes," she choked out, the promise igniting her blood. "Want it... want your pup..."
Inuyasha snarled, the sound raw and triumphant against her throat. His thrusts turned punishingly deep, each snap of his hips branding her womb. The scent of their joining, thick and primal, hung heavy in the humid air. Moonlight caught the sheen of tears in Kagome's eyes—not of pain, but of overwhelming surrender to the bond, to the future he painted with rough, possessive words. Her climax coiled again, tighter, hotter, pulled taut by his claiming rhythm.
Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around his still-hard length, milking the seed he’d already spent deep within her. The knowledge that his cum was filling her,
marking
her, was a primal thrill that tightened her core. Her breath hitched, a desperate whimper escaping as she pictured it: the swell of her belly, the fierce pride in his eyes.
Their
pup. His claws dug into her hips, holding her open, forcing her to take every brutal inch as he drove himself to the hilt again and again.
She met each thrust, her body arching to take him deeper. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat and
them
. Kagome’s fingers tangled in his silver hair, pulling him down for a savage kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth, mimicking the relentless rhythm below. They both knew the pills she took prevented conception, yet the raw, visceral
idea
of it—of him planting his future inside her, claiming her womb as his territory—sent sparks crackling along their bond.
It was a future they both craved—Kagome's body clenching around him as if to trap every drop, Inuyasha's thrusts deepening with primal urgency. She knew the pills prevented conception, yet the fantasy alone sent shivers through her: swollen belly, his protective hand splayed possessively over it, villagers whispering,
"The hanyō's mate carries his heir."
His fangs scraped her pulse point as he ground deeper, hips circling to smear his seed inside her. "Gonna fill you 'til it takes," he snarled against her damp skin, the lie sweet as honey.
Kagome arched, gasping as aftershocks ripple through her. Her thighs trembled where they locked around his waist, nails scoring fresh welts down his back. The scent of his seed inside her—hot and potent—mingled with crushed grass and sweat. She felt the primal truth of his words thrum through their bond, deeper than any spell. His growl vibrated against her throat, possessive and satisfied.
Slowly, he lifted his head, amber eyes glinting with feral triumph. His claws retracted from her hips, leaving angry crescents that’ll bloom purple by dawn. He licked a stripe up her throat, lapping at the sweat-slicked column where his teeth had pressed. "Smell it?" he rasped, his voice rough as gravel. "My claim. Inside you." Kagome shuddered, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in—pine, blood, and the musk of their joining. Her thighs trembled where they’re still locked around him.
"More," she whispered against his skin, her voice frayed and desperate. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she rocked her hips, grinding against him even as his softening cock slipped free. "Inuyasha,
please
... fill me again. Need to feel it... dripping." Her hand slid between her own slick thighs, fingers gathering the wetness there—
his
wetness—and she brought them to her lips, tasting him with a desperate moan. "Want to be soaked in you. Claimed by you. Over and over."
Inuyasha watched her with molten eyes, his breath catching at the raw hunger in her plea. The sight of her tasting his seed sent a fresh jolt of possessiveness through him. With a low growl, he pushed her hand away and replaced it with his own, fingers plunging into her heat with ruthless efficiency. He found her swollen clit and circled it hard, his other hand pinning her hips to the earth as he watched her writhe. "Greedy little Miko," he rasped, his voice thick with dark promise. "Want me to ruin you? Make you walk back leaking my cum?" He curled his fingers inside her, hitting that spot that makes her scream, her back arching off the ground. "Say it."
Kagome gasped, her thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight again. "Yes! Ruin me—" Her words dissolved into a cry as he added a third finger, stretching her brutally. The scent of her arousal mixed with his seed hung heavy in the humid air, intoxicating them both. She met his gaze, her eyes blown wide with need. "Mark me deeper... so deep I can't forget." Her hands flew to his wrists, nails digging in as if to hold him inside her. The moonlight caught the tears on her cheeks—not of pain, but of overwhelming surrender to the primal claim.
Inuyasha snarled, withdrawing his fingers only to replace them with his now-hard cock in one savage thrust. He pinned her wrists above her head, his body a cage over hers as he drove into her with relentless, punishing strokes. The wet slap of skin echoed through the clearing, drowning out the night sounds. "Mine," he growled against her mouth, teeth scraping her lip. "Every drop, every gasp—
mine
." Her inner walls clenched around him, milking him as she came with a choked sob, her release coating his length.
He followed instantly, hips jerking as he emptied himself deep inside her trembling body. His seed spilled hot and thick, painting her womb with possessive heat. He held himself buried to the hilt, grinding against her as he marked her internally—a primal claim that left Kagome shuddering beneath him. His lips found the tender bruises on her neck, laving them with his tongue as their ragged breaths mingled in the evening air.
Slowly, he pulled back until just the swollen tip remained inside her entrance, glistening with their mixed wetness. A low, satisfied groan rumbled in his chest as he sank back into her slick heat in one smooth, deliberate thrust. He rolled his eyes back with a lazy grin, his voice a husky murmur against her ear. "Pushing my seed so deep inside you... filling you up..." His hips circled, grinding his claim into her very core as she whimpered beneath him. "Gonna take root right here..."
Kagome gasped, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his thick length as he repeated the slow withdrawal and deep, claiming penetration. Her thighs trembled against his hips, her nails biting into his shoulders. "Yes," she choked out, arching to take him deeper still. "Want it to take... want to feel it..." The fantasy of his seed taking hold, of her belly swelling with his child, sent fresh waves of heat pooling low in her belly. She could almost feel the phantom weight of it already.
Inuyasha's growl vibrated against her collarbone, his hips snapping harder, faster. The wet sounds of their joining filled the clearing, a primal rhythm underscored by Kagome's breathless whimpers and the ragged rasp of his breath. Moonlight caught the sheen of sweat on his back as he drove into her with possessive force, his claws digging fresh crescents into the soft flesh of her hips. "Gonna keep you full," he rasped, his voice thick with promise. "Every night. Mark you until the scent of me never leaves your skin."
Kagome arched beneath him, her inner walls clenching in rhythmic spasms as another wave of pleasure crashed over her. Her cry was muffled against his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as her thighs trembled around his waist. She felt the hot spill of him deep inside, a flood of heat that seemed to brand her very core. He held himself buried to the hilt, grinding in slow, deliberate circles that milked every drop, his low groan a rumble against her chest.
Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew. Kagome whimpered at the sudden emptiness, her legs falling open to reveal the glistening evidence of his claim trickling down her thighs. Inuyasha’s gaze followed the trail with possessive satisfaction, his amber eyes darkening as he swiped two fingers through the slick mess. He brought them to her lips, smearing the wetness across her mouth. "Taste it," he commanded, voice rough. "Taste how deep I marked you." Her tongue darted out obediently, the salt-bitter tang flooding her senses as she moaned.
The flavor was primal, intoxicating—his scent, his power, his claim all mingled in that thick musk. Heat pooled low in her belly again, a fresh wave of need crashing over her. She didn’t hesitate. Kagome pushed herself up, eyes locked on his cock still glistening with their mixed release. With a soft whimper, she leaned in, her tongue tracing the swollen vein along his shaft before swirling over the sensitive head. His low groan spurred her on, her mouth closing over him in a slow, deliberate suck.
Inuyasha’s claws tangled in her hair, holding her close as she worked. Her tongue lapped at every ridge, every drop, her movements hungry and reverent. The taste flooded her senses—bitter salt and the raw tang of him—igniting a fire that made her thighs tremble. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper until he pulsed against the back of her throat, his growl vibrating through her bones. "Fuck," he rasped, hips jerking as her fingers dug into his thighs. "So damn greedy."
He hauled her up by her hair, crushing her mouth to his. The kiss was savage, tasting of herself and him, a claiming that left her breathless. His hand slid between her legs, fingers plunging into her slick heat without warning. She cried out as he curled them, finding that spot that made her vision white. "Still dripping," he snarled against her lips, grinding his palm against her clit. "My cum’s so deep inside you... feel it?"
Kagome could only nod, her thighs trembling as he worked her toward another peak. His thumb circled her clit with ruthless precision, his fingers pumping in time with the pulse thundering in her ears. The forest spun, the moonlight fracturing into shards of silver as her climax hit—violent and consuming, tearing a ragged sob from her throat. She collapsed against him, her body shuddering, the scent of his seed and her release thick on the humid air.
And then she fell to her knees before him, the damp earth cool beneath her skin as her hands wrapped around the base of his cock. Her fingers trembled, slick with the remnants of their joining, as she guided him into her mouth. The taste exploded across her tongue—bitter salt and raw, primal musk—filling her senses with the essence of his claim. Inuyasha’s claws sank into her hair, not guiding, not forcing, but
claiming
as her lips stretched around his thickness, swallowing him to the hilt with a desperate, hungry moan that vibrated against his flesh. His groan echoed through the clearing, low and feral, as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked like she was starving for it.
Sweat and saliva slicked her chin, mingling with the pearly trails of cum that glistened on his shaft and dripped onto her trembling thighs. Her arousal painted her inner skin, sticky and sweet-scented, a visible testament to the frenzy that still thrummed beneath her skin. She pulled back slowly, letting her tongue swirl around the swollen head, gathering every drop before diving deep again. Her eyes, dark and blown with need, flicked up to meet his burning amber gaze—a silent plea for more, for
everything.
The air hung thick with the scent of sex and sweat and wet earth, a heady perfume that clung to them both.
His claws tightened in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, exposing the long line of her throat. "Not done with you," he growled, the sound vibrating through her jaw. He hauled her up, spinning her around to face the broad trunk of the ancient oak. Her palms hit the rough bark, bracing herself as he kicked her legs apart. His cock nudged her slick entrance, still stretched and wet from their last claiming. He didn't ease in—just slammed home with a brutal thrust that punched a ragged gasp from her lungs, his fangs sinking into the juncture of her neck and shoulder in a fresh, possessive bite.
Kagome arched, pinned between the unyielding tree and the relentless press of his body. Every snap of his hips drove him impossibly deep, the friction igniting sparks along her nerves. She could feel his seed, hot and thick inside her, mixing with her own slick as he pistoned into her with feral abandon. Her cries echoed through the moonlit forest, raw and unfiltered, blending with the wet slap of skin and his guttural growls. He locked an arm around her waist, holding her immobile for his thrusts, the other hand sliding down to rub rough circles against her throbbing clit.
"Too much," Kagome gasped out, her voice frayed and trembling as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her. Her vision blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to the searing stretch of him inside her and the relentless pressure of his fingers on her clit. "Inuyasha... I-I can't—" Her plea dissolved into a shattered moan as another wave of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her shuddering and weak-kneed against him. She felt raw, overstimulated, her body trembling with the aftershocks even as he pushed her relentlessly toward the next peak. Her inner walls fluttered wildly, trying to clamp down, to push him out, but he only drove in harder, deeper, claiming every inch.
He growled against her ear, a low, rumbling sound thick with possession. His hips snapped forward with brutal force, pinning her harder against the rough bark. "Shut up," he commanded, his voice rough as gravel. His hand on her clit pressed harder, rubbing in tight, punishing circles that sent sparks across her vision. "Take it. Take every damn inch." He punctuated the words with a sharp thrust that stole her breath. "Like my good little bitch."
Her body arched, overwhelmed and yielding, her inner muscles clenching wildly around his thick length. The friction was electric, painful pleasure twisting with the deep ache of his claiming thrusts. She felt the hot spill of his seed inside her again, pulsing in time with his guttural groans, a fresh flood branding her womb. Her own climax tore through her a second later, a silent scream tearing from her throat as she convulsed around him, her vision whiting out.
The next thing she knew, Kagome was being lifted, her back scraping against the rough bark as Inuyasha spun her around. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the motion sending fresh waves of slickness down her thighs where his cum mingled with her arousal. His claws dug into her hips, lifting her slightly before slamming her back down onto his cock with a feral snarl. The force stole her breath, her head snapping back against the tree as he filled her completely, the stretch bordering on pain.
"You don't get to tap out," he growled, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. His hips pistoned relentlessly, each deep thrust grinding the base of his cock against her swollen clit. The overstimulation was dizzying—a sharp, electric current that arced from her core to her fingertips. She felt raw, trembling with each brutal penetration, her inner walls fluttering in a futile attempt to accommodate his thickness. "Not 'til I say you're done."
Kagome's nails scraped down his back, drawing thin crimson lines as she clung to him. Her head lolled against the rough bark, eyes unfocused as pleasure and pain blurred into one consuming fire. She could feel the thick spill of his seed inside her, still warm from his last release, mixing with her slick as it trickled down her thighs. His fangs grazed her pulse point—a warning, a promise—as his thrusts grew shorter, harder, grinding into her with possessive force. "Gonna fill you 'til you can't walk straight," he snarled, his voice thick with dark satisfaction. "Make sure everyone knows who owns this cunt."
Her breath hitched, a choked gasp escaping her as he slammed home one final time. His claws dug into her hips, holding her impaled as his cock pulsed deep inside her, flooding her with scalding heat. Kagome shuddered, her inner walls fluttering weakly around him as another wave of forced pleasure tore through her. Her tears mingled with sweat, streaking her cheeks as she went limp in his arms, overwhelmed and trembling. The scent of their joining hung heavy in the air—pine, salt, and the raw musk of his claim.
Slowly, carefully, Inuyasha lowered her trembling legs to the forest floor. Her knees buckled instantly, but his arm snaked around her waist, holding her upright against the solid warmth of his chest. He nuzzled the fresh bite mark on her shoulder, his tongue soothing the stinging punctures with rough tenderness. "Mine," he murmured, the word a low rumble against her skin. His other hand splayed possessively over her lower belly, fingers pressing lightly where his seed pooled hot and deep inside her.
Kagome leaned into him, her body still humming with the aftershocks. The rough bark had scraped angry red lines across her back, a stark contrast to the lingering heat blooming between her thighs. She could feel the slow, sticky trickle down her inner leg—undeniable proof of his claim. "Always," she whispered back, her voice raw but certain. Her own hand covered his on her stomach, pressing his palm harder against the place he’d filled so completely.
Inuyasha bent, his movements surprisingly gentle despite the ferocity of moments before. One arm slid beneath her knees, the other cradling her back as he lifted her effortlessly. Kagome’s head lolled against the crook of his neck, the familiar scent of forest and
him
wrapping around her like a blanket. Exhaustion, deep and bone-aching, washed over her. Her eyelids fluttered shut as he began walking, the rhythmic sway of his steps lulling her into a light, trusting doze. The cool night air kissed her heated skin, a welcome relief.
He moved silently through the moon-dappled woods, avoiding roots and low branches with hanyou grace. Her breath hitched softly against his throat, warm and rhythmic, as she drifted. He glanced down, his golden eyes softening at the sight of her slack features—the dried tear tracks, the fresh bite mark blooming like a dark flower on her shoulder. His grip tightened, possessive yet protective.
When he made it to the hot spring, the water still steamed gently in the moonlight, a tranquil contrast to the raw intensity they'd left behind. Inuyasha lowered Kagome into the soothing pool, the heat enveloping her scraped skin and sore muscles like a balm. She sighed, sinking deeper as the water lapped at the bite marks and the sticky trails between her thighs. He remained at the edge, amber eyes tracking every ripple, every shift of her body beneath the surface—a silent sentinel ensuring no one dared disturb her peace.
After a moment, he went to her abandoned yellow bag by the rocks, and pulled out some soap, as well as a towel and some clean pajamas for her to wear. He set the pajamas and towel aside, and stepped into the hot spring to help her clean up. The water swirled around his waist as he moved toward her, the soap bar rough but gentle in his clawed hands. He worked it into a lather, his touch tender as he smoothed it over her shoulders, down her back, carefully avoiding the fresh marks he’d left. Kagome leaned into him, her eyes closed, letting the scent of clean pine and warm water wash away the musk of their recent rutting.
"Still hurt?" he murmured against her temple, his thumbs kneading the tension from her neck. She shook her head slightly, a soft smile touching her lips as his hands moved lower, rinsing the suds from her skin. The water turned cloudy around them, carrying away the evidence of his claim—but the deeper marks, the ones beneath her skin, remained untouched.
Kagome leaned back against his chest, her head resting beneath his chin. "Just sore," she whispered, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his forearm. The steam curled around them, softening the sharp edges of the forest night. "We should really head back soon. Kaede'll have dinner ready, and Shippō..." She trailed off with a soft laugh. "He'll be bouncing off the walls wondering where we've been."
Inuyasha grunted, his claws combing gently through her tangled hair as he rinsed the soap away. "Let 'em wait," he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual bite. His gaze lingered on the bite mark purpling her shoulder—dark, possessive blooms against flushed skin. He pressed his lips to it, a silent vow that drew a shiver from her. The water lapped at her waist, carrying the last traces of their sweat and seed with it.
Kagome sighed, leaning into his touch as he lifted her from the spring. He wrapped her in the towel, rubbing warmth into her limbs with rough efficiency. She watched him dress swiftly, his movements fluid and economical—a warrior’s grace even in stillness. The forest around them had gone quiet, the moon high now, silvering the leaves.
She pulled on her modern pajamas—soft cotton printed with faded cartoon characters, a jarring contrast to the primal ferocity still humming in her veins. The fabric felt alien against her marked skin, too thin, too
civilized
, after the raw ownership of claws and fangs. She caught Inuyasha’s gaze lingering on the cartoon cats stretching across her chest, his golden eyes unreadable. He didn’t speak, but the corner of his mouth twitched—a silent acknowledgment of the duality she carried: modern girl and claimed mate.
They walked back toward Kaede’s village in companionable silence, the moon painting silver streaks on the path. Kagome’s steps were slow, her thighs protesting each movement with a deep, satisfying ache. She felt the phantom press of him inside her with every shift, a visceral reminder that made her flush despite the cool breeze. Ahead, the warm glow of the village hearths pierced the tree line, and the faint scent of stewing vegetables and woodsmoke replaced the forest’s musk.
Inuyasha froze, nostrils flaring. His grip tightened on Kagome’s waist, claws pricking through the thin fabric of her pajamas. A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her shoulder. "Why the hell is
he
here?" he snarled, amber eyes narrowing toward the outskirts of the village. Kagome followed his gaze. Leaning against the shadowed trunk of an ancient cedar was a tall, silver-haired figure—elegant, detached, unmistakably Sesshōmaru. Inuyasha’s hand shot to the hilt of Tessaiga, knuckles whitening as he drew the blade halfway from its sheath with a metallic rasp. With his other arm, he hauled Kagome hard against his side, tucking her behind him in a possessive shield. "He knows not to come near me 'til after the fucking season."
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 contenders for the status of Commander of the final battle were Bean and Ender. Canonically, Bean is smarter than Ender Wiggin. But he’s a poorer commander. Bean cannot rally the same kind of camaraderie below him. What makes Ender the better commander is his leadership and his compassion. The movie played well with his ruthless tactical skills—but mostly just dropped his ability to build, lead, and inspire teams.
You can’t have an interesting plotline building a team if you don’t care about the team being built. And
very
little time was spent in this film trying to make Ender’s final five toon leaders (Petra, Alai, Dink, Bean, and Bernard) into interesting, layered individuals.
So I guess that’s our job, my friends.
—
I think they made a good choice on
which
of the toon leaders to maintain in the movie. In the book, Ender’s got nearly a dozen, many of whom don’t make the final cinematic cut: Crazy Tom, Han “Hot Soup” Tzu, etc. The movie pared it down to several of the most important: Petra, Dink, Bean, and Alai. Bernard got to come too.
So, their choices of character were great! The fact that four of five weren’t white males was awesome! But their execution was a bit lacking. Right now, of the five, only Bernard the Bully gets any character development and that very shallowly (falling from bully power and learning to respect Ender). With Alai, Bean, Petra, and Dink, the screenwriter had complex sources from which to draw and he… well, he doesn’t.
I suspect they were trying to shove all the “friendship” plotlines into Bean’s hands—but then they didn’t deliver on the brilliant, arrogant little delight that is Bean. Nonetheless, they give much of Alai’s dialogue and plot to Bean (while ignoring his own complex, jealous relationship with Ender); they turn Petra into Teen Romance in Space; and nix Dink’s character development entirely.
Here’s a secret, though: Ender can have more than one meaningful relationship. He needs Alai, his first friend; Petra, the first to take a risk for him, his teacher, eventually his best right-hand woman; Dink, the jaded mentor, the cynic Ender inspires to follow him anyway; Bean, the smaller, smarter, disconnected kid, who gets swept up in Ender’s legend and becomes a leader himself.
(And I guess Bernard can come, too?)
They can
all
be complex and compelling. Time is limited— but all they each need is one key scene to introduce their inner conflict. Everyone’s got one. And once the audience sees it, you don’t need to keep reiterating it. It becomes the lens through which the viewer experiences the character.
That’s the great thing about human minds. You give us a couple hints—most of all if you show us a
pattern
— and we’ll eat it up. We spin it out, fill in the gaps. But you have to give us that sturdy post to start from and then we’ll post-hole the rest ourselves.
If you give the viewer context to chew on, all the scenes with our boys and girl Doing War Things and Interacting become
interesting.
For example:Dink going to Command School, following Ender to his final battle and playing the teachers’s games? If they’d told us a little about Dink, that would have been a big dramatic deal—instead, a boy in Battle School continued on his planned educational path.
So tonight we’re going to talk about Dink, and how a single additional canonical scene would have doubled the depth of his character.
DINK
All we need to add for Dink is a single brief scene from the book. It will make Ender’s choices to play or not to play, to lead or not to lead, more complex, but also make Dink’s decision to follow Ender to Command School more profound.
Much of this is taken directly from Ender’s Game the book. I cut it up, removed some dialogue— took out a bit about missing home, combined Rose de Nose and Bonzo Madrid just as the movie does.
ENDER wakes up in Salamander Barracks. Everyone else is clearly asleep. He puts on Battle Room uniform, clearly intending to go sneak in some more practice in the Room.
Cut to: BATTLE ROOM. The Room is facing away from Earth and is black with stars.
To ENDER’S surprise, DINK MEEKER is standing in the doorway, looking out. ENDER stops next to him. There is a silent pause, allowing us to enjoy the epic CGI at work.
ENDER
I saw you in the battle with Petra. I looked up your stats. You’re one of the best students here, Dink. Why are you just a toon leader?
DINK (grins)
Actually, they promoted me twice, but I refused.
ENDER stares.
DINK
The second time, they took my old locker and bunk and desk, assigned me to a commander’s cabin, and gave me an army. But I just stayed in the cabin until they gave in and put me back in somebody else’s army.
ENDER
Why?
DINK
Because I won’t let them do it to me. I can’t believe you haven’t seen through this crap yet, Ender. But I guess you’re young. These other armies, they’re not the enemy. It’s the teachers, they’re the enemy. They get us to fight each other, to hate each other. We kill ourselves, go crazy trying to beat each other, and all the time those bastards are watching us, studying us, discovering our weak points, deciding whether we’re good enough or not. Well, good enough for what? I was a little kid when they brought me here. What the hell did I know?
ENDER
So why don’t you go home?
DINK
Because I can’t give up the game. Because I love this.
ENDER
So why not be a commander?
DINK
Never. Look what it does to Bonzo. The boy’s crazy. They made him a commander and so he has to act like one. He can’t allow himself to have weaknesses. To be better than him, that’s an insult. To be stronger, that’s like cutting off balls. That’s why he hates you, because you didn’t suffer when he tried to punish you. He hates you for that, he honestly does. He’s crazy. They’re all crazy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s winning, but that scares him worst of all, because he doesn’t know why he’s winning, except that I have something to do with it. Any minute somebody could find out he isn’t the magic general who can win no matter what. He doesn’t know why anybody wins or loses. Nobody does.
ENDER
Doesn’t mean he’s crazy, Dink.
DINK
I know, you’ve been here a year, you think these people are normal. Well, they’re not. We’re not. I look in the library, I call up books on my desk. Old ones, because they won’t let us have anything new, but I’ve got a pretty good idea of what children are, and we’re not children. Children can lose sometimes and nobody cares. Children aren’t in armies, they aren’t commanders. They don’t rule over forty other kids. It’s more than anybody can take and not go mad.
ENDER
Maybe you can be a commander and not be crazy. Maybe knowing about craziness means you don’t have to fall for it.
DINK
I’m not going to let the bastards run me, Ender. They’ve got you pegged, too, and they don’t plan to treat you kindly. Look what they’ve done to you so far.
ENDER
They haven’t done anything except promote me.
DINK
They think they’ve got you on ice. Don’t let them.
ENDER
But that’s what I came here for. For them to make me into a tool. To save the world.
DINK
I can’t believe you still believe that.
ENDER
What?
DINK
The bugger menace. Save the world. Listen, Ender, if the buggers were coming back, they’d be here. They aren’t invading again. We beat them and they’re gone.
ENDER
But the vids… Battle School. All of this.
DINK (shakes his head)
Your grandparents weren’t born yet when we fought that war. It’s all a fake. You watch. There is no war. They’re just screwing around with us.
ENDER
Why?
DINK
Because as long as people are afraid of the buggers, the world stays united. The people in power stay in power. But keep watching, Ender. People are going to catch on. There’ll be a civil war to end all wars. That’s the menace, Ender, not the buggers. And in that war, when it comes, you and I won’t be friends. Because you’re American, just like our dear teachers. And I am not.
DINK stands and offers a incongruous friendly hand. Ender takes it.
DINK
C’mon. Let’s go eat something.
Dink is the brilliant commander who chooses not to play. He’s one of Ender’s earliest mentors, jaded and cynical, thinking on a bigger picture than the scuffles in the Battle Room but in love with the game anyway. His choice to follow Ender to Command School is just that: a CHOICE, a sign of Ender’s leadership, a triumph (and, in its way, like much of this story, a tragedy).
This scene would also set the stage for the Earthly civil war—which we’ll talk about later.
COMING UP NEXT: PETRA ARKANIAN
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. Криптонец
— Так как же ты получил ожог, Джим? — спрашивает Леонард, проводя кожным регенератором по спине и ягодицам Джима.
— Ну, я стоял на четвереньках, и оказалось, что криптонцы, когда сильно возбуждены, стреляют лазерными лучами прямо из глаз, прикинь! Мне повезло, что он пялился на мою задницу, а не, скажем, на лоб, — с некоторым нахальством, не соответствующим истории, рассказывает Джим. — И не смотри так на меня, Боунс. Он выглядел совершенно по-человечески.
— Джим, чистокровных криптонцев никто не видел уже много лет. Скорей всего, парень был криптонцем максимум на четверть, иначе ты бы тут со мной не разговаривал, — вздыхает Леонард.
Джим надувает губы и, как только Леонард заканчивает, вскакивает с биокровати.
— Мне пора на мостик, — объявляет он, натягивает форменные брюки и неторопливо выходит из медотсека.
Черт возьми, Джим.
2. Сайян
— У тебя что, какой-то бзик на инопланетян исчезающих видов? — спрашивает Леонард и осторожно вводит дермальный регенератор в задницу Джима.
— Я даже не представлял, что он инопланетянин! Выглядел совершенно обычно. Откуда мне было знать, что под джинсами у него обезьяний хвост? — возмущается Джим.
— А потом ты увидел хвост и подумал: «Так, а почему бы ему не трахнуть меня не только членом, но и хвостом»? — сухо интересуется Леонард.
— Я не виноват! Он поставил меня раком, а потом засунул мне в задницу не только свой крошечный член, но и огромный пушистый хвост! Мне показалось, что меня разрывает на части, — жалуется Джим подушке, пока Леонард залечивает его травмы.
— Потому что у тебя действительно разрывы, Джим! С фига ли он засунул в тебя хвост? Ты что, сказал ему, что у него крошечный член?
— Да откуда я знаю? — Джим не отвечает на второй вопрос, и если Леонард знает Джима — а он его знает, — то, скорее всего, ответ будет «да».
Как только Леонард извлекает регенератор, Джим мгновенно вскакивает на ноги, заявляет: «Мне пора на мостик», — одевается и выходит из медотсека.
Черт возьми, Джим.
3. Клингон
— Ну, теперь-то ты явно не сможешь сказать, будто не знал, что он инопланетянин, — замечает Леонард, обрабатывая антисептиком укус на заднице Джима, и достает регенератор.
— Я внес свой вклад в развитие дипломатических отношений между нашими расами, — пытается возразить Джим. Ха, как будто Леонарда убедят такие жалкие оправдания. Он слишком хорошо знает Джима. — Я не виноват в том, что у инопланетян какой-то странный фетиш на мою задницу.
— Джим, это не просто засос. Он реально откусил от тебя кусочек, — хмуро констатирует Леонард.
— Насколько я знаю, клингоны любят, так сказать, метить территорию, — пожимает плечами Джим.
— А ты не сказал ему, что не любитель инопланетного садо-мазо? — сухо спрашивает Леонард и залечивает укус дермальным регенератором.
— Мне…
— Пора на мостик, — практически рычит Чэпел. — Мы знаем.
Вот почему Леонард ее обожает.
Черт возьми, Джим.
4. Ромуланец
— Ты же знал, что он тоже инопланетянин, — недовольно замечает Боунс. Он уже сыт приключениями Джима по горло.
— Ну, я не знал, что чертовы ромуланцы после секса вытатуировывают свое имя на заднице партнера, — ворчит Джим. — Клянусь, отныне и во веки веков я буду спать только с землянами!
— Хорошо бы, — бормочет Леонард, водя лазером по ромуланским символам на ягодице Джима.
— После назначения капитаном я трахался с криптонцем, сайяном, клингоном и ромуланцем, и каждый раз тебе пришлось меня лечить. Секс, к слову, оказался кошмарным. Почему в Академии секс с инопланетянами был куда лучше? — Джим надувает губы.
— Может, стоит попробовать переспать с вулканцем? — небрежно предлагает Леонард, заканчивая удалять татуировку, и сразу же жалеет о сказанном. Джим не пасует перед трудностями.
— Я подумаю об этом, — отвечает он, вскакивает с биокровати и натягивает штаны.
— Да-да, знаю, тебе пора на мостик, — говорит Леонард, едва Джим открывает рот. Тот хмурится и выходит в коридор.
Черт возьми, Джим.
5. Вулканец
— Ты переспал с послом?! — кричит Боунс, разглядывая задницу Джима. На этот раз она покрыта черными синяками в форме отпечатков пальцев.
— Просто вылечи меня, ладно? — надувает губы Джим. — Ты сам предложил вулканца. Я не ожидал, что он схватит меня за задницу и начнет ее жамкать, как какой-то мячик-антистресс. В общем, можно только порадоваться, что он схватил меня за задницу, а не за яйца.
— Только с тобой, Джим, только с тобой может произойти такая хрень, — бормочет Леонард, в тысячный раз проводя дермальным регенератором по ягодицам Джима.
Прежде чем он успевает сказать что-то еще, в медотсек входит Спок.
— Спок! — требовательно зовет Леонард. — Скажи своему капитану-идиоту, чтобы перестал якшаться с инопланетянами!
— На вас напал инопланетянин? — спрашивает Спок, и на его обычно невозмутимом лице появляется хмурая гримаса.
— Ну, не то чтобы напал, — признает Джим, а потом, когда Леонард увеличивает мощность регенератора до такой степени, что кожу начинает покалывать, вскрикивает: — Ай, Боунс! Можно понежнее?
— Нельзя! Ведь ты придурок, чью задницу не щадят инопланетяне, с которыми ты спишь! Криптонцы, сайяны, клингоны, ромуланцы, а теперь еще и вулканцы, — жалуется Леонард.
Джим краснеет от смущения и шипит:
— Боунс! Только не при Споке!
— Почему бы и нет? В конце концов, ты пострадал от рук его двойника, — бормочет Леонард.
— У вас были сексуальные отношения с послом? — требовательно спрашивает Спок, и в его голосе проскальзывает едва уловимая эмоция, которая может оказаться раздражением, недоверием или гневом.
Леонард с удовольствием продолжил бы исследовать чувства Спока, но тут Джим стонет и пытается удавиться подушкой.
Черт возьми, Джим.
И, наконец, Спок
Два дня спустя Джим, прихрамывая, появляется в медотсеке.
— Что опять? — вздыхает Леонард. — Только не говори, что переспал с послом-ригеллианцем и мы возвращаемся на восьмую звездную базу.
— Нет, — тихо отвечает Джим и краснеет. — Я, э-э, немного пофлиртовал с ним, но…
— Но что?
— Можешь просто вылечить меня без лишних вопросов? — просит Джим, явно испытывая дискомфорт.
— Что нужно вылечить на этот раз? — снова вздыхает Леонард.
— Боунсменяотшлепали.
— Повтори.
— Меня! Отшлепали! — едва ли не по слогам произносит Джим и надувает губы.
— Кто? — спрашивает Леонард, хотя у него уже есть предположение.
— Спок, — бормочет Джим себе под нос, но Леонард все равно слышит.
— Ну надо же! Спок наконец-то поставил тебя на место.
— И где же, по-твоему, «мое место»? — через несколько секунд, отмерев, спрашивает Джим.
— Ну, под ним, конечно же, — дразнит Леонард. — Или, возможно, у него на коленях. Команда уже несколько месяцев делает ставки, пытаясь угадать, сколько времени понадобится Споку, чтобы сорваться и трахнуть тебя.
Выигрывает, разумеется, Леонард. Теперь он с нетерпением ждет, когда Скотти отдаст ему выигрыш.
(Никто не узнает о том, что Леонард решил увеличить свои шансы на победу и специально позвал Спока в медотсек, пока лечил синяки, которые другой Спок оставил на заднице Джима.)
Конец
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
6 Months Ago
Adolin is kicked off the force.
Of course, there are twelve people who know that this is a farce, twelve people who are aware this is all part of a greater plan, but to the rest of the department, to the rest of the
city
, it’s one hundred percent the truth.
Over the next few weeks he’s quietly put on suspension from SWAT, then from the department. They take great pains to surreptitiously and
intentionally
leak the story to the papers.
Adolin Kholin, Son of Blackthorn, Suspended for Assault.
Carefully planted quotes from anonymous sources spill fabricated secrets about multiple instances of police brutality that have been covered up over the span of Adolin’s career with the police, from using pepper spray during peaceful protests to assaulting unresisting suspects in routine traffic stops.
Captain Dalinar Kholin “Not Surprised”, Son Always Showed Signs of Aggression.
He particularly loves this one. He’s not even sure it’s untrue, is the real kicker. His father, the biggest, meanest cop around back when he was younger, loves to preach to Adolin about how he needs to reign himself in, do things
the right way,
though Adolin’s never done anything even
near
what had in his own youth.
Sergeant Adolin Kholin Suspected of Foul Play.
They go a step further, linking him with small-time criminal organizations, blaming him for drug busts gone bad, sting operations that ended with unfortunate injuries on both sides. They allude to payouts and bribes, imply that he possibly manipulated situations in favor of the criminals he was supposedly working with.
Kholin Stripped of Badge, Sentenced to Jail Time.
His team doesn’t make him serve the whole sentence, thank god, but they do lock him up for the last month of it. They draw up some papers from another prison (with that prison’s permission and promise to cooperate if questioned) and have him “transferred” to the county jail for the last four weeks of his incarceration so that he can be seen, so that word gets around that he’s actually doing time; the story won’t work otherwise. There are too many of Sadeas’s men inside these barbed-wire fences for them not to notice his absence.
Vathah is the one that came up with the idea. They all knew there was no plausible way Adolin could go undercover with a false identity; his family was too well-known,
he
was too well-known, had made too much of a name for himself. Not to mention the history his family has with Sadeas and Amaram.
So Vathah posited that they could make it look like an ugly split, play it like Adolin was a dirty cop all along, have both the department and his father publicly disown him. Make it seem like Adolin resents his father, chafes under his stifling leadership, possibly even wants revenge on him for the way things went down.
It’s a calculated risk. On one hand, Sadeas might not buy it. Ialai is clever, and Torol himself is not dumb by any means. They’ll need him to believe that the perfect kid he knew when he and Dalinar were still on speaking terms has changed irrevocably, is no longer the boy who saw his father as a hero.
On the other hand, Sadeas might just love the idea of bringing Adolin onto his crew in the name of petty revenge. Dalinar, his friend turned bitter rival, losing the loyalty of his eldest son only for Sadeas to snap him up and turn them against one another. It’s a sweet prize, and one, hopefully, Sadeas won’t be able to resist.
_____
Now
Adolin’s trusted enough now to work alone for lighter jobs, though he still catches sight of someone tailing him out of the corner of his eye on more than one occasion. He doesn't let it bother him; he knows he’s still the newest guy in the crew, still basically a rookie, and he’s not doing anything that could risk blowing his cover anyway, so he ignores it mostly.
He reschedules his next meeting with Jakamav to the early hours of the morning just to make sure he’s not being followed and they meet up in the alley behind the donut shop as planned, the scent of wet garbage and piss sharp in his nostrils. He bounces on his toes as he waits, trying to warm himself.
“You couldn’t have found somewhere a little less disgusting, Jaks?” Adolin asks in a hushed whisper as Jakamav approaches, face hidden beneath his heavy winter jacket.
“Stop complaining, princess. What have you got for me?”
“Nothing in particular. Still moving a lot of shit, drugs and guns and ammo, still beating guys up here and there, but they’re letting me go solo now. Still following me occasionally, but for the most part I’m on my own unless I need extra hands.”
“Anything else? Any plans or anything you’ve overheard?”
“No, not really, but I’m not around anyone high enough to be having those kinds of conversations.”
“Why not?”
“What?” Adolin asks him, surprised.
“Why aren’t you around the people who have those kinds of conversations?” Jakamav repeats, blowing hot air from his mouth between gloved hands, mist rising around them.
“Uh… because I’m the new guy in a deeply-entrenched
mob
, Jaks,” Adolin says slowly. “I'm not gonna just jump to the top because I smile real nice at someone, no matter how good I look doing it. Is that what you all expected would happen?” His disbelief is quickly melting into irritation.
“The Captain wants to know why you're not moving up in the ranks more quickly,” Jakamav tells him in the tone of one repeating something verbatim, though his gaze is apologetic.
“Tell the Captain he can go
fuck himself
,” Adolin snarls, breath clouding the air in front of him.
“Adolin,” Jakamav sighs.
“What?” Adolin snaps. “This isn’t a fucking
game,
Jaks. I can’t just ask to talk to Sadeas. These people are dangerous. I'm doing what I can at the rate I think won’t get me fucking killed. We always knew this was gonna be a long game. I'm getting to know the guys better so maybe I’ll get a break soon, but you all need to relax and let me do my job, alright?”
“Hey, come on–” Jakamav starts, reaching for him.
“No,” Adolin cuts him off. “This isn’t an overnight job. It’s gonna take
time.
Also,” Adolin says, taking a steadying breath, “I don't think we should meet up anymore. These meetings are way too fucking risky. I think I should just stay off the radar completely and if there’s anything I can give you that won’t blow my cover I’ll find a way to pass it along.”
“Adolin–”
“Do me a favor and tell my father next time he can be the one to go undercover if he thinks I'm not doing it well enough,” Adolin says, and then he spins on his heel and starts for the main street.
He hears scrambling behind him and Jakamav grabs his arm just before he gets to the mouth of the alley.
“Adolin, wait.
Stop
, just hold on a second,” Jakamav hisses, pulling him back into the shadows of the buildings rising around them. Adolin lets him, leans against the cold brick wall as Jakamav stares at him, brows knitted together.
“The Captain told me to tell you… You have the green light. To do what you need to do,” Jakamav says slowly.
Adolin lets out a long breath. He hadn’t expected that so soon.
They talked about it the night before Adolin’s first meeting with Daz and Ash at the barbershop. His father told him that if they ended up stagnant, treading water with nothing to show for their efforts, Adolin might be told to dig in, really get his hands dirty, volunteer for the unsavory jobs to gain favor. He would be given the green light, and he’d be cleared of all wrongdoing later, of course, once they wrapped the case up.
His hands are already dirty, and he’s already doing unsavory jobs, but he’s somehow managed to avoid killing anyone so far. Sometimes it seems like sheer luck that he’s been getting the jobs he has lately, ones that seem to be less focused on people and more on drops and transfers. He wonders for the first time if it’s not a coincidence.
He’ll have to mull that over later, but it might be a moot point anyway; it seems like he’s going to have to start showing he can carry his own weight.
This blanket permission should technically make his job easier, because now he doesn’t have to worry about crossing any lines. But it also means that he’s not just going to be
posing
as a criminal anymore, doing things that might be forgivable in the eyes of the law and, more importantly, in his own conscience. Having the green light means that he’s going to actually
become
a criminal.
Maybe he’ll still be able to justify it to himself if they can get Sadeas. But he’ll never be able to forget what he does. His soul will never forget.
But he agreed to this. It’s got to be worth it, to take him down.
Jakamav looks away and fumbles in a pocket, pulling out something small and black. A burner phone.
“We agree. No more meet ups. No contact from here on out unless there’s something to report that can’t wait. Use this phone for emergencies only. But… Adolin...” Adolin watches as Jakamav struggles with his next words.
“Just… Don’t be stupid.
Use it
if you need us, okay?” He finally says. “Any time, day or night. Someone will always be on the other end of it.”
Adolin takes the ancient flip phone, turning it once in his hands before shoving it deep into his pocket.
Then he reaches out and squeezes Jakamav’s arm.
“Thanks,” he says. Jakamav gives him a tight, worried smile.
“Look out for yourself,” he says, and then Adolin turns, pulling the hood of his jacket up and stepping out of the alley, beginning the cold trek back to his apartment.
_____
Adolin hides the flip phone under a loose floorboard in his stupidly chilly apartment, making sure to keep it charged and silenced at all times. He checks it for incoming messages every evening before he goes to sleep, then shoves it back in its hiding spot and pulls the threadbare rug in what he calls his living room over top of it. He doesn’t take it with him on every job, just the ones he thinks have the potential of going south, tucking it deep into one of the many inside pockets of his thick coat.
A few more weeks pass this way, Adolin slowly being trusted with more and more tasks both solo and with partners. He works mostly with the guys he already knows, though he does meet a few others; his favorites, of course, are still the group of guys he went drinking with several weeks back.
Unfortunately, he only sees Kal a couple of times, and both times he’s stiff and formal, no hint of the almost-smile Adolin saw that night at the bar anywhere near the man’s lips no matter how hard Adolin tries to coax it out of him.
There’s also no real opportunity to volunteer for anything, but in his gut he feels like he’s making progress. His spidey-sense is tingling, telling him that something’s going to happen soon and he’ll finally get his chance.
His jobs always come via text, lately from either Kal or Ash, so he was right to guess that the two of them are some kind of leaders to their little sub-group. Whatever they call themselves – leaders, lieutenants, minor bosses – they answer to someone higher up the food chain, maybe Amaram or some kind of middle man. His best hope of getting any good intel is buddying up to one of them. One of them that is
not Ash
, because that guy still fucking hates him for reasons unknown to Adolin himself.
He suggests to Daz on the next job they work together that they should go out again and Daz agrees enthusiastically. They ditch their load of weapons at the drop point and then hang out in the shadows of a neighboring building to wait until the buyers arrive to pick them up.
“Hey, gancho, gimme your number,” Daz says, and Adolin pulls out his phone, unlocking it and handing it over. It is, of course, his personal phone and not the burner. He cleaned it up some when he started all this, dumping any damning evidence but leaving many of the contacts in place; it would be extremely suspicious if he suddenly didn't have any of his old numbers stored.
Daz hands it back, the screen open to a text message that says
, Hey gancho,
sent to an unknown number. Adolin saves the number under a new contact labeled “Daz”.
“I’ll text you, let you know the plan, yeah?” Daz tells him, and Adolin grins.
“Sounds good,” he says, and they wait another fifteen minutes until the buyers show and then they’re thankfully done making the city worse for the day.
_____
He’s working behind the counter making drinks early the next morning, Alen at the register, when he hears a familiar voice place the most boring, cliche order possible.
“Tall black coffee, please.”
Peeking around the giant espresso machine directly in front of him he sees a tall man with dark hair pulled back and a familiar scar on his frowning face.
Kal, face scruffy and eyes bloodshot, pays in cash, and then he steps to the side for the next customer in line, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
Adolin somehow always forgets just how tall Kal really is. He’s not a short guy himself by any means, but Kal has a couple of inches even on him, which Adolin is reminded of every time he has to tilt his head upward to look at the other man, something he’s not used to doing. He’s usually the one being looked up at, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he
dislikes
the change.
He isn’t sure what the protocol is here, if he’s supposed to pretend he doesn’t recognize the other man, or if he just acts like he would with any guy he’s kind of friends slash co-workers with. Before he can decide on a course of action Kal glances over and does a double take when he sees Adolin standing behind the counter.
“Oh, hey–” Kal starts, then gives an awkward little wave. So, not here to check up on him then, unless he’s a really good actor, which Adolin somehow doubts. Kal seems too genuine for that.
Adolin chuckles, amused to see the normally stoic man flustered over a chance meeting at The Coffee Palace.
“Hey,” he says with a grin, getting to work on Kal’s drink order. Tall black coffee. How… austere. How very like Kal.
Though Adolin’s willing to bet there’s more under that stiff exterior. A
lot
more. He saw a hint of it peeking through that first night, though unfortunately Ash pulled Kal away before Adolin could dig any further, before he could unearth any more intriguing facets of the man’s enigmatic personality.
Adolin makes the plain black coffee and writes “Kal” on it with a happy face, then pushes it across the counter to the man himself.
“Thanks, Adolin,” Kal says with a small smile.
“No prob,” Adolin says. Kal picks up the coffee and catches sight of the smiley, then rolls his eyes, but his smile grows just a little bit wider, something deep inside Adolin warming at the sight.
“Have a nice day,” Adolin chirps, and Kal snorts, grunting back a, “Yeah, you too,” before he turns and leaves the shop, smiley-face coffee in hand.
_____
Daz texts him later that day that they’re going to meet for drinks at Jez’s tonight. Adolin sends back a thumbs up emoji and pockets his phone, checking once again that he has six envelopes in the inside pocket of his coat. All are accounted for, so he zips the coat up tight, throws on a scarf, and heads out.
His first two deliveries go off as planned, but the third guy stands him up, which always leaves Adolin with a pit in his stomach. There’s no way to know if the dealer forgot, or if he’s lying dead in an alley somewhere, or if he’s been tagged by the police or what. When the fourth guy also no-shows the pit in Adolin’s stomach grows wider, gnawing at him, insisting something isn’t right. Two in one day?
The fifth dealer shows, thank God for small mercies, and the delivery goes smoothly, but then the sixth is nowhere to be found.
Fuck.
He’s going to have to report this. He always reports no-shows, but usually it’s not a big deal, one in every ten or so. But
half
of his deliveries? It’s unusual, and it stinks of something bigger than a couple of forgotten appointments.
When he arrives back at his apartment he drops the three undelivered envelopes onto the rickety square table that serves as both an eating surface and a desk. Then he takes a lukewarm shower (because his building’s water only ever gets warm enough to not be cold, not because he enjoys room temperature showers in his obnoxiously, stubbornly freezing apartment), scrubbing the stress of the day off his skin, letting it swirl down the drain.
He dresses in dark jeans and a fine but well-loved henley, puts his thick winter jacket on and pulls a beanie over his mop of wet hair, then tucks the three envelopes back inside his jacket pocket. He’ll give them back to Ash if he’s there tonight, or Kal if he’s not.
Nearly freezing to death on his walk to the nearest underground has become the norm since winter officially hit a couple of weeks ago, and the temperatures plummeted even more today in the face of a wicked cold front. Shivering, he rides the subway into the city, hops off at the correct stop and almost freezes again as he hurries the four blocks to a street tucked away from regular pedestrian traffic.
Despite being off the beaten path it’s a welcoming area, lit with zig zags of hanging bulbs, warm yellow glow lighting up the red brick cobblestone road and neatly paved sidewalks. It’s charming, and Adolin’s honestly shocked that he had no idea it even existed before Daz invited him along that first time. A hidden gem in a soul-sucking city.
Jez’s is easy to find, about halfway down the street, a bright blue and white sign hanging on the brick wall outside, the simple name lit up in glowing blue script. The windows along the front facade are tinted black, making it impossible to see inside from the street, and the door is painted blue with curling gold finishes, a classic look that Adolin approved of the first time he came here and likes even more seeing it again.
Adolin pulls the door open and steps into a burst of blissfully warm air. Several cheers go up as the men recognize him, shouting his name, calling him over as regular patrons glance over, smiling in indulgent confusion at the hubbub. He grins at the reception, then makes his way to the card table in the center of the room as he sheds his jacket, hanging it on a hook on the side wall as he passes, being sure to grab the envelopes out of the inner pocket. It looks like the guys have started gambling early tonight.
Daz is playing, along with Rock, Dunny, Scar, and, surprisingly, Sarge. A couple of other guys watch, including Drey and another guy Adolin’s met recently that everyone calls Lays, like the potato chips. He’s slightly older, a little softer in the body, but his eyes and tongue are sharp, and he gives Adolin a friendly wave when he catches his eye.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that every guy working for the Sons in this bar tonight likes him except for Ash. Who is, once again, at the bar itself, sitting side by side with Kal. Though this time they’re turned around in their stools, leaning back and watching the card game from afar.
Kal doesn’t smile when Adolin lifts a hand in greeting but something in his eyes lightens enough that Adolin feels warm from more than just the heat being pumped into the room. The feeling dissipates when his gaze darts sideways to land on Ash, who is, as usual, glaring coldly at him.
The guys ask if he wants to join the card game but he declines, telling them he’s got some business to take care of first, and then he turns to the bar where Ash and Kal watch him approach.
He stops in front of Ash, holding out the undelivered envelopes as discreetly as he can.
“Three no-shows,” he says in an undertone as Ash takes them from him, frowning.
“You double-checked time and location?” Ash asks, voice sharp.
“Yes,” Adolin responds. “Waited the full fifteen, then left when nobody showed.”
Ash shares a loaded look with Kal, then tucks the envelopes away into his own jacket, which he still wears despite the warmth. Maybe he also just got here.
When nothing else is forthcoming Adolin nods and turns to go back to the card game but Kal’s voice stops him.
“Hey, Adolin, join us for a drink?”
Adolin turns, eyebrows raised.
“You mean Ash isn’t going to incinerate me on the spot with his murder eyes if I sit with you?” Adolin asks.
Ash glowers but Kal huffs out a small laugh, leaning to bump his shoulder against Ash’s, rocking the other man on his stool.
“His bark is worse than his bite. Come on, sit with us,” Kal says, turning to wave over the bartender.
Adolin sits on the stool next to Kal instead of choosing the one by Ash because he’s not a fucking masochist, and he waits patiently for conversation to resume. It takes the bartender a few minutes to get to them, and Ash glares at him in the mirror before dropping his angry gaze to the bottle resting on the bar top in front of him.
The regular patrons seem to be congregating more toward the other end of the large room tonight, where there are a couple of dart boards and a green felt-top pool table, which is currently in use by two young guys wearing NFL jerseys and backwards caps. Adolin watches as the guy wearing a Bears hat sinks the eight ball by mistake, his opponent letting out a whooping cheer at the misfortune.
The bartender, Sylvie, finally arrives, sliding him a beer with a sunny smile, and he thanks her with a grin. He looks down at the bottle and it takes him a second to recognize the label.
“Wow, big spender over here buying imported shit,” Adolin teases, lifting his bottle in a salute to Kal before taking a large swig.
It's good stuff, German, cold and heavy on his tongue, foam thick and bitter. He doesn’t often drink beer unless it’s the only option (or unless he’s just looking to get drunk instead of actually enjoying the taste of the alcohol), prefers high-end liquors and appallingly expensive wine, but he still knows a good beer when he sees one.
“You’re welcome,” Kal replies, taking a sip of his own import. Ash drinks as well.
“Thanks,” Adolin says, grinning as he wipes his upper lip. “Didn’t peg you for a foreign beer kinda guy.”
“What kind of guy did you peg me for?” Kal asks, curious.
“I dunno. A room temperature whisky kinda guy?”
Kal looks surprised. “What? Why?”
Adolin shrugs. “You like your coffee black,” he says as if that explains everything.
Kal raises an eyebrow. “And that means I like warm whisky because…?”
“Because you enjoy self-flagellation. Black coffee is disgusting. Room temperature whisky is not much better.”
“I’ll have you know there are some purists that maintain whisky should
only
be drunk at room temperature,” Kal argues.
“And are you one of those purists?”
“...Maybe.”
“See?” Adolin says, waving dramatically toward the taller man even though nobody was looking at them. “Tortured soul, ladies and gentlemen.”
Kal actually smiles and Adolin's stomach does a little flip at the sight.
Then Ash leans forward, looking around Kal to catch Adolin’s eyes.
“Kholin, you think you’re ready for something a little bigger for your next assignment?” He asks, and there’s something in his eyes that Adolin doesn’t like. It makes him pause for the slightest second, bottle halfway to his mouth, before he finishes the motion and takes a pull on his beer.
Kal’s smile drops as he looks at Ash. “Ash, do you really think that’s necessary?”
Ash doesn’t even look at him, his dark eyes glued to Adolin.
“Yeah, I think so. Bosses want to bring him in on the bigger jobs, remember? Which works out great, because we got the perfect one lined up.”
“Didn’t we decide we were going to put the other guys on it, like we usually do?” Kal asks him, voice tight. Adolin’s eyes pingpong between the two of them, trying to unravel the subtext clearly threaded through the conversation.
“We can’t pass it off every time, Kal. Plus, don’t you think it’s time for him to step up, get his hands a little dirty?” Ash says, leaning back onto his stool with raised brows. Adolin’s stomach clenches; whatever this job is Adolin’s not sure he wants it.
Kal looks like he wants to say no but ultimately he stays silent. Ash smiles, apparently taking that as agreement.
“Be ready to go at eight tomorrow night,” he says to Adolin. “Someone will come pick you up and give you the details then.”
Adolin nods, body tingling with anticipation and nerves. Kal’s jaw is clenched and he’s avoiding both of their eyes now, glaring down at the wooden bar top.
Adolin drains the rest of his beer quickly and then sets the bottle down with a thunk.
“Hey, thanks for the beer,” he tells Kal as he stands, patting his shoulder in a sort of friendly, commiserating way. Then he heads over to the card game, getting an enthusiastic round of cheers as he demands to be dealt in.
_____
The two guys who pick him up the following night are not part of Kal’s crew, as Adolin has taken to labeling them in his head. They’re big, hulking dudes that he’s seen hanging out with Tripp on the rare occasion Adolin joins him for a drink after whatever horrible job they carry out that day.
These guys have never spoken one word to him before and say very little now besides telling him their names – Brent and T – and demanding he put on the oversized black coat they toss his way, presumably for stealth. Then the three of them head downstairs and hop into a sedan idling on the curb. The driver is another one of their group that Adolin’s seen but never spoken to. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself.
The drive to wherever they’re going takes half an hour or so, and Adolin doesn’t recognize the exact neighborhood they end up in but does know they’re near where some of his failed drops were located. They turn onto a side street and pull over, Brent pointing out a decrepit check cashing store with barred windows and a sagging roof just across the street.
“They’s Ghostbloods in there,” he says in a gravelly voice with a thick northeastern accent. “Boss wants to teach them assholes a lesson, and you’s the lucky guy what gets to do it.”
Ghostbloods. A gang with deep ties to the Cartel that’s been growing larger and more troublesome on the south side of town over the last year.
He twists around and tosses a handgun into Adolin's lap.
Adolin freezes, body going cold then hot in a flash.
Fuck.
He gives his head a little shake and picks up the gun, opening the chamber.
It’s loaded.
They want him to kill someone.
The Captain gave you the green light.
Adolin can feel himself start to go numb, the way he used to back when he was on SWAT, when they would prep for a raid. That moment right before breaking down the door, when time seemed to slow to a crawl, and Adolin could hear his heartbeat in his ears,
feel
his very real mortality. And then everything would suddenly speed back up as they slammed the battering ram forward, shattering wood, and the shouting would start, the gunfire, the chaos. The blood.
Adolin snaps the chamber closed again, tucking the gun into the back of his pants after making sure the safety is on. He knows the serial number will be filed off if he bothered to look.
“Who?” He asks.
“Willy. Guy who snatched your three dealers yesterday. Red hair, tall, walks with a limp.”
Adolin nods. “Any instructions?” He asks. His voice sounds flat and tinny in his ears.
Brent gives a confused, “Huh?”
Adolin clarifies.
“Is this an execution? Do you want them to see me? Or do you want me to stay out of sight?”
The other man grunts in understanding. “Execution. Don’t matter if they see your face, but let ‘em watch. We’s sending a message.”
Adolin nods again, then opens the rear door, stepping out onto the pavement, cold air blasting his face.
He flips the hood of the black jacket up around his head, pulling at the hanging tabs to cinch it so it doesn’t fall back away from his face. His feet feel like they’re gliding over the ground, his hearing sharp, eyes darting all around. He focuses on the check cashing store, watches it grow in his field of vision as he gets closer and closer with each step.
And then he’s there. He’s pulling open the door. There’s a guy behind the counter but he’s blonde, so Adolin just lifts the countertop flap and lets himself past without pausing. The guy is shouting at him, chasing him, grabbing at his shoulders to stop him, so Adolin elbows him in the chest and the guy goes down with a painful
whoosh
of breath. Adolin stalks into the back.
Into a break room, three guys crowded around a table with a deck of cards between them.
One of them is red-headed. Tall. He stands, stumbling back, and Adolin sees him favor his right leg.
He pulls the gun out, leveling it at his target –
Willy
– and they’re all too slow.
Bam. Bam.
Two shots to the chest. The first will kill him without question. The second is just insurance.
One of the guys screams and dives for Willy, who falls, eyes already dimming. He presses his hands frantically to Willy’s bleeding chest, but the third man lunges for Adolin.
He goes for the weapon but Adolin sidesteps him easily, then smashes him in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The guy crashes to the floor.
Adolin checks to make sure the second man isn’t coming for him. No, he’s still trying to save a dead man. He looks at Willy, just to be sure. Yes, he’s dead, his wide eyes empty and staring.
Adolin turns and strides out of the room. The guy in the hall has recovered so Adolin hits him again, kicks him once so he stays down. Adolin doesn’t want to kill anyone else if he doesn’t have to.
He tucks the gun into his pants and moves back through the lobby, exits the shop. Makes it all the way to the car still idling across the street before the men come stumbling out of the shop, one covered in his friend’s blood.
“Holy shit man, stone cold,” T says as Adolin slides in next to him.
“Go,” Adolin says, voice flat.
The men across the street pull out handguns but the driver has already hammered on the gas pedal and they’re speeding away with a roar of the engine and a squeal of tires.
The Ghostbloods get off two shots behind them but neither of them hits the car, and then they’re out of range.
“You did it?” Brent asks.
“Yeah,” Adolin says, leaning around the seat to offer the gun back to him.
“Keep it,” Brent says, nodding at him. “You earned it.”
Adolin says nothing, just tucks it away and stares out the window silently until they drop him off at his building.
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 air of that forest had a different weight—iron under green, like the breath before summer breaks into storm. She went barefoot because sandals told on you, and she moved the way Mizuhana Kaede would one day teach—though no Kaede existed here—water that has decided, but not loudly, to be river.
Her basket was a poor thing mended twice over. She carried it crooked on her arm while she searched the leaf fall for yoji-kusa and the tender white of wood-ear clinging to a rotting trunk. Mother had said:
Don’t linger where the pines grow in ranks. Don’t turn your back on wind. If you see a fan on a back, become a shadow.
The girl had never seen a fan like that except at a distance—white on black, shaped like a leaf set to flame. She did not know why her chest hurt when she thought of it, only that it did.
She didn’t hear him first; she felt the way the forest paid attention. Birds bit off their calls mid-note; a beetle stopped its clockwork progress along a twig. She sank behind a low, moss-slick boulder and tried to make her breath smaller than ferns.
He came through the trees like a line cut into paper—sharp, boy-thin, the arrogance of childhood years sitting wrong and right on his shoulders. His hair was dark as crow wing, untamed. He held a practice sword in his hand like it had been part of him once and would be again. He wore no crest, no fan; his clothes were scraped and dusty and ordinary.
His eyes were not ordinary. They were flint that hadn’t met spark yet.
He knelt to pull a bur out of his trouser hem and muttered something that might have been a curse if it hadn’t sounded so purely annoyed. It startled Hibiki into the softest huff of laughter—the kind you could hide inside if you were careful. The boy’s head snapped up.
“Who’s there?”
The girl froze. In the warring world, names were a kind of blade. She lifted her basket very slowly and revealed herself the way a creature might: a little, a little more, ready to vanish into leaf.
He blinked. His sword did not lift, but his shoulders squared as if they wanted it to. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She tapped two fingers against the rim of her basket. Herbs. Then pointed toward the base of a maple where spring shoots had confided themselves to anyone who knew how to look. Her face said: I am not a threat; I am necessary.
The line of his mouth eased. “You’re small,” he said, and then, as if embarrassed by his own observation: “The woods aren’t kind.”
Her hands moved of their own accord—habits learned from a mother who did not bow to men but made them think she had.
I will keep to the low places
, she signed, a language of kitchen and courtyard and winter-night talk.
I will be gone soon.
He didn’t know the signs, but he knew the intention. He rocked back on his heels and pretended not to watch as she crossed to the maple and began to harvest. She worked with her head down, quick and exact. When a leaf cut her thumb, she put it to her mouth without thinking and tasted that small iron that already lived in the day.
“Let me,” he said, surprising both of them. He set the practice sword aside and came near enough that she could see the world scuffed along his knuckles. He tore a strip from his sleeve with his teeth and wrapped her thumb. It was clumsy, careful work. “My mother would scold me if I let you bleed.”
She lifted her bandaged thumb like a lantern. The smile she gave him was the kind you left in the forest to grow wild.
“What’s your name?” he asked, and though his voice reached for command, it landed in something more honest—curiosity like a stone in a pond, plunk and circle.
The girl looked at his eyes, at the way the trees seemed to stand straighter around him, and thought:
If I give it, it will belong to him, and if it belongs to him, it belongs to the battle between our houses, and if it belongs to that, it will be broken.
She touched the basket’s rim again—Herbs—and then the place over her heart where names sleep. However, she did not say. Instead, she bowed a fraction.
He frowned, then huffed a laugh like he’d found a knot he couldn’t untie and liked the challenge of it. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” He retrieved the sword and rested it across his knees. “I come here to practice.” A beat. “You could…come earlier. Or later.” He lifted a shoulder, trying to look careless and not managing it. “So we won’t trouble each other.”
The girl merely nodded, and then, because something in his careful offense felt like a bruise already forming, she reached into her basket, found a small, sharp-scented leaf, and held it out on her palm.
“For the bur,” she said, the first of her voice she’d given him, soft and clean.
His eyes startled, then warmed—the way flint almost knows fire. He took the leaf and held it like it might tell him a story if he didn’t rush it. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice did not try to be anything it wasn’t.
They sat a while like that: girl and boy, herbs and sword, the forest pretending not to watch. When she rose, she pointed to the maple and then to the lowering sun and touched two fingers to her brow—
I see this. I will remember.
He nodded as if it were a vow.
She left by the shadowed path, light-footed, and did not look back. He waited until her basket’s bobbing vanished into green, then tied her leaf into the cord at his wrist as if it were nothing at all and everything he had.
Later, when the fight between their clans found a way to name them, the girl would not speak his name to anyone—not even to the river. And he would never know hers, because he would never need to know a person as insignificant as herself. But for a long time, whenever she passed that maple, the leaves would fold a little toward her as if remembering a bandage, and she would think of flint that might have been a friend if the world had been kinder.
-----
At five, Suzume began to remember things she had never lived. At six, they had been near nightly occurrences.
They came like minnows—quick flashes darting through the still pool of her mind, gleaming silver, vanishing before she could close her hands around them. A brush of cold metal against her palm. The lamplight glint along a sword’s edge. White hair falling like snow, heavy and soundless. The weight of a voice calling
Hibi
— and breaking before the last syllable, leaving only the echo.
She did not have words for any of it. She had only the ripples that remained, spreading quietly through her, disturbing the clear surface of her present with shapes she could not name.
In the mornings, her world was small and kind. The house smelled of woodsmoke and herbs, the air cool and damp with river mist. Kaede tied her sash with patient fingers, her hands deft despite their roughness. Two quick taps against Suzume’s wrist—
I see you
—and the knot was done. Suzume leaned into the touch as though it tethered her to the moment. During the nights, she would dream of someone else, a mother who had not been unkind, yet also not gentle. A girl who had learned her place through pressure and hurt.
When she stepped out onto the porch, dew clung cold and sharp between her toes, beading silver on the grass before the sun claimed it. The river laughed in the distance, quicksilver light skipping over its ripples, and the village stirred slowly awake—doors creaking open, voices murmuring, the faint bark of a dog chasing nothing in particular.
Kaede set a small bowl beside her: plain rice, a strip of pickled greens, and, because the season had been generous, a sliver of dried plum. Suzume pressed her hands together in solemn thanks, then bent to eat, careful and neat at first. But her body couldn’t stay still; she rocked back on her heels, swaying the way swallows rocked on a line, her sleeve dipping dangerously near the rice. Kaede laughed from inside, a low warm sound, and Suzume grinned silently, cheeks pink.
Later, basket slung between them, mother and daughter walked the narrow lane. The day grew brighter around them, air thick with the scent of clover and damp soil. Farmers waved from the paddies, their reflections broken in the green water as they bent to tend the young shoots. The stalks quivered like a thousand thin blades, whispering against each other in the breeze.
Old Sadao sat at his usual place by the square, mending his net with gnarled hands. When he saw Suzume, he flicked the twine with a practiced snap, pretending to snare her sleeve. Suzume squeaked without sound, drew her hands to her chest, then spun free with a flourish. The old man barked a laugh, teeth flashing, before shaking his head as though he’d been tricked by a sparrow too quick to catch.
A neighbour paused with her baby balanced on her hip, shifting the child forward so Suzume could touch its palm. Suzume’s small hand pressed against the tiny starfish fingers, which curled reflexively around hers. The infant gurgled, and Suzume’s face broke into silent laughter, shoulders trembling with delight.
Joy, she found, was a simple thing. Sunlight scattered through persimmon leaves, dappling the lane in gold and green or painting the grass fields in a shade of warmth she had come to love. The cool sting of mint crushed between her fingertips as they passed the herb patch. The steady pull of Kaede’s hand on the basket’s handle when the weight of rice and greens threatened to tug it from her grasp.
And yet—sometimes—something tugged back from far away. A sky red as open wounds. The sharp reek of iron and smoke. A girl’s white hair falling like a curtain between her and the world. Suzume’s breath would hitch, and she would blink hard at the bright paddies until the green steadied her again, until she could hear the swallows and the frogs instead of distant cries she could not remember making.
She clung to Kaede’s hand until the world righted itself.
The first time Kaede asked about the dreams, she did it the way she did everything—with the softest possible touch.
They were sitting on the porch, the morning light pooling gold along the worn planks. Suzume nestled between her mother’s knees while Kaede once again worked a wooden comb slowly through her hair. It was a familiar routine. Each stroke whispered, catching faintly on tangles before easing them loose.
Kaede drew the comb once, twice more, then paused, holding it still in the pale wash of light. “When you sleep,” she murmured, her voice low and careful, “does the world ever look like another place?”
Suzume stilled. Her fingers fluttered uncertainly before settling into a shape.
Sometimes.
Kaede’s gaze softened, though she waited. “What do you see?”
Suzume hesitated. The words she did not have pressed heavy in her chest. At last, she lifted her hands, shaping the air slowly, deliberately.
Snow.
A pause.
A sword.
Another pause.
A girl.
Then, after a heartbeat, Suzume raised one hand to the crown of her head and drew it downward, indicating hair falling long past her shoulder. Not brown. White. She caught a strand of her own chestnut between her fingers, pinching it as if to anchor herself to this life, then glanced up with a small, guilty expression—like a child caught making up a story.
Kaede’s mouth curved into a small smile, though there was a shoreline of worry in it, an undertow she did not let reach her voice. She touched the faint furrow between Suzume’s brows with her thumb, smoothing it away.
“No hurry,” she said gently. “Dreams are stories trying to be water. We drink what we can, and what we cannot, the river carries on for us.”
Suzume nodded solemnly, as though this were the most reasonable truth in the world. Her pale eyes glimmered, full of questions she could not ask, but Kaede only resumed combing, steady and slow. The sound of the teeth through her hair mingled with the hush of the river below, as if mother and daughter were both listening for something neither dared to name.
That afternoon, Kaede drew the low chest from the corner of the room. Its wood was darkened by age, the grain polished smooth by years of careful hands. She set it gently before her, as if it were a sleeping child, and pressed her palms against the lid.
When she lifted it, the room seemed to breathe with her.
The silks stirred in the draft like things alive—moonlight folded into cloth, dawn-pink whispering of warmth, river-blue deep as midsummer shadows. Their colours shimmered faintly, catching the firelight until the small house itself seemed to quiet, as though a wind had changed its mind and turned reverent.
Suzume knelt instantly, folding onto her heels with her hands neatly upon her knees. She did not fidget, did not blink. Her wide pale eyes shone, solemn and unblinking, as if she had been waiting at this threshold all her short life.
Kaede touched one length of fabric, then another, her fingertips trailing like a memory. Her voice was hushed, though not with sadness—with the weight of something handed carefully across generations.
“I promised you,” she said, “that when you were ready, I would teach you the dance my teacher gave me. It is an old story, older than even her bones. Some call it Water, Moon, the goddess by the river.”
The syllables slipped into the air like prayer.
Suzume shaped the words soundlessly with her lips:
Water. Moon. Goddess.
Her heart gave a sound she could not shape, a hollow ache that was somehow joy too.
Kaede’s smile was quiet. She chose a pale sash, thin as mist, and a length of river-blue silk that shimmered like a current in shade. She draped them carefully across her arm, then beckoned her daughter to stand.
They stepped outside, into the yard where the packed earth was smooth from many seasons of feet and the grass bowed at the edges. Evening light had begun to fall soft across the paddies, tinting the water with bronze. Birds skimmed the river’s surface, their wings flashing silver before vanishing upstream.
Kaede tied the sash around Suzume’s small waist—twice around, snug but not tight, and then in a knot so soft it could breathe. She smoothed the silk with her palms, tugging it straight, and Suzume held perfectly still, her chest rising quick with anticipation.
Then Kaede unfolded the length of river-blue across her daughter’s arms, spreading it from wrist to wrist. Not to bind or conceal them, but to remind them of water. The fabric caught the breeze and shivered faintly, as if alive.
“There,” Kaede murmured, stepping back to look. For a moment she only watched Suzume, her chestnut hair lifting in the air, the blue draped like a river flowing from her hands. “The goddess by the river is never still. She is the current, the moon’s reflection, the breath between reeds. When you move, little sparrow, let her move too.”
Suzume raised her arms, tentative at first, and the silk rippled in the evening light. She glanced up at her mother, eyes wide and shining, as if asking silently—
Like this?
Kaede nodded once. “Yes. Just so.”
And so the dance began.
“Listen first,” Kaede said. “Then move.”
So Suzume listened.
She listened to the river bending itself into a path, its surface breaking and mending in the same breath. She listened to the wind as it threaded the dandelions at the edge of the yard, scattering a few white seeds into the sunlight. She listened to her mother’s quiet inhale, her long exhale, the breath that set the measure of the beginning.
A cloud wandered across the sun, veiling the yard in muted silver before sliding on, and light returned as if the earth itself had blinked. From the village drifted a bell’s faint clink against a wooden doorframe. And beneath it all—subtle, elusive—Suzume thought she heard two sets of footsteps: matching, parting, echoing against something inside her that she could not name.
“Water,” Kaede murmured, and lifted her arms.
The first figure was not a figure at all but a way of being. Kaede showed her how: wrists that poured like ladles; elbows heavy, shoulders light; the body not forcing its way through air but coaxing it into form, gentle and certain. Her arms seemed to shape the world without striking it, as if the river itself obeyed her pulse.
Suzume imitated, but her eagerness betrayed her. Her water wanted to be a river already—too fast, too insistent. The arc of her wrists splashed instead of flowing.
Kaede’s laugh was soft, no reproach in it. She stepped forward, touched her daughter’s elbow with two fingers, guiding it inward. “Let the bowl be full before you spill it.”
Suzume flushed but tried again. Slower. Listening harder. She curved her hand and waited, patient. This time the air thickened around her wrist, as though it had consented to be cradled. Her palm persuaded it forward instead of forcing it. She felt the weight of it, the invisible bowl tipping without breaking.
Something bright flared in her ribs—a thrill that wanted to burst out in laughter, in leaps—but she swallowed it down, holding steady. Kaede’s eyes brightened. She gave one small, certain nod.
“Moon,” Kaede said. “Distant and near. Everything light touches, and everything light refuses.”
This was harder. The moon did not rush. The moon did not answer to eagerness. Suzume tried to shape stillness, but stillness felt like a trap, like the silence that sometimes suffocated her chest. Her breath came shallow.
And then—like water seeping through cracks—another image slipped in. A red-lit field. A girl with white hair, standing in that light like a blade. The moon above her was pale and pitiless. Suzume’s throat closed. She dropped her arms, her silence heavier than words.
Kaede stepped close. She did not chide. She only placed her warm palms gently between Suzume’s shoulder blades. The heat of her touch moved through cloth and skin, deeper still, until Suzume felt steadied from within.
“Not a frozen thing,” Kaede murmured into her ear. “The moon is never still. It is a held breath. The moment before the water forgets it is water and becomes river again.”
Suzume closed her eyes.
Held breath.
That she could understand. She inhaled deeply, let it linger inside her chest, not quite released. She lifted her arms again, slower this time, and shaped them into a halo that never closed, a circle just shy of completion.
The world seemed to condense around her, tender and sharp at once. The cicadas hummed lower. The grass leaned as if listening. When Suzume moved again, it was so careful, so slow, the very air seemed to lean forward, waiting for the next breath.
Kaede smiled, unseen but radiant. “Yes,” she whispered. “Now you are both water and moon.”
“Now—The Goddess,” Kaede whispered. Her voice was softer than the dusk itself. “The goddess by the river. She is not a woman who walks; she is a woman the water invented to remember its own grace.”
Her body showed what words only suggested. Steps that brushed over the earth without leaving it changed. A curve of the back that was not an answer but a question flung into the air. A turn that traced a circle into the ground yet never scuffed the dust.
Suzume’s eyes clung to every shape. When Kaede raised her arms and let the blue cloth unfurl from her sleeves, the fabric caught the last of the sun and made it visible—air becoming water, water becoming light. Suzume watched silently, her fingers flexing with the hunger to imitate.
She tried. The cloth slid from her small arms in a stiffer arc, more awkward than mist, but in that moment Suzume did not care. The air moved when she asked it to. The world bent, a fraction, in time with her.
They practiced until the sky softened to peach and violet. When Suzume’s attention strayed—distracted by a beetle crawling across a stone or the cry of swallows overhead—Kaede let her wander for a heartbeat, then drew her back with a sharp clap that cracked like wood striking wood.
When Suzume stumbled on a turn and froze, frustration prickling hot in her chest, Kaede tapped her ankle once, twice. Suzume’s ankle remembered the correction even before her mind did. Her body shifted, and suddenly the earth was beneath her again.
They rested in between, sprawled on elbows in the grass, sweat dampening their sleeves. Suzume plucked a blade of grass, chewed it, and made a face that wrinkled her whole nose. Kaede snorted and rolled her eyes. When her mother looked away, Suzume popped another blade into her mouth, just to test her grimace a second time.
Twice, while she twirled or held still, the minnows returned. Quick, sharp flashes darting through the current of her mind: a grey courtyard where laughter never lived; a woman’s voice that praised like ice, empty of warmth; a boy’s hand reaching across the air toward hers and stopping short, never closing the distance.
The images pierced her, left her trembling with a chill no summer air explained. Suzume squeezed her eyes shut until the hillside returned, until the river’s sound steadied her pulse.
I am here,
she told the grass.
I am not there.
The grass, patient and guileless, believed her at once.
By twilight, Kaede unwound the sash from Suzume’s waist and folded it smooth between her palms. But though the fabric returned to the chest, the dance lingered. It had imprinted itself on the yard, in the hush of the air, in the careful bend of the grass that still seemed to lean toward unseen movement.
Suzume, sticky with sweat and filled with a deep satisfaction that went beyond full stomach or long sleep, tugged at her mother’s sleeve. Her hands moved quick and bright:
Again tomorrow? Again the day after?
Kaede brushed a damp curl from Suzume’s forehead, tucking it behind her ear. “Tomorrow,” she promised. Her voice was as steady as stone, as sure as water finding its way downhill. “And the day after, and the day after that, until your feet can remember it without you.”
Suzume nodded fiercely. Then, unable to stop herself, she showed the first three movements in miniature—water pouring, moon held, goddess stepping—her small arms folding the air into shapes. Midway through, shyness flushed her cheeks and she dropped her hands, biting her lip.
Kaede laughed, the sound rich with pride, and bent to kiss the crown of her daughter’s head. “Little sparrow,” she murmured against her hair. “Even when you hide it, the dance is still in you.”
That night, after rice and greens and the sweet bun they had saved for a special moment, they went to the river to cool their ankles. The water lapped low and patient, carrying the day’s heat away grain by grain. Fireflies drifted above the reeds, sketching brief, luminous names across the dark air. The moon rose slowly—raw coin, neither full nor mean, casting its pale shimmer down the current.
Suzume stepped into the wet sand, the chill reaching her bones, and lifted her hands. She moved with a seriousness that did not belong to her small frame, shaping the halo of stillness her mother had taught. Her wrists curved; her breath caught.
The river answered. It drew in a breath of its own. The fireflies paused mid-flight, suspended like stars deciding whether to stay or vanish. Even the frogs went silent, the croak in their throats stilled. For an instant, all the world seemed to wait.
And into that waiting came the minnows.
They darted through her mind as sudden as always, but sharper now, like glass under the surface of a clear pool. A girl stood at the edge of another water, pale hair falling forward like a veil. Her sleeves were stained, her mouth a flat, tired line. She moved as if she had been told exactly how to live and had obeyed too long—until the obedience hollowed her into a bell that rang but never sang.
Her name trembled once in the air—Hibiki—and it went through Suzume as if she were no more than thin porcelain that could crack under the sound.
Suzume lowered her arms. She did not cry. She was not afraid. She only felt very small. But then Kaede’s hand slipped into hers, warm and steady, and the smallness dissolved. She was not hollow; she was held.
On the walk home, Kaede spoke of nothing important, as if importance itself were a thing better kept away tonight. She told Suzume the persimmons would ripen sooner than anyone expected. That old Sadao had promised a carp tomorrow if the nets did not betray him. That the camphor tree in the square had shed a limb in the last storm, and the children had sworn they would turn it into a seesaw.
Her words were plain, but they wrapped around Suzume like a blanket. Suzume tucked herself inside the warmth of them, listening, letting her mother’s voice mend what the dream had unsettled.
At the threshold, Kaede stopped and crouched to Suzume’s height. In the lantern glow, her face was both shadowed and gentle. She squeezed Suzume’s fingers with callused strength.
“Suzume,” she said softly, “you are made of many things. Bits of sunlight. Bits of river song. Bits of whatever dream the moon chose to remember. You do not have to decide what to be. You only have to be kind to all the pieces.”
Suzume’s lips curved into a smile, small but fierce, a smile that belonged to her alone. Her hands flickered in the air, bright and sure:
I will dance them together.
Kaede’s mouth softened into a true smile, the kind that started in her eyes and spread to every line of her face. “Good,” she said, brushing Suzume’s cheek with her thumb. “That is what the dance is for.”
When Suzume slept, the minnows came and went as they pleased. But the pool they swam in had widened, and the water did not fear their silver flicker. Somewhere a goddess walked the edge of a river. Somewhere a girl with white hair turned her face toward a sky that never forgave. Here, a child dreamed in a house that smelled of herbs and smoke, and when she moved in sleep, her fingers poured the air as if it were water and the water as if it were moon.
It was the kind of afternoon that made the world feel like a bowl—bright sky poured thinly across the rim, river light caught at the bottom. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and crushed greens. Suzume knelt by the step, helping Kaede rinse turnip leaves in a wide basin. The water lapped softly against the wood as their hands moved in tandem—Suzume’s small and deliberate, Kaede’s sure and unhurried.
The question had been pressing at Suzume for days, pressing the way a pebble presses its shape into the sole of a sandal—small, constant, impossible to ignore. She watched the sunlight break into silver shards across the rippling water. She waited until the wind rose, until the bundles of mint and sage hanging from the eaves creaked like doors half-opening. She wanted the house, the air, the river to hear the question too.
She set a leaf aside, touched her mother’s sleeve to catch her eye, and signed with careful hands:
What was he like?
Kaede stilled. The water went suddenly quiet around her wrists, droplets sliding down her arms as if reluctant to leave. Suzume’s heart thudded—had she made a mistake? Was this a question not meant to be spoken aloud? For a moment the pebble inside her felt heavy as stone.
Then Kaede drew her hands from the basin, dripping, and dried them slowly on her apron, every motion deliberate. Her gaze shifted, not away, but through—as though memory pulled her toward some far, private horizon.
“He was kind,” she said at last, her voice carrying the softness of a reed bending under wind. “That is the truest thing.”
Suzume’s fingers repeated the shape.
Kind.
“Patient,” Kaede went on, her mouth curving in the smallest of smiles. “The sort who let soup burn because an old woman wanted to finish her story. Brown hair, lighter than mine. Warm eyes. He laughed with his shoulders first—you could feel it before you ever heard it.” Her hand rose without thought, measuring a height just above her own. “He was a simple butcher, with careful hands. He would thank the animal, even when no one was listening.”
Suzume leaned closer, eyes bright, absorbing every detail as though each word was another stone laid into the foundation of someone she had never known. Her fingers flickered, shy.
What did he call me?
Kaede’s smile deepened, teeth flashing now, softened by memory. “A troublesome miracle,” she said. “Because you never slept while the moon was up. We took turns carrying you—he and I—and when it was his watch, he would walk the lanes humming until dawn. So soft the dogs never barked.”
Suzume’s soundless laugh spilled from her lips, her shoulders trembling with it. Her hands shaped carry and moon before she tucked both against her chest like treasures.
After a pause, she dared the deeper question, small and fragile as a sparrow’s bone:
Why did he go?
The wind tugged at the bells on the lintel until they chimed, faint and uncertain. The dried herbs along the eaves knocked their brittle leaves together. Kaede’s silence stretched long enough for Suzume to imagine pulling the words back into her own hands.
“Sometimes a small cut is not small,” Kaede said finally, her voice steady but hushed. “A nick from a bone, a fever in winter. Sometimes I could tell you a hundred things, and none of them would be the thing itself.” She cupped Suzume’s cheek with her damp palm, thumb tracing the fine curve of her jaw. “He loved you. That is the answer I keep.”
Suzume leaned into the touch, her silence full of trust. Then her hands rose again, hesitant but bright with hope:
Did he see me dance?
“Once,” Kaede whispered, and her eyes glistened in the sun. “You were no bigger than the rice scoop. You lifted your foot and nearly toppled yourself with the effort of it.” A breath of laughter left her, rough at the edges. “He said,
She will fly if we aren’t careful.
”
Suzume blinked hard, holding back the brightness gathering at the corners of her eyes. She stood on the packed dirt and showed her mother the first three movements of the water–moon dance—careful as breath, fragile as dawn.
Kaede watched as if the world itself were being invented again. When Suzume finished, Kaede took her small hands in her own and kissed the knuckles one by one, sealing what did not need words.
“Come,” she said, rising. “Show me the moon once more.”
They stood in the yard where the grass had already begun to learn their steps. Suzume moved, Kaede guiding her with a nod, and the afternoon tilted quietly toward evening. The question still lay in her heart, unanswered in full—but no longer pressing. It was a stone at the bottom of clear water.
And when the moon climbed into the sky, it bared witness to her dance.
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 don’t know exactly how Toji was supposed to have met his wife in canon, but what you
do
know is that he genuinely cared about her. He loved her enough to stop working as an assassin, and he even stopped gambling, too. It’s said that true love changes people for the better. And while you’ve certainly
already
changed him quite a lot, something tells you he’ll feel every bit as strongly for Fushiguro as was intended.
That’s why you can’t help but cast cunning little glances his way, every time Fushiguro comes back with more drinks, food, or just to check in on how your table is doing. Much like you, she’s always smiling, which is probably what someone as cynical as Toji is instinctively drawn to. He craves the sort of kindness he’s been deprived of practically all his life. He’s really not as scary as he appears at first glance. And clearly, with the right people in his life, he’s more than capable of good.
It’s just really cute. You’re honestly having a great time. Satoru doesn’t really share your enthusiasm, but he thinks it’s amusing to see Toji flustered for a change. It gives him something to make fun of.
As much as you’d like to stay forever, there’s only so long you can drag out a meal for. Eventually, it’s time to leave, and Fushiguro bids you all goodbye with a bright smile.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says happily. “I hope the food was to your liking.”
“It was delicious!” you grin. “And I’m somewhat of a culinary expert myself, so I definitely know what I’m talking about!”
“She’s also a pathological liar,” Satoru muses.
“Shut up, Satoru! The only liar here is
you
!”
Toji flashes both of you a glare that seems to say,
stop embarrassing me, goddammit!
Although you’re not really sure what there is to be embarrassed about. You’re a cute, endearing kid. Really, all you’re doing is making him seem that much
more
desirable.
“Well, I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to the chef,” Fushiguro giggles. “He’ll be pleased to know that someone with such a refined palate appreciates his food.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” Toji sighs.
You leave the restaurant, making sure to wave to Fushiguro all the way up until the door closes. Man, you feel great. You have a full belly, you just had a fun outing with two of your favorite people in the whole world,
and
you got to witness the beginnings of a beautiful relationship? Truly, life is good. Sometimes you almost don’t believe this is the world of Jujutsu Kaisen. That’s how much you’ve changed things.
“So?” you ask, excitedly pulling on Toji’s hand. “Did you like it there? It’s a nice restaurant, isn’t it? And don’t you think the lady that served us food is super pretty?”
“Why should I talk to you about my preference in women?” Toji grimaces.
Wow. Like father, like son, I guess.
“You can tell me anything,” you beam. “I’m good at keeping secrets. Trust me.”
“Just be quiet. You’re somehow even chattier than usual today. Which I didn’t think was possible.”
Fine. Perhaps it’s best not to come on too strong. Still, it’s incredibly difficult to hide the smirk playing on your lips. Toji might think he’s good at acting stoic, but you see right through him. You know he’s much more interested in Fushiguro than he’s willing to let on. He doesn’t even realize that he just met his future wife. What a silly guy.
You say goodbye to Toji, then return to the Gojo Estate along with Satoru. Now that you know where Fushiguro works, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to see her again. Toji might need a bit of nudging at the start, since their meeting didn’t occur organically in this world, but you’re convinced it won’t be long until they both fall for each other.
“So, what was
that
all about?” Satoru asks. “And don’t try to make something up, because I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, either. That’s basically the same thing as lying.”
You frown. “Was I being obvious?”
“
Super
obvious. You couldn’t have been more obvious if you tried. It was kind of funny, because the old man was acting pretty stiff around that waitress lady, but still.” Satoru grabs onto your hand and pulls you towards him, with a frown that almost looks desperate. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s on your mind these days?”
He must have been a lot more worried about you than you realized. You’ve been really scared that you might end up preventing Megumi’s birth. You should’ve known that you wouldn’t be able to hide your apprehension from Satoru. He’s incredibly perceptive. Not simply because of his intellect and training as a sorcerer, but because out of everyone in the world, there’s no one he pays more attention to than you.
“I’ve been worried about Toji,” you admit—which, to be fair, isn’t a lie. “I’m glad he left the Zen’in Clan, but I really want him to be happy. I don’t want him to feel lonely and miserable. I want him to feel like he has purpose and be surrounded by people who love him. Lately, I’ve been wondering if he’ll ever meet someone he likes, and I just got a good feeling about that nice lady at the restaurant. I feel like they could be happy together.”
Satoru lets out a heavy, prolonged sigh. “Seriously? Here I was, wondering what could have happened for you to look so depressed, and it’s because you’re worried about the old man’s love life?”
“I don’t know why you keep calling him that, because he’s really not that old.”
“Well, it annoys him, so I’m going to keep doing it anyway.”
“I want Toji to be happy,” you reiterate. “Just like how I want lots of other people to be happy, too. Like Naoya, the twins, and…
you
, Satoru. I want all of you to be happy. It might seem like a silly thing to worry about, but to me, it’s important.”
Right. That’s what you’ve always been like, after all. From the moment he met you, he could just tell that you had the sort of kindness he’d never experienced before. And while
he
couldn’t care any less about who Toji ends up dating, he understands why you would.
“As long as that’s really all it is, then fine. I thought something more serious was going on,” Satoru frowns. “If something bad ever happens, or if there’s anything that scares you, you have to promise to tell me about it right away, alright?”
“I promise, Satoru.”
You offer a reassuring smile. Regretfully, you’re lying to him, because there are
plenty
of things that scare you. Horrible, gruesome events that are set to occur in the future. You’ll probably never be able to tell anyone the truth, but that’s fine. This is supposed to be your burden to bear. It’s precisely why you were reborn in this world.
Satoru nods, visibly relieved, but he pauses for a moment, wincing a bit, as he rubs his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Oh… it’s nothing. Just my eyes. They kind of hurt. Well, they always do, but it’s whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
You blink. Ah, you’d almost forgotten. As an adult, he would wear a blindfold because the heightened sight he gains through his Six Eyes rapidly depletes his energy and tires him out. It must feel similar to wearing those drunk goggles. Uncomfortable, strenuous, and disorienting.
“Close your eyes,” you encourage. “You’re still fully aware of your surroundings, even with your eyes closed, right? Because of your Six Eyes. I think you should keep them mostly closed from now on. So that you don’t strain yourself too hard.”
“I don’t want to close my eyes.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I can’t see you anymore.”
“What?” you frown. “You should still be able to see me with your eyes closed. You can still see pretty much everything. Right?”
“But I can’t see you perfectly. When my eyes are covered, some of the details are lost, because it reduces the information going to my brain. It’s like I see a watered-down version of everything around me.” He stares at you, a slight redness forming across his cheeks. “I want to see you exactly as you are, every time I look at you.”
Satoru hopes you can’t hear how fast his heart is beating right now, because even
he’s
aware of the fact that he just said something incredibly embarrassing. He’s still too childish and naive to understand exactly
why
, but he means it.
No matter how much it drains him, he would gladly spend every moment of every day, just looking at you.
You tilt your head. “Are you saying that because I’m super pretty?”
“I-It’s because you’re my friend! Obviously I shouldn’t cover up my eyes around my friends! That would just be… wrong. I think.”
“Not really,” you shrug. “As your friend, I want you to always feel your best. Besides, you always say you’ll protect me if anything bad happens, but it’d be bad if your Six Eyes depleted all your energy and you didn’t have the strength to fight anymore, right?”
…dammit. You’ve got him there. Although, realistically, he can almost
never
run out of cursed energy, but he sees your point. He vowed to protect you, and that means he needs to be in top shape, all the time.
“I already close my eyes around everyone else,” Satoru grumbles. “Is it really that big of a deal if I keep them open only when I’m with you?”
“You’re almost
always
with me, though.”
“Because we’re friends! Are you saying you don’t want to be my friend anymore? Wow, [Name]. Now you’re just hurting my feelings.”
You roll your eyes at him. Not that you didn’t already know he’s stubborn, but still. You’re not sure why he’s making such a big fuss over looking at you. Maybe it’s because he’s not used to making any friends, and you’re the first one he’s ever had. Who knows, really. Sometimes, you can’t help but think (jokingly) that he might have a crush on you.
But surely that’s your arrogance talking.
Satoru leaves to go on a mission, escorted by some of the Gojo Clan members, which gives you the freedom to do what you usually do—scratch up your skin with various sharp objects so that you can heal yourself with reverse cursed technique. As always, the clan members watch in abject horror. You made them promise not to tell Satoru, otherwise he’d definitely lose his mind.
“Should I try chopping off one of my fingers today?” you frown. “I’ve never practiced regenerating a limb or body part before. I need to make sure I’m able to do it.”
The Gojo Clan member standing next to you frantically shakes his head. “
No
. Please do not do that.”
“Why not?”
“Just… please.”
He knows that if Satoru ever gets wind of this, he’ll probably decimate the entire clan for letting it happen. Also, he doesn’t want to see you hurt yourself that badly. Jujutsu sorcerers are far from squeamish, but… he’d still prefer not to. Admittedly, you’ve started growing on some of the people around here. Some of them care for you much more than they ever thought they would.
“Your training is going well. While Master Satoru is gone, you can afford to take some time for yourself. Here,” he says, handing you a generous stack of bills. “Go out and buy yourself something nice. Just promise me you won’t chop any of your fingers off while I’m not around.”
You gratefully accept the money. Perhaps he’s right. Ever since you made your Binding Vow, you’ve been training diligently, day after day. The suppression of your cursed energy has only gotten better over time, and you’ve already saved someone from death, so clearly, you’ve got a pretty good handle on your healing abilities.
Today, it’s time to treat yourself, like the princess that you are.
You make a trip to one of the city’s shopping districts, equipped with
way
more money than you ever had in your old world. After all, you were a high school student before you died. A normal, unremarkable high school student with two middle-class parents—who died in the earthquake along with you.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss your real parents, but you know you’re stuck here for good. Rather than dwelling on deaths that have already occurred, you want to focus on deaths that can be prevented. If your parents were in your place, they would probably do the same.
Anyway, back to the matter at hand. You’re about to be
the
most stylish twelve-year-old this city has ever seen.
You go from one store to the next, giggling uncontrollably. It’s such a simple, mundane thing, and yet, you’re happy. You’re happy because you’re
able
to do these sorts of things. You’re happy that this world has yet to be plunged into total darkness. Perhaps, if you play your cards right, it never will.
The clan member gave you money, and you’re sure as hell going to spend all of it. Soon enough, you’re carrying several shopping bags, each of them filled to the brim with clothes, accessories, books, and various other things. You’ve got a little bit of money left over, and while you’re debating what you should buy next, a certain display calls to you.
Immediately, a smile spreads across your lips.
Later that day, you return to the Gojo Clan estate with your shopping haul. You must’ve been gone longer than you thought, because Satoru has already returned from his mission, and he stomps over to you—
angrily
.
“Where did you go?!” he exclaims. “You went off all on your own? That’s dangerous! You didn’t even have Toji with you!”
“I went shopping,” you say simply.
“What if you’d gotten attacked by a cursed spirit? If I’m not there to protect you, then—”
“Satoru,” you chuckle, patting him on the head. “I’m
fine
. I know you worry about me, but I’ve gotten a lot stronger. You’ve seen me fight curses a bunch of times. They were all pretty weak, but still. I’m not helpless. Not anymore. And I even bought you a gift while I was out. Look!”
“A gift?”
Satoru can’t help but be intrigued. He watches as you dig through
several
bags, trying to remember which one it’s in, but eventually, you pull out a fairly small box and snap it open.
“For you,” you grin. “Hopefully this should help. Go ahead! Try them on!”
It’s a pair of sunglasses. Satoru frowns, but takes the sunglasses into his hands. Is this… because of what he said before? When he mentioned it was tiring for him to constantly have his eyes uncovered?
“This way, you won’t have to keep your eyes closed,” you explain. “They’ll help dim your surroundings and hopefully make the discomfort more bearable. I know you said you don’t want to obscure your vision at all, but this is important. Don’t be stubborn, please. I even picked out cool-looking ones, just for you.”
Satoru carefully puts the sunglasses on. You’re right. It
does
help. It feels a lot better this way. He may not be able to see you in the highest resolution, but it’s arguably better than closing his eyes altogether. And above all else, this is a gift.
You
gave him this gift.
These sunglasses are already his most prized possession.
“I didn’t think it was possible for me to look even cooler than I already did,” Satoru grins, admiring himself with a compact mirror.
“It’s true,” you beam. “You’re the coolest guy ever, Satoru.”
“You know I’m just going to keep getting cooler, right?”
“Well, obviously.”
He laughs and pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. He has the sudden urge to kiss you on the cheek, like you did to him before, but he backs out at the last second, heart threatening to explode. Maybe another time. Even though it’s meant to be a playful kiss between friends, for some reason, it makes him nervous. Clearly, he’s still got a lot of growing up to do.
Well, that’s not all that important right now. He’s overjoyed. He loves his new sunglasses.
And he really loves the person who gave them to him.
“...you know Arnold Schwarzenegger, right? The Terminator? Don’t you think Toji kind of looks like him?”
Fushiguro blinks, not quite understanding, and across the table, Toji is glaring at you with the intensity of a thousand blades. He must not want you to embarrass him in front of his crush. But the fact that he’s getting this annoyed is just
proof
of the fact that he likes her.
Teehee.
“Are you referring to that action movie franchise?” Fushiguro asks, pouring you a new cup of tea. “I’ve never actually watched it myself, but I’ve seen posters, commercials, and advertisements for it. I have to admit, I don’t really see the resemblance between them.”
“
Thank you
,” Toji grits out. “She just likes to say whatever pops into her head without thinking twice.”
“Nuh-uh,” you deny. “I have a reason for it! Both Toji and Arnold are super-duper muscular and strong! And cool! And intimidating—but in a good way!”
Fushiguro covers her mouth with her hand as she breaks out into a fit of giggles, and you didn’t think it was possible, but Toji is
actually
blushing right now. It’s so subtle you can barely see it, but without a doubt, it’s
there
. And not just because you’re acting unhinged. You always act unhinged; it’s really nothing out of the ordinary. He’s embarrassed because all of this is happening right in front of Fushiguro.
So, again—teehee.
“I think we’re just about done here,” Toji mutters, rubbing his temples in annoyance.
“Oh, perfect timing! My shift is about to be over, so I won’t have to pass your table off to another server. Just give me a moment. I’ll clean this up and be back with your bill.”
She walks off with a spring in her step, and you and Satoru both turn towards Toji,
urgently
.
“Did you hear that, old man?” Satoru frowns.
“Did I hear what?”
“She’s about to be done with her shift,” you say, excitedly bouncing in your seat.
“Yes, I heard. So?”
You and Satoru both stare at him in disbelief. Toji just frowns, not at all understanding what you two are getting at. God. You never took him for the ignorant type. Or maybe he’s just in denial about his feelings.
“She’s going to be done with work for the day,” you sigh, having to spell it out for him. “Once she’s done, that means you can take her out someplace. For a
date
.”
“...huh?”
Toji looks as if he just got smacked across the face. You’re not sure what’s so goddamn confusing. He clearly likes her, and she likes him. It’s not rocket science.
You cross your arms. “Toji, if you don’t take her out on a date, I’m going to denounce you as my older brother figure.”
“How heartbreaking,” he snorts.
“I’m not kidding! The stakes are high, so you’d better do something about it! Satoru is right—maybe you
are
just a stupid old man!”
“[Name], let’s leave first,” Satoru insists. “Then he’ll be all alone with her while he pays the bill. He’s too much of a coward to ask her out while we’re around. Poor guy. I almost feel sorry for him.”
Toji scowls. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe, who knows? Anyway, let’s make a break for it, [Name]! We can point and laugh at him later if he fails!”
Satoru grabs you by the hand and whisks you out of the building. Both of you are laughing uncontrollably as you crouch down and hide (rather poorly) behind one of the benches facing the restaurant. You bide your time and wait. If Toji leaves the restaurant alone, it means he has negative rizz and is in dire need of help. But hopefully, it won’t come to that. Hopefully he’ll bring his A game.
“He’s coming out,” Satoru whispers. “Look!”
Toji emerges from the restaurant, alone, and your head is already drooping disappointedly, but then you realize that he’s holding the door open so that Fushiguro can walk out in front of him. She bows her head slightly and thanks him, and even from this distance, you notice a smile pulling at his lips.
They’re walking together now, side by side. You’re not sure exactly where they’re going. He might just be walking her part of the way home, but even that’s a start. Their romance has already been set in motion, and you can barely contain your excitement.
“It’s beautiful,” you sniffle, wiping away an invisible tear. “They grow up so fast.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Satoru chuckles.
“No, I’m
amazing
. They’re going to fall deeply in love and get married. I’m willing to bet on it.”
“That sounds like a stretch,” he muses, offering you a hand to stand up. “But if it makes you happy to imagine it, then sure. Anyway, should we follow them? I’m kind of curious how their date will go. Also, if the old man embarrasses himself, I definitely don’t want to miss it.”
“We have to respect their privacy, Satoru. It wouldn’t be polite to spy on them.” You pause for a moment, an impish smile spreading across your lips. “Plus, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to crash their dates later on. Let’s give them the illusion of peace and quiet for at least a little while.”
Satoru adjusts his sunglasses and grins. “Okay, then. Well, while the old people are on their date, I want to go to the arcade. I bet I can beat you at all the games there,
easily
.”
“Ha,” you snort. “You don’t even know who you’re talking to.”
“Since when have you ever played video games?”
“In a different life, Satoru. In a different life.”
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
Finding Hob Gadling in his memories is profoundly harder the second time.
“Are we there yet?” Matthew asks, presumably to hear his own voice.
Dream closes his eyes and says in what he hopes is a level tone, “He’s half a mile ahead.” They’ve been beating a path down the riverside road for what feels like an endless day, eating miles, his boots getting dustier by the minute because he’s realizing with distant horror that he, also, was not meant to exist in memory for this long.
“That’s what you said an hour ago.”
“Then I suppose he’s on a horse.”
“Can’t you go faster than a dream horse?”
“I am choosing not to go faster.”
“Why?”
Dream waves his hand at the everything, at the utter mess of this place. For ten solid minutes they were walking on blacktop; that’s done. Now it’s back to a dirt road, but for the worrying moment the land around them was dunes and the path underfoot like unto sand. He’s taking what he can get as good news. “I would prefer his mind intact.”
It’s had two Endless in it recently, he reminds himself with a bitter twist.
“Can’t you just—”
He stops. “I do not control dreams, Matthew. I’m made of them; I
make
them. Would you prefer I be their dictator? I can’t force this place to be what it isn’t.” He steadies his breath; the autumn air is so fully realized it manages to be bracing. “Just as I may order you to return to Lucienne, repeatedly, and you may refuse. Repeatedly.”
It cows him, as much as anything cows a raven. For a time, after Dream came to himself in the ruined shell of the inn, he’d wondered this exact thing. If he couldn’t bend the place around him, to his will, force the memories back into his friend and put it all to right. And he’d tried for an instant, for a breath, to change the place. To breathe the street back to life, to raise the buildings, to make roads—to make their roads, to make the inn and the railing by the river and all the places his friend had shared with him, once upon a time.
But it was like trying to mold stone with bare hands—and he’d the sense he could break it if he wanted, crumble it to shards and dust, but that’s not an avenue he’s eager to explore. No; he’s as near to powerless in this place as he was trapped in that basement and admitting that to Matthew is not something he’s eager to do.
Matthew is quiet for a while, and then remarks, “This is your hero’s journey isn’t it.”
Dream has to stop. “It isn’t. That’s not what a hero’s journey is.”
“But you’re his hero. And we’re on a journey.”
“It doesn’t mean we exist within that narrative. Were you a reader in life?”
“Sort of. Mostly airport books.”
Airports are something he’s still catching up with but the dreams people have in them are particularly fraught. “Those are still books,” he murmurs and stops, because that sense of something ahead of him on the road has shifted and there’s a star so bright he can feel the heat of it from here falling toward him.
He’s singing that song again.
When Hob gets to them, Dream has found a well-placed stump to sit on and watch the river go by.
The first surprise is that Hob is on a horse; the second is that he’s not a terrible rider. The third is that he’s older—still younger than when they first met but not by long. The dream stabilizes around him. The soft light of it becomes the perfect memory of their river on a lazy fall day, the lazy eddies gaining depth, the sound of it growing to a bubbling rush, joined by birdsong.
He pulls up short. “Hello—o?” he says in a particular tone. The once-over he gives is almost too much; Dream feels as if they’re crashing toward something, the two of them, and then Hob says, “You look familiar, friend. Have we met somewhere before?”
The wording, the open affection in it; Dream’s gaze flickers from his, down to earth. His question is one Dream finds he can no longer answer; the cost of it closes his throat to any he would give. And it’s as likely a line as a real question.
This man doesn’t know him, he tells himself. A now familiar refrain played poorly.
Hob crosses his arms over the bay horse’s withers and rests them there to peer down at Dream. If he was cocky telling off Death when first they met, he’s more so with a few fewer years on him. “Ah, you know, I hate to be the one to tell you but there’s a bit of a war on. Wouldn’t do to go wondering around, sir. Sirs,” he amends with a raised brow at Matthew.
That explains his patched leather armor, and the sword-in-scabbard at his hip. Graverobber, bandit, mercenary—Dream cannot begin to wonder which hat his Hob is wearing today.
“There’s always a war on,” Dream says.
“Profound.” Hob ducks his head to hide his smile. His brown hair isn’t streaked grey yet but the hints of it are in the sun streaks that fall about his eyes at the temples. It drives something in Dream to brief madness. How many of these memories will he walk through, wanting, he wonders.
Hob gives him one last appraising look, and comes to something. “Come on, lordling. I’ll walk you to safety.”
He swings down and gathers the reins of his horse. It shies away from him and he shushes it with a hand to its neck, and it’s then Dream sees the wild look in its eyes, and blood on its cheek.
“That isn’t your horse,” Dream says to himself. Killer, he adds to his list of occupations. That’s the hat Hob is wearing today, as much as any other.
“Ah, ah,” he clicks his tongue. “Technically wasn’t my horse until about an hour ago? But I came to an agreement with his former owner, isn’t that right, beauty? Shh, shh.” He cups its cheek, soothes it. Mostly, it works. Then he glances at Dream. “Do you want a ride? You don't look dressed for walking. I can be your footman for the afternoon.” As if to demonstrate this he unsheathes his sword and gives it a wide flourish with a half-hearted bow that's at once both embarrassing and so enthused that it tugs a smile out of Dream.
“I'll pass,” Dream murmurs.
Hob stares at him, the corner of his eyes pinching, and there are the laugh lines starting, the first edges of them. “I’m certain we’ve met before.”
Dream opens his mouth and closes it, finding himself at a rare loss for words. He knows all conversations, all dreams, all stories, but he hasn't lived them. His clothes are dusty, he’s hungry again, and he’s never felt more human. “If you don’t remember, I won’t tell you.”
“I love a good mystery. Not even a hint?”
“No. Tell me who you’re fighting in this war, Hob.” A poor change of subject, but he’s tired and more tired of not using his friend’s name.
Hob takes it in stride. “Those Tyler fools. Do you really not know?”
Dream knows. “Farmers,” he remarks tonelessly. “Craftsmen. How noble.”
“Rebels,” Hob corrects, and stops. He props himself on his blade like it’s a cane of fine make—certainly not the way one treats good steel but then it probably isn’t. Wasn’t, Dream reminds himself. Everything here is past and prologue. “Look when men start fighting, doesn’t matter what for. They’re all the same. All fools.”
“Profound,” Dream repeats back to him. “A beautiful excuse.”
“It’s keeping you safe. Look at you,” he says, with another long draw of his brown eyes from Dream’s leather boots to the top of his head, which he know he carries as someone accustomed to wearing a crown. “You think they wouldn’t tear you apart if they found you?”
They might try, but he doesn't say this. It is strange to be worried after, as if he were no more than what he seems. Dream draws a breath in. “Always so concerned for my safety."
“You look like someone who would get hurt doing something stupid.”
Matthew coughs a sound half crow and half agreement. Dream shrugs the shoulder he's perched on, and tries not to be too satisfied when it succeeds in unbalancing him. "I've made my share of mistakes." The echo of Hob's words back at him, and Dream smiles in the telling.
"Haven't we all." Hob nods to the trees and ducks onto a trail half hidden by the bracken. "Roads 'round here aren't a great idea,” he explains.
In one hundred years this game path will be a crude road to a cruder well where two loves meet on the new moon. In two hundred, it will lead to an old oak beside the ruined stone pile of the well, the tree only a sapling now. It will house a whole family of red squirrels, all of them dreamers. In three hundred, the path will lead to the house the oak was culled to build and the family born there will dream, too. Dream knows them all. He’s thinking of them as they reach the clearing at the end of the path, and a camp where three men somehow dressed worse than Hob are seated around a campfire.
They aren't expecting company.
"Well f—" Hob cuts himself off. He dusts his hands on his jacket and hands the reins off to Dream. To the strangers, he offers, "Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
"No gentlemen here," says the one idly turning a kebab of dripping meat over the fire. "But if you’re looking for one, seems like you got one there." He gestures with a nod and a gleam to his eyes to Dream.
Hob turns to him with comical surprise. "Oh, would you look at that."
"Yeah," says the man and props the stick back over the fire and wipes his hands on his filthy linens, “would you just."
He nods to his companions and that's it.
It happens fast. Dream’s own memory of Hob shattering a tea cup in the face of a man aiming a knife at Dream overlays the image before him as Hob steps in front of him.
Hob offers his name and his hand to the closest stranger, as if they’d never laid eyes on Dream, and if anyone had enough charm to talk then down it would be him—but it's only a ploy to get close. The first one makes that mistake; Hob runs him through with practiced skill and draws his blade back in almost the same motion. The wet sound is familiar. Personally familiar. Jessamy, Dream realizes, as the second man turns to run for a weapon.
Hob runs after him and hacks him down.
The last man standing raises both hands. He's looking at Dream, but his words are for Hob. "How much is he paying you to be his guard? Is it enough you can afford a lay or do you have to ask him for that, too?"
"Oh, can’t you tell?” Hob steps in close. “I pay him for that.”
The man is dead before he can reply. A moment’s heat frissons up Dream’s spine at the implication, but it’s gone in the sight of the dead before them. The utter speed of it is shocking. Three lives, three dreamers, ended on a whim.
Hob stares down at them for a long moment. "They look so…" he casts his gaze aside to Dream and mutters as if embarrassed to have started the thought, "so damn stupid. They always do, don't they?" He speaks as if this is their fault. Some wrong they’ve committed, letting themselves be cut down so wantonly.
"Is that what you fear?" Dream asks, hoarse to his own hearing.
"Looking a fool? Aye. Won't be me." It won’t, but the Hob of this moment has only his determination, his stubbornness, and his foolishness—Dream allows, for that was what first drew him to Hob, that audacious fool—to back him.
A smear of blood lingers on his cheek. Not his own. Dream is unbothered; dreams of blood are common enough. He reaches up not to clean it but to touch the edges of the mark. “You, my friend, have an unfailing skill at finding yourself in the wrong.”
Hob picks the hand off his cheek, but keeps hold of it. “If I live long enough to regret it, that’s fine by me.” His voice has turned low and sweet and intimate, as if there aren’t the corpses of three men bearing witness to their conversation. He cradles the hand in his own and considers Dream’s palm. “Met a palm reader once. Picked up a few tricks.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says with defiance. as if he can distract Dream from what he’s just done. As if he wants to. As if he needs to. “Yours says…” He draws the word out and squints lines around his eyes as he brings Dream’s hand almost to his lips, “...you’ll meet a handsome stranger.” He winks. He actually winks, blood on his cheek, hand in hand with a stranger.
“Half right,” Dream concedes. “What did yours say?”
His expression sours from its flirt. “Don’t matter.”
“You don’t care about your fate.” It isn’t a question.
Hob releases him, steps away, cleans his blade on a strip of cloth he borrows from a corpse’s jacket. “Nah. I’ll make my own.” From him, this is a particularly irony—but he has, hasn’t he? In some fashion.
“By doing this?” Dream nods at the dead.
Hob scoffs. “It pays, so yes.”
Dream allows himself a sound that’s almost a sigh but he hopes can be mistaken for a part of the wind gusting through the clearing now, cold with a season centuries past. “I suppose if you never changed, neither would I.”
His words are quiet, he thinks, but Hob hears. And it’s brushing too close to the edge of something. Hob’s image shifts with a flicker of light across his face and Dream holds his breath while he waits for the gasp of a dream dissolving to sand—but it doesn’t come. Instead, something far worse edges over the tops of the trees and this is the light playing on Hob’s face. A sun rising from the wrong direction.
Dream is no longer the only Endless in this place. He looks over his shoulder as if he’ll be able to see Desire through the gold bowing birch trees.
“You do look—you look do so familiar. I swear I know you. I know you, don’t I?” Hob all but begs, that eerie light still on his face. A small part of Dream preens that even with Desire here, he’s still enough, all on his own.
But then he remembers what face Desire has been using here.
“Do you remember where we met?” Dream asks. Here, it won’t be the White Horse. It won’t be a dingy tavern—Desire would never allow that. They’re still close enough Dream can touch the tips of his fingers to Hob’s stubbled cheek again. “It’s important.”
Hob shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. He means everything he says to Dream. That’s the trick to him.
And then Hob swallows and his eyes drop. “You aren’t—oh, god. You aren’t related to the King, are you? Some bastard brother?”
Of course. Oh, of course. What else would Desire deign to appear as?
“You’ve met the King?” This can’t be a memory. Can’t be even a piece of a memory. Mercenaries don’t meet kings. Desire has changed the memory itself to do this, to be this, and Dream feels again that tang of metal at the back of his mouth, between his teeth.
“Once or twice…” Hob looks ashamed at this. He has no need to be.
Dream lets his fingers slide to Hob’s neck, to the nape where his scruff of hair meets his sun-heated skin, and then drops his hand.
He hasn’t ridden a horse in this body—in any body—in a long while, but there are a thousand thousand dreams of horses playing out and the dreams of those creatures, too. It is like the say it is, like riding a bike, though he’s only done that the once at Hob’s insistence and only where no one could see. He swings up into the saddle and Hob gapes at him.
“I take you up on your offer.” Dream smiles at him. “I find I do prefer to ride.”
“Hey, wait—”
“Matthew,” Dream says sharply.
“Yeah, got it, boss. I’ll keep an eye on him.” He flaps over to Hob’s shoulder; Hob starts and reels his gaze between the two of them.
“Hold on,” Hob tries with no more success.
Dream bows his head to raven and man. “If I haven’t returned by midnight, go back. Tell Lucienne. Wake him.” He nods to Hob and tries to find a better set of words but can settle only on what’s most honest. “Keep him safe for me.”
“And here I thought I was the one keeping you safe,” Hob says wryly.
Dream pauses; the horse clips the ground with his hooves. Desire is caught in the Dreaming now. One reason why they’re loath to enter each other’s realms. He can sense Desire’s presence like a gaudy tumor pulsating beyond their clearing, waiting to draw their quarry to them.
“‘
Keep me safe,
’” Dream quotes. “Is that what you want?”
It’s an honest question. Hob’s motivations have always been particularly strange to him.
“No,” Hob laughs, and then, “Yes, but I want one of those pots from the stories that never run out of stew, more. I want my weight in gold. I want—” His eyes drop to Dream’s mouth and rise back to his face quickly. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”
But it does. If Desire is here, it does. Dream tightens his grip on the reins. “Matthew,” he repeats.
The raven bobs his head. “We’ll be waiting,” he says, and knocks the shoulder of one wing into Hob’s cheek. “Won’t we?”
Hob shakes his head. Dream knees the horse to explosive motion, but Hob stops him with a word. “Stranger!” he calls.
Dream rears the horse to a halt.
“Come find me again, and I’ll tell you what I want.”
His gaze is steady, his expression is unwavering. The humor is gone. His meaning is unmistakable. Dream feels a heat rise in him, invisible. He raises his fingers to his forehead in a small salute and bows his head. The next time he sees Hob, the one responsible for taking his memories will have suffered for it. He vows that to himself.
He’s always had a particular talent for revenge.
Desire cannot sense him. This is Dream’s province, and his alone, and he’s walked the bloody dreams of a thousand long-toothed creatures, red-clawed, ravening. Dream spares a single thought to how he’ll appear to Desire, but not by his own design or choice. He can feel his hold on the edges of his form changing and extending, becoming something new. Something wild. Dreams are rarely anything but, after all.
The horse panics beneath him, its mouth foaming around the bit. Dream lets him run himself to a stop and hopes that even in memory it can find its way back to its master. He’s at his destination, anyway.
A long stretch of cobbled road rises before him, a path to a castle that’s disgustingly opulent. Desire’s flare for the dramatic rivals even his own; maybe that’s why they were friends once. No longer, Dream reminds himself distantly. And this isn’t Desire’s dream to do with what they please. His anger mounts. The roses that line the path wither at his passing. Roses. He wonders vaguely if Hob has ever dreamed of roses and if so why and then sours his mood further when he imagines some tryst—or worse, Hob in this place, coming to meet a creature wearing Dream’s own face. The roses wither as he passes. He feels his hair lengthening, his black jacket turning to a cloak again, his black leather boots rising like a second skin. It would shame him, for Hob to see him like this. Even for Desire he would prefer to be more put together but days of this charade have changed him and he can remember waking hours ago—years ago?—with a warm body in his arms and his chest full of something twisted so tight that even now he wonders at the fact he hasn’t snapped with it.
And Desire is waiting.
Dream keeps his steps steady, slow and loping like some predator, as he throws open the great doors at the top of the path. Stairs twist before him. A great hall waits at the top, the doors already wide, the light of a false sun casting the wood in gold. Here, too, the dream is real. The presence of two Endless has made it so. This is what’s tearing his human apart. His rage seethes out of him as he mounts the top of the stairs and sees Desire waiting for him at the end of the hallway, seated on a small throne—
—wearing his face.
The rosy cheeks Dream has never once had in any form drain to sickly white as Desire sees him. For a moment, Desire’s mouth works uselessly. “Hello, Dream. Love the new look.” Their words are full of confidence that would make Dream laugh in any other place, at any other time, for the way the shake in Desire’s voice betrays them.
Desire sits back on their throne, to put that small distance of inches between them. They know no distance will be enough. And for all Desire’s
meddling
they’ve never overstepped like this. Perhaps they cannot even comprehend how far they’ve gone.
“You and Death have been keeping your pet—I wonder what would Destiny say? Does he know?”
A fool’s question. Dream can hardly look at his own form upon that thrown. Gold crowns his form, nestled in black curls that drape about his face. Dream’s wide strides eat the space between them.
Desire laughs his own laugh back at him. Giddy, crowing—scared. “Of course he does! You’ve all been conspiring, haven’t you? Keeping this treasure.”
Dream takes the stairs up to the throne two at a time. Desire’s eyes get very big when he doesn’t stop and then Desire’s gold is staring back at him, pupils blown wide as Dream pins Desire’s shoulder to the wood throne. A small sound of shock wrests from their throat.
“You’ve touched him,” Dream says.
It isn’t a question. A statement and a sentence, all in one, and Dream thinks of Calliope, of her grace unwarranted and of Hob’s guileless joy. The wide spread of his fingers against Dream’s cheek. Fury stings the corners of his eyes. Calliope forgave her violator but Dream can’t. Not this. Never this. “You’ve touched him,” he repeats, his voice breaking and low as the shaking of the earth.
“I didn’t,” Desire says quickly, eyes darting between Dream’s hand on their shoulder and Dream’s eyes which must be black pits.
Dream ignores them. The lie must come easy. “In this body, in my form,” Dream says.
“No. I wouldn’t. Dream. You know me better than that. I haven’t laid a finger on your toy. Have you?” Their flicker flash of a smile is alien on Dream’s face looking back at him. It makes him look mad. “You’re in trouble with this one, aren’t you? Oh, Dream.”
“No.” His voice is more growl than speech. “No, but you are.”
“Ah, ah.” Desire picks the hand from their shoulder by the wrist, growing bold. “No violence, remember?”
Dream brings up his free hand to Desire’s throat and presses. “I warned you,” he says, keeping his tone as quiet as the deep flow of water, a sub-ocean circulation, a threat so sure it makes promise into a joke.
At last, a flicker of real fear casts across Desire’s face. True fear.
“Desire cannot exist without dream.” His voice is drawn taut. “But dream has no need for desire. I don’t need you. This was a mistake.”
Desire swallows against his palm. “Dream—”
“This was a mistake. Repeat it. You’ll never haunt his dreams again.”
Desire shifts, tries to gain space, though there’s none to be had. “Haunt,” they quote. “He isn’t haunted. He wants something. Everyone does.”
“
Desire,
” he bites out, hard, and his voice almost breaks, almost snaps. “Give him back his memories and go.”
“His memories?” A new fear eclipses their gaze, a fear born of stepping into water without knowing its depth. Of sinking. They’re breathing now, fast and panicked, throat flexing against Dream’s fingers. “I can’t take memories, Dream." They strain against his grip, terror running wild in their gaze. "Does that really seem like me?”
“It seems exactly like you.”
“Not this time. I promise. I swear.”
“Your promises are worth nothing. You keep him trapped here. This is the province of obsession, not desire.”
“I’m not keeping him here,” Desire spits back. “I wanted to check how your pet was doing. I never touched him.” They stretch against Dream’s fingers. “Do you know how rare it is for a man to want the same thing for a hundred years? And then you left him, all alone. We all like a friendly face now and then, don’t we? Even in our dreams. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
It isn’t a lie. “You came to him in my form, in my absence? You dared?”
Desire swallows against his fingers, but Dream’s grip has gone lax. “Sometimes they want something so much—I have to, I have to see it in their eyes. Aren’t their dreams ever too beautiful to ignore?”
“And you want me to believe you didn’t touch him.”
“Jealousy is a terrible look on you, brother. But you were always embarrassing in love, weren’t you?”
Dream releases them, his hand feeling as if its been burned. Love. He loves Hob, yes. They love each other. As friends do. As he’s come to fall in love with most humans in their small ways—
He steps back, off the stairs, away from the throne, gripping his head, his long hair. Desire grabs their throat, soon as they’re free, and relaxes against the throne. Their breaths come reedy, and now the panic shows. “I didn’t take his memories,” they repeat. “Dream. You know I didn’t. Why would I?”
And it’s true, he finds. Desire is borne of memory. Envy and want and need are nothing without memory. He wants to rebel against it, to pin Desire back to their mockery of a throne and beg them for answers but again that thing is twisting in his chest and now it feels like panic. “You didn’t do this.”
“No,” Desire says, in a tone almost of pity. “Dream—”
“Go.” He bites the word between his teeth as it will bleed for him.
“I will,” they promise. “I will.” They’re massaging their neck, considering, staring down at Dream. For a moment, silence reigns in the hall. It’s too real. the floor is too cold, and Desire’s skin against his hand was clammy, solid. The kind of thing a person could touch. Could revel in. Hob has given too much of himself to this dream, and dreams of memories are always like that. Always more. He should have known what this would cost from the first moment he walked in the man’s dreams. The setting sun outside the hall’s windows goes dark; a wind like ice bursts in from the stairs behind him, from the door he left open.
“Dream,” Desire repeats. “Do you know where you are?”
“His memories, “ he almost gasps past the panic taking his breath.
Desire leans forward. “But which ones?” Their eyes are a dark gold—the shade of a forest in the prime of autumn, of the crown on their head. As if reading Dream’s thoughts, they remove it, and offer it to Dream who makes no move to take it. With a light sigh, they let their arm settle to the side of the chair, tapping it against the wood absently.
All of them, Dream thinks, but he finds at once this isn’t the answer. Not the most-right answer. He’s seen worlds born and destroyed, some by his own folly, and he’s seen the dreams of every creature within them, and he’s lost. Which memories are these, specifically? A thing not unlike dread creeps up his spine and into him.
The answer comes to him as Desire voices it: “Only the ones before he met you. I think that’s funny. Don’t you think that’s funny, Dream?”
Funny. A terrible word. Dream can’t bear to look at them any longer, but he hears as they rise from the throne and tap-tap-tap down the steps with their capricious grace. They come up on him, their booted feet entering the corner of his vision. At last he makes himself look, and there again is his own face staring back at him. He wears that smile well. Desire always looks young, and they make Dream look young, too. Joyful. Relieved to be making it out of here in one piece, perhaps. Dream wants something raw between his teeth. He sneers at them as they pass. It’s only a small change, only a wolf’s drawing of his lips back from his fangs, the widening of the pits of his eyes to a void.
Desire swallows. “I’ll never come to his dreams again. Not as myself. Not as you. But Dream—you’ll still be here. We both will.” Their expression is sickly, the ever-present smile sour. They tip the crown onto Dream’s head. The act, audacious, pushes his now-long, now-wild hair into his eyes. “Piece of advice? If you want him, want him. Desire has power, too. Even here. Here most of all.” They blink, the gold shutters, and step away lightly, dancing as if to keep him at bay.
It’s almost as if they did care, in their small and fickle way, after all. Their steps are light as they go, happy to be free. Loathing grips Dream, the desire for revenge like a living thing within him, now aimless in its violence.
“Desire,” he snaps, ordering them to a halt. “If you come to him again, I will see you unmade. I don’t care if you bleed for it.”
He doesn’t, he finds.
Without turning, they say, voice shaking, “You know, I just had a thought. If you’re so sure something’s keeping his memories trapped here, I do know of one being powerful enough.”
Night and Time, Dream thinks. Lucifer, perhaps. The list of those more powerful than the Endless are few, but then Desire turns back to him and gives their wild, wide grin. Abandon plays in their gold eyes. In Dream’s face, it looks like madness. And then they say, as if it’s a secret they can’t help sharing, “You.”
A cut opens in him.
“I wonder, is it that it went so poorly the first time with a human? But I thought you’d never be cruel enough to make him forget you entirely. At least this time you didn’t banish the poor thing to Hell.”
They wait a single moment to see their words hit fast—they do, a bolt at the center of Dream’s chest, long and sharp—and then they fly down the steps and out of the hallway, all but fleeing his realm. Their presence fades from the Dreaming. The pulsating madness of Desire is gone and in its place is only silence. Only Dream, standing in the cold hall, the mockery of a crown on his head. Nowhere in Desire’s words can he sense a lie. Not a single falsehood nor manipulation. His sibling has been honest with him, for once. But then, only honesty could feel like this.
A storm breaks across the dreaming, and the storm is 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
The interior of the church was dim and cool, and surprisingly dry. The door entered into a vestibule with rush mats on the floors for visitors to wipe their feet; by the right-hand wall there was a cloakroom area with coat hooks in rows, an umbrella stand, and a metal boot grate. There were old-fashioned iron torch sconces set into the stone of the wall, but no torches; polished tin chimney lamps hung from them by their handles to give off a steady yellow light.
There was a second door that opened into the nave. Shallan drew the fold of tartan off her head respectfully as she stepped into the main body of the church – it arched overhead in a row of pointed vaults; she almost felt as if she had been swallowed by a great beast of monstrous proportions: the grey-white stone eerily resembled the curving parallels of the whales’ ribs that she had seen displayed at Middlefests in her youth.
She walked hesitantly through the empty church, passing rows of pews. She was nervous, unprepared to explain away her presence if confronted, and her mind jittered into tangents. Whales’ ribs … she had used whale oil to fill the lamps of home when she sketched at night. It had a strange and unpleasant smell compared to the more neutral naphtha that the Kholins used, but it was much cheaper: whaling was good business in Scotland; many a Scottish man who found that a living could not be earned by the plough took to the sea in hard times … Jushu had once almost been crimped by a crooked boarding master after a number of imprudent wagers…
She had reached the end of the church. There was an altar ahead, and a towering window of stained glass set in a leaden frame lay behind it; she presumed that when an Ardent led the village prayers, the window would illuminate him with Almighty’s Grace and Light. The window depicted the Almighty in His aspect of benevolence; His hands were open in a pose of benediction.
There was a small door by the side of the altar: this must be where the Ardents entered and exited for the service, and led to the private wing containing their personal cells and communal refectory. She pulled the ring handle on the door. It was not locked. Well, the Ardents lived on the patronage of the Duke, and she, with her attachments to both Jasnah and Adolin, could be arguably recognised as a Kholin by association. So it was not so odd for her to poke around this church, when she might very well become its lady benefactress one day.
With this thought in mind, she straightened her shoulders as she had been taught from the many painful lessons of Madame Tyn’s, and strode through, head held high.
Project confidence.
If this will be yours one day, you must act like it is already. And when it is truly yours, then they will never be able to take it away.
The inner corridor was silent; she heard the shushing movement of slippered feet somewhere in the distance, but this hallway was empty. There were two doors at the end of the hallway. One was sturdy with iron crossbars over the wood and a rush mat on the floor in front; the other was of simple wood with a brass nameplate.
The door opened, and a young man with the shaved head and square beard of the Ardentry stepped out. He stopped short at seeing Shallan, whose red hair made unruly by the damp marked her as definitely not a Sister of any Order.
“Miss,” he said firmly but politely, “requests for Elevations and personal guidance should be made through the office around the side. This area is for staff only. There is the exit if you are lost.” He gestured pointedly to the crossbarred door on the left.
“I am come from the House – a personal guest, if you will,” said Shallan, with as much cold authority as she could muster. She was trying to imagine Jasnah in her place – Jasnah would not meekly go where she was told if she wanted otherwise. “I do not seek personal guidance. I seek legal counsel, of a private nature.”
The Ardent looked her up and down. He was tall, with blue eyes and a straight nose set on an evenly-featured face. Shallan had always thought that it was men and women with no other recourse who took to the Order; all one had to do was read from a book once a week in front of an audience and listen to prayers now and then, and one was guaranteed food and lodging by a patron for the rest of their life. It was not a life of luxury – unless one managed to find the rare and sought-after patron who was pious, wealthy,
and
generous. But it was a life better than others if one could not plough soil or waves; Shallan had seen a number of returned soldiers and cripples among the Ardentry back home.
This Ardent glanced at her blue silk dress, slightly rain-spotted, with its whimsically patterned silk-floss embroidery; the hem of her lower petticoats thankfully covered her walking boots. He took in her straight-backed posture and the hands she had clasped demurely in front of her: they were soft and pale hands, freckled over the back, but lacking the imperfections of red blotchy chapping and healed burn scars of any woman who had ever in her life washed laundry or cooked a meal.
He seemed to accept her word – or was not inclined to quarrel – for he knocked on the door with the nameplate. Two sharp raps were followed by his saying loudly: “Brother Kadash, there’s a Lady from the House to see you.”
After a minute, she heard a scraping sound from behind the door, then it opened, and a stern looking man with a shaved head peeped out.
“What’s this about a Lady?”
Shallan gave a shallow curtsey of respect. Ardents were not formally on the social ranking at all; you were supposed to ignore their past status and treat them as equals, as they were the Almighty’s secular representatives, and the Almighty was beyond such mundanities. But this man was the head Ardent: he held second-hand power, but plenty of it – and it paid to be cautious with those who could make much trouble even if they could not directly touch you.
“There is a legal matter I should like to discuss in private,” she said, looking him in the eye. Eye contact was important. She did not glance to the side to observe the younger Ardent’s reaction.
“Then come in, please, Miss,” said Brother Kadash.
He opened the door for her, waved his hand at the seat in front of his desk, and the door was closed. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Jasnah analysed situations and deduced the best plan; Madame Tyn relied on variety: she had a catalogue of responses prepared for anything. Shallan had always wanted to emulate both but had the skills and experience of neither. She would have to think quickly, then. Her eyes opened as Brother Kadash found his seat and placed his hands, fingers twined lattice-like, on the desk.
“You wanted to speak of matters legal and private?” he asked.
“Yes. Um,” said Shallan, thinking furiously. “I am Scottish, you see, and I have pledged my allegiance to a Clan Chief – ah, Duke, I think, in Anglethi equivalence.”
“…And?” Brother Kadash smiled benignly. “If you are looking for an expert in Scottish law, perhaps an Anglethi village church will be less useful to you than a hired solicitor in the City. If you come from the House, you will of course have the means available to do so.”
Shallan reddened – he was subtly implying that she wasting his time – and tried to control the trembling of her shaking hands; she straightened the drape of the tartan shawl on her shoulders. “I was rather inquiring how an allegiance to one Duke would stand in the event of a marriage to another. One surely cannot have two lords and two House loyalties, can they?”
“Ah,” said Kadash with a knowing smile. “A Lady from the House indeed, then. To answer your question: allegiances are divided and defined during the writing of the marriage contract. Usually one person – in most cases, the bride – relinquishes her loyalties and joins her husband’s House. But in the case where the partners are both high in precedence in their respective Houses, there may be an exception made for a dual allegiance – for the purpose of a military alliance or a claim on the union’s children in favour of either House upon their majority. But that is for high-profile marriages worked out on a case-by-case basis by the Ardents in the City court – not my jurisdiction at all. Did that answer your question, my lady?”
… Joins her husband’s house…
She pulled the tartan closer, twisting the ends of it in her lap. She felt anxious now; she could not name the exact reason for it, but her breath felt like it was drawn spiralling downward with leaden unease. The tartan smelled faintly of lavender …
Malise, her step-mother...
“How can a marriage contract be broken?” she suddenly asked. She regretted the question almost immediately: it was too private – one should only ask such from their own privately hired solicitor, preferably a retainer who was sworn to their confidence – and never an Ardent who was beholden to his own patron.
“Marriage contracts were not made to be broken.” His reply was firm and neutral; she could not tell if he disapproved or not.
“Exceptions can always be found,” said Shallan. She kept her own voice suitably indifferent.
“For high-profile marriages, there is usually leverage enough to include specific terms that would nullify a contract if they are not fulfilled.
We
do not approve of secular considerations in nullifying marriage, but,” he sniffed, “the Ardentry must be pragmatic. Annulments can be granted upon proof of treason, barrenness, infidelity, or inability to provide minimum maintenance. But only if the original contract stipulated a ‘good conduct’ clause. Will that be all, my lady?”
Treason
, she thought.
Oh, Malise, we were too late for you…
“There is one other thing,” Shallan said. The whole reason for the visit, which she had forgotten about until now. “When was this church built? I know many churches were built from the stones of more primitive temples of worship, either on the same site or moved to be closer to a village. Was it the case for this one?”
Brother Kadash’s twined fingers untwined themselves, his fingers tapped the desktop in surprise. “That is a somewhat unexpected deviation, my lady.”
“Cultural and historic matters interest me. I wholeheartedly
support
the preservation of sites of …
local
importance.” She met his eyes and inclined her head in a meaningful way.
“Ah, yes,” said Brother Kadash, and a genuine smile flitted across his face. “Such matters
deserve
attention.
Ahem
. Of course. This church was built when Nodadon II … or was it IV? I am not quite sure actually – built Kholinar Court as a country hunting lodge away from the City. The village was established to support the House and grounds, so it was decided that there must be a church for the use of the villagers and the House residents. That is why we are on the very edge of Courtlea.”
“So there was no original pre-Vorin temple?” She hoped she did not appear too insistent. Jasnah had told her to conduct inquiries without raising interest; the organisations who had assassinated her father the King were likely interested in the same information.
Brother Kadash frowned. “Not this site, no. This church was built new as the House was. It is definitely a Vorin church by its architecture – no re-dedicated temples would be fit for a King, you see. But…”
“…Yes?”
“There may have been some primitive structures in the area, used before and during the construction of the House – when this area was just woodland with isolated crofts. In fact, their location may be reported in maps from a survey fifty years ago. We haven’t any newer surveys than that, I’m afraid: the woodlands around the House estates are a game park reserved for the Duke’s disposal. The current Duke is not interested in hunting and the previous one was always too busy for such diversions.”
“Those maps would be wonderfully useful,” Shallan said, delighted. “Would it be possible to borrow a copy of the surveys? They will be returned in a timely manner, I promise – I will have a copy made immediately.”
“It would please me to treat a generous lady such as yourself with generosity, my lady,” said Kadash. His eyebrows drew up and down suggestively.
Blessed Heralds, he lays it on thick
, thought Shallan. “Such generosity will not go forgotten.”
“Then I shall send a Brother to fetch them for you. Just a moment,” he said, as he stood and tugged at a rope to the right of his desk. It bounced up and down on a pulley system built into wall for a few moments, then stilled. A minute later, there was a knock at the door. Kadash went to open it; Shallan heard a whispered conversation and then there were retreating footsteps. He returned to his desk and sat down.
“You and our good Duke, then…?” said Brother Kadash, casting for a response to fill the silence.
A light-handed interrogation, then; Shallan was used to this sort of “conversation” from Jasnah, who was always eager for information but never liked to look less than informed.
“We have an … understanding. No contracts have been drawn as yet, hence the questions. Thank you for that, it may prove invaluable,” said Shallan, smiling at him and tucking of stray strand of hair behind her hear. “I am a personal guest at the House currently; if there are any more papers you find relevant to my line of investigation, they would be greatly appreciated if sent on.”
Kadash looked amused. “A personal guest, hah, the others never got that far—”
There came a knock, and the door opened. The young Ardent again, with a thick envelope closed with strings tucked under one arm. He looked at Brother Kadash and then at Shallan, and his eyes narrowed.
“I have the maps,” said the Ardent. He approached the desk and offered them to Brother Kadash.
“For the lady, Kabsal,” directed Kadash.
The young Ardent looked at Shallan, and hesitated. She thought he was going to run; she had seen fear and hesitation like that in a young man’s eyes before, once…
He offered the maps to Shallan; she took them before he could change his mind. She stood.
“Thank you, Brother Kadash, Brother Kabsal. You have been most helpful to-day; I am pleased to make your acquaintance, truly. These maps will be returned safe and sound, have no worry.” Shallan nodded to them, and slipped the envelope into her satchel, doing up the side buckle. It barely fit. “A church is the centre of the village … well, not this village, perhaps – but a fine one like this ought not be neglected. Good day, gentlemen, I must take my leave.”
She curtsied, they inclined their heads respectfully to her – Ardents were not expected to bow in court fashion. Kabsal held the door open and followed her into the hallway.
“You must go around the side entrance to the office when you call on Brother Kadash, Lady,” he said, as he opened the door leading to the nave. “Those found wandering where they are unwanted are … unwelcome.”
“Thank you. I shall make a note of it,” Shallan replied, noncommittally. She stepped through, and the door closed behind her with a heavy thunk. She thought she heard the grating sound of bolts sliding home. What a strange man – it was almost as if he did not want her to have the maps, and was irritated that she had managed to get them.
The nave of the church was still empty. It was too large to be lit by chimney lamps except when an Ardent was leading the weekly prayer – when the Family was represented and the village was in attendance. There were two lamps on either side of the altar. Most of the light came from the stained glass window: soft and grey light that was diffused by the soft grey rainclouds outside, then filtered through the window design; it was fashioned of alternating panes of clear and opaque glass.
She stepped up to the altar and inspected the base of the window: the very bottom frame of it started at head height, and there was an inscription carved in an antiquated script into the row of stones below – it was hard to read and half of it had been eroded into illegibility.
“Perpetual … something … Tanavast bestowed Jezerezeh with his … honour and wisdom? Dignity and gravity combined something something Stormfather; may the Light of his Grace stand solid against the … something,” she read. She pulled out her sketchbook and wrote it down, then sat down on the front pew closest to the altar; she opened her pencil box and started copying the design of the window. To see the top of it, she had to crane her head so far that the back of it touched the backrest of the pew.
It was peaceful in the church, silent and still with the occasional hush-hushing of draughts along the rows of half-lit pews. The high arched vaults of the stone beast’s stomach did not seem so oppressive now to Shallan, whose mood had vastly improved after completing her task with triumph. She sketched peacefully, relaxing into a pleasant art-induced reverie while she shaped and shaded the many stained glass panels in white chalk and grey charcoal. All alone – just she and the Almighty in an empty hall that seemed now a great protector rather than monster: it held her safe against the cold rain and cold people of the outside world.
***
Shallan was filling in the last details of her drawing now; she roughly sketched the stones that bordered the lead frame which held the glass panes of the window. Shading now. She turned to her pencil box, picking through the double layered compartment for the string wrapped lead-clay pencil stick, when she saw that she was not as alone as she had thought. There was a person in the back, sitting on the pew three rows away from the door.
She did not turn her head around; staring was unseemly and perhaps it was merely some village man who wanted a spot of quiet out of the rain. She dug through the wooden pencil box, sifting through nubs of chalk that really ought to be thrown out once they had become too small to comfortably hold; she peeked sideways through a veil of hair. It was a man: he was sitting; he was head and shoulders above the end of the backrest. Was that—?
The man had hair that hung loose to his shoulders – not tied in a tail. An umbrella leaned against the bench seat of the pew, its handle presented vertically. A man with an umbrella would not need to enter a church to avoid being rain-soaked.
Of course it was Kaladin.
There were, and there always would be people in the world who appeared when you least expected them. They were such people as an inquisitive widowed neighbour who would mysteriously happen to be in the area when she saw a stranger’s coach in your drive, or a delivery boy from the village who brought up a side of ham that had been forgotten from the butcher’s cart earlier that morning. There would also be those persons whose appearance and presence you least wanted, and would go to some trouble to avoid. On very rare occasions, there would be an intersection of the groups; one was usually lucky enough to encounter only one or two such people in his or her lifetime.
Kaladin, naturally, found his way with unsurprising ease into that lattermost category – to Shallan’s dismay.
She finished her drawing and closed the sketchbook with a snap. The chalks went back into the box, the lid was slid into its groove and the band around it was secured. Both the box and the book were stuffed into the satchel atop the envelope of maps. Shallan rose.
Kaladin did not raise his bowed head until Shallan’s shadow fell over him. He sighed a great heaving sigh of long sufferance and opened his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Shallan demanded.
“I came for presumably the same reason why you are here. To pray,” he said. Kaladin straightened from his bowed posture, then leaned back against the pew; he laid his arm against the top of the backrest and cocked his head. His eyes swept across her impudently, almost as if he were daring her to contradict him.
“What have you to pray for, pray tell?”
“Why should I not be allowed to pray?”
“If you do indeed have a soul – its existence is quite contrary to my expectations, of course – I am absolutely certain that the Almighty will be hard-pressed to find it, let alone want it. If it can be found at all.”
Kaladin’s dark brows drew together, his lips pressed together thinly. “My soul’s existence is irrelevant; I am here to pray for my brother’s.”
“The Almighty,” Shallan said, “is not a relay service for those too frugal to hire a courier. You ought to inform him to pray for his own.”
He stared into her eyes. They were not angry eyes, as Shallan had thought when she had seen them for the first time. They contained emotion that did not show on his face, but it was not anger – it was something else, darker than that. Perhaps there was a jaded spirit in there that had once been broken into pieces, then reformed out of sheer dogged spite and the single-minded regret of leaving affairs unfinished. That was not impossible: Shallan had seen shades of this in the looking glass before. She was not afraid of it. She did not look away. He was not her father.
“The Almighty is the only messenger I have. My brother is dead.”
There was a silence. It was an awkward, desperate silence, and Shallan’s immediate instinct was to draw on levity, which she ignored with some difficulty. Because in that slow and spreading silence, she recognised something in him that was bitterly familiar to her, and for this one odd moment, she felt a pang of … empathy. The last time she had found in other persons such mutual sentiment was the day she had left Loch Davar.
“I...” she said slowly, not wanting to get it wrong. How was it that she could easily find words to say when her intention was to say something that meant nothing, and yet now she struggled for words to describe something that was plain and unadorned truth? “I am sorry. Truly. If it means anything, I wanted to pray for my own brother; he has been missing and presumed dead for near two years now.”
“It doesn’t,” said Kaladin shortly. “Are you quite finished here?”
“Yes.”
“I am to collect you for the village, then. The carriage is waiting.”
He rose to his feet and picked up his umbrella. He towered over her, a little more than a full head taller, and Shallan could see a few stray unshaven hairs on the underside of his jaw. He left the nave, his legs taking long strides that Shallan could not match. He did not wait for her. Upon Shallan’s reaching the vestibule, she saw the front door of the church swing shut. Kaladin, that insufferable creature, had not waited to hold the door open as any gentleman ought. He had not even offered to share the umbrella.
Storming Kaladin, storming Jasnah…
Grumbling, Shallan pulled the tartan shawl up over her shoulders and draped it over her head as a makeshift hood. Wearing one’s tartan shawl or kilt over the head was a highland tradition, and had been common until umbrellas had stopped being rare. A tartan kept one warm in wet winters – the thick wool held heat marvellously when one layered their clothing just so – but it did not do much, unfortunately, against the prospect of getting wet. She held the pouch of the satchel in her arms and wrapped the ends of tartan around it. Then she pulled the door open with a heave and stepped into the damp and misted air of Courtlea.
It was past noon, she thought, scanning the sky. It was still raining; water trickled off the eaves of the veranda and puddled into the smallest dips in the path, turning shallow ruts into glassy lines of reflected grey-white. It would have been more beautiful, thought Shallan, through a window.
The blue-painted carriage was ten yards away, the matched pair jerking at the reins in their impatience to return to their stable. She took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and ran for it. It was a good idea that she had worn her heavy walking boots. She had tried to skirt the deepest puddles, but the ground was wet and sometimes a puddle was better trod through – better than attempting a running start on a muddy path in order to leap it: she would rather not slip in the mud in front of Kaladin, nor would it do to have Adolin see her covered head to toe in mud for luncheon.
She made it to the carriage; she scrabbled at the door for a second; her clumsy wool wrapped fingers found the handle and pulled the door open. She flung herself into the seat and, reaching out, slammed the door closed. The carriage started moving immediately.
Shallan sighed in relief and realised she was sharing the same padded seat as Kaladin. In fact, she had thrown herself in so vigorously that she was now pressed against him; he was studying the roof above his head with the strained tolerance of silent aggravation.
She cleared her throat and untucked her shawl with cold fingers. The satchel was safe and dry now; she slid to the opposite end of the seat and placed the satchel between them to prevent any more accidental contact. That was when she noticed the smell.
It was a smell that wafted upward. She hadn’t noticed it when the door had been opened; now it was closed and there was nowhere for it to go in the closed cabin. It spread through the carriage with distressing familiarity – she thought she knew what it was, to her great consternation.
“What is that Heralds-cursed smell?” she asked. She needed to be certain.
“Ether,” replied Kaladin after a while. “I bought a few bottles in the village; it makes a useful analgesic.”
“The vapours are awfully strong – my nostrils are being singed just breathing it.”
“The stoppers are poorly moulded. I plan to decant them into better bottles when we return to the House.”
“Of course.”
Shallan turned away to the window. The glass was starting to fog with the warmth of their breath; water condensed in beaded droplets on the edges of the window frame. She drew a hand across the glass and saw misted fields and paddock and the occasional building; trees in the near distance were wreathed in white. Well, it did not seem likely she would find much worthwhile conversation with Kaladin, and the view from the window was of no particular interest. She unbuckled the strap on her satchel and with some difficulty, tugged out her sketchbook. It was packed tightly in with the thick envelope she had gotten from Brother Kadash earlier; she had considered getting a larger bag whilst in Kharbranth with Jasnah, but there was only so large one could go before a bag became uncomfortably unwieldy – it rather negated the convenience of being able to carry more in the first place.
The carriage, as it was during the ride from the House, was becoming warm now; it was drying the damp tartan across her shoulders, but that was making the uncomfortable humidity worse. Shallan opened the sketchbook and read through her notes. She had copied the wall inscription under the stained glass window, and written her thoughts about it. Who was the Stormfather? She had seen it written in some books of folk legends and collected bards’ tales; Jasnah had gathered sources from a variety of examples of pre-Vorin cultural history; she thought it relevant for their research.
But, now, for some reason, her mind was moving more sluggishly than normal. Thoughts seemed to flow from one to the next like treacle, when normally links of association flashed by in an instant for her; it was most perplexing. Why was it happening?
Wait…
It was the ether.
Shallan knew that smell, the singeing nostrils, and the hairs inside feeling as if they were shriveling up like the earthworms and snails Balat played with in the garden when he thought they weren’t looking.
She closed her eyes, breathing and remembering.
Ether was originally something privileged young men used for amusement in their parlours – the ether brought on peculiar trances and dreams to some, on some others it brought simple unconsciousness. What it had in common for everyone who used it was that it took people away from who they were. It was amusing for these dandies to watch each other in turn take a light dosage and lapse into making a series of bizarre faces; sometimes they spoke in tongues. That was probably where Jushu had found out about it. Eventually, the production of it became more efficient and the prices for ether fell – now those of lower class and lesser means could afford to experiment with it, and they did so. Larger doses of inhaled vapours were found to make the dreaming unconsciousness last longer; as did drinking the distilled liquid.
The first time Jushu had bought ether for himself, he hid it from them and used it in his own room, alone. That was not what one did: even the carefree dandies were not so careless as to frolic alone. Jushu did not show up for dinner that evening – Father had sent a maid to knock on his door but he did not come down. They had dinner without him. Shallan had gone up to his room afterward, and found that the door handle would not turn: he had placed a chair under it to hold it closed, and there was no response from inside to her crying and beating her fists and begging him to open it and to come out. She had called for Wikim, who removed the door hinges and together they found him dreaming those unnatural ether dreams on the floor, a blanket over his head. Under the blanket they found a dampened kerchief pressed over his nose and mouth, from which arose that recognisable burning scent of ether fumes.
They were holding his hands when he awoke. She had asked him why he did it and he told them that was what people did when they found their lives painfully tiresome. Shallan understood; she understood all too well, and she had made Jushu promise never to do it alone, and never outside the safety of the house. Over the following months, Balat had taken Jushu up on his offer to drift with him; they did it together a few times, and with Wikim once. Shallan had refused each time. Jushu stopped offering.
So it was always Shallan who sat on the chair by the bed; Jushu had stopped using it to prop the door closed. Shallan was the one who set and watched the hourglass and changed the kerchiefs from the high starting dosage to induce immediate sleep, to progressively smaller doses of ether mixed with water to draw out the dreams and wake him gradually. Once she had learned how the doses worked, and Jushu trusted the surety of her hands to measure it right each time, she began lowering the doses without telling him, and reading to him while he was in drift.
She supposed it worked; he asked for ether less frequently and asked to be read to more. But the smell of ether was something she would never forget.
…It reminded her of home. Was that so terrible to admit?
It was a comfort to her, a perverse comfort to be sure, but when she placed the kerchief over Jushu’s nose, or Balat’s, she was bringing them a temporary peace. It was the short-lived satisfaction of worrying an itching scab and risking a scar, but Shallan had very little with which to help her dear brothers; ether was one of the few things that took them away from who and where they were, without hurting anyone in the process. It brought no happiness – but it could at least manage gratification.
Her thoughts slowed. If it had been treacle before, now it was … frozen treacle? She could not think of any droll metaphor at the moment, how very unusual. Was this what ether drifting felt like?
The sketchbook fell out of her hands. Her body felt monumentally heavy – as if fatigue were weighing down flesh and bone alike, fatigue reaching down to her very soul; it took more effort than she could summon to twitch a finger. She leaned back and back and back. There was warmth; she felt the scratch of wool against her face; she pressed against it. It was wool, wool like a tartan, beautiful beautiful tartans – green and yellow and white and black – McValam tartans all in a row … a row of tartans like the day her father married Malise and they thought she could replace Mother in his mind and make him all better, and everything would return to how it used to be.
And he did get better, and Malise had a baby, and Shallan had a wonderful baby sister with blue eyes and red hair and a pretty toothless smile, and a wonderful family who loved her as they loved each other…
***
The carriage door opened; cold damp air swept the ether vapours out of the warm closeness of the cabin’s interior. But Shallan still had ether vapours inside of her, where they couldn’t be reached – where she didn’t want them to be reached; she was still clinging, shamefully and desperately, clinging to the drift.
“—Shallan, Kal, there you are! I am perfectly famished; one might reasonably think it would take less than forty-nine years to sign a forty-nine year contract, but it was a close thing—”
Shallan opened her eyes at the beautiful voice of the beautiful young man whose hair looked like a bee’s bottom – yes, that’s what it looked like – who stood at the open door.
She, through bleary eyes, saw Kaladin with her sketchbook guiltily open in his lap, open to her – lovingly detailed, she could say it now without second thought, how very strange – portrait of him. She found that she was pressed against him, slumped on the cushioned seat too, but mostly against him. She was leaning heavily on his shoulder, her face on the wool of his coat. There was a line of wet drool down the coat’s shoulder and drool growing cool on her cheek.
The beautiful Duke said, smiling: “My heavens – it looks like you two have had rather an eventful morning!” His eyes darted from Kaladin to her and back.
Kaladin cleared his throat and slowly closed the sketchbook. He put it down on the empty seat opposite him.
“Shallan here had promised earlier to show me her etchings,” he said. “Shallan?”
“
Nuuuuuughhh
,” was all she could say. That was witty and clever, wasn’t it? She nuzzled his shoulder. It hardly mattered that she was smearing drool over her face and his coat.
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 Amos opened his eyes, it was back again - that good feeling he had hoped for. That was probably because Mira was back too.
Her face was no longer resting on his chest, but next to him on the mattress. But her hand was still resting on his stomach and his was still on her shoulder.
Mira was still fast asleep.
If he lifted his head just a little, he could see her boots on the floor. The first one was right next to the door and the second one a little further towards his bed.
No one who was born and raised in space, and no one who had been living and working here for ten years, would treat their belongings this way. In space, all objects had to be stowed away or secured at all times.
In the event that the gravity generators failed, even a finger ring left lying around could become a deadly projectile.
Only an Earther who had only recently been in space could be so careless with their belongings, throwing them in the middle of the room and leaving them there, for example.
And although Amos was aware of the danger, he couldn't help but smile. It reminded him of who he was dealing with here. Next to him lay a Sleeper, a woman born in the previous century. Someone who had experienced the sun when its rays were not yet life-threatening.
Someone who had observed animals with her own eyes in their natural habitat, which Earthers today could only see on video because they no longer existed.
Someone whose hair was longer than that of almost anyone else living in space. Because it was impractical, because it consumed too many resources to maintain, and because even a single hair caught in an electric gear could cause a short circuit.
In short, Mira was a safety hazard in every respect. Not only because of her carefree and reckless behavior, but also because of who she was.
And yet, when he looked at her, Amos saw no danger in her whatsoever.
All he saw at that moment was a beautiful woman lying in his bed - barefoot, but wearing pants and a sports bra.
Two light stripes ran across her skin between the dark straps. They crossed over her spine, and if Amos wasn't mistaken, these were the straps of the garment she had worn while sunbathing. What had she called it again? A bikini?
The straps of her current clothing did not match the straps of her bikini from earlier.
That was why Amos could see the lines on her skin.
Fascinated, he ran his fingertips over them. But only very carefully, so as not to wake her.
Miras breathing was deep and her expression relaxed and content.
Amos had no intention of taking advantage of this situation for anything. But he also didn't miss the opportunity to look at her closely at that moment.
He continued to do so even after they had gotten up and were sitting across from each other at breakfast.
Each of them poked at their bowls with their spoons while stealing glances at each other across the table.
Mira had to smile at some point because she realized how childish they were both being.
Amos dealt with the situation a little more directly, as usual.
“If you want me to kiss you, just say so,” he said bluntly.
Mira responded with an embarrassed smile. Blushing, she turned her gaze away from the muscular Earther in the tank top and instead directed it demurely at her bowl of porridge.
Then Alex joined them, and their undisturbed togetherness was over.
Mira would regret letting this opportunity slip away the moment she saw the Roci take off without warning a few hours later and fly away.
The leader of the Sleepers did not know that a Belter named Anderson Dawes had freed the captured scientist from his cell and abducted him, and that the Rocinante was the only ship capable of making an emergency takeoff and pursuing the fugitive vessel.
Mira only saw the Martian warship flying away, and it felt like having a tooth pulled without any anesthesia - not from her mouth, but from the middle of her chest.
As long as the Roci was gone, she had lost all appetite, and the time seemed like an eternity.
She felt so depressed that she got a rough idea of how Yara must have felt when the ship had set off to fly to the laboratory from which they had brought the scientist in the first place.
Amos had told her that, due to an operation on his brain, he was no longer capable of feeling any compassion. This man was completely indifferent to people and their fates, which is why he felt no guilt whatsoever about what had happened on Eros.
If such a person fell into the wrong hands, he could and would do such terrible things again at any time.
That's why it simply had to be prevented.
Mira would absolutely have understood that if she had known.
But she didn't have that information. She didn't even know that some members of the crew weren't on board the Roci at all.
All she knew was that James Holden's ship had suddenly flown away and that his absence felt like an eternity.
During this time, Mira's imagination had plenty of time to come up with all kinds of scenarios. And Mira certainly had an imagination. She could picture the worst-case scenarios in all kinds of colors.
She had great difficulty concentrating on the things she actually wanted to do, let alone finishing them properly.
The Sleeper knew that there was no point in going to the hangar and waiting there. That wouldn't speed up the return of the Martian warship. And besides, she would make a complete fool of herself.
All she could do was carry on as if nothing had happened. As if she had never felt that there was anything going on between her and the Earther mechanic.
As if she didn't feel the need to see him again, and as if she didn't feel the need to know when he was leaving the station, let alone where he was going and when he would be back.
All she could do was ignore all these feelings and wait for the Martian warship to reappear at some point. If the four of them ever returned at all. After all, the station was not their home.
For James Holden, Naomi Nagata, Alex Kamal, and Amos Burton, the Rocinante was their home, and much like the gypsies of old, this home was mobile.
So when it was gone - as it was now - there was really no reason for its inhabitants to return, because they had taken everything they needed with them.
That's what Mira thought to herself as she carried a box of blankets along the promenade to the hangar. There, the blankets were needed by the never-ending stream of refugees.
She had just walked past the Axolotl and remembered finding Amos there drunk two days ago when suddenly someone blocked her path.
Mira stopped dead in her tracks.
Confused, she looked up at the broad-shouldered man.
The dirty work overalls, the silver devil pin on his chest, the “Pur & Kleen” emblem - everything was exactly the same as Amos. Even the shape of his head, his short hair, and the several-day-old beard on his chin were like those of the uncouth Earther.
When Mira realized that the person standing in front of her not only looked like the man she had been thinking about all this time, but was actually him, her initial reaction was one of surprise: “Amos?!”
“Yes?” replied the man, casually placing his hands on his hips.
Mira narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“What are you doing HERE?” she couldn't help asking.
Amos frowned.
“What do you mean?” he replied innocently, as if he had no idea that his home was currently in a different place than he was.
The Sleeper had to bite her tongue hard to keep from answering him right away. She knew that as soon as he found out that the Roci had left without him, his calm and composure would be gone.
He would immediately rush off somewhere - probably to Fred Johnson - to find out where his people were going, and she would be left here alone again.
That's why Mira hesitated. She wanted to have the broad-shouldered Earther to herself for a moment longer before she had to give him back.
She needed to see him to realize that everything she had imagined over the last three hours had only happened in her head.
Amos wasn't gone. He hadn't just left her without a word. He was still here. He was standing in front of her.
And the second reason she didn't say anything right away was that she regretted not kissing him at breakfast when she had the chance.
The reason for that had been fear.
And the strange thing was: the reason she regretted it now was exactly the same. It was also fear. Namely, the fear that this opportunity would never come again.
Meanwhile, Amos took another step toward her.
“Is everything okay?” he asked her, and while the muscular man looked down at her with concern because he could see that something was wrong with her, the Sleeper was still trying to sort out her feelings.
Her inner voice warned her not to show any weakness in front of him, and in the next moment, the same voice said, 'Who am I trying to fool here?'
So she nodded first.
Everything was okay with her. At least now.
Then she bravely lifted her gaze, and the moment she looked into Amos's eyes, the words came out of her mouth.
“Kiss me!” she demanded, her voice hoarse.
Her counterpart frowned in surprise.
“What?”
Mira swallowed impatiently.
“You said: I just have to say when...”
She didn't get any further because the Earther's expression stopped her in her tracks.
He had apparently understood her the first time around. Which surprised her. After all, someone like him certainly didn't need a second invitation.
And yet he didn't do as he was told. Instead of pulling her into his arms on the spot and kissing her for all he was worth, he looked at her in a very strange way.
“You don't want that,” he accused her next, his expression serious.
“Yes, I do,” Mira insisted, almost desperately and a little stubbornly.
“Believe me,” her counterpart remained steadfast. “You don't want that.”
And for a brief moment, Mira was struck by the thought that she might have kept him waiting too long and that he no longer believed she would change her mind.
But then the broad-shouldered Earther made it clear to her with an intense look and an imperceptible nod that she should look behind her.
And when Mira followed this hint and looked over her shoulder, she discovered the real reason for Amos's unusual reticence after only a few seconds.
Yara.
The blonde girl was standing less than ten feet away from them. She was also holding a box of blankets that she wanted to carry to the hangar. But she too had stopped in her tracks after seeing Amos.
She was also surprised to see him here, and she too wanted to take the opportunity to admire him for a moment before she had to move on and fulfill her duties.
The moment the woman her hero was talking to turned to Yara and recognized her as Mira, the girl was almost a little startled.
Mira, on the other hand, had let her shoulders slump in despair at that very second.
It dawned on her in that moment.
What had she been thinking, kissing Amos in the middle of the promenade? Here of all places, where everyone could see them.
In her selfishness, the leader of the Sleepers had not considered that a kiss in public would not remain a secret.
Even if Yara hadn't been there herself at that moment, sooner or later someone would have told her about it. That much was certain.
Fortunately, Amos had been quick-witted enough not to simply comply with her request.
And the fact that the man she had initially considered so rude and selfish had not done so - that he had not seized the opportunity and exploited it to his own advantage - made Mira realize even more how wrong she had been about him.
Amos was neither selfish nor rude. By putting Mira's wish - not to hurt Yara's feelings - above his own desire to kiss her, he proved that he was quite the opposite.
All Amos allowed himself was to tilt his head slightly toward Mira to make something clear.
“Don't think I don't want to kiss you,” he whispered.
“No, you... you're absolutely right,” she quickly assured him.
She shook her head, her long, loose hair swaying back and forth in fine waves. However, she didn't look at him as she did so, because she felt terrible that she was the only one who had been thinking exclusively of herself at that moment.
Her hands were trembling, and her expression clearly showed how disappointed she was - this time with herself.
“Thank you,” she sighed, looking up at Amos apologetically.
“No problem,” he said, dismissing her concern.
Since Yara would be joining them any moment, their conversation came to an end.
When the girl with the blonde curls came to a stop next to them, she deliberately ignored Mira and addressed Amos directly.
Yara wanted to know if Amos was also going to the hangar and, if so, whether he could help her with her heavy box.
“Clever,” Mira thought to herself.
But the native Earther seemed to have suddenly become completely antisocial and highly unempathetic. He coldly rejected Yara’s request.
“No, I wanted to...” he intended to reply, pointing in the opposite direction, when Yara interrupted him.
“Oh, I see,” she interrupted the adult man. “You must have something terribly important to do if you didn't fly with the Roci.”
The Earther had been puzzled at the beginning of her sentence. But at the end of the sentence, he was even more puzzled.
“The Roci took off without me?” he asked, bewildered.
The young Sleeper nodded in confirmation.
“Yes, about three hours ago,” she even knew how to give a fairly precise time frame.
Mira wasn't surprised. Of course the lovesick teenager knew.
Amos reacted just as Mira had predicted. Suddenly, he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and stared intently in the direction of Fred Johnson's office.
Nothing in the world could have stopped the giant of a man from inquiring about the whereabouts of his people now.
And while Yara visibly regretted Amos's hasty departure, Mira was now so calm that she could even smile at him.
She took advantage of the moment to offer Yara her help in carrying her heavy box. But as expected, the blonde girl politely declined the offer.
Instead, she watched the man in dirty overalls hurry away.
And Mira let her go - without saying a word. Of course, this was also because it allowed her to watch Amos for a moment longer.
But above all, it was because the woman with long brown hair believed - for the first time since Yara had been in her care - that she could understand exactly WHY the fifteen-year-old felt the way she did.
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
Hermione had walked into Professor Mustang’s office with a full speech and a long list of arguments to defend her case of why that array wasn’t theirs ready in her mind. Her speech died before she could even open her mouth upon hearing Professor Mustang’s admission.
She wasn’t the only one blindsided by his words. A short silence followed Professor Mustang’s confession that
he
had been the one to put the array in her book.
“What?!” Ron was the first one to react, and he sounded outraged.
Hermione, however, had just realized what else Professor Mustang had just said.
“You know about the Hog’s Head?” she asked in horror. If Professor Mustang knew, then their suspicion that Umbridge had somehow learnt about the meeting might be true.
Professor Mustang snorted.
“A word of advice, Miss Granger: next time you want to organise a secret student meeting, don’t ask a teacher if students are allowed in the establishment beforehand.”
Hermione felt herself blush all the way down to her neck. Harry and Ron turned to look at her and, while there was some accusation in their eyes, they looked mostly as flummoxed as she felt now.
“Besides, of course, of the fact that you chose the worst possible location in all of Hogsmeade for your meeting,” Professor Mustang continued.
“What do you mean?” Ron asked, less aggressively than before.
“Take a seat,” Professor Mustang said, gesturing at the couch facing his desk.
With some hesitation, Hermione did as told, sitting on the middle of the couch. Whatever Professor Mustang intended, she understood that this wasn’t an average detention. Harry and Ron followed her example reluctantly.
“Why was the Hog’s Head a bad choice?” Hermione asked, needing to know why what had seemed such a smart decision had gone so wrong. “No students go there.”
“Precisely because of that. Having a large group of students meeting at a place where Hogwarts students never venture was bound to draw attention. And the Hog’s Head isn’t exactly known for its reputable clientele, as you may have noticed. I am not certain how our esteemed Professor Umbridge learnt about your meeting, but I imagine that, given how Mr. Potter here is undesirable number two for the Ministry of Magic right now, they would be willing to let some minor infraction pass in exchange for useful information about him.”
Hermione felt her blush deepen with every word Professor Mustang spoke, because it made perfect sense and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it with all the planning she had put into that meeting.
“So what? Are you telling us not to do it?” Harry asked, and he didn’t sound happy. Despite his initial reluctance to start the club, he had warmed up to the idea, and lately he had been… less than pleased about being told what to do by others.
“Not at all,” Professor Mustang said, raising both gloved hands in a pacifying gesture. A thoughtful expression crossed his face then. He lowered his hands to the desk and turned his attention to Ron. “However, Mr. Weasley, your mother insisted that I pass on the message that you and all of your siblings at the school are forbidden from participating in any secret defence clubs.” He then turned to Hermione and Harry. “And, while she has no authority over the two of you, she strongly advises you against continuing with this endeavour. Please, let her know I passed the message along, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of her ire.”
Hermione blinked, but it was Ron who spoke.
“You
want
us to do it,” he said in obvious surprise.
Professor Mustang shrugged with a helpless smile.
“What can I say? As wonderful as it would be if the Death Eaters agreed to leave minors out of this war, last year’s events proved that it’s not a possibility. If we cannot keep you out of the conflict, as adults, our responsibility should be to ensure that you are as well prepared as possible to survive it.”
“Then why isn’t the Order letting us help?” Harry demanded, his anger over the issue seeping into his voice.
Professor Mustang crossed his hands before his mouth and stared at them.
“Because, unfortunately, Headmaster Dumbledore disagrees with me on this topic. Which is why I would appreciate it if you kept this conversation to yourselves. The only ones who know what I am doing are Sirius and Tonks. Though I expect Lupin will be brought into it as soon as Sirius has a chance to talk to him in private.” He leant back into his chair and looked at Ron again. “However, if you could tell your brothers that I wasn’t actually targeting the three of you earlier today, I would appreciate it. They can be truly annoying.”
Ron bit back a snicker, and Hermione’s general dismay over Fred and George’s actions this year grew.
“What did they do?” she asked, fearing the answer.
Professor Mustang waved a hand dismissively.
“Nothing that will land them on a real detention for now. Let’s focus on what we’re here for: your defence club.”
“How do you know that’s what we talked about?” Harry blurted out. He had a point: Professor Mustang had explained how he knew where they had met, but not how he knew
what
they had talked about.
“Mundungus Fletcher was the witch under the veil,” Professor Mustang replied. “A disguise I am glad I didn’t get to see.”
Ron grimaced.
“That was
Mundungus
?”
“So, first of all,” Professor Mustang said, opening the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a rolled up parchment that he pushed towards Harry. “That is a list Sirius and Tonks helped me compile yesterday. It contains spells that proved useful to Sirius during the previous war, as well as some that Tonks uses often as an auror. I’m certain Miss Granger can look up how to cast them in the library without drawing undue attention.”
Harry reached out for the list, an eager expression on his face, and put it into his bag. As much as Hermione wanted a look at those spells, she understood they could look at them later.
“What do you have planned for your lessons?” Professor Mustang asked, leaning back into his chair again.
Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged some uncertain glances.
“Well...” Harry, as the designated teacher, started, but Professor Mustang cut him off.
“Please, tell me you don’t intend to pair students up and have them cast spells on each other while standing still,” he said, and his voice held that touch of exasperation that people used when they knew they were right but wished they weren’t.
“Eh... yes?” Harry answered uncertainly.
Professor Mustang sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Mr. Potter, in a fight your enemies won’t be stationary and waiting for you to cast your spells. In fact, according to every story from the previous war I’ve heard, the Death Eaters have a strong preference for underhanded attacks and nasty curses that cannot be repelled with a standard shielding spell. They also have a tendency to avoid teamwork even when they are assigned to a mission in groups: something about standing out amongst the crowd. If you want this little club of yours to be effective past helping you with your official examinations, you should consider adding in strategies to effectively work in groups against one or several opponents, moving mock-battles that’ll allow you as close to real-life practice as possible without endangering anyone and improving your physical skills to dodge spells.”
“Why dodge them?” Ron asked. “If we know the spell, we can use the counter curse.”
The look Professor Mustang gave Ron then would have made most people shrink back. Ron did, discretely pressing himself against the back of the couch.
“Tell me, Mr. Weasley, do you know which are the Death Eaters’ favourite spells?”
Hermione paled, remembering one of Barty Crouch Jr.’s lessons from last year.
“The Unforgivables,” she said in a breathless whisper.
Ron grimaced, looking down at the list Professor Mustang had given them before they left his office. They were in the common room now, the last ones left there.
“I understand he wants to make it look like we got a real detention, but this is gross.”
Said list consisted of a compilation of truly gruesome accidents occurred during failed attempts at transmutation that, Ron had to admit, would dissuade most people from trying to transmute anything without Mustang’s approval and assistance. Mustang had ordered them to read the lists in case anyone asked them what the detention had been like. Supposedly, they had spent their time there copying these lists of accidents. And, somehow, the lists Mustang had given them were written
in their own handwriting
. If that was alchemy, Ron was starting to really see the appeal of the class.
“It’s worth it, though,” Hermione said. She, of course, had already finished reading her copy of the list. “He’s given us a lot to work with. That idea with the stunners for dodging spells will come in handy. And the teamwork. We hadn’t even thought about it, but he’s right: teamwork is the Death Eaters’ weakness, and it could save us against an opponent none of us could defeat on our own.”
“You’re going to spend a lot of time looking up strategies, aren’t you?” Harry asked, but he was in a much better mood than he had been since the start of the school year. He had also finished his list of disgusting accidents and was reading over the list of spells. Privately, Ron thought that knowing he had some Order members on his side and willing to help (and that one of them was Sirius) would do a lot of good for Harry, but Ron wouldn’t say it.
As a consequence of the amount of time Roy dedicated to his classes, he hadn’t been practicing the
patronus
charm much lately. That changed on Tuesday, after he decided to discretely abandon the staff room where Dolores Umbridge was nearly yelling at Minerva for going behind her back and asking Albus to reinstate the Gryffindor quidditch team, something Umbridge had refused to do.
Neglecting his practice for a while turned out to be a good thing, because Roy’s frustration over his lack of progress with the spell had diminished considerably over the past couple of weeks and he could actually focus on casting it.
Determination. That was what Sirius had told him to use given that the happy memories weren’t working. Roy had plenty of determination, and it was all a matter of finding the right means to channel it into the spell.
Things remained reasonably stable that week. No professor other than Trelawney had been put on probation so far, much to the delight of the staff. Minerva, in particular, seemed to derive some form of vindictive pleasure from the fact that Umbridge hadn’t managed to find fault with her teaching method despite Minerva’s disdainful attitude towards her during her inspection.
Roy had caught sight of Hermione in the library on Thursday evening, carrying a pile of charms books in which he had no doubt she had hidden some to look up spells from the list.
As a precaution, Roy had decided to avoid the nook in the Muggle Studies section, and had found another empty area in the Divination section for whenever he needed to check something up in the library. Halfway through one of the dense philosophical tomes that dealt with souls, Roy had an idea and wrote “Andrea” a letter, asking if she was free on Friday afternoon next week for a date. He followed it with a letter to Madam Malkins’ shop. During his first visit there, Roy had been informed that now that the shop had his measurements they could sew him clothes without his presence; provided, of course, that he was willing to pay a small extra amount of money for the self-adjusting fabric that would ensure any necessary slight alterations were taken care of.
Roy just so happened to have his untouched September pay available.
He had kept his outings so far fairly low-key, and he decided a change of pace was in order. His womanizer façade had worked wonders in the past, and he figured a modified version of it would come in handy now: the adoring boyfriend.
Letters written, Roy stood up to go to the owlery and decided a talk with Professor Sprout was in order.
Ever since the detention with Professor Mustang, Hermione had been worried about the first official meeting of the defence group (now called Dumbledore’s Army). As it turned out, she had no reason to be worried. Most of their members believed Harry’s story about Voldemort’s return, and the ones who didn’t believe it at least were willing to give the story the benefit of the doubt. Hermione had given the group a reasoning similar to the one Professor Mustang had used during the detention —respecting his request of keeping his involvement a secret— and it had helped to convince them that most of the spells in the list Sirius and Tonks had written would be good to know for extra points in either the O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. exams as well as for future defence.
Still, with the fighting tactics Hermione was working on to add to their meetings she thought calling themselves an army was oddly appropriate past the fact that it was one of Fudge’s fears.
She was currently waiting for a package from her parents. She had written to them on Saturday to ask for some books that talked about guerrilla fighting methods in the muggle world. She had told them that she needed the books because she was writing a comparative essay on these methods in the muggle and wizarding world for History of Magic and there was, unsurprisingly, nothing of use in the Muggle Studies section. Hermione felt a little bad about lying to her parents, but she was used to hiding the truth about what happened at Hogwarts from them by now, as she was afraid they’d take her out of the school if they knew about things like the story with the Philosopher’s Stone or what happened during the third task.
She had tried to look these things up in the library this week, but wizards didn’t seem keen in battle strategies past the basic “cover your companions’ backs” suggestions.
Aurora Sinistra sat next to Pomona Sprout for lunch on Friday. As she settled, her left foot brushed against something. She looked down to find a vase between their chairs. It held a beautiful bouquet of butterfly roses in it, their petals fluttering and making the colours ripple on them like a sea of tiny kaleidoscopes.
“Flowers?” Aurora asked, surprised. Pomona rarely brought any plants into the Great Hall unless they were necessary for a special occasion.
“Roy asked for them,” Pomona replied, turning to her with an impish grin. “He has a date.”
Aurora raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t had many chances to talk to Roy Mustang, but she certainly wouldn’t mind going out on a date with a man who looked like
that
.
Aurora turned to face the room when the volume in the Great Hall decreased considerably, worried that something bad was about to happen.
Her mouth fell open.
“Oh, my...” Charity Burbage whispered from her other side, and Aurora agreed with the feeling wholeheartedly.
Roy was walking towards the staff table, moving between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw ones, and he looked...
Lucky witch
, Aurora thought with a healthy dose of envy.
Roy was certainly dressed for a nice date out. Black pants, black dress shoes, a dark grey waistcoat with the chain of his pocket watch dangling from the right pocket over a crisp white shirt with its neck upturned to show a thin, black tie that disappeared into the waistcoat. Over his left arm he had draped a bundle of black fabric that appeared to be a coat and a cloak as well as a light grey scarf. And he had his hair slicked back.
Heads turned as he walked, and the students started to whisper as soon as he was past.
Aurora was certain that Roy would be the main topic of gossip this weekend.
“I’d never seen a man look so good in just black and grey,” Charity said in a low voice, and Aurora nodded her agreement. Wizards usually went for eye-catching robes when they took someone out on a date, and Roy had just proven wrong the long-standing tradition that brighter was better with a single outfit.
Finally, Roy reached the staff table, obliviously greeting everyone with a nice smile that only emphasized how attractive he was. He set his coat, cloak and scarf on the back of the chair on Pomona’s other side before sitting down.
“I have your flowers,” Pomona said, her voice perfectly even, as if she hadn’t been staring too.
“Thank you,” Roy replied with an enchanting smile.
The conversation over lunch was normal enough, but Aurora kept part of her attention on the room at large. Whispering students failing miserably at their attempts to sneak glances at Roy were hilarious to watch.
Unsurprisingly, Roy was the first professor to finish his meal.
“Well, I believe I’ll be off now,” he said, standing up.
“Any idea of when you’ll be back?” Pomona asked with a knowing smile as Roy slipped his tailcoat on.
A sheepish grin took over Roy’s face. Aurora thought he might even be blushing slightly.
“Sometime tomorrow, I’d say,” he replied, bending his head down in what looked like a very deliberate gesture to avoid Pomona’s eyes. He turned to tie his cloak in place.
Next to Aurora, Charity stifled a snicker into her napkin.
“That sounds fun,” Pomona said far too innocently. She reached down for the flowers while Roy set the scarf around his shoulders and offered them to him. “Have a nice weekend, Roy.”
“Thank you, Pomona,” Roy said with that same sheepish grin, accepting the bouquet.
After a quick goodbye, he started walking towards the Great Hall’s open doors, the cloak billowing softly after him and many heads turned to watch him go.
Pomona leant closer to Aurora.
“Ten galleons say Roy’s name in hearts will have tripled by Monday.”
“I’m not taking that bet,” Aurora said with an amused snort. “However, I have ten galleons saying we’ll hear far less jokes associating black cloaks with bats.” Charity let out a disgusted sound and Aurora turned incredulous eyes on her. “Oh, come on, he looks
dashing
.”
Charity shook her head, pointing to the other end of the staff table. Aurora looked in that direction and grimaced. Umbridge’s beady eyes were fixed on Roy’s retreating back.
“Merlin, that’s
disgusting
,” Aurora said.
“I hope Roy hasn’t noticed,” Pomona agreed with a grimace of her own. “The poor boy doesn’t deserve that.”
Roy spotted Tonks’ disguised self easily once he emerged from the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron. She was wearing a dress robe in what might be a light shade of either green or blue, accompanied by a cloak that was some shades darker in likely the same colour. She wore some discreet and elegant jewellery, a ring and a thin necklace that Roy would never associate with Nymphadora Tonks, and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that her mother Andromeda had helped with the outfit. According to Tonks, Andromeda was quite enjoying herself with helping her get ready for these fake dates. Tonks had confessed she had never been one to dress up, and her mother relished the chance to help her dress in ways Tonks would never choose of her own accord, even if it was for an entirely different body.
“Andrea,” Roy greeted her with a charming smile that hid his amusement at the situation. There were some nosy patrons from the Cauldron sneaking glances at them, probably because their outfits made it clear they didn’t intend to stay here.
“Hello Roy,” Tonks said with a sweet smile that showed her very impressive acting skills. Nobody would guess it from watching her usual demeanour, but Nymphadora Tonks was an amazing actress who could easily put on an act fitting whatever appearance she was wearing. Andrea was sweet and demure, if somewhat clumsy —because no amount of acting skills would fix that particular trait of Tonks’—and she appeared to enjoy their dates very much to the outside eyes. Her eyes fell on the flowers and her smile widened as though she hadn’t been expecting them. “Are those for me?” she asked in very convincing eagerness.
“Of course,” Roy said, offering the bouquet of changing flowers to her. “Unless you’d rather I carry them and draw odd looks when everyone thinks you gifted them to me?”
Tonks giggled, what would have been a snort of laughter from her real self, and accepted the flowers.
“Now, we couldn’t have that,” she said, and threaded her arm with Roy’s when he offered it.
They exited the Leaky Cauldron at a leisurely pace, Roy tapped the wall at the back in the appropriate order to open the access into Diagon Alley and they entered. After half an hour of wandering around, with Tonks trying on various hats Roy knew she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing at an expensive clothes shop called Twilfitt and Tattings they slipped into a side alley and Tonks apparated them away.
“I can’t believe you don’t know how to apparate,” she snorted, dropping her Andrea persona, the moment they landed in the middle of a cozy yet tasteful living room that was part of Tonks’ childhood home.
“I didn’t see the point in learning it,” Roy defended himself, as he usually did. He had read on the subject to find a way to justify his lack of such knowledge, and had been extremely relieved to learn that many wizards and witches never learnt to apparate, which made his situation less suspicious. He couldn’t learn it properly now, because that would mean letting the Ministry of Magic —and, by extension, Riddle and his Death Eaters— know about his vulnerability, so instead he had convinced Albus to teach him how to create very much illegal portkeys in case he needed to disappear quickly in an emergency.
“Too busy having your nose buried in a book?” Tonks teased, stepping away from him to drop on the couch in a very unladylike manner.
“Perhaps,” Roy said, following her to sit down. “So, this is your childhood home?” he asked, looking around.
“Yes. My mother should be back any time now to meet my fake boyfriend. She might insist you actually date me: ignore her.”
“As you wish,” Roy said, exaggerating a bow. Ostensibly, in their letters, Andrea was going to introduce Roy to her family before they went on a romantic, very public dinner date. The truth was that Andromeda Tonks was curious about this fake relationship and, according to Tonks, wanted more information to better work on Andrea’s wardrobe, so they had agreed to meet today. “In the meantime, though, I believe we should work on perfecting our code.”
“Trouble at Hogwarts?” Tonks asked with a worried frown.
“Not yet,” Roy said, “but given how things have gone so far, I believe it’s only a matter of time before Umbridge decides to start monitoring the mail. I’d rather have a perfected, non-magical code to work with for when that happens.”
Despite her worried expression, Tonks rolled her eyes.
“You’re almost as paranoid as Moody. Has anyone ever told you?”
Roy smirked in amusement.
“Albus has suggested we should exchange tips, yes.”
It had been a while since the Malfoys had been out in public for more than a quick trip. Four months, to be more precise. Under the guise of keeping up the appearance of peace and the illusion that the Dark Lord hadn’t returned, Lucius had decided to take Narcissa out to dinner tonight. While that was part of his reasoning, the truth was that he also wanted to get away from the Death Eaters for a while. And, dare he think of it, away from the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord... wasn’t quite as Lucius remembered him. Aside from the fact that he was extremely displeased with Lucius over what had happened with the diary, he seemed somehow... less than he had been. Less thorough with his plans, less patient, less charismatic, less...
sane
. These were thoughts that Lucius tried to shy away from as much as possible, but they were still there.
The Dark Lord wasn’t quite as displeased with Lucius right now, though, given how Lucius had successfully managed to cast the
imperius
curse on an Unspeakable named Broderick Bode. With some luck, they would have the prophecy in their hands soon and that would appease the Dark Lord’s anger somewhat.
Lucius’ attention was momentarily drawn away from Narcissa when he heard voices approaching. The maitre d’ was escorting a young couple to a reserved table close to the entrance of the restaurant. Lucius nearly dismissed them before he caught a better look at the man’s face.
He froze.
“Lucius?” Narcissa asked softly, noticing his sudden change in demeanour.
“That’s... interesting,” Lucius said, gathering himself again. “Do you remember Draco’s new professor, Roy Mustang?” he asked, keeping to words that could be safely spoken in public.
The Dark Lord had warned every single one of his followers about Mustang and how, for an undisclosed reason, it was forbidden to kill him and the consequences would be truly dire if someone did. He had even gone as far as showing them an image of Mustang taken from Severus’ memories to ensure they knew who to avoid killing once the fights started anew.
“The one that might be stricter than Severus?” Narcissa asked, affecting an amused smile. Even though she wasn’t an official Death Eater, Lucius didn’t keep secrets from her, and thus she knew Mustang’s value to the Dark Lord.
“The very same. It would seem he has come with a lady friend tonight,” Lucius said in a light, somewhat disinterested voice. No doubt the girlfriend Severus had mentioned.
According to Severus’ reports, Mustang didn’t take Dumbledore’s warnings about his safety particularly seriously and often left to meet with a woman. In Severus’ less than kind opinion, that showed Mustang’s ignorance about the dangers of war, or perhaps his arrogance. While the Dark Lord conceded that it might be a possibility, he had delightfully theorised that perhaps Mustang didn’t find himself in as much danger as Dumbledore believed because he didn’t agree with Dumbledore’s views of the world.
From Draco’s letters, as well as those from the other children placed in Mustang’s classes to keep an eye on him, Mustang certainly didn’t appear to be a typical brainless Gryffindor or the sort of man who would willingly join a group like the Order of the Phoenix.
“Maybe we should greet him before we leave,” Narcissa suggested. They were waiting for the arrival of their dessert by now. “I’d like a more impartial opinion on Draco’s progress with alchemy,” she added with a note of amusement. While Draco’s first letter on the class and Mustang himself had been uneventful, the second one, as well as the ones that followed, had included impressive temper tantrums about Mustang’s unfair teaching methods and positively cruel daily exams. Fortunately, though, Draco’s grades had improved considerably in those exams.
“Maybe we should, yes,” Lucius agreed.
Their dessert was finally brought out and they kept to the same light conversation they had maintained for the duration of the meal, reinforcing their appearance of a well respected pureblood couple who nonetheless cared deeply for each other. Remaining in the general public’s good side was an important thing if Lucius wanted to keep his sway over Fudge now that Dumbledore had fallen out of grace. Fudge was so obsessed with his public image nowadays that he would never allow himself to be seen with someone he didn’t deem worthy of his company. As if Fudge was worth anything himself past his position and useful willing blindness to reality.
Fifteen minutes later, as Lucius covered their bill, he spied out of the corner of his eye as Mustang’s companion stood up after saying something to him with a tiny, shy smile, and headed in the general direction of the bathrooms. Lucius wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad development. While that saved them the trouble of extra introductions with whom could perhaps be an unworthy individual, it also robbed them of the chance of knowing the sort of people Mustang associated with outside of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix.
He stood up, helped Narcissa with her cloak before putting his own on, and offered her his arm. They walked towards the door, and Lucius let Narcissa start the interaction.
“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed softly, coming to a halt next to Mustang’s table as if she had just noticed his presence. Mustang looked up, a puzzled expression on his face. “Pardon me, but would you happen to be Professor Mustang?” Narcissa asked with one of her perfect polite smiles.
Mustang looked taken aback for a moment before he gathered himself and nodded. He stood up, appearing a little flustered but showing a measure of manners. That was good, at least.
“Oh, yes, I am. Mrs...?” he asked.
“Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy,” Narcissa introduced herself, keeping her voice kind in that way she did when she wanted to win someone over. “And this is my husband, Lucius.”
“Draco Malfoy’s parents?” Mustang asked, surprised. Lucius held back what might have been a grimace or a snort of amusement. While he seemed to have manners, Mustang appeared very flustered by a simple encounter with a student’s parents.
A scholar indeed
, Lucius thought. He didn’t know what was the issue with scholars, but they always appeared lacking in their social skills. The better one was in their field, the less they seemed to know how to handle themselves in social situations.
“Yes,” Narcissa replied, letting her pride over Draco show in her voice. “Excuse us for interrupting your evening, but I couldn’t help myself.”
“Don’t worry about it, ma’am,” Mustang said, his voice steadier now. “How can I help you?”
“I was wondering...” Narcissa started, pretending to hesitate for a short moment. “We have heard a lot from Draco about your classes, but I’d like to know how he is doing, from an impartial source,” she added just the right amount of curiosity and vacillation to her voice and facial expression, giving the impression that she had stopped on an impulse and now wasn’t sure it had been the right idea.
Mustang smiled, a pleasant and far less hesitant expression now that they were on a topic he was comfortable with.
“He is doing well. It’s a bit early in the year to tell for sure, but he might be one of my best students at this rate.”
Despite the charade, Lucius was glad to hear those words. Draco may have volunteered to take the Alchemy class under the guise of being the student to watch over the fifth year Alchemy classes, but he couldn’t fool Lucius: Draco had always found alchemy to be interesting, and he had jumped at the chance of having one of his interests proving useful to the cause.
They exchanged some pleasantries before parting ways, Mustang returning to his seat while Lucius and Narcissa left the restaurant. While they didn’t talk as they walked down Diagon Alley, Lucius exchanged a glance with Narcissa. The meeting had been... interesting. Mustang hadn’t shown any reaction to their identities past them being a student’s parents, which meant he either didn’t know Lucius was a Death Eater (an interesting possibility that raised many questions for a member of Dumbledore’s Order) or he did but simply didn’t care. For all his initial awkwardness, Mustang hadn’t been startled nor shown any signs of fear or nervousness, staying friendly and open during the entire exchange.
If Mustang
did
know that Lucius was a Death Eater, this chance meeting could give some support to the Dark Lord’s theory that perhaps Mustang’s beliefs weren’t as in line with Dumbledore’s as the Order seemed to think.
Had he been of a lesser standing, Lucius would have hummed to himself in contentment. This night had gone better than expected; not only had he been on a lovely date with his wife, but he had a report for the Dark Lord that could help improve Lucius’ current standing.
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
Before you were in a relationship with Dantes, it was rather obvious that the Avenger was infatuated with you. With excuses of protection and keeping an eye over you, he had made sure that not a single strand of your hair was touched. He refused to let others too close to you - especially the shady ones, he had his eyes on them at all times.
Dantes was always seen by your side. He accompanied you to every mission, and whenever he wasn’t allowed to go, he’d immediately ask someone else to watch over you on his behalf. Whenever you return though and he hears the stories of your adventures, he can’t help but act a bit sulky that he wasn’t there to witness it himself. Yet, he can’t help but find himself hiding his smile as you actively and excitedly recounted your tales of adventure to him.
While Dantes doesn’t actively act upon his jealousy, the few times he does is whenever the Knights of the Round are nearby. He can’t seem to stop himself from feeling rather inferior in a sense, after all, they were the epitome of a knight in shining armor. He can’t help but stay a bit closer to you than normal, and while it isn’t invading your personal space, he’s definitely making it more obvious to everyone else.
Though he never planned on confessing to you, he ends up doing it anyways to get the feelings off his chest. He dislikes how his mind is clouded by thoughts of you, and that he ends up thinking about you constantly. It’s not a bad thing, but when he’s on the battlefield? It definitely is. He wasn’t expecting you to return his feelings, and he definitely wasn’t expecting you to take his hands into yours and pulling him in for a hug. He had expected rejection, but this? This was much more than he could have ever asked for.
Dantes doesn’t have as many moments of jealousy as he did before the two of you became a couple. After all, he really does trust you. He knows that you’re always willing to communicate whenever there are things that go wrong, or things that bother you, and he truly appreciates how you get him to open up so easily. Never would he have thought that he’d be in a relationship such as this with you, but now that he is, he does his best not to let his jealousy get the best of 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
When Reigen shut the porch door behind him, smelling of ash and smoke, the house was already warmer. He hesitated and wondered if he simply had fooled himself with the contrast, if his skin would adjust and he’d feel that permeating chill seep back into his bones. It didn’t. The warmth persisted. It was one thing, one small thing, but he was grateful. Reigen exhaled deeply, and tasted bitter ash on his breath.
He stepped further inside where the warmth swelled more, away from the icy panes of the sliding glass door. He pressed both cold hands to the sides of his neck to warm the stiffness out of his fingers. There was no sign of the kid yet, probably still in the bathroom judging by the quiet hiss of running water. So Reigen scouted out the living room couch, and he tossed a few pillows aside before he slumped into it. The cushions molded to his back, stole some of the tension from his shoulders, helping just a bit with the dull headache and tight nausea that his exhaustion brought on. Reigen breathed, and eased. Mob’s bed still had to be made, but maybe he could hold off for just a few minutes, rest here and let his eyes slip shut, and drift…just a bit…just for a little bit…
“Um… Mr. Reigen?”
Reigen jolted. He shot up too quickly. The room spun a moment longer after he stood, and he swallowed down the twist in his stomach.
“Oh! I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I’ll just…” Mob’s fingers tugged through a lock of damp hair. His eyes darted about in search of something, anything away from the man he’d just startled awake.
“Huh—no, no, hang on.” Reigen rubbed his hands down his face. He blinked until his vision refocused, remembering why he was here, remembering what had happened. “Don’t apologize. You’re right, you’re totally—I’m supposed to make your bed. I said I would. I am. Was just dozing. That’s not even my bed. Right. The sheets, um…” Reigen twirled his hand, eyes shutting as a huge yawn stole his breath. When he opened his eyes, they felt sticky. “The linen closet. In there is where. I’ve got. They’re. Just uh, hang on, and I’ll…”
Reigen stopped. He lost track of his own words as his focus fell entirely on the sight in front of him. The kid was standing halfway between the bathroom and the living room, his hair still a bit wet, and his borrowed clothes soft and loose. He stood a head shorter than Reigen, and his wide eyes stared back, lost, waiting for instruction. Waiting as though he needed permission to even get his sheets and go to bed.
God, it really was just a kid…
Reigen was awake now.
The thought came with a tightening in his still-burning throat. Things clicked into place in his mind, connections running along sluggish, bothered thoughts. It sunk in deeper and harder the longer he looked at the boy’s round cheeks and wide eyes, just a bit hidden behind a curtain of dripping hair. His hands were small, and he wrung them through his hair, waiting to be told what to do. He shuffled his feet, bare against the hardwood, and looked up to Reigen—an adult—like one. Like he was any other kid waiting for instructions from someone he trusted.
The thing that had run into him on the road—it had been more like a scared and lost pet to Reigen, something spooked and just a bit defenseless. Not a kid. Not this little kid in front of him.
He was though—just a kid.
And it hurt.
“Hey, uh, Mob…”
A kid, a person, someone with a last name, and a family and friends, Reigen imagined. Some kid looking to be sent off to bed so he could get up bright and early for school in the morning. What school? What family?
The image of Jun Isari flashed through Reigen’s mind, answering the door with a winter jacket gripped over her pajama top, the budding bruises of sleeplessness beneath her eyes, desperation painting her face defenseless as Reigen had approached through the darkness with Tetsuo’s nearly-limp arm slung around his neck.
Mob had parents like that somewhere, it seemed. Mob had people who waited up sleepless nights for the kid who never came home. How many nights, Reigen didn’t know.
Was it cruel to make them wait one night more?
“Look…uh, listen. Actually, scratch that, about the sheets, and the linen closet. Different idea. I’m thinking uh…before that, before we go to bed I mean, how about, how about instead we--” Reigen’s right hand ran along his neck. He winced when the stinging set in—the cuts, the bandages, right… “how about, we don’t go to sleep just yet? I mean I want to, god I want to—you do too, I bet—and we
will—
but I don’t…think that’s the right thing, right now. Maybe we should talk. Just a bit. Just maybe, a couple questions, so I know a little more about what’s going on, and then we’ll sleep, okay?”
Mob stiffened. His hands tightened to his hair, and he took one step back. “Are you gonna call the police?”
“No! I mean—it depends? Oh—oh, no then. Look. Look at me kid okay? I’m—no cellphone, yeah? My hands are empty. Pockets too they—oh man wow these tags—when did that even? Never mind. Never mind just—let’s sit in the kitchen. Let’s talk.”
Mob’s grip released from his hair. He dragged his fingers through as they let go, and Reigen noticed them snag. Mob moved toward the nearest kitchen chair, though his eyes stayed glued to Reigen, his expression like a cornered animal again. Reigen swallowed down the guilt and pulled out his own chair from the adjacent side.
Reigen sat, and he twisted his hands together on top of the table, leaning his weight against them. Mob pulled back just a fraction away from him. That stung somehow. To be so fully trusted and then…not. Reigen almost lost his nerve, almost sent the kid to bed with no questions asked.
Almost, but he didn’t.
“Your parents don’t know you’re here. They want to know where you are, don’t they?”
Mob waited, and he nodded.
“Is there some way I can let them know you’re here, Mob?” Reigen continued. He eased back, hoping Mob may come just a bit closer.
Mob considered the question. He pulled his legs up against his chest and hunched into them, his eyes cast aside. “Shishou wouldn’t like that.”
“Yeah well Shishou’s de—Shishou’s…” Reigen breathed deeply, though no matter what he felt as though there wasn’t enough oxygen reaching his bloodstream. “Let’s forget about Shishou, okay? For you, Mob. Can I call them for you?”
Mob’s jaw moved, his wide eyes steeled over, harder now, resolve tight in his face. He looked up to Reigen. “I…wouldn’t like that, Mr. Reigen.”
“And why not?”
“I told you already.”
“The barrier?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s
not--…
Kid.” Reigen flipped one hand out, searching for words. “Look, don’t you think, maybe it’s a little important to fill me in here? ‘The barrier’ doesn’t explain a whole ton to me, you know. And I’ve got you, here, in my house, and you don’t belong to me—that’s not the word—you’re not my kid. You’re some kid, who’s maybe got parents who’re maybe looking for him, and
I’ve
got him, so I’m just, don’t you think, maybe, it would be nice of me to give you back? You’re free of this Shishou guy. I know you said you’re dangerous but I got rid of the—that thing—the barrier thing—that, which you still need to explain to me but it’s gone. You said it yourself. So maybe try working with me here, okay?”
Mob gave long, slow shakes of his head. For someone so small and so visibly exhausted, Reigen was surprised with how gravely he spoke. “There’s no getting rid of the barrier like that. Shishou told me. Shishou can suppress his barrier but that’s all. You’re doing that. But I can’t. I’ve tried but I can never ever do it. If you’re gone it’ll be back. Because I can’t do it. I’ll hurt everyone if I go home.” His hands twisted in his lap, eyes dropping to them for a moment before they flickered up with new, burning resolve. “…If you could
teach
me…”
“Teach you?”
Mob nodded vigorously. “How you’re getting rid of it.”
“How I’m…getting rid of it… Yeah okay this again. I just…” Reigen whipped his left hand through the air. “You know? Psychic’ed it away. It’s a technique of mine. You just—like with your hands—no not with your hands just, just concentrated your psychic—you know your psychic powers—concentrate them on the barrier and it’s gone. If you do it it’ll be forever I promise.”
Mob shrunk in, piercing eyes still to Reigen. “I’ve tried that. I can’t ever make it work… No matter what I do it never ever works. Shishou tried to teach me everything. I’m not strong enough.” His fists curled in his lap, eyes losing their fervor for a moment. “You have to teach me better!”
“It—I don’t—there
is no…
” Reigen ran a hand down his face, breathing deeply and cutting his thoughts short. He shouldn’t snap at the kid. He shouldn’t be angry. It was just a kid. Just a little kid. God, that still stung… “I…let’s try to start this again. Let’s not talk about the barrier right now. Let’s just--,” Reigen glanced around, and he stood. “It’s not nice of me to interrogate you like this. Let me…get us something warm to drink.”
The scraping of the chair made Mob jolt, but he didn’t move. He only watched as Reigen clipped the corner of the table to get to the cabinets behind it. Reigen popped them open one at a time. “I think I’ve got tea… One of these, at least. Maybe this one. Oh, no not this one. The next—here yeah it’s right—oh the box is empty. Right.”
Reigen flipped an empty container of tea bags upside down. Its top swung on the metal hinge, opening to the ground, opening to nothing. Reigen set it back on the counter. Then he set his elbows down too, firm and solid so that he could dig his hands into his eyes, attempting to push back the headache. He didn’t even flinch when the slits along his right fingers flared.
This was beyond him. This wasn’t something he knew how to handle. He knew nothing about psychological trauma, let alone a delusion of this intensity. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t something he could fix. He should just call the police and be done with it…
Reigen stood tall again, blinking a few times to clear the stars from his vision. He moved to the fridge and popped it open. “I’ve got…just milk. I can put it in a mug and stick it in the microwave. Is warm milk okay?”
No answer met him, so Reigen turned. He froze, and his grip on the refrigerator door loosened as he and Mob locked eyes.
It was wonder, or panic, or both that cut away the steely determination that had burned in the boy’s eyes a moment ago. It was something so intensely defenseless and child-like. Mob straightened, hardly seeming to breathe.
“You have milk?”
“Uh…yeah. Not even expired. I bought it like two days ago.”
“But Shishou said…” Mob swallowed the words. His breathing picked up, eyes flickering across the single carton of milk in Reigen’s fridge. Slowly, his voice almost choked, Mob answered, “Yes, yes please…”
Reigen had nothing to say in response. He only watched Mob, his gut twisting with unsettled anxiety as he pulled the carton from the fridge and took two mugs by their handle from the cabinet. He filled them both 2/3 up, and only after he popped both in the microwave did he remember that he didn’t even like plain milk.
The seconds dragged as the microwave hummed out in monotone. Reigen braced his hands to the counter, and he watched the mugs intently, because it was easier than watching Mob. It was easier than fathoming what the expression on the boy’s face meant.
Then it pinged. Reigen took them both out, their handles just a bit warm, and he rounded the table to retake his seat. He set Mob’s mug down in passing. The other he placed in front of him as he retook his seat.
Mob studied the mug, and Reigen studied Mob. Mob, with his shaking hands reached for it, his right taking the handle and his left wrapping across the warm porcelain face. Mob pulled the brim beneath his chin and studied it, enraptured. Suddenly Reigen felt invisible.
“You…you okay there?” Reigen asked quietly. His hands fidgeted along the face of his own mug.
“Yeah…Yeah I’m…t-thank you, Mr. Reigen.”
Mob pulled the shaking mug to his lips, and Reigen watched with anxiety deep in his gut. He didn’t know how to read the boy’s reaction. He didn’t know what to make of it.
Mob took a sip, and he paused, and he lowered his mug still trembling. A little ring of white painted his upper lip. He swallowed, and stared forward at nothing until the steady shaking of his hands worked through his whole body.
“Is it…too hot? If it is I can—“ Reigen reached for Mob’s mug. He startled when Mob yanked it clear from Reigen’s grasp.
“No! No you don’t—it’s…”
Reigen’s hand retracted, and for a breathless moment he locked eyes with Mob. His stomach dropped.
Tears budded in the corners of Mob’s eyes. Soft pearlescent things, on top of the warm red blush that crawled along Mob’s cheeks—the first bit of color Reigen had seen in his face.
“I just…really like it…Mr. Reigen,” Mob whispered. He hugged the mug closer. “Thank you.”
“It—don’t mention it. It’s milk.” Then his voice dropped to an airy whisper. “It’s…just milk…”
Reigen did not know what expression he wore as he watched Mob raise the cup and drink the rest of it, something slack, something just a bit shocked. Something that maybe fit the ache he felt tightening his throat.
He couldn’t fathom what sort of world the kid had just escaped, but he knew now he didn’t want to. And he didn’t want to make Mob relive it, not if it was something so horrific that a single glass of warm milk could move him to tears.
“Here,” Reigen said, sliding his mug across the oaken table. “Have mine too…”
…
Sunlight crested just behind the Mogami house, throwing it into a fiery halo whose far-crawling shadows claimed the whole front lawn.
Isa watched the house for any sign of Officer Haruki Ando, her junior and almost-friend, while glancing every few seconds to her own police car. Her expression remained unreadable, almost bored. Only the tight strain of her jaw betrayed anything deeper, but the only other officer who knew to recognize the look was—
Isa’s eyes flitted back to the car, to the man seated sideways in the passenger’s seat, his body crumpled and his feet set to the cobblestone. He cupped a thermos between his hands (thoughtfully snagged by Haruki when Isa called him in) and stared at his own feet. Tetsuo did not drink any of it; he simply held it, as if it were an excuse for his shoulders to be so hunched in, his frame to suddenly cut so small. Isa straightened her shoulders in response, because she didn’t have her partner to be the composed one this time.
“Officer Maki!”
Isa turned, tipping her hand to the young man emerging from the house. Officer Ando snapped off his gloves, cutting a path across the grass to where Isa stood. His attention shifted in uneasy bursts to Tetsuo who hadn’t moved from the passenger’s seat of Isa’s car in all the time that Haruki had been inside the house.
“I think I covered all the rooms, and nothing was really, I mean beside the master bedroom of course which just…” Haruki trailed off, his subtlety lost as he stared on at Tetsuo sitting just out of earshot. “Has he said anything yet?”
“No,” Isa answered simply.
Haruki’s face betrayed everything Isa felt: anxious, sourceless worry and infectious paranoia. He was young, 22, and his face was younger, boyish and easily touched by emotion. “Is he okay at least?”
The question sent a prickling shiver down Isa’s spine. She couldn’t place the feeling exactly. It was almost like noticing a forest fall deathly silent, something instinctually wrong, some pressing sense of danger with no sense of what it might be.
“Physically, he’s fine,” Isa answered.
“But, mentally…is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s been stressed.” Isa looked to Tetsuo as she spoke. Tetsuo’s head drooped a bit more over his thermos. Isa saw his eyes slip shut and snap open. “I’ll grill it out of him when he’s less…like this.”
“It had to be…something…” Haruki whispered, vague, but Isa understood. It had to be something monumental, because anything less wouldn’t make Tetsuo Isari collapse during a case. That was the best it could be called—“something”—because Isa didn’t know what sort of thing could even manage that. She’d never seen it. She’d never seen Tetsuo break before.
A flare of anxiety racked through her veins as the possibilities turned through her mind, and she didn’t dare let it show on her face.
“It’s real,” Haruki filled the silence, discomfort pushing the topic along. He nodded his head toward the house. “The cursed corpse. Thought the stories were—mm—exaggerated? About it not rotting, and that barrier around it. Kinda surprising that the squatters in there never got their hands chopped off by that thing, you know?” Haruki’s expression soured. “Or maybe they have. Yikes.”
“Squatters, right…” Isa fixed her attention back on Haruki. “What’d you find?”
Haruki gave a half-hearted shrug. “Signs of squatters definitely. There’s the pullout bed with sheets on it in the basement that you already saw. Couple shirts and pants on the ground, dirty, definitely small. Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap in the basement bathroom. Some soup and medicine on the counter and in the cupboards. And that knife that—yeah,
used
—“ Haruki made quick stabbing motions. “Maybe a couple of them had a territory spat.”
“No kid though?”
“Not unless he’s really good at hide-and-seek.” Haruki took his hat off and swept his bangs out of his face. His hat had pressed his chestnut hair flat to the top of his head, and it fanned out near his ears. His uneasy green eyes shifted back to Tetsuo. “There was a kid’s winter hat in the main closet. Only thing in there.”
“Yeah, saw that.”
“…Why does Officer Isari think there’s a kid being held here?”
“Don’t know that either,” Isa answered. “But he was convinced, so I followed.”
“…I trust Officer Isari too…” Haruki added after a moment, his hands twisting together. “But there’s not much we can do now, is there? Without a warrant? This is already…what we’re doing already is pretty…off the books…”
“Right. Yeah it is. Sorry for dragging you in,” Isa said.
“Don’t mention it…” Haruki straightened, shoulders squared back and eyes serious despite his boyish cheeks. “I…Like I said I trust Officer Isari’s judgement. You said it was him, and he wouldn’t drag anyone out here unless he had a good reason. He wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t…” Haruki trailed off, his line of thought cut short. “I want to help more, but I don’t know what I can… I’ve just never seen--I mean, a year’s not all that long, so maybe I’ve just never been around for, never been on a case when he, never seen…”
Haruki swallowed, thinking carefully about his phrasing before he continued. “First time I saw a dead body on a case, I thought I was handling it okay. Then Officer Isari tapped me on the shoulder and told me to wait outside and keep the area clear. My hands had been shaking. Didn’t even notice until I got outside and realized… And Officer Isari took my place like it was nothing.” His eyes lingered on Tetsuo. Isa followed his line of sight to Tetsuo’s still-trembling hands. “That Officer Isari—Seeing a dead body wouldn’t do that to him…”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Isa said. She was at a loss for what else to say though. She didn’t know what would. “Speaking of dismissals,” Isa clapped her hand to Haruki’s shoulder, “thanks, I couldn’t juggle the house and Tetsuo at the same time, didn’t want to leave him out here alone so thanks, but you should go home now. I’ll take care of him.”
Haruki gave a quick nod. “Yeah, like I said not a problem. Just.” His eyes flickered back to Tetsuo. “I was kind of thinking about that on the way over, the first dead body I mean. If Officer Isari could step in for me—I figured I could, this time, you know…” He glanced back to Isa, eyes bothered and alert. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to lose his nerve, veering safe. “Just, keep an eye on him, please?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing the last seven years?” The words sounded hollow in her ears though. She thought she had been, but something had slipped past her notice—enough for the sight of a corpse to drop Tetsuo to the floor, backed against a wall and curled in on himself with broken sobs. The memory put Isa’s stomach in knots. She knew how to handle hysterical people, but not Tetsuo, never Tetsuo…
Isa gave Haruki two quick taps to his shoulder, a dismissal, and she watched just long enough for him to get back to his civilian car before setting her sights to Tetsuo.
“Hey…” She walked forward, her feet crunching through the dead grass. She stepped heavily, so as not to risk startling him. His eyes were still dazed when he looked up, but he clearly saw her. “Ando finished scoping out the house. People have been in there, probably at least one of them was a kid, but there’s no sign of Shigeo.”
Isa waited for a reaction. Tetsuo breathed in deep, his ribcage shuddering. He looked forward again, and spoke with forced monotone. “Shigeo’s not in there?”
“No, he’s not.” Isa stopped just short of the car. She stood with the house to her left and Tetsuo to her right, attention shifting between the two. “And you’ve calmed down enough to talk to me, so explain to me what happened in there.”
Tetsuo looked up, and Isa broke eye contact after a few heavy seconds. She didn’t like the brokenness on his face. She wasn’t used to it.
“I don’t think I can explain it to you.” His grip on the thermos tightened. “I don’t think I want to.”
“Come on, none of that Tetsuo. No bullshit. I hate that.” She didn’t dare to look away this time.
“Please, Isa…”
“What did you see in that room, Tetsuo? Because all I saw was a corpse.” She gave him a once-over. “And you, sobbing on the floor.”
He watched her with the face of something wounded. “What did it look like to you, Isa? What did the the corpse look like?”
“Like a corpse. Very dead and hanging there.” Isa’s face steeled to hide the twist in her gut at her next thought. “…Meaning
you
saw something else?”
Tetsuo leaned over, setting the untouched mug on the cobblestone. He gripped his hands to his knees and stared into the grass, at nothing. “I saw him…”
“Who, Tetsuo?”
“Mogami.”
“No duh. It’s his corpse.” Isa watched him flinch, and she ran a hand through her hair, snagging at the ponytail. “Okay, okay… Elaborate. What does that mean? And no more cryptic answers.”
Tetsuo’s eyes flickered to the attic window. He stared into the darkness drenching the room beyond. “
Him…
His spirit, I-I mean. He was in his own body. Moving the eyes. He’s not gone. He saw me.”
“His eyes weren’t moving, Tetsuo. I was there. I saw. Ando saw too. It’s just a corpse.”
Tetsuo’s head tilted up. He stared at her, his face pale, bags bruising beneath his eyes. The raw red slits on his neck came back into view. “You didn’t see… I’m positive. I saw it, Isa. I’m so so positive.”
Isa’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “How long have you been awake, Tetsuo?”
He looked up, attention to the rising sun behind the Mogami house. “…At least a day.” Then his eyes flashed to her. “You too, though…”
“How did you get those cuts on your neck?”
Tetsuo released his right hand from his knee. It moved up as if to brush the scrapes, then he shuddered and dropped his hand. “A fight…”
“No shit. I told you no more vague answers.”
Tetsuo curled his hands around his knees, fingers digging in. “Please…I don’t want to talk about that anymore.”
“’
Anymore
’ well that’s news to me because you’ve told me nothing.” Isa stepped closer. “I’m out here, and not in bed, because I trust you’ve got a good reason for it. Now trust me enough to tell me.”
“Please, Isa…”
“What
happened.”
Tetsuo stared forward, lost inside his own thoughts. His eyes widened, and his skin seemed to slip paler. He raised his hands, balled into fists, and pressing them hard against his forehead. Their weight forced his head back, until his fists loosened and his fingers slipped through his disheveled hair. He gave one pained laugh, frantic and desperate, while his body crumpled forward. Another broken noise, something between a laugh and a sob, came through muffled.
“Tetsuo no. No no no come on—come on look at me. Tetsuo!” Isa moved in front of him, blocking him from the house, blocking him from the sun. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. And when he didn’t respond, she took his chin and lifted it up. She froze.
“Tetsuo, are you crying?”
He seemed to startle in response, one shaky hand moving up to rub at the corner of his eye. He stared at his palm, just a bit wet, and curled his fingers in.
“What the…hell happened to you, Tetsuo?” Isa whispered. She eased back just an inch, and she felt the blank apathy on her face crumbling. “You’re scaring me. You’re scaring me now. I’ve never seen you—I don’t know what to do for you.
Talk
to me.”
Tetsuo reached one quivering arm out, and he grabbed at her left sleeve. He pulled her just a little closer, his other hand locking on too. He locked eyes with her, and the thing she saw was hardly Tetsuo Isari—it was fractured pieces of him.
“What do you need me to
do,
Tetsuo?”
“Isa, I’m…I’m going to keep searching for Shigeo, however I can. I just need you to watch me, Isa. That’s all I need you to do, okay? Please, please watch me, Isa. Please. I’m not okay. It’s not gone and I’m not okay anymore. If I’m acting strange, Isa, if I’m acting like I’m not myself, don’t let me go anywhere, don’t let me do anything. I’m begging you. Just call Jun. If I ever—If I’m ever—please call Jun.”
Tetsuo’s grip slipped from her arm, and Isa let it fall. She was fighting her own numb chill as the weight of his words sunk in, the implications buried beneath.
Watch him… Don’t let him do anything… He’s not okay…
“O-okay,” Isa answered, and it was a gentle voice she hardly ever used, one she usually reserved for young kids whose world was shattering. “I won’t push you anymore. I’m sorry, Tetsuo. I won’t ask if you don’t want to be asked, I promise. I’ll keep an eye on you. That’s what I’ve always done. I’ll do it better now.”
Tetsuo answered with a weak nod of his head, a muttered “thank you”. He looked through the windshield, down the street. “I left Jun at home. Didn’t even grab my phone. She doesn’t know I came back here.”
“She’s at the station right now.” Isa watched the confusion paint across Tetsuo’s face, and continued. “She called me just a bit before Ando got here. Didn’t know what to tell her about…this—you—exactly, so I told her to wait at the station for us. Police order.”
Tetsuo gave a small, thin smile, eyes downcast as he pulled his feet inside the police car and retrieved his thermos from the ground. “She didn’t like that…”
“No, she didn’t.” Isa rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat. She shut her door and cranked the ignition, seatbelt fastened as an afterthought. “Close your door—and maybe try to sleep for a bit on the ride back…”
…
Isa’s car idled just outside the Seasoning City police station. She watched from the driver’s seat as Jun Isari hopped down the station steps, pulling Tetsuo into a hug before he’d fully left the passenger’s seat. His arms twisted around Jun’s back, crushingly tight, and they rocked together. Tetsuo buried his face in Jun’s shoulder, and Isa felt it would be prying if she kept watching.
She shut the side door after Tetsuo and eyed the parking lot for open spaces instead. Her gaze slipped back for a moment to the Isaris, wrapped tightly together in the early dawn outside the station, then to her phone propped in the middle cupholder.
She twisted the key and scouted out the nearest parking spot, and she made a mental note to add a suicide hotline as an emergency contact in her phone.
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 prompt rules are as follows
Submit your prompt as the following for my sanity:
Character name:
Character gender:
If male/futa, length
Age:
Kinks other than Bestiality/Pokephilia:
Animal breed/Pokemon:
Animal/Pokemon gender:
Animal/Pokemon genitalia length (if male)
Now as for the other rules:
Specify what fandom, if any the character will be from, if it’s something from your mind, then that’s fine too.
Kinks that aren’t going to be written: Any bodily fluids other than cum and saliva, no snuff, no injury, that’s about it.
Age of character must be between 3 years old and 20 years old.
THIS ISNT FOR HUMAN/HUMAN relations, if you want me to write that sort of thing, then if I have time I’ll create yet another promptfic for that. If you want a futa human with a boy, I’ve created a promptfic for that.
Please read the rules, I just had to delete a guest’s prompt due to the fact that it was a human/human prompt. Read the title, and send your requests accordingly.
I have two more requests for my futa on boy promptfic, and once those are uploaded, I will have no more prompts in my backlog. I humbly request that you send more prompts, while making certain they don’t violate my rules. End communication.
Other than these rules; go fucking wild! Just comment down below your prompt lol.
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
Sitting in the car, Victoria let Alex drive as she sat in the passenger seat. She kept looking at the backseat, making sure Evelyn was okay. Her daughter seemed completely oblivious to what was going on. She had been confused to begin with, questioning where they were going in the middle of the night. Victoria had tried to keep her calm, telling her that they were just going on a small adventure for the time being. Evelyn had fallen asleep three hours into the journey after they'd packed all their things and stowed them in the trunk. Alex had taken the keys and insisted on driving seeing as Victoria was shaking.
He moved a hand to hold hers over the gears and squeezed her fingers inside of his. She angled her body to look at him, seeing the prominence of his cheekbones in the light of the passing streetlamps. She did her best not to look too concerned about what was going on but she was on edge. She expected Homelander to appear out of nowhere. She wouldn't be surprised if he suddenly appeared in front of the car. She was doing her best not to look too scared, but she was terrified. She was completely terrified of him finding her because she knew what he would do. He had given her so many chances before and she knew that there would be no other chances. She could beg and cry, but she didn't think it would do her any good. Then again, he had been in the press bereft and begging her to come back. She doubted it would look good if he then locked her away from the press.
It took her a few moments to gather her breathing as she did her best not to hyperventilate. She fought to compose herself and gripped onto Alex's hand tighter as he moved onto the motorway, his foot pressing down on the accelerator harder.
"It's going to be alright," he promised her and she resisted the urge to snap at him and question how he could possibly know that it was going to be alright. "We'll get as far away as possible…put distance between us and the house."
"I just don't understand how he found us."
"It could have been Vought. You know they have resources, even if the Deep got rid of most of the employees," Alex said to her, thumb running over her knuckles as he tried anything to soothe her. He didn't know if it was working, but he had to try something. He moved into the middle lane to overtake a lorry, hand confidently holding the wheel. "But we both know if he knows your fake name then the chances are he will find the place in the Lake District. We need new IDs…new bank accounts…we basically need to start over again."
"How long can we keep running?"
"Don't think like that."
"How can I not? You know who he is and you know what he's done. He's relentless and evil…if he gets his hands on me then maybe I stand a chance. He's begged for me to come home so he can hardly kill me, but you…Alex, people think you're dead."
"He's not going to get to us," Alex said, teeth gritted together.
"Maybe we were being delusional thinking we could outrun him?" Victoria questioned. "I mean, he's the Homelander. He's indestructible. No one can best him…Edgar…my brother…Annie…no one's been able to beat him so why did I think we would be able to escape him?"
"Because if not then what?" Alex wondered from her. "If he had his way then I'd be dead already and you'd be locked up in some basement away from your daughter. We needed to try, Vicky. We needed to try and get away from him and Vought."
"Alex, we're kidding ourselves. He's-"
"-Stop it," Alex interrupted her, voice turning firm as he tried to keep his tone low. He didn't want to wake Evelyn up. She was still sleeping soundly. Her eyes were closed and her head had lolled to the side. He checked her reflection in the rear view mirror before looking at Victoria again. "I know you're scared and I understand, okay? But he hasn't found us and if we keep going then he won't. You know why we're here. We are here because we had to get away…because we know that life could be perfect…just like it was when we were on the beach earlier."
Victoria knew he was talking sense. Ever since she had found out who Homelander actually was she had spent her every waking moment trying to get away from him. She couldn't wait. She had waited for this moment and Alex was right. She wasn't going to give up so easily.
"Sorry for freaking out on you," she whispered and Alex's lips quirked for a moment as he brought the back of her hand to his lips, kissing it softly.
"Hey, I'm here to talk you down," he said to her. "Besides, I'll probably need you to talk me down sometime soon."
"Quite a pair, aren't we?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
…
Homelander looked out over the rolling hills as the sun broke. The morning was misty, soft white clouds lining the horizon. The air was quite chilly. It was cold enough that he could see his breath whenever he let out a deep sigh. He'd found the house she had been renting in the countryside. It was some kind of converted barn. She couldn't have been gone for long because he could still smell the dinner she'd had and there was a half-drunk bottle of wine on the side. Her clothes were still around too. Did she know that she'd left them in the laundry basket. He found her sweatshirt and picked it up, pressing it to his nose and inhaling it sharply. It smelled exactly like his wife.
He carried it around the house and picked up on Evelyn's scent. There was someone else. It was the man's smell. Judging by the razor and shaving foam in the bathroom, there was a man with her. He knew it wasn't Butcher. He just couldn't place who it could be. Had she moved on? Was there someone else? He knew it had been months since they'd last been together, but that wasn't long enough for her to find someone else.
It took her months to open up to him and she loved him. She adored him. She wouldn't open up to someone new easily. He knew she wouldn't. She didn't trust easily.
Standing on the patio, Homelander's grip on her sweatshirt increased as he reached for his phone and dialled the number that had tried to get hold of him for hours.
"Homelander, sir, thank goodness, we were worried."
"I need you to find someone for me. She can't have gone far."
"Who?"
"Who the fuck do you think, Ashley?" Homelander snapped down the phone. "I have no idea what car she's in, but she left this address that I'm sharing with you right now. Find the nearest cameras to it and track her down."
"I'll get Crime Analytics on it," Ashley said to him.
"Call me as soon as you find her."
He hung up the call and shoved his phone away into his hidden pocket. He dropped his hands to his hips and turned his head over his shoulder to look back to the house. There was no sign of another child. She had to have given birth by now. There was no chance she couldn't have. He knew what that meant. He closed his eyes and a sense of sorrow took hold of him as his chest heaved and he sank down to sit on the bench, head falling low in between his legs. There was no child. She had to have lost the baby.
…
"Hey, sweetheart, it's alright," Victoria cooed as she held Evelyn in her arms in the forecourt of the service station they had stopped at several hours later. Victoria rocked her as she tried to keep her calm, but Evelyn was crying loudly, almost as though she was scared and Victoria couldn't blame her. It was terrifying. She didn't want her daughter to know that, however.
Alex was inside the service station and paying for petrol after they'd filled up. Victoria had handed him two fifty-pound notes and asked him to grab her some water and food while he was in there. She'd stretched her legs and gone for a walk with Evelyn, finding a small grassed area behind the petrol station. She could hear the roar of the motorway traffic next to her.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Victoria's blood instantly ran cold at the sound. She didn't know if she could turn around. She felt like she was frozen to the ground, everything around her collapsing. Evelyn clung to her, trying to clamber away as she heard the voice and seemed to recognise it instantly. Victoria, on the other hand, wanted to run. She wanted to get away but she knew it would be pointless. Slowly, she turned around on the spot and saw him stood there. He was dressed in his usual supe suit, looking just like he had done when she'd left him.
Their eyes met and Victoria's heart began to hammer in her chest. Homelander, on the other hand, looked so calm. He looked collected. Victoria's hands began to shake as Homelander advanced towards her and she hoped that Alex wouldn't appear anytime soon.
"Daddy!" Evelyn shrieked at the sight of him.
"Hi, darling," Homelander cooed to his daughter. "I've missed you so much…my beautiful little girl…look how grown up you are!"
"I talk good," Evelyn said and Homelander chuckled, a gloved hand reaching out to her and resting on her cheek, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. She looked so happy and perfect. Her blue eyes were exactly like his, but she had her mother's wavy hair and stubborn jaw. Homelander kissed her on the forehead.
"You do, sweetie," Homelander agreed. "You're absolutely perfect."
He straightened up, hands going behind his back and brow arching.
"And you, sweetheart?" Homelander wondered. "Did you miss me?"
"Can we not do this here, John?" Victoria pleaded from her husband and he chuckled. He had no intention of making a scene in front of his daughter. He would reserve that for when they were back home in private. She would see his anger then.
"Where is he?" Homelander asked.
"Who?" she asked.
"Don't play dumb with me," Homelander said, keeping his tone lighter than he wanted to in an attempt not to scare his daughter. "I smelled a man on you the second I saw you. Who is he and where is he?"
"There's-"
"-I said," Homelander growled lowly, "don't play dumb."
"Vicky."
She didn't need to pretend anymore. Alex walked out from behind the side of the service station, looking at the three of them stood there. He knew he didn't have his powers. He knew what he was risking by going in front of Homelander. But he wasn't going to leave Victoria by herself. There was no chance he was going to do that. He walked forwards and Homelander didn't even look angry. He just looked amused by what he was seeing. Alex took a moment to compose himself, rolling up the sleeves to his thin blue jumper.
"Oh, this is perfect."
"Don't hurt her."
"It's not her I'm going to hurt, buddy," Homelander said.
"John, no," Victoria said and she reached out for his arm to try and stop him from moving over to Alex. She balanced Evelyn in her one arm and kept hold of her tightly, letting her sit against her hip. Homelander looked down at where her hand had curled around his arm.
"You think you call the shots here?" Homelander whispered down to her.
"Please," Victoria pleaded with him.
"He faked his own death and came here to shack up with my wife and you want me to be lenient?" Homelander checked with her. "I'm done being lenient. I'm done giving you what you want when you insist on behaving as you do."
"Daddy…we go home?" Evelyn questioned, looking up to her father with her wide eyes that made his heart melt. He took a moment to compose himself and realised that he couldn't do this in front of Evelyn. He would come back and finish the job when he could. But he couldn't kill Alex in front of his daughter, not when she was so little. In time, she would see that it didn't matter, but right now he didn't want her to be scared of him.
"Yeah, sweetie, we're going home," Homelander promised her in a soft voice and then turned his glare over to Alex, voice deepening. "But I'll be back for you. You think you can hide? Don't. There's nowhere you can hide where I won't find you. You should know that."
"John-"
"-And I'll deal with you. Trust me," Homelander said to her and he held his hand out towards her. "Come on."
"Vicky," Alex pleaded with her and she looked at him, her eyes meeting his kind but lost gaze. He knew there was no way out of this. He was well aware of it. But that didn't mean he didn't want to stop trying. He didn't want to give up even if there was nothing else they could do.
"It's alright," Victoria promised him with a gentle nod of her head, trying not to look like she was terrified of what might happen. She just glanced down to Homelander's hand and took hold of it. He tugged her towards him, an arm wrapping around her waist firmly, almost threatening to bruise. She squirmed around in his grip, but he didn't relent. He hissed into her ear, the noise sinister and low.
"You think this hurts, you have no idea what's coming to you," he snarled at her and she bit down on the inside of her cheek as he took off into the air with his family, leaving Alex cursing behind him.
…
Victoria had been given no other option but to sit in the living room of the hotel suite they were staying in for the night. Homelander had almost insisted on flying straight back to New York, but Evelyn had complained about being tired and the short flight to the hotel. And so he humoured his daughter. He had been the picture of charm as they entered the hotel lobby and people looked aghast and shocked at the sight of the two of them. Victoria had stayed behind him as he insisted on carrying Evelyn. She'd looked down, knowing that people were whispering about her and where she had been. She tried to ignore them as Homelander checked them into the penthouse suite.
The elevator ride up there had been silent and tense. Victoria was on edge as Evelyn slept in her father's arms, completely exhausted from the day she'd had. Entering the suite, Victoria watched the back of Homelander's head as he moved towards the second bedroom with the cot in it. Victoria remained stood by the door, completely at a loss as to what she should do. She couldn't run, not without Evelyn. It wasn't as if she'd get far either. She just stayed where she was, shaking with fear over what was coming her way.
Homelander closed the door to the bedroom quietly. He straightened up, hands going behind his back before he moved towards the small tray that sat on an intricate golden trolley. The room was plush carpets and neutral colours. It had a sofa and a chair angled around a television on the wall. The curtains were closed and the light was a low hanging chandelier. It was the kind of place Victoria only dreamed of staying in before she met Homelander and moved in with him.
Pouring a small glass of scotch, Homelander picked it up and tossed it down his throat. Was he purposefully avoiding looking at and talking to Victoria? Yes. He was. He wanted her to squirm. He wanted her to be uncomfortable with the situation and stew, just like he had done for months. But he knew that his anger would bubble up eventually. He couldn't keep it compressed.
"So, you've been fucking Supersonic," he settled on saying to her, keeping his back to her. He could hear her pulse racing and he could smell the fear in her.
"No," Victoria said with a shake of her head.
Homelander chuckled, the sound dark and menacing. It was enough to make her tremble on the spot.
"You're a lying whore, Victoria."
"I didn't sleep with him," Victoria continued protesting. "I…I wasn't ready and I didn't…I just didn't."
He turned to look to her then, his eyes moving over her face. He drank in her plump lips and her soft stare. There had been a part of him that had thought that was it. He thought that there had been no hope and he wouldn't see her face again. But here she was. She was back in front of him and she looked exactly as she had done when she'd left.
"You didn't," Homelander said, knowing that she wasn't lying to him. He let out a low hum, almost seeming satisfied with that answer. "But you still ran off with him after months of claiming that there was nothing going on with him. You lied to me about that, didn't you? All of those times you said that there were no feelings…that you didn't care about him…it was all a load of shit."
"I didn't mean for it to happen," Victoria said, her voice breaking and Homelander crushed the glass he was holding in his hands, the noise echoing through the room and shards of glass falling to the floor. He dropped the rest of the pieces onto the ground before storming towards his wife, pointing his finger at her. She backed up against the door, her back flat against it.
Homelander slammed a fist above her head, leaning over her and trying not to feel too intoxicated by her being so close. She was wearing the same perfume she always wore. She'd just washed her hair because he smelt the strawberry in the shampoo. He leaned down towards her, his nose brushing against the side of her head as he moved his other hand to her cheek, brushing it slowly and fingers tangling into her hair.
"We had everything, Victoria," Homelander whispered. "I loved you. I adored you. I could have given you everything you ever needed, but you betrayed me…you've betrayed me too many times and I'm not going to stand for it, not any longer."
"John, please-"
"-You don't get to 'John' me anymore," Homelander said, his fingers gripping hold of her hair and pulling her head back, exposing her throat and causing her to move a hand to try and move his away from her. She thought that he was going to tear her scalp off. "Your doe eyes and whimpers won't get you anything you want now, Victoria. I tried this the nice way. I tried to love you and please you…treat you well…buy you flowers and gifts…tell you that I love you…but not anymore. We're done. You're going to do what I need you to do. You're going to behave. You're going to hang off my arm and smile at cameras and dote on me. You're mine and the world will see that."
"John, you're hurting me," Victoria complained.
"You think I give a fuck?" he questioned, but his grip did relent slightly as he pushed her further into the door, hands going to hold her hips. She took a deep breath to compose herself and one of his hands slipped to her stomach, tickling it softly. "You lost the baby."
It wasn't a question. He knew. Victoria just nodded her confirmation.
"When?" he continued pushing her, gulping down the lump in his throat that was threatening to make him incoherent.
"Just after I got here," Victoria answered.
"Was it a boy?"
"I…they didn't say…it was too early," Victoria replied, wondering if she had really processed the grief of losing her child. She'd suppressed it. She had tried to suppress everything and just focus on keeping Evelyn safe and away from Homelander.
"But you survived."
"Just," Victoria replied.
Homelander's jaw locked tight. "Was he with you?" he questioned from her.
"No," Victoria said with a shake of her head. She was alone. Homelander imagined her going through it with no one by her side and he almost felt that familiar sense of pity that he had for her whenever he thought of her being in pain or upset. But he couldn't. he couldn't let that get in his way because he was well aware that it would do him no good. She didn't want his pity. She didn't deserve it either.
"How did he survive?" Homelander questioned.
"I'm not sure because I wasn't there and I don't think he knows much about it…he just said that Maeve bore the brunt of the fall and saved him," Victoria said. She didn't want to get into details about Maeve. She kept on talking, wondering if that would stop him from thinking about his former lover. "He found me out here because of my brother, but he hasn't been here long and he doesn't have his powers anymore. He won't be a problem. He can't come after us and he-"
"-Do you love him?" Homelander demanded from her, interrupting her from her monologue, suspecting that she was trying to persuade him to keep Alex safe. She could try and persuade him, but it wasn't as if he was going listen to her.
And then she went silent, but it was the silence that spoke volumes. He nodded tightly. She loved him. She loved Alex. At first he had thought that it might just be a passing fancy. He was an attractive member of a boyband. Why would she not fancy him when tonnes of other girls did? But then he'd been worried it had been developing when he'd seen how Alex watched her when he thought no one was looking. Homelander knew because he'd looked at her exactly the same. The painful thing was that he still loved her. He loved her more than anything and he just wondered if a part of her even loved him still.
"You have what you want. You have us back, John," Victoria said, not answering his question. "Please. I will do whatever you want. I'll stay here. I'll be the perfect wife…just don't hurt him."
"You've promised me that before. You've made that promise so many times and each time you've betrayed me. I'm done being lenient, Victoria. Maybe now you will know to take me seriously and not for granted."
"Just leave him alone, please. He can't do anything."
"Not this time," Homelander said with a firm shake of his head, backing away from her and moving her to the side so that he could open the door. Victoria reacted quicker than he'd anticipated. She threw herself in front of him and closed the door again as Homelander arched an amused brow down to her. She could be a spitfire when she wanted to be and he was well aware of that.
"If you hurt him then I'll tell everyone," Victoria said to him. "Any red carpet you drag me onto…any TV show you make me sit on…I'll do it. I'll tell everyone the truth about who you really are and what you did."
Homelander tilted his head, swallowing hard and leaning down towards her. She recoiled slightly, but she couldn't get far considering the door was behind her. Homelander's nose brushed against hers.
"We've been here before too…the threats and the blackmail," Homelander said to her. "But two can play that game. If you squeal then I'll let everyone know that you're just…well…not quite right in the head. That's why you ran away with our daughter, isn't it? Because you're not mentally well…you live in a different world to us…and then I will claim you are an unfit mother. I'll take Evelyn from you for good. I'll have you committed somewhere you can't cause me trouble. You think I want to do that, Victoria? I don't. Despite everything you've done…the fact you've ruined my life…I still want you. I want you by my side, but your feeble attempts at blackmail aren't going to work any longer."
He lifted a finger up to run down her cheekbone, smearing the tears that had started to fall as she realised that she was now completely at his mercy. She looked into his eyes, struggling to believe she had ever loved a man like him. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead and she shuddered at the feeling of his lips on her skin. He kept them pressed there for a few moments, his own eyes firmly closing as he relished the feeling of her so close to him. He pulled back when he managed to compose himself.
"It's your choice, your lover or your daughter."
"You know that's no choice."
He chuckled. "I figured not," he confirmed with her and then stepped back. "I'll be back soon."
He pushed her to the side and walked through the door. Victoria watched as he walked down the corridor and stepped through the fire escape. She knew he was going to fly before she could even get to him. She only hoped Alex had the sense to run as soon as she'd gone. She knew there was no chance she could beat Homelander to him and so she did the next best thing. She reached for the phone in the room that sat on a small table by the main bedroom door. With shaking hands, she pushed in the extension for an outside line and then pressed in his numbers. The phone began to ring and she clasped it with both hands, mouthing a silent prayer that he'd pick up.
"Vicky?" he tried as soon as he answered.
"Alex, you need to hide."
"Where are you?" he asked.
"No," Victoria said, her voice firm. "Alex, you need to get away from England…go somewhere…just hide…he's looking for you and he'll kill you. He'll kill you and I couldn't stop him. I tried, but I couldn't stop him from going."
"It's alright," Alex promised her in a gentle voice. "Just tell me where you are and I-"
"-Alex, you're not listening to me!" Victoria snapped loudly down the phone, palm hitting the wall in front of her as she bowed her head and bent over slightly. "It's over. He's won. We never stood a chance and we were foolish for thinking we did. I need you to get away from here, alright? I need you to lay low somewhere and hide until we go back to New York. Then you need to find somewhere away from him…somewhere he won't find you…"
"I can't leave you."
"You have no choice," Victoria retorted, voice firm. She wasn't going to back down or admit to him that was the last thing she wanted too. "You have to think about yourself, alright? You have to forget me and focus on staying safe."
"You think I can do that?"
"I think you don't want to, but you have to," she said, the tears falling thick and fast now as she imagined the pained and angry look on Alex's face like he was in front of her. She wanted to cling onto him and feel his strong body against hers. It felt safe. It felt like home. "This isn't what either of us wanted, but it's where we are and I just want you to be safe, Alex. I love you, okay? I love you so much and…and I just need you to be okay."
"Vicky," his voice broke on her name as he tried to compose himself. "I love you too. I wanted it with you. I wanted it all."
"I know," Victoria promised him and she felt her throat constrict tightly. "I wanted that too, but you have to go. You have to let me go."
"I'll never stop trying," Alex said, sniffing loudly and sounded more determined than he ever had before. "You know that, don't you? I'll do what I can."
"I know," she said and she knew she couldn't stop him. "But right now just focus on hiding."
"I am doing, don't worry," he assured her. "And you stay strong, alright? I'm going to do everything I can to get you out of this, but I need you to stay strong. He won't beat you. He never has done before and he never will. You're stronger than he ever could be."
"I've got Evie," Victoria said. "I'm not going to crumble, don't worry." She wasn't sure if she believed it herself, but she had to say it. "Now go. I don't know where he is but I don't want to stay on the phone too long."
"I'm going," Alex promised her. "I love you, Victoria."
Victoria swore that she wasn't going to be able to respond. She could hardly breathe. "I love you too, Alex," she said and there was a deep breath from his end of the line, like he wanted to say something else, but then he hung up on her. The line went dead and Victoria pressed the phone back to its cradle before slipping to the floor and burying her face in her hands as she let out a blood-curdling scream.
…
Victoria didn't know how long had gone by before Homelander came back into the suite. The only light came from the lamp in the corner that she had managed to turn on when she'd gone to Evelyn after hearing her crying. She'd comforted her as best as she could before she settled her down in her crib again. She'd left her in the bedroom and gone back to the sitting room. She'd sat on the edge of the chair, hands holding her thighs and feeling the coarse material of her jeans. She had done everything in her power not to cry openly, but had failed until she was certain she couldn't cry any longer.
And then, just as the clock struck three in the morning, did Homelander walk back in. Victoria picked her gaze up and looked at him. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open at the sight of him. Her cheeks turned red and she didn't know where to howl in horror or launch herself at him and hit at him in the hope that it might hurt him.
His hair was covered in blood, clumps of it sticking together and matted. His face was also splattered with the red blobs of blood. Victoria closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that the image might remove itself from her memory. She doubted that was going to happen anytime soon however. She inhaled a sharp breath and then stood up, seeing that there were also dark stains on his costume.
Homelander watched her and he wondered if he had ever seen her look at him with the pure hatred that he saw on her face. It was red hot rage and nothing was going to stop it or make it any better. He looked to her and shrugged his shoulders almost completely nonchalantly.
"I warned you," was all that he offered to her and he walked straight by her into the master bedroom. Her glare followed him into the room and she heard running water as he turned the shower on.
Victoria stormed after him, the anger inside of her too much. She didn't bother knocking on the bathroom door as she flung it open. She found him shirtless, steam from the shower beginning to cover the room. Moving towards him, she balled her hands into fists and hit at him, pushing at his chest as he just let her. She didn't move him or cause him any damage, but it was clearly what she needed and so he just let her do it.
"You asshole! You bastard! I hate you! I hate everything about you! I can't stand you!" the insults continued as did her fists against him. He remained stoic, the heat from the room starting to bother him before he felt her tire. He took hold of her chin as her hits grew weaker and he could almost taste the sweat dripping from her in the steamy room.
"Finished?" he questioned her.
"I will never love you," Victoria snarled at him.
"Yeah, you've said that before and still ended up in bed with me," Homelander retorted. "I know it's bullshit and so do you, but you're angry and upset. I'll give you a free pass this time."
"I despise you," Victoria hissed.
"You think I care? You're all talk. I know the truth. I know that deep down there's only me for you," he said to her and she shook her head. "Go and get some sleep, Victoria. You're emotional and I don't want to listen to you cry over some other guy."
He stepped away from her and continued to undress before climbing into the shower, closing the screen door behind him. Victoria left the room and the bedroom. She went to find Evelyn and sat down on the floor next to her cot. That was where Homelander found her as morning broke, but this time she was asleep, clearly exhausted. Looking down to his wife, he let out a deep sigh as he stood in his freshly laundered suit. She'd be fine in time. He knew 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”).
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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
Taiki sat in his car in front of his father's house, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Kakashi's words still echoed in him. He had actually handed over the leadership to him, something he had never expected. In none of his well-thought-out scenarios had the old man ever considered relinquishing power, and yet, here they were. His thoughts wandered so far that he didn't even notice the passenger door opening. It was only when it slammed shut with a loud noise that he jolted awake, suddenly looking into the familiar eyes of his mother.
She lovingly placed her hand on his, loosening his firm grip on the steering wheel. "He told me what happened. How are you, my dear?" she asked empathetically. Taiki contemplated in silence. He knew very well that he couldn't fool his mother. "It's okay. Everything is coming together right now... I need to get an overview first, ask Yaten and Seiya about the current situation... And there's also..." Hikari interrupted her son's stream of words with a single glance. "Taiki, you also need to sleep. You look completely worn out, my dear. Don't burden yourself too much. Remember, you have many employees, distribute the tasks evenly. You'll surely find Serena soon, don't worry too much," she said, gently running her fingers through his long hair. "I'll take your father to the countryside for a while. You have complete control to make decisions. I think you should know that."
Taiki perked up. "Did you also talk to Father about the business?" A meaningful smile appeared on Hikari's lips. "Yesterday, I simply reminded him that you three are no longer children and that he will soon be a grandfather. Maybe I also mentioned from time to time that he could retire since the company is in good hands with all three of you... Well, however it happened, yesterday he still seemed very reserved. You know how he is when he has to admit something he doesn't like. I think, with the words you just said, you finally convinced him." Her hand rested on his cheek. "Even if your father never says it, we are proud of you... and now, go and get your wife back and show this Tsukino what you're made of. Meanwhile, I'll make sure Kakashi keeps quiet on the sidelines." She pressed another kiss on Taiki's hair and exited with a broad smile. Taiki watched his mother until she disappeared back into the house. She always managed to give him courage.
Then, he glanced at his phone. Family chat.
> I'm waiting in Blackmoon, there's something to discuss. < Yaten
> Be there soon, Seiya is temporarily absent. < Haruka
>How absent? I thought he was raging through Tokyo's streets, tearing open his wound again. < Yaten
> I'll explain later, give me an hour. Tai, what about you? Are you still alive? < Haruka
Taiki pondered briefly over the messages and took a deep breath. The messages were over an hour old, so Haruka and Yaten were already at Blackmoon.
> Yes, be there soon. < Taiki
Then Taiki turned the key in the ignition and drove away from the estate. It didn't take long until he arrived at Blackmoon. Expertly, he entered the building, maneuvered past the lightly clad ladies who barely paid him any attention, and opened the door to the meeting room. Yaten was sitting there in his usual manner, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, a glass filled with light brown liquid that Taiki knew was whiskey without having to look closely. Haruka sat across from him, Michiru on her lap, and now all eyes were on Taiki.
"I'm thrilled. Father left you alive," greeted Yaten. Shaking his head, Taiki took his seat, placed his briefcase on the table, and looked from one to the other. "Even more than that. If I understood him correctly, he wants to step back and leave the business to me, including the situation with Kenji." Yaten's expression shifted from shocked to disbelief, and then a hint of amusement crept in. "Say that again. I think I misheard. The old man actually wants to step back? Voluntarily?" demanded the silver-haired man. "I'm not sure exactly what caused it. It might also be that Mother had a hand in it, but yes, Father will go with her to the countryside and, as he put it, observe everything from the sidelines."
"Well, that's wonderful. We can smear Kenji with dementia pills, and then everything will be yours," Yaten said with a trace of anticipation.
Taiki's warning gaze met his brother's. "Yaten, it won't be that simple. Firstly, we still don't know where my wife..." "Stop, I'd like to interrupt you here," Haruka said. "Actually, we know exactly where she is right now. I found her earlier and brought her to Seiya. They are safe and on board Seiya's new ship, but don't ask me about the name right now." "When? How? And why didn't I know about this?" Taiki inquired. "Because it had to be quick. She sent a friend from the street to the harbor office. This friend then led me to her... Well, the rest is irrelevant. The main thing is that she's fine. Oh, before I forget, Seiya sends word that the meeting point is at her brother's," Haruka informed him casually.
Also, the vacation completely slipped Taiki's mind amidst all this turmoil. Doubts crept over him as he thought about what was happening.
"Very well. I could really use a vacation right now. You'll never guess what I found out," Yaten grinned mischievously, securing the attention of the other two. He waited for a moment to heighten the suspense. "Mimete, Kenji's beloved assistant, has a weakness for someone with green hair, who happens to be in my basement right now." Haruka and Taiki pondered briefly over Yaten's words. "What do you mean by that?" Taiki asked. "Just as I said. The two of them are involved. Mimete offered to disclose everything we want to know, and then she wants to make a run for it with Tellu," Yaten interrupted himself briefly to light a new cigarette. "Initially, I declined because I originally planned to have some more fun with Tellu... You should have seen how she reacted at the mere sight of my tools. It would have been quite amusing. But now, I think it would actually be to our advantage because, logically speaking, we would get all the information, Kenji would be left without an assistant from one moment to the next, and that would be all settled before our departure," explained the silver-haired man further.
Taiki also reached for the bottle and poured himself some of the light brown liquid. "In principle, it sounds good... but it's too easy... everything is just too easy right now," he murmured and took a sip from his glass. "I understand you... What do you plan to do now?" Haruka asked, turning to Taiki.
He let out a tense sigh, then looked at his brother. "How long do we have to consider the offer? Did Mimete set any deadlines for you? Or do we have to worry about Kenji's special team showing up at our doorstep? After all, if I recall correctly, Mimete has full authority."
Yaten seemed to be the only one completely relaxed. "Even if... no one knows where my basement is, they can search until they're black in the face. So, no pressure, we currently hold the upper hand. Also, I've already ramped up the surveillance and security measures in the tower and at the outposts. No one can get in with us. Rest assured."
A puzzled furrow formed on Taiki's forehead. "Then let me sleep on it for a night. I need to let all of this sink in, and then I need an idea of what to do with Amy. Even though Father has stepped back now, Kenji won't give in so easily. I have a bad feeling about this..." he said, thoughtfully swaying his glass. "Tai, what if you leave with Amy tomorrow? I mean, Yaten and I can hold the fort here over New Year's, and in the sun, you can contemplate our next steps. It would only be a few days, and that way, Amy would be out of harm's way for now," Haruka suggested after a while. Yaten didn't seem very enthusiastic, rolled his eyes, and extinguished his cigarette. "Yeah, I think Ruka is right. We'll manage. But before any decisions are made here that could potentially restrict me, I'm going to check on Tellu again. I'm pretty sure she has a lot more to tell me. I'll keep you posted." With that, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and disappeared before anyone, especially Taiki, could raise objections.
__
Usagi snuggled even closer to Seiya, her hand gently stroking his bare chest where her head rested. His fingers traced over her back, and he planted a kiss on the top of her head.
"You have no idea how worried I was about you. I'll never leave you alone again," he whispered to her.
Usagi increased the pressure of her fingers. The images of their escape came flooding back. Seiya didn't miss this detail, and he sat up a bit.
"What's wrong, sweetheart? And don't say nothing; I can feel that something is bothering you."
Usagi also sat up, her back turned to Seiya. She wrestled with herself, debating whether she was ready to talk about everything. But when she felt his hand on her shoulder, she was sure that she trusted Seiya more than anyone else. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.
"I... I suddenly felt so alone. When I stood there by the burning barrels, it was like a journey through time for me. Even though I haven't lived in orderly conditions for long, it felt like a profound turning point in my life. It wasn't as bad the first time. At least then, I had Chibiusa and Shingo by my side. But yesterday... There was no one, just me and the cold. If Naru hadn't come, I don't know if I would have reached you at all. I'd probably still be alone in the cold," she broke off, and Seiya wrapped his arms around her. With a gentle insistence, he pulled her closer, his hand resting on her stomach.
"You are not alone, and you will never be alone again. We are all with you – Yaten, Haruka, Taiki, and me. We are your family now, and we will take care of you, no matter what happens."
Usagi's hand joined Seiya's. She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked at him with sad eyes.
"And what if something had happened to you? Seiya, if anything had happened to any of you because of me, I could never forgive myself. I mean, look at you, you got shot... what if he had hit you somewhere else," Usagi escalated further into her tangled possibilities. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she audibly gasped for air. The beginning hyperventilation made her chest heave vigorously as she tried to regain control of her breathing.
Seiya gently pushed her shoulders away to get a better look at her. "Sweetheart, look at me. I'm fine. It's just a scratch, and I would do everything the same way again. You bear no blame," he said decisively, wiping away her tears.
Usagi forced herself to smile, but she couldn't find the strength to reply. Her emotions were on a rollercoaster, and she plunged back into Seiya's protective arms.
It took quite a while for her to calm down completely, but eventually, she succumbed to exhaustion and found solace in Seiya's loving caresses as she drifted into sleep. Seiya observed the sleeping beauty next to him for a long time. The whole suffering she had endured in her young years was reflected on her exhausted face, and Seiya wished he could take some of her burden away, but he didn't know how.
Seiya contemplated for a while, holding Usagi in his arms. The silence around them was only interrupted by Usagi's steady breaths. Thoughts whirled in his head, worrying about the woman he loved so much. But eventually, Seiya succumbed to fatigue as well.
It was in the middle of the night when Seiya suddenly jolted awake. A blood-curdling scream from Usagi made him instantly alert. His heart raced, and he turned on the small nightlight.
His next glance was immediately directed at Usagi, who was huddled in the bed next to him, legs pulled tightly to her body and tightly embraced.
"Usagi, sweetheart, what's wrong?" he called out in concern, rushing to her other side so that he could see her better. Seiya's eyes focused on Usagi, whose face was contorted with pain. He sensed that something was terribly wrong.
Usagi whimpered, her hands clutching the bedsheet. "I don't know, Seiya... it hurts so much," she whispered through tears. Seiya felt a pang of helplessness. He wanted to do everything to help Usagi, but in this moment, he didn't know what to do. After all, they were in the middle of the sea, and there was no help in sight.
"Where does it hurt? Can I help you in any way?" he asked, trying to suppress the rising panic.
Usagi bit her lip, struggling with the pain. "I don't know, Seiya... it feels like I'm tearing apart." Another look at Usagi's suffering face made him abandon his plans. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I'll be back in two minutes. I'll just inform the captain to turn back. We're going back to Tokyo. You need a doctor."
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 is crucial not to be seduced by your own significance.
The Sisters’ words must not sway her.
At the next council meeting, Irulan keeps quiet. She studies the latest ecological reports with weary absent-mindedness.
The Fremen deputies speak for a long time. Stilgar tells the Emperor about the growth of flowering trees in a grove between the mountain ridges, where the sun burns less and the underground waters feed the earth.
This is rebirth, Stilgar says. It is in the air and in the soil. Their Mahdi has blessed them.
Irulan nearly scoffs as she studies the pictures. The trees look meager, half-starved. The flowers – the flowers are pretty, she will admit – blue, serrated with gold. They will not last. But there is something in their temporal beauty, in the easily scattered tongues of pollen gold that make her eyes linger.
She loses herself in these thoughts, until Paul’s voice makes her start.
“Well?”
Irulan lifts her head. Her eyes betray a small anxiety, as if she has been caught doing something unseemly.
“Pardon?”
“You have said nothing all meeting. You usually have comments. Opinions. Counsels.”
Irulan looks to her left and right. The room is empty. Everyone else has departed. She looks down at the flowers she has been studying for the better part of forty minutes. “I – I have none, momentarily.”
Paul’s lips twitch. “You? No opinions? I find that hard to believe.”
His tone is cajoling, almost friendly. But his blue eyes are not friendly. They rarely are.
Irulan stiffens as she sees him walking round the table to her seat.
“Let me see,” he says quietly, as he approaches her chair. He wants to know what has kept her entranced.
He stops behind her.
Irulan shifts in her seat. She must not think of the child Alia, watching them from her unseen corner.
They look at the pictures together.
“You don’t think this means much, do you.”
His voice comes from above her. He is looking down at her skull, possibly peering through it. Sifting through her thoughts.
Irulan swallows. “It’s a start.”
He chuckles. “I know your cynicism, Irulan. You don’t believe.”
He seems unbothered by the notion, even amused.
“What are you really thinking of?” he asks, without missing a beat.
The question startles her. She wonders at its purpose. He could pluck out the answer easily enough, since he is already looking.
It’s true he has shown more restraint in the last year, respects her enough not to pry too deeply.
But he must have noticed the turmoil inside her head.
Irulan gambles. She gambles on something simple, something honest, but separate from the truth.
“It will seem stupid. But I was thinking – I was thinking they’re pretty. The flowers.”
Paul is quiet. Expecting more.
“Something about the blue and the gold,” she mumbles, staring at the petals. “Colors too present, too intense. I suppose there’s power in that. Because you don’t think anymore. You just look.”
He is still quiet.
Irulan risks a glance over her shoulder.
His head is tilted. He seems to be looking at a space between her and the flowers. To be contemplating a gap between image and reality.
Their eyes meet briefly.
You don’t think anymore. You just look.
Irulan quickly averts her gaze. She fills her mind with desert flowers.
“Interesting,” he says, voice cold. He sounds remote. He does not distrust her feelings, but he wonders about their origin.
The Emperor steps back. He turns away from her.
His voice is light again. “I expect to hear more concrete thoughts next time, Empress.”
It is a jesting remark. And a threat, in many ways.
It is crucial not to be seduced by your own significance.
Irulan has survived these past years by understanding that to Paul, she is only significant as long as she is an effective political tool.
Allowing herself to think of her worth beyond this role is ruinous. It only leads to disappointment and heartache.
It leads to death, too. He might think she is trying to seduce him. Her vanity and audacity would no doubt infuriate him. She could be exiled. Or he could cut off parts of her, leave her in the desert to rot, like he did with the ambassador.
Irulan sits in front of her mirror. “Vanity”, the object is sometimes called. She doesn’t like this word. She does not want it on her person. The mirror’s surface shimmers, dotting her cheeks with strange lights. She knows the glass is made from the spice-rich sands of Arrakis. She stares at her fair reflection.
I do not want to be desired,
she thinks.
I do not want to be loved. I do not want to be cherished.
I want to be respected. I want to be valued for something that outlives my body and its yearnings.
That is what I want.
She lets these thoughts penetrate her.
She lets them slowly extinguish the lights inside her cheeks.
One never knows
quite
what will set the Emperor off, these days.
During an imperial hearing, Paul loses his temper with a stubborn Guild envoy who dares to contradict the Mahdi.
He tells the Navigator that his arrogance is deeply misplaced, given his reliance on spice.
Addiction
, Paul calls it. All Navigators are weakened by this powerful addiction.
“I control the spice. I control what you desire most,” he reminds the man with cold fury. “And what you desire most controls you.”
The Navigator’s face is proof of it, having been disfigured by the melange. But he sucks his teeth and utters disdainful words in a language Irulan has difficulty grasping. It may be a language she already speaks, distorted by his mangled mouth.
But Paul understands. He throws him across the room with a single sharp command. The thud of his body echoes through the silent ranks of the court.
Without meaning to, Irulan rises from her lower seat. She steps past the Fremen deputies and walks towards the fallen Navigator.
But she does not get far.
She feels fingers on the back of her neck, sinking into flesh.
Paul is still sitting on his throne.
Where are you going?
he asks straight into her mind.
To help him.
You have been rash, Your Highness.
He spoke out of turn. You will sit down again.
He does not use the Voice on her, but it is a prelude.
Irulan takes a tentative step forward.
Sit down,
he tells her again. But he doesn’t stop her.
Perhaps he wants to see what she will do.
She advances further.
She can still feel his ghostly fingers on her nape as she makes her way towards the Navigator.
Irulan crouches next to him. She places her hand on his strangely furrowed brow. She whispers the prayers of her teaching, softening the pressure on his mind which has been gridlocked by the Emperor. With little other recourse, and knowing it will lessen his pain, she renders the Navigator unconscious.
Then she signals to a Fremen guard and speaks loudly for the whole court to hear. “The Navigator has had a spell due to an excessive dose of melange. Take him to safe quarters to recover.”
Irulan rises with stilted dignity, brushing the skirts of her silver dress. She stares round her calmly. Then she looks up at the Emperor, sitting on the throne.
Paul’s rage has subsided. His eyes are dull. They flicker over his court without heat. He nods wanly, signaling for the next hearing.
Irulan returns to her seat below the throne. Stilgar mutters loudly that the Navigator insulted the Muad’Dib and might have deserved worse.
Irulan does not heed him. She senses that a good deal of the people gathered in the great hall are relieved that she interfered.
The Empress lifts her chin. This is what she was born to do, after all.
Halfway down the corridor to her quarters, Irulan is thrown up against the wall by an irresistible force.
The servants that had been following her melt into the shadows.
Paul steps forward, hands behind his back.
Irulan sees in his white face the petulance of the boy-prince.
“Never do that again,” he tells her with a soft catch, almost like it pains him to say so.
Irulan finds it infuriating, the way he couches his need for authority in gentle reluctance.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
She can hardly move, pinned to the wall like a fly, but her throat has not been shut. She can speak.
She opens her mouth, hoping her voice won’t betray her nerves.
“I only meant to help you. This is what I always try to do. This is why you married me.”
Paul’s eyes narrow. “You have a strange understanding of help.”
Irulan tries to keep her tone neutral, detached. As if she were feeding him information from a higher source.
“Irascibility can make you look weak if it’s taken too far. You know this.”
“And you’re here to control my temper, is that it?”
She looks at him without flinching, though her breath comes out shorter than she’d like.
“Yes.”
It would be a lie to deny it. She has always tried to curb his impatience. When he comes to her study, he seeks to have his desires curtailed.
The difference is, this time she did it in public.
Paul takes a step closer.
Irulan leans her head against the wall in order to maintain eye contact. Not to defy him, but to reassure him of her loyalty.
But it is difficult not to break the stare, because he is standing closer now. He is looking down at her with half-lidded eyes. The same eyes she saw that night in her study, when he wiped the thumbprints off her dress.
She pushes the memory away. But there is nowhere to go except inside her mind.
She cannot move. And he keeps staring.
Then he says, “Ask me to release you.”
Irulan blinks.
“Ask me.”
Her brow furrows. Does he want her to beg?
Paul shakes his head. “Use the Voice.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “What?”
He smiles. “Use the Voice on me. I’d like to see your Bene Gesserit training first-hand.”
The corners of her mouth drop. “It won’t work, obviously.”
“I thought you’re here to control my temper."
Humiliation blooms in her cheeks. She looks away. “That’s – that’s different.”
“It can’t be much more different. Maybe you will succeed.”
“I won’t. You’re much stronger.”
“You don’t need to flatter me.”
“I wasn’t flattering. Merely stating fact.”
“Your Emperor is asking you to use the Voice.”
Irulan balks. “It would be a waste of time. It would be -”
Cruel
. A cruel little game.
She has never been very good at using the Voice. The Reverend Mother used to scold her. The Princess was not her true reflection, Mother Mohiam would often say. It was the face she showed the world, the destiny she embodied. But a woman’s true self was lodged in the Voice, in her capacity to wield or yield.
Paul looks down at her. “Try anyway.”
Irulan swallows thickly. She stares at the graceful lines of his face, almost feminine, because he had once been meant for a different path altogether. There is a Sister inside him. Someone maybe she could reach.
Irulan closes her eyes. She focuses on the voices that already haunt the chambers of her mind. She tries to summon her own. She knows she cannot succeed, but the thought is comforting. Who would want to succeed against Paul? To truly master the Voice, you must believe you can overcome the other person. Make them your own.
Dark liquid pools in her mouth. She spits out the words with an eagerness to be done with them. “
Release me
.”
The words hit him in the chest and scatter, like vapors from a bath, barely drawing a reaction from him.
Paul’s lips twitch. “Your pitch was too forceful. Try again.”
Irulan loosens her jaw. She lets the words tumble from her lips like small stones. “
Release me
.”
The effect is much the same.
Paul frowns. “I told you to try.”
“I am trying.”
“You’re not.”
“I can’t do more than this,” she insists.
“You can. You
will
do more.”
The command in his voice is unquestionable. It was already waiting on his tongue. Her mind clouds with irony. He is using the Voice to make her use the Voice, poison attacking poison.
This time, she makes a real effort. The first effort of her mediocre Bene Gesserit career, perhaps. Because the Emperor wants her to.
Irulan feels the Sisters crowding in her throat. She glares at him.
“
Release me.
”
The words slide out with aristocratic fury, sinking under his jaw, making him lift his chin. As if he can feel the press of a collar which has been starched too severely.
His eyes become glassy. His lips part.
It
almost
sways him, her Voice. But
almost
is also a vapor, a fantasy.
Paul smiles, inhaling her power, reducing it to nothing.
“Better. That’s better. But not quite enough.”
Irulan lowers her head. She feels drained. Her throat is raw and her forehead throbs.
“I can’t do it again.”
“I know,” he says. His finger traces a lock of hair which has fallen across her cheek.
He does not touch her skin. Only the blond lock of hair. He twists it between thumb and forefinger.
“Too soft,” he says, and she does not know if he’s referring to herself, her performance, or her hair.
He lets go of the lock and steps back.
Finally, his invisible grip on her is released. Irulan drops unceremoniously to her knees in front of him. Her strength is nearly gone.
She hears him speaking above her. “That just means you have to practice more.”
He leaves her in the corridor to nurse the growing pain inside her head.
Only a hot bath will soothe her frayed nerves. Not for the warmth, but for the waste. Wasting vital fluid, watching it overflow the rim of the pool and swirl down the drain into the recycling system.
Irulan steps inside the scarce, scalding liquid, watching her skin turn from pink to red. She sinks down to her mouth and closes her eyes.
The vapors rise like Voices all around her.
What did you notice? What did you notice? Tell us what you noticed.
Irulan puts her hands over her ears. She cannot stop them, but she can make them sound like one great warble, one indistinct song.
They are a large bird of prey, flying over her head, beak poised for meat.
Tell us, tell us, tell us what you noticed. We know you did.
The Sisters’ clamor makes her teeth rattle.
Irulan stays underwater until her lungs burn.
When she breaks the surface, she does it gently – face red, swollen. She leans her head against the marble mouth of the pool and breathes harshly.
He likes it when the Voice is used on him
, she finally thinks.
He likes the echo of his own Voice.
The bird sinks its talons in her warm, wet shoulders. Irulan hisses in pain. She bites the cold marble.
And what must you ask of him now?
Irulan feels her lip break and bleed as she rubs her mouth against the marble.
Nothing. I will ask nothing.
On the other side of the pool, the little girl sits down. The black headdress makes her look like an ancient dwarf. Her bare feet trace the surface of the water.
Irulan shudders at the sight of her. The sight of her little feet.
“How did you – how did you get inside my rooms?”
Alia smiles at her sharply. “My brother told you to practice. You must ask for his help. You must ask him to train you.”
Irulan shakes her head. “I don’t want to be trained by him. It would be a fool’s errand, or worse, a death sentence.”
Alia cocks her head. “Why should your life matter? The point is not to win or live. Neither can be achieved in this world. The point is to give him what he wants. Only you can do that, little breather.”
Irulan scowls. “Don’t call me that.”
“But you are little and you breathe,” the child remarks pettishly. “I sometimes forget to breathe. And then, all the world’s blood comes rushing in at once.”
Irulan shivers. The air is filled with warm, ancient horror. She feels her own blood rushing to her extremities. The water is too hot, still scalding.
“Get – get out of my rooms. Please, get out.”
Alia chuckles lightly. Her little feet swing above the pool.
Irulan sets her head down and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, the bathing room is empty. The little girl and her bird of prey are gone.
But her words trickle down her skin like water.
The point is to give him what he wants. Only you can do that, little breather.
It is crucial not to be seduced by your own significance.
Irulan writes the words down in her diary. Men’s thirst for power is endless, but so is their capacity for delusion. She must be cleverer than the Bene Gesserit, cleverer than her Father.
Irulan clicks a small lock and pulls out a secret drawer from her desk. She takes the little satchel from its hiding place. Inside, there are sigil rings and locks of hairs, her mother’s necklace and her sister’s comb. She says their names. “Anirul, Shaddam, Wensicia.” Mother, Father, Sister. She hasn’t spoken their names out loud in a long time. She doesn’t know whether the last two are still alive, or whether exile has killed them. Did her sister have her little baby? Does her father still have hopes of regaining power? What has Paul done to them, or what will he do?
She does not know. She is not allowed to know. She has no friends at Court, not really.
But she sends word through her servants to the Emperor’s concubine. She asks to speak to Chani.
The girl sends word back that the Empress is welcome in her quarters.
“My lady,” Irulan says, bowing her head as she enters the drawing room.
Chani offers her a wry smile. “Let’s not stand on ceremony, please. I’m not much of a lady, and I get tired of being treated like one.”
Irulan clasps her hands behind her. “Will Chani suffice?”
“Will Irulan?”
The Empress nods. So does the concubine. If there is a challenge in this exchange, the two women ignore it.
“I am glad you’re feeling well enough to travel again,” Irulan begins.
They both still recall the time when Irulan held her feeble body in her arms. But they ignore this too.
Chani thanks her. She tells her she is preparing to travel south with Stilgar and an imperial escort. They are to oversee the opening of a temple on the grounds of an old sietch. Chani does not sound particularly keen on the affair, but she is glad to leave the palace and Arrakeen.
“I always feel better in a stillsuit.”
“I understand.”
Chani regards her. “Have you ever worn one?”
“No. It doesn’t look very comfortable,” Irulan admits.
Something like surprise, mingled with satisfaction flashes across Chani’s face. Paul has never taken the Empress to see the desert, to visit the sietches. Irulan has lived on Arrakis for years without truly knowing it.
There are some things Paul will not share with her and this gladdens Chani. She is inclined to be kind.
“You’re right about that. We Fremen feel it like a second skin. But it’s a hellish second skin, sometimes.”
Irulan smiles. “I admire your tenacity then.”
Chani nods. “I admire yours too. The imperial court is a far worse desert. Much more treacherous.”
Irulan shrugs. “I was raised in it. I suppose we find it easier to navigate what we know.”
The two women regard each other. This is perhaps the longest conversation they've ever had.
“I may not always agree with what you say at court,” Chani begins, “but I’m glad he listens to you. I’m glad you’re there to advise him.”
“I am glad, too, that he has you to advise him. We both do our best to help him.”
Irulan keeps her face open, friendly.
I am no threat to you. You will always have him.
Chani tilts her head, considering the offer of friendship. She looks as pretty as the desert flowers. Her eyes swim in blue. Too present, too intense.
Neither of us really has him
, Chani thinks, staring in the distance.
Irulan masks her surprise beneath her cool exterior. But she is momentarily stunned by the girl’s admission. She finds it difficult to continue.
The words echo and echo.
Neither of us really has him.
“Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?” Chani asks her.
Suddenly, the Fremen girl sounds exhausted, sounds younger than her years.
How often does he use the Voice on you?
Irulan wonders.
She clears her mind. She clears her throat. “I actually came to see you because I wanted to ask you a favor.”
She takes out the small satchel inside which rest the small relics of her once great family.
“I wanted to ask you...if you could bury these remains for me.”
Irulan opens the small bag and shows her its contents, explaining their history.
Chani listens, eyes glued to the small heirlooms.
“I have no way of knowing if they’re still alive. It’s easier to think of them as dead sometimes," the Empress confesses, looking almost ashamed. "I’d be grateful if they could be interred in holy ground.”
Chani’s lower lip trembles.
“I came to you because I knew you would understand,” Irulan adds.
Because Paul wouldn’t.
Chani nods. She looks moved by the Empress’ overture. She takes the satchel with reverence. “I will bury them at the temple.”
Irulan clasps her hand. She thanks her quietly, lowering her eyes.
Two weeks later, during a court dinner, Chani slips from her seat next to the Emperor and walks towards the lower end of the table to speak with the Fremen. She bends down, as she passes, to whisper in Irulan’s ear.
“Your mother is dead. Your father and sister are alive. That is all I've learned."
Irulan inhales quickly. She thanks Chani for the information, but the girl is already gone.
She does not allow herself to feel renewed grief for her mother, or satisfaction for what she has learned. She drinks from the wine, savoring the taste.
She is expecting Paul when he arrives in her study later that night. He has not come to sleep in her chair. He looks entirely too alert.
“You could have just asked
me,
” he says, as he walks into the room, eyes flashing with annoyance.
She has prepared for this exchange, or at least she thinks she has.
“I did not feel I could. Besides, I did not wish to bother you. I felt more comfortable sharing my grief with your consort.”
Paul chuckles nastily. “Yes, you certainly made an impression on her with your little sob story.”
Irulan holds her chin up. “It’s not a story.”
Paul eyes her coolly. “Some of it is. You knew your mother was dead already, had died long before I married you."
"I did not lie about that to Chani."
"No...you just omitted a few things. And what about your father’s royal seal? You didn’t throw that away with the rest of the junk, did you?"
The remark does not catch her off-guard. But it does irritate her that he guessed. That he seems to know her.
“
Show me.
” His impatience removes all restraint. The Voice penetrates her skull.
Irulan opens the secret drawer without so much as a blink. She takes out her father’s ring. The only relic she snatched out of the satchel at the last moment.
Paul’s face is triumphant. He smiles, as if at a memory. His thumb worries the ring on his own forefinger. “I knew you’d keep it.”
"How?"
"Never mind that." His eyes harden. “What business do you have with Chani? Why did you approach her?”
“I wanted to acquaint myself with her.”
“Why?”
“
Why
? Because we live in the same court, under the same roof. You did not forbid it.”
“I did not encourage it either.”
“I mean her no harm. You can search my mind and confirm it.”
Irulan does not waver. She knows she speaks true in this regard.
It serves her better if Paul Atreides thinks her main preoccupation is seeking an alliance with his beloved consort. As long as he does not suspect what else has been plaguing her mind.
Paul frowns. “You may not mean her harm, but you have something in mind.”
Irulan has prepared for this. She always prepares.
“Yes. The Bene Gesserit. They have asked me to find out why she isn’t pregnant yet.”
This is another gamble. Giving him something honest, yet separate from the truth.
Her boldness catches him off-guard. He blinks, startled. No longer used to this emotion. It has been some time since he felt it last.
He looks at her and at her father’s ring, which she still holds in her hand.
“You know I meet with them regularly,” Irulan reminds him. “You have not forbidden me. Probably because it is useful to you.”
Paul nods, jaw tightening. His features shift. His brow furrows.
“They’re interested in my heirs,” he mutters.
“Yes.” She pauses. “What would you have me tell them?”
He blinks. “What?”
“What would you have me tell them?” she repeats. “It would be a good idea to keep them occupied with a reason.”
Paul drums his fingers against her desk. “You – you would be willing to lie to them?”
Irulan shrugs. "I have been lying to them since I was little, one way or another.”
“Why?”
“I never wanted to be like them. It’s why I don’t relish using the Voice.”
Paul’s lips twitch. “It wouldn’t bother you so much to be like them if they did not get to control you.”
Irulan drops her father’s ring back inside the drawer. Maybe he knows what it is like. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right.”
“Plans within plans,” he mutters with a distant look.
“Yes, which is why it’s useful for us to have a plan.”
Paul considers her words. “You will tell them it is my mother’s interference, for now.”
Irulan blinks. “Your mother who has been on Caladan for the past months?”
“Lady Jessica is never far away. Her spies are everywhere at court,” he tells her with a pointed look.
“Why would your mother interfere? What reason would she have?”
“You could say she is afraid of certain prophecies. Afraid she would not be able to control my heirs. Afraid my heirs would harm me, or worse,” Paul rattles off with a grimace.
Irulan shivers. Is this true?
“But your mother is not really interfering, is she?”
Paul looks at her. It is a moment between moments. And in this moment, he decides to trust her. “No. She is not interfering. But this is what you will tell them.”
Irulan nods. Her mind is already spinning. “Your little sister communicates with them too.”
“I know. I can control Alia for now. She is completely loyal to me. But I don’t doubt she will take over their entire order soon.”
Irulan shudders at the thought. She wonders what the little sister tells the big brother. Alia could have made things much worse for her. But she hasn't. Not yet, at least.
“When she does take over, we will not have to worry about their influence so much,” Paul says. His expression softens into something like sorrow. “But for now, we must protect Chani.”
We.
Irulan feels a strange commotion in her chest.
She looks at her tyrant husband, burdened with power, devoted to his desert bride. He has been bedding the Fremen girl for years now and nothing has come of it.
It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one interfering.
The thought slips from the depths of her mind before she can contain it.
Paul looks up sharply, expression taut.
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have supposed or presumed –”
“Are you mine or are you theirs?” he asks, speaking over her.
Irulan falters. “I – what do you –”
“Mine or theirs?”
“Y-yours.”
It isn’t good enough.
His face grays and darkens, becomes the stormy seas of his home planet.
“
Are you mine?
”
The Voice plunges into her like teeth. The force of it is stronger than she has ever felt it.
Irulan’s throat opens like a flower's.
“I am yours.”
It is a truth she did not even know she possessed.
“
Say it again
.”
She groans with the strange weight of his demand. All-encompassing.
“I am yours.”
“
Again
.”
“
Yours
,” she rasps in the Voice of her Sisters, feeling ravaged.
She bends over the desk, resting her elbows on the surface. She lowers her head, trying to recover from the onslaught of his power, still coursing through her.
Possession like she has never felt it before.
Her breath is ragged.
And in the midst of these sensations, she feels his touch.
Irulan starts.
Unbeknownst to her, he has bridged the gap between them. He is at her side. His hand is on the small of her back, fingers pressed against her bent spine.
“Irulan,” he says, and his voice is tinged with something new.
Concern.
The fingers of his other hand tilt her chin up, trying to see if she is all right.
This is the most he has ever touched her.
She lifts her head, staring into his pale face. He removes his fingers from her chin. But the hand on her back lingers. It glides to her shoulder, then her arm.
Irulan stands up, feeling slightly dizzy.
His thumb traces the sleeve of her dress, then touches the bare skin of her wrist. Her pulse throbs faintly.
Irulan is always prepared, but she doesn’t quite know what to say. What to think. In this moment, there is nothing but this touch.
Paul looks down at her small wrist. “I’m sorry.”
He has never apologized before. She never thought he would. It almost scares her. Because he sounds like a boy again.
He rubs his thumb against the warm skin of her wrist. “I only wanted to make sure.”
“That – that I am loyal?” she asks, voice faint and small, too much like a girl’s.
“You haven’t practiced like I told you,” he says instead.
Irulan swallows. “I – I don’t like it very much.”
One moment they are almost children.
But in the next, his expression closes. The blue of his eyes shines a strange light into her face. “I’m sure you are used to doing many things you don’t like.”
His grip on her wrist tightens. Becomes almost painful.
He recalls the moment. Where they are. What they are doing.
Who he is.
“You have been useful tonight. But don't forget that you are here and you are alive and you are allowed your study and your books and your seat in the council and even your father’s ring because you are useful to me.”
Irulan feels the ice in his voice slipping down her wrist into her bloodstream.
She tries to tug her arm away, but he is holding it fast.
“What we speak, what we plan, the uses I find for you…” he trails off, staring at her neck where the same small vein throbs, the little captive bird. “All of it is for the sake of the one person I love.”
Chani.
Not you. Never you.
“You are nothing to me otherwise,” he says, staring at her lips, eyes hardened with something like hatred. But a hatred which seems to be pointed inwards. A self-inflicted wound.
Irulan shivers.
She licks her lips. His eyes dwell on the moisture, sacred and yearned for on Arrakis.
“I – I understand, your Highness.”
He releases her then, and though she nearly stumbles, Irulan does not fall. Her spine does not bend. She rests one hand on the back of her chair, to keep upright.
Paul walks towards the door. He stops at the entrance. “Thank you, Irulan.”
Sleep will not find her. Irulan sits in front of her mirror, watching herself cry. She doesn’t wipe the tears. She wants to be shamed by them.
It is crucial not to be seduced by your own significance.
But somehow, she has. She has given herself undue importance.
She has allowed herself to feel desire that does not belong to her. A yearning which she thought she had extinguished in infancy.
The ache for his touch is contemptible. She curses her own name. She curses his too. A familiar refrain.
Death to House Atreides.
But another part of her mind – where chattering nuns and monstrous little girls play their awful games – thinks that the Emperor might have, in that moment, wanted her touch too.
Every breath betrays the breather, every beat reveals the heart. And she had felt – she had felt something of his breath, something of his heart.
Irulan shakes her head. Vapors and fantasy, weak voices.
She leans her head down on her dressing table. She falls asleep with her fists clenched, drawing half-moons inside her palm.
At first, when the doors of her mind open, she thinks he is pulling her back into a voluptuous nightmare. She thinks she will be forced to witness their coupling again, coiled around each other, eternally, Muad’Dib and his Desert Spring. Fated lovers who will never part.
Irulan does not need to be reminded. She tries her hardest to break free.
But the room she enters is not his bedchamber. It is nothing that exists in the palace. It does not seem real.
Yet, she feels his presence anyway.
Only, she cannot see him yet.
She is standing in a strange gray cell, carved from stone. Things reveal themselves to her gradually.
In the middle of the room, there is a giant black pool. The liquid is thick, oozing. It seems to breathe its own secret life.
Bald-headed servants pour more of it from glass jars. Their movements are slow and careful.
There is a shape emerging from the middle of the pool. The figure rises from the slick blackness. A young man, bathed in tar. He leans back, arms spread.
There is something cadaverous about him, white flesh glinting between strips of dark ichor. A sickly shimmer to his skin.
The only color in the room is his blue eyes, chilling in their thickness, their lack of dimension, no pupil, no iris.
Her small gasp is swallowed by the silence of the dream.
Paul
, she wants to say, but her mouth is made of cotton.
He is not only Paul.
He is not only Atreides.
She recalls the moment she saw him for the first time, clad and wrapped in his desert gear, face hidden, climbing up the stairs towards the Baron. He shoved the knife in his thick throat. Gutted him like a pig.
Grandfather
, he called him.
Irulan shudders.
The young man inside the pool is a stranger to her, in many ways.
But still, when he lifts his fingers, beckoning to her, she steps forward.
She stops at the edge of the pool. She is wearing a thin white gown, similar to the servants’. The hem is already stained with the viscous mud.
Paul nods, beckoning again.
Irulan steps into the pool, not bothering to raise the hem. It will all be dirtied anyway.
The black liquid feels warm and prickly as she wades through its syrup. It soon reaches her chest. Her throat.
She spreads her arms, trying to swim. But it is too thick, too cloying.
She is going to sink. She is going to taste it, this awful ulcer. The roof of her mouth will be coated in it.
She calls to him. She calls his name briefly, as if it were the only name she knows.
And Paul answers. His arms come around her, pulling her up against his chest, staining her further as his hands leave black trails.
Irulan grips his shoulders, shivering.
His beautiful face, up close, looks ravaged and peeled away by shimmering streams of spice.
Addiction, Paul had called it. Letting what you desire control you.
And yet, he is still beautiful, a crumbling facade of power.
No one can survive it
, he rasps, his sorrowful voice coming from somewhere inside him.
Behind him, Irulan sees the familiar brown body, hanging limp over the edge of the pool. The Fremen girl’s curls are dipped in mud. Blue eyes closed.
Survive what?
she asks, terror burrowing in her heart.
His cold, slick fingers grip her jaw. Forcing her to look at him. Forcing her to part her lips.
It is not a kiss. It’s a strange and awful consummation. It is the pulsing mouth of the sandworm.
Paul seems to suck the vital substance from her, seems to drink her very marrow.
He bites through her lips.
Irulan feels his teeth on her throat, inside it too.
The point is to give him what he wants
, the unborn children sing inside the pool. Little embryos of darkness.
Only you can do that, little breather.
Irulan feels like dying. She won’t survive it either.
But she grips his shoulders, hands slipping with dark grease, yet holding on.
Holding on.
Irulan wakes up in a pool of sheets and sweat and dark blood.
She is shocked at the sight of it. It takes her some time to recall her body. This is only her monthly bleeding. It is a sign of life.
She runs her hands over her face, staining herself with it.
The morning summons is unexpected.
Irulan barely has time to make herself presentable before she is marched off to the council room. She hopes she has managed to wipe all the blood from her face. She can still smell its metallic tang in the air.
Paul is not there. It is Stilgar who delivers the news to her.
Lady Jessica will be recalled from Caladan. There is need for her here as Reverend Mother of the Fremen. The Empress will go to Caladan and represent the Emperor, instead. She will be under the care of Gurney Halleck, governor of Caladan.
Irulan balks. “For how long?”
“For as long as the Mahdi needs you to.”
Irulan bites her lower lip hard to prevent from speaking further. Her mouth already feels bruised.
This is exile. Or some form of it.
Why? Why now?
She can understand recalling Jessica, to prepare the lie of her involvement in Chani’s infertility.
But why remove her, the Empress, from Arrakis?
Had she not proven her use, time and time again? Had she not done what he'd wanted?
Or had she been reckless in her gamble?
Irulan returns to her quarters in tatters. She does not know where to look or what to do. The servants start to pack her travel suits. She will probably never return. She will most likely rot on Caladan.
She almost laughs at the idea. Is that really a worse fate than a barren desert planet filled with fanatics?
In Caladan there will be room to breathe. Plot.
Maybe this is a good thing, after all.
But she can’t help but feel cheated. Used. Discarded.
Irulan passes by her mirror. She catches her reflection in the vanity.
Silly child. You know why he is sending you away,
the voice whispers in her mind.
Do I?
You are a danger to him so near.
“What kind of danger?” she asks out loud.
But there is no answer. She does not really need one. She knows, doesn’t she?
It’s staring back at her from her reflection. She had not noticed before that there are strange teeth marks on her lips.
She'd bitten her mouth earlier. Perhaps she bit it in her sleep too. But she could not have done that much violence to herself.
It had been a dream. But what are dreams for the Emperor?
Irulan sits down in front of the mirror. Glass made from sand rich with spice.
You don’t think anymore. You just look.
The Empress feels the sudden thrill of power. Power over him.
The shock of it is like the first mouthful of melange.
She sits like that for a long time.
Little Alia greets her in the corridor. Her headdress is larger than her small body.
“My brother regrets he could not say goodbye or escort you to the ship, but he has had terrible dreams. He is nursing a great headache. So I am here to escort you instead.”
Alia’s voice is full of mischief. Irulan, for once, does not mind her presence. They walk together, pretending to make small conversation.
But inside her mind, Irulan forms the question.
You once asked me if I wanted to know my fate. Will you tell me now?
We are Harkonnen, little breather,
Alia says smugly, and she can finally hear it. Underneath the child's lilt, the gruff, greedy voice of the bloated Baron. Gutted like a pig. His dark poison blood filling up a whole pool.
You belong to us. Your fate is ours.
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
James feels like he knows what muggles mean when they say the word “magic.” They don’t mean spells or wands or cauldrons—well, okay, yes, sometimes they do. But in those moments when the word slips out of them, all quiet and reverent, like they can’t help it, that’s something different. James knows that, because it’s how he feels when he’s flying.
Magic.
The sun is only just rising above the horizon, and even in his leather playing gloves James’s hands are still half-frozen to his broom. The warm dawn light reaches across the Great Lake towards him like fingers, the air crisp and sweet the way it only gets in the fall.
“Mother fuc—“
James misses the rest of the curse as he snatches the quaffle out of Macdonald’s hands and zips off down the pitch towards the opposite goal. Prewett and Abbott put up a good defence but James is in top form this morning. They can barely touch him.
He grins as he watches the ball sail through the middle hoop, out of breath in the best way.
“You’re obsessed, you know that?”
James pulls his broom around to meet Sirius who’s floating lazily behind him, beaters’s club across his shoulders, arms resting on top—like he can’t be bothered.
“Please, you love it as much as I do,” James tries and fails to push the sweaty hair out of his face.
“Not at seven in the morning I don’t, we don’t even have anyone to impress,” he nods towards the empty stands.
James rolls his eyes. “Like you aren’t showing off for Macdonald.”
“I’ll have you know Mary and my’s relationship has far surpassed such childish games.”
“Uh huh.”
Sirius smirks. “Don’t worry Jamie, one day you’ll meet a girl with eyesight as bad as yours and then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“Oi!” he tries to punch Sirius's shoulder but the prat swerves out of the way, cackling. “For your information there are plenty of girls who think I'm well fit.“
"Really?" Sirius asks, amused. "You'll have to introduce me to them sometime."
"Okay, you know what-"
“BLACK, POTTER, STOP FLIRTING AND GET YOUR ASSES DOWN HERE!”
They both peer over their brooms at the ground where a very small, and very angry looking Frank Longbottom is glaring up at them. Well, they assume he’s glaring, the details of his face are a little blurry at this height.
“You think he wants use to go down there?” Sirius asks lightly.
“Hard to tell,” James muses, “he’s not being very clear.”
“So obtuse, our Frank.”
“Always speaking in riddles.”
“Though,” Sirius adds thoughtfully, looking around. “It does appear that everyone else has gone.”
“
And if they all jumped off a cliff would you do it too?
” James does his best impression of his mother and is glad to see Sirius struggling to hold it together.
“Might,” he shrugs, “depends on the day, really.”
“I WILL KICK YOU BOTH OFF THIS TEAM SO HELP ME GOD.”
Sirius lets out a dramatic sigh. “That really can’t be good for him.”
“And he has such a lovely singing voice,” James agrees. “I suppose we could go down.”
“For his sake.”
James nods in agreement, meeting Sirius’s eye and grinning. “We’re nothing if not considerate.”
Frank makes a point of not looking or speaking to either of them when they finally land down on the pitch, choosing, instead, to aggressively gather the rest of the straying team back together. They form a rather grumbly half-circle around him.
“Prewett—“
“Just call me Alice, Frank. Honestly, we’ve been dating for two years.”
“Not on the pitch Prewett.”
Alice arches her brow. “Oh really? If memory serves, we were dating on the pitch last Friday night.”
Sirius snorts, earning him a pointed glare from a very red faced Frank. “Right. Fine. Pre—
Alice.
”
She smiles brightly at him.
“Your defence is weak, you and Abbott are leaving the centre wide open. Stop making the first move, you gotta play hard to get with your chasers. And communicate with each other.”
“Aye aye captain, no more fucking the chasers on the first date.”
Frank looks in danger of exploding.
“
God,
” Sirius whispers to James. “I think I’m in love.”
“She’s taken Black,” Frank snaps at him, running a hand over his very flustered face. “So don’t even think about it.”
Alice winks at Sirius across the circle and Sirius fake swoons into James’s arms. "Ugh, you're heavy," James huffs, pushing a laughing Sirius back to his feet.
“Macdonald,” Frank redirects his focus, very determinedly not looking at either Sirius or Alice, “you've gotta make sure not to get too cocky. You thought you were home free and you stopped watching your sides. Potter snatched that quaffle off of you practically mid-goal.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’d like to see him try it when I’m not half-asleep on my broom.”
“Name the time and place Macdonald,” James grins, earning him a rude hand gesture in return.
“McKinnon, Black, that was a good practice, but Sirius—“
“Oh,
he
gets a first name,” Alice says, mockingly.
“Yeah well, you should have seen the things
we
did on the pitch last Friday,” Sirius waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Alice looks like someone’s just told her it’s Christmas morning.
“Enough,” Frank interjects quickly, holding his hands out like he can shove the innuendos back down their throats. The pair of them are far too pleased with themselves. “Black,” Frank says through clenched teeth, “don’t drop your club, I want you in a prepared position at all times, understood?”
“Got it captain, no more fucking the chasers on the first date,” he winks at Mary.
Frank truly looks like he’s on the verge of some kind of breakdown. “Forget it, I give up, you lot are a bunch of heathens.”
“Aw, but Frank,” Marlene says cutely, batting her lashes and swinging her shoulders, “we’re your heathens.”
He gives her a flat stare. “Get out of here. All of you. But be back tomorrow, and be on bloody time!” This last comment is directed specifically at Sirius who gives Frank a salute as James pulls him towards the changerooms before he can get himself murdered.
Twenty minutes, and several towel whippings later, James and Sirius are making their way back up to the castle, Mary and Marlene promising to catch up with them later. They always take ages getting ready after practice, but Sirius isn't much better. James reckons he’d still be standing in front of the mirror coiffing his hair if it weren’t for him.
“Merlin, did you swallow a wild animal or something?” Sirius laughs, as James’s stomach lets out a particularly obscene growl.
“Listen, it’s not my fault Frank has us running drills before the house elves are up.”
“I’m sorry," Sirius looks far too amused, "is James Fleamont Potter actually complaining about quidditch practice?”
“No I'm not, you twat," giving Sirius a shove which only seems to delight him more. There's no winning with him. There really isn't. "But I
am
saying that we need to remember to raid the kitchens tonight so I can have some fuel in the morning.”
Sirius makes an exaggerated retching noise. “Fuel? Did you just call food FUEL? Mate, you’ve been spending too much time with Frank. You little quidditch psycho.”
“Oh shut it,” James knocks his shoulder into Sirius who laughs, the noise echoing around them as they walk into the still sleepy castle.
“Listen, I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” Sirius claps him on the back as he starts to pull away.
“Catch up with me later? What are you ditching me to shag Macdonald already? It’s not even noon!”
Sirius grins. “I want you to know, that if Mary was up for it, I one hundred percent would do that.”
“No bloody loyalty,” James grumbles, only half joking.
“But, as it happens,” Sirius talks over his complaining. “I’m actually posting a letter.”
That catches James’s attention. With all the marauders at Hogwarts and Sirius’s family being…well, his family, Sirius doesn’t get much post.
“Oh?” James asks, desperate to pry but doing his best not to.
Sirius rolls his eyes, still smiling. “It’s to my uncle you nosey bugger.” That clarifies exactly nothing, and Sirius must realize it because after a brief pause he pushes on, a little more sincere now. “My uncle Alphard, he wrote me first week back. I guess he heard through the family gossip network about my…departure.”
James nods slowly, not entirely clear on what kind of story this is going to turn out to be. Besides, years of knowing Sirius has taught him when to push and when to wait.
“I’ve only met him a few times, nice guy, quiet,” he trails off for a moment, fingers fiddling with the sleeve of his robes. “Anyway he—he said he wanted to reach out. Make sure I was okay, said he was proud of me.” Sirius ducks his head a bit, embarrassed. He can boast and brag all day, but give him a genuine compliment and he has no idea how to handle it.
“That’s…” James searches for the words, “nice and…unexpected.”
Sirius laughs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway, I’ve kinda been writing to him a bit. It—not that I minded, cutting them off, I didn’t.”
“I know,” James says quickly, trying to soothe the defensive tone in Sirius’s voice.
His friend nods, expression thoughtful, eyes not quite meeting James’s stare. “But it—it’s comforting I guess, knowing not every member of my family wants me dead,” he tries for brevity and fails, but James offers him a weak smile anyway.
“That’s good Pads, I’m happy for you.”
Sirius looks up finally. “Yeah—it—yeah, thanks. He’s got wicked taste in music too, for an old man. Says he’s gonna send me some muggle records.”
James arches his brow. “Your uncle listens to muggle music?”
“I know right? What a trip. I think he’s secretly a bit of a rebel.”
“No shit.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence before Sirius nods, seemingly to himself. “Well, I’m gonna…” he starts walking away backwards, gesturing in the direction of the owlery.
“Yeah, right, see you later then.”
He watches his best friend disappear up the stairs, feeling a little dazed by the whole conversation. He’s happy for Sirius, he is. But he’s also…worried. The Blacks are, well, unpredictable at the best of times. And Sirius barely even knows this guy. What if he turns out to be as bad as the rest of them? What if he’s worse?
They’re not all bad,
says the annoying voice in the back of his head,
Regulus is
—
He stops that thought in its tracks, a little irritated with himself for having it in the first place. One moderately okay conversation doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t all of a sudden make Regulus a good person.
But what did he do to make you think he was so bad in the first place?
That’s it.
James has had enough of talking to himself. He does not have to engage with the stupid thoughts in his stupid head if he doesn’t want to. He starts walking determinedly in the direction of the great hall. After all, nothing shuts up introspection quite like bacon.
“Jesus do they have to—“ Remus cuts himself off, grumbling something else that James doesn’t quite catch.
He looks up, first at Moony, who is currently staring down at the parchment in front of him like it just insulted his mother, and then over at the stacks where Sirius is devouring Mary’s face.
James squints, tilting his head slightly. “D'you think they can breathe like that?”
Remus makes an indignant noise that reminds James of why he stopped doing his Ancient Ruins readings in the first place. He looks back at his friend pityingly. Typical of Sirius to go for the bird Remus fancies and then insist on snogging her in front of him on a near daily basis.
“Listen, Moony,” he pauses, checking to make sure there’s no one around and then lowering his voice. “If you just tell Sirius that,
you know,
if you tell him how you feel—“
Remus’s head pops up so quickly that James quite literally chokes on his words.
“W-what did you just say?” Remus’s eyes are big with the kind of fear that usually only makes an appearance around the full moon.
“Woah, calm down. It’s not a big deal,” for whatever reason this does not seem to help matters. “I was just saying—I just think, if you tell him, you know, the truth, he’ll quit shoving it down your throat.”
He knows that Remus is a private person but this, this seems—I mean, James knows he’s a bloody werewolf for fuck's sake. Why is he getting so jumpy about a crush?
“He won’t mind Moons, honestly, it’s not like you can help it. Besides, Pads and Mary are about the two most casual people I know, it’s not like this means you’re never going to get a chance to shoot your shot…” James trails off as it becomes apparent that nothing he is saying is doing anything to dampen the fear in Remus’s eyes.
“H-how do you, how do you know?”
James blinks, thoroughly regretting this entire conversation. “Uh—I don’t know, just the way you looked, in the common room.”
“In the common room?” Remus repeats, voice fragile.
“Yeah, on the full moon.”
Remus winces, that night is still a sore subject. Remus has mentioned once or twice that he thinks the marauders should sit out the next one, just to be safe. This idea has been unanimously shot down, of course.
“Remus, it’s really not—“
“
James,
” his voice is strained and instantly shuts James up. “Please, please don’t tell him.”
“He won’t—“
“I’m asking you as my friend, just—just please, please, please, please.”
It hurts, Remus’s voice hurts, and James has no idea why. This isn’t at all how he thought this conversation would go. Part of him aches that this is how Remus feels about this—how Remus feels full stop. In the dark. On his own. Always hiding. And he wants him to know that he doesn’t have to, that he’s been told his whole life to keep things behind closed doors but it doesn’t have to be that way.
But Remus just keeps looking at him like he’s getting ready to bolt and even James has the good sense to know that this is not the time for that conversation.
“Yeah Remus, I promise, of course.”
Remus swallows with difficulty, his next exhale shaky. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t look at James, instead he starts packing up his books.
“Hey wait, Moons, you don’t have to—“
“It’s fine,” he says, stuffing parchment messily into the canvas bag over his shoulder. “I’m just tired,” he turns away, nearly bulldozing into Marlene in his rush to escape.
James sighs, leaning back in his chair and passing a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he hisses under his breath.
“He was sure in a rush,” Marlene slides into Remus’s now vacant seat across from him.
“Yeah,” James says, shooting a weary look at the door. “It’s possible I just said the wrong thing.”
Marlene gasps. “What? You? James Potter, the king of tact?”
“Har, har, har. Hilarious.”
She smiles. “I am, thanks for noticing.”
James lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, dropping his gaze back down to his Ruins homework. He feels like he ought to go after Remus but he’s not entirely sure that he knows how to make this better. Or even that he knows what happened in the first place.
“Gosh, they’re really going at it aren’t they?”
James looks up. “What—oh,” he follows her gaze to the still very much entangled Mary and Sirius. “Yeah well, you know them. Are they really here if no one’s watching?”
Marlene snorts. “True,” her gaze comes back to him and it looks like all kinds of trouble. “Speaking of embarrassing displays of affection.”
“Um, is that what we were talking about?”
“I’ve noticed you’ve quit making a spectacle out of yourself in front of Lily recently.”
James lets out an irritated huff, scowling at her across the table. “I wish people would stop bringing that up, it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s kind of a big deal.”
“Besides,” James presses on, “it’s no ones business.”
Marlene laughs. “Oh come on James, you’ve made this everyone's business.”
“Have not.”
She sends him a flat look but he doesn’t budge, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Really? What about in third year when you charmed all the pumpkins at the Halloween feast to sing love ballads to her?”
“That was—I—okay, maybe that was a little public. But I only did it once.”
She raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “There was also second year, when you made a pink cloud follow her around all Valentine's Day raining petals.”
“Well—“
“And last year, when you filled the Gryffindor common room with about a thousand lilies before serenading her in front of everyone.”
James bites down on the inside of his cheek as he feels the heat rising in his face.
“Or in—“
“Yes okay, I get it, thank you!” James cuts her off, shoving an aggravated hand through his hair. Marlene looks at him smugly from across the table.
“I was a right git.”
“Yes,” she nods, too amused for James’s liking, “you were.”
“I’m trying to be—“ he struggles for a minute, “better.”
“That’s good,” a moment passes before she leans forward across the table, “So who is she then?”
James blinks. “Who’s who?”
Marlene rolls her eyes. “The girl that’s distracted you from Lily.”
James is genuinely at a loss for words—which rarely happens. He splutters for a moment, gawking at her. “I—there’s no girl,” and then, realizing what he’s just said, back pedals. “I mean, there
have
been girls, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Marlene repeats mockingly. James chooses to ignore her.
“But there’s no other girl,” he sighs, collapsing a little. “Just Evans.” There will always be Lily Evans.
Marlene eyes him curiously for a minute before shaking her head. “I don’t buy it.”
“Don’t buy what?”
She waves her hand. “You, James Potter, are a romantic. There is no way you would just give up on Lily without someone else to expend your woo-ing energy on.”
“Okay, first off, who said anything about giving up on Lily? I have not given up. Secondly, woo-ing energy?" James wrinkles his nose. "Really McKinnon?”
She laughs, it’s a nice sound, Marlene’s laugh, bright and warm. The kind that makes you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. “Alright, alright not my best, but the point still stands.”
James looks at her flatly. “Oh sorry, you had a point?”
But the mischief hasn’t left her eyes. “I’ll figure it out, you know.”
James sighs dramatically. “Yeah well, when you do let me know. I’d really like to be aware of who I’m wooing.”
She opens her mouth to speak when another voice cuts her off:
“Mar?”
James feels his heart flip. He always does when she’s close, has since he was eleven. You’d think he’d get used to it at some point, or build up some kind of immunity. But it’s always the same—always feels like the first time—like he’s never going to remember how to breathe again.
“Ready to go?” Lily stops beside Marlene’s chair, barely looking at James.
Which is okay. Completely fine. James bites down on his tongue and forces himself to turn back to his coursework, holding in the numerous desperate and embarrassing things he wants to say.
Like,
you’re beautiful.
So beautiful I can’t stand it.
You make me feel too big for my skin.
Like staring into the sun.
You’re melting my wings.
He has no desire to see what Marlene’s expression is doing right now. Some mate she is, couldn’t even give him a heads up that she was waiting for Lily.
“Potter?”
James blinks at the sound of his name being spoken by Lily’s voice.
Carefully, he looks up.
“She asked how you are James,” Marlene says after a few more seconds of silence pass.
“Oh,” James says, which is a ridiculous response, so his brain quickly tries to remedy the situation by adding: “I’m doing Ruins readings.”
Marlene looks like holding in her laughter is physically painful, while Lily just looks confused.
“Er—right—Marlene, should we g—“
“What about—how—you?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I mean…alright, Evans?”
The confusion on Lily’s face does not dissipate and James prays to the soul of Godric Gryffindor for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
“I’m fine,” she says wearily, before sending a pointed look at Marlene. “Lets go?”
Marlene nods, shoulders shaking with laughter. “See you at practice James?”
James does his best to channel Sirius when he glares back at her. “
Yup.
You sure will.”
She at least has the good grace to look frightened by that.
He watches them leave—pathetically. He watches Lily’s hair, so long now it’s nearly passed her waist, watches the way her mouth flicks into a sharp grin. Her eyes bright and trained on Marlene, giving her the attention James would kill for.
And just as they cross the threshold, moving out of sight, he hears her say: “What’s his problem anyway?”
He hasn’t been sleeping well since the full moon. He closes his eyes and he’s back in the forest. He can’t see, but he hears Sirius screaming. He fumbles around in the dark until his hands touch something warm and sticky that smells like iron. Then he wakes up.
Every time he feels like something in his chest is caving in, his hands and legs shaking as he resists the urge to rip back the curtains around Sirius’s bed and make sure he’s okay. Make sure Moony didn’t turn him inside out. That he got there in time.
It’s stupid.
He’s too old for nightmares.
With a huff James turns onto his side, the steady breathing of his roommates letting him know they’re all asleep. He punches his pillow, lays back down, stares up at the canopy over his head. He counts centaurs like he used to do when he was little. He recites the ingredients to the Alihosty Draught they learned in potions this week. He imagines he’s flying. None of it works.
Eventually he gives up, pulling his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbing at his face. He could go down to the common room and try and get some work done, or maybe sneak into the kitchens - do they ward off the quidditch pitch after curfew? James reaches carefully into the drawer of his bedside table and pulls out the map. Maybe once he figures out where Filch is patrolling he’ll have a better idea of what to do.
Except Filch’s name isn’t the one that catches his eye.
The map unfolds in his lap and almost instantly he sees it—all alone in the Astronomy Tower.
Regulus Black.
James blinks, double checking that he isn’t making it up.
“Nutter,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the name. He’s probably up there yelling at the sky again, though why he’s doing it at two-thirty in the morning James can’t fathom.
A few more minutes pass before he sighs. “Fuck it.”
He shoves his feet into his trainers, not bothering with the invisibility cloak as he throws a grey jumper over his bare torso. He checks the map periodically as he moves through the halls but Filch is on the otherside of the castle and Mrs. Norris appears to be outside doing who-knows-what. He takes the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower two at a time, tapping the map closed when he reaches the door at the top.
For a second he wavers, wondering if this is really the best idea. But then, that’s never stopped him before. He shoves the map into the waistband of his trousers and gently opens the door.
Regulus is standing in front of his telescope just like he had been the last time. Engrossed enough that he somehow doesn’t hear the door. Alastor Moody invades James’s thoughts long enough to shout “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” at the back of Regulus’s head. He bites the inside of this mouth to keep from laughing.
Unlike James, Regulus is not in his pyjamas, but instead a pair of formal looking trousers and a button down, his robes discarded in a pile by his feet. James leans back against the wall behind him and watches as Regulus’s fingers meticulously work the knobs of the lens.
“Okay I give up, what are you doing?”
Regulus whips around, drawing his wand without a second thought and pointing it right at the centre of James’s chest. Maybe him and Moody would get along after all.
James raises his hands in surrender. “On edge much?”
Regulus only glares. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“So you came to the Astronomy Tower?”
“You sound awfully judge-y for someone who is also in the Astronomy Tower.”
The glaring intensifies.
James nods at Regulus’s wand. “You going to lower that thing?”
“Haven’t decided,” the younger boy bites out.
“Well, let me know when you do, yeah?” James steps around him and up to the neglected telescope, completely ignoring Regulus’s raised wand. He bends down, shutting one of his eyes and peering through the lens. A grouping of stars blink back at him. For some reason he thought he would understand better, once he saw what Regulus was looking at. But he doesn’t. He’s always been crap at astronomy.
“Bit late for star gazing ‘innit?” he says as he straightens up.
Regulus is still standing behind him, tense and sharp looking, but his wand has been put away so James counts that as a win. He really didn’t fancy getting hexed tonight.
“I’m sorry, is there something I can help you with?”
The words are icy and James can’t help but remember himself saying them not too long ago, in a cramped train compartment.
“Not really,” he tries to shrug off the weird feeling that memory casts over him. “Told you, can’t sleep.” He moves towards the railing, sitting down on the ledge and facing Regulus. “So what’s with the telescope?”
He can see Regulus grinding his teeth, hands in fists at his sides. “Listen Potter, I’m not sure if our little conversation the other day gave you the wrong impression, but you and I are not friends.”
James leans back, draping his arms over the railing. “Never said we were.”
“Then what,“ he waves his hand pointedly in James’s direction, “are you doing?”
James arches his brow, holding back a smirk. “Pretty sure I asked you first.”
Regulus just stares at him for a solid minute before shaking his head. “Salazar, you’re just like him, you know that? Fucking arrogant assholes—“
“Woah, woah,” James interrupts, laughing because he can only assume that the “he” being referred to, is Sirius. “All I did was ask what you were up to.”
“No, you came out here, into my space—“
“Pretty sure this is public property,” but Regulus ignores him.
“—and decided that you have the right to pry—“
“I didn’t realize astronomy was such a touchy subject for you.”
Regulus lets out a frustrated growl and James half expects him to reach for his wand again. “You don’t just get to go around doing whatever you like—taking whatever you like. You don’t have a right to everything just because you’re James bloody Potter.”
James blinks, watching as Regulus’s chest heaves under his shirt. He’s sitting up straight again, taking Regulus in properly. He looks...tired.
“Okay,” James says, eventually.
Regulus stares at him. “I—okay?”
James nods. “You’re right, I don’t have a right to everything.”
The younger boy continues to eye him wearily, like he’s waiting for the punchline. When none comes he seems to deflate, and after another prolonged stretch of silence that has James itching to move, Regulus walks over and sits down next to him on the ledge.
“Sorry,” he says finally, the word stiff. Uncomfortable. He stares ahead the whole time, not looking at James once. “It’s been a…bad day,” the last words are quiet.
James’s eyes run him over—his shoulders pulled too far back, hands clutching at his knees.
“Reg has it—“
“Oh don’t you dare,” he cuts him off. “Regulus was bad enough, lets not be so gauche as to resort to nicknames.”
James has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, Regulus’s posh accent coming out in full force. There is something mildly charming about the way that he embraces it. James, on the other hand, has spent years meticulously trying to train the good breeding out of his voice.
“Has it occurred to you,” James pushes on, despite the interruption, “that I’m not actually trying to take anything from you?”
“No.”
The answer comes so quickly and so decisively that James finds he’s actually startled by it.
“Why?”
There's a moment of silence before Regulus finally turns to face him. “Isn’t that what people do? Isn’t that what
we
do?”
“We?” James repeats, feeling a little off kilter.
Regulus must see it because he rolls his eyes. “Not you and I specifically. But our—our sides.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” it’s such an automatic response, James doesn’t even think about it, but once he hears the words outloud he realizes that they aren’t true. That they can’t be, not anymore.
Regulus gives him a piteous once over. “You’re such a child.”
“Oi!” James says indignantly. “I’m older than you.”
“Yes, pathetic isn’t it?” but there’s the sliver of a smile somewhere in his mouth that takes the edge off. James likes it. Likes when he gets that armour to crack. It reminds him a bit of Remus if he’s honest—the way he was when they were younger. The way he still is sometimes.
“Hey Reg?” he says after a brief pause.
Regulus lets out a huff, dropping his face into his hands. “I swear to all that is holy Potter, if you start calling me that in public I will end you.”
This time James can’t stop the laughter from spilling out of his mouth. “Noted.”
Regulus waits a beat before dropping his hands and sending him a pointed look. “
Well?
Your inflection suggested there was a question to follow?”
James nods, still smiling. “What are you doing up here, at two in the morning with a telescope?”
“Is there something else I should be up here with?”
“A girl’d make more sense.”
Something flashes across Regulus’s face that James can’t quite catch, and all of a sudden he’s looking away again. “Did you not listen to anything I said five minutes ago?” he asks, voice tight.
“I did,” James says slowly. “You don’t owe me an answer, but I want you to know that I’m asking because I’m interested, not because I want something to hold over your head.”
That seems to surprise Regulus, though he does his best not to show it. James waits, which really, he thinks is impressive. He’s usually quite impatient. But there’s something about Regulus…something…delicate. And James finds himself wanting desperately not to break whatever it is that’s keeping him here. Still. Next to him.
Regulus lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in for days.
“We’re all there,” he says finally, still not looking at James. He wants so badly to ask him to explain but he doesn’t. He keeps waiting. After several painful minutes Regulus goes on: “Me, Sirius, my father—we’re all there, together, holding up the night sky,” he shakes his head, picking apart his fingers in his lap. “I started coming up here in second year, when Sirius stopped talking to me. Up there we’re still…
whole.
I don’t know. It makes me think that maybe in a different time, a different world, there’s an us that’s still—there’s a place that’s not like this.”
Oh.
How does he respond to that? How does he even begin to hold all those feelings? He remembers third year, remembers Sirius showing up to school covered in bruises he didn’t yet know how to erase. James hadn’t thought about Regulus, about whether or not he deserved to be lumped in with the rest of them, about whether or not he had his own bruises. He'd just wanted to take Sirius away. To shield him. Keep him to himself.
When James takes too long to say something Regulus laughs, burying the heels of his hands into his eyes. “That sounds ridiculous now that I say it out loud.”
“Nah—no, it doesn’t,” James says quickly, glad his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as he feels. “It—” he swallows, picking through all the words in his head, trying to find the right ones. “I think Sirius does it too.”
That causes Regulus to look back at him, grey eyes bright in the moonlight.
“I catch him sometimes,” James explains, “looking out the dorm room window at night, I didn’t really think about it before but…” James doesn’t know what to make of the expression on Regulus’s face. “Course,” he goes on, smiling a bit, “you didn’t hear that from me.”
Regulus lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “No, of course not.”
They sit in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Not the kind that makes your skin itch. And James almost misses it, when Regulus starts to pull away.
“I should go,” he says, getting to his feet. “Quidditch practice tomorrow.”
James feels himself grin. “Big match against Hufflepuff coming up.”
Regulus rolls his eyes, waving his wand and shrinking the telescope back down so that he can slip it into his pocket. “Hardly.”
“You ready?” James asks, resisting the sudden urge to pull Regulus back down beside him.
Regulus sends him a sly look. “Always.” He’s at the door, one hand on the handle, but he pauses, standing there for long enough that James starts to wonder if he’s having some kind of stroke.
“I’m not my brother,” Regulus says eventually, eyes darting up to meet James’s.
Surprised by the sudden change in topic, it takes James a minute to respond. “I know.”
“Just, if that’s why—if that’s what—“ he stops, face scrunching in frustration as he attempts to get his thoughts in order. “If that’s why you’re doing this, if you think you can…
save me
, the way you did him. You should know that you can’t.”
James feels his thoughts go in a million different directions at those words, unsure of what to address first.
“Do you need to be saved Reg?” he manages finally.
He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it’s certainly not the sad smile that peeks out of the corner of Regulus’s mouth. “Goodnight, Potter.”
James watches the door close behind 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
It was a rare evening of respite for you and your companions. The hum of patrons around you in the Elfsong Tavern and enough wine to make you feel warm as the sound of rain pattered on the dusty windows outside felt all too much like a moment of luxury - and given the situation you were in, you suppose it was. To see the people you care about so unburdened for the first time in what felt like a dirty, bloody age was a fragile and beautiful rarity. You didn’t even try to stop Karlach and Astarion hustling card games, you were just glad to see them happy. You and Gale watch all your companions, your friends, from a table by the fireside, nursing your glasses of wine as you rest your head on his shoulder.
”Quite the sight, isn’t it?” he muses, moving his hand to squeeze your thigh, his thumb rubbing small circles on the fabric of your robe.
“The state of Wyll’s dancing after only a couple of glasses of wine? I’d say so…” you joke, Gale’s laughter soft and warm in response.
“No, well…
yes
, but no. Just seeing them all so…
carefree
for once - Gods know that if anyone deserves it, it’s them. After all they have been through…” Gale trails off, a small smile on his face as he brings his wine glass to his lips and takes a contemplative sip.
“You deserve it too, you know” you remind him, straightening up to look him in the face, stroking his hair behind his ear as you do. “You deserve to be carefree, too - to be happy, to be at peace” you ponder aloud, gazing into Gale’s eyes, as warm and potent as sunlight through a glass of Mermaid Whisky.
“I have everything I need to be happy right here at my fingertips, my love” Gale affirms, stroking your cheek and pulling you in to place a soft and lingering kiss on your forehead.
“I mean it” you mumble, resting your forehead against his “don’t diminish your own needs, Gale. You deserve peace. Even watching the cookpot is work, you know” you continue, knowing well enough where the line is between concern and the kind of insistence that will immediately turn Gale against an idea - he’s nothing if not stubborn, and it’s one of the reasons you love him so.
Gale sighs a sigh of contentment, his hand moving to run his thumb along your cheek.
“I mean it, too - you are all I need, my darling. You bring a peace in me that I never knew I could find, a light I never knew I could be free to bask in.” Gale draws his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to bring his lips to yours, soft as a feather and hot as fireplace embers, making your stomach flip.
“You taste like wine” you giggle, before you hear a voice from across the tavern.
“Get a room, soldier!” You look over and see Karlach, Shadowheart, and Astarion laughing. There’s no malice in their actions, just genuine pleasure at seeing their friends so lost in one another - they know you deserve peace, too.
After a friendly hand gesture to the three of them, you and Gale laugh. Even so, you can’t help but find your way back to each other’s lips once again. The fire beside you is crackling and the rain is still heavy outside, customers laugh and dance and talk, Gale’s tongue runs along your bottom lip and for a second you forget the world might be ending.
“Karlach has a point, you know” Gale mumbles into your mouth, halfway between kisses, “we have a perfectly empty room upstairs…” Gale continues, trailing his lips to your ear “and I want to taste the woman I love” he breathes, his words making your stomach flutter and your heart race.
“Then you should probably take her upstairs and drink her in” you whisper in return as you slide a hand up his thigh, a grin forming on your lips as you see the wizard try to hide just how wild you make him, his bottom lip between his teeth, his huff of breath at your touch.
“Well then, I need no further encouragement” Gale whispers into your lips with one more kiss before he takes your hand, and begins to lead you away from the table and toward the stairs. You’re too enraptured by him to hear Karlach whistle as the pair of you head to your room.
_____________
Gale fumbles for the doorknob, unwilling to remove his lips from yours for a second longer than he needs to. As you hear the click of the door opening, the pair of you stumble into your rented room, already tangled in one another's arms and hair. No sooner has the door been kicked closed behind you, Gale pushes your back against it. His body pins you to the wood, barely a space for breath between the two of you as Gale’s hands move to your waist and his lips to your neck.
“You are
magic
, Tav” Gale mumbles into your skin as his hands wander further downward, deftly unbuckling your trousers and easing them down, “and I believe I have a promise to keep”.
Gale’s lips wander down the length of your body, your back still pressed against the wood of the door as the wizard sinks to his knees before you. He pulls your trousers from around your ankles, looking up at you with hungry and pleading eyes. You reach down to run your hand through his hair, breath already heavy at the sight of him at your feet, begging, desperate. Turning his face into your touch, Gale kisses your palm before moving his lips to the side of your knee, planting lingering, open-mouthed kisses all the way up your inner-thigh, tongue swirling against youru flushed skin. You can’t take your eyes off the man kneeling before you, his hands on your waist, keeping you pressed against the door as he continues his voyage across your body.
“Gale, I…”
Before your mind and mouth have the chance to articulate what you need, you feel Gale’s breath hot between your thighs as he hooks a finger into the band of your underwear, pulling them aside and replacing them with his lips. Your breath catches hard and fast in your throat at the feel of Gale on you, his tongue moving to roll the length of you, already aching and hot with your need for him. Your grip tightens in his hair and your head rolls back against the wood of the door. Gale has barely begun and already you know he won’t stop until he has given you everything you need and more. You’re amazed your legs can keep you upright comsiderong how Gale’s touch makes your knees weaken and your body quiver, but his firm grip on your hips keeps you pressed against the door, pinning you between the hard wood and the feel of his mouth on you. There’s nowhere else you would rather be.
Gale hums into you, tongue licking you open, roaming the length of you with a pressure that drives you out of your mind. Feeling how your body is melting to putty above him, Gale shifts to hook your thigh over his shoulder, moving to pull you to almost sitting on his face. One hand gripping the leg keeping you up, Gale’s other hand drifts down to his own desire, loosening the belt of his trousers to slip a hand into his underwear. His actions don’t let up for a moment, his tongue rolling over you and massaging your clit, tasting every inch of you with each flick and swirl, nudging you closer to the spring in your stomach snapping. Your grip in Gale’s hair tightens, and with Gale’s moan into you so too does the feeling in your body.
“Oh Gods, you’re…Gale, you’re gonna -
oh fuck I-”
With one more deft stroke of his tongue, your body gives in as the waves finally crash. You are overcome with the feel of the pleasure Gale brings you, your thighs quivering around his head, your grip tightening in his hair as you ride out your climax on his tongue with bucking hips. Gale’s movements keep pace to make sure he is getting every last ounce of pleasure out of you that he can. You can feel him moan into you as he tastes your desire on his tongue, feeling you flutter and pulse around him as you cum.
Too eager to keep making you feel good and to taste every last drop of you despite your overstimulation as the waves of your orgasm abate, body pliable in his practiced hands, Gale only stops when you pull him pack up your body with a giggle. The wizard smirks, his lips glossed with you as you pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue with a hum.
“You feel
too
good
” you purr into his mouth, Gale’s body pressing yours against the door before he pulls you upward into his arms to carry you to the bed.
“
You
feel too good” Gale replies as he deepens your kiss, tongue swirling around your own as he lays you down gently, a nonchalant flick of his wrist lighting the candle on the bedside table, bathing the room, and him, in an amber light.
Your breath hitches in your throat as Gale presses his lips back to yours. He shifts his knee to move your thigh upward, affording him more space to roll his hips down into you. You can feel his arousal, and you know he can feel the aftermath of yours, too - wet and messy from his own mouth - but his unhurried movements stoke the fire between your thighs even more. He’s drinking you in and enjoying you far too much to rush...
“
Gale…
” you sigh into his lips, hands knotted in his chestnut hair, his robes redolent with the scent of book pages, old leather, and vanilla - the familiar, comforting smell of him fills and stirs your senses.
“Yes, my love?” Gale answers into your neck, his lips leisurely exploring your skin, savouring every inch of you, hands roving to stroke and touch you anywhere he can…well,
almost
anywhere...
“I love you” you sigh, half-coherently as the man on top of you continues to drag his lips down toward your collarbone, untying your robe at the waist to inch it off your body, despite the fact that he has already done away with your trousers and that your underwear is all but ruined.
“And I love you, my heart, more than you know” he purrs into your skin, as if trying to press his words into your very being, “I could spend my life with you like this and I would want for nothing”. Gale’s kisses are punctuated with swipes of his tongue down your now exposed sternum, your undershirt doing little to cover your top half as you try to remove Gale’s robe in kind. Your body twitches at every touch.
“I want to feel you against me” you whine, tugging haplessly at Gale’s robe, desperate to feel his skin against you, feel his warmth, to run your hands and nails down his back and bury your face in his neck and chest, to make him feel as good as he makes you feel.
Gale laughs at your impatience as he obliges, sitting up to allow you to peel his robes from his body. The pair of you don’t stop, removing everything until you are left in only your thin undershirt, and Gale in nothing at all. The way his body looks in the candlelight makes you ache, and the way your undershirt skims your body, almost see-through, has a similar effect on Gale. His length twitches at the sight of you lay, waiting for him, cheeks still flushed from your previous climas and eyes asking him for more.
“Gods, you are breathtaking” Gale sighs, almost to himself, but your chest and cheeks burn at his words. His eyes rake over your body, taking every inch of you in, adoration pouring from him like sunlight.
Leaning down to kiss you, Gale presses you back into the bed, his weight atop your body making your heart thrum. Gale hooks his hands under your thighs once more to allow him room to move as he slowly kisses his way down your body, pushing your undershirt up to expose your chest. His fingertips and lips meet your nipples, with a soft pinch and flick of his tongue eliciting a high-pitched gasp from you. Gale takes his time lavishing attention onto you, his hips rolling his unclothed arousal against your heat.
“P-please” you whimper, though you already know Gale is just as desperate for you - you can feel it. One word is all it takes to feel the head of Gale’s cock press against you. Your gasp as he slides into you is met with Gale’s own low, growling moan. Slow at first, Gale’s hips roll in a deep, steady rhythm. You don’t know whose breath is whose, who starts and ends where - all you know is that the pleasure Gale ekes from you with each tiny move is stronger than the pull of the tides. The wet heat of your climax lets Gale sink even deeper into you and lets his thrusts hit your most sensitive sports. Gale’s fingertips dimple your thighs as he grips onto you, breath already shaky between his desperate gasps and pitchy moans. You hook your ankles together around Gale’s waist, pulling him as close to you as you possibly can, not wanting to waste a moment or an inch of him. The two of you move like waves, it’s on instinct and all that fills your mind is the way Gale makes you feel.
“
Oh m-my love
” Gale whimpers, “you…fu-oh you feel
so
good, I-” Gale's words are garbled and incoherent for the way your body feels beneath him, the way your hair looks fanned around you in the candlelight, the way you are slowly coming undone beneath him for him and him alone. He can barely breathe, let alone form a coherent thought - all he knows is he wants to keep making you feel as good as you are making him feel for the rest of his life. He can feel your body rise and fall beneath him, and feel how you are getting closer to another release as your heartbeat quickens around his length.
“Gale, I-”
“That’s it, my love” his encouragement comes soft as he whispers in your ear, face dropped to kiss along your jaw as he talks you through your impending climax, "just like that".
“You’re gonna m-make me-”
“Let go, my darling, let me feel you” Gale’s words are breathy and punctuated with kisses, and they are all you need to feel the knot unravel once again. Slower this time, the seconds build like the swell of a wave to a standstill. The coil snaps in slow motion, Gale keeping his pace steady into you until his hips begin to falter at the feel and sight of you beneath him, your grip on his back, in his hair, the sounds of your pleasure…all of you. Gale captures you in a kiss as he meets his own climax, each thrust has your name falling from his lips into yours like a prayer. You feel him empty into you with sloppy thrusts as you pulse around him, the two of you in perfect, syncopated rhythm until all that is left is the pair of you, breathless and tangled in the candlelight. The patter of rain against the window and the bustle of the night on the street outside continues putside of your room, and so does the rest of the world. You don't care, not right now.
Gale pulls the besheet over your still-warm bodies as you roll to rest your head on his chest. You can already feel sleep overcoming you in this small blip of peacefulness. As if reading your mind, Gale plants a small kiss atop your head.
“I could stay with you like this forever, you know” he whispers, sounding worlds away, “just you and I...nothing else matters. I’d crawl through the Hells and the Heavens to get to this, Tav, you know that?”
Smiling, you pull Gale into a kiss, “as would I, my love - though I think we have done our fair share of crawling through the Hells with likely more to come, so let’s not tempt fate, eh?”
Gale laughs, the most perfct sound you have ever heard. “Y
ou make a good point, but mine still stands - there is nothing I wouldn’t give for you, for this”. Gale’s voice is so soft and heavy with sleep that it makes your heart swell.
“I love you, Gale” you mutter, eyelids heavy.
“And I love you, my heart”. Gale pulls you closer into his side, hand moving to stroke your hair as your breathing evens out and the pair of you fall asleep, wrapped in bedsheets and one another. It might just be one evening of peace for now, but it’s enough to sustain you until this whole ordeal is over. Until then, the pair of you sleep, and dream about all the peace you have to come.
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
Vodka and Gamerfuel!, Part 2: Loading Bay
Mr. West had walled off one of the lesser-used secret tunnels to create a makeshift gaming room. It probably wasn't the most secure place for sensitive electronics, but dehumidifiers ran on full blast, power cables snaked in from the club upstairs, and armed guards stood watch at the entrances to deter anyone from wandering in during a digital deep dive.
The space was dominated by five WayneTech VR gaming rigs, each mounted in a line down the middle of the room with plenty of space between them. At first glance, the rigs looked like demo models for the Superman Ultimate Flight ride at Six Flags over Terminus (hopefully to soon be rebranded into "Scarecrow Ultimate Terror" if the
Garnished Rollercoaster
was accomplished). Each rig was essentially an oversized, floor-mounted armature ending in a clamp meant to grip a user's torso from above.
Instead of rollercoaster seats, the backrest of each rig featured a stripe of electronics designed to interface directly with the spinal cord, tricking it into feeling the simulation. A separate VR helmet was mounted on the rig so that the user's head could move freely while the weight remained partially supported. Beneath each unit, bungee cords with stirrups dangled to help lift the user's legs and reduce strain during use.
Shadow Boxer walked down the line of rigs, eyeing them with bemusement. "I always wondered what it'd be like to be a toy in a claw machine…" he mused aloud.
Silver's eyes lit up as she entered the room. She eagerly greeted each rig like an old friend, chatting cheerfully with the equipment and hyping them up for the job ahead.
Adamant looked visibly twitchy at the thought of being suspended midair by the strange mechanical limb. He wondered if he could rip himself free if something went wrong, then quickly dismissed the thought. He had never thought of his power as a prison—and wasn't about to start now.
From previous tests, the team already knew how it worked. They would be clamped into the rigs, ideally wearing minimal clothing to allow better sensor contact along their backs. Once connected, the spinal interface would absorb and redirect nerve impulses, limiting actual limb movement while transmitting intention into the simulation. Haptic feedback added physical sensations, but there was a persistent numb, floaty feeling that was hard to ignore. A hardwired release knob sat above the sternum on the front panel, in theory allowing users to disengage even with reduced mobility.
Lodestone wandered over to the rigs, checking the fit. Earlier, everyone had chosen their preferred rig. Mr. West and Companion Cube had made adjustments to accommodate their various body types for maximum comfort.
Adamant approached his rig dressed differently from his usual three-piece suit or casual button-down—today he wore jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt, which he stripped off and tossed aside before climbing in.
The woman overseeing the tech—who Silver was now certain was Companion Cube—sat centered on the far wall behind a computer station. A half-dozen monitors clung to desk mounts, while several laptops were arrayed beside her. She was no longer dressed in biker cosplay; instead, she wore comfy leggings with anime characters, a Terminus West T-shirt, and ballet flats. Her short-cropped hair hinted at frequent wig use. She was clearly in work mode now and seemed far more approachable than during her villainous entrance.
Mr. West leaned on a table he'd stocked with snacks, Gamer Fuel!, and a vodka-heavy wet bar. He wore a Terminus West tee as well, grinning excitedly at the twin big-screen TVs he'd set up for his own entertainment. "This is so cool!" he exclaimed.
"I'm booted up, and we've got about half an hour until the first trial," Companion Cube announced, her voice pleasant but firm. She'd already linked a microphone feed into the headset system so that players could hear her guidance even over the game's soundtrack. "Whenever y'all want to get loaded in, we can start working on avatars."
A little behind everyone else, J'Ayne—guised as a Barbie-like Southern blonde in a midriff tee with a koi on the front, short shorts, and Doc Martens—strode confidently into the space.
Silver turned to J'Ayne with a smile. "I dig your look today!"
"Thanks, girl," J'Ayne replied with a grin.
The technopath then patted her rig affectionately. "We're gonna have so much fun!"
The rig replied in a smooth synthetic voice that only she could hear, "I'll take good care of you, ma'am."
"I'm sure you will, and thank you!" Silver responded to her rig, prepping for immersion.
Adamant growled softly, "Better to do it now. More time to get used to it." He climbed into his rig, fitting his feet into the stirrups and leaning back against the spinal connectors.
"Alright, let's get this started," said J'Ayne, stepping into her own rig.
Shadow Boxer removed his jacket, revealing muscled arms under a tank top and loose pants. He stretched briefly, then climbed into his rig. "I'm ready to go."
Lodestone, dressed in a sleek Athleta ensemble, stretched and then carefully eased into her rig.
Getting into the rigs was simple, if a bit awkward. Once settled, the front plates clamped down and the armatures lifted each user off the ground. For Adamant, the sudden disconnection from the earth beneath his feet was especially unsettling. The rigs had multiple degrees of movement, reducing simulator sickness by physically shifting the user in the direction of their motion within the game.
The helmets came down next, activating the lenses and headphones. Shadow Boxer did a surprisingly-good Keanu Reeves impression. "Hit me."
Adamant replied flatly, "I know you cannot see my face, Shadow, but I am rolling my eyes."
The digital world swallowed them.
They each loaded, one by one, into a black, infinite plane. Floating mirrors appeared before them, displaying their avatars. Control panels hovered nearby for customization. Companion Cube's voice filtered into their ears. "I tried to get the details close at first glance. Your heights should be dialed in, and I picked the closest faces." They were each regarding a digital cartoon of of themselves in the mirror. Apparently this game wasn't going for photorealism.
Everyone quickly noticed how top-heavy they felt. The male avatars featured impossibly-broad shoulders tapering to narrow waists, making it difficult to see their feet over bulging pecs. The women were… yeah.
"Sorry, everyone," Companion Cube said with an audible grimace. "Looks like the character models were based on that Superman and Wonder Woman cartoon from a few years ago. I'm highlighting the body controls on your screens if you want to try to get them better, but the artists on this game need to meet a real human being or something. I'm not sure how much give there is."
"This is… strange feeling…" Shadow Boxer said, perfunctorily fiddling with settings before quickly abandoning them. Companion Cube had probably done better than he could.
Silver frowned at her own reflection. "Well, that's… disappointing." She tested her ability to manipulate the avatar, particularly fine visual details. Her rig hit some kind of wall, with the avatar details governed by the server. She was able to get herself probably closer than anyone else to her actual proportions, but that still left something to be desired.
"Thanks for doing what you could," Lodestone said to Cube.
J'Ayne eagerly tweaked her avatar and created something garishly bizarre—like a randomized mess from an early Sims game. More comfortable than anyone else, she adapted quickly. Years of experience living with dysmorphia made the transition less jarring. In fact, some of the more outlandish body options gave her ideas for future experimentation.
Adamant glanced at J'Ayne's uncanny avatar and involuntarily flinched before smothering a flash of disgust. He grunted. "I've seen the Man of Steel. He does not look like… this. Some of those Apocalyptian parademons from that invasion, maybe. Very… inhuman." He tried bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, attempting a boxer's stance that felt ridiculous in the oversized digital body.
"Well, I'm sure they'll appreciate some… feedback… once we're done here," Silver said dryly. "This works for now. Thanks again for the help, Companion. And hey—do you prefer to be called Companion Cube?"
"Cube if you need to get it out quick," the hacker responded. "Thanks again for letting me be your girl in the chair for this."
"Of course," Silver replied warmly.
Adamant's bouncing helped him adjust to the disorientation. There was no real sense of body weight—the physics weren't that specific. In the real world, his armature lifted him up and down slightly to simulate the sensation of movement. The real problem lay in the kinematics. When he reached forward, his arm didn't appear at the angle it truly was, due to the broader-than-real shoulders of his avatar. The result looked disconcerting.
Lodestone reached to her right, curious whether her avatar could touch another. The feedback felt like interacting with cotton candy—an illusion of touch. The rig sent signals up her spine, but in reality, she was just loosely flailing in the chair. The physics appeared tuned to simulate a reasonable illusion of another avatar pushing away when brushed. Grappling likely wasn't supported. Any avatar interaction would probably occur at the end of a weapon, with visual cheats to make it appear convincing.
Shadow Boxer tested his range of motion, experimenting with how to translate his intentions into avatar movement. He began speeding up his motions, trying to gauge how well the rig kept up and whether there was any latency. The latency proved minimal. However, with more elaborate maneuvers, the reverse kinematics engine tried to keep up with his exaggerated frame, resulting in shoulder blades rolling unnaturally. Acrobatic moves were the most disorienting—the physical rig didn't actually invert his body, so his inner ear didn't register flips properly. His avatar completed the moves, but the lack of corresponding gravity or centrifugal force made the feedback feel incomplete.
Adamant attempted something simpler: he touched the ground in the simulation, then tried to tear into it with his hands, as he might in the real world. The effort was fruitless. His connection to the earth was severed, and he was certain he was limited to whatever the game defined as normal human strength. The ground remained immutable. No cracks, no movement. He grinned coldly. "Well. That should make this entertaining at least. I feared we would not receive a particularly exciting workout."
Silver chuckled as she flexed and adjusted to her own avatar, testing its capabilities. Unlike the others, her rig translated intention without movement. In the real world, Mr. West and Companion Cube were unnerved—her body hung relaxed in the harness while her avatar moved freely. The others thrashed and flailed in limited imitations of their avatars, while she floated still. "Oh man, this is frigging COOL, you guys!"
Adamant considered this. "Had we more time, I would have been interested to see if J'Ayne could have fielded multiple teams by herself. I assume you can have as many spinal columns as you wish? It would have been an interesting experiment."
"Well, that's not super weird or terrifying to think about at all…" Silver muttered. "Thanks, Adamant."
Adamant shrugged. "She is not human. She need not limit herself to our frailties, nor our mindset."
"I am good, Adamant. I do not need to go too crazy," said J'Ayne.
"Okay, we're getting to t-minus five," Companion Cube's voice announced after several minutes of exploration. "I'm getting word that the first trial is a team battleground, mainly for scoring points to seed the tournament. If it's like other games in the genre, you'll be dropped in an abandoned area to find equipment. Kill anything that isn't on your team, and try to upgrade weapons and armor."
Shadow Boxer asked, "Do we know if we're dropping in together or separately?"
"Hopefully together," Cube responded. "But if not, I'll guide you to each other."
Shadow Boxer gave a thumbs up in his rig, aiming in what he thought was the direction of Companion Cube in real space.
Adamant knelt, centering himself through deep breaths in the meditation technique Willow had been teaching him. Though his connection to the earth was suspended by several feet, Adamant could still feel it. Despite his senses telling him he stood in a digital void, the comfort of stone and earth reassured him—he remained in a vault beneath Terminus, exactly where he should be.
"Ready," Lodestone said. The cartoonish planes of her avatar's face looked worried.
Silver turned to Lodestone. "You'll be okay. Remember, it's just a game. I bet your parkour in here is awesome…"
Lodestone smiled at her gratefully.
Suddenly, the black void lit up, a 20-second countdown appearing in the sky beneath a dramatic logo and rising music. "Pax Entertainment Presents… In cooperation with WayneTech and Kord Industries…
WORLDSTORM GLOBAL CHAMPIONSHIPS 2020!"
Shadow Boxer said, "Oh Companion Cube, not to worry or anything, but if I start to go all… you know, shadowy and stuff… do you have a bright light, or… yeah, never mind, it'll be fine. I've got this."
The light surged to a blinding white, then faded—revealing the group standing in the cargo bay of an immense spaceship. High-tech gadgets, catwalks, and metal crates filled the space. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of other avatars were appearing, most in teams of five. Each teammate was outlined in green.
"We should probably have the likes of Dr. Fate on speed dial for your inevitable descent into madness and chaos," Adamant remarked to Shadow Boxer. "But for now, let's trust in your self-control." He scanned the area for weapons or anything usable—even a chair.
"Dropping in five minutes!" a digital voice echoed through the chamber.
Silver vibrated with excitement, murmuring, "This is so cool," over and over as she took in their surroundings.
Nearby, a team of five enemy players could be heard. Though their voices were digitized, they didn't seem to realize they were audible. Lodestone listened carefully to gain intel on the opponents, while asking, "Cube, can you put us on an isolated channel?"
"I can take you off the main channel," the hacker replied, "but you'll still need to voice interact with some things. Keep comm discipline. Act like you would if using physical communicators near enemies."
A tall male avatar oversaw four female avatars, two of them startlingly short—perhaps little people, or, more likely, young girls. The oversexualized avatar designs did little to clarify.
"How are we going to find daddy?" one of the tiny avatars asked. "I want to totally wreck him!"
In the loading zone, Shadow Boxer jogged back and forth in a tight loop around his team, occasionally jumping or squatting. "Yeah, it's going to be fine. I can totally feel it," he said, passing Adamant mid-lap.
"Shadow, you okay there, buddy?" Silver asked.
"Oh… yeah, I'm fine," Shadow Boxer said, rocking to a stop and watching the nearby group. "I just hate sitting around in these loading zones. That was definitely weird. Man, I hope I don't get killed by some insufferable thirteen-year-old…" After a pause, he quirked his head and muttered, "I think maybe I shouldn't have downed that GamerFuel right before we started."
"I'm curious…" Adamant announced, strolling over to the group. "Good luck down there, my friend!" he called out, trying to slap the male avatar on the shoulder. Once again, the cotton-candy sensation greeted Adamant's touch—no real force behind it, only the game engine doing its best to simulate avatars moving past each other. Combat hadn't started. The simulation also seemed to lag slightly under the strain of rendering so many avatars in such a massive room.
Silver turned her gaze to the crates, scanning them carefully to see if any stood out, even in a subtle way, but they just appeared to be props; they didn't respond to interaction or show any sign of being openable.
Adamant returned to the group. "We cannot attack them yet," he said, then added, "But perhaps we can find a bludgeon and deal with a few on the way down."
Nearby, the man with the group of two women and two probably young girls asked, "Markovian?" with a West Coast American accent. It was unclear whether the rival group had chosen avatars close to their real appearance as the rogues (barring J'Ayne) had. They seemed to consist of a tall Black man, a blond white woman, a dark-haired Asian woman, and two dark-haired Asian girls.
Adamant turned back, surprised. "Well, yes! I'm surprised to have my accent recognized so readily."
"I've been to the country a few times," the man replied with a shrug.
One of the girls giggled and exclaimed, "Uncle Digg went over there and yelled at Geo-Force!"
One of the adult-sized women facepalmed at the not-so-subtle name drop.
"Good for him," Adamant said dryly. "The man is… ill-suited for the role he attempts to play at. If your uncle returns, tell him to go to the Red Suite. Best food in the country. They have a dish much like steak and grits."
Shadow Boxer leaned toward Adamant and whispered, "Isn't Geo-Force… you know, never mind, later."
Silver chuckled at the kids, then turned to their parents. "They're sweet." She shifted her attention to the tiny avatars. "You guys excited?"
One of the girls giggled again. "We're here to mess with Daddy!" she announced. "I just want to play!" the other added.
"If you wish for an alliance—temporary, of course—we could assist in your venture of vengeance," Adamant offered solemnly to the child.
The blond woman observed the team closely, clearly picking up something useful from their avatars' kinematics. Shadow Boxer suspected that all three adults were skilled fighters based on the little movement he'd seen. The blonde's posture and stance were interesting because her kinematics were
correct
—she might be close to those cartoon-exaggerated proportions in real life.
Honestly, the
little girls
moved like they'd had more than a little training.
"I'm sure you're going to give your dad a run for his money," Shadow Boxer said to the kids before nodding to the blonde, acknowledging her watchful examination.
"I think we might be able to make an alliance work," the blond woman said, her voice rich and harmonious despite the digital compression. "You've only got two real melee fighters? We'll be
more
interested in close combat weapons."
"What do you think?" Shadow Boxer asked Adamant. "Obviously at some point, there will be a sudden and inevitable betrayal."
The man from the rival team shrugged, calm and clearly there because his niece insisted. "This round's just for points, right? We'll go all-out later if we're up against you, but I don't think we need to worry about turning on each other this round."
Adamant tilted his head in thought, something he usually only did when his mirrored mask hid his expressions. He eyed the group more critically, then sighed. "Figures there would be others with actual training here. Probably more than just us and them, especially if 'Dad' is similarly trained. Better to have them at our side than sneaking up on us."
"Sure, I'm game," Shadow Boxer said with a grin. "Besides, 'messing with Daddy' seems like a solid motivation."
Silver added, "I assumed we were likely to see other… talented players. I'm curious how far that'll go."
Further off, some of the other groups looked less coordinated. Some didn't even seem to be on true immersion rigs—their movements were stiff, mechanical.
"Yay!" cheered the girl planning revenge on her father. "You can call me L, and that's my friend Sin." She pointed quickly. "And that's Red, and Black, and Uncle Digg," indicating the Asian woman, the blonde, and the man before the adults could stop her.
Adamant extended a hand. "You may call me Mark," he said to Uncle Digg, then offered the same to the child. A handshake protocol existed in the system, and while the emote felt like shaking hands with warm taffy, it didn't slide off awkwardly.
Silver smiled. "You can just call me 'A.' A pleasure meeting you all."
Lodestone introduced herself with a simple, "Jess. Nice to meet you all."
Shadow Boxer, slipping into his Keanu Reeves impression, intoned, "Johnny… just Johnny," and gave L a friendly wave.
Adamant tried to trigger some sort of eyeroll emote, wondering if the system allowed it.
J'Ayne stood apart, watching her companions socialize but remaining silent. She kept her avatar's back to the wall, poised on the balls of her feet, ready to move at a moment's notice.
The blonde—"Black"—whose eyes hadn't left Shadow Boxer since assessing the team, replied, "Johnny? You look more like a… Hank to me."
Shadow Boxer suddenly became very aware that Black was probably Black Canary—freelancer to the Bat family during his time in Gotham. He'd never fought her directly, but the Bat crew shared intel. That avatar definitely matched her. "You think so?" he asked, grinning. "The avatar system in here might not be that bad after all. Voice reproduction isn't too shabby either."
She smirked. "If I'm right, the Blüdhaven crew spoke highly of your technique."
"You can't take his word for it," Shadow Boxer laughed. "I'm sure he talked me up to make himself look better. Bet he didn't tell you about the time I stole his sticks while he was fixing his hair."
Adamant glanced between them. "Is this going to be an issue, Johnny? Black?" His voice lost its usual levity.
Black shook her head. "We're all here to have a good time, right? Though I know a few people with questions about 100-foot-tall rock monsters." Her smile, if correctly translated by the avatar, seemed more amused than threatening.
Adamant's voice dropped to a growl. "If they'd prefer 100-foot-tall monuments to the losing side of a racist civil war, they're welcome to do that sculpture work themselves. I'd love to see how their PR handles it."
Silver murmured, "…It was worth it for the laser show alone."
"That it was," Adamant agreed.
A loud voice rang out over the simulation: "Bay doors opening in 10 seconds! 9… 8…" Klaxons blared.
"See you on the ground!" Uncle Digg shouted as the floor began to open, revealing a moonlit sci-fi slum far below.
Shadow Boxer stretched once more. "Good luck getting your dad, kid."
Over comms, Companion Cube asked, "Did you guys seriously just make an alliance with Smoak's team? She's like, a legend."
"I mean, maybe?" Silver replied, moving far enough away from the other team that the audio hopefully wouldn't be broadcast to them. "Anything to keep people off our asses right out of the gate."
"Especially
those
people," Adamant growled as they grouped back up away from the temporary-allies. "We need to figure out a way to cheat. If that woman is who I think she is, she could beat all of us by herself."
"I don't know who Smoak is," Shadow Boxer said, "but that was almost certainly Black Canary. Not sure about the others."
"Three… two… one…" The floor dropped out beneath them. In the room, the armatures lowered the contenders quickly to the floor, simulating a rapid acceleration, though there was only so far it could fall. Despite the brief drop, there was a sudden sensation of weightless falling. Energy parachutes hung from each avatar, fluttering as they plummeted toward the cityscape below.
Agent Silver scanned the space below, searching for a good landing spot and any notable locations.
A blinking
DROP NOW
button pulsed on each parachute cable, inviting activation as the contenders floated over the drop area. Early releasers let go behind them, teams spreading out as they landed across the battle zone. Smoak's team remained in visual range nearby.
Adamant cracked his neck, content to let the others decide where to land.
Shadow Boxer kept one eye on Black Canary and her team, trying to anticipate their destination while maintaining pace with his own group.
They hovered in tense anticipation, on the verge of entering a simulated video game-style battle royale—likely against Star City's team of heavyweights. Fortunately, Green Arrow himself was absent… but were the girls his wards?
"Aim high," Agent Silver advised, "so we can get a good scan of the area."
Lodestone swept her gaze across the terrain, scanning for suitable landing zones.
"Hey Jess," Shadow Boxer called over to Lodestone, "you've got good eyes—seeing anything promising?"
"We'll want weapons… and good areas for melee," Lodestone muttered, eyes still locked on the shifting map below. She kept her eyes on where the rival teams were falling, and saw a promising target below.
One release, friends and allies-of-convenience following, and they were dropping into the grand melee…
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
Clark
The first thing Clark did when he got home from his date with Bruce was call Lois and get her up to speed, because Clark knew that if he didn’t update his best friend on such an important development that she would be mortally offended and he would never hear the end of it.
The second thing he did was text Bruce to schedule their next date. Clark was not the type to play games; he’d heard all the different rules about waiting twenty-four hours or three days or however long to text someone after a first date and he thought they were bullshit.
Their second date took place at Clark’s apartment roughly a week later. The promise of privacy was apparently a big draw for Bruce, which made Clark wonder just how much Alfred and Dick had been badgering him about the fact that they were finally together (and reinforced his own decision not to tell his parents anything about the soulmate situation until his relationship with Bruce was more of a sure thing).
Clark offered to cook this time, even though he knew there was no way he could follow up on the amazing dinner Alfred had made them. But he put forth his best effort. He dug out one of his mother’s recipes, spent hours googling wine pairings, bought flowers to put in a vase on the table (Clark didn’t know how Bruce felt about flowers, but
he
liked flowers), dug out a tablecloth his mother had given him when he’d moved to Metropolis that he’d never once used. He cleaned his apartment until it was spotless and he had to open the windows to air it out because it smelled too strongly of artificial citrus for Clark’s sensitive nose.
Bruce arrived right on time. Clark had heard he had a reputation in Gotham for always being “fashionably late,” but he was almost never late to anything he and Clark did together.
“Thanks for coming over,” Clark said as he opened the door to let Bruce inside. He watched as Bruce took the place in. “It’s no Wayne Manor, but hopefully it’ll do.” Clark wasn’t self-conscious about how his living situation stacked up next to Bruce Wayne’s. He lived in a modern apartment in a nice part of town that he paid for with his respectable salary from a job that he loved. (And if he did feel like making comparisons between the two of them, he also had an ice fortress in the Arctic filled with advanced alien technology. So that was something.)
“It’s nice,” Bruce said, likewise seeing nothing wrong with Clark’s one-bedroom. “And whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”
The oven timer dinged, and Clark plated their food and poured the wine. They sat down at his romantic table for two, Bruce looking appropriately impressed by all the effort Clark had gone to. “It’s my mother’s recipe,” Clark explained. “Hopefully I executed it correctly; I didn’t want to call her for tips and risk giving away that I’m dating someone.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Clark worried that perhaps “dating someone” wasn’t the correct terminology to use after not even two completed dates, but Bruce didn’t object. Instead he asked, somewhat surprised, “You haven’t told your parents?”
Clark hadn’t really talked about his parents with Bruce all that much. It felt like rubbing it in –
I have living parents and you don’t
– but Bruce knew the basics, that Jonathan and Martha Kent still lived in Smallville and that Clark had a good relationship with them, kept in touch, and visited regularly.
“If I told my parents,
especially
my mother, that I’d found my soulmate and was going on a date with him, she’d freak out,” Clark explained. “In a good way; she would be very happy for me. But she’d jump straight to planning the wedding, and you and I agreed to take things slow. I didn’t want that added pressure.”
“How long do you think you’ll wait before telling them?”
Clark hadn’t come to a decision on that yet. “I’ll play it by ear. Probably wait at least a few months.” He cracked a smile. “As soon as I tell her about you, she’s going to want to meet you.”
“Fair enough,” Bruce agreed, to Clark’s surprise. He didn’t look
comfortable
with the idea of meeting Clark’s parents, but he didn’t look entirely opposed to it either.
Not that it mattered right now. They still had plenty of time to work up to that stage of their relationship. Realistically, this only being their second date, they shouldn’t have even been discussing the prospect of Bruce meeting Clark’s parents. But Bruce had been the one to bring it up. “Which version of me are you planning on telling her about?”
Clark had thought about that too. It was an easier question to answer. The fact that Clark was dating billionaire Bruce Wayne would certainly be a shock to his parents, but less of a shock than telling them he was dating Batman. (Although by this point in their lives, having adopted an alien son who became a superhero, Clark’s parents weren’t the type to be shocked by anything, so maybe it wouldn’t matter.) “I was going to tell her about your mild-mannered alter ego,” Clark joked. As he said this, a thought occurred to him, and he frowned. “But I’m just now realizing that I told Lois I’m dating Batman. She’s going to find out who you are if we keep this up.”
If we keep this up.
The two of them had been speaking like their relationship was already a foregone conclusion, and Clark had to remind himself that longevity wasn’t guaranteed. He couldn’t start thinking too far ahead.
But it was hard not to. It was hard not to feel overly attached to a man Clark had spent years fighting beside, a man who’d saved his life on multiple occasions, a man whose life Clark had saved even more than that.
They’d done things out of order. On a second date with anyone else, Clark would still be getting to know the person. On his second date with Bruce, Clark felt like he already knew everything he needed to know.
Not everything, Clark reminded himself. He knew Batman, the superhero, like the back of his hand. And he knew Bruce Wayne’s public persona pretty well too, from being a reporter. But he still had a lot to learn about who Bruce was underneath all of that. And he was eager to get started.
“After winning a Pulitzer for her investigative reporting,” Bruce said, returning Clark’s thoughts to the subject of Lois, and the fact that there was no way in hell they could keep Batman’s identity a secret from her now that they were together, “I’d be almost disappointed if she didn’t.”
Clark hadn’t expected that response. (See? There
were
still things for him to learn about Bruce.) Bruce was even more protective of his identity than Clark was, and that was saying something. The idea that he would let Lois – a woman he barely knew – in on the secret was unthinkable to Clark. “You don’t mind?” Clark asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.
“It’s not ideal,” Bruce admitted. “But I can’t expect you to keep your love life a secret from your closest friend. And she’s been trustworthy with your identity thus far. And with her investigation into the former mayor.”
“She can definitely keep a secret,” Clark assured Bruce.
“Then I’ll just have to get over it,” Bruce said. He didn’t say anything else, but Clark was getting better at reading between the lines, and the implication was clear: Bruce didn’t like that being in a relationship with Clark meant that another person would eventually uncover his secret identity, but he was willing to endure it, because being in a relationship with Clark was more important to him than his secret identity.
Holy shit.
Clark reined in his expectations. The prospect of being in a relationship with Clark was,
at the moment,
more important to Bruce than the prospect of giving up his secret identity to a single, trusted source. It was an important difference. Bruce wasn’t giving up his entire vigilante lifestyle just to be with Clark, and Clark would never ask him to. And it wasn’t as though Clark hadn’t recently made a similar decision, sharing his secret identity with Alfred and Dick.
But still. It was a tradeoff Clark doubted Bruce would make for anyone else. It meant he was serious about this. And Clark had seen the lengths Bruce would go to for something he was serious about.
When Bruce set his mind to a task, there was no stopping him.
Bruce
After dinner, Bruce and Clark moved their conversation to the sofa. Clark asked about Dick. Bruce asked about Clark’s parents. Clark bringing them up had made Bruce realize how little he knew about them, and about Clark’s childhood.
He realized Clark would probably, at some point, expect Bruce to talk about
his
parents and
his
childhood. He would cross that bridge when they came to it.
For now, Clark seemed content to share his story and not ask for Bruce’s. Bruce liked hearing about it. He used to feel a pang of jealousy hearing about others’ happy childhoods, but he didn’t anymore. And Clark was clearly trying to be sensitive about it.
It helped that Clark’s storytelling was entertaining. He had an endless supply of anecdotes, various mishaps and shenanigans his superpowers had gotten him into growing up. Bruce was forced to remember how he’d once viewed Superman, as this untouchable alien being with limitless power. And now here he was, on a date with the man, listening to him relate how he’d once accidentally run all the way to Winnipeg when he missed the bus and had to get to school on time, and when he’d tried to run back had ended up in Nuevo Leon.
It was starting to get late, but Bruce didn’t want to leave. He was enjoying himself. He was enjoying Clark’s company.
And he was pretty sure Clark had invited him to his apartment for a reason. And it wasn’t just so Alfred and Dick couldn’t spy on them.
Bruce put an arm around Clark, and Clark settled into him, looking comfortable and content. Bruce continued to listen as Clark described the disaster that had been his senior prom, but he let his gaze fall from Clark’s eyes to his mouth and kept it there until Clark started to trail off, equally distracted by Bruce’s rapt attention on him as Bruce was by the way Clark’s thigh was pressing up against his.
“Are you even listening to me,” Clark said, sounding amused, not offended, “Or are you too busy planning what you’re going to do to me later?”
“I’m multitasking,” Bruce said. His voice dipped into a low, gravelly tone that wasn’t unlike the voice he used as Batman. Because he knew that was what Clark liked. “You can keep talking. You were telling me how you found out that alcohol has no effect on you.”
“Was I?” Clark asked, leaning almost imperceptibly closer to Bruce. “I can’t recall.”
There was no telling who closed the distance between them, but either way, they ended up kissing. Bruce buried his hand in Clark’s hair. Clark’s hand settled on his thigh.
Bruce was the one to deepen the kiss, tilting his head and opening his mouth. Clark made a soft noise in the back of his throat, something close to a sigh but a little more needy; his grip on Bruce’s leg briefly tightened. Their tongues brushed against each other, just briefly, and Clark chased after the sensation, leaning forward like he could get any closer to Bruce than they already were. Still not satisfied, he angled his body so he could get his free hand on Bruce, just underneath his jaw, like that extra contact would keep Bruce kissing him longer.
Speaking of alcohol, Bruce felt a little drunk, though he’d only had a glass of Clark’s wine. It had been a while since anyone had made him feel this way. Clark’s thumb traced idly back and forth across Bruce’s cheek. Bruce’s nails scraped lightly across Clark’s scalp, and Clark shivered.
“When you said we would take this slow,” Bruce said, drawing back just enough to speak, “You meant emotionally, right?”
Clark answered without words, by lifting the hand off of Bruce’s thigh and placing it on Bruce’s shoulder, then maneuvering onto his lap – there might have even been a little floating involved, the show-off – with a satisfied smirk. Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him, then took a hold of Clark’s waist and pulled him in for another kiss. This one was far less polite; Clark practically fell into him, and within minutes they were both breathless and Bruce was
definitely
not going back to Gotham any time soon.
A thought occurred to Bruce. He smirked into the kiss and then pulled away, tilting his head back in invitation. Clark took the hint, kissing along Bruce’s jaw. Sliding one of his hands back into Clark’s hair, Bruce guided him where he wanted him, to the base of his neck, and Clark sucked a mark there that Bruce knew would leave a bruise for at least a few days.
Just as Bruce was reaching the point where they needed to start taking some clothes off or he was going to lose his mind, Clark reluctantly got off of him and held out a hand, dragging Bruce into the bedroom.
“I want you to tell me what you were thinking,” Bruce said, unbuttoning his shirt, “When you saw me warming up in the Batcave. You were fantasizing about something.”
“There were multiple fantasies,” Clark admitted with a grin.
“Pick your favorite.”
A little while later, they were lying in Clark’s bed, the moonlight from Clark’s bedroom window casting a pale glow on Clark’s features. He looked every bit as superhuman as Bruce had always known he was. The difference was, Bruce no longer found it intimidating. He found it inviting.
Bruce remembered the mark Clark had left on his neck. He leaned over Clark and located it on him, a little red spot that would be purple by morning. He grinned.
“What?” Clark asked. Bruce tilted his own head to show off his matching hickey. Clark stared at it blankly for a moment before realization dawned. “You did that on purpose,” he said, the accusation in his voice belied by the smile on his face. “You may not have paraded around shirtless in the Cave in front of me on purpose—”
“‘Paraded’?” Bruce echoed.
“—But
that
you definitely did on purpose.”
“Of course I did,” Bruce said, kissing the spot on Clark. “You won’t be able to cover that with the Superman suit. And you better not put any concealer over it.”
“What are people going to think?” Clark said, on the verge of laughter. Bruce was feeling quite giddy himself. He blamed the endorphins.
“They’ll know you’re taken,” he replied.
“What if
Hal
sees it?” Clark asked, horror dawning in his expression. “Bruce, he’ll be insufferable.”
“I think you can handle Green Lantern.”
“He’ll know you gave it to me,” Clark warned. “You know he was the one who spread those rumors about us.”
“Technically,” Bruce corrected, “You gave it to yourself. And maybe he will. But no one believes those rumors anymore.”
After Bruce and Clark had stopped training together on the Watchtower, the rumors about them had died down, and the rest of the Justice League – save for the perpetually stubborn (and apparently smarter than he looked) Hal Jordan – decided there had never been anything to them. Now every time Hal tried to claim that no, really, Batman and Superman were
definitely
fucking, everyone else rolled their eyes and dismissed it as Hal being Hal.
Bruce found his pants on the floor, fished his phone out of the pocket, and checked the time. It was past midnight. He’d told Dick he would be home late, but he was going to be
very
late, especially factoring in the drive back to Gotham.
“I can fly you home if you need to get out on patrol,” Clark offered.
“Then I have to pay for overnight parking,” Bruce deadpanned. He glanced over his shoulder at Clark, who was giving him an unamused look. “I’m joking. You can fly me back.” He paused, then added, “Wear a shirt with a collar on it.”
“Oh,
now
you want me to cover it up.”
Bruce was holding out hope that they’d manage to avoid running into Dick, but they had no such luck. Clark dropped Bruce off in the Batcave, where Dick was waiting impatiently in his Robin suit, doing one-handed cartwheels to burn off some of his pent-up energy.
Of course, being the polite gentleman that he was, Clark couldn’t just leave. He had to stop and say hello.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dick,” Clark said. “We didn’t realize how late it was.”
Dick looked torn between his ongoing delight that Bruce had gotten together with his soulmate (and that that soulmate was Clark) and disgust at what he (correctly) assumed the two of them had been doing all night. “We were supposed to go out two hours ago,” he said.
“We’ll leave now,” Bruce said. “I just need to change.” He turned to Clark, ready to put an end to this interaction before it had a chance to get even more awkward. “Thank you, Clark.”
Clark flew off, but not before sneaking one last kiss from Bruce while Dick scrunched up his nose and made a gagging gesture. Bruce changed into the Batsuit, and he and Dick got into the Batmobile.
“Gross, Bruce,” Dick said, sounding every bit the teenager that he was.
“You’re the one who wanted us to get together,” Bruce reminded him.
“Yeah,” Dick admitted, “But I didn’t think about
this
part.”
Bruce laughed. Dick looked at him strangely. Bruce laughed infrequently enough that it never failed to catch his family by surprise when he did. “Are you gonna be like this all the time from now on?” he asked.
“I’ll try not to be,” Bruce said.
“No,” Dick said quickly, “It’s good. I like it. It’s just… weird. But I’ll get used to 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
(Concurrently the same time as the previous story..)
Upon the fallout of Project 2025's ban and repeal, the United States is with a reputation severely tarnished as a consequence of Trump's actions and cruel executive orders, and the crackdown on Trump's cult, the Proud Boys and Oathkeepers began to take effect, the Supreme Court finally begrudgingly restored Roe v Wade, Affirmative Action, Diversity, Equity and Inclusion once again and ruled in favor of enforcing Voting Rights and banned gerrymandering, lobbying and even ruled Trump's illegal orders unconstitutional now that Trump is impeached and removed from office as countless people took to the streets, especially women and the LGBTQ community and partied loudly with triumph that Trump is out of the White House and banned from running for office again.
And when the Epstein files were released, there were so many big names on there, and there was so many discussions about the infamous pedophile, and the associate who's also a pedophile and rapist, yet was elected president, Donald Trump.
One video went viral where billionaire Kaitlyn Chang, discussed the consequences of Trump's actions and how the Jeffrey Epstein scandal comes back to haunt Trump and how working with his niece, Mary L. Trump, further shed light on exposing Trump himself, being that Mary is the only good Trump with morals and a conscience as the whole internet watched what the billionaire had to say about Donald Trump now that many of Trump's executive orders are overturned and made illegal, and many of his Neo-Nazis, Proud Boys and Oathkeepers have been rounded up, or turned themselves in.
"Boy, howdy do I have some fucked up news for you fans of mine today. Let me fill you in on the lore. As we all know, Donald Trump is the former president of the United States, as all he does is make everyone's lives miserable around him, and basically almost the world shot softballs at him on the Internet. He is the biggest loser worse than Johnny Somali, who knows to run his mouth and make a fool out of himself, and has been known to infamously issue cruel executive orders without thinking of the consequences. He is a racist, narcissistic pedophile who's endgoal is to take and take because all he cares about is money. And I'd honestly not be surprised that Republicans barely did shit to hold him accountable because they're brainwashed cannon fodder who at any moment could be replaced without a second thought. Trump is also downright disrespectful towards everybody, especially women. Now, we know his infamous comments of 'grab them by the pussy', that was offensive to women, and he shouldn't be surprised when the world hates him." Kaitlyn said on her YouTube video that had gone viral as she criticizes pretty much the United States for allowing a pedophile to ruin the reputation and make everybody miserable as she explains the consequences the country is suffering because of Trump.
She also went further and delved into the Epstein scandal that Trump is involved in and further shed light on the former president as a pedophile and rapist, and further calls out the Republican party for condoning and being complicit, arguing that their facade of protecting children exposes really just to allow shady people to traumatize young girls.
And also provided more context by making references to situations such as the environment, where the whales stop singing, seas are warming, hurricanes are deadly, as a omen that silence=death and destruction, as she cites that the world and America are suffering the consequences of Trump's policies and actions, they're not good.
"Half the country who didn't vote at all or voted for him shows something that how stupid my fellow countrymen are, as this is our mess to clean up, we can't rely on other countries to do it for us. Trump is the reason why the world is what it is, as several of his supporters and associated have been rounded up or turned themselves in, the next job is restoring civil order. People are in control, not Trump or his cult. The United States is restoring everything Trump had ruined, including Corporations for Public Broadcasting, Roe V Wade, Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, as well as Affirmative Action, and creating a nationwide Healthcare influence policy to make it affordable to everybody. Trump and his cronies won't terrorize anyone, including the indigenous people any longer." She argues as she also reveals her friendship with the only Trump that had morals and a conscience, Mary L. Trump.
She also supports Mary in her work in shedding light on the person that Donald Trump really is as well as inspiring others who were victims of Jeffrey Epstein and Trump himself, to come forward and speak out now that Trump is no longer in power.
The comments on Kaitlyn's new video were very mixed and divided, as half either were in support of Kaitlyn for speaking out against Trump and calling him and his cult out, along with the United States for allowing a dangerous incompetent man to run the country and ruin America, while the other half, who are hardcore Trump cult members, were furious and called Kaitlyn a 'libtard' as she was insulting their favorite man, Donald Trump.
Among her fanbase and supporters of all types of people including her lesbian fans, were very happy and proud of the billionaire for speaking up.
In counterresponse, she provides a counterpoint by further calling Trump out as a rapist and pedophile who should've been in jail instead of the presidency, citing that the US Constitution needs a serious updating with strict standards on what is required to be president, including no scandals and any shady activities.
"Let's not forget that since he's traveled to a so-called country called the United Independent Territories of America, where he is met by a population of people who, from all walks of life and religion, hate him. Because any time they see him, it's on sight, they are throwing hands. I heard that country is very strict on pedophiles and MAGA propaganda, where if you're caught wearing a red hat and running your mouth, you're a walking, sitting duck for assault by the country's citizens, especially women, who hate him more than the men who hate him. And honestly, I don't feel bad for him because he's stuck in house arrest in that country, he can't leave while under investigation for his role in the Epstein scandal, and basically this leaves him trapped as the country's favorite whipping boy while the United States struggles to restore civil order and everything Trump ruined." She continues.
Many Trump cult members who were triggered by Kaitlyn for insulting their favorite man were trying to be threatening, as some were saying that they would "come after her" in which Kaitlyn just responded to their comments by mocking them and replying with comments like "I'd like to see you try, you'll just embarrass yourself like usual, lol."
And her comments section was also getting attacked by bot accounts saying "MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!" Which Kaitlyn just deleted all of their comments and blocked the account.
However, a surprising amount of conservative people and conservatives that were Trump haters, such as the never-Trumpers, former Republicans that left due to Trump's extremist cult, center-right or center-left individuals, people who were once Trump supporters that were disgusted on how Trump turned out, and many more also shared the same views as Kaitlyn in her rant video against Trump and also expressed their relief that Trump is no longer in office, with some even thanking her for speaking out and speaking the truth.
She also reveals that Trump's biggest moment of foolishness while in the United Independent Territories of America was sparking outrage by "making disrespectful remarks towards the country's Statue of Remembrance, which is a monument to victims of rape and sex trafficking. He did more than just what he said, it was beyond disrespectful. And that led to many of those citizens, many of whom were women, wanting to just take matters into their own hands, there's been a bounty on him for information on his whereabouts so they can keep tracking and beating him up. It actually was pretty funny watching a pedophile getting his ass whooped, and that's saying how dumb his cult and many right-wing losers who failed to see the damage right-wing extremism can bring. That country is very strict when it comes to right-wing stuff, so my advice to you Trump supporters: don't bother doing your MAGA shit there, because you're an open target for assault by that country's women who hate anything that have to do with Trump. It's for your own safety as well as Trump's, who's currently in jail there for life after the ass whooping he received by women there. It's in the best interests of Donald J. Trump to be in jail, because any time he's not in jail, all he does for running his mouth is keep getting pummeled into the ground.", saying that it should keep him locked for his own protection because even inmates there hate him.
Her video also got picked up by a few political news networks like CNN and Fox News, the former of which was in support of Kaitlyn's rant against Trump, while the latter condemned her for insulting Trump and calling him out, yet her rant video was still shared around on a huge number of the country regardless if they were either in agreement with her or not.
And it also did not help that Kaitlyn was also a billionaire that had her own massive corporation and was a well-known celebrity among the people of the country, so her opinions would always be noticed.
Even people who were not really into politics were now being drawn to Kaitlyn's video because of her status as a celebrity and a very rich woman that owned her own company, and it seems that Kaitlyn's video further exposed Trump's many flaws as a president, what a dangerous and cruel person he is, as well as how Trump is a laughing stock not just in the United States, but also in other countries, as his reputation became lower and lower, and more and more were turning against him and his cult.
Even international news outlets outside the United States have caught wind of Kaitlyn's video and the comments it made about Trump, and several of those outlets were quite surprised how someone as famous and popular as she is actually spoke up against Trump and was not one of his brainwashed followers, and many non-American people on social media platforms were praising Kaitlyn for being bold to have the guts to speak out against Trump and how Trump was truly awful for the United States.
Many of the international news outlets praised Kaitlyn and her video for revealing not only Trump's cruelty and idiocy, but also how Trump has become a national embarrassment in front of the international community, and as her video continued to trend everywhere, many were even calling on other celebrities to follow Kaitlyn and speak out against Trump and the right-wing to expose them for what they truly are, and many people also started to hope that Trump never runs for president again in the future.
She also revealed her late mother was a bisexual person, which made her an ally of the LGBTQ community, and it infuriated her that her mother's memory is disrespected because of bigots like Trump himself and his cult.
Kaitlyn also adds that the reason her white mother and Chinese father were murdered that night in the alleyway many years ago, was because of one of those in his cult had murdered them after she and her parents left the theater.
She also came forward and revealed the cult supporter who murdered her parents was none other than fellow Trump/Paulson supporter by the name of Blake Cheng, her former boyfriend who also was revealed to be a pedophile, abuser and sex trafficker, who was also ironically of East Asian background, citing that there are those on her Chinese heritage that voted him too, and said they're idiots.
She also reveals that Blake was an abusive asshole who makes the lives of women miserable and that he's also friends with Grover Paulson, Trump's former vice president and former president recently impeached after Trump was removed from office.
According to Kaitlyn, she also explains that Blake met his downfall that sparked the beginning of the end for the MAGA cult when he was left to die in the train crash by the Batwoman, a masked vigilante who foiled his attempts to attack and destroy New York City that had once been attacked before due to 9/11, where he got what's coming to him after he was found dead and torn to shreds by hungry sharks who hate him.
"Being a supporter of Trump, has a price. And that price has consequences, which Blake found out the hard way when he took his last breaths in the sea as the jaws of hungry sharks tore him to shreds. And deep down, I know Ivanka herself, knows it too. Every person has the potential for change, even Ivanka, to be a good person." She states further, explaining that despite what she's been through, she embodied what a billionaire with money and influence could do if they use it for good and help others who aren't as fortunate, and is giving even someone as Ivanka, a chance to do the right thing and own up to what she had done.
Many people in the LGBTQ community praised Kaitlyn for standing up for her late mother and her sexuality by being an ally, as well as revealing the truth and circumstances of her parents' unfortunate deaths.
Many non-LGBTQ people were also touched by the fact that a billionaire like Kaitlyn was willing to share her story on something personal to her, which also made her more likable for many non-MAGA Americans.
This also led to many of those who are Trump supporters, even if some of them are gay, or are related to the LGBTQ community, to be in a huge moral dilemma.
She also makes her stance on pedophiles very clear: she hated them, they are gross and everything wrong with men, and that men who do acts of pedophilia or sexual assault on underage girls should face consequences, and rich elites are no exception, Trump included.
"The fact Alana even bothered keeping Trump alive in her country while he's locked up in jail for his own safety is saying she's more merciful than Trump's cult ever would be. Because she wants Trump to suffer the consequences of his actions and choices instead, and that she herself states that killing him is too easy, so she let him live is worse than death, that he should rot in prison as a pedophile, old and forgotten as the world, the United Independent Territories of America, and the United States, moves on without him. And Alana: do the world and us Americans a favor: keep him locked up. It's for his own safety. It's better for him to be in jail than out of jail. Because as I said, all he gets for running his mouth and acting a fool is keep getting punched and beat up and pummeled into the ground. And we know of his friendship with Jeffrey Epstein, who also was a pedophile, sex trafficker whose victims were underage girls."
She also adds that even inmates, the worst of the worst in the prison system, hate pedophiles or those that abuse children.
Many of the American people, especially the ones that are women and non-MAGA people, were quite pleased to hear Kaitlyn's stance on pedophiles, even some of Trump's supporters, which included both some men and some women, as they were very uncomfortable on how Trump said comments that are quite weird towards young girls and women, especially his own daughter Ivanka, to the point where he said that, if he's not her father, he would be "dating" her instead.
She also reveals that even former Trump supporters, even if they aren't from the LGBTQ community, are in support of Kaitlyn's view on the LGBTQ community and is not afraid to speak out against MAGA supporters, as well as many of those former Trump supporters that are members of the LGBTQ community also feel the same, and share her views on pedophiles and their supporters.
Even outside the United States, many of the international news outlets, like those from Great Britain, Canada, Mexico and even Australia, were quick to pick up and spread Kaitlyn's video around and the things she said, and they were also very impressed and amazed, as people from those countries are now having a much better impression of her, especially after her rant video.
Her video also gave a boost to her popularity and became the most-talked-about and trending topic online, even more than the fall of Trump and Project 2025 itself, as many are now seeing her as a hero from a once divided country, and the perfect balance between being famous, as well as being a billionaire with a strong social conscience, someone who actually uses her celebrity status for good, rather than selfish or egotistical means.
"I'll say this again: to the people of the United Independent Territories of America and Alana herself: do us and the world a favor, keep that ugly rapist and pedophile in prison and locked up, please. Like, it's for his own safety, really. It's in the best interests of Donald J. Trump to be in jail, because any time he's not in jail, all he does for running his mouth and make a fool out of himself is keep getting punched and beat up and pummeled into the ground." She argued, preaching her case why she felt it's better for Trump to remain behind bars, saying that now he's stuck in a country that hates him where the laws against MAGA are very strict, he's pretty much screwed and he can't leave the country or run his mouth or use his social media.
She also reveals that the fact he literally ruined the garden at the White House literally made by Jackie Kennedy by building a ballroom and vice versa is BEYOND disrespectful to those who came before him, and she has had enough of his actions.
"The slimy, greedy idiot who only cares about money and power gets what's coming to him now that he's in jail in another country where everyone hates him and don't shy away from making an example out of him, and when you're despised by everybody, you know you crossed the line." she argued.
Many non-MAGA Americans were surprised to hear that Trump had removed the beautiful garden of the White House that was made by Jackie Kennedy and was replaced by a ballroom as many felt that it was a shameful act of disrespect considering how the Kennedy family had been an icon of American history and the garden of the White House was seen as a great and beautiful sight to visit, and many Americans were not pleased to hear that Trump had it torn down.
It also did not help that Jackie Kennedy was very popular among other Americans, both MAGA and non-MAGA, and it made people upset that Trump had disrespected the late First Lady and the garden that she left and had replaced the beautiful sight with a ballroom just so he has a space to party in.
Many Americans were now more upset by Trump for his actions of disrespect towards the White House and its history even more than before, especially on how he showed little to no care for the country's White House, which is supposed to be the home and landmark for the country's first and current president to live and make decisions for the country, and how he turned the White House into his own playhouse and party house rather than what its purpose really is for.
Her video about pedophiles also caused a lot of drama and controversy as many right-wing commentators and conservative news networks, as well as pro-MAGA media outlets, immediately condemned her video for insulting Trump, calling him a pedophile, and the fact that she was speaking out as a celebrity and a billionaire.
Many conservative media outlets and right-wing commentators even went as far as threatening to boycott her brand and boycott any services that were doing business with her, which caused more people to support Kaitlyn for speaking up against dangerous people like Trump and the MAGA cult.
When she heard about that, she was quick to respond with wit and intellect, saying that they can feel free to boycott, but she doesn't care, because they have nothing to threaten her with, because she had morals, integrity and a conscience that the cult failed at having.
And that she is reported to possibly be considered to be appointed in the next presidential cabinet to help whoever the new president is, fix what Trump has ruined.
According to Kaitlyn, she said, "Rich white men, or men as a whole, need to do better at protecting women and your kids, especially girls, from rapists and pedophiles who seek to prey on girls, because the issue of sexual assault is a problem. You have a responsibility to take care of those around you, no matter their race. If you see a underage girl being groomed by a pedophile, you step in and do something about it, so what happened to the victims of Epstein can never go through that again, so that this never happens again. And also, my advice to Republicans: stop enabling pedophiles and racists, come on: be the party Lincoln envisioned you to be and act like it. You've fallen, now you have to rise again. I also recognize Palestine, and I call for a ceasefire, because what Israel is doing is genocide, Trump backs Israel as well, and he is a Zionist for backing the complicity and slaughter of families: men, women, and kids. From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free,", making her align heavily with the MeToo Movement, which had resurfaced after the Epstein scandal raised problems and debate.
The fact that Kaitlyn was now being considered by the next president to hold a position in their cabinet further angered the MAGA cult, as well as right-wingers who were very vocal in their hatred towards her.
They were also further infuriated by the fact that despite boycotting her brand and other celebrity services, they had absolutely no effect on Kaitlyn's profits, as sales skyrocketed since her speech video went viral.
But other than that, Kaitlyn's popularity skyrocketed and her status as a billionaire celebrity who spoke the truth made her not only an icon of the Democrats, but a huge cultural icon to people of all kinds of social and political backgrounds, while she also became a huge thorn in the MAGA cult's side, further angering Trump's fanatical followers.
She also states that even with them threatening to boycott, it changes nothing because Trump's in jail and punished in another country and no longer a threat, that their time to terrorize people who don't look like them is over, that the freedoms they took from everyone, is now given back, that the United States can recover, regain the world's trust and move on without them, and that women across the United States are celebrating that their rights are restored again, that LGBTQ people don't have to fear those who want them gone anymore now that many of the MAGA cult members: the Proud Boys and Oathkeepers are rounded up and locked in prison for their crimes, have no power now that Trump's gone.
"I also forgot to mention that the Trump administration gutting off funding for Corporations for Public Broadcasting is not only stupid, but also highlighting the irreversible damage he's wrought upon the United States and the next generation, and this will take a lot longer to rebuild what he's destroyed, because no thanks to half the country who elected him like idiots or didn't vote at all." She reveals on her video as she explains another consequence.
Her video also revealed and exposed the amount of damage and destruction that was done by Trump and his followers over the years, such as the gutting of funding for Corporation for Public Broadcasting, cutting of the Dodd-Frank Act, which was a Wall Street reform, as well as the massive budget cut to the EPA and the massive budget increase for the military as well.
She also went into detail about the harmful effects caused by Trump's actions on public education, the environment, women's rights, the LGBTQ community, and other issues.
And to top it all off, she even added in that the damage that Trump did not only affected the United States, but also spread across the world and has affected many people in negative ways, mentioning how his actions have also hurt America's reputation, hurt the global economy, and damaged international relations.
Kaitlyn's video also touched on how many countries around the world were cheering on her speech, especially the non-US based news outlets that were now talking about how a celebrity billionaire like herself was speaking up against right-wing extremists and the MAGA cult.
And not only that, but other political commentators were also praising her for not only her video, but also her actions against the GOP and Trump, saying that Kaitlyn is an icon for speaking against such dangerous people.
In contrast, conservative commentators and Trump supporters, including the QAnon, are calling her video a "disgrace" and a "witch hunt" against Trump and the Republican Party.
They were also calling her a "traitor to her country" and a "liberal sellout" for her actions against Trump and the GOP, while claiming that she's "brainwashed" and "a Soros shill."
"The fact Trump didn't utter a single word shows the fact that his supporters realize the consequences are catching up to them and the truth is coming out." She argued, citing that their actions have come back to haunt them with Trump behind bars in another country and the kids suffering the most and taking their anger out on their parents who voted for Trump.
"And you know which demographic of kids who are facing the blame from non-whites here in the United States? It's whites. Because white kids now who will be adults of the next generation are rising up against their MAGA parents who ruined their future and their non-white friends don't trust them anymore and are afraid of them. Is this how you make America great, MAGA supporters? Was it worth the damage and distrust from everybody to where even your kids realize how stupid you are? Like, your kids have a conscience and you don't. The world hates you, your kids hate you. Why keep ruining things for everybody and run like cowards when it's your turn to pay the bill?"
The part of her video that talked about how white Americans, especially the younger generation, were turning against MAGA supporters, including their parents, was one of the most praised part of her video, as people were applauding her for bringing attention to how right-wing ideologies have damaged families and torn them apart, and how they're turning against the very people who raised them.
It was, without a doubt, one of the most viewed and shared parts of her video.
And on social media platforms, people of all backgrounds were talking about how they were glad that Kaitlyn made such a powerful statement against Trump and the Republican Party, and they also shared their own stories about how their families were broken up due to differing political views, as well as the damage caused by radical right-wing beliefs.
Many also expressed their appreciation for Kaitlyn for using her platform as a famous billionaire celebrity to speak up about these important issues.
And, to top it all off, some political commentators were even speculating that Kaitlyn's video and actions against Trump and the GOP might even influence the upcoming presidential election, and possibly even help the Democrats win the election as the midterm election.
And some were also suggesting that her video and statements might even cause a shift in political beliefs for many people, including Trump supporters.
But of course, other political commentators, including those who support Trump and the GOP, were also quick to criticize her video and statements, saying that Kaitlyn is a "biased celebrity" and a "liberal shill" who is trying to push her agenda and influence the vote for the Democrats.
"It's also sad that the world hates us Americans because there's a section of losers on the Internet that can't handle the fact that the whole world knows what's going on, and I don't blame the immigrant community for not trusting our country anymore." She adds.
Her statement about the immigrant community not trusting the United States anymore was also met with a lot of praise, as people were agreeing with her that Trump's policies towards immigrants and his anti-immigration agenda have caused much damage and distrust towards the United States, especially among immigrants and people of color.
Many also agreed with her that the reputation of America has been damaged by Trump's presidency and the actions of his supporters.
On the other hand, far-right commentators and Trump supporters responded to her statement about the immigrant community with vitriol and hatred, saying that immigrants do not belong in the United States and that Trump is only trying to protect the country from "dangerous outsiders".
And they also claimed that Kaitlyn is "unpatriotic" and "hates America" for supporting immigrants and speaking out against Trump's anti-immigrant policies.
"This is our mess, we're responsible for them as Americans, and we should pay for them. We've let people down, including immigrants and the indigenous people who've been here before the first white settlers ruined it. Instead of causing more damage, why not prevent the damage, starting by reforming immigration policy, make abortion a protected right, lobbying illegal and repeal controversial policies like the infamous KOSA (Kids Online Safety Act) law, that does not protect kids, it does the opposite and puts them in danger. We need to win everybody's trust back, starting by restoring net neutrality, restore abortion rights, marriage rights, and raise the requirements to be president, and that insurrectionists are banned from running for office, hold all of Trump's administration accountable, take down the concentration camps that our country built under Trump's orders. We are not Nazi Germany, we're better than this, electing Trump only proves the world right that we can't be trusted. And it'll take decades to regain their trust, if at all." She preached.
Her proposal to reform immigration policy, protect abortion rights, and raise the requirements to become president was met with praise from many Democrats and left-leaning independents, who said that these are the changes that America desperately needs to make.
However, Republican commentators and Trump supporters were quick to dismiss her suggestions, saying that they are "un-American" and "will ruin the country".
They also accused Kaitlyn of being a "Soros shill" and "socialist" for promoting such policies.
As her video continued to spread across various social media platforms, people also started to speculate about what Kaitlyn's next move will be after her powerful speech.
And some were even hoping that she would consider running for office in the future, as they believe that she has the leadership and qualifications for the job, and that she can help bring positive change to the country.
And despite the fact that she is a billionaire, many people also thought that she's relatable and could represent the common people better than a lot of other politicians.
However, other people were also skeptical about her potential political future, as they believe that her status as a billionaire celebrity might be too much of a turn-off to some voters, and that some people might see her as elitist and out of touch.
But regardless of people's opinions, everyone was definitely watching closely to see what Kaitlyn would do next.
She also reveals on her video that his ballroom is now being torn down thanks to the new president Jeffrey Martin issuing an executive order to restore the garden to what it was, and every asset Trump has is sold for money as reparations to the victims of Epstein, as well as holding the ICE agents accountable for enforcing Trump's illegal orders and punishing the agency for it's cruelty against immigrants via concentration camps and deportation.
"Many of Trump's accomplices and supporters have been rounded up, or turned themselves in. The next job for the new president is restoring the garden and the country to what it was before Trump ruined it and bringing back civil order as a sign Trump's reign of terror is over. The people need to know they're in control, not Trump and his cult now that Trump is punished and behind bars in another country. They're terrified because they know he's facing consequences for his actions, and his 'Big, Beautiful Bill', which basically strips courts from holding him accountable, is torn to shreds and lit on fire, restoring the power back to the courts." She reported on her video, getting to the point by showing official reports that every policy signed by Trump, and Grover Paulson, who is just as bad as Trump, was repealed and banned, and almost every Republican congressmen who enabled Trump's cruelty were facing repercussions, and not even Republican governors like 'Hot wheels' on wheelchair Greg Abbott was safe from the consequences as abortion was made legal nationwide once again, DEI, and Affirmative Action was restored as the Supreme law of the land.
The news regarding the arrest of Trump's supporters, the punishment of Trump's accomplices, and the removal of every Trump-supporting governor, like 'Hot Wheels' on a wheelchair, Greg Abbott, and the repeal and overturning of every Trump and 'Big, Beautiful Bill' that was signed was being applauded by the majority of the American people, especially those who are non-MAGA and LGBTQ.
And many of those who were previously Trump supporters were feeling a lot more happy to see America making progress with the new president, Jeffrey Martin, finally reversing the mistakes and damage Trump had made in the past, including the restoration of the beautiful garden of the White House, and punishing politicians like Greg Abbott for trying to make life harder for the American people.
But of course, Trump and the rest of MAGA were not pleased by how everyone who once supported him was now turning against him or are happy that America is being cleaned up, and were now starting to feel the heat, with their supporters dropping like flies, as they were now feeling cornered more than ever.
Many Americans, even the ones who did not like Trump at all or are part of the LGBTQ community, are celebrating on the streets, especially New York City, with some even doing so on the streets where Trump Tower and its neighborhood are located to taunt them even further after their fall.
Even outside the United States in other countries all over the world, such as the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Japan, Australia, Canada and Mexico, most of the people from every country were happy and celebrating on their own after the news of Trump and the MAGA fall was spread.
Even many of the celebrities and other famous figures, such as musicians like Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber, and Billie Eilish, along with famous athletes like Serena Williams, LeBron James and Michael Jordan, and other popular figures such as Oprah, Jay-Z, Hailee Steinfeld and Josh Allen, Warren Buffett and many more, were very pleased to hear of Trump's downfall, and are now expressing support for the new president, Jeffrey Martin.
All these celebrations about the fall of Trump and the restoration of the US are also making Trump, MAGA and his cult even more furious and angry about how the vast majority of the people and countries, even from his own once strong supporters like those celebrities, were now celebrating with glee after him and his movement's downfall.
And many other major news outlets such as CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, BBC News, CBC News, Al Jazeera, Reuters, The Associated Press, and even smaller news outlets and other types of media, such as online news sites, radio, podcasts, magazines, and social media, were reporting the collapse of Trump, MAGA and their supporters, in which some even reported with glee.
But despite the support from the vast majority of the American people, including the celebrities and popular figures in the country and all over the world, people still have mixed reactions about Martin's decisions and policies, and even some of the LGBTQ people who celebrated the downfall of MAGA still criticize and question his policies, saying that he is not really doing enough or is not doing it right.
And even as the American people are celebrating in the streets with glee, Trump and his cult were not going down without a fight, as there were still many MAGA supporters who will continue to support their idol, even if they face the consequences.
However, Kaitlyn also concluded on her video that she said running for office would be for several decades, as she wants to focus on helping the little people and help rebuild the country's economy, citing that she feels that the fallout of Project 2025's ban and repeal is a lesson for the country to never allow someone like Trump to gain power again, arguing that he's an example of 'those who want power shouldn't have it, and those who don't want it should', justifying this by revealing that if she does run 15 years in the future, she would register as a Republican, as her endgoal is to help a sector of Republicans who were aligned with Lincoln than Trump, wrestle control of the party away from the extreme devout MAGAs and return the party to what it was, making it very clear she's a woman of her word.
"Lincoln would be disgusted with today's Republicans, and I intend to honor his legacy by returning the party back to what it was: government of the people, by the people, and for the people.", she argued, using a snippet of the Gettysburg Address as emphasis as she finishes with an excerpt from Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address as she dramatized it to prove her point on what her goal for the Republican party is and fix it by weeding out the MAGA influence from the party.
"Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."
She then continues.
"With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations..."
The video reaches it's final minute as the video concludes as her emphasis on the vision she had for rebuilding the United States now that Trump is gone and no longer a threat, and that, she might consider appointing Mary L. Trump, Donald's own niece and only one in the Trump family who's against him, to her administration if she ever decided to run in the future.
The video concluded and went silent, leaving many people to ponder over Kaitlyn's final words and her vision for the future.
Some were left feeling hopeful and inspired, while others remained skeptical and critical.
But one thing was clear: Kaitlyn had made her mark and sparked a lot of discussion and controversy.
But across the country, many MAGA supporters, the Proud Boys and Oathkeepers were rounded up and incarcerated, awaiting trial for their crimes under Trump's presidency as civil order was being restored, as she had predicted as celebrations erupted in the streets in several states with Trump behind bars in another country and that the severe crackdown on Trump supporters is in full effect and funding for Corporations for Public Broadcasting was restored again.
And her statement that Mary L. Trump might be considered for a position in her potential administration if she ever ran in the future was a surprising one.
Many people were both surprised and intrigued by this idea, as it seemed like an unexpected team-up between two individuals who had strong opinions against Trump but were also willing to work together to create a better future.
And despite the fact that many people still had reservations about Kaitlyn and her abilities as a leader, there were also those who saw her as a breath of fresh air and a possible change for the better.
The video had certainly given the country something to think about as many people waited to see what would happen next.
Some were even comparing Kaitlyn's stance on the Republican Party and desire to return it to its former state of "Republican" rather than "Trumpist/MAGA" to Theodore Roosevelt's Bull Moose Party and his fight for progressive change in the Republican Party.
But regardless of how people felt about her, it was clear that Kaitlyn's stance would be watched carefully in the coming months and years.
And whether or not people agreed with her, there was no denying that Kaitlyn was a woman who had made her voice heard.
And as the country moved forward, it was uncertain what the future would hold, but one thing was clear: Kaitlyn Murphy-Chang was not going to be easily forgotten.
It was a story that had captured the attention of the nation and made headlines all around the world, leaving many people both inspired and horrified, while also shocked and speechless.
Regardless of how people felt about it, it was an event that was certain to change things forever.
There were also many celebrations in the many colleges that are located all over the country, as the new president has just passed a new law that helps students that are currently in college, including providing assistance in lowering their tuition fees and making them more affordable and easily accessible, and many students who were not able to afford their tuition in other colleges are now able to study in the college of their choice with little help of debt, as they were very pleased with Martin's policy to help college students.
In addition to that, there were also many celebrations in the streets of big cities like New York City, Los Angeles and Chicago, where huge and joyful celebrations are happening with many people celebrating with music, banners and fireworks, with people carrying flags of LGBTQ groups, supporting Martin as the new president of the US and as the man who put the country back to normal after 4 years of hell under the MAGA regime.
The celebrations in the streets in the cities lasted for almost 2 and a half days, and the people that came out to celebrate the end of MAGA continued to do so, even after the celebrations has died down.
Even after the celebrations died down, many Americans that are not MAGA and LGBTQ community were very pleased with the new president, Jeffrey Martin, and were happy that with Martin in charge and now working on to restore the United States to what it was, things were returning back to normal, and many people felt better to live in the country without having the constant fear that Trump would ruin everything again.
Martin made sure to have more support from the non-MAGA people and LGBTQ community by showing how he cares more for the people that Trump had neglected for years to please his own cult, and made promises to make sure that Martin and his administration will fix what Trump had broken while the new president was in office, as people were now seeing Martin as a hope and leader worth supporting.
Meanwhile, Trump and his cult, who are angry at everything that was happening, and how the people were all celebrating their downfall and how everything they had built was collapsing, were in panic, and were trying to find a way to stop the downfall from happening, and to get their power back, and regain control.
But Martin and his administration had made sure that there was a high level of security in the country to make sure any MAGA members who still support or even tried to go out of control were all dealt with accordingly before they could do any serious damage.
With the new high level of security and the government and police monitoring and keeping an eye on the remaining members of the cult, the members of MAGA now had very limited freedom to move around and gather with each other without being arrested or getting into trouble with the law.
With their freedom now restricted, the remaining members of the MAGA are now feeling trapped and powerless, and were feeling like they are being treated like criminals that can't do anything without the police or law enforcement officers being right on their back, as their freedom and movement were now extremely limited.
And it wasn't helping given that Trump is trapped in a different country that hates him and he can't leave while he's stuck as the punching bag of that country.
Trump was stuck there, in a country that despises him, and the people there were already making fun of him in many ways possible, and it was clear that he couldn't return to America with the way things were, and his cult's downfall, which just left the MAGA supporters who were still trying so hard to bring him back to America and get their control over the country back, trying to figure out what to do next, while also being paranoid about the law enforcement keeping an eye and making sure of them, which was just adding more stress to their already collapsing cult.
What made it worse was that the country Trump is stuck in, is also very strict when it comes to punishing pedophilia, child porn, as well as human trafficking and MAGA propaganda.
The MAGA supporters were becoming more and more panicked, as they can no longer get away in America with what they are doing and are constantly being monitored, and now the only place that they are safe are in certain areas where the police did not have much control or were corrupt and were willing to look the other way, or where they are under the watchful eye and protection of wealthy elite that were supporting them, as well as in areas where the population were still supportive, like in the South and in some small towns or rural areas, but these areas did not have enough people to make a difference.
The lack of support was also making the remaining MAGA supporters more desperate, and the ones that had some level of power were becoming frustrated that they were now unable to maintain complete control over the people and the country like they did when Trump was still in office, and they were frustrated that the new president, Martin, was very popular and had much support from the people, as well as having the upper hand now.
The whole MAGA movement was in chaos, as the fall of their idol and hero, and their loss of power was causing all the members of MAGA to turn against each other, and were now starting to blame each other for the fall and failure of the MAGA cult.
As the MAGA cult was descending into chaos, the people who were not MAGA were happy to see the cult falling and were also starting to watch how the cult will eventually destroy itself without Trump to keep control of the cult, and were waiting for the moment when the cult eats itself to death.
The people who still supported Martin, on the other hand, were happy with the state of the country, despite some of them having some criticism on certain things that Martin was doing, as the country was now returning back to normal, without the fear of Trump ruining it all once again now that he's banned from leaving the country he is stuck in and trapped while the citizens of the U.I.T.A hate him and beat him up every day.
The celebrations across the country went on for days, even as the new President, Jeffrey Martin, started working to reverse the damage Trump had done in the 4 years that he was elected, undoing every law and policy that Trump had signed.
Martin made it clear that his goal as the new president was to restore everything that Trump had ruined or destroyed during his time in office, and he began to reverse every executive order and law that Trump signed, especially on the wall, immigration, the environment, climate change, gun rights, tax cuts for the wealthy, abortion rights, etc., to restore the United States to what it was before Trump came to power.
Martin's actions were very welcomed by the majority of the American people, as they also hated and felt the consequences of the executive orders signed by Trump, and were very pleased that Martin was reversing those orders, as it was a good sign that the country would return back to normal after 4 years of hell under Trump.
But the MAGA Republicans were the total opposite, as they were outraged at the undoing of everything Trump did, even if it was harmful, and they were now hating Martin more than ever.
Martin's actions did not only please the majority of the American people, but it also gained the support of foreign leaders, who were now starting to have some respect towards the United States again after the previous administration had left a huge dent on the country's reputation as a result of Trump's careless actions.
The leaders of nations that Martin had relations with were all congratulating him for his actions, and some even stated that the United States was beginning to gain back their lost respect and trust from other nations.
However, despite Martin's actions gaining support from some of the countries, his actions also made it clear that the United States still had a lot of work to do to fully restore their international reputation, as many foreign leaders were stating that it will take a long time to rebuild the trust and respect that the United States had lost from the rest of the world.
But Martin did have some of his own critics as well, as the ones who do not support him, which were mostly those who supported Trump and MAGA, were now hating his actions and saying that he should bring Trump back to office because they believed that Trump would have fixed everything in the country if he were not impeached.
But the support from the people and the international leaders were enough to give Martin confidence and courage to keep going on, despite the criticism he had from Trump and MAGA supporters.
With the majority of the world's leaders supporting Martin, some of the countries were now offering help and aid to the United States to support Martin and help out the country, even though the United States did not fully accept those helps due to the country wanting to do everything by themselves, while the MAGA supporters were feeling more and more furious that they had little to almost no control of the country that Trump once ran.
On the other hand, Trump is still stuck in the U.I.T.A, in which MAGA is not a thing there, and is still constantly being hated by all the citizens there for his many crimes and misbehavior that he committed.
And Trump himself had no access to any sort of internet connection, so he was not aware of the celebrations in America, his cult's downfall, Martin's actions to reverse everything he had signed, and the support that Martin was getting from both the people and foreign leaders.
The citizens of the U.I.T.A had constantly attacked Trump and have made fun of him in many ways possible, and Trump himself was starting to struggle, as he was unable to call for the help of his cult and was forced to face the consequences for all the crimes he had committed.
Trump's only way out of this is to beg the U.I.T.A to let go and send him back to the U.S. somehow, so he can try to get another chance to regain his power and power over the country again, but he is refusing to beg for his life.
Trump kept trying to act like his old self by yelling, demanding and throwing tantrums to get what he wants, but the citizens there was not scared of him, and continued to hit him with many insults and criticisms.
And the citizens in the U.I.T.A had also made many jokes about Trump, including how Trump was a sore loser for what he has done, and even making statements that Trump was a loser for running into trouble and failing, comparing Trump to other infamous people like Hitler and King Louis XVI, who also lost their power and throne the same way Trump did.
The citizens even mocked how Trump was stuck in the country with no support from America, and was now the laughing stock to the world for his failure to maintain his power over the country, with many people calling him the "most pathetic person alive".
These jokes and insults were constantly being said in the country, and it was getting to the point where Trump was actually starting to lose his mind, and was very close to begging the citizens there to stop.
And it wasn't helping he gets harassed everywhere he went in the country as he's banned from leaving while under investigation.
Trump was now starting to snap and lose control, as he was becoming weaker and more vulnerable with each attack he received from the people there, and his confidence was also getting weaker each day, as the country that Trump had once taken pride in insulting and making cruel jokes at were now the ones humiliating him in every way.
The citizens even started to insult him for the way he look, especially his hair, saying that his hair is fake and it looks terrible, saying that his hair looks like a dead animal that was stuck on his head.
The citizens' insults were very personal and brutal, with the people saying that Trump had never had a real hair in his entire life, and was nothing but an ugly, pathetic loser that no one will ever love.
Trump had never been verbally destroyed in this way before, and he was now starting to question himself and his actions, as he never experienced humiliation and defeat like this before.
Each day, one citizen of the UITA would attack him, followed by another after another, majority of his attackers were women of all races and religions that hate him.
In fact, the women there hate him more than the men there, and they also had their own ways to attack Trump, including throwing menstrual pads at him to represent how much they hate him, as well as throwing eggs and rocks at him while yelling at him.
And on one occasion, a pregnant woman even went in front of Trump and yelled at him, saying, "A real man would get a job and take care of his children instead of running for president and spreading his lies and causing his supporters to turn into racist idiots!"
Trump was already feeling a lot of stress and was already very humiliated and frustrated, and Trump had a very hard time dealing with the women there, as their insults were even more brutal than the men and were now insulting him in his face non-stop.
The women especially attacked Trump's physical appearance, comparing his hair to a "dead animal" and his skin as a "orange-colored blob", and even saying Trump looked like he was "half-baked".
Many women even brought up Trump's many past marriages to insult him, saying that he is a "bad husband", a "serial cheater" and a "sexist pig", and was calling out how he treated women very poorly.
In fact, all the women also insulted him by calling him an "embarrassing embarrassment" and a "pathetic loser", and many women also brought up the comment Trump had said about how he would grab women by their private parts and would get away with it, and insulted him for his behavior, and sometimes even go as far as to beating him up everywhere in the UITA they see him.
And even though the UITA was very strict with the law, especially against the ones who are not from the country, they didn't care as they were not even stopping the women from beating Trump up, and were actually encouraging it, as they had a great hatred towards Trump, and had no problem on looking away while the women were insulting and sometimes beating and throwing things at Trump everywhere.
And the one that had it the worst out of the U.I.T.A citizens' hatred was a white woman, who hated the fact that Trump had the audacity to run for president when he had no business being in the White House as well as calling him out for his pedophilia and association with Jeffrey Epstein.
As the UITA citizens attack Trump non-stop, some of the men were also coming up with their own insults towards Trump, and even some of them also joined in with the women in supporting them by throwing even more garbage at Trump.
The men did not insult Trump as much, as most of it were simple things like "Go to hell!", as well as attacking with his physical appearance calling him a "big-ass, old, fat, white-ass guy" and a "pig".
Some of the male citizens even asked Trump about his "little hands", and even made fun of the fact that the hands that Trump was holding on to a baseball bat looked small when compared to the bat itself, calling him a "small-hands freak" and a "small-hand-guy".
A few more male-Trump-hating-citizens even made fun of Trump by calling him a "big man" and a "giant-looking creep" while laughing and jeering at him.
Many of the younger boys in the U.I.T.A saw their parents, siblings, older people and other boys making fun of Trump, and many of them also jumped in with the adults to throw things at Trump, and even joined in to add to the insults towards Trump as well, with the children calling out how "orange" the color of his skin and hair is.
And the children were even attacking Trump's weight, calling him fat, and was making fun of the way he walks.
Teenage couples were even attacking and beating him up for his being a pedophile as they were aware of the Epstein scandal in the U.S.
The citizens in the U.I.T.A were really cruel towards Trump, and the constant attacks from people of all ages had made Trump feel very stressed-out and defeated.
But with the lack of help and support, and how he was in a country that was against him, Trump had become more and more desperate for help after days of constant attacks, as even with his own cult not able to save him and Martin reversing all the bad decisions he had made, Trump had to swallow his pride and beg for mercy.
But even that didn't stop the attacks as each day, he'd flee from his attackers, aka the entire UITA, and even the cops and judges join and chase him down.
Trump's popularity had fallen to an all-time low as he was attacked, insulted and even beaten up by people of all ages, and it didn't help that the police officers that were supposed to help him were also insulting him and beating him up along with the citizens.
And the attacks were very humiliating for someone like Trump, as the citizens had no respect for him, and were having no problem in humiliating his ego any way they want, as a way to show how hated he was in the U.I.T.A, and to show that Trump was powerless.
The police officers even added to the attacks by insulting and mocking the fact that Trump was a president, as Trump's former status and fame did not matter in this country anymore, and he now had to face the citizens' rage.
One of the officers even called Trump "Mr. President" with a mocking tone, and was saying how Trump "used to be" the president and is now just an "ordinary man" like the rest of the world.
Even the courts made fun of Trump as well, and were not even showing him respect, and even took the chance to humiliate him further in court.
The judges were even attacking Trump for losing the election and even mocking his "loser" behavior, and even mocking his "big hands", with one Judge even made a joke about how the hands that Trump were holding the court documents was "too tiny".
Even the lawyers had started to attack and insult Trump as they didn't even bother to defend him anymore, and were even telling him how "terrible" of a person he was.
One lawyer even yelled at him while saying "why did you even run for president in the first place?!"
And even the witnesses, such as the employees from the Trump Organization that were called by the court, were also attacking Trump as they said things like "the business was terrible to work for", "Trump never treated the workers well", "Trump always takes all the credit when things go right, but will blame his workers and others for the things that go bad", and "Trump never paid a lot of the employees well."
They even accused him of not being a good CEO and leader, and that Trump was only running the company by luck.
It even got much worse as Trump even had the witnesses of his former wives all saying that he neglected them during their marriage while also attacking him on the things he said to them during their relationships.
His first wife, Ivana claimed that Trump was "always in his own world", "never really cared" about her and the kids, and "only married her for her connections".
Trump's second wife, Marla even had a few words to say, like "Trump has no idea how to be a husband, and he doesn't understand how to love and be married" or "Trump is selfish" or "Trump only cared about himself and his own reputation, and never really cared about anyone except himself".
His third wife, Melania even "agreed" with the other two previous wives by saying "Trump is a terrible husband and is always busy trying to impress others".
And all of his previous wives also went on with all the criticism they had on him, with Ivanka, his own daughter, saying that Trump was "never there to support her at all", "never called her", and "never had time to spend time with her as a family".
Eric Trump, his son, even criticized his dad by saying that "Trump never spent much time with me and my brothers", and was "never around much" and "always in his office or with his friends and business partners".
His other two sons, Donald Trump, Jr. and Barron had also gotten into this pile of attacks as they were criticizing Trump for his "selfish" and "narcissistic" nature, and even saying how "Trump was too focused on himself".
And even his own father, Fred Trump, had also thrown insults at his son by saying Donald was "a weak leader", "a terrible businessman", and "a very stupid person", calling him a "disgrace to the Trump family".
By the end of it, the entire Trump family from his father to his kids were all attacking Trump on his "inability to lead" and the "poor ability of judgement" and on his "poor behavior" and "narcissistic tendencies", and they even went as far as saying that Trump was not the "right person" to be the one to run the Trump Organization, and the one in charge of the family.
But Trump just had to sit there and take a beating as the entire Trump family all made their accusations against him to the judges, and had to suffer the humiliation.
To add further insult to injury, because he is stuck in the United Independent Territories of America, he is constantly punched in the face again by a random woman, sometimes a white one, other times is black, Hispanic or even Asian when out on the streets.
Every night, Trump can't even get a good night of sleep, as the citizens were making it their mission to make Trump suffer as much as possible.
At 2:00 in the morning, a random person would always kick in his window and throw garbage, eggs, and rocks at him, causing Trump to be unable to sleep as the constant attacks made him very stressed out.
And even when he does get some sleep, random people, especially women, also attack Trump's crotch for the comments he was making about them.
Even if Trump decided get food or go to the restroom, the citizens will come and do everything possible to make the experience of going out the worst for him.
A group of people would always wait around the McDonald's or restaurants near Trump and the restaurants would always be filled to capacity so Trump would find himself getting no food, especially with his diet.
And when Trump tried to use the public toilet and public bathroom, his crotch will often be kicked by the citizens, making it very painful and hard for him to use the toilets.
It didn't help that there were many young men, some in their late teens, who were also constantly attacking Trump.
The young men usually gather in groups and would hit and spit on him anytime he was walking near them.
And even a few of the younger men were trying to do the most to harm him by attempting to kick him in the crotch as much as possible, which often times made it hard for Trump to fight back.
And since he was stuck there with nowhere to go, Trump was a prime target for the citizens to take their anger out on.
The young men always hit Trump very hard on top of the head causing him to feel the impact and lose his concentration on the way he was walking, and it didn't help that they would often kick Trump's crotch hard, causing him to almost fall down and get hit in the face.
It didn't matter if the men were black, white or Asian, they all had a great dislike of Trump and would attack him by spitting on his hair, kicking his crotch, punching him on the side of his face and making fun of his "big-ass hands".
Trump's hair was constantly a target, and even on the streets, random men would run after him and throw garbage at his hair and laugh at the sight of his "stupid hair" and even kicking his crotch while mocking, "he thinks he's so great".
One time, a young man even took out a bottle of spray foam to try to fix Trump's hair and laughed at him saying, "here, I'll help you fix this up, you're welcome".
His hair would still get messed up and every time he tried to fix his hair, someone will run and make fun of his hair saying things like, "wow, you can't even fix your hair?" or "he still has the ugliest hair in the world" then kick his crotch again.
Trump's "big hands" were also targets of great mockery, and many men and boys would bring along with them some kind of object that was very small to mock his "big hands".
While Trump is stuck in the United Independent Territories of America being attacked by citizens on all fronts, the MAGA cult in the United States was declining with each strict crackdown on the acts of hate as women felt safer to have kids again.
The cult of Trump was falling apart and was losing their power as more people left the group with some members being arrested for hate crimes, while the ones that were still loyal to Trump started to lose their confidence in him due to his unpopularity, as they were now beginning to doubt if their hero could even bring "change" and "make America great" again.
With Trump trapped in a territory that hates his guts, the future was looking grim for the already unpopular president and former cult leader.
And to add more salt to his injuries, Trump had also learned that the White House staff had made a lot of changes ever since Martin became the new president.
Trump learned that many of the staff in the White House were now more diverse, including women and many minorities, and the new staff members were not afraid of making changes that would improve the White House.
Some of the things the White House staff changed included: all the rooms in the White House were repainted, the walls were now more colorful, the furniture was modern and cozy, and even the Oval Office was also updated.
Trump was absolutely furious as he saw how the White House looked now, as the White House now was no longer the same as when he was the one running it.
And to make things worse, the new interior of the house was even more open and friendlier to kids and others to visit, and many students had even come into the White House to visit as part of their field trips.
And even the security teams were much more diverse and included women, as well as more people of color.
There were also female officers protecting the White House, which did not happen much during his administration.
And requirements to be president were also now very strict, and any who sided with Trump to commit treason are also banned from serving public office, which was signed into law by President Martin.
All the changes made Trump's blood boil and Trump was absolutely enraged by all the changes the staff has done.
And the thought of all the new staff being more diverse and including more women and people of color, especially more women working in the white house really made Trump mad, along with the new laws that now ban people who have committed treason or are linked to Trump from holding any public office.
The White House that once was Trump's house was now no long the same, it was now full of diversity and progressiveness, which Trump hated with a passion.
To Trump, the White House had always belonged to him, and he felt like he had ownership of the house, but the new White House did not look and feel anything like the one he ran, it looked much more "modern", and "vibrant".
The new White House now belonged to Martin, and Trump could not stand the fact that the very place he once called "the most beautiful house in the world" was no longer his, and to make it worse, the new house was now not only more diverse, but was now also much more accepting of minorities.
And the worst part was that Trump's cult in the United States seemed to no longer believe in him anymore, and Trump could do nothing but stare at the news on his TV while being attacked by citizens in the UITA, as his popularity was slowly decreasing, with some people even believing that he was losing his "genius".
His cult in the United States was also questioning his "greatness" and were doubting if all the things Trump was going to do were even possible, with some even going as far as to doubt that he even had "genius intelligence" anymore.
And even worse for Trump, his own staff were also not loyal to him anymore, as they could start seeing that the once "great" man was now trapped in the UITA and unable to defend himself, and was no longer the smart man that he presented himself to be.
His whole empire looked like it was going to collapse, and his cult was falling apart, with some of the members even saying they were losing his influence on them.
At this point, Trump was now stuck being attacked by the citizens while his cult was slowly crumbling and losing faith in him.
Trump, the man who was once known for his confidence and control over his cult, was now a shadow of his former self, and everything around him started to fall apart.
The citizens were attacking him in the UITA, he could no longer be inside the White House, and his cult was beginning to lose his influence on the people.
And Trump's whole life was in complete shambles, and he could do nothing but look back and regret how he got himself into this situation in the first place.
Trump was now in a situation that was worse than his previous one, as not only was his cult losing faith in him, and his popularity declining, he was also in a country that was now making him a target of ridicule and hatred.
And even the citizens in the United States were also making fun of him, and his actions, with many people saying things like "looks like the man is getting what he deserved" and "Karma is a b*tch", while his cult was crumbling apart.
And the last and worst thing for Trump was that the citizens of the UITA could now do anything to humiliate him, and now Trump was constantly attacked by citizens every day and every hour.
And even with the new White House being more diverse and the United States becoming even more progressive, that was of no help to Trump, who was getting more and more stressed and angry as his life was falling apart and was stuck with a situation he had no hope of getting out of.
At the same time, funding for Corporations for Public Broadcasting is restored once more, as well as the Supreme Court being expanded from 9 justices to 13 and later restored Jackie Kennedy's garden once more, by tearing down Trump's ballroom and fixing the garden to what it once was.
While the immigrant community was paid reparations by the federal government after issuing a public apology.
The news of these events made Trump even angrier as he saw all the changes happening in the country.
The fact that Jackie Kennedy's garden was restored, the fact that more justices were added to the court made him incredibly frustrated as all of these changes were exactly what he did not want to happen.
And Trump was also enraged that the government was paying reparations to the immigrants and even apologized to them, which Trump saw as something the government should have never done.
The idea of apologizing to the immigrants was something that Trump would never have done as he was very hateful towards immigrants and saw them as "invaders", and the fact that it was made into law and the money to pay for the reparations was used was something that made Trump even more enraged.
The news of all the changes Trump hated so much kept coming, and he could do nothing but sit and watch these changes happen over and over again, as he was stuck in the UITA, getting attacked everyday by citizens.
Every change made to the country was something Trump hated to see, and every news of the country's progress and improvement was like a dagger to his heart, as he was now stuck in a country that hated him, and seeing all the things being changed, made him lose his confidence and his ego even more.
And the fact that Trump was now being attacked constantly by citizens was like a stab to his heart, and with how the cult's faith in him was falling apart, the future looked very grim for the fallen president.
And because the Batwoman had been the spark to light a fire to inspire the American people to rise up and take their country back from Trump and his cult, it had actually worked and the United States was slowly returning to the country it used to be before Trump ruined it.
It wasn't long before the country started to revert back to its former greatness as a whole, with the country's reputation beginning to restore, relations improve, economy began booming like it used to be, and crime rate began to drop.
All of this made Trump very, very angry, as he was not only being constantly attacked by the citizens, but also saw the country he worked so hard to "ruin" get restored to the way it was before he came to power.
The country's improvement continued as many new laws and policies had been passed and signed, including many laws, rules and acts that promoted diversity, progressive change, the improvement of LGBTQ+ rights, women's rights, minority rights and the rights of those who identify as a minority group.
Trump saw all of these changes and was filled with even more anger and hatred but could not do anything about it as the laws and rules were too well-organized for him to break or change, and he was stuck in the UITA getting attacked, humiliated and his ego being crushed day and day.
And on top of the country's improvement, the United States also continued to strengthen relations with other nations and started to rebuild the bridges with them that Trump had tried so hard to destroy, and the country's international reputation began to improve as well.
Trump saw all this and saw every foreign country getting closer to the Untied States and he was just filled with more anger, as he saw the world was moving on from him and leaving him in the dust, and it was only a matter of time until the world completely forgets about him.
The idea of being forgotten and losing his influence was enough to break Trump, as being famous and important was the one thing he always had and was something that made him feel like the "God Emperor" that Trump saw himself as, and the idea of losing all that was his worst nightmare, and was slowly becoming a reality.
And the worst part was, Trump could not do a single thing to change these things, and being powerless was also a feeling that he absolutely could not stand.
Trump's ego was at an all time low and seeing the country, which was his pride, being improved like this with all his accomplishments reversed and restored to the way it was before made Trump's blood boil, as the country, the place that once worshipped him, was now taking everything he built and undoing every change he had ever made.
For a narcissist, this was like a death sentence, and for Trump, this was even worse because this was his hell.
Trump could do nothing as the country was getting "repaired" without his permission and he could feel it slipping away from him, like sand in an hourglass, and with the citizens attacking him, the cult falling apart, and his popularity declining, Trump was starting to feel very depressed as he had never felt like this before.
The feeling of being completely powerless while the country he was supposed to "save" was being "restored" and becoming what Trump hates the most, was eating him from within, and Trump felt hopeless.
For the first time in his life, Trump was truly powerless, and it was the worst feeling he had ever felt as he was used to being the boss who could get what he wanted by using his money and name.
Now, he would lose everything, and no amount of money would be able to save him from this hell, and he had no one to blame but himself for this situation.
Even on social media platforms like Facebook or Twitter, many women around the United States were even celebrating at bars, restaurants, and even in luxurious hotels with passion now that Martin had restored their rights once more and made it a federal law.
These social media videos of people partying and having a good time were also being shown on almost all news stations and were being seen by millions of viewers around the world, which only made Trump more angry and filled with more hatred as he saw that the country was not only moving on without him, but was also celebrating his "defeat".
He could not believe what was happening to him, and his anger was increasing with each passing moment.
The country's new laws and policies, the nation's restoration, and the people celebrating were getting into Trump's head as he could not believe that these things had happened, and were seeing the changes right before his eyes.
And the videos of people having a good time only served to add to Trump's anger as he saw the people laughing and having fun without him, as they would not even bother to say his name or talk about him anymore.
The country had truly gone on without him.
And the one thing that Trump could not stand was to be excluded, and the fact that the country he used to control was now moving on without him and the country's citizens being able to move on and forget about him in life was something that was causing his ego and confidence, which he was so very proud of, to collapse little by little everyday.
Trump saw everything that he had worked so hard to build in his life, which included the country he was living in, the cult that followed him, his public image, and the many connections he had with important people around the world was slowly falling apart, and he saw it all, not being able to do a single thing about it.
The future looked very bad and dark for the former President, and he could see himself being forever forgotten by the country and the world, and Trump did not like the looks of that future at all.
Meanwhile, in the island nation of American Independent Territories, the United States government attempted to form an alliance with the nation, but failed to realize that this nation was formed during a war and was recovering from it, making them somewhat distrustful of any American influence and interference.
That was when Alana spoke her mind during an interview live on camera with the words she wanted to say against her former country, as well as poking fun at the MAGA movement for ruining their country's own reputation by being fools and ruining it for everyone.
"I'm also disappointed that the US has betrayed itself when it's people voted for a president who doesn't care about anything but himself and had the audacity to make threats towards Canada, who had been its ally for years. That is a no-no and a sign of betrayal. Once again, the world did not betray the United States, the United States betrayed itself by letting this happen. I stand with the people of Canada, and both Canada and the UITA can no longer trust the United States ever again." Those were the words of Alana herself, ruling leader and queen of the newly independent country called the United Independent Territories of America, expressing her disgust that her former country tarnished its reputation by allowing the extremes of MAGA to ruin the trust the world had for the US live on CNN, explaining the consequences the United States now faces with its allies turning against them.
The newscasters and the reporter that was interviewing her were surprised at those words of hers, but were respectful of the nation of U.I.T.A., while those of the citizens were surprised and grateful that another country stood against their failed President, while the rest of the world silently agreed with her in the back of their minds.
Back in the U.S., most of the media was critical of former Presidents Trump and Paulson, as well, as people lost their trust in the government and the leaders of the Republican Party.
The only ones who weren't critical of the current President were a small, extremist faction of people on both political sides who were still loyal to the President, but were very small in numbers.
All they could do was whine and complain like they were babies, but no one was paying attention to them anymore.
She responds next, choosing her words wisely in a blunt manner as she stares into the camera, speaking with elegance and a sharpness that spoke of wisdom and experience of a warrior and leader despite her young age. "You Americans did this to yourselves by voting MAGA, now where'd that get you? Nowhere. And if you weren't acting so stupid and selfish, this wouldn't have happened. If i did what you did in my country, I risk losing the trust of the very people I've sworn to protect. They're afraid of me than the other way around. All I had to do, more than anything, was earn their trust, prove to them, no matter what, I would never use my authority to hurt them. Every time I use my powers or write a law, that trust is tested every day. And the thing about trust, Americans: once you
BREAK
it, takes a
LOT
longer to heal than a bullet."
Everyone else was surprised by the statement of the young, but wise leader of the emerging nation, who was wise beyond her years and was making an excellent point about how trust is hard to earn and easy to lose.
The Americans who were still loyal to the former President were furious at her words, and whined and complained amongst themselves.
Despite this entire controversy, the former President and his loyal followers still believed that they did nothing wrong and blamed everyone else for their failures and mistakes, despite the facts and evidence that stood in their faces and the facts that half the country turned on them.
And despite the United States' damaged reputation internationally, some countries had decided to remain neutral and were concerned with the civil war that occurred in U.I.T.A. and had tried to form an alliance with the country that was still recovering from a bad civil war that nearly destroyed it, but they would have to prove their intentions, since the U.I.T.A. was still being cautious, especially with how they still remember the United States' failed attempt to control their small country prior.
"And as far as I'm concerned, my country is off limits for Americans until further notice." Alana declared, making it clear where she stood and why she wanted nothing to do with her former country of birth: because of how Americans discriminated against her because of her half-Kryptonian heritage as well as the assassination attempt on Kaitlyn that failed.
The world was surprised at the declaration by Alana, and one of the newscasters was wondering about the reason for this.
"Any specific reason on why your country is off limits to Americans?" The newscaster asked curiously.
And the world was curious as well on why Alana would want nothing to do with Americans, especially since they were still recovering from their war and they wanted nothing to do with any foreigners in their nation.
"My people... do not exactly trust the people of the United States, after everything that happened after your people had the audacity to try and have a good woman assassinated without reason." Alana started, her tone cold and cold but her eyes had a hint of anger in them, while the people still loyal to the President were furiously yelling at her through their screens.
The newscaster couldn't help but shiver with the cold look that Alana had when she made that statement, even when she got angry, she seemed to be in control of her anger.
"So then, why keep U.I.T.A. off limits to everyone who's American?" The newscaster asked curiously.
The newscaster's question caught the attention of the public who was watching the news, and they were wondering the same thing.
Alana was silent for a moment before answering, her anger and cold expression fading away and her tone turning calmer but still cautious as she continued.
"My country has been through war and was nearly destroyed before we achieved independence, and we don't want any foreigners or interference in our nation,
especially
the United States. With all due respect, your country almost destroyed our nation, and you expect us to forget it and welcome you in?" Alana replied with a hint of anger in her voice before regaining her composure.
Alana's statement had caught a lot of attention, and the remaining supporters of the former President were still yelling at her and making threats with their insults, but she ignored them and spoke with a calmer tone, but everyone could see the anger in her eyes.
"As I have said, we do not trust Americans, especially the ones who still support your former President and those that have ties to him."
The newscaster's expression changed to empathy for this newly-minted leader of a nation and what her country had experienced, before asking another question.
"So how far are you going to go to keep your country off limits to any Americans?" The newscaster asked curiously.
"Even if it means punishing them by keeping them detained against their will and see how they feel when they're put in the shoes of the immigrants and foreign citizens that travel to the US, that they've treated horribly." Alana answered bluntly, sending everyone in shock at her words.
The news media was silent for a moment from the statement that Alana just made, even her loyal subjects were surprised at what she said.
The loyalists of former Presidents Trump and Grover Paulson, who were still making threats and insults fell silent themselves and just stared at her in shock.
They were stunned by the statement of the young leader of the small nation that was just established, and they were silently terrified at the way she stated that she was willing to punish Americans who came to her country.
"U.I.T.A. will detain any Americans in our custody and punish them for trespassing if they were to enter U.I.T.A. without an approved visit by the U.I.T.A. government."
Her words were bold and firm, despite her young age, and they stunned both the U.I.T.A. people as well as the citizens and tourists of the world.
All the loyalists of the former two Presidents ould do was gape in dumbfounded terror at the statement by the young leader of the U.I.T.A. nation.
"Feel free to experience a taste of your own medicine, Americans. Because I'm going to make you *suffer* for everything you've done under Trump and Grover Paulson the last many years." Alana added next.
The loyal President supporters fell silent still, and the whole world was stunned at her words, and they were all silently staring at her, a young leader that stated that **she** was going to keep U.I.T.A. off limits to all Americans and was willing to punish them for trespassing into U.I.T.A.
The current President's loyalists were still silent and scared at the young woman's words, and the media was shocked that she was willing to make Americans suffer for everything that has happened under Trump and Paulson.
The tourists around the world were stunned at the words of the young queen of the U.I.T.A. and were all wondering the same thing:
Could she really do it
?
The U.I.T.A. people and their leader were all silently watching the world's stunned reaction to Alana's words, and they were all curious themselves if that their young and new leader
could
do what she was threatening to do to the Americans.
"All the immigrants and people you've hurt, because of who
YOU
voted for!" She was getting more angry with each word spoken.
The loyalists of the former Presidents and the MAGA movement was getting scared more and more, and the world was speechless at what she was saying, even her own people were in awe of how angry she was at how Americans have treated people, and could tell how she was being serious.
The people who supported the former Presidents were completely scared, and the world was still speechless at what she was saying, and they could all tell that she was not playing around.
Even the tourists and those around the world knew that she was not trying to be nice or be friendly at this moment, especially to those who were still loyal to the former Presidents.
People around the world were waiting to see what would happen next, and a question went through the minds of many:
Would the former President's supporters and other Americans try to test Alana's limits?
"As well as because that son of a bitch brought the
war
to us." She adds next, the blame pinned on Trump, the MAGA movement, and America itself as being solely responsible for starting the entire mess and her country retaliating by training harder, tougher and more violent, the line she used was a reference to BVS where Affleck's Batman blames Cavill's Superman for what happened during the Black Zero Event in Man of Steel and the lives that were lost.
The former President's loyalists began to sweat even more than they already had been, and the rest of the world was starting to realize why the United Independent Territories of America would be off limits to Americans, and why Alana held so much anger and hatred towards Americans and the United States.
No one was even trying to defend the former President, as he had started a lot of trouble in the U.I.T.A.
The loyalists of the United States had nothing to say, as they had no way to defend the former President, especially with how Alana and the U.I.T.A. people had been affected by his actions, and the world was staying silent as well.
No one was trying to speak in favor of the former President, while the world was listening to a young leader, while her own people were watching and listening as well.
The tourists were listening and watching silently, as they could understand now that Alana's anger came from her country being affected by the former President's and MAGA's actions, and that her people were very effected by the war that the President and his government basically started.
The loyalists of the former President were getting scared and sweating even more, and they all just gaped at Alana's anger and how much it had seemed to be building up and was now boiling over as she swore revenge against her former country.
All that the loyalists of the former President could do was just sit quietly as the young woman's anger continued, and they knew that they could not defend the former President himself for causing trouble at this point.
Meanwhile, the newscaster was asking Alana on camera the following question: "Why do you hate Americans so much? Is it because of the racism you've been through as a half-Kryptonian?"
Alana paused for a moment before replying with a serious expression and tone.
"No, it's not just the racism, it's because your President was the one who made the assassination attempt on Kaitlyn Chang, a woman that was simply exercising her human rights and being a free American. He did it because he doesn't like strong women, and that's why I hate your country and want nothing to do with Americans ever again."
The newscaster seemed surprised at the response, and the loyalists of the President began to sweat even more and they were starting to realize that even if they tried to get an ally in U.I.T.A. it wouldn't be possible.
The world was watching in silence at Alana's reason for hating America.
The newscaster understood now and nodded his head once again.
"But what about Americans who are against the former President and wanted him gone? Will you still keep U.I,T.A. off limits to them?" The newscaster asked curiously.
"Yes. Because some of them did nothing as the country committed serious crimes against people, and they didn't bother voting to stop it early enough." Alana answered.
The world was surprised at the statement that anyone who did not bother to vote to stop the crimes was just as guilty, and the loyalists of the former President were getting even more nervous and scared at her statement, and some of them were looking pretty pissed off at what she said.
The loyalists who were on the news on their own screens back at home were getting so mad and pissed off at the statement that Alana made that they were yelling at their screens and making threats at her.
"And at this point, threatening me only proves my point why Americans have a negative reputation in my country, because any attempts to act out of line will result in a lengthy prison sentence with no chance of release, because our laws are very strict on disorderly conduct." She added.
The loyalists of the former President on the screens at their homes were getting very angry that they could not make any threats against the young leader of U.I.T.A., and the loyalists tried to make more threats, but the newscaster quickly cut them off, and the loyalists all protested and were getting scared and starting to realize that they can't do anything to U.I.T.A., while the rest of the world was in awe and stunned at how serious U.I.T.A.'s laws were.
Everyone that was watching the news of Alana on U.I.T.A. was taking note of the laws of U.I.T.A. and how they were very strict, especially on disorderly conduct, and some were even impressed and amazed by the strict laws, while the loyalists of the former President were now starting to realize that they can't threaten Alana after all.
"And that means no free speech or hate speech, because what you say towards me has serious consequences like life imprisonment or a death sentence." Alana explained as she went into detail what the penalties are if anyone violated her country's laws.
The world was even more surprised at the details to the penalties, while the loyalists of the former President that were still in the news were all stunned with their mouths gaped open and completely stunned and scared at the penalties Alana explained on live television.
The newscaster paused for a moment before asking his next question.
"Are there no rights to defend yourself or anything?" The newscaster inquired curiously.
"Nope, because when you live in my country, you're under surveillance for what you say." She revealed.
The world had no words to respond to this and was too speechless, while the loyalists of the former President were shocked and scared, knowing that they would be heavily monitored if they tried to go to the U.I.T.A.
They were now realizing that there was no way they could go to U.I.T.A., and they were now realizing that the young Alana wasn't joking with the penalties she said earlier or her country's laws.
"And the second you make death threats, you're asking for women of my country, who are trained in the military to kill and shoot, to hunt you down and beat you on sight." She also added.
The newscaster was still speechless, while the world remained silent, and the loyalists of the former President who were still in the news just had their jaws dropped open and were all staring at her with their eyes wide, too scared to move, while others were still making threats and insults to her through the screens.
A few of them looked as if they wanted to try their luck in trying to go to U.I.T.A., because they could not believe that the country that just formed recently had such strict and serious laws, but they soon silenced themselves upon realizing the consequences of those laws.
Alana observed as the current loyalists of the former President fell silent, and the world was in awe at Alana's words and how U.I.T.A. works, and those who were watching were all getting scared of being heavily surveilled if they tried to go to U.I.T.A.
"So, if you want to have a squeaky clean record, watch your mouth."
The loyalists who were in the news were all staring silently at Alana, too scared to do or say anything, while those in their homes were staying quiet and taking in what she said, and the rest of world was speechless at how the newly-established nation had strict laws and heavy surveillance.
The newscaster could not find his words for a moment before trying to say something to Alana, but he was at a loss for words, and she was not even done speaking to them yet.
"And if you think you can bribe anyone in my country, don't even bother trying because you'll lose your head over that." She added next with a cold tone.
The newscaster was not sure how to respond to this statement, and the world was getting a little more scared at the thought of what the consequences really were in the newly-established country, and everyone watching the news was now afraid of what could happen to them if they try to go into U.I.T.A.
"And what are your laws on racism, especially your previous experience with Americans as a half-Kryptonian?"
Everyone watched with rapt attention at her answer, curious to know what her laws and rules were on racism after what she had already told them earlier on how the penalties worked for serious crimes, disorderly conduct, free speech, and death threats.
Alana paused for a moment, before speaking in a cold tone that made the loyalists of the former President shiver in their own homes, while the world was quiet and listening, and waiting to hear what she had to say about her country's law on racism.
"As for racism, here in U.I.T.A., there's a zero tolerance policy for it because racism is a no-no here. If anyone makes comments on my half-Kryptonian heritage, they will get in a lot of trouble with the law." She replied in a calm tone.
The world listened to her serious reply, and the loyalists of the former President were silent as they tried to understand what this zero tolerance about racism meant, while Alana's people at her side were listening to their young leader's words.
"How much trouble?" The newscaster asked curiously.
"To the point you'd have the entire country of civilians who are military trained, women of various backgrounds and religious groups uniting to take matters into their own hands and track you down and beat you up." She answered bluntly.
Everyone was stunned by this statement, including the loyalists of the former President in their homes, who were now scared to go around talking trash about U.I.T.A. because of their strict laws and penalties, and they were taking in seriously what would happen to them if they broke the law in U.I.T.A. and talked bad on Alana or her people.
"My citizens are tougher than Americans, because we're built for war, and we've went through it by fighting each other. And now that we've reunited, disrespect is not tolerated, as our agreement." Alana added.
The newscaster nodded as he realized that the citizens of the U.I.T.A. were already well-trained, which explained the zero tolerance on racism and any other serious crime.
The loyalists of the former President in their homes were now trying to keep their mouths shut, knowing that U.I.T.A. was a little too serious with their laws and citizens.
The world was still stunned, some a little more now that they realized that U.I.T.A. was not a country to be messed with judging from how strict their laws and citizens were, and they were wondering if there was any hope that the two countries could be allies.
Alana still had a cold and firm facial expression, and was not going to let her guard down, despite how people who watched the news felt about the strict laws in her country.
The loyalists of the former President were now trying to figure out how to work around the strict laws in the U.I.T.A. and try to get past the surveillance.
The world was watching closely, waiting to see what Alana was going to say, and the loyalists of the former President in their homes were trying to keep cool, despite the fact that they hated her very guts at this point and wanted her gone.
All eyes were on Alana as she just silently sat there with a look on her face that showed no mercy and no remorse for anyone who tried to break U.I.T.A.'s laws and get away with it, and she was keeping quiet to see if anyone else would say anything.
The newscaster was also keeping silent, trying to word what to say to Alana next, and the world was still watching, afraid of U.I.T.A.'s heavy surveillance and strict laws.
No one could speak for a moment, and they were all just trying to read what was going on.
Until one social media footage had gone viral of a recent incident in the capital of the country, of the former UITA veteran that had been following Trump every time she saw him, taunting him with insults and wisecrack remarks.
While she didn't like other people who were different from her, she hated the former President of the United States even more.
"Where you going, old man?" Karen taunted with a slight accent, her fists clenched as she followed him right outside the hotel he was staying at.
Trump was visibly angry and annoyed as he turned around and saw Karen following him, taunting him with insults.
"What do you want, lady?" he snapped at her, his face contorted in annoyance.
Karen continued to taunt him, insulting him even more.
"Come on, you old codger, you gonna just let a woman like me talk to you like that?" she taunted.
Trump clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, clearly annoyed by Karen's taunts.
"Watch your mouth, woman!" he growled.
Karen just laughed at him, enjoying the fact that she was under his skin.
"What's the matter, can't handle a little smack talk? Or are you just too old and out of touch to keep up with me?"
Trump's face turned red with anger, but before he could respond, Karen stepped closer, her fists still clenched.
"Come on, old man. Show me what you got. Or haven't they taught you how to defend yourself yet?"
Trump hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
Then, unexpectedly, he swung at her, trying to hit her, but she ducked out of the way with practiced ease, dodging his punch.
"Whoa, hey there, old timer. You might hurt yourself."
She smirked as she watched him struggle to keep up with her, his movements slow and sluggish.
Trump tried to lunge at her again, but she easily dodged his attack, her movements quick and precise.
"Come on, is that all you've got? My grandma moves faster than that."
Karen laughed as she continued to taunt him, her taunts getting more and more insulting.
Trump was sweating and breathing heavily, clearly exhausted and struggling to keep up with Karen's taunts and movements.
"Shut up! Just shut up!" he barked at her.
But Karen just laughed even harder, enjoying the fact that she was getting under his skin.
"What's the matter, old timer? Can't take a little bit of trash talk?"
Trump gritted his teeth and lunged at her again, his movements even more sluggish and clumsy than before.
Karen easily dodged his attack once more, her movements quick and agile.
"Is that all you've got, old man? My toddler could do better than that."
Trump's face was beet red with anger, and he was panting heavily from fatigue.
"You think you're so tough, don't you?" he panted.
Karen just smirked.
"Tough enough to take on a decrepit old coot like you."
Trump let out a guttural roar and lunged at her with surprising strength for his age, his fist aiming straight at Karen's face.
But Karen was expecting it, and she ducked out of the way, the swing missing her head by inches.
"Nice try, old man, but you'll have to do better than that," she taunted as she knocked him to the ground and began beating his ass.
Trump was clearly no match for Karen's strength and speed, and he quickly found himself on the ground, groaning and clutching his stomach as Karen continued to rain blows down on him.
"You think you're tough, old man? You think you're better than me? You're nothing but a pathetic, angry old man, and I'm gonna show you just how much I hate your stupid face."
Trump groaned in pain as Karen continued to pummel him, her blows landing with force and precision.
"Stop...please...stop..." he panted, wheezing and struggling to catch his breath.
Karen just smiled and let out a bark of laughter.
"Oh, what's the matter? Can't handle a little beating from a woman like me? What happened to that tough guy swagger you had earlier, huh?"
Trump tried to push her off of him, but she was too strong for him, and she easily kept him pinned to the ground.
"Please...I can't breathe..." he croaked, his face turning red with pain and exertion.
Karen just laughed and leaned in close, her face inches from his.
"Maybe this will teach you to respect women, you old fool," she taunted, her eyes glinting with sadistic enjoyment.
When this went viral, everyone around the world reacted.
And while she got arrested a few moments later, she didn't care or had remorse as she was justified in attacking him was how disrespectful he was to all of UITA culture and hated him for his remarks towards women.
The viral footage sparked mixed reactions, with some people applauding Karen's actions and seeing her as a hero for taking on Trump, while others criticized her for resorting to violence and taking the law into her own hands.
Alana, seeing the footage, smirked, not saying anything about it.
Karen's name became a household name overnight as news outlets around the world covered the story, and people were divided on the matter.
Some people saw her as a hero for standing up to Trump's disrespectful behavior and taking him down, while others condemned her for resorting to violence and for her conservative viewpoints, especially being anti-Roe v Wade.
There were online debates and discussions about the incident, with some people supporting Karen for her actions and seeing her as a symbol of resistance against Trump's divisive rhetoric.
Others condemned her, calling her a violent bigot for beating up Trump and her views on issues like abortion rights.
There were calls for Karen to be arrested and charged with assault or even hate crimes, while others argued that Trump deserved worse for his disrespectful and divisive behavior.
But Karen herself was unapologetic, insisting her actions were justified and that she had taken on a bully who had never been held accountable for his actions.
Back at the interview, Alana eventually was going to bring up that incident herself when she was asked seconds later..
"And why do you hate the Orange Man so much?" someone asked.
"Because I'm tired of waiting for the US to do anything about him, so I've waited long enough. What he did to piss off every woman in my country of all ethnicities, racist or not, was making disgusting, sexist remarks of the Statue of Remembrance, which was a monument to victims of abuse and sexual assault that
American
soldiers committed during the civil war that ravaged my country, and let's not forget that Trump is a pedophile and rapist himself, given the Epstein scandal. It was beyond disrespectful, so we made an example out of him by taking matters into our own hands by putting a bounty on him for information on his whereabouts to keep tracking and beating him up, and he's stopped running his mouth then since even racist white women hate him." This wasn't shocking because she succeeded where the US failed at regarding Trump as the camera feed then switches to interviewing a racist white woman who was one of the women of the UITA on her reasons why she attacked and beat up Trump for what he did.
The world was surprised by how the UITA were able to get Trump to keep his mouth shut, and half of Americans were a little pissed off that Alana's people were able to do what they failed to do.
The loyalists of the former President were still a little stunned and scared, but they tried to act tough in their faces.
The newscaster was speechless, while the racist woman who was currently in handcuffs, that had beat up on the former President was given the chance to speak at the camera: "Yes, I admit it, I beat up on him for what he said about the Statue of Remembrance, and I'm tired of hearing him say stupid things like that. It was beyond disrespectful to women who suffered those traumatic events."
Everyone had witnessed the answer and was stunned, while the loyalists of the President were not exactly happy about her answer, and they tried to remain calm.
"Well, I can't say I blame you," the newscaster piped up.
"Yeah...he had his ass rightfully kicked," the racist woman replied coldly, looking very unremorseful.
The newscaster had some reservations about letting such a woman speak, but he just nodded his head again, as he had nothing else to say.
The former President's loyalists were a little upset that an old, white woman beat him up, but they just stayed quiet and tried to remain calm.
"And if even the most racist person in my country is willing to unite with women of color against someone like him, that's a big red flag on how America messed up really badly by refusing to do anything about him." Alana answered bluntly.
Everyone in the news was agreeing with this answer from Alana, and some of them were now getting a little angry at how the former President of the U.S. had affected the U.I.T.A.
The loyalists of the former President were becoming more and more uneasy by this statement.
"So, it's for his own safety he gets locked up in jail, because any time he's out of jail, all he does is keep getting pummeled into the ground." She stated.
Everyone silently agreed with the statement, and the loyalists of the former President were starting to get nervous with how strong Alana was, and all the penalties and laws that came with U.I.T.A.
Then, the camera feed switched to a different setting where a Muslim woman with her Japanese husband were also interviewed on their own reasons why they joined with the mob of women to attack him any time they see him, remembering his remarks on the Muslim ban.
"Yeah, that was just messed up," the Muslim woman said, while her Japanese husband nodded in agreement. "I'm sick of hearing him say all this stuff about Muslims, so we joined the crowd to beat him up."
The world witnessed the response of the couple, and some of the world was silently agreeing on their statement.
The loyalists of the former President were getting more uneasy with the statement made by the couple and the crowd of women who beat him up whenever they saw him.
The newscaster was not sure what to say next, but he managed to find his words: "Well, they certainly have some strong feelings against him." He piped up.
"Can you blame them? He just keeps being a jerk." The Muslim woman replied, while her Japanese husband nodded in agreement.
The newscaster nodded his head once, while the loyalists of the former President was getting more and more uneasy at how everyone was against him and his words.
"We guess we can't blame you," the newscaster replied calmly.
"It's like he just can't keep his mouth shut. He just brings out the worst in everyone." The Japanese-American husband piped up, sounding like he was pretty annoyed.
"Agreed. He makes people angry." The Muslim-American woman said bluntly, nodding in agreement.
The news crew was stunned, while the loyalists of the former President were getting more and more nervous with how U.I.T.A. formed a mob to beat him up every time they saw him, while everyone else on the news was in agreement.
"And what did you think of his remarks on the Statue of Remembrance, as well as the words of the racist white woman from earlier on why she attacked him?" The newscaster asked the Muslim woman on feed.
"I, for one, find it disturbing and offensive. I was completely offended and disgusted, especially as a woman." The Muslim American woman explained bluntly, while her Japanese-American husband nodded in agreement and had a serious look on his face.
"His remarks were out of line. They were disrespectful and highly offensive not just to me, but to my culture." The Japanese-American husband piped up next, looking like he wanted to punch the former President if he laid eyes on him in person.
The world was listening to the couple's statement, while the loyalists of the former President were getting more nervous and scared at the statement, and the world could tell that anyone who made the same kind of comments would be beaten up mercilessly and repeatedly.
"And what did you think of the racist white woman's words on why she attacked him?" The newscaster asked again.
The Muslim woman spoke up first: "She was completely on point. Men like him don't know any better, and they disrespect the women that had suffered trauma from their experiences during the war."
Her Japanese-American husband nodded in agreement, and everyone was getting more and more uncomfortable about the entire thing.
"Yeah, I mean, it makes sense why someone attacked him. I wouldn't be surprised if anyone else is getting tired of hearing him run his mouth about so much." He piped up.
Everyone listened as the Japanese-American man spoke, while the loyalists were now getting very nervous and scared as they were starting to understand that things were not as they were before for the country of the United States and the former President.
The newscaster turned to the racist white woman and asked her bluntly: "And what did you think of the Statue of Remembrance when he made those comments about it?"
"He's a disgusting person. I beat him up for it, and I don't feel bad one bit." The racist white woman replied bluntly, sounding like she would have no qualms about beating up the former President again.
The newscaster was a bit shocked at how the racist woman had no feelings of remorse, but the whole world was in agreement about the statement.
The loyalists were getting more and more scared and nervous with the situation as a whole.
"Yeah, he's a complete embarrassment, and anyone of any color could figure that out." The racist white woman continued, still looking straight into the camera, and the rest of the world witnessed how much of an embarrassment the former President was and is.
"Well, I think that just about sums it up," the newscaster said awkwardly, trying to figure out what to say next.
"So what made you want to unite with women of color against him when his remarks went viral?"
The racist white woman spoke up first: "Honestly? Seeing his comments go viral had me disgusted, and I went and joined the women who were beating his ass. No one talks like that and gets away with it."
Another woman in the background, who was also black, spoke up: "And we were so tired of hearing how he treated our fellow women that way. We had to do something about it, and we took matters into our own hands by taking turns beating him up."
The other women around the camera all nodded in agreement, and there was a long pause again as the newscaster was not sure what to say next.
The loyalists of the former President were almost on the edge of their seats, feeling like they were outnumbered and completely outnumbered by the women who beat up the former President.
The camera feed then switches back to the Muslim woman and her Japanese husband. "So, what are your thoughts on your queen saying that the Orange Man (obviously Trump) is better off in jail than out of jail for his own safety and will continue to get beat up every time he runs his mouth?"
"We think she's absolutely right. He brings it on himself, and there are people he can't control and tell how to think or how they're going to respond to him." the Japanese American said bluntly.
"Yeah, there's no other way to put it. He's going to run his mouth and get himself beat up, so he has to face the consequences of his own actions." the Muslim woman replied, nodding in agreement.
The newscaster was again stunned on how the statement was being put, and the world was getting more and more uncomfortable, until the U.I.T.A. queen came back on the news feed once again.
"It's almost ironic in a hilarious way on the fact I'm able to unite all women of ethnicities and religious backgrounds to agree that remarks on women who suffer traumatic events like that is beyond disrespectful." Alana said flatly.
Everyone was surprised and a little bit confused about how Alana was able to make women of many backgrounds unite and agree with an issue, but nonetheless, they were curious on what Alana was going to say next.
"And not only did it make women in U.I.T.A. agree to unite without any trouble, it's not just women of all backgrounds in my country who are agreeing on things, as everyone also agree with my country's laws and penalties, especially since there's zero tolerance on racism." Alana added.
Everyone listened and some had a look of awe on their expressions.
The loyalists of the former President were stunned that U.I.T.A. was strict on racism, and what more they needed to do to stay safe under their laws.
"The reason why my country has no tolerance for racism is because it creates the most divide. We don't want racism of any kind to exist in U.I.T.A. We have no tolerance, no exceptions of hate towards a person or people for their skin color, ethnicity, or religion, and it's a good thing because everyone here agrees that it's disgusting." Alana explained.
Everyone was in agreement with the statement, and some were impressed on how U.I.T.A. was taking the zero tolerance on racism very seriously.
"I personally grew up seeing people of many backgrounds getting along with each other and working together, and I've taken the best of their cultures and incorporated them into my country. Everyone of various descent in U.I.T.A. has been getting along, and there hasn't been any trouble when it came to cultural differences and how they act." She continued.
The newscaster nodded, agreeing with the statement, while U.I.T.A. was looking more like a peaceful nation than the United States.
And this was proven when it showed footage of a recent incident in her country where the same Muslim woman and Japanese husband interviewed earlier, were among the crowd of women of all backgrounds and religious groups uniting to take matters into their own hands by putting a bounty on the former MAGA US President for information on his whereabouts in the UITA to keep tracking and beating him up, that went viral a few days earlier.
The camera feed showed the footage of a big crowd of women of every nationality and religious background, and they were all there for the same reason to beat up the former President if they could find him.
"This is a prime example of people coming together for a common goal, and no arguments or trouble happened between the women of various backgrounds." The newscaster noted.
Alana nodded.
"That's right. There was no trouble on any of the women. They didn't say anything racist or wrong, their eyes were focused on the same goal and that was taking action against the Orange Man." She stated firmly.
And a lot of people were on the edge of their seats and listening closely, while the loyalists of the former President were getting even more scared than before.
"And that's how U.I.T.A. has no trouble on what religions say or think, because our people are not getting into fights or trouble with each other, because they treat each other just as anyone would want to be treated, and they have no problem of getting along with each other." Alana added.
Everyone was listening very closely at the response and amazed at how U.I.T.A. was managing it's religious difference without any trouble.
The loyalists of the former President were getting very scared and feeling even more uneasy.
"So, are those women in the video military trained?" someone asked.
"Yes, they are. And most of them are trained since they were 15, age ranges from 15 to even 29 or 30 years." Alana replied, the footage showing women of various ages, racial ethnicities and religious backgrounds coming together to make a stand against hate, even if it was against the Orange Man himself.
The news feed shows footage in detail of every woman coming together, despite their differences, and they were all working together and getting along for the good of U.I.T.A.
The loyalists of the former President were even more scared and feeling more threatened that the women were trained even since they were 15 years old, and U.I.T.A. was a lot stronger than they seemed.
The newscaster was intrigued, and so was everyone else, including U.I.T.A. "So, the women of your country were trained as teenagers to become a part of the U.I.T.A. military, and there's no trouble on who trains who?"
"Yep, and also why they earn the right to vote as soon as they turn 18 and leave the military after 3 to 6 years of service." She stated.
Again, everyone was listening, still intrigued and some even more impressed and getting more curious.
The loyalists of the former President were even more scared, as the women of U.I.T.A. were also trained at a young age and earned the right to vote after their service.
"So, how are you able to manage all the women coming together like that, and not having any trouble?" Another person added.
"Because they know the importance of putting aside differences for the greater good, something the United States failed at and needs to learn as it faces the consequences of its choices." Alana started bluntly, her gaze fixed on the camera, as her message was aimed at the American people.
Everyone listened intently, while the loyalists of the former President were scared again with how U.I.T.A.'s people was managed with the United States failing in comparison, and they could not say anything to defend themselves.
"The women of U.I.T.A. know what they're doing and understand the need to work together in their country. They aren't getting into trouble with each other, and they don't have any problems on how to go about things, as they manage everything flawlessly." Alana added, with a flat but firm tone, and she had her gaze fixed on the camera of the news feed.
The newscaster could not find his words and everyone listened intently, knowing that U.I.T.A. was different from their country.
The loyalists of the former President was getting more and more scared, knowing that the United States had messed up and U.I.T.A. was not in their favor.
"And they are not getting into stupid fights over their religious differences, and we have no trouble on who does what." Alana continued firmly, referring to the many religious groups in U.I.T.A. being able to get along flawlessly, as they are not getting into trouble on how they practice and observe their beliefs.
The whole world was stunned, shocked and amazed on how U.I.T.A. worked, and the loyalists of the former President was terrified that Alana was speaking and comparing the differences between U.I.T.A and the U.S..
"Especially since women in my country are allowed to marry of any race." She revealed.
Everyone was listening, surprised and stunned, and some were impressed.
The loyalists of the former President were getting more and more uneasy and scared that U.I.T.A. was different from their own country, and some were starting to figure that the whole world was listening too as U.I.T.A. was starting to reveal this information.
"And women are also allowed to get an education, go into any career they want to, do things that men get to do. But more importantly, women have a say over their bodies and health decisions, like what U.S. women should have." Alana continued, knowing that a lot of American women were pissed off at the banning of abortion being passed.
Everyone was listening and was still stunned, and there were gasps too in the news, for both the U.I.T.A. and the U.S.
"Also, women are also allowed to leave their partners if their partners are unfit to be parents, and divorce is allowed in our country for that reason." She continued, knowing that divorce for women was a huge problem in the U.I.T.A., but it was necessary to keep their family values alive for the children.
Everyone was getting more and more intrigued, and the news was now filled with gasps.
The loyalists of the former President were in disbelief and fear, while the U.I.T.A. women were proud at how much freedom they had.
"We also have strict laws against spousal abuse and child abuse, so violating that law, especially if you're a
man
, will cost you your arms and legs." She repeated in a threatening tone.
Everyone was listening intently and the loyalists of the former President were very scared that U.I.T.A. was very serious about that, for the men.
"And we are very proud of our laws and the way it works, and we never get into trouble or arguments on how things are supposed to go." Alana said, continuing her words with a flat but firm tone.
Everyone was listening and still stunned, and some were feeling the same way as Alana did, while the loyalists of the former President were starting to sweat under her gaze from the camera.
"Especially you American men who think you're entitled to a woman's body, shows how stupid you are, and you'd be lucky you aren't killed in my country if you dare so much hit a woman." Alana warned.
Everyone was listening, some nodding in agreement at what Alana said, and was getting tired of the United States men who would do things like that, and the loyalists of the former President did not have any words to say to defend themselves.
"No wonder a lot of American women are leaving the U.S. and immigrating to the U.I.T.A. because of that." Alana added, with a hint of anger.
Everyone was listening closely, and U.I.T.A. was surprised to know that American women were coming to their country too.
The loyalists of the former President were starting to sweat under the heavy gaze of Alana, knowing that their own country was losing the women of their home country more and more, which they did not like.
And the loyalists of the former President were feeling the eyes of the U.I.T.A. staring in their faces, not knowing that American women were going to U.I.T.A. because they wanted some freedom.
Then, the newscaster asked, "Is that why women in your country are tougher and violent with men because they are military trained and men would never dare lay a hand on a woman?"
"That is why. Men can't touch women, otherwise they'd end up with broken bones and bloody eyes." Alana answered flatly.
Everyone was listening intently and some of the news were nodding in agreement, and the loyalists of the former President were terrified of the thought of broken bones and bloody eyes, as they could not think of any argument, or anything to speak.
Eventually, the news footage switched to a young woman in her early 20s currently being interviewed on the reason she gave for beating up her abusive boyfriend, the setting outside of a UITA court where her boyfriend is being tried and found guilty.
"I was tired of him cheating on me and beating me up." She replied, still bitter looking.
Everyone was listening and was shocked at how awful the woman was treated, and many could see that she was hurt because of the words she said, while the loyalists of the former President were getting more and more tense, knowing that there were women out there who were living like that, and U.I.T.A. was making sure that men were punished for their actions.
And the newscaster asked the woman, "And what happened after you left him and he kept going on with the same cycle?"
"I had to get a restraining order." She replied bluntly. "He kept leaving me voicemails, threatening me, begging me to come back, even stalking me at my job. So the queen's orders were to also have my coworkers, especially if they're women, to beat him up and humiliate him."
Everyone was listening and was stunned, getting interested in the queen of U.I.T.A. and curious on how she gave the orders, and the loyalists of the former President were very scared of U.I.T.A. laws and penalties, while the woman on the feed smiled, as she was glad that she did to that man.
"He was being a jerk." She replied bluntly. "He just couldn't understand that I don't want to be with him. I'm in a new relationship with a better man, and I don't need a deadbeat in my life."
Everyone was listening, and were understanding her reply, just like the loyalists of the former President, but they were very scared.
"And you're happy in your new relationship?" the news caster asked curiously, the woman interviewed was a Latina currently in a relationship with her Thai boyfriend.
"Of course." She replied with a sweet smile, her dark hair falling to her shoulders. "Me and him are taking it slow, have good conversations. He doesn't make me feel bad if I don't send him a text. He doesn't freak out if I don't pick up the phone. He let me do my own thing, but also spend quality time with me. I don't need a guy like my ex, I don't need a guy that gets drunk all the time."
Everyone was listening, and the loyalists of the former President were shocked, some of them realizing that a good relationship was not just physical, but rather emotional too.
"And how was your ex like? Do you mind explaining?" The newscaster asked curiously and calmly.
"Oh, he's the worst." the woman replied bluntly. "He was an abusive drunk, very possessive and controlling, and he always thought he should have his way with women, especially myself. He was a jerk, he had a lot of problems, and he deserved worse than a restraining order. The last I heard from my coworkers was that my ex was beaten up by women in prison."
Everyone was listening, and some were happy to hear that the ex was beaten up in prison, and the loyalists were starting to get a little annoyed with how the laws were being played.
"And do you regret anything you did to him?" the newscaster added.
"Not one bit." She answered, still looking proud. "Like I said, he was a jerk and a loser, and I regret ever getting involved with him. My new boyfriend is a much better man."
Everyone was listening, and the loyalists of the former President, were starting to get nervous, while the woman interviewed was still happy and proud of herself, and the news feed then switched back to the newscaster, who looked a little lost for words.
The newscaster took a moment, then spoke again to the camera, "So, it's clear that, a lot of women in U.I.T.A. have no problem with standing up for themselves and not giving in to the abuse from men. Even the women who are doing a lot of things like working, fighting, or even getting an education, U.I.T.A. women know how to be tough and have the courage to fight back and not let their feelings or emotions get the better of them when dealing with violence towards them."
Everyone was listening very closely, and some women, both UITA and American, were nodding in agreement, knowing that standing up to abuse was crucial.
The loyalists of the former President were getting uncomfortable, knowing that women in U.I.T.A. were tougher than women in the U.S, and there was no way any of them could go there without being beaten up.
"So, women of U.I.T.A. are definitely different than women in our country." The newscaster said bluntly, and the loyalists of the former President were getting nervous, since women of U.I.T.A. definitely have more freedom than women in the U.S.
"I agree." Alana said bluntly, "Women in U.I.T.A definitely don't take any crap from anyone, especially men."
The newscaster nodded, "Is that why you have no problem with women coming to U.I.T.A?" He asked curiously, and the loyalists of the former President were getting nervous on being asked by the newscaster, on why women in U.I.T.A. were different.
"That is right." Alana replied bluntly, with a firm tone.
"Women in my country are tough, and every girl is raised by a mother who knows what it's like to live like that. I was training with the military before I turned 15 years old. The women in my country aren't weak, and they are not going to tolerate being treated as second class citizens or property. Women of U.I.T.A. are very strong." she finished.
Everyone was stunned, shocked and awestruck, and there were a lot of gasps coming from the feed.
Women in the U.I.T.A being like that.
The loyalists of the former President were stunned as U.I.T.A. women were raised tougher than women in the U.S, and there was no way that they could do anything about it, if they ever try to do something to a woman in U.I.T.A.
The women of U.I.T.A. were confident, and was impressed with Alana, while all the women in the U.I.T.A. were proud that she said that, even the American women who were watching.
The loyalists of the former President were very scared, some of them realizing they had no chance to make the women feel any lesser, and they knew that the U.I.T.A. women were too tough for them to handle, and very different than the women in the U.S.
"And my goal is to create a world where women don't have to fear anything from their men, because of some cowards who are entitled to women's bodies," her finishing and concluding statement was a jab and mockery of how bad things were in the United States and how dumb men can be.
Everyone was listening, and the American women were stunned, stunned once, but were impressed and proud of what Alana just said.
The loyalists of the former President were terrified, knowing that there was no way they were going to have a chance at any woman anywhere near the U.I.T.A. and they knew that some of the women in the U.S. was starting to get tired of the treatment that they had been put through in the U.S, and it was only going to be a matter of time before women in the U.S. would start to act.
A lot of American women in the news were nodding in agreement and some of them were ready, while the loyalists were shaking.
"And it will take a long, long time for it to happen." Alana assured.
And the American women were very impressed and proud, feeling the reassurance that was Alana just said.
The loyalists of the former President were getting a lot of sweat on their faces, and there was nothing that they could do to argue on the matter as the newsfeed on Alana cut off, signaling her interview was over.
Soon after, the feed changed to some other topic, and the women in U.I.T.A. was very proud of Alana and how she stood her ground, while some loyalist men in the U.S. was not happy with Alana's harsh statement to the men of the country.
The news feed changed subject to something unrelated, but there were some women that were still thinking about Alana and her country, and a lot of them were getting jealous of it, with a few loyal men watching too, getting very annoyed and frustrated.
And eventually, there was a commercial break and everyone was relaxing, except for the loyalists, as they were getting more and more uncomfortable, with the news feed having ended, then the news feed returned to regular programming.
Back in the US in the Capitol of the country, president Martin was addressing a joint session of Congress, as he stood behind the lectern at the podium, beginning to speak.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. On today’s day, the very first day I’ve sworn as and become President of the United States, I want to say how important it will be for me to do right by the American people and regain their hard earned trust by doing the right things during my term. My predecessor, and all those who work for him and supported him, have violated the rights of many of our people both here and abroad.”
He paused for a few seconds before speaking once more.
“But as I stand before you now, I want to assure each and every one of you that every single one of those rights will be fully restored.”
Applause was heard from the joint session of Congress, as well as the members of the Supreme Court present, and the guests of the House of Representatives.
“As your President, I promise to do everything in my power to take charge of the right direction, towards a better future for this nation, its people, and the world.”
Cameras flashed as he stepped down from the podium, with the applause from the House and Supreme Court justices, followed by a round of applause from the Senate chamber, followed by all the other guests in attendance.
Martin sat down next to his wife, Ruth, holding her hand while hearing the round of applause from the guests in attendance, as he felt confident that he could regain the US’s image, especially on the world stage.
As the applause died down and the crowd quieted, the new Vice President of the United States, Jason Roberts, the former Governor of California, addressed the joint session of Congress, speaking at the lectern behind the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand here as Vice President of the United States. Under the leadership of President Martin, we will make the necessary changes that are desperately needed to restore the reputation of our nation.”
As the applause died down, both Martin and Roberts returned to their seats while awaiting the last member of the new cabinet to take the mic.
Chief of Staff of the White House, the former Mayor of Chicago, William “Bill” Johnson, stepped up to the lectern behind the podium, addressing the joint session of Congress.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight marks a new beginning for the United States. We have elected a new President, and a new administration is taking the helm, led by President Jeffrey Martin. Thank you.”
Johnson bowed politely before stepping down from the podium and returning to his seat.
The applause from the joint session of Congress died down, the session was adjourned, Martin stood to his feet and shook hands with Roberts, Johnson, as well as members of the Supreme Court before leaving the Hall of the House of Representatives flanked by his Secret Service and the crowd of guests leaving afterwards, with a feeling of optimism and hope of returning the United States to its former glory.
Cameras flashed as Martin, flanked by his Secret Service, made his way through the crowd of guests and reporters, some of them asking him questions, and with some trying to push their way through to get to him while Martin tried his best to answer as many of their questions as possible.
“What do you plan on doing next after today?” Reporter 1 calls out.
“President Martin! What’s the first thing you plan on doing as America’s new leader?” Reporter 2
Martin tried fighting through the crowd of reporters, all trying to ask him questions, with more and more trying to push their way through to him while more and more cameras continued to flash.
Flashes of cameras continue to snap away as Martin continued fighting his way through the crowd of reporters and guests, some of whom continued to call out questions, as the Secret Service continued clearing a path for him, all while he tried his best to reply.
“Martin! What will the first thing will be that you intend to sign off as President?!” A reporter asked.
“President Martin please, what do you plan to do regarding US and foreign relations?!” Another reporter added.
While being escorted by the Secret Service, Martin tried his best to maintain his cool the best he could while trying to answer the questions of each and every reporter before making it to his limousine parked by the doors of the Capitol building, where the Secret Service quickly helped him inside, before getting in and driving off, leaving a crowd of people and reporters to stand there wondering when Martin would make his first address on reinstating the rights they once enjoyed before Paulson.
In the distance, as the limousine was leaving, the lights of the Capitol Building could be seen, shining brightly in the dark skies of tonight’s evening, as the crowd of people and press continued to stand by, waiting to hear from the new American leader.
As the limousine continued driving through the night, the Secret Service agents in the vehicle with Martin remained silent while listening to the radio, hearing the reports of the press and guests that were at the Capitol building, waiting for a statement from the new President of the United States.
Martin stared thoughtfully out of the window, watching the scenery pass by, feeling a sense of hope and determination to make things right for the people and country that he was leading now.
He knew that the task ahead was great, but he was ready to take on the responsibility, knowing that it was a necessity to restore what was lost during the dark days of Paulson’s presidency.
Finally, the limousine came to a stop outside of the White House, where the Secret Service agents helped Martin to step out of the car, followed by the agents who remained alongside him.
They escorted him up the steps and through the front doors into the building, where the White House staff was waiting for him with welcoming smiles on their faces, eager to meet the new Commander-in-Chief.
As Martin walked down the halls of the White House, taking in the familiar sight of the building that he had visited many times before as Governor, he turned to his right and spotted his wife, Ruth, standing there, waiting for him.
He smiled warmly and walked over to her, embracing her tightly, grateful to have her by his side.
It was a small moment of closeness and reassurance amidst the chaos of the momentous day they had just experienced.
“It’s good to see you.” Martin said softly as he looked into her eyes, feeling comforted by her presence.
Ruth smiled back at him, equally grateful to be together. “It's good to see you too, love. You did it.”
He sighed, his expression softening. "I just hope I can do right by our people, Ruth. There's so much damage to undo."
Ruth reached up and touched his face tenderly. "You will. You always have. Trust yourself and the people who stand with us."
He leaned into her touch, finding strength in her words. "You're right. We have a team of dedicated people here, and the whole country is counting on us. We'll rise to the occasion."
Ruth nodded, her eyes full of pride and determination. "Together, we'll make this country great again. Not just for us but for future generations too."
He took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as he realized that he wasn't alone in this journey. "Thank you, Ruth. I couldn't do any of this without you by my side. You're my rock."
Ruth took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Always. No matter what happens, we're in this together."
He smiled, grateful for her unwavering support. "Let's get to work, then. We have a lot to do, but with people like you by my side, I know we can make a real difference."
With that, hand in hand, they walked down the hall of the White House together, ready to face whatever challenges the future would bring.
The couple continued on their way down the hall, with the Secret Service agents following closely behind, until finally arriving at the door of the Oval Office.
Martin took a moment to look at it, knowing that he was about to step into a room that had been occupied by many notable figures before him.
He took a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation, before pushing the door open.
As they walked into the room, Martin couldn't help but feel humbled by the history that had unfolded within its walls.
He looked around, taking in the familiar furniture and decorations before his eyes landed on the Resolute desk, the legendary piece of furniture that had been used by U.S. Presidents since 1880.
He walked over to it, running his hand along the smooth surface, feeling the weight of the history that had been made from this very spot.
This was his new workspace, the place where he would make the decisions that would shape the future of the nation.
But he knew that the true power wouldn't come from this desk, but from his own actions and the people he would work with.
"This is it," he said quietly, looking around the room once more. "This is where it all begins."
Ruth walked over to his side, eyeing the room's features while the Secret Service agents took their positions near the door.
"It's a beautiful space," she said softly. "Fitting for the leader of the free world."
Martin nodded, then sat down in the chair behind the desk, taking in the sight of the room.
He tried to imagine what the room would look like after a few days, weeks, or even months of working from it, how it might change over time.
He knew that the office would reflect the person who worked in it, and he was determined to make sure it reflected the kind of leader he wanted to be.
He leaned back in his chair, looking out the room's window at the city beyond.
Night had fallen, but the city lights were brilliant, reflecting off the Potomac River.
It was a beautiful sight, but it also served as a reminder of the challenges that lay ahead, challenges that would require strong leadership and decisive action.
As he pondered his responsibilities, Martin opened one of the drawers in the desk, looking inside.
It was empty, waiting to be filled with documents that would shape the future of the nation.
He closed the drawer thoughtfully, realizing that his tenure as President would be defined by what he put in those drawers.
Back on the interview 4 hours later, Alana continues to explain the consequences of the choices the United States has made and how this affects everyone around them.
Those words stung like a bee to those of the MAGA supporters that were watching, but they couldn't deny that Alana spoke the truth, something that they couldn't accept.
Even the reporters and the newscasters were at awe with Alana's words of wisdom and experience, despite that she was young enough to be their daughter.
"Because unlike a certain draft dodger and pedophile associated with a certain pedophile given the Epstein scandal and controversy," she makes it obvious she's referring to Trump himself, then explains further context.
"For those who don't know the scandal, it is basically involving a known child trafficker where underage girls are involved and known rich elites were at his island and pedophile-themed party in the 1990s where a certain loser would be known for his comments towards Ivanka, which invokes gross underlying themes of incest, and It's fucking disgusting. And that's saying how fucked up it is because half the Republican party are pedophiles themselves. You don't see drag queens doing that stuff, it's almost always Republican white men doing that and found guilty of possessing child porn. Child porn is also a big no-no in my country and it guarantees a death sentence." She revealed.
Even the reporters, newscasters, the MAGA supporters that watched the interview, and the rest of the viewers who watched the interview were stunned and speechless at Alana's detailed explanation of the Epstein scandal and the implications it had towards Trump, not expecting the young leader of the U.I.T.A. to use that against the former President.
"Like, come on, the American people should've known better that he's a walking red flag you shouldn't vote for and he'd ruin the United States to where it'll take decades to fix." She deadpans on interview.
All those watching her interview couldn't help but agree with her words.
They knew that she had a very valid point: the American people should've known better than to vote for a walking red flag who would eventually ruin the United States and it would take decades to repair.
The MAGA supporters were absolutely speechless from Alana's points against Trump and their decision to support him, and couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt and embarrassment for their foolish support for the former President.
Some even began second guessing their decision, wondering how they were so blinded and manipulated enough to follow a con man like him.
The rest of the viewers silently agreed with Alana's words, realizing that voting for Trump was the biggest mistake they've ever made.
It was a mistake that left America damaged and divided, and the world lost its trust and respect of the country.
Alana's words had hit home, and everyone who watched her interviewed couldn't deny that what she said had a strong point.
The MAGA supporters were left speechless, the reporters and newscasters were in awe at her wisdom and knowledge, and the rest of America silently reflected on their decision to support Trump.
The only ones who weren't affected by her words were the extreme supporters who still clung to Trump like a fly to a flytrap.
They were left feeling angry and frustrated, unable to deny the truth that Alana's words held, but too stubborn to admit it themselves.
They stubbornly believed that Trump was the right choice for America despite the damage he had caused to the country.
"However, had I sentenced Trump to death, it would make him a martyr, so I made the decision to let him live, while serving his prison sentence in my country, as he cannot leave while he's stuck in a country that hates him. And as Kaitlyn herself requested: I followed through on my vow to do the United States and the world a favor by locking Trump up, as it's for his own safety. It's better for Trump to be in jail than out of jail, because any time he's not in jail, because all he does is make everyone's lives miserable around him and resulting in him keep getting pummeled into the ground by women of all races and religions and ages who hate him as everyone in my country knew exactly who he is." she continues.
The newscasters and reporters were surprised at Alana's decision to let Trump serve out his prison sentence in her country, but they were even more shocked by the reason behind it: preventing Trump from becoming a martyr and the safety of others.
Her words of preventing Trump from causing more harm resonated with many who agreed with her.
It was clear that keeping him locked up was for the best, not just for Trump's own safety, but for the safety of everyone else.
Even some of the former President's supporters had to admit that it was the right decision.
While Alana continued speaking, the MAGA supporters were left speechless, some even feeling a sense of betrayal at her decision to keep Trump stuck in the U.I.T.A. instead of letting him walk free.
They couldn't deny that Alana's decision was the right one, but they were still angry and frustrated that Trump was stuck in a country that hated him, unable to escape his fate of being imprisoned.
The rest of the viewers silently watched Alana's interview, some even nodding in agreement with her decision, as they couldn't blame her for keeping Trump locked up in U.I.T.A.
They knew that Trump was a problem, and keeping him imprisoned was the only way to ensure that he couldn't cause any more harm to the United States or the world.
The only ones who were still loyal to Trump, despite everything, were the extreme supporters who still clung onto their beliefs and would never give up their support for him no matter what.
These supporters stubbornly believed that Trump was innocent and didn't deserve to be imprisoned.
Some of them even went as far as to blame Alana for keeping Trump imprisoned, accusing her of being a traitor to the United States and unfairly targeting him with her decisions.
They refused to listen to reason or accept the truth about Trump and stubbornly defended him despite the evidence against him.
"Denying the truth will not make it go away. Because the denial and stubbornness of a certain cult is the reason why nobody, in their right mind, would trust America anymore. Everybody suffers because of the actions of a few." She replied as she continues to explain her counterpoint why it's primarily Americans, especially white Americans who pay the price for voting in a known racist, rapist and pedophile for a president who's made it clear he wanted to be a dictator.
The reporters and newscasters couldn't help but nod in agreement with Alana's words, while the MAGA supporters were left speechless once again, knowing deep down that they were wrong but still unable to admit it.
Alana had hit the nail on the head, and it was clear that America's trust problems were mostly caused by the extremists who ignored the facts and chose to follow Trump despite his flaws.
The other viewers silently agreed with Alana's words as well, realizing the truth in her words and understanding that America's tarnished reputation was a result of voters who chose to support a controversial and divisive president.
No matter how hard they tried to deny it, the fact remained: America's current predicament was largely due to its own citizens and their choices.
The only ones who still refused to accept the truth were the extreme Trump supporters who kept defending the former President, despite his flaws and mistakes.
These diehard Trump supporters stubbornly refused to acknowledge the damage that Trump had caused to the country and the world, insisting that he was innocent and unfairly targeted.
No rational explanation or reasoning could get through to them, as their loyalty to Trump was unyielding and unquestioning.
For them, Trump was flawless and innocent no matter what, and they would never entertain the idea that he had caused any damage or hurt the reputation of the United States.
The reporters and newscasters were frustrated at the stubbornness of the extreme Trump supporters, but they were not surprised.
It was clear that these Trump supporters were delusional and brainwashed, unable to recognize the flaws and mistakes that their beloved former President had made.
The other viewers could only watch in disbelief, as they couldn't believe that there were people who still refused to acknowledge the truth about Trump.
It was sad and disheartening to see how blind some people could be, even in the face of overwhelming evidence and undeniable facts.
"It's also downright pathetic some of you who still support him are complete idiots who insist on fighting a losing battle you clearly cannot win. So you'd be better off giving up now that Trump's behind bars and no longer a threat, and acting out by committing acts of violence won't help you because all it does is make the world hate you. In fact, your kids hate you now that they know the truth about Trump, given the Epstein scandal and known pedophilia." She replied, hitting the nail, on the head.
The reporters and newscasters couldn't help but silently agree with Alana's words, as they knew that the MAGA supporters were grasping at straws to defend their former President.
Her words stung, but they were true nonetheless.
The MAGA supporters were fighting a losing battle, and their blind loyalty to Trump was only making things worse for the already tarnished reputation of the United States.
The viewers were amazed at Alana's blunt honesty, and they knew that she was right about one thing: fighting a losing battle would only lead to more hate and division.
The extreme Trump supporters tried to counter Alana's words, but their arguments were weak and lacking substance.
They were desperate and struggling to defend a former President that nobody but them admired.
Alana had struck a nerve with them, causing them to respond with anger and fear, desperately trying to protect their idol from further critique.
"And now, these are your two choices: continue idolizing a pedophile or change your attitudes as the world moves on without you so you quit making a fool out of yourself when you realize you can no longer win or get away with the usual acts of hate you usually would when Trump was in power." She finished.
The MAGA supporters were stunned into silence by Alana's words.
She had laid down the facts and presented them with a difficult choice: stop blindly following a flawed former President or continue to be left behind as the world moves on without them.
The newscasters and reporters were impressed by her boldness and honesty, as she had effectively shut down the extremist MAGA supporters with her blunt and truthful words.
The other viewers watched on in awe, silently agreeing with her words and admiring her strength and courage.
It was clear that Alana had delivered a stinging blow to the extreme Trump supporters, as they were left speechless and unable to come up with a proper rebuttal.
The only thing the MAGA supporters could do next was stubbornly defend Trump, but even they knew deep down that they had lost the argument.
Alana's words rang true and resonated with many who watched the interview, as she had effectively put the extreme Trump supporters in their place.
The reporters and newscasters knew that Alana's words would likely not reach the extremist MAGA supporters, as they were too far gone in their blind loyalty to Trump to listen to reason.
But it was clear that her words had an impact on those who were on the fence or open to hearing the truth, as her honesty and straightforwardness had struck a chord with many viewers.
The other viewers silently cheered for her, grateful that someone had finally stood up to the extreme MAGA supporters and told them the hard truth.
They were also amazed at her courage and bluntness, as it was rare to see someone so unapologetic and unwavering in their words.
As the interview came to a close, the newscasters and reporters thanked Alana for her time, clearly impressed with how she handled the MAGA supporters.
She had proven herself to be a strong, honest, and unyielding leader, and she had earned the respect and admiration of many viewers who had watched the interview.
The MAGA supporters, on the other hand, were left dejected and defeated, unable to counter Alana's words or defend Trump any further.
They knew that they had lost the argument, and it seemed like nothing they could say or do would change the tide of public opinion against them and their beloved former President.
The other viewers, however, felt a sense of relief and hope.
They were grateful that someone had finally stood up to the extreme MAGA supporters and called out their behavior.
It seemed that there was still some reason and sanity left in America, and maybe, just maybe, the country could begin to recover from the damage that the former President had caused.
As the interview ended, the newscasters and reporters concluded that Alana had delivered a powerful message and handled the MAGA supporters with grace and eloquence.
They marveled at her courage and honesty, as she had not shied away from speaking the truth and calling out the extreme supporters.
They were certain that her words had left a lasting impression on viewers, and they wondered what would happen next as America began to heal from the damage caused by the former President and his cult-like followers.
Meanwhile, the extreme MAGA supporters were left reeling from Alana's words.
They tried to convince themselves that Trump was still a hero and that Alana was just another "leftist hack" who was trying to bring him down, but deep down, they knew that her words had struck a nerve.
They were struggling to defend their former President, and they couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness, as they realized that their cause was slowly and surely losing steam.
The other viewers, on the other hand, felt a sense of hope and optimism.
They knew that the extreme MAGA supporters were losing ground, and it seemed like the tide was finally starting to turn.
They hoped that Alana's words and actions would inspire others to stand up to the extremists and start rebuilding a country that was torn apart by hate and division.
As the news program ended, viewers were left to reflect on what they had just witnessed.
Some were inspired by Alana's bravery and honesty, while others were still clinging to their blind loyalty to Trump and the MAGA movement.
But one thing was clear: the world was watching as America continued to struggle with the fallout of the former President and his loyal supporters.
Only time would tell how things would unfold, but one thing was certain: Alana had thrown a wrench in the works, and the MAGA supporters were struggling to deal with the consequences of their blind loyalty and unwavering worship of a disgraced former President.
The reporters and newscasters signed off, ending the segment with a sense of uncertainty and hope for the future.
It seemed that America was on a path to recovery, but the long-lasting effects of Trump's presidency would likely linger for years to come.
The viewers who had watched the segment were left with a sense of mixed emotions.
Some were hopeful for the future, while others were still stuck in the past, clinging to the idea of Trump as a hero and a savior.
Only time would tell how things would unfold, but it was clear that Alana had made her mark, leaving a lasting impression on those who had watched her interview and calling out the extreme MAGA supporters for their blind loyalty and unwavering belief in their disgraced former President.
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 world around him erupted, taking him and everything with it, leaving nothing behind.
Screaming, chest heaving and with panic racing through his veins, Tanjiro’s eyes shot open and his body catapulted upright, and he suddenly found himself face-to-face with a toddler sized Nezuko.
He stared at her, his brain trying to process what had just happened. The grief he’d been carrying for years suddenly roaring through him like a tidal wave of never-ending pain, feeling just as sharp and all encompassing as it had on the night his family had died, as though it had happened only earlier that very day instead of over two years ago.
He watched unblinkingly as Nezuko lifted her hands up and slapped at her forehead, grumbling at him from behind her bamboo and narrowing her eyes at him accusingly, and Tanjiro felt like he’d abruptly re-entered his body as realized what she was trying to say.
That she had headbutted him to wake him up, which is what had caused the smell of blood and everything that had happened afterwards.
He couldn’t help the puff of incredulous laughter that burst out of him, relief at finding her unharmed making him feel dizzy and lethargic.
“Nezuko,” he breathed, leaning forward so that he could nuzzle his face against hers. “Thank you.”
He pushed everything he was feeling into a box deep inside his mind to deal with once they were safe and sound and off this godforsaken train, and instead focused on the familiar warmth that Nezuko emitted, allowing himself a moment to simply breathe before he would need to be in motion once more.
As the panic in his body eased, he pushed himself out of his seat and glanced around only to find everyone else asleep.
Frowning, he glanced over the bodies of the three of them and immediately noticed the ropes that connected Inosuke, Zenitsu and Kyoujuro to three strangers. Three kids. He lifted his own wrist up and looked at the singed rope in bemusement before he remembered the flames that had engulfed him in the dream, and he glanced down at his little sister.
“Did you burn my rope off?” Tanjiro asked, running his fingers across her hair soothingly, the scent of her own fear still sharp in his nostrils.
She hummed and nodded, beaming at him and chest puffing with pride when he thanked her with a gentle smile. Nezuko followed behind him as he walked towards his friends, her fingers curled tight at the back of his haori.
“Zenitsu, Inosuke!” he called sharply, reaching their shared bench and shaking them both roughly. “Wake up!”
Inosuke was spread out with his back and hips resting on the seats and his legs slung haphazardly across Zenitsu’s body, so when Tanjiro jolted him, his leg kicked at Zenitsu’s shoulder. Immediately he found himself wincing in sympathy for Zenitsu after having been on the receiving end of one of Inosuke’s sleepy kicks himself.
He glanced over at Kyoujuro and felt his mouth drop open on a silent gape at the sight of him, admiration and satisfaction curling in his chest as he looked at Kyoujuro, pinning the girl that was attached to his rope against the wall, his face scrunched in a fierce scowl even while asleep.
The fact that Kyoujuro had sensed someone in his space even while under what was becoming clear was a demon-spelled slumber was proof of just how good he was.
“I - okay,” he breathed, blinking rapidly to try and clear his mind from the image of how powerful Kyoujuro was even in his sleep.
He peered at the ropes, bending down towards his friends and giving them a gentle tug to see if they’d give way. Something was telling him that it wasn’t safe to just untie them or cut them with his sword.
Tanjiro inhaled sharply in frustration only to freeze as a wave of stale, barely-there blood reached his nose. The scent made his hair stand on end and sent a shiver down his spine. It was the exact same scent he’d had when the conductor had come to their train cart.
He dug into his uniform and hurriedly pulled his train ticket back out to inspect it and confirm his suspicions. He lifted it underneath his nose and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and focusing entirely on the ticket, the scent so faint that he had to focus all of his attention on it just to find it and confirm his thought that they had been spelled when having holes punched into their tickets.
It was the only thing that made any sense, it would explain why everyone on the train and not just the Slayers were all in a deep sleep.
“Nezuko, can you burn their ropes?” he suddenly quizzed once he’d opened his eyes again, immediately focusing on his own singed ropes.
Nezuko hummed and nodded, turning on her heels and heading for their friends.
He watched as her pink flames engulfed Zenitsu, burning the rope that started at his wrist and trailed along the floor to ashes until all that was left was a knotted bracelet around his wrist identical to the one still around Tanjiro’s own wrist.
“Zenitsu,” Tanjiro called as soon as Nezuko’s flames died down. “Zenitsu, wake up!” he shook his shoulder, but by the sound of the deep snore that rattled through Zenitsu’s chest it did absolutely nothing to wake him.
As he turned to find his sister again, all of his instincts flared to life and he reacted immediately to the danger. He pulled Nezuko against his front and twirled in a spin on one foot, the other planting itself on the floor for balance while he grabbed at the sword on his hip only to stop dead when he realized it was the kids coming after him.
The ones who had been attached to the other ends of their rope.
Kids. They were kids.
“This is all your fault! Now… he won’t let us have any good dreams!” The girl that had been attached to Kyoujuro shouted, sobbing and smelling so thickly of grief that Tanjiro’s eyes watered without his permission, his chest aching for her - for all of them.
As soon as her words registered in his mind, Tanjiro understood why they were working with the demon. Of course he understood, how could he not?
He hadn’t had a single decent dream since he’d stumbled across his family, massacred in his own home. He was glad that at least half of his sleep was dreamless. He could only imagine what he might do if he had to relieve his worst memory every night without a reprieve.
(Though, that was the case usually anyway. He always had nightmares about the deaths of his family. He was just lucky that they were interspersed with dreams of Giyuu, of Nezuko as a human again, of Muichiro.)
“I’m sorry. If you attack me, I will have to fight you back.” he warned quietly as he moved Nezuko around his body so that she was safely behind him. She may not die from any injuries that they could inflict on her, but she still felt pain just as much as he did and there was no point in risking her when he was more than capable of knocking the children out himself.
His eyes followed the direction of the girl that had first shouted at him even as he took note of the young boy still sitting in one of the seats behind him.
“I don’t care if you have tuberculosis,” she screamed suddenly, turning to face the very kid Tanjiro had been wondering about. “If you don’t help us, I’ll tell him and then he will really kill you!”
Tanjiro wondered suddenly if this kid was the one who had been attached to his rope. His seat was close enough to where Tanjiro’s had been. He couldn’t help but wince at the tears in the kid’s eyes; had he seen what Tanjiro had seen? He hopes not. Watching him slice his own neck would likely traumatize anybody, let alone a child.
Two of the kids ran at him at once, their movements slow and sloppy. Tanjiro grimaced apologetically as he brought his hand down hard on the back of their necks, sending them both sprawling to the floor one after the other, knocking them out completely.
He heard the panicked gasp of the first girl, her arm outstretched and brandishing a weapon at him, something that looked similar to an ice pick. He looked at her, a surge of sympathy welling within his chest as he smelled her grief, guilt and panic.
Suddenly, he was furious. Why did demons get to just manipulate people whenever and however they wanted? How could they not see it was wrong? Why didn’t they care?
The girl let out a deep yell before she took off at a run heading straight for him.
His hand cracked down on the back of her neck as soon as she was close enough, easily side-stepping her blow.
“I’m sorry.” Tanjiro murmured softly to the three passed out kids on the floor feeling guilty that he’d had to cause them even more pain.
Nezuko babbled worriedly at him as she darted out from where he’d left her when he’d shoved her behind him. She threw her little body against his and nuzzled against his stomach, her fingers clenching and unclenching against the back of his haori.
He buried his fingers in her hair and crooned quietly to soothe her, her tears warm and wet against the front of his uniform. He hated this, all of it; Nezuko was meant to be happy and healthy and because of him, because he hadn’t been there…
A stuttering sob drew his attention up again and he found himself looking into the watery eyes of the boy who he was sure had been attached to his rope, the one the little girl had said had tuberculosis.
“Are… are you okay?” he hesitated, his body tensing just in case the kid decided to attack him like his friends had done, even though the only scent Tanjiro was picking up from him was sadness and contentment.
The boy lifted a hand to his chest and nodded, giving Tanjiro a tremulous smile.
“I am now,” the kid breathed out, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please, be careful. That demon holds a lot of power and can send you into a dream or a nightmare without a second thought.”
He smiled thankfully at the boy, tipping his head respectfully at him before reaching down to give Nezuko’s hand a gentle tug as he took off running towards the door that separated his carriage from the next one.
The smell hit him before anything else, pungent and bitter. Nausea coiled in the pit of his stomach like a violent viper ready to strike and he swallowed compulsively against the feeling, desperately trying to ignore it.
Then the shame and embarrassment came, making his cheeks flame and chest burn.
Even in his sleep he should’ve been able to smell something this strong. Any normal omega or alpha with a decent nose could smell this, let alone Tanjiro whose nose picked up even the most minute of smells. Usually, anyway.
He could smell the demon on top of the train near the front, so he stepped to the edge of the door and lifted his hands up until his palms found purchase on the roof before he swung his body out and then up, landing with all the grace that had been trained into his body brutally and efficiently.
“It’s not safe up here, Nezuko, don’t follow me up here!” Tanjiro shouted down to where Nezuko had stuck her head out of the carriage with a confused chirp. “Can you go and try to wake everybody up?”
She gave a hum of confirmation before turning back into the train and taking off.
Tanjiro could only hope that she would be able to wake them up before anything else happened.
Kyoujuro
Kyoujuro couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, or even why he was back at the Rengoku estate in the first place, kneeling beside his father who smelled just as strongly of sake as he had done the last time Kyoujuro had been here.
“You’re a Hashira?” his father huffed quietly, words slurring and breath overwhelmingly pungent.
He jolted slightly at his voice, a frown tugging at his lips. Had it truly been that long since he’d last had a conversation with his father that he hadn’t yet informed him of his new rank? It wasn’t wholly surprising, it’s not like Kyoujuro was particularly close with his father, but his gut still clenched with a wave of uncertainty that he couldn’t explain away.
Kyoujuro sighed deeply before settling more comfortably on to his knees and he began to weave the tale of the fights he’d won to reach this point. How his strength had only increased over time. The shortened version of how he’d become the Flame Hashira, because he already knew his father wasn’t interested in hearing the full story.
Even though he knew what his father’s words would be before he’d even spoken them, a small part of him, one that he had kept hidden deep inside of him ever since he was a little boy, wished desperately for his fathers approval.
“So what if you’re a Hashira?” Shinjuro Rengoku snarled, volatile and ugly. “You will still never amount to anything.”
He listened absentmindedly as his father found new ways to berate him for even daring to think that he could be a half-decent Hashira, instead focusing more on listening out for Senjuro, wanting to keep him away, not wanting his little brother to hear the vile words falling from his fathers lips.
Senjuro hadn’t wanted to leave Shinjuro behind when Kyoujuro had left on his own. His brother was far too kind to the man who sired them. He was a little boy afraid that if they both left that their father would spiral even further until he eventually killed himself. So his little brother was still putting up with shit from their old man even now.
But that didn’t mean Kyoujuro couldn’t do what he could to help ease the load on his little brother when he could - that meant making sure he wasn’t around to hear the bitterness being thrown at him.
A somewhat familiar, soft squeak reached his ears, and suddenly Kyoujuro’s mind was no longer split between his father and his brother. He instead felt his heart stuttering inside his chest as memories of his new pack flew through him, warming him from the inside out.
Giyuu, the shy little omega who had a heart of gold and the social skills of a literal rock which only endeared him to Kyoujuro further. The man who had let Kyoujuro into his life in a way very few had the privilege of when it came to Giyuu. The same Giyuu who had two pups that he had entrusted Kyoujuro with. The man he was in love with.
Tanjiro. The most loving omega pup Kyoujuro had the pleasure of meeting. The boy who had suffered heartbreak far beyond what anybody should have to suffer with but still managed to grace their lives with a sunshine smile that eased the hearts of everyone around him. His pup. Even if he hadn’t claimed him as such yet. Yet.
Nezuko. The little demon girl who was quite possibly the most exceptional person Kyoujuro had ever come across. She had more determination and willpower than anybody he had ever met, and she loved just as fiercely as everybody around her, still somehow more alpha girl than demon.
His pack. His family.
Standing up he decisively ignored whatever foul words his father was still spewing at him and walked out of the room, searching for his family. That must be why he was there also, so that he could introduce Senjuro to his new pack and see if they could mesh well with his younger brother.
He found them huddled together by the pond, Tanjiro hugging Senjuro with all the love that he freely gave to everyone in his life while Giyuu sat against the tree braiding Nezuko’s hair as she squealed and giggled at the fishes in the pond chasing after the pieces of food she’d thrown in there.
They made for an utterly beautiful sight. One that could bring him to his knees from the sheer love he felt for them all, love that only amplified as he saw them all together. All his important people together in one place.
Something tickled in his brain as he watched them though, a sliver of a voice that always sounded so dry and amused ringing through his ears but it was gone before he could hear what was said.
He recognised the voice, but he couldn’t for the life of him put a face or a name to it.
Staring at his pack, although he felt full at the sight of them, something felt odd. Like it was an incomplete picture he was looking at, but he had no idea who was missing.
He stood there for a moment trying to think, but the thought practically evaporated as soon as Giyuu glanced up at him and sent him a smile so beautiful that he felt legitimate butterflies in his stomach.
The smile beckoned him forwards and like a moth to a flame, he followed.
Kyoujuro dropped down next to his omega with a gentle croon, brushing off the feeling of unease that trickled down his spine.
He was content with his pack. He would worry about whatever was wrong later.
Inosuke
Inosuke snarled playfully as he wrestled with Tanjiro in the dirt of their cave, teeth snapping and fingers pressing bruisingly into him as the omega rallied against him.
“And,” Zenitsu called, clapping his hands. “Time!”
Both alpha and omega pulled away from each other, panting and grinning as they accepted their mutual win and loss against one another.
Inosuke’s new favourite thing to do with his pack mates was wrestling. Not only was it fun but it helped all of them improve their skills. He always won against Zenitsu, although the beta was steadily improving which made Inosuke proud - not that he would ever tell Zenitsu that, the dumb kid would screech in Inosuke’s ears until they bled if he found out. Tanjiro was harder to beat though, and Inosuke lost against him just as much as he won.
Those fights were the most thrilling.
He accepted a water jug from Zenitsu as Tanjiro headed over to his corner of the cave where his bed was and flopped down on it dramatically.
Zenitsu immediately hurried over and grumbled at the omega until Tanjiro gave in with a fond laugh and allowed their friend to settle on his bed with him, accepting him into his nest.
“Hey, Monijiro!” Inosuke called, quickly wiping himself down with some flecks of water before he hurried over towards his pack mates.
As he got closer to his friend’s nest, an unsettled feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach making him feel almost sick. His instincts were screaming at him that something was terribly wrong, but as he bared his teeth and studied their cave for any sign of trouble, nothing popped out at him.
“Inosuke, you okay?” Zenitsu called worriedly, peeking his head out from where he’d buried it underneath Tanjiro’s bedding. “What’s wrong?”
Tanjiro’s nose was twitching, Inosuke’s alpha pheromones no doubt bothering his sensitive nose.
That was something else that suddenly didn’t make any sense. How was he, an overbearing alpha, living with an unmated omega without his instincts wanting him to at least look after him, like a pack alpha should do?
Something inside of him told him that his thought process wasn’t entirely accurate. That maybe Tanjiro was mated. Or, at the very least, he had someone interested in him. But who?
It was the same something that made Inosuke think that maybe he wasn’t their pack alpha at all. But that didn’t make any sort of sense, because the three of them only had each other. Even if looking at Tanjiro by himself made something ugly curl in the pit of his stomach like there was something inherently wrong about Tanjiro being alone. Like there was something, someone, missing.
A flash of a girl in a bamboo muzzle entered his mind, but it was gone before he could grasp onto it.
He shook his head with a frustrated growl, all the big thoughts making his head hurt.
“Just tired.” he huffed, flopping down on the bed with his friends, his eyes already fluttering shut as the familiar smell of his pack ease his tense muscles.
Tanjiro began purring, the sound letting his pack mates know how content he felt.
Even that feels wrong. Tanjiro wouldn’t be this happy without.. without who?
Inosuke cracked open one eyelid and studied his friend, brow furrowing for a moment before it suddenly smoothed out, his brain emptying of everything but the gentle sound of Tanjiro’s purr that was beginning to make him feel drowsy.
He would think about the weird stuff later, he decided.
Zenitsu
He was being dragged by Nezuko through the peach orchard at his grandfather’s place, her lilting giggles beckoning for him to follow her wherever she wanted to go.
Even if a weird feeling settled in his chest at the thought of it.
Zenitsu didn’t get the same tug at his instincts as both alphas and omegas did when it came to mating compatibility. As a beta, he could absolutely still mate with anybody but he couldn’t feel the depth of the bond like the other secondary genders could. Nor could he carry any pups of his own, but he could sire them with either a female alpha or an omega of any gender during their heat.
Still, he’d always sort of hoped that something deep inside of him would just know when he’d met the person he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.
His gramps had always said he was a romantic.
At first, he had hoped that maybe the person for him could be Nezuko. Until reality had slapped him in the face.
While Nezuko was very pretty, she was also much younger than him. And, honestly, he had only considered her because Tanjiro had become so important to him in such a short space of time that’d he wanted that connection to him.
They would be brothers, then.
But Tanjiro had quickly made it clear that he didn’t need any connections, he didn’t need to be or do anything. Tanjiro already treated him as a packmate and brother.
And so, Zenitsu had started treating Nezuko like a little sister.
So… why was he following her like a dog on a leash through what was, arguably, a romantic location?
Nezuko tugged at his hand, demanding his attention once more and he was helpless against her calls, the questions in his mind dissipating like smoke as soon as he looked at her again, falling into her orbit and following her every whim.
“Yum!” Nezuko hummed, biting into a fresh peach that he handed her, the sound of her voice made his hackles raise slightly, his lips curling back in discomfort. Something about it set him on edge, almost like her voice didn’t match her face.
But that didn’t make sense, right?
Zenitsu’s eyes narrowed at the flash of white from her teeth as she chewed, wondering why her canines were so sharp, the sight of them making his skin crawl.
“Tanjiro would love this,” Nezuko crooned, a happy flush on her cheeks as she stole another peach from his hand.
It felt like something slammed into Zenitsu’s mind at her words, reminding him of his best friend. Everything seemed to dim, the colour draining from his surroundings as he instead focused his whirling mind on Tanjiro.
Where was he? There was no way Tanjiro would allow for Zenitsu and Nezuko to be alone together like this. Like Zenitsu was courting her. There was absolutely no way.
He glanced around, trying to catch a glimpse of his red headed friend but it was useless, all he could see was the peach orchard and Nezuko as she weaved between the trees plucking at fruit as she went.
Something uneasy was bubbling away in his gut, but just as he opened his mouth to ask Nezuko where Tanjiro could be, she turned to face him and he found himself speechless.
Her bright pink eyes stared at him and she beckoned him forwards with a finger, smiling softly.
“Let’s go!”
Zenitsu found himself nodding, all thoughts of unease and his best friend leaving his mind as he followed his alpha.
He’d figure it out later.
Kyoujuro, Inosuke, Zenitsu
A blinding bright flash of pink engulfed them, warming them from the tips of their toes right to the top of their heads.
The flame beckoned them like an old friend, twisting and winding around their bodies masterfully, and like a moth to a flame the followed the summons, reaching out for the familiarity that accompanied the all encompassing flames.
Kyoujuro opened his eyes and found himself staring at Nezuko, her blood demon art slowly receding as she pulled her power back to herself.
Inosuke opened his eyes with a loud shout, adrenaline surging through his veins and the need to fight rushing through his body.
Zenitsu’s dream slipped away like the mist, and he slipped further into slumber, all of his muscles relaxing into the warmth that he instinctively knew was Nezuko.
One thing they all silently agreed upon:
It was time to help Tanjiro kick some demon ass.
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
Tanjiro couldn’t help but flinch, his eyes slamming shut as the Upper Rank demon lurched towards him, maniacal laughter filling the air. He knew he couldn’t fight - not only because of the injury but because he struggled against the lower ranks of the Kizuki, let alone the upper ones.
His mind was empty, and there wasn’t even any fear or fight left inside of him. All he felt was a resigned sort of acceptance.
“Try and kill my pup again, I dare you.”
Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes. Instead of being met with a killing blow like he’d expected, he was greeted with the sight of Kyoujuro’s sword swinging back to rest in a defensive position in front of his chest as the alpha settled protectively in front of Tanjiro.
Kyoujuro’s teeth were bared, glinting dangerously in the dwindling moonlight.
Resignation made way for panic, and immediately, Tanjiro shoved it down. He was disappointed in himself for giving in so easily; he still had a little sister’s humanity to try and restore, and Giyuu and Muichiro, and his friends.
He should’ve at least tried to fight.
Tanjiro glanced back at the raging man in front of him when he heard his low, rumbling growl. He had never seen Kyoujuro look so angry before. His body was practically brimming with an almost violent sort of energy, his muscles tensed and knuckles white. It was clear that he was ready to fight to the death to protect Tanjiro, and the same dread he’d felt when he’d heard about this godforsaken mission was welling up inside of him like acid.
“A Hashira,” the demon grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands together in excitement. “Excellent.”
Kyoujuro growled once more.
Tanjiro searched around for his sword, restless without it.
He was injured and exhausted after using his Hinokami Kagura technique, but the sight of Kyoujuro standing and ready to fight even if it meant he could die settled Tanjiro’s mind straight once more. He would fight if it came to it. He wouldn’t just stand by idly while one of his heroes fought for him.
“Let me make you an offer,” Upper Rank Three drawled, eyes focused entirely on Kyoujuro in a way that made Tanjiro’s skin crawl. “become a demon. I’ll make it worth your time.”
Kyoujuro snorted, and Tanjiro had to stifle his laugh at the sharp scent of indignation rolling off the alpha.
“Do I look like someone who wants to become a demon?” He took one step back for every step forward the demon took, and one step forward for every step back and Tanjiro was helplessly transfixed by it.
It was like watching a sort of nightmarish dance play out right in front of him.
“I am Akaza,” the demon smiled. “I can sense just how strong you are, Hashira. Who are you?”
Tanjiro inhaled sharply, his heart slamming almost painfully against his rib cage. Out of all of the demons he had come across thus far, Akaza smelled the most like Kibutsuji.
And he was about to watch Kyoujuro fight him.
“I don’t care who you are, Akaza,” Kyoujuro growled, not bothering to answer him. “I have more important things to concern myself with. Now, am I going to have to kill you, or are you going to leave?”
The threat was clear in Kyoujuro’s voice, the alpha baring his teeth as a warning to the demon. Tanjiro could see the resolve and glee that settled in Akaza’s fractured, yellow eyes. He could smell the anticipation drifting off the demon. Akaza wasn’t about to give up this fight.
He knew that Kyoujuro would allow Akaza to leave if it meant sparing his life and the lives of the innocents around them, even with the fact that the Demon Slayer Corps hadn’t come across any Upper Ranks in over a century.
Kyoujuro would prioritise the lives of those around him instead of the fight.
Akaza would not.
Tanjiro sucked in a shocked breath as demon and slayer suddenly collided in mid-air in front of him, Akaza’s blood demon art colliding with Kyoujuro’s third form.
“What the fuck?”
He jumped at the sudden shout, head whipping to the side to watch Inosuke skid to a halt beside him, shock and panic souring the young alpha’s scent so much that Tanjiro’s throat burned with the acrid smell assaulting his nose at such close range.
“It’s Upper Rank Three,” Tanjiro explained helplessly, desperately tracking as much of the fight as he possibly could. “Inosuke, do you know where my sword ended up?”
His Nichirin Sword was suddenly thrust underneath his nose, and he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of his blade, beyond grateful that his friend had managed to find his sword before he’d even asked for it.
Tanjiro grasped his blade tightly and began pushing forward towards the fight currently happening in front of him, only to skid to an almost immediate halt.
“Stay back!”
Kyoujuro’s voice echoed with the command of an Alpha, and Tanjiro’s knees locked firmly in place as the omega part of his biology overrode everything else–free will, movement, thought–and reacted instinctively to the command of his pack Alpha.
There was a reason that an Alpha command was generally frowned upon unless in times of an emergency; it completely took away the Omega’s biology.
“You will reopen your wound if you fight,” Kyoujuro called out, barely even able to spare him a glance over his shoulder as he fought blow-for-blow with Akaza, heedless of the blood dripping down his temple from a gash on his forehead. “It will kill you, Tanjiro.”
It felt like all the air had been sucked from his body. Betrayal and anger at Kyoujuro flooded through him with a ferocity that would’ve startled him on any other day.
On any day where he wasn’t being forced to stand in place and watch completely helpless as somebody he’d come to love, somebody who Giyuu and Nezuko adored, fought for his life in front of his very eyes.
The force of the fight was shaking the ground beneath him and he could hear the joy in Akaza’s laugh for every blow he managed to land on Kyoujuro, he could smell the excitement from the demon as they flew through the air, their movements getting quicker and more desperate with each blood demon art and every flame breathing technique used.
Tanjiro could barely focus on the fight now, not when he was pushing his body to the limit, pushing himself into sheer agony as he fought desperately to override the command his alpha had given him.
He would be damned if he allowed himself to stand by uselessly while Akaza got closer and closer to landing the death blow on Kyoujuro with every bit of blood that dripped from the Hashira.
He had to help him.
He would help him.
Even if it was the last thing he did.
Nezuko didn’t understand the world anymore. She didn’t really understand anything at all. Not in the way she knew others did.
Her mind felt like it had been flayed open, like all her memories and everything that made her who she was had been plucked from the very depths of her and locked away somewhere she couldn’t reach.
Flashes of familiar faces raced through her mind constantly–every single moment she was awake–but she couldn’t remember their names. She just knew that she loved them and missed them. That they were a part of her. But the true memories slipped past her before she could get a solid grasp on them every time.
She knew some things at least.
Like how she knew that she loved the boy everyone called Tanjiro. He called himself her big brother, and even though she wasn’t sure she understood what that meant, she knew that it bonded them together forever.
Her instincts to protect Tanjiro were stronger than the constant hunger that thrummed in her veins. The will to keep him safe was louder than the quiet, unfamiliar voice that lived in her head urging her to devour humans. A voice that got quieter and further away with every day.
She also knew that she wouldn’t ever give in to that voice.
Humans were to be protected, and demons were her enemies, and she would kill anyone who brought harm to the humans. Anyone who brought harm to her humans.
So, when she saw the demon’s arm aiming for the pack alpha’s stomach, she surged forward with a vicious growl and planted herself in front of him just in time for the demon’s fist to impale her completely, his fist going through her stomach and out of her back.
She cried out in pain, but she didn’t regret it. She may not understand the workings of the world she lived in anymore, but she knew that this injury would’ve killed her human. Her pack Alpha and her mama’s mate, and the man whom her big brother was crying out for.
“Nezuko!”
The force of the punch had sent her tumbling back into the alpha with enough force that they flew across the ground, skidding to a painful stop in a mess of blood and tangled limbs.
All she could see was her big brother suddenly launching himself forward with a snarl that made her very soul shake as he lifted his arm and threw his suddenly blazing sword straight for the demon that had brought them pain.
Tanjiro had been so focused on overriding the command that he hadn’t even noticed his sister flying towards the fight until he heard her shriek of rage.
He watched in a muted sort of panic as Akaza’s fist punched through Nezuko’s abdomen like she was nothing, still managing to catch Kyoujuro’s side and split it open when he wrapped his arms around Nezuko’s body to keep her steady as they both sailed through the air and collided with the train with enough force that Tanjiro felt his stomach drop with dread.
“Akaza!” Tanjiro snarled, the last threads that connected his omega to the alpha command shredding completely as a fire burned brightly deep in the pit of his soul, fueling the power he needed to not only move, but move fast.
Tanjiro lifted his arm high and launched his sword through the air towards the fleeing demon with more force than he’d ever used before in his life, a sick sort of satisfaction curling in his gut as the flaming sword pierced straight through Akaza’s shoulder.
“Turn and face me, you bastard!” He shouted, chest heaving. “I’m not done with you yet!”
He knew the demon was fleeing from the rapidly rising sun, but all he could feel in that moment was the pure, unadulterated need to end Akaza for the harm and suffering he had caused his family.
Tanjiro watched for a moment longer as Akaza fled before he turned to find his pack.
“No!”
The word came out in a strangled gasp as he saw the bloodied, almost mangled-looking body of Kyoujuro, his body still shielding Nezuko against his chest even as they lay together in the debris of the train, blood pooling around them both.
Tanjiro couldn’t see through the tears in his eyes. He couldn’t see anything other than the broken body of Kyoujuro Rengoku and the blood that surrounded him.
He couldn’t even see his chest rising anymore.
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
Tanjiro was nearly ready to hit off the road ahead, thinking about the basket of charcoal he have to sell to make sure his family was comfortable enough in the New Year’s celebration. They were not exactly poor, but times like this were rough to everybody, even more to them, since his father passed away months ago. Putting the basket on his back, the teenager only stopped when his mother called, her eyes sparkling with amusement at the sight in front of her.
“Oh, Tanjirou! Look at your face, baby, is that charcoal?” She giggled faintly, her smirk only growing by the moment Tanjiro starts to approximate. She dried her hand before returning the same fabric to her son’s face, calmly rubbing the soot of his face. “Your aunt
Tora
is going to get us all to her place, so be sure to come early so we can all travel together, alright?”
The confusion wore him down.
Auntie Tora
was
missing
since he was a little boy, and his father never told them about the details.
What is happening?
he thought to himself, but suddenly, something triggered him, as the sense of betrayal was the only thing acknowledged by the violet haired boy into his core, and the awful smell made him retch.
The hands around his face were no longer comforting nor brought back the nostalgia, the feeling of home he always felt before the slaughter in his home. But now the hands are cold, and he felt the vicious nails touch his skin and he met the pink and heinous eyes he swore to kill to avenge his family.
Fucking Muzan Kibutsuji
. Before the demon could move on him, Tanjiro woke up rather unsettled. All about the dream was confusing, and was giving him a headache just thinking about it. The chills sending down his spine kept him alert.
At his side, Zenitsu stirred in his sleep, droll streaming at the side of his mouth, babbling all sorts of things while dreaming. Tanjiro only smiled, calming down after feeling safe in the Ms. Shinobu mansion. The bad dreams are getting the best of him, and even if he was training enough to surpass his time healing after the mission with the Lower Moon Five, the demon slayer knew this was a sign to be alert, since his head is pretty much focused on finding Nezuko’s cure to be human again. Trying to catch his sleep again, his head touched the pillow with a muffled sound, but his eyes gave up chasing anything to put back on track.
Inosuke was other one that seemed drowning in his own dream, and before Tanjirou could help him with this, something outside just shifted. Glad that was not only him rattled by it, since both his friends just woke up.
“You heard it, Tanjirou? Something outside is making a cacophony of noises, and it’s not just one person!” The scared voice of Zenitsu made it all of it real, at their side, Inosuke screamed in delight, sensing the demon energy around.
“Monjirou! There is demons around here, let’s find them to kill them all!” It was only then that the trio get out of their room, before finding Nezuko already outside, coming for them.
“Nezuko! Thank the Gods, you are okay!” The girl can only grunt in acknowledge before taking her brother’s hand in hers to accompany the group.
Moving around the Butterfly Mansion, the group finally found the cause of commotion, as the much larger and strange crowd was placed in the middle of Kochou Shinobu’s lair. Between the familiar faces, something in Tanjirou made him stop.
There were demons.
Inside Shinobu’s estate
.
Not only Lady Tamayo and Yuchiro, but someone stronger and far older than any of them, which made him on edge. At his right, someone growled with rage, and as Tanjirou turned his face to see who was it, the smell alone made him white as a paper sheet, not wanting to believe in such fate.
A sharp intake of air it is heard when Shinobu looked around, with a woman probably not much older stands across the Insect pillar. Tanjirou could only guess this must be a familiar from Ms. Shinobu. Their scent were similar, even if it differs slightly. But it seems that not only Shinobu was taken aback with it, because the other girls were also stammering with the sight. The only one who produced a sound was Aoi, who sniffed before throwing her arms around the girl.
“KANAE!!” As if something broke between the girls, they huddled into a embrace, all of the butterfly’s residents. It was a quite the sight. The last one to join the girls was Kanao, taking the little coin, she had into her palm before joining her sisters.
“It should be impossible, how are you here of all the times?!” The gruff and loud voice of Sanemi cut through the beautiful moment, when Kanae was the one to direct her eyes to the Wind Hashira.
“I wish I knew, but the only thing I remember is the fact I was dying after the battle with a Upper Moon, and there is this light carrying me away, and then, I wake up on here!” The girl explained gently, but the words bring more confusion to the whole situation.
“I guess this must explain why we are here too…” A boy-
ish
voice came through, and a chocked sound from Tomioka came from the left side. Two children, a boy and a girl appeared in the group, faces half covered with foxes’ masks. Tanjirou felt the air coming short to him.
For the first time, ever since he met the two of them, their scents were there! It felt so different after living into Mt. Nagiri that it will take time to finally get accustomed. He felt the stuttered voice of Urokodaki-sensei, and before his eyes, the reunion took place, with both former and actual water pillars coming forward to welcome the two kids. “Sabito! Makomo!” Giyuu, while touched with the reunion was tensed, mostly because the smell of guilt ingrained on him, and as much Tanjiro wanted to prod on that, he knew that this was of Giyuu to resolve.
“While it’s great that we can rejoice in something so miraculous, I wonder what happened to have this moment right here.” The soothing voice of Kagaya Ubuyashiki filled the room, and the corps turned to watch their leader, surrounded by his family. “Kiriya, my child, was the one to alert me of something coming into our path and regroup us here.” The man explained plainly, and slowly, he produced a small parchment paper of his vests. “When we arrived here, this came to my hands, and might explain something-”
Before any of them could react, a quick breeze was around the room before the steels clashing in a impressive velocity and two strong presences collided into a fight that no one could prevent. Similar forms were fighting each other, but what made the crowd hold their breath was the fact they knew who were the forms. The red-bladed katana was the tell-tale sign of the very own legend of the Demon Slayers Corps, Tsugikuni Yoriichi. The other one held so much similarities that the slayers hesitated into the theory that it could be past and present – even if the sound of the present might be
gnarly
.
“You were supposed to be dead!” The demon growled, but his opponent kept the silent and calm exterior, his aura controlling the room with so much energy.
“I don’t believe that your opinion might change anything here, Michikatsu.” The simple answer angered something inside the upper moon.
The nine Hashira present into the room readied themselves to fight, but a thunderous voice interrupted all the fighting. The sound didn’t have a certain direction, but was clear to everyone that was somewhere inside, just hidden from them.
“
It gets harder to help you around if the only thing surviving this experience might be your bodies, you know?
” With a cadence similar to The Sound Hashira’s annoyed tone, his fellow pillars turned to face him, but as them, Uzui Tengen was just as confused, raising his arms in a clear manner to get himself off any partake in whatever was this. “
We were sorry to drag this as messy as it was but time is something that is very valuable, and what we bring is the sole reason to have this at all. I’d liked to clarify that even if this sounds dubious, we were not demons. Actually, we as a group descended of the winning side of this war, but the greater losses around made it everything feels more bitter than relieved with the end. We would like to make it possible to dimmed the losses around, even if something changes in the future, as long as we keep winning.”
“Winning side? What are you talking about?” Shinobu was the first to talk, her voice trembling with this outcome. “Muzan would be finally dead?!” The clear stunned voice was the only thing that started again the fight, because they weren’t even near to find Muzan Kibutsuji, even more defeat him, but the presumption of it made something rumble into the hearts of the people affected by that vile man.
Contrary to the majority, the only demons that were present in this room felt something akin to fear crawl into their core with their supposed destruction in the near future. What would happen to them if their King was to be dead?
“How are sure to trust this?” Obanai raised the millionaire question, and even if some of them were swayed by the prospect of getting the upper hand, it was nothing that helped them jump into the opportunity, without even a proof. To reply his Hashira, Kagaya turned around, the paper in hands.
"There's not a second to go to waste, we need to see it." It was the only thing Kagaya said, his tone never wavering in his calm demeanor. He'll be damned if he let this chance escape his finger tips, the nine pillars in this room were resigned of his decision, but none of them uttered an opposite reaction.
“We will see this difference into our reality with our most dangerous foes alongside us? It’s even safe to hope that won’t kills us in the long run?!” Zenitsu, while cawed with the imminent fear of the demons in the room, brought the only relevant point and tear in this plan.
“Oh, this? Is our special brand, we found that bringing the other side for the comparisons might actually help improve our chances, especially with the closest bonds that these demons had within the narrative.” The smug tone didn’t went unnoticed, and Tamayo narrowed her eyes into this.
“Special brand, you say?” The demon medic raised her eyebrows, and a little snicker went before the voice answered again.
“Don’t worry, Lady Tamayo, we took the necessary precautions to run this very smoothly, and besides… we love a little surprise around.” Looks were thrown around, and the voice hurried to still speak. “While I would love to chat more with you, I find it very hard to do it only by my voice! So, if you don’t mind…”
“We actually very much mind, where are you going-” A feminine voice was heard, growling with displeasure, before the light took them by surprise, and as quickly it came, it went, away from the Butterfly State, much to Shinobu displeasure.
The insect pillar hated to leave her girls alone, and even if some of them – and her sister! – was along the ride, it didn’t sit right with her.
Behind them, the same voice was finally heard within range, and as they turned, seeing a more modern and juvenile version of Uzui Tengen, that had his three wives screaming with shock. The man himself was shellshocked as well, but before any of them could make a move, his younger version talked again. “Hello there, isn’t it nice, huh? Please, don’t be so wary, all of this is available to you while watching!”
“Like hell if I will be a sitting duck for these
motherfucking
demons around!” Sanemi hollered into before jumping into the kid, only stopped by Himejima on the orders of Kagaya.
“Sanemi! We are not doing any well if we don’t get into the bottom of this.” The Oyakata chastised the wind hashira, that had the sense to look abashed.
Smirking, the traveler raised three papers, in order to give them to the past. Handing them to the Ubuyashiki family, he explained. “We found some letters, most of them were of our ancestors, regretting not having something to save this all, but one in particular, the one that lead us with this plan, was the guiding into the plan to have you all here.”
[I cannot phantom have another ending to this madness that was the era of the millennial battle between the demons and us slayers, but there is always the guilt gnawing into me that we should’ve done something, anything, to less the losses we had along the years, prevent it all of wasting so many lives into something that had the lasting effect, I hope you were able to hear about these stories without a worry of coming back again
I pray that you will find a way into a different future.]
Now, the group is completely and utterly speechless. How words, written so long ago can have this effect into everyone? And how they were going to do it,
save it all
?
“We heard of this era, by our own family, but also by the memoir of Agatsuma Zenitsu” The boy in question squawked, all eyes on him for the first time, the sentiment of incredulity with all of it. “It was this memoir that gave us the material needed to save it all”
A snort was heard, the laugh in it containing all the cruelty of the being. “Him? Of all people, is the one helping saving this?” The demon in question showed himself. His blue eyes and black sclera was taunting at best while looking to the thunder-breather slayer. “This
runt
isn’t capable of mastering other than the first form of the thunder breathing, what are him, of all people, doing here?” Tanjirou felt the need to come and kill that demon right away, but the cold expression of the Uzui was enough to hold him, bidding his own time.
“I wouldn’t speak so high and mighty myself if I just entered into a organization by
pity
, not my accomplishments.” The response was cryptic, but the gist of it was enough for them to gather. In a blink, the coldness gave away to a more cheer expression, turning to the general audience. “We took some liberties with the material, making instead of a reading material to a watching one! It sectioned into episodes and it’s quite animated into the attacks and certain memories, so it will get more immersive with the hands-on experience in general.”
“Watching? In what?” Mitsuri pipped up, her curious eyes looking for the clues in that loving manner of the love hashira.
“Why, the big screen behind you, of course!” He pointed the group, and soon enough, the light enabled their vision to said screen, lighting and working. The awe in some of the rural folks among them amused Tenma, but then he remembered the rest of the speech he was supposed to say. “You are welcome to sit wherever you want, when everyone is settled, we will start the whole journey!” He smiled, and one by one, the people were sitting, the clear divisor between demons and humans, but the lack of formal seats made it easier to regroup with your closest companions.
The only group that came out as a surprise was the new generation of demon slayers – Tanjirou, Kanao, Zenitsu, Genya, Aoi, Inosuke – seated side by side, with Nezuko already glued to her brother’s side.
Shinobu and Kanae tried to click anything together for the reason, but nonetheless was heartwarming to see their sisters coming along their peers.
Silently, Tenma came to the corps where Himejima and Kagaya were huddled side by side, offering something to both of them. “We might have cooked something to help you accompany everybody to the letter, it’s not a permanent solution, but might as well not have so dependent on everybody else.” Slowly, the giant and the leader put the glasses, giving gasps of surprise, with the expectanting eyes of every hashira and the Ubuyashiki family.
“I can finally see again, Namu Amida Butsu!” Gyomei startled, and the surprised eyes left tears along their cheeks. The hashiras around congratulated him, before turning to see the silent shock and awe of their master.
“My children, my family! What a happy sight!” Kagaya chanted, before hugging his children and wife happily, seeing for the first time. Smiling, Tenma nodded before adding.
“It’s the least we can do for the people who stopped Muzan Kibutsuji from reaching the human race.”
“Everything settled? Great! I want to put it out there that we might see first the past, so we can link to the present and then the future! It might help it out with future questions!” Tenma holding a black box thingy explained everything, and slowly, the screen turned first black to the start of everything. “I am very flashy myself, and I couldn’t help to not add something to it, and It might help into the story, since the opening is like a little teasing to the actual series”
At the confused stares, Tenma only shrugged before starting. “It might be easier showing you.”
The first scene came, showing Tanjirou’s silhouette into the winter, his breath coming visible, as the hanafuda earrings were noticed. The scene then transitioned to a open field, with him in the middle, with the only thing in contrast was his burgundy eyes.
“What a catchy song, and visuals then? Very much in my lane, so flamboyant!” Uzui praised, as the start made the little upbeat song attract his attention
“Woah, Tanjirou! It’s rare to see you that mad!” Zenitsu pipped up, seeing the hard expression on the boy.
“Yeah, and how are they able to do this?” A feminine voice asked in the back, but before them, the scene started again.
The scene is now with Tanjiro training, under Urokodaki’s mentorship, showing snippets of him getting invested into the Water Breathing training, and surprising everyone, the former Water Pillar is shown, with Tanjiro now wearing the same haori and a fox mask, followed by the quick appearance of Sabito and Makomo.
In the following scenes, Zenitsu is shown running scared of someone that reveals to be Inosuke, both of them running around in circles of both Kamado siblings, with Tanjiro confused by it, until finally Inosuke grabbing Zenitsu and raising in the air.
This make some laughs, as the Hashiras watched with raised eyebrows. Shinobu and Sanemi were the only ones with a face that screamed ‘These are the ones that helped with Muzan?’
After that, Kanao is shown, holding a butterfly into her hands, a serene look into her face, so is Genya, his uncanny resemblance to his older brother giving away with the scowl, both of the pictures motionless. But the surprise was to see Lady Tamayo and Yuchiro after them, possibly in Asakuza.
Tamayo lets a soft ‘oh’ while Yuchiro praises her all the way with the lights complimenting her form.
Slowly, the focus is on the Kamado family, Kie and her five children facing Nezuko as she transforms herself into a demon, the hair downing into the orange ends, the camera turning to face her now with the muzzle. But as the bloody-like transition comes, it shows Muzan’s back turning to the camera, and the background showing a hideout, that perks everybody attention, with only the eyes were visible to the twelve kizuki.
‘
It can’t be, could it?
’ Slayers alike had thoughts revolved around that piece of information, but Ubuyashiki didn’t seemed fazed by it, which made them frown with confusion. It seemed that their master already knew about it.
‘
This is where you’ve been hiding, huh?’
Kagaya voiced mentally, analyzing the scene. His hands closing slowly into fists, before vowing ‘
Mark my words, Muzan Kibutsuji, I will hunt and kill you!
’
The Kamado siblings were shown again, back to back, both with set expressions, before they attacked. Finally, what Tenma pointed out came, with Tanjirou using one of the forms of Water Breathing from above, as both demons were shown fighting with him, the first one with a Blood Demon Art with arrows, and after him, another one with a maniacal expression and temaris. Tanjirou with effort evades each attack, before it transitions to a third demon, this time with a drum and the Slayer using another water form to kill it.
“All of them, I already faced! How they could have the image if I only met Zenitsu after Yahaba and Susamaru?!” Tanjirou asked, expecting to see Tenma anywhere, but the man made himself scarce, and the question kept unanswered.
A small scene kept showing the Corps Headquarters, with Kagaya with his back turned, followed with the nine hashiras in their shadows, except by Tomioka, who was in the center. The trio of Tanjiro, Inosuke and Zenitsu were seen in a fight with the Spider Family, with the latter one falling to keep his position. The scene transitioned then to the moon in the back and Inosuke falling from above into a attack, to a sleeping walking Zenitsu protecting Nezuko with the thunder breathing technique and a water dragon formed by Tanjirou into a attack.
The opening finishes with both Nezuko and Tanjiro hands on each other before facing the moon together.
“
This is so beautiful!” Mitsuri squealed in delight, then turned to the siblings in question, speaking with a little sigh “You two have the most beautiful bond I’ve seen it!”
Tanjirou only could smile, his own hand mirroring the act in the screen, squeezing Nezuko’s into his, as she puts her head in his shoulder, smiling about it.
“But how are we sure that this affection he has with the demon won’t jeopardize our mission against Muzan?” Obanai mused out loud, analyzing the siblings as his fellow Hashiras nodded along, but this line was quickly shut down when Tenma reappeared again.
“Not only his bond with his sister is the one that helped put the plan in motion against Muzan, but it served the purpose of finding a cure to her while simultaneously killing him.” Uzui’s descendant spoke clearly to the room, before using the little box on his hands to put into the first episode, shown into a black screen with a red title.
“Sit tight, people! We only getting started!” Tenma smiled, and clicked into a button to start.
EPISODE 1 – CRUELTY
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
Eglantine Took was a good, respectable Hobbit. As expected of any good, respectable Hobbit, she had raised five good, respectable Hobbit children. And done so very well, if she may say so herself. Despite her youngest and eldest’s penchant for mischief and rather eccentric company, she knew they were both good children. Or rather, she knew her Peregrin was, Periwinkle was much too old and, well, too
big
to be called a child anymore. But such was the way of parents! With her younger daughters having already flown the nest and Eglantine well into her matronly years, she was decidedly less bothered about being left with a troublesome tween and six-foot-one (yes! really!) spinster. If that made her a topic of some ridicule at social gatherings, then so be it. She had enough to say about the oddities of a whole host of far less savoury Hobbits to more than make up for it.
Eglantine Took was, as all Hobbits are,
normal
above all else. It was a part of the unspoken Shire creed — to stick to your own — with the exception of good-natured gossip on topics that certainly weren’t her business. Despite marrying into the Took family, she certainly wasn’t born one; she was almost as far as could be from the curiosity of her son. She was just
normal
, plain old normal. As normal as she really could be when her daughter was
the way she was
. She avoided using any of the language most Shire folk deemed appropriate to use for her Periwinkle.
Periwinkle Took was any Hobbit’s dream child; intelligent, kind, and fond of her homely comforts. An upstanding member of her community, if you overlooked her affable mischief-making with her younger brother and cousin, that was. There was just one small, or rather very, very big issue. Something which Eglantine was loath to acknowledge, and she had quite frankly never admitted the truth behind it, not even to Periwinkle herself.
The truth was, Periwinkle wasn't exactly a
Hobbit
— in fact, she wasn’t one at all. Eglantine had her suspicions as to the true nature of her daughter, but Gandalf was in quite the hurry when he dropped the squealing babe into her arms all of fifty years ago. The Wizard had towered in a shell-shocked Eglantine’s doorway, gently prying the body of her stillborn daughter from her arms with placating promises to bury her properly, and replacing her with a healthy, glowing baby girl more than double her size. She had barely been in a state to understand what was happening, least of all to question the Wizard. After making her swear to raise the child as her own, he had disappeared off into the night, not to be seen by Eglantine until Bilbo’s infamous eleventy-first. In fact, she had been too busy glaring at Gandalf to even notice that the old Hobbit had vanished.
Needless to say, none knew of Periwinkle’s un-Hobbit-like origins, and all four Farthings seemed to have miraculously bought her rushed lie of her just being, well,
big
. Even her husband!
Tooks
, you know. Half of her believed it was meddling on Gandalf’s part, and half of her believed it was entirely organic; simply a result of Shire folk’s bull-headed nature and complete lack of any contact with the outside world. With her tawny curls and subtly pointed ears, if one overlooked her towering height, she was quite Hobbit-like — both in looks and character. That was if you also overlooked her small and hairless feet (really, so strange), but Eglantine had long since managed to persuade Periwinkle of the merits of floor-length skirts.
Eglantine was sure Periwinkle would have been quite the catch had Gandalf found her a foster home in Bree or some other place where there were Big Folk aplenty. But for Hobbits, she was much too big to be anything but an oddity. A beloved oddity, granted! But an oddity nonetheless.
For the first decade or so of Periwinkle’s life, Eglantine had presumed Periwinkle was Human. From Bree, she had thought, as she’d never travelled farther than Buckland. But the trouble was, Periwinkle just
kept growing
. While the Big Folk were called so for a reason, from books she’d read on the subject — ones she’d covertly sought out early in Periwinkle’s life — it seemed to be on the rarer side for Human ladies to reach such a height.
And then there was the trouble of the ears. Originally, Eglantine had presumed that all the Big Folk had pointy ears, just like Hobbits. It just made
sense
for ears to be pointed! But then she had discovered that Human folk, in fact, had
round
ears. After intense scrutiny of her admittedly limited supply of books (the only way she would have been able to obtain more was through Bilbo Baggins, and she avoided opening that can of worms as much as she could, especially for fear of raising suspicion around her daughter), she had surmised that she had to be some sort of Elf. A strange thought, really, that she had raised an
Elf
. Her!
After such a realisation, Eglantine quickly developed a plan of action. One in line with her good, respectable Hobbit principles. And that plan consisted of filing such incredible information away to the back of her mind and carrying on with her normal Hobbit life and normal Hobbit family just the way she had been. After Bilbo’s sudden departure, any threat she had dreamt up of a sudden exposure thanks to the old bachelor’s keen eye and fantastical travels had faded away into no more than the memory of a few knowing smiles, easily dismissed via his crackpot reputation.
While she had never exactly been the happiest with Periwinkle’s friendship with his young heir, least of all before his disappearance, she supposed it was only natural. They were second cousins once removed after all, and Frodo had been born mere months after Periwinkle’s
arrival
. Similarly, she wasn’t particularly happy with Periwinkle and Peregrin’s association with one Meriadoc Brandybuck. She had firstly objected on the basis of him being a Brandybuck — strange folk, truly — but that prejudice had soon faded in favour of concern for the trio’s unruly antics.
She had hoped that Periwinkle would prove to be a wise, mature influence on the younger two. And that was somewhat true. She had gotten them out of many a scrape, though had never been able to do particularly much in the face of a (well-deserved) earful from old Farmer Maggot. Ordinarily, though, the combination brought out a mischievous streak that she never would have thought existed during Periwinkle's younger years.
Their jovial troublemaking had never truly extended to anything
serious
, though, and over the years Eglantine had grown quite content. She turned a blind eye to her children’s shenanigans and watched them grow into fine Hobbits. Because really, regardless of Periwinkle’s heritage, she certainly acted like a Hobbit. As far as Eglantine was concerned, that made her one.
That was why, when Peregrin came prancing home one fine late summer’s evening, waxing lyrical about Frodo Baggins’ sudden new plans to move down to Buckland — and his own plan to make the trip with him — she wasn’t concerned. Curious, yes, as to why the master of Bag End would sell such a coveted and beautiful smial for so peculiar a land as Buckland, but he had been raised there and ought to be quite peculiar himself, so she supposed that explained it. She met Periwinkle’s decision to help Meriadoc cart Frodo’s belongings down to his new home with similar contented curiosity. It was only a short trip, after all. Peregrin would be in good,
responsible
company, and Periwinkle would be in company significantly less so. But she was happy enough to send her off with her cousin and a wagon full of Frodo’s belongings, and a stern warning to both of them to
behave
.
She wasn’t worried. She found little reason to be worried at all these days. That was why, when a letter returned a few days later, carried by a rather frazzled and sweaty-upper-lipped Fredegar Bolger, explaining that her children would be leaving the Shire entirely, she thought she might just die right in her chair.
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
(UWU created a chat)
(UWU added the 24 main characters to the chat)
UWU: Welcome, welcome!
Impa: where are we?
UWU: the confession booth! I have brought you all here today to play a little game!
Revali: wtf is up with your name
UWU: I am UWU
Mipha: What is the game?
UWU: it is called rapid confession! how it works is that all of the players are placed in the booth and the booth is sealed! the characters must confess their love to the character that they love, and only then will they be able to leave! they can spend as much time in there as they like trying to sort their feelings out, but the only path out is by being straightforward and honest about the way they feel!
Revali: what if I don’t like anyone?
UWU: then you say that you don’t like anyone! however, if that is not true, or if you lie about who it is that you like, you will immediately die of a heart attack! sound fun?
Impa: NO! THAT DOESN’T SOUND FUN!
UWU: excellent! the game starts now!
Revali: what the hell do we do!?
Monk Maz Koshia: I suppose we have to confess, but I don’t like anyone.
UWU: correct answer! you get to leave!
(Monk Maz Koshia left the chat)
King Dorephan: I love my wife
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(King Dorephan left the chat)
Teba: I love my wife Saki
UWU: correct answer! you get to leave!
(Teba left the chat)
Tulin: I don’t love anyone currently!
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Tulin left the chat)
Terrako: 🙅🧍
UWU: you may leave!
(Terrako left the chat)
Zelda: I’m in love with Link…
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Zelda left the chat)
Impa: I don’t currently love anyone, also, Paya, just say it
Paya: I love Link…
UWU: you are both correct! you get to leave!
(Impa and Paya left the chat)
Daruk: damn, Link be collecting ladies like pokemon
Link: ???
Mipha: …
Urbosa: he’s just teasing, we all know Link only has eyes for Mipha
Link: 👍
Mipha: Good…
Link: ♥️🐟♾️
Mipha: I love you too, Link :)
UWU: you are both correct! you get to leave!
(Link and Mipha left the chat)
Robbie: I love SCIENCE! (not anyone)
Purah: Me too! (also not anyone)
UWU: you are both correct! you get to leave!
(Robbie and Purah left the chat)
Hestu: I love MUSIC! (not anyone)
UWU: you are correct! you may leave!
(Hestu left the chat)
Sidon: I love my family! But not anyone romantically!
UWU: you are correct! you may leave!
(Sidon left the chat)
Yunobo: me too!
UWU: you are correct! you may leave!
(Yunobo left the chat)
Master Kohga: I love MIGHT BANANAS! (but not anyone)
UWU: correct! you get to leave!
(Master Kohga left the chat)
Sooga: My devotion is to Master Kohga, completely, with no time for any romance of any sort
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Sooga left the chat)
Astor: I LOVE CALAMITY GANON!
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Astor left the chat)
Ganon: I LOVE NO ONE. I HATE EVERYONE.
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Ganon left the chat)
Riju: I don’t love anyone in a romantic way!
(Riju was disconnected from the chat)
UWU: incorrect!
King Rhoam: I love my late wife, Zelda’s mother
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(King Rhoam left the chat)
Urbosa: I also love Zelda’s mother
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Urbosa left the chat)
Daruk: damn, and we didn’t know her name, even… anyway, I don’t love anyone romantically
UWU: correct! you may leave!
(Daruk left the chat)
Revali: …
UWU: only one person remains! what is your answer?
Revali: I… don’t… love… anyone
(Revali was disconnected from the chat)
UWU: incorrect!
UWU: that is everyone! what a fun game! I hope everyone enjoyed playing rapid confession as much as I did! see you next time!
(UWU ended the chat)
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:
The Raiden Multiplicity - Chapter 2 - Mandy129 - 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]
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Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning
:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category:
F/F
Fandom:
原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game)
Relationships:
Raiden Ei | Baal/Yae Miko
Raiden Ei | Baal & Sangonomiya Kokomi
Kujou Sara & Raiden Ei | Baal
Kujou Sara/Puppet Raiden Shogun | Baal
Kujou Sara & Yae Miko
Kujou Sara/Puppet Raiden Shogun | Baal/Raiden Ei | Baal/Yae Miko maaaybe?
Puppet Raiden Shogun | Baal & Raiden Ei | Baal
Characters:
Raiden Ei | Baal
Yae Miko (Genshin Impact)
Sangonomiya Kokomi
Puppet Raiden Shogun | Baal
Kujou Sara
Raiden Makoto | Original Baal
Original Characters
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - College/University
Sumeru Academia (Genshin Impact)
Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Dissociative Identity Disorder
Trying to use correct terminology
I'm no doctor though
Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2022-06-26
Updated:
2025-09-19
Words:
816
Chapters:
2/?
Comments:
1
Kudos:
27
Bookmarks:
2
Hits:
453
The Raiden Multiplicity
Mandy129
Chapter 2
Summary:
Remember this? So do I
Chapter Text
This story will continue, I don't know when, but it will
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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
Ratio’s students notice his demeanour. He seems… more agitated than usual. And that’s never a good sign for his students. Usually it implies that they are more likely to be hit with a chalk if they ask questions he finds dumb.
And the students are right. If his usual number of chalkings is fifty, then today it was a hundred. And now, the students are attempting to understand what ticked off their professor this badly. Rumours spread. Did he get a divorce? That would imply he had been married. And everyone knows, he doesn’t do relationships.
“He’s extra pissy today,” One student grumbles, holding his head in pain from being chalked.
“What do you think happened?” A girl asks, trying to leave the class before Ratio does.
“I have no idea, but I am not dealing with an angry Professor Ratio again. No, thank you.” Her girlfriend murmurs, trying to follow her out of the class.
Ratio only sighs, rubbing his temples out of frustration. He thinks of Aventurine and wonders. Ratio has never been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but Aventurine makes him want to give it up entirely. These feelings are simply… irrational. Ratio thinks that. When children his age were making friends, he was solving complex mathematical problems that would stump half the mathematicians in the universe. And now, when everyone his age is getting married, he continues to do the same.
Ratio has always hated the idea of friendship. Calling it pointless or fruitless. But meeting Aventurine has made him crave friendship. An anomaly, at least. But what does Ratio enjoy, if not solving complex anomalies, even in his own life?
If this universe has guided him to Aventurine, then he shall heed the universe's wants. After all, defying the universe isn’t a gamble he’s willing to take (and he doesn’t mind being around Aventurine either, as much as he puts up a front of disdain for him).
Aventurine is a natural risk-taker. Perhaps that is why Ratio is drawn to him. Ratio’s need to calculate every aspect of his life clashes with Aventurine’s instinct to gamble on everything. They neutralise each other. Every atom in this universe seeks to find other atoms that can complete its octet and seek to attain stability. And humans, perhaps, by the law of nature, do the same.
Ratio has seen Aventurine’s self-destructive tendencies. He didn’t approve of Aventurine’s idea of getting himself ‘killed’ in the Penacony mission. But Ratio, ever logical, chose to follow through. Only he himself knows the odd hollow in his heart after hearing of Aventurine’s ‘death’.
He ignores the whispers of his students as he finishes up his day at the University. It does not do well to dwell on meaningless rumours, after all. He’s in his office after classes end, grading homework and assignments. How do these students pass with such terrible grades? Ratio never gets to check any work that would get above a C, at least, in his standards.
He checks the assignments when he gets a call. A video call from Aventurine. Does this man have nothing to do with his life other than bother people? But despite his annoyance, Ratio picks up the call. He does every time. And every time he ends the call, he tells himself to not pick up the next time, but he does anyway.
They talk for an hour. Well, it's mostly Aventurine talking and Ratio rolling his eyes. It's a routine now. A routine that makes Ratio comfortable. A routine that feels right.
He ends the call with a sigh, but a small curve of his lips are there. Not quite visible, but it's there. He runs his hand through his hair. Some odd part of him wishes that it was Aventurine's fingers in his hair.
Oh Nous. He's gone. Since when has he been having these thoughts? Ratio panics a little at the flutter his heart does when he thinks about it.
He stands at the space station that'll take him home. Aventurine has somehow made himself home in a corner of Ratio’s mind. And the worst part, it seems, is that Ratio doesn't even mind it.
The first thing Ratio does when he gets home is he takes a long, hot bath. Filled with bubbles and his favourite— Mr. Duck. He sinks into the water, the warmth engulfing his senses into pure bliss. The duck stares at him with its usual empty gaze, but today, Ratio imagines it telling him, “I know what you are.” And oh Aeons, Ratio himself doesn’t know what he is.
Never has Ratio been interested in any sort of relationship, let alone romantic entanglements. But Ratio knows he wants something more. Something far beyond mere friendship. Aventurine is the only person he's let close to (or rather, Aventurine forced himself into Ratio’s inner circle, and he didn't bother pushing Aventurine out) in his whole life; aside from family, of course.
He knows Aventurine’s gay. Very,
very
, gay. If homosexuality could be defined as a person, Aventurine would be the literal definition. But Ratio… isn’t inherently gay. He has found certain people attractive. But he has, never in his life, been
this
attracted to a person before. But Ratio merely considers this a fleeting fascination. Aventurine's pretty, and found his way into Ratio’s life. So Ratio will bask under the gambler's attention, until Aventurine gets bored of him.
So, he continues on with his day, Aventurine being the only anomaly in his mind. He doesn’t mind as much as he expects himself to mind. Is that abnormal? Yes. Does Ratio care? No, he doesn’t.
He’ll spend time with the teasing gambler, for as long as the Aeons give him the blessing to. All he has to do is be careful not to fall harder, because he isn’t quite sure what he would do if it became beyond playful flirting. Ratio has always struggled dealing with complex emotions anyway. He isn’t sure what he would do if he had to come to terms with his feelings properly.
Aventurine, on the other hand, is having an existential crisis. The man has never been in love, but dear Gaiathra, he finds Ratio so attractive. And it goes even beyond physical fascination. And that is what scares Aventurine.
Because Ratio has seen the most vulnerable parts of Aventurine. And Aventurine isn't ready for Ratio to see that again. Ratio simply cannot be attracted to him.
That gorgeous, intellectual, kind-of-emotionally-stunted, probably autistic Doctor simply cannot like him back. Come to think of it, Aventurine doesn’t even recall a single time where Ratio has even said he's attracted to anyone. Could Ratio be aromantic and asexual? It is a viable option.
Or maybe he just isn’t attracted to men at all. Is that good or bad? Aventurine can't really tell. He's overthinking things. He seriously needs to move on from Ratio.
Aventurine gets back to his apartment and sighs. He doesn’t like what he’s gotten himself into. This feeling can break him. It can, and probably will, tear him apart and shatter his walls, leaving him a shattered mess longing for love. And he is never ever going to be that broken child again.
He looks through his socials. Pictures of colleagues, friends—if you can even call them that— flood his phone.
He sees a picture of Stelle. She’s smiling an idiotic smile while cleaning ice cream off Firefly’s nose. And dear Aeons, Caelus looks so done with his twin.
And Aventurine sees that look in Stelle’s eyes. Hopelessly in love. Firefly looks the same, a candid look of surprise and a gaze of love in her eyes. Something in his heart flutters. Would this be his and Ratio’s relationship, too? If they ever got together, that is.
Yet he pushes that thought aside. It would do no good for him to wonder about possibilities. It’s a longing that he has to shove aside and bury it somewhere deep in the trenches of his guarded heart, so that no one aside from him can know he still feels human emotions.
It’s difficult, though. Aventurine’s relationships for the last few years have all been meaningless hookups, one-night stands, and baseless flings. His heart has never felt anything. Until now. Because now, Aventurine wants to love Ratio. Truly love him. But he’s also scared. Scared of losing the doctor. He’s the only person Aventurine has felt something for in the hollowed-out heart of his.
He looks at the kitchen and recalls the events of earlier. Ratio made him breakfast. The kindest thing anyone has ever done for him. And Aventurine stated he and Ratio weren’t friends. He saw the split second of hurt flash across Ratio’s face before he settled back into his usual frown. Something in Aventurine definitely ached when he saw the pain. But he acted nonchalant. Because that’s how he knows to react. Pretend you’re fine. Pretend your own words didn’t hurt you.
Aventurine walks towards his room. He opens the door, only to be greeted by the cake critters, licking his feet and mewling at him. He bends down and extends his hands as each of them take turns licking his palm. He goes to the kitchen pantry and takes out their food. He pours the food into each of their bowls and sees them run straight to it with their tiny little paws. He smiles a little.
He takes out his earrings and jewellery. He looks…naked without them. Like he is nothing without his flashy jewellery. And he supposes he isn't.
He takes off his suit and changes into his silk pajamas. He brushes his hair, and it takes a while because of the knots and tangles in his hair. He looks at his empty eyes. The cold, lifeless gaze. Is he even human anymore?
It's like he's a puppet. To be controlled, but never in control. He's like a puppet king. Looks lavish, but is always controlled by those above him. Autonomy? Doesn’t exist in his dictionary.
All he truly yearns for is the sweet release of death. Yet the Aeons seemingly enjoy messing and toying with him. So he suffers from the curse of life. For others, life is a blessing. To him, it is a painful curse.
He puts together a sloppy dinner, primarily made of leftover veggies and some boiled chicken. Is it good? Absolutely appalling. Is it convenient enough? Yes. And that'll be enough for Aventurine.
Aventurine eats it. He grimaces a little at the taste, but deals with it. He’s had worse. He simply imagines Ratio’s eggs and toast when he eats. It simply feels comfortable.
Aventurine walks towards his bedroom, his critters following him, meowing gently. As he climbs under his covers, the critters jump on his bed and sidle up next to him, purring softly and falling asleep. Aventurine, too, closes his eyes. He imagines Ratio next to him, murmuring loving words under his breath and running his fingers through Aventurine’s hair.
Aventurine smiles to himself as he imagines that scenario. His breathing slows down a little, and he can feel his arms and legs getting heavy. His eyelids flutter shut, and his body succumbs to, for the first time ever, the sweet embrace of sleep.
His dreams aren't violent, or bloody, or traumatic. This time, they're soft. Aventurine sees Ratio and himself lying in a spring field, full of blossoming flowers and birds chirping from the trees. He and Ratio are cuddling, smiling, and kissing. Very domestic. He sees the scene shift into his living room. Pier Point is snowing, and his fireplace is glowing as he lies in Ratio’s lap, laughing and hugging. Aventurine sees the love Ratio has for him. And the love he has for Ratio. Sometimes he truly wishes that dreams would come true. Because this is a dream he would give up everything for.
The cat cakes are fast asleep next to him, purring ever so gently and occasionally moving even closer to him. They're the closest thing Aventurine has to family. At least the cats won't judge him for who he really is.
Ratio sleeps soundly that night as well, his dreams having a concerning amount of appearances of Aventurine. He's welcomed though, even in Ratio’s dreams.
Aventurine hears his bell ring a few days later. Topaz stands in front of his door, Numby in hand. She enters, and Numby runs straight towards the critters, and Topaz lets out a laugh.
“How's life treating you?” Topaz asks as she makes herself comfortable on Aventurine’s sofa.
“It's as miserable as ever. Except now, I'm acting like a middle school girl.”
“Why?” Topaz asks, a smile on her face as she notices a blush forming on Aventurine’s cheeks.
“I may or may not be in love with someone.”
Topaz isn’t very surprised. “Who's the lucky guy?”
Aventurine raises an eyebrow at her automatic gender assumption. “What makes you think it's a guy?”
Topaz is a little confused and says,” Oh. It's not a guy?”
“No, no, it is a guy. I'm just surprised you guessed that quickly.”
“Aventurine. Anyone with a brain cell and two eyes can see that you aren't, in the slightest, attracted to women.”
Aventurine doesn’t have a snarky quip. He supposes it’s very obvious by his actions.
“So? Who is this handsome man that’s caught your fancy?” She raises her brows suggestively, as if she already knows the answer.
“Dr. Ratio…” He mumbles awkwardly, not quite sure of Topaz’s response.
“Half the office owes me a hundred credits each.” She simply replies, a cheeky smile on her face. Aventurine is confused, though.
“What do you mean?”
“We bet how long it would take for you to realise that you were in love with Doctor Ratio. I bet a few months. Some bet never.”
Aventurine’s jaw drops at that statement. So, people were betting on his love life? “Topaz! What the fuck?!” He frowns, “Why are you, and everyone else, betting on my fucking love life?!”
“Because! It’s funny!” She laughs out loud, cackling and crying. “But, anyway, what do you plan on doing now?”
“No, I want to know why the fuck everyone is betting on my love life!” Aventurine's red and blushing like a schoolgirl.
“We've all seen the way you flirt with him extra flirty.”
Aventurine's mind shuts down because he has no idea what to make of that statement. “Oh. Uh. Huh?”
Topaz laughs even harder seeing Aventurine's thoughts so blank. Tears are streaming from her face and her stomach hurts from laughing so hard. She even falls off the bed once.
Aventurine begins glaring at her the more she laughs. “I'm sorry! It's just really funny!”
“Qlipoth… save me from this goblin of a girl.”
“Who in the universe are you calling a goblin?!”
“You,” Aventurine deadpans. “Because you just are one.”
“I am so offended!” Topaz clutches her chest in mock-offense.
“Be offended.” Aventurine bites back jokingly.
Dr. Ratio is in his bathtub after a long day of teaching his students. Mr. Duck always seems to be staring at him these days. His bathroom smells of oils and flowery scents. That is to be expected, though, with the sheer amount of luxury bath oils and products he uses. He calls it cleanliness. To a normal person, it’s an obsession.
Bubbles float on the surface of the water, sweet-smelling foam surrounding his bare skin. A warm, ambient lighting flowing through the bathroom. Ratio sits in the tub, eyes glazing over his codex while some fancy shampoo marinates in his hair. His violet hair sticks to his face, and he constantly has to move it away from his face to read.
Except, he’s not reading. He wonders how Aventurine’s doing. Wonders if he’s alright. Or if he’s spiraling. He wonders if Aventurine misses him. He won’t lie to himself, he misses Aventurine. And Ratio wonders if Aventurine might love him too. But he probably doesn’t. Aventurine is known for meaningless flings, he's never been the type to settle down. Ratio’s asked him why a few times. The reply's always the same, “Life's too short to be tied down,” Aventurine answers every time, a smirk on his face, and he continues, “Why not have fun while it lasts?”
Yet Ratio always notices the shift in tone. The way Aventurine becomes a little straighter, words a little more mellow. He really, really wants to see what Aventurine really is like. What
Kakavasha
is really like.
Because underneath all that glitter and sparkle and flirtations, is a little boy who was forced to face the cruelty of the universe far too early. And Ratio knows this. And so, he always stays. Because that's one of the few things Aventurine has never had. Someone that stays. Not because the people didn't want to, but because they were taken away by Aventurine’s own luck.
Ratio will tear down Aventurine’s insufferable and painful luck if it means he gets to stay next to the gambler. Hold his hand when he cries. Revere every scar because each one is a testimony to what Aventurine—no, Kakavasha—has survived.
Everyone has forever considered Ratio an unsocial nerd. Except, he's found more comfort in books than in people. Because books are easier to understand than people. Because books will never hurt a person, but people will.
And Ratio, despite being a recluse, doesn’t mind human interaction. He's a teacher, after all. He just… can't form
bonds
with people. He doesn’t have the skillset.
On the other hand, Aventurine forms connections as easily as he gambles. He never truly
connects
with the people, but it's just enough. Bonding means showing weakness. And it's a luxury Aventurine cannot afford. So he flirts, talks, gets people just drunk enough to loosen their tongues. Kisses them. Yet he always wants to rip his lips off. Tear his skin apart. For he, even after being out of literal slavery, continues to use his body.
He stands amidst a crowd of people, in an IPC gala. Ratio’s there as well, since it's an annual collaborative event hosted by the IPC for their collaboration with the Intelligensia Guild.
The Guild's researchers give their gratitude to the capitalists in the room, who couldn't give a shit about knowledge. Everyone knows the event is for formalities.
Ratio sits in a corner, his alabaster head covering his head, depriving him of any senses (and from the idiocy of the corporation's executives and employees).
Aventurine smiles in his glittering turquoise suit; arms glittering with diamonds, rings glinting harshly, and earrings dangling with the sheer purpose of attraction. He flirts like he might die any given moment, which is a very possible outcome.
He catches the poised posture of the doctor, sitting in a corner of the ballroom on one of the plush, luxurious white sofas (which may be encrusted with diamonds), and he approaches him.
The doctor, despite being deprived of hearing and sight, takes off the alabaster head, as if he can simply feel Aventurine’s presence.
“Hey, doctor~” Aventurine tilts his head a little to the side.
“Do you require something, gambler?”
“Wanna come outside with me? Just for some…
fresh air
, if you will.”
“Clearly, you have nothing to better to do, and you chose to disturb me while I filled my grey matter with knowledge. However, I shall indulge you. Come on.”
Ratio stands up and begins walking to the grand door that leads to a staircase. Aventurine follows, as if Ratio is the one wanting to go outside.
The balcony Ratio chooses to go to is entirely empty, with only the gentle breeze of Esther-V rustling the sunset-coloured leaves of the trees that are native to this stunning planet.
They don't speak at first. They simply gaze at the flora around them as they both are leaning on the marble balustrades. Their fingers brush. And Aventurine does something he'd never do if he was entirely sober. He wraps his pinky finger around Ratio’s.
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
Catra took a deep breath as she stepped from the truck before running to the passenger side and opening the door allowing Adora to walk out. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her, judging her already. She knew the tattoos on her neck and hands were showing and she was even more nervous for when she took her sweater off but this was something she knew would happen. She felt Adora’s hand slip into her as she was pulled up the pathway and to the front door.
“Adora sweetie” Marlena said pulling her into a hug
“Hi mom. Mom this is Catra” Adora said pulling back
“Very nice to meet you Catra” Marlena said scanning her
“Very nice to meet you as well ma’am” Catra said knowing the look she was getting as they stepped into the living room
“Randor, Adora is here” Marlena called out
“Hey champ” Randor said coming into the living room
“Hey dad” Adora said as she was pulled into another hug
“Dad this is Catra” Adora said pulling Catra towards her father
“Hello Catra” Randor said his tone unwavering
“Hello sir, it is a pleasure to meet you both. And thank you for having me today” Catra said her stomach flipping
“Yes well, Adora said she had a girlfriend. So we believed we should meet her” Randor stated coldly
“Adora, where would the bathroom be?” Catra asked knowing she needed to step away for a moment
“Down that hall and first door on the left” Adora said softly understanding as she watched Catra walk away
“Really Adora?” Randor stated as Catra left the room
“Really what?” Adora countered back
“We raised you better then this” Randor stated
“Better then what? Dating someone who is covered in tattoos?” Adora asked
“Yes. Head to toe in tattoos, how does she get a job with those? Probably drinks all day and does nothing, is she using you?” Randor questioned
“I have a job, a very good job that I love. I am a tattoo artist sir, and co-own my own shop. I have been in this trade since I was eighteen” Catra said standing in the doorway
“But what does your family think?” Marlena asked
“My mother is not in the picture, I was raised by my grandmother and grandfather. They passed away years ago though, but my grandmother came with me to get my first tattoo” Catra stated ready to leave if needed
“Do you not regret the tattoo you got at eighteen?” Marlena asked
“No. That tattoo means more to me then any of my other tattoo’s combined” Catra said softly as Adora came up beside her
“What kind of tattoo would mean so much?” Randor asked his eyebrow raised
“This” Catra said pulling her sleeve up as she felt Adora's hand come to her back slowly running it up and down
“That is....” Randor said understanding
“What is it?” Marlena asked confused
“A number that became your name, your identity. A number that was tattooed into the skin of those who had no choice, a number that was etched into the skin of those who were persecuted for who they were. A people who were judged because of who they were. This is my grandmother’s number, her testament to what she went through. That is why I will never forget, and that is why this tattoo means so much to me. She wrote it out in her own writing, so I carry her pain and her memory with me every single day. I face prejudice every day because of what I look like, but I hold my head up high because no matter what you say or do. Nothing will ever compare to what my grandmother dealt with” Catra said calmly as Adora’s hand ran along her back
“If you are going to judge her then judge once you know her, not by her looks. Because if you do, I will leave the house right now with her” Adora said her hand ever moving along her back
“Catra would you be willing to come and speak with me one on one?” Randor asked
“Yes, outside?” Catra countered her heart pounding in her chest
“Catra?’ Adora asked softly watching her
“I am okay, I promise” Catra said reaching up to kiss her on the cheek before following closely behind Randor
“She isn’t using you?” Marlena asked as soon as they were out of earshot
“Not at all, she is wonderful mom. She has a heart of gold and I can’t imagine life without her, it has been only a week and I am head over heels for her” Adora said softly
“It is just hard to look past those tattoos and piercings” Marlena said softly
“Try for me please? Because she is going no where” Adora stated as she began to help set the table
“I will try. Your father is the one that needs to be won over” Marlena said smiling gently
“I think she will get under his hard shell” Adora stated smiling
*****
“Do you want one?” Randor asked holding out a cigar
“Sure, thank you” Catra said accepting the cigar as they took a seat outside
Catra watched Randor as he lit the cigar before handing over the pack of matches, soon she was puffing away on the cigar. She had smoked as a teenager and into her young adult years but she had quit four years before, now only allowing herself a cigar every once and a while. The only sounds that were heard were the chirping of the birds as they nested in the large trees that littered the backyard.
“Adora trusts easily, and she has been hurt because of it. I believe she has told you what happened when she did not tell someone her secret?” Randor finally asked
“She has yes” Catra said nodding as she inhaled and blew out a large cloud of smoke
“She told you that she has a metal plate in her face?” Randor asked
“She did yes” Catra agreed
“She probably didn’t tell you that she also had swelling around her brain because of the hits, and that she had a severe concussion and couldn’t leave a dark room for two months. Nor did she probably tell you that that horrid women stomped on her side as Adora laid on the ground, breaking four ribs and causing a punctured lung?” Randor said his voice filled with anger
“No, she never told me that” Catra said her voice wavering with anger and sadness
“She likes to sugar coat things sometimes. What are your plans with my daughter?” Randor asked
“I like her a lot, I have known her two weeks and all I want is to be around her. She is always on my mind, I will not hurt her” Catra said watching Randor
“She would not bring you home to us if she was not sure about you. Do not hurt her please, she has been through enough” Randor said softly
“I promise not to hurt her. But you need to get over how I look if you want that” Catra countered
“The moment you showed me that tattoo my thoughts on you changed” Randor said gently
“I understand that all you want to do it protect Adora, and that is what I want to do as well. I will keep her safe, I promise” Catra said as she brought the cigar to her mouth and inhaled
“She has never brought anyone home to us. You are special” Randor said smiling at her for the first time
“She is special” Adora said stepping outside
“Hey princess” Catra said looking up as Adora now stood above her
“You smoke?” Adora asked confused
“Just cigars sometimes. Is that okay?” Catra now asked worried
“That does not bother me at all, I kind of like it” Adora said blushing as she leaned down to kiss the top of Catra’s head
“This right here, shows me that you keep your promise” Randor said smiling
“What promise?” Adora asked confused
“That I will keep you safe” Catra said looking up at her
“I will hold you to it. Mother said dinner is ready though” Adora said her heart swelling at the commitment
Catra smiled as she took one last inhale of the cigar before tapping it on the ash tray, standing she looked up at Adora who watched her as though she was the only one in the world. Adora looked at her father who was smiling a smile she very rarely saw, allowing him to walk first they soon were walking into the house. She could feel Catra’s stress lessening as she walked in, she felt her let go of her hand as she pulled off her sweater before taking her hand once more and a squeeze of her hand and they were sitting with piles of food around them.
“Adora did not inform me that you were Jewish. I hope I didn’t cook something you cannot have” Marlena said worried
“I do not observe, you are all right. I can eat anything you make for me, and I have no food restrictions. Adora worried the first time she cooked for me, because she did not ask either” Catra said chuckling
“So tell me Catra, every tattoo artist has their specialty. What is yours?” Marlena asked
“Cartoons and anime. So brightly colored tattoos, and truthfully even if it is neither of those things and it is nerdy I am happy as well” Catra said as she felt Adora press her knee into her thigh
“How long did you train?” Randor asked intrigued
“Three years in an apprenticeship, then I opened my own shop with my best friend. I was lucky to be able to do so but it was truly because of my grandparents” Catra said as she sipped the beer in front of her
“Your grandparents loved you dearly it seemed” Marlena said gently
“They did, and I loved them dearly” Catra said softly her heart clenching
“I forgot to tell you, Catra will be in Calgary with me” Adora said knowing she needed to change the subject
“Was this planned before meeting Adora or because of Adora?” Randor inquired
“Planned, I have a guest spot at a friends shop there for a week. So we are turning it into a small vacation for us both, as we both seemed to have decided to head to Banff after the week of work” Catra said chuckling
“Be smart” Marlena said watching Adora
“Mom!” Adora said her face growing red
“It is a honest remark. You are both adults but you know what I mean. No babies” Marlena said as Catra choked on her beer
“You okay?” Adora asked patting her back
“I am yes” Catra said her cheeks growing red
Catra could feel the blush covering her face, soon the conversation changed and turned into stories about Adora as a child. She could feel the embarrassment that encompassed Adora but this was perfect, the night had started stressful but this was how she wished this would go but had not expected it. Dinner passed as dessert also came and went, the night passed as they moved into the living room. Adora curling into her side as her parents watched on, their smiles told her how important this was for them to see. The goodbyes were done late into the evening, as Adora finally got out of her mothers grasp. Catra could feel them watching her still as she opened her truck door allowing Adora to slip in before shutting it and waving once more before slipping into the drivers side.
“That was better then I expected” Catra said as Adora watched her
“I know, it was a rocky start but we got there” Adora said gently
“We did until she started talking about children” Catra laughed as they pulled out of the drive way
“Do you want kids?” Adora countered
“I do, but never gave it much more thought then that. I never expected to be in a relationship where we were comfortable enough to have children” Catra explained
“If we get to that point, do you want children?” Adora asked nervously
“I would yes. I don’t know if I would want to adopt or what. I know we could possibly if we tried hard enough have them naturally, but I don’t know how I would feel being pregnant” Carta explained
“We could try, I am supposedly sterile but you never know. They also say that I shouldn’t get hard like I do, I was also supposed to loose more size then I did. So you never know. But in time we can and will make the decision” Adora said placing her hand on Catra’s thigh
“Princess?” Catra asked softly
“Mmm yes Catfish?” Adora countered a small smirk
“How big are you?” Catra asked as she chewed on her lip
“Eight long and thick” Adora said blushing
“Oh wow” Catra said her breath hitching
“You okay? Does that scare you?” Adora asked worried
“Not at all, I thought it would. But this excites me, I may be the one riding you but I am still the top” Catra smirked looking at the blush that crept up Adora’s neck as they stopped at a light
“Oh I like that. I will bottom for you as long as you want” Adora said smirking
“For ever then” Catra said lowly so only she heard it as the light turned green
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
A post on the website Readit, 1 year prior
My Best Friend’s Girlfriend Hates Me. It Gets Worse.
By u/throwawaaay79
I (25 F) have known my best friend (26 M) since High School and I’ve never gotten along with his girlfriend (29 F). They’ve been dating for two years, and right from the jump I got the impression she didn’t like me.
It started off with little things. Backhanded compliments, passive aggressive remarks, the works. The last time I saw her we’d gone to dinner at a mutual friend’s house, and she flat-out ignored me the entire time. Once or twice I could maybe justify, but I’m not a softspoken gal by any means. I know it how much it sucks to have a partner with shitty friends so I always wanted her to feel included.
And to address the Loxodon in the room, no. I’ve never dated my friend, and I’ve never had romantic feelings for him. As far as I can tell he feels the same way.
Here’s where the serious drama happened. I haven’t talked to my friend face to face in a few months because I’m busy with work and I figure it’s the same for him. I sent texts and tried to call a few times and he never responded. It’s weird, but I’ve known the guy for ten years and I’m not gonna beat down his door if it seems like he needs some space.
Then we end up running into each other by coincidence and nothing seems to be up. But then he asks me why I never tried to get ahold of him, which sets off alarm bells. I showed him all the texts and missed calls. He thought it was weird, but maybe his phone was acting up.
After poking around, it looked like someone manually deleted texts, changed contacts, and unfollowed people, etc. It seemed way too specific just to be a glitch. We at least got the contacts and social media stuff fixed, but he’d keep an eye out in case anything changed.
A couple days later he calls me. He told his girlfriend about maybe getting a new phone, and she got real weird and defensive about it. It sparked a whole argument where admitted to changing stuff on his phone so he couldn’t call or text certain people. She freaked the hells out and ran off.
Point blank, I told him he needs to seriously consider getting out of there. At the very least, the two of them needed to take a break while she works some stuff out. Preferably with a therapist. He agreed, and I let him crash on my couch for a bit.
It gets even messier. The now-ex girlfriend’s dad works closely with his dad, in a field where who you know is a big deal. And sure enough ex-gf is a daddy’s girl, and daddy is not taking this laying down.
So now my best friend is getting hounded by his dad, his ex, and his ex’s dad, all while trying to figure out a new living situation. They know what she did and still think he overreacted, and I think that’s the most frustrating part. He’s always looked up to his dad, and really hates letting him down. His stepmom on the other hand seems to be the only voice of reason in this mess, and offered him a place to stay while he hunts for apartments, which he seems fine with doing.
Yeah. I’m keeping the couch open for when this inevitably blows up.
u/demonsbane192 [Comment]
Family drama sucks but it sounds like my dude just dodged a bullet.
u/throwawaaay79 [Reply]
With what I just found out, he dodged a fucking ballistic missile.
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
Adora and Scorpia's Barracks
The Dark Temple
The Fright Zone
Etheria
Three and a half Years After Catra's abduction
What worried Scorpia was the lack of champions in the Dark Temple.
It was their domain. While they lived and often practiced elsewhere in the Fright Zone, the Dark Temple was their headquarters. Where they got their assignments from Shadow Weaver and where they got their gear.
Where they were trained and taught and made.
None of them being in the Dark Temple was unusual, even for lock down. Where were they and what were they doing?
It was possible Shadow Weaver was turning Adora into a champion; to transform and reshape her. All Scorpia (or anyone who wasn't a champion) knew about the process was it used dark magic and it changed people. Twisted them.
Though, not every champion needed to go through it.
Yeah. The champions being missing isn't going to be good for us. At all.
Duncan was apparently worried too. "You know there's going to be a trap, right? Or an ambush."
Scorpia sighed. "I know. I was hoping there was some other explanation for no one being around. There are always champions here, lock-down or not. This is their place of power and their home. Shadow Weaver
has
to have figured out we're going to do something. We didn't
say
anything to her, but she's not
that
stupid."
Adora had told Shadow Weaver they were leaving. All of them. There was no way the old witch didn't know they would come for Adora.
Duncan snorted. "People like Shadow Weaver love their little tests, love to prepare contingencies. If she doesn't have to use them, you gain favor with her. If she does, she gets to pat herself on the back for predicting your sudden and inevitable betrayal. Either way - it's a trap."
"It's the Horde." Scorpia rolled her eyes and threw her arms out wide. "Of
course
it's a trap. And a test not to fall into the trap.
Everything
is a trap or test! I just wish they'd spring it and get it over with, because I want to go rescue Adora."
They walked into the mess hall, staring at the doors out of the Dark Temple. They were sealed with lock and bar and chain. Runes burned fuchsia around them. More runes burned along the floor trailing under the walls.
"Well, that explains it. They are
definitely
waiting for us out there." Scorpia shook her head at the door, and took a moment, filling space in her pack and pockets with extra ration bars (and a few boxes her favorite tea - of the three flavors offered in the Dark Temple, she considered it the best.)
"How cute. She thinks she's locked us in. That's what explosive are for!" Lonnie's voice echoed a bit as she walked into the mess hall, Kyle at her side, soldiers of the Bulwark behind them both. The slender blond boy was wearing champion's training armor - sleeker and lighter than the heavy armor Lonnie's unit wore, but still excellent armor for any kind of fight.
They must have raided an armory on their way up from the barracks. Seeing the amount of firepower and weapons the Bulwark's troopers carried, she was
sure
they'd raided an armory. Or three.
Scorpia hadn't realized how many of the Bulwark were in the Dark Temple. When had
that
happened? While she and Duncan were trapped in Shadow Weaver's magics?
As the Bulwark all helped themselves to ration bars and water, rapidly denuding the well-stocked mess hall supplies, they formed up in four groups in the center of the room. They violently moved tables and chairs to make room for their formation.
At the lead of each group, the soldiers carried heavy shields and bandoleers of explosives. Behind them came troops with heavy weapons, and behind them, infantry with lighter arms or specialists with their gear.
Not a single one of them had the Horde insignia on their armor anymore. It had been painted over by the emblem of a dark blue shield.
How had they done
that
so fast? Quick dry paint was easy enough to find, but -
Scorpia would figure it out someday. For the moment, she chalked it up to a mystery of the Bulwark. (There were a lot of those.)
Lonnie sauntered up next to Duncan, her helmet under her arm. "So what's the plan?"
Duncan grunted. Shrugged. "Break people. Fight our way from here to my princess." He paused, then whispered.
"My princess."
He laughed, leaning his head back. "Oh, it feels
good
to finally say that."
Scorpia turned to stare at Duncan with wide eyes, but Lonnie laughed. "Oh, that's rich. Adora? A
princess
? Phagh!"
"Duncan?" Scorpia's voice was a lot softer and smaller than she expected it would be.
He turned to face her. "There's a
damn
lot I should be saying right now, princess, but there's no time, and some of it I should only say to her - promises I made to the sorceress a long time ago bind me!
You
have to get to her, Scorpia. I'll be by your side until I can't be, but I think - I think it has to be you."
He walked over to her and tucked Adora's
kiari
into her belt. "You can't tell her, though. Not yet. Not until she can have all of her answers - I promise you, Scorpia. I will tell her everything. But. I can't explain now. There's not nearly enough time!"
He drew in a deep breath and gripped her arm. "If we get separated, go. Just - go. Get to a boat going across the Growling Seas. They can take you to Eternia - and from there, finding Eternos is easy. Show the insignia I gave you to any soldier, border guard, or official you can find, and demand to be taken to King Randor and Queen Marlena! Use my name! Tell them the sorceress sent you!"
Scorpia looked at him, aghast. He couldn't mean - ?!
"What are you doing?"
She hissed as the Bulwark and Lonnie stood there, not bothering to pretend they weren't eavesdropping. "I need your help! Adora needs you!"
She couldn't do this alone! She couldn't get Adora out on her own!
Duncan nodded, his gray eyes flickering with hints of that distant power; echoes of thunder pealed just beyond her hearing, and the smell of ozone drifted around them. It vibrated through her, the depth and impact of that far away magic rolling through the air around them.
"She does! My Princess needs us to get her
out of here.
Scorpia - my friend! - you and Adora are
more important than I am,
in ways you don't know or understand yet!" His grip on her arm never faltered. "I am the Man At Arms - the armsmaster - for the Kingdom of Eternos, and it is my sworn duty to make sure we get her out of here.
You
can do that if I can't! You are the
only
person I can trust to take care of her like I would. You are the
only
person who can help her find her hope again. You are the
only other one
she will trust. Please!"
"Duncan…" Everything Scorpia could have said vanished. Every argument she had evaporated. She didn't understand why he thought
she
was the one who could get Adora out. He could, too! What was he
thinking
?
"I don't plan to be separated from you - or her! But if we
are
separated, I
will
meet you back in Eternos, and if I don't, I will come back here with an
army
at my back to find you both!"
Scorpia swallowed hard. "What if we're separated and you get to her before I do? What then?"
He wasn't saying he was
going
to leave her, but he wasn't hiding from the possibility they might get separated. He was preparing her for it. Making sure she was willing to get Adora instead of going back for him?
Duncan grinned. "I have faith in you, Princess Scorpia of the Empire of the Nest. I always have and I always will. You will catch up to us. If you don't, we'll come back for you. But I know you will make it out, one way or another."
Scorpia bowed - the way he had taught them. "I will keep your secret as long as I can, Duncan, but - is she really…?"
Duncan nodded slowly. "I believe she is, yes. I can't tell you more - I am still bound by oaths to my sorceress and to my King and Queen, but she is. I have no way to prove anything to you - or her. But I know I am right."
"I…I don't like keeping a secret from her, Duncan. I really don't."
He looked down. "I know. I hate asking it of you. So - we'll do it this way. Trust yourself to know when to tell her. It's a big revelation. It doesn't answer questions - it creates more questions you can't answer. Trust yourself. You'll know when to reveal it. When she can hear it without it hurting her."
Scorpia's whole body slumped. "I hate this. I don't have time to argue. But I hate this plan. I really, really hate this plan."
"So do I." He let go of her arm and turned to face Lonnie. "You don't have to do this."
Lonnie stared hard at him. "Did you misunderstand me in the barracks? They tried to kill my boyfriend. They hurt my Captain. They tried to kidnap me. I'm done. My people aren't safe here, so I'm getting them out.
I take care of my own.
I might never do another damn thing right, but I will do
that."
She glanced at Scorpia. "I heard that whole heartwarming bullshit. Scorpia, go get Adora. If you get separated, we'll take whoever gets left with us on the way to take over the Crimson Waste."
Lonnie pulled on her helmet. "Scorpia, you lead the way through the doors. You might want some of these." She draped a bandoleer of explosives around Scorpia's shoulders. "They'll make an impression and help you clear a path."
She paused. Sighed. "Save her. Like I should have. Please."
"And to cover your rear." Kyle handed Duncan a cylinder with a flashing red light. "Electromagnetic pulse fragmentation grenade made with shards of fuel crystal, incendiary microbots, and some other stuff. It's a prototype. Just twist the top. Uh…throw it pretty far, okay? Big blast radius. Real big."
"Sounds like something I would make!" Duncan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "You and I are going to get along, Kyle. I can already tell."
Kyle staggered, but grinned back.
Lonnie turned. She raised her baton, and one of her people put a shield over her other arm. She looked every inch the immortal soldier the Horde thought she was. She slammed her baton against the shield.
"Bulwark! Bleed 'em. Break 'em. Make 'em cry."
"Hoo-ah!"
Every member of the squad slammed their fists into their chests or shields. Weapons powered up. Grenades were readied. Scorpia couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the kind of precision and unity in a squad in the Horde
close
to this.
She watched as they broke into groups, dropping into combat formations as if it were as natural as breathing. The Bulwark was about to break out of the very place they had been created to defend.
"They will be waiting for us." Duncan stared at the doors.
"No." Lonnie walked up on the other side of Scorpia. "They are waiting for the two of you. They aren't ready for us. No matter how many there are, they aren't ready for what we're about to do to them."
Lonnie's voice, distorted by her helmet, was grim and hard. "I tried to play along, you know? Be a part of the Horde. I just don't care about the war. So I built the Bulwark the way Adora tried to build our old squad. Discipline. Intense training. Loyalty. Thinking outside the tactics and strategies they gave us. The Horde betrayed Adora, but I'm not going to. I'm going to make them choke on what we built for them."
"Princess," Duncan grinned at Scorpia. "Mind getting the door?"
Scorpia strode forward, reached out and gripped the door with her pincers; red-pink light flowed up over her carapace and her armor like a clinging mist of luminous blood, but Scorpia refused to be swayed by fear - or fear of Shadow Weaver's foul magic.
She set herself. Her muscles tense. She pulled - and ripped the door from its hinges. Sizzling sparks and the wails of disrupted magic filled the air as the runes flared brighter, the wards broken by Scorpia's sheer physical strength.
She stared into the pitch black hall - and decided she'd had enough of Shadow Weaver's dark places. Scorpia ran through the darkness, pincers leading the way. She slammed into the front doors of the Dark Temple hard enough they flew outward, crashing into waiting bots.
There was line upon line of them, waiting. Balls on four legs, blasters out and ready to shoot them down as they left. Soldiers were interspersed with the bots, in full armor, carrying heavy weapons and shields.
Over a dozen squads with bots and artillery. Tanks were rumbling near the back of the formation. There were still troops joining the formation.
It would not be enough.
Pale, weak daylight filtered into the tunnel and Duncan walked up behind her, mace in hand.
Scorpia drew her mace.
For a long moment, there was a silent, frozen tableau where anything could happen.
Grizzlor stood atop a tank, laughing as his beastmen raced up from behind him. "Thought ye'd get away from me, did you? I'm going to gnaw on your bones tonight! You'll pay fer my hurt, you'll pay fer Tavia's eye, and you'll regret defying the Horde!"
Blaster fire began raining down on them, but only few bolts flew down the hallway. Grizzlor had set up a great formation to intercept runners, but a bad formation to pin them down. And most of them had execrable aim. If Scorpia were staying with the Horde, it would have really bothered her!
"Come on out and play! I can't kill you if you hide!"
Rockets and grenades flew out from the center of the tunnel ass the Bulwark returned fire; explosions rippled across the battlefield with a roar of thunder and the hammering impacts against the air.
"You'll beg me 'afore this is over! Just like Adora will beg Shadow Weaver!"
Duncan narrowed his eyes. "I am going to go right through the beastman and leave his corpse behind me."
"Nope." Lonnie's cold voice echoed behind them. "Nope, sorry, old man. Grizzlor's
mine
."
Duncan grinned. "Fair enough."
She stepped out into the center of the tunnel, her shield deflecting a few liquid green blasts that made it down the narrow space. Lonnie gestured almost negligently, and the Bulwark poured through and out of the tunnel.
Soldiers with tall, heavy shields led the way, blaster fire from the massed troops hitting those shields with muffled rings, almost like bass chimes. And right after came the staccato of heavy weapons fire from the Bulwark.
Unlike the volume of fire from Grizzlor's troops, the Bulwark chose their targets and rarely missed.
Rockets fired from the Bulwark's rear as the next set of rocket gunners stepped up behind the shield troopers - who were rolling grenades along the ground in front of them, keeping Grizzlor's troops from safely closing in.
Explosions rippled through the battlefield and the flares of green fire blazed in Scorpia's peripheral vision.
The Bulwark's skirmisher squads broke to the sides, forcing Grizzlor's flanks to engage with them. They led the way with explosives and followed it up with precision fire.
Lonnie stood in the center of the doorway, Kyle right behind her - he had a pistol in one hand and a tablet in the other, and Lonnie was calmly and methodically assembling a rifle of some sort.
The roar of battle covered the sound of the approaching tanks - the Bulwark was over two hundred troopers strong, and not all of them had gone into the Dark Temple with Lonnie.
Lonnie hefted her completed rifle right as the lights of the Fright Zone went down. Sensor arrays and the blinking lights along the comm towers went dark. The sound of the gates' massive locks disengaging wasn't audible over the battle.
It didn't hardly matter, because the Bulwark's tanks blew the gates down with a cannonade from their tanks - now approaching from Grizzlor's rear.
Lonnie looked over at Scorpia and Duncan. "Go! We have them pinned down. Get her out! My skiff is waiting, hidden outside the Temple's gates! No comm, like I said - but there's a switch that will signal when you're clear. My people have already cleared the way between here and the main complex, but it won't stay clear forever!"
Duncan ran out first, Kyle's grenade in one hand, his mace in the other.
"For the honor of Greyskull!"
Scorpia raced out after him. Explosions thundered around them; the metallic sizzle of blaster fire burned the air. It vibrated along her chitin; the shimmer of energy bolts and fire painted the world in a dusty haze even as the clank of bots and the grunts and cries of the wounded and dying roiled around her like static.
She knew where everyone and everything was; she was scorpioni. The vibrations of the world told her as much as her eyes and ears. She could see spectrums of light Etherians (and probably Eternians) couldn't.
They couldn't get the drop on her; and as long as she had Duncan's back, they couldn't get the drop on him, either.
Her boots hammered into the ground as she juked through bots and soldiers, on a dead run for the shattered gates. Duncan was mere steps in front of her.
Blaster bolts pinged off her armor as easily as they did his. Neither slowed until they had to, a cluster of bots and soldiers lining up in front of them - there was no going around.
The only way was through.
Scorpia did not slow. Duncan batted a blaster bolt aside with his mace and jumped, landing atop a bot. Several of them turned, trying to shoot him, resulting in a chaotic fratricide amidst the bots - and many of the survivors fell to Duncan's mace. He had power and precision, striking joints and optics, leaving bots unable to follow, turn and aim or pursue him.
And the blue-gray light filled his eyes and curled around him, like a morning mist over a pond. The mystic power of his oaths - the magic of the place called Greyskull.
Scorpia struck at full speed. For the first time
ever
, she didn't hold back. She didn't try to control her strength.
Scorpia turned and threw her shoulder into the first soldier. The beastman's armor crumpled on impact; he was thrown backwards into a bot hard enough to knock them both sprawling.
Using the same momentum, she stepped into a strike with her mace, crushing the side of a bot and sending it flying into several others. Her backswing hammered down on another from above, its legs splaying out as it was caught between her mace and the ground. The top of its dome was completely caved in.
She stabbed another with her pincer and threw it into one of the beastmen.
She strode through the crown of bots and soldiers - each swing of her mace, each blow from her arm knocked down one or more enemies that were between her and her friend.
Soldiers backed away from her, trying to contain her with a rush of bots, but Scorpia was armored by the best her people could create and was in no mood to be stopped by metal and blaster fire.
She waded in, mace hammering side to side. She kicked, elbowed and drove her pincers through metal, leaving a trail of broken bots behind and around her.
The ground trembled beneath her and she jumped away, rolling back to her feet, once again next to Duncan.
And in front of two massive lizardmen champions. She knew one of them; Krox was a lizardman Shadow Weaver's magic had changed. He had long, massive jaws with enormous, overlapping teeth, each of them a sharp, jagged point. His skin was gray-green, bumpy and thick enough to be armor. Powerfully muscled, he could easily break stone or dent metal with a punch, and reputedly relished squeezing his opponents to death with his arms - each ending in a three fingered claw. His eyes darted about as he stood, hissing a crackling snarl at them.
Beside him was Bardan; the lizardman gunner was skilled with the three-section staff he carried on his back but was even better with the heavy energy pistols at his hips. A veteran loner of the Crimson Waste, he had joined the Horde for the challenge and the promise of violence.
And beneath them, Scorpia felt something moving towards them. She looked at Duncan and pointed at where they were coming from.
"Snakeman. Some of them can burrow. How in the fuck did Hordak get so many of them?! They're from Eternia, for stars' sake!" Duncan moved slowly towards the wall, eyeing both Krox and Bardan.
"I have no idea." Scorpia sounded distracted as she felt out where the snakeman was trying to go. "But they're irritating me."
"They're good at that." Duncan growled. "Go! I can take these two and guard your back! I'll meet up with Lonnie's crew and get myself back to Eternos."
"I - what? No! We can take them and go together!"
Bardan was staring at Duncan, hands poised over his pistols, a snarl on his red-scaled face. Krox growled and hissed, standing between them and the wall, while Bardan kept them from moving towards the gates.
"Go, please! Get her out! I can cover your escape! They're here to stop us from getting to her - don't let them!" Duncan locked eyes with Bardan. "Isn't that right?"
The champion laughed. "Smart, for a dead man. Shadow Weaver made a lot of promises if we bring you in. Or your body. She was non-specific as to which."
What are they waiting for? Why Aren't they attacking? Right. Never mind.
She almost sighed. It was the Horde.
Everything
was either a trap or a test.
As the snakeman rose up from the ground right behind her, Scorpia spun, her mace coming up to catch him under the jaw as he rose from the dirt. His head snapped back and his hood splayed.
Dazed from the blow, he couldn't react when Scorpia wrapped a pincer around his arm and yanked him the rest of the way from the ground. Unlike the other snakemen she'd faced, he had no legs - his body was a long, sinuous snake, the dense, heavy muscles tensing and fighting against her as she pulled.
She was more than strong enough to pull him from his tunnel, but saw no reason to waste her time with it. She slammed him face first into the ground with as much power and leverage as she could muster.
Behind her, she felt Duncan fighting, his efforts split between Krox and Bardan, but it seemed neither could get the upper hand against him. He was forcing them back away from Scorpia, towards the battle between Grizzlor's forces and the Bulwark.
"Go!" He bellowed. "Go! I have them! Just - go! Please!"
Scorpia almost turned back. Almost went for Krox as she felt him moving into her reach, but Duncan was right. The longer they gave Shadow Weaver with Adora, the worse things got.
With an inarticulate cry of rage and grief she was about to turn for the wall when she heard it - a tank closing in on them.
She clipped her mace to her belt. She didn't need it for a tank. It lowered its massive gun to lock onto her.
Scorpia dashed forward.
The blast from the gun scorched the air over her back, the reverberation of the beam echoing as she drove her pincers into the armor. Her muscles tensed as she lifted it up and flung it aside into a group of advancing bots - and another tank.
The explosion washed warm air and shrapnel over her and across the battlefield. But the path was clear as more bots and soldiers rushed to pin her down.
"Go! Get her out!"
Duncan's voice carried over the din of battle, and Scorpia turned for the gates at a run.
They were blocked, choked by troops and bots and tanks. The blockade wouldn't last long. Lonnie's troops, moving in disciplined formations, were marching forward and the bots were being pushed back and destroyed at a very respectable rate.
They would be out of her way, but not soon enough. She would have to go over the wall.
Scorpia jumped, crashing down on a bot, driving it to the ground through sheer impact. She wrenched off two legs and took a running leap at the wall. She used every bit of strength to carry her as high as she could go.
Blaster bolts hit her armor and carapace, but they didn't so much as change her direction.
The wall grew in her eyes as she arced through the air; the black stone growing larger in her vision. She had her bot legs raised over her head - they jammed into the stone with a metallic
crunch.
She used them as pitons to scale the wall. The bot legs weren't made for what she used them for; as she drew them out and hammered them back in, they twisted and warped, starting to break apart in her pincers as she climbed.
They held together
just
long enough for her to crest the top of the wall.
There were three bots waiting. Scorpia kicked one off the wall and used her mace to send the other two after it. They tumbled down into more bots waiting below, but Scorpia didn't stop to watch the carnage.
A glint of silver caught her eyes as Duncan hurled the grenade Kyle had given him through the air into the massed troops trying to come in through the gates to pin down the Bulwark.
She heard it clink against something metal. Again. And again.
A concussive wave tore out into the wall Scorpia stood on; the world hummed and shook, warping her perceptions. Scorpia dropped to her knee atop the wall, digging her pincers into the stone to avoid being blown off.
Kyle was right about the blast radius.
Liquid green fire rippled and ripped into the air, hot and acid, stinking of fuel and scalded metal. Shrapnel and metal debris rained back down as the roar faded. The green fire washed over her, but her armor, her carapace, and the gifts she had been born with protected her.
She was royal-caste; born as a warrior. Had her sisters lived to rule, she would have been the Imperial Marshall or a champion of the Empire - protecting her siblings who ruled. This is what she had been born to do.
To fight in the fires and dust and blood of war - and she was going to save the only sister she had left.
Scorpia stood and jumped off the other side of the wall.
She plummeted, aiming to land on two of the soldiers who had dove for cover from the explosion. Her boots crashed down on their shoulders, driving them to the ground with enough force they collapsed under her.
The other two with them both got slapped in the face by the bot legs and thrown against the wall. The bots in front of her were even less trouble. Her mace and her pincers took care of them, leaving a smoking pile of twisted, crumped metal behind her.
She turned to make sure no one was following her and peered through a new, massive hole in the wall. The edges were still red hot and smoke rose from the twisted pile of metal in a crater less than a hundred yards from her.
She saw the Bulwark, holding in a line - and she saw Kyle next to Lonnie. She was perched atop a tank that was up on its side, her long rifle in her hands. Each time she fired, whatever she aimed at died.
Kyle tapped a button on his tablet.
And under Grizzlor's forces, the ground erupted in a series of explosions as shallowly buried shrapnel mines detonated, leaving carnage and ruin in the middle of the beastman's formation. Scorpia turned away, searching for the skiff as she heard another set of mines explode.
Of course
the Bulwark had found a way to mine the area before the fight. Somehow. Either Lonnie had been preparing to leave the Horde for a while, or her unit was far, far more efficient and dangerous than anyone expected.
Both.
Scorpia turned towards where she
thought
the skiff would be hidden.
Both is possible.
Lonnie's skiff was waiting where she said it would be, under electronic camouflage netting - but Scorpia felt the weight of metal against the ground. She stripped off the netting, the shimmer and flicker of light as the holographic camouflage was broken barely visible through the dust in the air.
The skiff was a true command model, with variable thruster unit, better speed and maneuverability. She could tell from the controls there were significant modifications built in - and nonstandard weapons. The key worked; the skiff hummed to life, the engine growling with a basso rumble.
She smiled when she saw the 'broken radio' was a hole in the controls where the radio used to be. Someone had carefully removed it - and the tracking transponder - out.
I guess Kyle really was taking it in to the shop.
The flight across the Fright Zone took only minutes in the skiff. She didn't redline the engines, but she flew recklessly fast, hoping to outpace any pursuit and make it harder for anyone between the Dark Temple and the main compound to catch her.
The acceleration and top speed alone told her whatever Kyle had done to it was very impressive.
There was almost no one between the Dark Temple and the main complex - likely because they were all concentrating on trying to pin down the Bulwark. And because the Bulwark had left devastation in their wake.
Lonnie's squad had apparently decimated every bot, security station, and depot between the Temple and the main complex on their way to her. In some cases, all that was left were craters.
The wreckage was impressive - there were small fires burning all around her as she flew across the Fright Zone, towards the main compound. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air, even through the never-ending smog.
The compound was dark. The power outage hadn't been dealt with yet; there were no security cameras to avoid, and the unlocked gates fell to the skiffs forward cannons. So did the few bots still patrolling the perimeter.
She saw at least one soldier look down as she blasted a pair of bots in front of her, shake their head, turn around and walk the other direction.
One less person she had to fight. Good.
Scorpia parked the skiff behind the building housing the Black Garnet, in the shadows of an alley between buildings where it hopefully wouldn't be noticed. She didn't have time to put the netting back up.
She hadn't encountered anyone yet, but she figured between the battle, the Bulwark, the power outage, and whatever Shadow Weaver was doing, most of the normal security forces were otherwise occupied. She hoped most of them were like the sentry who had walked away.
She didn't want to hurt anyone she didn't have to.
She secured their gear and climbed out, approaching the back wall of the building. She traced her pincers along it until she found the seam between the riveted metal plates.
Scorpia jammed her pincer into it until it peeled up, just a little. Just enough. Her pincer gripped the raised edge and Scorpia wrenched the wall open, bending the dense armor like it was thin sheet metal.
She ripped out the pipes and wires, supports, and insulation and tore through the inner wall. The base was dark, lit by the flickering glow of emergency lights. Not even the ever present hum of the HVAC filled the air.
But she heard the footsteps of soldiers coming from either side of her. At least a squad from each direction.
She didn't have time for a prolonged fight.
She walked into the hallway and threw grenades to either side of her, pausing to let the explosions die down. The explosions had collapsed the walls and doors, blocking access to her escape route - and kept the soldiers from closing with her. She had probably killed or injured some of them, but she couldn't avoid it.
She wished she could have.
She tore down the wall in front of her. Then the next, and the next. Finally, she walked into the central dispatch center for Horde troops deployed in the Fright Zone. She was closer to the Black Garnet chamber than she'd thought. Just through this room and another hallway!
The computers were down, but many of them were talking into handheld comms. A few had tablets or paper maps spread out on a table in the middle.
Dispatchers and soldiers and bots all turned to face her as the ripped through the wall and stepped into the room.
Scorpia smiled and held up a third grenade. She did her best to sound calm and friendly. No need to be menacing if she didn't have to be! "I'm in a hurry, so I'd appreciate it if everyone left now. I'm gonna throw this in either way! Your choice!"
For a heartbeat, everything was unnaturally still. Then someone screamed in shock and fear and dove for the door, frantically working the manual release. Scorpia let them.
Most of the dispatch officers broke and ran. A couple tried to fight her and one tried to radio for help.
Scorpia did what she said she was going to do. She wished she didn't have to - they were only doing their jobs, but they also had a choice. The explosion rolled through the room, but Scorpia - aside from dust and debris - was unharmed. Her carapace and armor had protected her.
Morally, it was difficult. Was her one friend worth the lives of so many? But what was she supposed to do? Leave Adora to die? Let the Horde - Shadow Weaver! - get away with whatever they were going to do to Adora?
Leave Adora's magic in the hands of Shadow Weaver? What would Adora's power under Shadow Weaver's control be capable of?
What the Horde was doing to the world the wrong. They weren't fighting for a greater peace, but for a more terrible conquest. Few of those Scorpia fought today knew the truth, but she
did.
Their lives were being traded because of Hordak and Shadow Weaver - and because Scorpia wouldn't let Shadow Weaver have Adora. She had no idea what Shadow Weaver wanted with her, but keeping Shadow Weaver from having Adora was necessary.
This was a war and she had just changed sides.
Grizzlor's units were beastmen from the Crimson Waste - chased out of their territory by forces there who were tired of being preyed on and raided by his roving bands of marauders. They were bloodthirsty and reveled in fear and savagery. The dispatchers were not rank-and-file soldiers; they were all from military intelligence, and they were not just aware of what the Horde was doing, they were actively helping the Horde do it. They chose targets. They decided who lived and who died.
Past the dispatch center Scorpia would have to be more careful not to kill someone who didn't deserve it - though they might not give her a choice.
She was also fighting for her people. This was her first true act as her people's princess. Her first act towards freeing them from the Horde that had taken over their land, their kingdom, overrun their Nests and their ancestral holy places. The Horde wasn't what she thought it was -
And many of them had been recruited from the dregs of Etheria; like Grizzlor and his band of marauders, they were criminals and killers. She had learned that much during her studies in the months since Hordak's meeting with her.
The far wall of the dispatch center was peeled away as easily as the others. As she tore it down, the entire base was suddenly awash in a bright flare of magic; a pulsing wall of white and gold and rainbow light flowing out from the Black Garnet chamber.
The entire base shook. Lights fell and emergency power flickered. Then died. Sparks filled the air and walls twisted and ruptured as power lines shorted out and pipes blew. Metal warped and twisted as the halls and walls and ceiling were assaulted by the wave of magical energy rampaging through the base.
It washed over her - it didn't hurt her at all, as if living things were somehow safe from it, but the wreckage it left in its wake was terrible. The echoes of people screaming in panic or bellowing orders rang down the ruined halls.
If the main compound hadn't been on emergency power, the magic might have caused far more damage than it did.
She heard emergency alarms blare as battery backup power started to come back online. She heard footsteps as people ran out to see what was happening. Most ignored her. She was in Horde gear and was a known Force Captain. News of her rebellion hadn't reached
everyone
yet.
Good. She didn't want to be too violent with people who weren't trying to hurt her. Shadow Weaver. Octavia. And Grizzlor. They deserved her attention and her violence.
Well. Not Grizzlor. He was probably already dead. Between Lonnie and Duncan, she didn't give him much of a chance.
She let herself fall into the flow of people racing through the corridors. Everyone with any sense avoided the hall Scorpia turned down; the short hallway to the corridor where the Black Garnet chamber was.
That hallway was completely empty and silent.
But the Black Garnet's corridor was heavily populated with elite guards and bots. They stood in front of the doors to the Black Garnet chamber. Magic rumbled behind those reinforced doors, flares of magic escaping the door, spilling into the hallway.
The guards were clustered together in groups, in neat, steady formations.
At least Scorpia had found where the competent troops had gone.
And behind them all was a sorcerer - one of Shadow Weaver's students, probably. An advanced one, from the fancy robes he had on. Shadow Weaver
had
figured on them coming for Adora.
Scorpia could hear screaming through the doors. She could hear the howl of magic.
Scorpia raised her mace. "Fight or run? I don't
want
to hurt you, but if you fight, you're endorsing torture and worse. Choose carefully. I'm running out of time."
The guards were silent. The sorcerer spoke, spreading his hands wide.
"Really, Force Captain? You would betray the Horde, betray your people, betray Lord Hordak? For what? One failed cadet facing her overdue punishment?" The sorcerer smiled coldly. "Don't make
us
fight you. Please. Surrender."
Scorpia stared right into his eyes. "Yes, I'm doing this for her. She never asked for any of this. For my people, enslaved and trapped by Hordak and the Horde. For all the people the Horde wants to kill and destroy for no other reason than they are there. Because everyone should have a choice. Because everyone should get to seek joy. Last chance, sorcerer."
The first guard to attack her screamed out:
"For the Horde!"
Then jumped at her. He was a large man, in heavy armor. He grabbed her around the neck and drove his helmet forward into her forehead with all the force he could muster.
Scorpia let him stagger back, dazed. She shook her head, grabbed him by the throat with her pincers, and slammed her forehead into his. His helmet dented. She tossed him aside.
A couple of the guards took shots at her, but she raised her arm, taking them on her carapace. Thus far, Horde blasters hadn't done much more than feel warm - and these were no different.
She raised her mace.
The fight was over in less than a minute. They tried to swarm her, but Scorpia was a scorpioni; they were masters of close quarters combat. Between her carapace, her armor, her mace, her pincers, and her tail, she left only one person left standing.
The soldiers were more than competent, but it took more than competence to take her down. Their weapons and equipment were not designed to fight someone like her. Even most champions didn't have her level of strength or endurance.
Shadow Weaver had miscalculated.
She almost laughed. She'd always been a princess, hadn't she? Her strength and durability were her magic.
The sorcerer stood in front of the doors, orange-red light crackling around his hands. She regarded him coolly.
"If you run, I'll tell her I threw you down the hall and tried to kill you. If you try to stop me from going in there, I may have to actually hurt you. My friend is in there, being hurt. Maybe killed. Decide fast."
The sorcerer raised his shaking hands. "I will be rewarded for your death, traitor."
Scorpia's tail was faster than his spellcasting. And she was stronger than the door Shadow Weaver had on the Black Garnet chamber.
She reached down and pried the doors apart through sheer strength, then tore them from their housing for good measure. She dropped them next to the sorcerer and strode in.
The Black Garnet Chamber
The Main Horde Compound
The Fright Zone
Etheria
Three and a half Years After Catra's abduction
Adora's eyes opened to the sound of tearing metal.
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Her head was ringing. She
hurt
-
Dust filled the air, and there was debris
everywhere.
The wall and ceilings were scorched and melted. Steam from broken pipes hissed into the room.
"Adora?" Scorpia's voice cut through the haze. "Adora! Oh no...what…wha - what did she do? No, no, no!"
Adora could barely see the outline of her Force Captain making her way through the wreckage of the Black Garnet chamber. The lights were all blown out.
The only light was the Black Garnet itself, which still pulsed like a racing heart, dimming and slowing with each beat. The light strobed, turning the chamber into a nightmarish hellscape of twisted metal and jagged debris.
The air was thick, both the sticky humidity of the Black Garnet's magic and the acrid stench of smoldering metal and plastic; the warmth added to by fires smoldering, embers of molten slag and sizzling detritus making her eyes burn and water.
Other, more terrible magics were bleeding from the air, fading away as she came back to herself. She shook her head, groaning low. Everything hurt; her skin was raw and her back was searing, blinding pain. Her legs throbbed and her head felt like it had spikes going through it. Her mouth tasted like metal and blood and ash.
Adora struggled to her feet, gasping, shaking as the pain gradually subsided to manageable levels. She was incredibly off balance; she almost couldn't stand straight; her back was agony and was something tugging her backwards? Her throat was raw and her neck burned where the collar pressed into her skin. Had she been screaming? All she could remember was the ripping, tearing pain in her back; the searing lightning of the Black Garnet's magic twisting through her.
She felt
different
, but she couldn't
think
- couldn't tell what was different. Her back, aching, was heavier? She was unbalanced, like she couldn't stand right? Her muscles were weak, wavering, barely holding her up. She trembled, sweat pouring down her, rivulets cutting through the grime caked on her.
Scorpia caught her arm and helped her stand, as she had so many times before.
Adora's voice was hoarse. Raspy. "Wha - what happened? Did it work?" The collar pushed at her throat, constricting her neck, the magic pressing on her vocal chords - but she could still force some words out.
"Did what work, Adora? Adora!" Scorpia caught her as she almost fell again.
Adora shook her head. "Shadow. Weaver. Where's? Shadow. Weaver?" Her voice sounded strange. Distant. Like hearing herself through water. The dark magic around her neck tightened again, and she wanted to scream, but forced herself to breathe.
"Over there. Unconscious, I think. She's still breathing?"
"Help me, please." Adora gasped, forcing herself to hobble, peering into the corner where Shadow Weaver was collapsed in a puddle of red robes and what might have been blood. Adora watched her shoulders rise and fall with slow breaths.
She gathered herself. She still had to -
Shadow Weaver moaned, rolling over with a gasp of pain, her hand reaching into the air. She snarled out harsh words, the arcane language carving into reality as a shield of red lightning wrapped around her.
Flickers of red light traced along her as she fell back against the wall, laughing softly. Her mask was cracked, but still in place. The shard of the Black Garnet normally in it was shattered. She stared up at Adora, her eyes blazing with inner red fire.
"You can't kill me, girl. Not fast enough to escape. You're not strong enough right now. I may not have enough magic left to stop you from leaving, but I can keep you from killing me." She laughed again. "Do you want to see? Do you want to know what I did to you? You had more in you than I expected. You struck back."
Adora sucked in air. "I defied you!"
She choked a bit as the collar stabbed lines of painful magic into her throat, trying to re-establish control. Her magic surged up against it, but was weak - the collar had some hold on her, but not all the way.
"Your words are back, I see. Defiance is petty, girl. This was just a temper tantrum and another failure! I live, the Black Garnet remains unbroken. But forever will you have trouble speaking. That collar will never leave your throat - not even your pet scorpioni can break it! It will force you to fight to speak. I may not have silenced your defiant tongue, but I can make every word cost you!"
Adora glared and mustered her remaining strength. "What. Did you. Do to me?" Her throat ached from saying that much. Forcing that many words out. It got harder with each sentence, as if the magic were getting stronger again.
Shadow Weaver waved a hand, and the air next to her shimmered, a silver oval coalescing; a mirror, showing Adora
exactly
was different. Her face was pale and clammy. Her eyes were wide and her pupils blown. The black metal collar was tight around her neck, the shard of the Black Garnet cracked, but unbroken. Her long blonde hair fell over her chest, down past her waist, longer than ever, but it seemed - brighter? Almost as if there were a metallic sheen to it.
But stupidly long hair wasn't what caused Adora to stare. Her first thought was:
I failed again.
The second thought was less coherent. More emotion than thought or understanding. More shock than comprehension.
Wings had grown on either side of her spine, just inside each shoulder blade, gleaming in the chamber's magenta gloom. They had ripped through the back of her shirt, which now clung to her by the high, tight collar alone.
Instinctively, she painfully
flexed
muscles that hadn't been there before and
felt
her wings spread wide, wider than she was tall.
Elegant and sleek, Adora couldn't help but think her wings were
beautiful.
Gold primary feathers blended into copper secondaries, lightening to gold flecked with silver as they connected to her back.
Shadow Weaver rasped a laugh. "I have made you a monster after all, girl. Any who see you will know - you are a flawed, desperate, broken creature."
Adora flinched, turning her face from her former guardian as if struck.
"She's nothing of the sort, witch." Scorpia held her mace up. She glared at Shadow Weaver. "Want me to break the Garnet for you, then? I've got time for a good swing or two."
Shadow Weaver gasped out more laughter. "It is far more protected than I am, you stupid bug. Even now, it feeds me power - slower, without a part of it, but I still
own it. I
command a RuneStone. Run, now, while you still can, or I will rip her mind away and replace it with one of my own creation. And I will make you watch before I have her kill you."
Scorpia grabbed Adora, who shook her head. "I…am…not…like…you. Never…will be…Despara. I am.
Adora.
Cannot remake me. Will defy you again. And again. And again."
Every word seemed to rip her throat apart; she tasted blood, but she wouldn't, couldn't let Shadow Weaver have the last word. Not this time.
Gold light shimmered under Adora's skin and her eyes flashed blue. "You…just…delayed…inevitable."
She reached over and pulled her
kiari
from Scorpia's belt; wings or no wings, she was still a warrior and she wanted -
needed
- the weapon she had crafted herself. "Time. To. Leave."
Scorpia practically picked up Adora as they walked out the doors. Adora stared ahead at the path Scorpia had literally torn through the building. She looked up at her Force Captain, and mouthed:
"For me?"
"Who else? Now come on. We have to find out how to get to Eternos. Duncan's going to be waiting. He and Lonnie bought me time to get you, but Lonnie promised she'd get him out. And then go take over the Crimson Waste. I think. She was pretty upset about the whole kidnapping Kyle thing. I
really
don't think Grizzlor's getting out of today alive, to be honest."
Adora sagged in relief - Duncan would be okay! He would get out with Lonnie and find his way home. And Lonnie! Lonnie had
helped
after all. Then again, it wasn't about her. It was about Kyle, but Grizzlor should have known that. Asked around before kidnapping someone.
She should feel bad - at least guilty - about Grizzlor likely being killed, but she couldn't muster the emotion. Duncan was okay. Kyle was okay. Lonnie was okay. All of her people would be safe from the Horde - at least, those she had left. Whatever else happened, her people had gotten out.
Adora sucked in air again, forcing the words past the magic constricting her throat. "Whispering. Woods. First. Something…there…I…need…"
Scorpia frowned at her. "Are you okay? What are you talking about? Never mind! Never mind! You can't tell me and I bet it's something magic related. I have
got
to learn more about magic! Sheesh!"
Adora nodded, giving Scorpia a thumbs up.
Scorpia paused about halfway into the empty, blown out halls. She sighed. She looked down at Adora.
"For good measure." She grabbed one of her last grenades, turned, and rolled it along the ground into the Black Garnet chamber. "After all, it's only polite to say goodbye."
The explosion shook the base behind them as Scorpia practically drug her to the skiff.
Scorpia helped her get settled as best she could with the new wings and guided the skiff away, pushing the thrusters as much as she dared.
She found the switch Lonnie had told her about and flipped it.
Behind them, explosions rippled through the Dark Temple and then the main complex. Flashes of orange and the flicker of fire lit their way as they left the Fright Zone behind.
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
Sour Beer (To Go), Part 1: Lounge Lizards
Gravity gave the team a speed advantage, but it wouldn't last. Their opponent was fast, and gaining. Shadow Boxer hit the brakes, the van lurching as Adamant and their kidnap victim tumbled in. The captive man screamed in pain. The Martian Marxist, form shifting to optimize for gymnastics, flipped down from above and helped them inside.
"Should we grab another ride, give you guys some breathing room?" Agent Silver asked, scanning the lot for something fast.
"Agreed. I'm with her," Lodestone yelled, already eyeing the nearest motorcycle. "Anything fast and pretty?"
"You heard the ladies," Shadow Boxer growled, zip-tying the producer's wrists. "Time to get this show
on the road
."
Chad Reliant moaned in protest. The Wreck was nearly upon them.
Twelve Hours Earlier
The secret lounge beneath the West Midtown club, Terminus West, was still warming up for the night—early, at least by the standards of the local criminal set. A show continued upstairs, though no one notable was performing, and the faint beat from the stage filtered down through the ceiling, mingling with the low-volume lounge music. The soft noise served its purpose well, creating a layer of privacy for those conducting hushed conversations in the speakeasy below.
The room was dressed in a classic style. Red brick walls and newly-polished hardwood floors gave it a rich, underground warmth, though the seven-foot ceiling made things a bit cramped for taller rogues. The load-bearing I-beams were left bare—any attempt to decorate them had been thwarted by too many bar fights over the years.
Floor lamps in an art deco style provided sparse, moody lighting, creating pools of dim illumination broken by long shadows. An ornate oak bar hugged the far wall, manned by a bartender in his early thirties—clearly chosen for his unflappable demeanor. Next to the bar, a chalkboard listed the night's "specials," each one a euphemism for a job someone needed done.
The city's one real "supervillain team" (if a crew of mid-powered freelancers who hadn't even come up with a group name could be thought of that way) had been laying low for the past few weeks. Their last few outings hadn't ended in disaster—but they hadn't gone smoothly either. They'd avoided jail, but just barely.
Trailblazer, a massive brick of a rogue who was outside of the crew and more inclined to petty vandalism of obstructions to his long afternoon walks than actual crime, loomed over a pitcher of beer, his vast bulk and flowing mustache exaggerated by the dim lighting. He finished a story with a grin. "...and that's how I found out what the Maserati logo looks like. Thought it was just an Audi or something. Those things are
expensive
." He leaned back into his custom-built high-density chair and gave the group a curious look. "So what had
y'all
laying low?"
The team's magnetism-manipulator, a slight twenty-something woman who went by Lodestone, sipped from an absurdly-expensive bottle of seltzer water and offered a small smile. "What else? A spate of bad luck." She never seemed to mind the strangeness that was attracted as a side effect of her powers, possibly because her current "life of crime" was a bit of tourism from her trust fund upbringing.
In contrast to the small woman in size (if not in means) was the man next to her, who was only slightly smaller than Trailblazer and wearing a bespoke suit (though no shoes). Where Lodestone was living off her locally-inherited wealth, the man called Adamant was rumored to be an expat from Eastern European nobility. He sat in a high-backed leather chair, sipping from a glass of Becherovka—the strong Czech liqueur he'd once gifted to the bar in bulk, with the understanding that a bottle would always be behind the counter for his use. He sneered at the memory of what was supposed to have been a straightforward job. "Bad luck, indeed," he growled in an accent that could have been Markovian.
Walking back from ordering another beer from the bar and settling into his chair with an overly-affected slouch was an athletic Chinese-American man. The martial artist known as Shadow Boxer made an exaggerated, joking grimace, asking, "What are the odds the cops were staking out the building right next door to the one we were breaking into?"
"We swept the neighborhood. Twice," Adamant said, throwing back the rest of his drink with a sigh. "Due diligence only goes so far. You roll the dice, and the dice can still go against you."
"I'm not saying we were set up," Shadow Boxer said with a brief chuckle, "and those cops definitely weren't expecting us. I think one of them literally pissed himself."
The crew's shapeshifter (currently a deliberately-nondescript woman) who preferred to just be called J'Ayne rather than her appellation of The Martian Marxist, sat a little apart from the group, a vodka tonic in hand, silent and brooding about the failed mission, her gaze wandering to the chalkboard labeled
Tonight's Specials
.
Sour Beer (To Go)
Boozy Milkshake
Disco Toddy
Shaved Ice Sparkler
Irish Cement Mixer
Adamant followed her look at the board, more out of idle curiosity than genuine interest. The last entry screamed IRA.
Shaved Ice Sparkler
—what was that? Mr. Freeze in town? Captain Cold? "Justifiably so," he muttered, returning to his banter with Shadow Boxer. "If the job had been more worthwhile—or if we'd had fewer scruples—we might've killed him to preserve our timeline."
"If we had," the martial artist replied soberly, "we'd be laying low a lot longer than the past couple of weeks. Offing cops draws the wrong kind of heat. Glad-Hander got caught as it was."
"Pfah," the bigger man disagreed. "He got caught on purpose, I think. Trying to make new 'friends' of the prison populace."
"Yeah," Lodestone agreed. "Silver's cleaning the last of the evidence tonight. Glad-Hander will be out after his appeal in a few weeks. A couple months at most."
The door from one of the underground tunnels creaked open, and one of the city's C-listers, Ratwoman, slinked into the lounge. Her outfit—a tight leather number in muted grays and browns—might have played better if the real Catwoman hadn't set the bar so high. She was too skinny, all elbows and sharp lines, her chest cut distractingly low. A limp cascade of mousy brown hair escaped her cowl. She nodded to the group and slid onto a barstool near the specials board.
Shadow Boxer offered her a polite nod before turning back to the chalkboard. "Alright, gang. Blind choice time. Without any details—what's the best job on that list, and what's most likely to get us pinched?"
Adamant leaned back, his voice low and dry. "I find myself... motivated to seek recompense for the failed
Score
, Shadow. Let me know if any of those are worth our effort. Just... not the disco one. I can't imagine anything called that wouldn't be beneath us."
"Excellent taste, as always," Lodestone said with a smirk. "Although I believe we'd elevate any event we chose to attend."
J'Ayne finally spoke. "I like shaved ice. Especially lemon."
"My money's on
Boozy Milkshake
as the cushiest option," said Shadow Boxer. "
Shaved Ice Sparkler
, huh..."
"Why don't we ask about both," Lodestone suggested, "and decide from the particulars?"
Shadow Boxer nodded, standing and walking to the bar with the others grudgingly getting up and following after. The man behind the counter moved down toward them. He looked like a Jimmy. Maybe he was a Jimmy. "What can I get you folks tonight?" he asked, expression calm and unreadable.
"Hey there, Jimmy. Looking for something we can all enjoy as a round amongst friends," said Shadow Boxer, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture that he surely thought was clever—or at least subtle. It was hard to tell. "Can you tell us a bit about the
Boozy Milkshake
and the
Shaved Ice Sparkler?
Just can't decide between the two."
Jimmy lowered his voice out of habit, even though everyone present had already been vetted. "One's a line on a truckload of Big Rib patties for Big Belly Burger. Only shipment coming in this year. You could snag it and ransom it back, or sell it off for a tidy profit. Contact just wants a ten percent finder's fee. The other's a low-security LexCorp facility. Could have some nice tech inside. The contact only wants a specific device."
"Thanks, Jimmy. Give us a moment," Shadow Boxer said, turning back to the group.
Adamant scowled. "Rib patties? Surely he jests."
"You have no idea how serious people get about them," he replied. "I've seen near-riots when a location advertised them before their shipment even arrived."
J'Ayne, visibly more interested in the second job, spoke up. "I don't know what I would add to the beef job. I could get us into the tech facility."
"I do not wish to be known as a burger thief," the big Markovian said flatly. "That is not the reputation I'd prefer to hold."
The martial artist shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just saying, the payout is probably higher than you'd expect for something that low-risk. But yeah, I hear you. Not exactly the most prestigious of heists."
"The world should not encourage the meat industry," the politically-opinionated shapeshifter added with calm conviction. "It is too poor for the environment. Subsistence on plant material is much more sustainable and can be divided among the populace more equitably."
Lodestone smiled winningly, trying to head off her teammate's oncoming socialist rant. "It sounds like the tech option might be amenable to us all?"
"I've got no objections based on what we know," Shadow Boxer told her, but suddenly realized he'd set up an unexpected conflict between J'Ayne and their fifth teammate, even now doing a side-job to get their sixth out of jail. He awkwardly hedged, "I'll be honest, not having Silver here makes this LexCorp job harder to read. Like, would she go on one of her tears about liberating the machines? Or see the condition of handing over that one device as kidnapping?"
Adamant swirled his drink and took a sip. "Besides, if we ransom back the... meat... the citizens will surely pay the corporation more in the end. Not an ideal solution, I'm sure J'Ayne would agree."
"Big risk, big reward, going for the President's company, though, right?" Ratwoman interjected. Her big front teeth flashed in a grin that reminded everyone she might have fared better with a name infringing on Hermione Granger than a prominent Batman villain. She squeaked when she realized she'd spoken aloud, eyes wide.
Shadow Boxer hesitated, then said, "Well, we do it right, and no one knows it was us. Nothing to trace it back. But maybe we should see what else is on offer—something with more dignity than beef, but less heat than LexCorp?"
"What an excellent idea," Lodestone said, waving at the bartender.
Adamant leaned against the bar. "My distaste for the jumped-up nouveau riche notwithstanding, tweaking the politician's nose would carry risk. How about the Irish one? I do have a fond spot for revolutionaries, if it's what I think it is."
Jimmy shook his head. "Another fast food place. Different mission. That one's been up a while, boss cycles it in every so often. There's an O'Shaughnessy's in that strip mall south of the Pentacle. When they put it in, they found a statue in the basement and just left it there as decoration. Boss thinks it's one of the rogues that fought that mage guy a while back—petrified. If someone figures out how to fix her, she'd owe you."
"I mean, I'd love to help out Mr. West," Shadow Boxer said, referring to Jimmy's boss, who owned the club and the secret lounge, "but I haven't the slightest idea how to unpetrify someone."
Adamant waved a hand dismissively. "Spells can be undone. Find the original caster, or someone else who can reverse it. The real question is whether this rogue could actually pay us. If she had resources, they've likely dried up during her... indisposition."
"It's
interesting
," Lodestone murmured, "But maybe... Sour Beer and Disco Toddy?"
Jimmy explained, "First one's a film studio problem. One of their producers is interfering too much. They want him kidnapped for a few days so they can finish filming. Fee's already in escrow, plus whatever you can ransom from him. The other's a smuggling run—just delivering Fever to the Masq for tonight's rave."
At that moment, a tall, lanky figure passed under the lights near the stairs. The city's most violent rogue, a man who went by Shrouded Ibis, walked in wearing plain jeans and a dark sweatshirt, his hair cropped close to the dark skin of his head. He didn't quite need to duck to clear the ceiling, but did anyway. Behind him, the Russian-themed thief-for-hire, Red Cent, was talking rapidly, in his full crimson villain getup. Ibis didn't look thrilled about the conversation.
Shadow Boxer leaned toward Lodestone and muttered, "Well, that's an odd couple."
"My sympathies to Shrouded Ibis," Lodestone replied just as quietly. "Poor fellow."
Adamant acknowledged the Ibis with a nod, ever curious about the rogue's place in Terminus's villain hierarchy. The man would be quite the mercenary asset—if he could be bought.
Returning to the topic at hand, Lodestone gestured gracefully to Ratwoman. "Please, by all means, entertain yourself."
"I'll take the drug run, if you don't want it," the young villainess offered, perking up. When no one objected, she smiled, then called out, "Gimme a Disco Toddy, please, Jimmy!" After being handed the beverage, she read a note slid under the sparkly glass, finished the warm drink, and scurried out into the tunnels to do her crime.
Shadow Boxer shrugged. "My vote's for the Sour Beer. Always wanted to
get into the movie industry..."
He looked around, clearly waiting for someone to laugh. No one did.
"So," Adamant said, "kidnapping or sculpture theft. I vote sculpture. At least we won't have to feed it if we fail to reverse its condition. We either get an ally—or a statue."
"I think the ask for the sculpture is more animation than theft," Lodestone mused. "But in any case, I'm comfortable with either. J'Ayne?"
The maybe-Martian woman shrugged. "The statue seems like something we'd need to outsource. Kidnapping a person would be easy. The idea doesn't excite me, but I'm not opposed."
Adamant raised his glass to her. "Then the kidnapping carries the day."
"Well, Shadow Boxer," Lodestone said, "looks like you get your wish after all. Involved you shall be."
The martial artist gave a small, deflated shrug at the lack of appreciation for his cleverness, then turned to the bar. "Sounds like we'll have the Sour Beer, Jimmy."
The bartender nodded, produced a brown glass growler from beneath the bar, and slid an envelope behind its plastic-sleeved label before handing it over.
Shadow Boxer gestured toward one of the larger tables in the corner. "Shall we?" Lodestone, ever elegant, swanned over without a word, and the other two members of the crew trailed back to their new spot, nicely shadowed and away from the few other patrons, with just enough light from a nearby lamp to read by. Once the others had all settled, he pulled out the note, placing it where the rest could see it.
Lodestone went ahead and summarized the briefing, a hint of southern drawl slipping into her deliberate non-accent,. "It says that Chad Reliant," she gestured at an included photo showing a fake-tanned, salt-and-pepper-haired man with classic good looks, "is a studio executive. He's the liaison for Pax Entertainment's latest
Popular Action Drama
sequel. Says he's been making a ton of terrible notes on the post-production process. I guess the film team is hiring us, and they think that if he were out of the office for just a long weekend, they could turn out a great film. Doesn't say where he lives, only that he's somewhere on the north side and takes MARTHA into the office in Midtown every day, boarding the 9 AM train at the northernmost station." She found a number at the bottom, "Looks like there's an escrow code to an account that'll be activated once the film is complete."
Shadow Boxer, clearly trying to lay things out in his head, spoke, his own accent marking him as originally from Gotham City. "So, we need to figure out when and where we're nabbing him. How we're getting him to wherever we'll hold him. And where we're going to hold him. Ransom, obviously. But how much, to whom, and how can we communicate it?"
Adamant frowned, "If they take more than a weekend to complete this film, I will be highly perturbed. He's a studio executive. He has funds. His family should be able to access them. If not his family, then he himself. Does he have a social presence? If he lives alone in a suitable home, we could perhaps simply keep him in his own basement."
Smirking slightly, the Gothamite said, "I think if we're trying to ransom the guy off, the cops are likely to check his house, Adamant. But you're right—we should see if we can find out where he lives.
Lodestone pulled out her phone and began searching. "Property tax listings are publicly accessible, after all."
Shadow Boxer continued thinking aloud, "Maybe even figure out his specific schedule. Minimize the risk of him being missed initially?"
J'Ayne, quietly listening, grinned to herself. She silently morphed into a lookalike Chad.
Adamant gestured toward J'Ayne. "Only if Chad is not there to dissuade them. That would only work if we intend to pilfer his personal funds, mind."
The de-facto organizer nodded again. "Yeah, because if not, it's hard to ransom somebody that no one knows has been kidnapped. Definitely less risky. Theoretically means the authorities never get involved until after it's all over." Squinting in thought, he continued, "So we get into his phone or computer, send an email out saying he's not feeling well and taking some sick days?"
Adamant said, "A simple rental property north of town would work nicely."
Lodestone sighed, after having only found a record for Chad Reliant's LA mansion, admitting, "Looks like he agrees. I can't find any property in his name locally—must be under a business name or rented. Perhaps by the studio? It seems like our known place and time is the MARTHA station morning commute."
Shadow Boxer suggested, "I guess someone could just follow him for a day and we could find out where he's living that way. Though count me out for that job—that's not the kind of
shadowing
I do..." He grinned, clearly feeling good about the line, and looked around expectantly.
Lodestone made sure to chuckle. It only looked a little forced. Rather than laughing at the… joke… J'Ayne morphed again, this time into a pudgy, middle-aged MARTHA employee.
Completely ignoring his friend's pun, Adamant nodded, "Hmm. J'Ayne dons a disguise on the first stop, finds which car he's in, tells us. We get on at the second stop and take him. Exit at the third stop where we have some form of escape planned?"
In a slip of control perhaps triggered by the anxiety of his wit falling flat or from the conflict about his plan, Shadow Boxer suddenly—and seemingly unintentionally—transformed into a horrifying negative image of himself—stygian tentacles grasping and drawing in the light source.
Adamant raised an eyebrow. "Shadow, your... everything is showing."
"So we're abandoning the idea of using his place to hold him?" Shadow Boxer asked, not noticing the change at first. "Damn it. Crap. Just... hold on," he muttered, trying to wrest control of his power. Finally, with a hiss of lamp filaments popping, plunging the corner into deeper shadow, his distorted form dissipated. Looking genuinely contrite, he sunk down a little in his chair. "Sorry, guys."
Clearly disconcerted, Lodestone gamely rejoined the conversation. "Uh, well. I like the idea of using a generic rental property to hold him."
Adamant, steadfastly ignoring the embarrassing episode, said,"We can get the location from him once he is within our grasp. Take him back there if it's viable. To a rental property if it's not."
"Sorry, Jimmy," Shadow Boxer piped up a little louder. Nodding self-consciously to the group, he walked to the bar and grabbed a fresh bulb that Jimmy unflappably set out for him, trying to look confident in front of the others, crossing in front of a couple of men in black jeans and hoodies—both with severe haircuts and clearly watching each other's backs—descending from upstairs.
Lodestone looked at Adamant, both of them watching the new arrivals with interest, asking quietly, "Can you arrange for a rental as backup then?"
"Yes. That would prove no difficulty," the Markovian agreed.
Taking seats at the bar, the two men shot surreptitious glances around the room. They both were clearly packing shoulder holsters and likely had at least one holdout weapon each. To the skilled eye of the embarrassed Gothamite, they moved like trained fighters, but not martial artists. One eventually asked, "We'd like the Shaved Ice Sparkler?"
Lightbulb in hand, Shadow Boxer ambled over to them and suggested, "That's a pretty strong drink; you sure you're up for it? I don't think I've seen you two here"
"We're new in town, trying to build up a rep. You know how it is," one of them offered, attempting a neutral accent but clearly Southern.
Jimmy nodded and went to work on the concoction. The bar had put in an ice-shaving machine, and he poured champagne over the shaved ice. At Boxer's improvisation that it was strong, he added a couple shots of vodka to each, then placed the drinks in front of the men—no envelopes included. They both looked slightly confused about just receiving a drink.
"Sure, everyone's got to start somewhere. Not sure diving straight into the deep end's always the
brightest
idea," Shadow Boxer said, casually holding up the lightbulb. He turned his back on what he was sure was a perfect exit line and walked back to the table. Pointedly not looking back, he said quietly, "Not sure why, but they say they're out-of-towners, yet they're clearly trying to hide their Southern accents."
Adamant stood and returned to the bar to hand Jimmy his glass. While not as tall as Ibis, he was still a large man—tall and powerfully built. He looked down at the newcomers. "It is sometimes good practice to mix a few of your own drinks first. To find if the beverages are to your liking." Then he returned to the table."Tourists," he snorted with soft derision, taking out his phone to text the embassy's lawyer: a discreet home rental north of town, prepared for himself and a... lady guest.
On the way out of the lounge to begin setting up, the group noticed that a little pink pig ornament—normally sitting deep in the shadows above the stairs—was now lit, a subtle signal to anyone familiar that there were likely cops in the establishment.
Shadow Boxer
They don't come much more recommended than Hank Liu, who never really made it in Gotham but only because the Bat family had his number from go. While he's new to Terminus, he's put in the work on crews. Nobody is willing to say they
like
him much, mind you, since he's got no social intelligence and seems determined to be one of the quippy types. But you put him to work on your crew, point him at who to ninja kick, and he'll knock teeth out with the best of them. Pretty good wheelman too, when the chips are down.
You can't rely on him much for blending in, though. The guy has shadow powers, but everyone that works with him says it's more like an infection than a gift. Sometimes, they'll turn on when he needs them and turn a job right around. Others, they'll kick in and it's a mixed bag on whether they make a tense situation more dangerous. And if you want to try to pretend to be a bunch of normal, law-abiding bystanders, forget it: it's hard not to stick out when a guy's normal one second, and a seething pool of void the next. At least everyone is convinced he's a lifer though, since you can't really go straight with a problem like that.
He's a slim but heavily-muscled Chinese-American man in his early 30s with unassuming facial features. When working, he tends to favor basic black clothing that wouldn't draw too much of a second look on the street, but helps him hide in the darkness. It is subsumed completely when his shadow powers are active, turning him into a human-shaped pool of darkness with writhing tendrils of shadow breaking up his silhouette. Rather than wearing a mask, when he needs to conceal his face, he favors broad-brimmed hats that can leave his features in shadow, but is constantly changing up the type out of anxiety about being accused of ripping off Kung Lao or whether a conical hat will feel too ethnic.
Thomas West
A local threat that peaked a few decades ago, the Dieselpunk was all about vehicle-based mayhem. A tatted-up rocker with a penchant for leather and goggles, most of his crimes involved elaborate cars and trains that he'd built himself into essentially tanks (but do NOT call him Thomas the Tank Engine, he hates that). It was unclear at the time why such a competent individual didn't leverage his skills as a mechanic or driver for legitimate means, but he admits that it was mostly being brought up by criminals and having too-deeply embraced the anarcho-socialist mentality of his preferred music scene. Unfortunately, basing all your crimes on large vehicles that need roads or tracks makes it easy for more mobile crimefighters to head you off (especially in Terminus rush hour), so the Dieselpunk was successful less often than hoped, and spent a lot of years in jail.
After his last long stint in the pen, he finally did what most aging anarchists do and embraced wealth and the respect of his peers, going more or less legit. He wound up inheriting a gentrifying old train depot from former local villain King Plow, and opened the Terminus West nightclub and concert venue. He still affects a cleaned-up punk vibe and keeps painfully thin, so despite going gray he maintains an aura of cool that serves him well as a rock venue owner. The complex also has an unadvertised underground lounge that admits local criminals, and features numerous escape tunnels in case of crimefighter raids. This serves as one of the primary networking spots for local rogues, and the only real drawback is that Mr. West ("Call me Tommy") will often show off the latest jams he's been working on (he always was more enthusiastic than competent as a musician). He's generally willing to give advice and help on mechanical engineering to the good tippers at his lounge.
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 like this,” Luke said, his voice echoing strangely back to him, as if it were muffled.
“So you’ve said.”
Ahead of him, Ventress held her ‘saber aloft, bathing the corridor in red light. Perhaps that was what was throwing him, but Luke doubted it.
Something
was trying to get his attention, and Luke had no way to find out what it was.
“Do you have anything useful to add, or are you simply planning on complaining for the rest of the night?”
“Complaints can be useful,” Luke countered, letting the whine and petulance color his voice.
Ventress spared enough attention to turn around and glare at him, so, mission accomplished. It did not, however, change the unsettled feeling that Luke had. “I am serious, however. There’s something not right about this hallway.”
“It’s a hallway,” Ventress countered. “Used mostly by non-Force wielders. What could it possibly have?”
Ahead of them came the unmistakable sound of a doorway sliding open and the metal-on-metal squeal of droid on durasteel. Luke had his own saber up and ready by the time the droidekas rounded the corner and made their stand.
“Shit,” Ventress hissed, dropping back into a ready stance. “We don’t have time for this!”
“No,” Luke agreed mildly, settling into a stance of his own. “But I think this means we’re getting closer.
Ventress opened her mouth to respond but was cut off when the droidekas opened fire. She swore, pressing herself up against the wall, and using her ‘saber to reflect the bolts back to them. Unfortunately, they bounced off of the droideka’s shield, dancing harmlessly away and into the bulkhead.
Luke stayed crouched behind her, cursing his luck. He hated fighting in cramped quarters, and he always—
No. Not always.
Unhooking the blaster from his belt, Luke took aim and blasted the wall across from them. It blew a hole in the side of the corridor that was clearly big enough for two full grown people to fit through, but hopefully high enough that the droidekas wouldn’t be able to cross the threshold.
It didn’t open to a garbage chute, and it didn’t even open to a vent, but it did open to space between the walls, and for a residential building, that was pretty rare.
Still, there would be time to boggle later. “Come on!” Luke called to Asajj and bolted across the hallway, jumping through the hole in the bulkhead.
The hole should have sent Luke into free-fall, but for two conditions. One, it was not a very wide space and two, it was not a very smart place. The space was built for wires and pipes and other structures, and that is what Luke found when he dropped out of view. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily), Luke found himself quickly caught by the infrastructure. He did manage to wiggle his way onto a narrow platform, left over either from construction or left for maintenance, but either way, Luke was much happier with something solid beneath both feet.
It was lucky timing, too, for not a moment later, Ventress came hurtling through the hole, rappelling off of each side of the crawlspace until she was even with Luke. It looked graceful and painless, and Luke wanted to try
immediately
.
“What the fuck, Skywalker,” Ventress growled, and Luke grinned.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of here before those droids decide to risk coming after us.”
Ventress grumbled, but followed behind diligently, hopping from platform to platform, as they made their ever winding way
up
towards Palpatine’s office and Sidious’s lair.
***
Obi-Wan made it nearly to Palpatine’s quarters with little fuss. There was a moment when he thought his cover would be blown, but Bail Organa stepped nearly between Obi-Wan and the senator clearly wishing to gain favor with the Order, and guided him away.
“My friend, what are you doing here?” Bail asked quietly, leading Obi-Wan farther from the Chancellor’s doorway.
Obi-Wan bit his cheek. “What do you want, Bail?” he asked, sotto voice.
“I had an interesting conversation with Padme last night,” Bail said.
“I’m sure you did,” Obi-Wan said, voice dry as desert dust. “But how does that involve me?”
Bail took them around a corner, finally releasing Obi-Wan’s shoulders once they were out of the main flow of traffic. “If you’re trying to get in, there are better ways,” Bail said, expression unchanging.
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “And what do you know about it?” he asked, keeping his voice mild.
“I know that Palpatine requested a change to his security this morning,” Bail said. “Apparently, he “took ill” last night, and it’s left him “out of sorts.””
Obi-Wan kept his expression calm. That answered a few questions, but unfortunately, not in a way that Obi-Wan preferred. “Does he suspect poison?” he asked, wondering just how much Padme had told him.
“Or he wants us to suspect it,” Bail said with a significant look that Obi-Wan took to mean she had told him everything. Perhaps not the wisest move, but if Padme was going to be completely honest with anyone, Bail Organa would be a good candidate. “I’m not privy to the changes he made, but it does mean entering his offices right now would be much more challenging than before.
Obi-Wan crossed his arms, bringing his hand up to press his thumbnail against his lip. Carefully, he sent a tendril of concern out towards Luke, and got a frustrated reply. From what he could tell, their progress had hit a bit of a snag, but they were safely in a workaround.
“That does complicate things, yes,” Obi-Wan said. “It’s a shame I can’t just walk in the door.” At Bail’s look, Obi-Wan shrugged. “It’s what Anakin and I would normally do. A sprung trap can be handled, but an avoided trap can always come back to bite.”
Bail shook his head, bemused. “That explains so much about your and Skywalker’s mission reports.
Obi-Wan grinned. “Why Senator Organa, I have no idea what you mean.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bail said, watching him through narrowed eyes. “I’ve got to get to my pod. I’ll keep an eye on Padme.”
“May the Force be with you,” Obi-Wan said, and Bail left with a nod of his head, walking swiftly but without visible hurry.
Hands on his hips, Obi-Wan let out a harsh breath. What was he supposed to do now?
***
“So, I got some good news, and I got some back news,” Fives said, coming over to them with another clone. His unmarred uniform marked him as a shiny, but the cobalt blue said he was part of the 501st legion. “Good news is that this here is Cypher. You’ve got three guesses as to why that’s his name, and the first two don’t count.”
“You got us someone who can manipulate the signal,” Cody said, crossing his arms. “What’s the bad news?”
“We’ll be starting from scratch,” Cypher explained. “When Tup first went…off, I was on medical rotation. Well, I was on sanitation rotation, but that particular week, I was cleaning in medical. I saw everything that happened, and it reminded me of something. I started to look into it. Before I went techie, I was on the medical track, and had completed my neurologics unit. Humanoid brains – hell, all carbon-based brains – are essentially meat computers.”
“Delightful,” Rex muttered, rocking along with the impact when Ahsoka sunk her elbow into his side.
“It’s how the chips work in the first place,” Cypher continued. “They send electrical signals that disrupt the bio-electrical signals that make up normal brain function. Change the signal, change the thought, change the action.”
“That’s why Tup went off,” Fives said, face twisted into a scowl. “The impact triggered his chip to send off its impulses early.”
“And why ‘hit ‘em in the head’ isn’t a good solution,” Kix said. “It might deactivate the chip, but it’s more likely to get it to send the wrong signal.”
“Or the ‘right’ signal at the wrong time,” Ahsoka said, sadly. “Remember, the kill code is embedded in the chips.”
“You said the chips were voice activated?” Cypher asked, and Cody nodded.
“That’s what our best intelligence says.”
Cypher nodded. “Then that means there’s some sort of bio-electric pattern recognition. Hearing certain words in a certain inflection activates
something
that triggers a cascade effect, turning on the chip and overriding the thought centers.” He paused. “That’s terrifying.”
“The safest method would be surgical removal,” Kix said. “It’s the only way to make sure nothing is activated accidentally, either in trying to deactivate the device, or due to blunt force trauma.”
Cypher looked at him. “But that takes time,” he said, completing the thought and smiling grimly when Kix nodded. “Fives said time is what you don’t have.”
“At this point, we have a few hours.” Ahsoka said. “Maybe.”
“Hopefully,” Rex added.
“What we need most is time,” Cody concluded. “Time to make sure this kill switch can’t be triggered until we can send each vod through the medical centers for manual extraction.”
Cypher nodded, eyes unfocused as he thought. “So you need some sort of counter code—something that can be broadcasted to disable the killcode remotely.”
“Can you do it?” Cody asked.
Cypher snapped to attention, and Fives slung his arm over Cypher’s shoulders again. “If anyone can do it, Cypher here can.”
“Then come with me,” Kix said. “I’ll show you what we have.”
***
It is a universal truth that a large meeting will
always
begin late. The larger the meeting, the later the start. It was true of the Imperial Senate, no matter how often late comers were threatened— some species simply didn’t perceive time in the same way.
Of course, non-humans were quickly phased out of the Imperial Senate, so the remaining issues tended to be cultural, and in the Imperial Capital,well, you adapted quickly. When the New Republic Senate struggled to begin on time, Leia was often frustrated by the delays. Now, however, it seemed that late start times might simply be a mark of a more democratic government system. Leia didn’t think she’d ever been
this
early to a Senate pod.
Padme shifted in her seat, and Leia blinked, taking another look around the room. There were some empty pods nearby, and Leia knew some would just be late and have to deal with it, but of the people who
were
present, there was a sense of unease. Something wasn’t right here.
Leia leaned in. “This is taking longer than it should, isn’t it,” she said, softly.
Padme nodded. “It is.” She pressed her lips together, tightly enough that Leia felt a twinge of sympathy on her lower lip. “Are you certain that he survived?”
“Oh, yeah,” Leia said. “The Emperor was in orbit when he died last time, and I felt it on the surface.Hell, I’m sure even a few non-sensitives felt it when he died. It’s…distinctive.”
“That strong a feeling?” Padme asked.
“That large an explosion.”
That got Padme to look at her, and Leia shrugged. “Of course, Luke wasn’t actually sure if he blew up because that’s what happens when a Sith dies, or if he hit a reactor of some kind. Also, we were actively trying to blow up the station that they were on, so it might have been blowback from that…but he did say, whatever it was, he felt the darkness dissipate.”
“And, if he were truly dead, it would have made the news, wouldn’t it?” Anakin asked, frowning.
“Not before we were notified,” Padme said. “You don’t think this delay could be because they need to notify us that he was found dead, do you?”
“No,” Leia said, looking up at where there was
finally
movement on the Chancellor’s podium. “We’re never that lucky.”
The screens that focused on the speaker flickered to life, and Leia felt her breath catch in her chest. She had seen pictures of Chancellor Palpatine before the “Jedi Attack” that “nearly took his life.” He wasn’t a handsome man, but he was kindly-looking, with the remnants of red in his thinning hair and light eyes that reflected his smile. She remembered thinking that it was an excellent mask. But the Palpatine that
she
remembered, the Palpatine that presided over the Imperial Senate, wore robes of black, and a deep-set hood to hide his “disfiguration.” Only the tip of his nose was visible, a corpse-like violet grey, and— Leia would swear to those who would listen— glowing yellow eyes.
That was the figure that stood at the podium today.
“Oh no,” Leia whispered. “We’re too late.”
***
“We’ve got to be getting closer,” Luke said, pausing on the next platform. Crawling through the walls wasn’t, honestly, much worse than walking through those back hallways. It was darker, lit only by indicator lights that would normally only be seen by maintenance crews— and now that he thought about it, it was odd that they hadn’t seen a single maintenance droid, wasn’t it?
The darkness that Luke could feel was still muted, mostly hidden by
something
, and if Luke hadn’t been living near a Darkside well, or if he hadn’t spent far too much of the last few days
in the Force itself
, he wasn’t sure he would have noticed it at all. It was frightening how easily it hid, but at the moment Luke was mostly frustrated.
Case in point: “I thought you could sense it,” Ventress grumbled. She didn’t bother with the platform, and held herself braced against the scaffolding so she could be in the same roughed-out square as Luke.
“I can sense that it’s there,” Luke said. “But the closer we get, the harder it is to pinpoint where it’s coming from. It… honestly, it feels like motor oil, old motor oil from a ship that has been running thick for a while. It’s chunky enough that your hand thinks there’s something to grab onto, but it’s still oil, and when you try to grab it, it slips right through your fingers.”
Luke could sense Ventress’s disgust like warmth from a beacon, and grinned into the darkness. “How do you even know what that feels like?”
“I haven’t always been a Jedi,” Luke said. “You want to really get gross? Imagine that same engine after baking in a desert sun for a week. If there was anything organic in that compound, well, not anymore.”
“What were you, a scavenger?”
“When I needed to be,” Luke said. “Have you ever been to Tatooine?”
“Yes,” Ventress said. “Dooku once tried to rile the Hutts, to bring them to his side by kidnapping Jabba’s son and blaming it on the Jedi. I was tasked with following the Jedi and making sure that Jabba’s son didn’t make it back alive.”
Luke heard metal creaking, and forced himself to loosen the grip of his right hand. “I don’t remember the Hutts siding with anybody. I take it you weren’t successful.”
“No,” Ventress admitted, bitterness coloring her words. “But most of our missions against Skywalker seemed to fail.”
“Pitty,” Luke muttered, and could feel Ventress’s surprise. “I’m not mad that the Hutts stayed out of the war, though I can’t say it wouldn’t have made my life easier if they had been fighting on multiple fronts, but you’ll never see me wishing for good things about Jabba the Hutt.” He frowned. “You said they sent Anakin to save a Hutt slugling?”
“I did,” she said. “Why does that surprise you?”
“I’m not sure I’m surprised at much anymore,” Luke said, poking at a panel in front of him. The tiny indicator light lit the tip of his finger in a pale green. “Disappointed, maybe. You know my father is from Tatooine, yes?”
“I had put that together.”
“Well,” he began, voice straining a little as he pried at a piece of metal that was in his way. “My question is: why did the Jedi send my father back to the place where he had been a slave for years, to save a son of one of the biggest slavers on the planet? Something there doesn’t add up, unless a) the Jedi truly don’t understand why that would be a problem for him or b) someone else was calling the shots.” He looked up at where Ventress was, though his eyes still couldn’t see her. “This way,” he said, and swung himself down.
“I thought you couldn’t tell,” she called after him, following.
“I can’t,” he said. “But sitting still isn’t helping either. I figure, if we’re going in the wrong direction, something would—WOAH!”
The platform gave way beneath Luke’s feet, tilting sharply as the Force blared out a warning. There wasn’t time to catch himself more than control his fall so he didn’t bash his head against the bulkhead,but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The bulkhead gave way on impact, and Luke rolled into open space as he fell through the ceiling of a room that was suddenly teeming with Dark Energy.
Luke hit the floor with a thud, breath rushing from him in a muffled “oof!”. He was dazed for a moment, looking up at the hole in the wall that he could suddenly see. Above him, Ventress’s pale face gone even paler, she looked down at him and the room he found himself in.
“I’m alright,” Luke wheezed, and Ventress made an exasperated face. Oh good,he wasn’t in too much danger, then. It was hard to tell when the Force was all but screaming all around him. “Just wounded my pride.”
Movement— the sound of rustling fabric, and Luke was on his feet, lightsaber lit a brilliant green and held before him to reveal the weathered face of Sidious’s acolyte, waiting for him in the dark.
“Well,” Luke said. “I think we found 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
Peter miraculously manages to shut up and get his homework done over the next two hours, even if it involves a lot of humming along to the music he’s listening to on his iPod. Honestly, who still has a separate mp3 player from their phone? It’s not 2011 anymore.
He shoves the various binders, notebooks, and textbooks into his backpack and zips it up hurriedly at exactly eight o’clock. Tony finds himself worrying about five textbooks being way too heavy and possibly crippling Peter but then remembers that this kid has literally caught a moving bus. Then he worries about the fact that Peter had to catch a bus, and will definitely do it again at some point. Then he worries that maybe he really should go see a therapist for all his worrying, but by that point Peter’s already heading to the elevators.
“Bye Mr. Stark! I’ll see you tomorrow probably,” Peter says cheerfully.
“Be safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Tony replies. “And I mean current me, not twenty-year-old me. Cocaine is definitely out of the picture.”
Peter gives him a funny look, but nods and replies with complete sincerity. “I promise not to do cocaine.”
He gets on the elevator and heads up to the roof, where he puts on the Spider-Man costume before very carefully testing the web shooters a few times to make sure they won’t break and plummet him to his untimely demise between the skyscrapers. Once he’s certain they’re in working order, he shoots a web to a nearby building and swings off the edge, making his way to the meeting place on a rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen without once touching the ground.
When he gets there, Daredevil and Jessica Jones are already there, Jessica with a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey in her hand while she harasses Daredevil by poking his horns repeatedly. Daredevil responds to the harassment by crossing his arms over his chest and looking disappointed in her life choices, while occasionally throwing suspicious looks at her whiskey.
Peter touches down on the rooftop a few feet behind Jessica and wrinkles up his nose at the smell of her drink. “Are you
sure
that’s safe for human consumption? It smells like rubbing alcohol.”
“Fuck!” Jessica drops the whiskey in surprise, not having clocked Peter’s presence until he spoke.
Daredevil catches the bottle by the neck before it hits the ground and hands it back to Jessica who nods at him gratefully before taking another sip of it. “I don’t think it’s gonna be cheap liquor that kills me, kid,” she says with a sigh. “Daredevil, Spider-Kid. Spider-Kid, Daredevil. Thought it would be easier if you two had a mutual acquaintance here,” she introduces, gesturing between the two with her bottle held loosely in one hand.
“It’s Spider
man
,” Peter corrects, crossing his arms over his chest. His disappointed facial expression doesn’t really come across through the mask, though.
“How old are you?” Daredevil asks suspiciously.
Jessica snorts and rolls her eyes at the man’s fake gravelly voice, but Daredevil just ignores her. It seems like he’s had a lot of practice doing that.
“Uh, I’m seventeen,” Peter replies.
Daredevil looks unimpressed. “Try that again, but this time don’t lie.”
“Fine. I’m fifteen. Are you going to tell me I’m too young to be out doing this?”
Daredevil shrugs. “No, although you probably are. You’re going to do it no matter what, so I might as well show you how to do it without getting yourself killed.”
“You sound like my ninth grade sex-ed teacher, Mur—Daredevil,” Jessica drawls.
“Jessica if you just sit down and shut up, then I’ll buy you whiskey that doesn’t burn off your tastebuds,” Daredevil replies with an exhausted sigh.
She puts her hands up in surrender and goes to sit at the edge of the rooftop where she can observe the two superheroes. Sometimes looking at the costumes on other vigilantes gives her a pang of guilt as she gets a glimpse at what might’ve been—at what
she
might’ve been—but she shakes it off easily now.
“Alright Spider-Man, let’s see what you’ve got,” Daredevil says, gesturing for Peter to come at him.
“Er… are you sure..? I mean, I’m pretty strong…” Peter replies awkwardly. “I can lift ten tons, and you’re just a normal guy, right?”
“He’s a freak too, kiddo. Don’t worry about hurting him,” Jessica calls from the sidelines.
Daredevil flips her off and she returns the gesture with a smug smile. “She’s right; don’t worry about hurting me.”
Peter gives a hesitant nod. “Do you wanna just do like, hand to hand, or do you want me to use the webs and stuff?”
“Fight me like you’d fight anyone else who you’re trying to stop.”
“Alright…” he says, still sounding a little unsure.
Peter shoots a web at Daredevil’s feet, but the man’s already moving out of the way before Peter’s even finished flicking his wrist out. He aims another at Daredevil’s body, but he dodges that one with a flip. Shot after shot after shot, Daredevil dodges the webs perfectly, each missed web getting him a step closer to Peter. Daredevil throws the first punch, and Peter manages to duck under it, but at the same time Daredevil grabs his arm and flips him across his back and onto the ground, one knee on his chest and the other on his throat while his hands hold Peter’s wrists to the roof. On anyone else that would probably be enough to keep them down, but Peter can lift a jet so it’s not quite enough.
He pushes Daredevil off and launches himself to his feet, but Daredevil’s reflexes must be superhuman because the second Peter’s feet are back on solid ground, Daredevil’s managed to get to his feet as well and aim an extremely hard kick at Peter’s ribs. Peter makes an ‘oof’ sound and stumbles back, but Daredevil keeps coming at him. Peter catches his leg on one of the kicks and manages to knock Daredevil off his balance a little, but before he has the chance to do anything, Daredevil’s back up and manages to perfectly execute the same aerial-flip-kick thing from the night before right into Peter’s head. Peter goes down this time, but rather than kneeling on his throat and trying to pin him down again, Daredevil puts him in a killer arm bar that has him tapping out in seconds.
“Boo!” Jessica hollers from the side. “Why’d you go so easy on him, DD?”
Daredevil gets up and offers Peter a hand to help him up off of the ground while he shoots a look at Jessica. “Because he’s a kid and I’m not actually trying to hurt him.” He turns back to Peter and offers him a smile. “You’re not bad.”
“Really?” he asks, his voice going a bit squeaky.
Daredevil laughs softly, the gravelly voice significantly more toned down than it had been just a few minutes prior. “Really. You just need some practice. I think your best technique is to keep your distance from whoever you’re fighting and just web them up. Hand to hand definitely isn’t your strong suit, but we can work on that.”
“Woah—are you gonna be my, like,
Mr. Miyagi
?” Peter asks softly, sending the tipsy Jessica into a fit of laughter so hard she nearly falls off the edge of the roof, but she manages to catch herself on the ledge with a grip that cracks the concrete into powder.
“If you want me to train you, then I guess I am. And if that’s the case then you can call me Mike. Here,” he tosses a flip phone to Peter. “Put your number in that.”
“This thing is ancient,” Peter replies as he dutifully types the number in. Pressing the seven four times to get an S to save the number under ‘Spider-Man’ is just too much work, so he saves it under his real name and tosses the phone back.
Daredevil doesn’t even look at the phone before slipping it back into a hidden pocket on his suit. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”
“Wha—how’d you do that?!” Peter asks, gaping at Daredevil. “Are you psychic?”
Daredevil just smiles and laughs, shaking his head. “Not quite.”
“Honestly, you might as well be with all the weird shit you can do,” Jessica replies.
“That’s so cool,” he whispers, getting Mike to smile again. “I have to go—school tomorrow and all that.”
“Alright, be safe. I’ll be in touch.”
Peter smiles. “Bye Mike, bye Ms. Jones,” he says, waving at the two of them as he picks up his backpack from where he’d dropped it upon his arrival, before swinging off back towards the subway station.
Aunt May is at work by the time Peter gets home—she’s working the night shift this week—so he changes out of the suit and makes himself four hot pockets for dinner, sitting down on the floor in front of the TV to eat them. He flips on the news channel, but that’s just depressing, so he changes it to Animal Planet. MJ tells him sometimes that being able to choose not to watch the news and keep up with current events just because they’re depressing is very telling of his privilege as a white man, so after a little bit he flips back to CNN. It dampens his mood slightly, but he still goes to bed with a smile on his face that night as he thinks of the day’s events.
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
Upon his moving into Rhaenyra’s apartment, Daemon had learnt that there was no peace in them. There was peace in the bedchambers to an extent, but everywhere else was overrun with children. One which he liked greatly, one he thought to be amusing, one he didn’t mind solely for the hero worship he showed him, and one he couldn’t stand the slightest. By the gods did he not like the little shit who never strays far from Visenya’s side. Always around his daughter, always holding her in some way, always demanding her attention. Well, he had only seen the two together for a few days now, but he could just tell.
“You’re glaring,” Laenor says, joining him on the chaise, two goblets in hand. He gives one to Daemon as he sits down.
“He’s touching her,” Daemon mutters, happily taking the wine. Even if it was a Dornish Red instead of an Arbor Gold. He would need to get both Laenor and Rhaenyra to have a better taste in wines, Daemon notes to himself as he takes a sip of the bitter wine. Rhaenyra may be a lost cause due to her love of candied lemons and lemon cakes, but Laenor had potential.
“He always touches her. He also always looks after her and makes sure that she’s okay. It’s sweet, in a Targaryen way of uncles looking after their nieces,” Laenor replies. All he receives is a glare as Visenya waddles up to Daemon with big, hopeful eyes.
“What is it, sweet princess?” Daemon questions, his glare instantly turning into a gentle smile.
“Caraxes?” she questions. Soon after their first meeting, Visenya had taken an instant liking to Daemon. When she wasn’t with Aegon, the young princess could be found with her father. Well both fathers. Laenor had taken it upon himself to help Daemon get reacclimated to being in King’s Landing and help him join in on the changes they were making. So while Rhaenyra was busy with Small Council meetings, afternoon teas, and everything else that concerned the heir, the two men had spent a lot of time together.
“What about Caraxes?” Daemon asks, pulling her up so she is sitting on his leg.
“Ride Caraxes,” she demands. Daemon happily agrees to it, if not for taking her to Caraxes, then to get her away from the little shit who tries to claim her in every other breath he takes.
And so Laenor is left alone with three Targaryen children, two of whom are saddened by the loss of their friend and one who is angry at his uncle for stealing away his Senya. If Aegon questions the merits of biting his uncle the next time he sees him, well no one has to know until he does it. And if Laenor curses Daemon for leaving him alone with three disappointed children, then Daemon will learn of it when they dine in the evening.
Daemon, on the other hand, could not be happier as he walks down the halls of the Red Keep with Visenya safely ensconced in his arms as she babbles about her own dragon who is still too young to be ridden. She is still unaware of just how they’re related beyond him being her muña’s uncle, but it doesn’t bother Daemon as much as it did when he first saw her run off to Laenor. Now he knows that it’s only until he marries Rhaenyra and Laenor in a Valyrian ceremony that will join them together. Then it would be safe for Visenya to call him Kepa, for him to call her his daughter.
Caraxes takes to Visenya just as Syrax and Seasmoke had, protective of the young princess and taking all the loving pets she gives him. The Blood Wyrm curls its long head around the father-daughter pair, trilling happily when the young princess places a kiss on his snout. “Hi Caraxes,” Visenya says, greeting the dragon as she greets every other dragon she’s met.
Daemon double checks that they’re both secured in the saddle, he’s not willing to take any chances while Visenya is with him. Not only would Rhaenyra have his head, Daemon would happily sacrifice himself to any variety of dragons that will want his head. Not Sunfyre though, he wouldn’t let the little shit’s dragon have a piece of him.
“Sōvēs,” Visenya says, one of the few dragon commands that she has learned so far in her dragon studies and one of the few she’s used with Moonfyre. Daemon repeats it softly so she doesn’t hear it and can believe that it’s her command that makes Caraxes take to the air. The delight when Caraxes flies is worth it. For the hour they are flying above King’s Landing, all Daemon hears is the laughter of his daughter.
“Why are the children glaring at the window?” Rhaenyra questions Laenor when she returns to their apartments. Daemon and Visenya nowhere in sight.
“Visenya wanted to ride Caraxes,” Laenor replies, looking up from his book – this time one on Valyrian marriages sent to them by Archmaester Vaegon. “Aemond and Helaena lost their playmate and Aegon isn’t as fun as Visenya according to Helaena. I’m pretty sure Aegon is thinking of ways to harm Daemon based on how he keeps grumbling every few minutes about biting him,” he adds.
“We should probably teach Aegon to not bite people when he doesn’t get his way,” Rhaenyra says.
“Oh we leave it and be entertained every time he does,” Laenor retorts. “Tell me you don’t want to see Aegon bite Daemon.”
“It would be pretty funny,” Rhaenyra agrees. “How’s the book?” she questions, looking over his shoulder to see the text. “Is that a dragon fucking…” she trails off.
“Yeah, the tapestries make so much more sense now that I’ve read this,” Laenor replies. “Though I do question how Velaryons got their preference for the sea and ships now. Targaryens got their dragon blood by coupling with dragons, as did all the other dragonlords of Old Valyria,” he says.
“Your ancestors didn’t fuck dragons for one,” Rhaenyra answers. Laenor nods his head in agreement.
“They might have fucked the seas,” Laenor says, turning the book to look at another drawing of dragons being intimate with humans. “That looks interesting,” he says, showing it to Rhaenyra.
“That looks uncomfortable,” Rhaenyra tells him. “Interesting, but uncomfortable.”
____
Viserys had hoped that after the dinner Daemon would have forgotten about taking Caraxes to Dragonstone. “Can we not take a ship?” Viserys asks as Daemon all but drags him to the Dragonpit.
“No, you will ride a dragon for the first time in years and it will be Caraxes,” Daemon says, firm in his plan.
“I could exile you again,” Viserys says when he sees Caraxes with a two person saddle. He thinks he sees the Blood Wyrm smirk at him, just like Daemon does.
“You won’t,” Daemon says, finally assured for the first time since Viserys became King that he wouldn’t be exiled for every little thing he did. Something, he knew, that Caraxes was thankful for. His dearest dragon always did get snippy every time they would land in King’s Landing only for them to leave in the middle of the night because he had been exiled by his Kingly brother once more.
“I could,” Viserys argues.
“Rhaenyra and Rhaenys would be bugging you until you called me back. And sweet Visenya would be angered, running straight into Corlys’s arms and claiming him to be her favorite grandpapa,” Daemon retorts as Viserys grumbles. Daemon can’t help but laugh as he tells his beloved dragon that Viserys will be riding along with him. “Just think about it, the sooner you claim a dragon, the sooner you can take her flying. Then boat rides with Corlys won’t be drawing her towards him,” Daemon tells him.
“Fine,” Viserys says, mounting Caraxes after Daemon does.
“Sōvēs,” Daemon says as Caraxes takes flight. Viserys clutches onto Daemon when the Blood Wyrm lives up to his reputation. The dragon goes much faster than it had during any flight with Visenya and takes many more dips close to the water just to hear Viserys’s yelps of fear. Daemon’s laughter fills the skies just as loudly as Viserys’s yelps.
Despite being the King, Viserys notes that he never visited Dragonstone as much as heirs to the throne had in the past. He had only been Prince of Dragonstone for a year or so before he ascended to the throne, not giving him much time to spend on the island of their ancestors. Daemon, however, has spent much more time than him. Always flying off to Dragonstone when he wanted a long ride.
“Now to find a dragon,” Daemon states once they’ve dismounted Caraxes. Viserys thinks that Caraxes laughs at him based on his trills.
“I really don’t think it works like that, brother,” Viserys says.
“Of course it does. Vermithor and Silverwing both reside in the caves. We wouldn’t want you anywhere near Sheepstealer or Cannibal, who’s to say they won’t kill us on sight. And the other wild dragons aren’t suitable for a king, nor do we know exactly where they’re resting,” Daemon states.
“This is where I leave you, brother,” Daemon says as they finally reach the caves where Silverwing and Vermithor nest.
Viserys sends a glare his brother’s way before entering the cave. For the first time in years, he feels the dragon’s blood running through his veins, burning. He feels more and more like a dragon as he gets closer to where the dragons are. The walk is longer than he had thought, but he continues until he reaches a divergence in the path. Two paths, two different dragons. One would think that it’s a difficult decision to choose which path to go on, but Viserys has no doubts about which path he should walk down. It’s not even a question or second thought, the low roars of a dragon call to him. It was something he had only experienced with Balerion years ago when he was just a young boy.
He knows not which dragon he will find at the end of the path, but he knows that it calls to him. So he willingly walks with his heart open to a new dragon.
“Vermithor,” it escapes him like a breath, no thought going into it. It’s like second nature when he walks forward, his hand extended – the one with all five fingers. He doesn’t stop until he can feel Vermithor’s bronze scales under his hands, the heat of Vermithor welcoming him. “Lykirī,” he hasn’t used the command for well over two decades now. Vermithor doesn’t do anything, just stares at him. “Lykirī, Vermithor,” he says once more, firm like he’s heard Daemon and Rhaenys be with their dragons. This is the King of Dragons, the largest after Vhagar, firmness is needed.
Vermithor lowers his wings and head. “We shall teach the other dragons how a king does it,” Viserys says, pressing his forehead against Vermithor’s head. For the first time in years, Viserys feels the dragon’s blood coursing through his veins. “We’re going to be okay, we’ll be okay,” he continues. There’s no saddle, but Viserys knows it in his heart that Vermithor won’t drop him.
Daemon rested against Caraxes as they waited for Viserys. “This isn’t nearly as fun as I thought it would be. So much more waiting,” he tells Caraxes. “I know, I know resting is nice, but still,” Daemon replies when Caraxes lets out a whistle-like trill. “How do you feel about eating people?” Daemon questions after a few moments of silence. “Not a lot of people, just everyone who thinks they are worthy of being a claimant to our littlest dragon. Maybe just Viserys’s boy, the eldest and maybe the younger one. I can’t particularly tell how worried I should be when the younger one is concerned, but I know the oldest is a little shit,” he says. He gets a response in the form of Caraxes slithering away from so he falls back onto the beach, sand flying up around him. “You could have just said no. Now see if I find you more than one goat,” Daemon says He remains laying on the sand.
It seems like hours have passed when he hears the flap of dragon wings. Viserys had done it, claimed a dragon, a second dragon. Daemon let out a cheer of joy when he saw his brother riding on a dragon for the first time in years. “Come on, boy,” Daemon says, mounting Caraxes so he could join Viserys in the air.
Vermithor roars with delight when he sees another dragon in the air with him. Though he is delighted to see another dragon besides his beloved Silverwing, he doesn’t wait to stake his claim as the bigger and more superior dragon. The King of Dragons, the mount of the Wise King Jaehaerys, the Bronze Fury, is not one who will submit to an unruly teenaged dragon like Caraxes.
The two brothers aren’t in control of their dragons as the dragons fly around one another. Caraxes not backing down from a challenge and Vermithor not willing to stop until he comes out on top. In the end, Vermithor’s boisterous roar is no match for the whistle-like roar of Caraxes.
The Bronze Fury reigns the skies once more as the two brothers fly back to King’s Landing side by side. Caraxes and Daemon happily let the older dragons take the lead. Daemon doing so solely for the purpose of seeing his older brother gleefully take to the skies like a true dragon should.
_____
The skies are clear and the sun shines down on the people of King’s Landing, yet they hear the unmistakable claps of thunder. The skies are roaring with thunder and there is no sign of why. So the people of King’s Landing do what so many others wouldn’t even think to do. They look to the skies, into the clouds and the bright sun. For they have lived in King’s Landing where the dragons reign. They have seen the Balerion the Black Dread cover their entire city with his shadow, turning a bright summer's day to a dark night’s sky in a matter of seconds. They have seen the two red dragons, Caraxes and Meleys, put on a spectacle of fire in the sky and light up the night’s sky. They have seen the Good Queen and Wise King take their dragons for rides whenever they had a moment of peace. They have seen their Princess ride atop her Golden Lady with the sounds of the young princes and princesses laughing and screaming in joy filling the air.
So they look up, wondering which dragons they may see today. Perhaps the Princess’s dragon, or the one of their beloved Prince. Maybe Vhagar will take to the skies as the Lady Laena spent more time in the skies than she did on the ground or sea. Or maybe even the Red Queen herself flying alongside Seasmoke.
“Is that…?” Myrna, the oldest woman in Flea Bottom, asks no one in particular. A dragon she had never expected to see again in her lifetime flies above them.
“The Bronze Fury,” Talbo, the blacksmith, answers. “With the Blood Wyrm.”
The claps of thunder get louder and louder.
Vhagar soars into the skies first. Then comes Meleys, followed by Seasmoke, and lastly Syrax.
“The Dragons reign the skies,” someone says as the roars of the dragons turn into sweet trills like a song.
“Is that the King?” Rena questions when Vermithor flies low in the sky.
“The King rides a dragon!”
“Long Live the Dragon King!”
“Long Live House Targaryen!”
The cheers are unmistakable even in the skies and atop their dragons. Daemon glances over and sees Rhaenyra smiling back at him. With a slight nod of her head, she motions for him to look over at Viserys.
“Say it, brother!” Daemon yells so Viserys may hear him. “Show the people that you are a dragon!”
“Dracarys!”
For the first time in years, the skies are filled with dragonfire that the King 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”).
|
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 nothing left to do for the day, they made their way down below deck to the hammocks to take a nap. It had become something of a habit for them, one that Aiden enjoyed far too much.
It was incredibly pleasant, having Jaskier in his arms again,
finally
smelling of happiness and contentment.
Before all of this, he’d only smelled it a few times. Each time was more addicting than the last. Then again, there wasn’t much for Jaskier to be happy about back then.
He hated this island.
He could smell the things these people were doing, and it disgusted him. He would burn this whole island if he could. But, that was a good way to end up a corpse. And corpses couldn’t report back.
So, he made his way down to the ship he was hired to protect, figuring that at least on the ship he’d be a bit further away from the horrible smells and sounds of Traitor’s Cove.
His heart sank as he got back to the ship, only to find that horrible smell
worse.
The ship now stank of fear and pain and sex, and Aiden almost had to cover his nose.
If he found that a member of this crew had caused that smell… well. He’d be finding a different ship back to the mainland. After lighting this one on fire.
Aiden boarded the ship and followed the smell, confused when it lead down to
storage,
rather than to any private quarters, and he grew even more confused when he made it down to storage and found nothing but barrels.
Alright then… a stowaway?
He could hear one rapid heartbeat, and could
smell
the terror, following it easily to a small gap between two barrels and peering over.
There, hiding behind the barrels, was probably the
saddest
excuse for a stowaway Aiden had ever seen. A nasty bruise covered the side of his face Aiden could see, his hands were raised up for him to hide behind and they were badly burned, blisters and scars wrapping around his wrists like he’d been tugging against cuffs for a while. The shirt he was wearing belonged to a
much
larger man, and it was sliding down his shoulders and revealing more bruising and- fuck, were those indentations of
teeth
?
“Easy,” Aiden said softly, and the kid
flinched
. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he promised. “Can you look at me?”
Slowly, the kid raised his head above his hands and looked up, and Aiden swallowed.
It wasn’t just his eyes, which were a startling shade of blue. It was the visible enchantment wrapped around his mouth. Lines of magic thread sewed the poor boy’s mouth shut, and Aiden stepped back in shock.
A
mage
had done this to him.
There weren’t many of those in Traitor’s Cove, and he’d heard nothing good of them.
“Hold on,” he whispered, reaching down and grasping the kid by the elbow, lifting him up even as he flinched back. “I think I can do something about that curse.”
The boy didn’t fight him- and now that he was standing, he seemed more like a malnourished man than a boy- and Aiden sat him down on one of the barrels, examining the thread.
He drew his silver dagger and winced as the scent of fear grew worse. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, and the stowaway closed his eyes, trying to stay still despite how badly he was shaking.
Thankfully the magic was weak, and came undone easily enough when Aiden slid the silver through it. The thread came undone and the kid gasped for air, slight whimpers of pain escaping his mouth as he did so.
“Thank you,” he rasped, shaking, and Aiden nodded. “May- may I know your name?”
“Aiden, Witcher. And yourself?”
“Jaskier, hiding.” He grimaced. “Is… is there… any way, I could convince you not to tell anyone I’m here?” He glanced down, swallowed, and let his shirt fall further down his shoulder. “Any way at all?”
Oh fuck no.
Aiden caught Jaskier’s hand before the kid could put it
somewhere
on Aiden’s body, and gently pushed those hands back to Jaskier’s lap.
“Jaskier. Kid. If you stay here, you
will
be caught, and things
will
get ugly.” Jaskier was already shaking his head. “You can’t make it as a stowaway for the month of travel that’s ahead.”
“No, no, no I can’t go back,” he was crying now, shaking badly. “I can’t go back, please don’t send me back, I
can’t,
”
Aiden was torn.
He couldn’t let him stay. Even if it never came out that he’d allowed it, this kid would
never
make it to the mainland undiscovered.
But, if he sent the kid back out, what kind of life would he have? Found by the mage he’d clearly run away from? Or found by some brothel or auction house with no morals to speak of? Or just claimed by some random pirate to be his bitch…
…That was a horrible idea.
But it just might work.
“I have an idea,” he began, and Jaskier closed his mouth, looking hopeful. “I
won’t
fuck you,” he promised, “but if we convince the crew otherwise, tell them I’m fucking you and that’s why you’re here… they might let you stay.”
Jaskier stared up at him in amazement, and the next thing he knew he had an armful of traumatized stowaway as Jaskier hugged him tight. “Thank you!” Jaskier cried into his shirt, and Aiden awkwardly patted his back.
Well. Fuck.
…Cedric and Axel were
never
to find out about this.
Aiden made sure to keep an arm draped over Jaskier’s shoulders when the rest of the crew arrived. He was sure, if the kid finally stood up straight, he’d be almost as tall as Aiden himself. But as it was the kid was curled in on himself, trying to appear smaller as the crew sized him up.
Usually a bad instinct around pirates, but right now it helped sell their ruse.
A little too much.
Aiden had a sick feeling as
none
of the pirates questioned Jaskier’s state, and more than a few of them sent hungry stares his way.
He’d have to keep a
very
close eye on the kid.
Still, the captain finally shrugged and allowed it, so Aiden steered Jaskier down the steps to the lower deck, to the back where Aiden’s hammock hung, separate from the others.
“We’ll have to share a hammock,” Aiden said, setting down his pack beneath the hammock, “but the others should leave you well enough alone. Scream for me if they don’t, I can hear anything that happens on this ship.”
Jaskier just nodded, looking dazed and about ready to cry again.
“We ship out in an hour. Do you want to take a nap before then, get some rest?”
Jaskier thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “I… I can’t…”
“Mmm, too worried about who you’re running from?” Aiden guessed. “That’s alright. You’ll be able to sleep later on.”
Jaskier stared at him in confusion. “Why… why are you helping me?” he finally asked. “You get nothing from it.”
Aiden shook his head, trying to decide how best to explain this. “…How old are you, Jaskier?” he finally settled on, and Jaskier shifted uncomfortably. “…Twenty five,” he offered, and Aiden frowned, crossing his arms. “…I… don’t actually know. I was twenty one when we set sail… I’m probably twenty two now, but I can’t be sure.”
Fuck, he was young. “Twenty one, twenty two, or twenty five. You don’t deserve what’s happened to you. I’m sorry no one’s helped you before now.”
Jaskier nodded slowly. “…Thank you.”
“Come on. If you’re not going to sleep, I can at least find you some food, and hopefully this ship has a barrel for some bathing. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week, and I don’t know how long it’s been since you were clean.”
Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “I took a bath yesterday!” he complained, and Aiden chuckled.
“Alright, well, Witcher, and if we’re going to be sharing a hammock I don’t want to wake up smelling everything that’s happened to you over the last few days.”
He tried to put a hand on Jaskier’s back, but the boy flinched back.
Aiden frowned. “…Jaskier… are you injured? I mean- more than what’s visible?”
Jaskier shook his head resolutely, an absolute lie.
Aiden couldn’t help him if he couldn’t take a look at his injuries, but…
But.
Jaskier wouldn’t let him take a look.
And the boy had clearly had so many other choices stripped of him…Aiden couldn’t take that choice from him too.
He just had to try to make sure Jaskier knew Aiden was safe, by proving it with his actions.
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
Jim and Spock had no idea that the following event was about to unfold. As a matter of fact, it's so ridiculous that they didn't even think about what would happen next.
It occurred when an alien named Wocat Kganzok from the planet Uspanol invited the Enterprise's crew to dinner.
Knowing the entire crew couldn't attend the dinner, Jim and Spock thought their presence alone would satisfy the alien. It turned out to be a wise decision on their part.
Kganzok became frustrated at the lack of sheer numbers at the dinner table, and that's when things got out of hand-
⋆⭒˚.⋆☆⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆☆⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆☆⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆☆⋆⭒˚.⋆
"I can't believe this, Spock! What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Jim asked the potato next to him.
If Spock had an eyebrow to raise, he would have both of them arched. "I do not know, Jim. Our current predicament is rather unusual."
Jim inwardly groaned, "That's the understatement of the year, Spock!" At least Jim can feel Spock's presence inside his potato 'mind.' "We may become French fries soon. Doesn't it disturb you?"
"It does, but I am at a complete loss, Jim. I have no logical explanations." Spock peers at the environment with one of his lateral buds. "We are not the only potatoes here."
"I doubt they are sentient like we are, Spock," Jim argued.
Another voice interrupted. "Ahem, I object to your statement!" A small potato with a male voice said in a huff.
It didn't help that the potato looked like a variety of Yukon Gold.
"Great, just great." Jim sighed. "How long were you a potato, uh, Yukon?"
The small potato didn't bother correcting Jim about its name as it replied in a low voice, "Since yesterday. I feel my skin is starting to peel."
Then, inexplicably, Jim, Spock, and 'Yukon' regained their usual forms as more aliens showed up for Kganzok's dinner.
The reality is that 'Yukon' is actually a potato, but it is larger than a typical potato.
Much larger.
Jim rolled his now human eyes while Spock arched both eyebrows.
"How am I supposed to log this, Spock? Starfleet will think I've gone off the deep end."
Spock couldn't contain the humor in his eyes. "I believe that the human expression 'discretion is the better part of valor' applies here, Jim."
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
"Hello there viewers...Keiko here again...*I proceed to say this while traditionally bowing to the viewers as usual. To which I then proceed to bring my attention and eyesight back up again, in order to continue to address the viewers. I also now proceed to clear my throat, as I then proceed to continue, to properly address the viewers*...Now then viewers, before I proceed with the chapter, a recap is in order...So viewers, with that in mind...lets get on with the mandatory chapter recap now, shall we?...*I proceed to say this, while also smiling with both of my eyes closed, and my head tilted to one side, in a very cute looking manner*"
Date: Present Day, As It Is A Fourth Wall Break
"Hello viewers, Catherine here again...*Catherine proceeds to say this, while giving yet another very sexy cat pawing motion, with one of her hands*...Now then, enough about that, and let's...*Catherine proceeds to say this, while giving yet another very sexy cat pawing motion, with one of her hands. But suddenly, someone then proceeds to come into the frame of shot, and then proceeds to speak up*"
"Who the heck are you? And you seriously think that those pistols of yours are going to give you some sort of edge in what is to await you and Revy in the events to come?…*Angel Bluebell proceeds to come in to the frame of shot and then speak up*"
"And who are you supposed to be exactly? And by the way, the renaissance fair called, they want their larping armor back…*Catherine proceeds to say this, while giving off a very evil and devilish looking smirk*"
"Well Catherine it's funny you should mention that. Angel Bluebell here by the way viewers...And on the subject of one Catherine 'Cat' Lee viewers, she is after all, another version of me, Keiko, and Zachary...Now then viewers...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, while also proceeding to attempt to try and start the chapter. Only for Catherine to sort of throw a wrench into that*
"What do you mean I am another version of you?! I look nothing like you! Alright, you've officially become extremely annoying! So if I were you, I would start explaining things a bit more clearly. Unless you want to end up with bullet holes!...*Catherine proceeds to say this, while reaching for one of her currently holstered and modified Beretta 9Ms. To which she then proceeds to quickly remove it from its holster, and then proceed to point it directly at Angel Bluebell*"
"Well Catherine, you clearly do take after your sister Revy, there is definitely no doubt about that. But I think that you will find Catherine, that your bullets won't be able to land a scratch on me. So then viewers...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, only for Catherine to once again proceed to cut her off mid sentence*"
"Shut up, you're not making any sense! So I am supposed to believe that you possess some form of magic?! Well then, why don't we test that theory of yours, hmm?...*Catherine proceeds to say this, while then proceeding to immediately pull the trigger on her modified Beretta 9M. Which after a brief muzzle flash from her Beretta's barrel, a single bullet proceeds to quickly exit the barrel. And then proceeds to quickly make its way towards Angel Bluebell.*
"Okay Catherine, I guess that you were going to have to learn eventually. And for the record viewers? Catherine should be lucky that I'm damn near bulletproof. Which by the way viewers, is in fact a reference to She-Hulk, from one of her original comics...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this. And sure enough, as soon as the bullet from Catherine's Beretta hits Angel Bluebells gold chest plate. The bullet proceeds to instantly shatter into several tiny pieces of shrapnel, and then disintegrate*...Now then Catherine, is that more then enough proof for you?...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this to Catherine, only to be met by a currently very dumbfounded expression that is currently on her face*...Good, you seem to be a believer now...Now then viewers, what do you say, that we finally get on with the chapter now, hmm?...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, while also proceeding to smile with both of her eyes closed, in a very cute looking manner*"
Date: November 2, 1995
Okay, so things regarding Catherine, Revy, Rock, Benny, Dutch, and our supposed getaway from the Yellow Flag to the Lagoon Company torpedo boat. Well, they had sort of gotten a bit off the rails so too speak.
And as for why this was the case? Well, as we had been driving down the road at a very fast speed. None of us were able to see a quickly onrushing wave of bright white light coming towards us and the car, until it slammed into us, and then proceeded to blind all of us temporarily.
And the weird thing was, that once the light had then proceeded to quickly die down. And the car wound up swerving quite badly, with the tires squealing quite loudly. The car then proceeded to come to a screeching stop. As the front end of the car proceeded to emit quite a bit of steam from beneath the hood. Which indicated that the engine had seized.
But as for where we had all ended up? Well you see, about that...
"Why hello there, how nice of you all to join our little gathering," An evil sounding chorus of female voices proceeded to call out from just in front of the car in stereo.
And upon Catherine then proceeding to quickly glance upwards, her blue eyes then happened upon what appeared to be a young looking girl. Who had long black hair, and was wearing a multi colored dress. And more interestingly, she was currently wielding two ancient looking flintlock pistols.
But, that wasn't the only strange and bizarre thing about this girl. What was also very strange, was that this girl, was only one of several dozen of her. Which indicated that this girl had the ability to duplicate herself into several clones.
And then...
"Now then, shall we see just how much heavier magic is compared to bullets!" The girl and her clones proceeded to speak up with.
And then...
"Fourth Bullet: Dalet!" The multiple girls wound up all exclaiming together in unison. Which as the respective large and very strange looking Victorian clock faces behind them all began to briefly shine. And they each then raised one of their respective flintlock pistols. This caused the minute and hour hands of each of their respective large Victorian clock faces, to spin until the hour hand landed on the IV, or the roman numeral for four. And the minute hand, wound up landing once again on XII, or the roman numeral for twelve.
And this was then once again followed, by the multiple girls, to also proceed to put each of their respective and currently raised flintlock pistols to the temple on each of their respective heads.
Which was then followed after they had all shot themselves in the temple, by the all too familiar appeared of red colored magical energy, then proceeding to flow out from the IV roman numeral on each of the girls respective large Victorian clock faces. They all then, once again proceeded to point each of their respective now reloaded single flintlock pistols at Catherine, Revy, Rock, Benny, and Dutch.
And, with each of the flintlock pistols flintlock mechanisms once again then proceeding to emit a spark. This then caused each of the now newly loaded bullets, to exit the chambers of each of the Kurumi clones barrels of their respective single loaded flintlock pistols.
But, just like before as each of these multiple flintlock pistol bullets proceeded to quickly whizz through the air towards us, while leaving somewhat noticeable sound waves behind each of them as they proceeded to do so. They simply wound up slamming into the car, and pretty much impact the car all over the frame, doors, the hood, and pretty much the entire surface of the car.
"Okay viewers, well I think that that is more then enough of this current chapter for now...Angel Bluebell by the way here viewers...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, while smiling with both of her eyes closed. To which she then proceeds to open both of them up again, in order to continue, to properly address the viewers*...And also, let me now proudly announce, the successful merging of 'Of Arms And Ammunition,' into these current three fanfics!...Yes viewers, you did in fact read that part right...Black Lagoon, is now a part of these three fanfics...You know viewers, to help cater to a bit of an older audience?...But anyway viewers, things are about to get quite a bit crazy...So if I were you viewers, then I would be on the lookout for the next chapter!...So viewers, with this now very much still fresh on all of your minds, we all look forward to seeing you there...okay?...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, while also proceeding to smile with both of her eyes closed, in a very cute looking manner*"
"Yes indeed Bluebell...Hello there viewers, Keiko here again...*I proceed to say this while traditionally bowing to the viewers as usual. To which I then proceed to bring my attention and eyesight back up again, in order to continue to address the viewers. I also now proceed to clear my throat, as I then proceed to continue, to properly address the viewers*...And let me also welcome one Catherine 'Cat' Lee, and the rest of Lagoon Company into what is now four separate but merged anime fanfics...I mean after all viewers, you know of the anime Black Lagoon don't you?...But anyway viewers, see you lot in the next chapter...okay?...*I proceed to say this, while also smiling with both of my eyes closed, and my head tilted to one side, in a very cute looking manner*"
And now that the chapter recap is over and done with. Well, at least for now, we will now proceed on with the chapter at hand.
Date: August 12, 2018
Okay, so getting back to the current situation and the still ongoing fight at hand. And as a way for Angel Bluebell to help prepare herself and the rest of our allies for the eventual impending arrival of Balalaika and at least one other of the members of Hotel Moscow...
"Minna, we've got company, prepare yourselves!" Angel Bluebell proceeded to shoutout. Which since she had said her entire statement in Japanese, Balalaika wasn't able to understand what it was that Angel Bluebell had just said.
And sure enough...
"Comrade Sergeant, it would appear as though we have landed somewhere in Japan. Please remind me at some point to get a translator," The still audible voice of Balalaika then proceeded to speak up to the male that had most recently spoken to her with. Who was actually named Boris.
"Yes viewers, that is in fact one hundred percent true...Angel Bluebell here by the way viewers...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, while smiling with both of her eyes closed. To which she then proceeds to open both of them up again, in order to continue, to properly address the viewers*...Now then viewers...yes, Balalaika's Comrade Sergeant as she calls him, is actually named Boris...And no viewers, I don't mean Boris Grishenko from the James Bond movie Goldeneye...Which by the way viewers, I have heard that the James Bond video game of the same name is quite the iconic one...Mind you, if you play as Oddjob, or you have at any point played as Oddjob in that game, then you're a complete and utter cheater...I mean after all viewers, the creator of the Goldeneye video game themselves even said that playing as Oddjob is cheating...Mind you, Nightfire is one of the other well known James Bond games...and so is Everything Or Nothing as well...Heck, even Agent Under Fire is a good one as well...You know, the one with Nigel Bloch as the main villain?...But anyway viewers, I think that that is...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, only for someone to then proceed to interject from just out of the frame of shot. Which like all of the other times that this has happened during Angel Bluebell fourth wall breaks, has now once again caused one of her eyes to now proceed to start visibly twitching again*"
"Hey, so Bluebell?...*I proceed to say to Angel Bluebell just out of the frame of shot. Which as Angel Bluebell proceeds to listen to how I just said my statement to her. Angel Bluebell then realized, that I had said this statement of mine with a bit of fright and fear to my current tone*"
"What is it Keiko, can't you see I'm a little bit busy here? What could you possibly have to say, that would be important enough for you to proceed to interrupt me?...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say, which she proceeds to say, while one of her eyes, is still currently proceeding to visibly twitch*"
"Excuse me, can you two help me? I seem to have gotten lost. Can either of you please tell me where I am exactly?...*A female who is currently wearing an obvious black and white maid outfit, now proceeds to come into the frame of shot. Which upon Angel Bluebell instantly realizing who she is. Her whole body now proceeds to instantly tense up. And she then proceeds to instinctively get into a battle ready stance, while not letting this girl in the maid outfit notice this*"
"Uh, no mam...can't say that either of us know either...And by the way, that is a very beautiful maid outfit that you're wearing...*Angel Bluebell proceeds to say this, while still very much holding her current battle ready stance. And while a look of slight fear, is also now somewhat noticeable on her face*"
And as for me and this current and most recent development...
"So by the way viewers, Keiko here by the way...So if you don't know who this girl is...then let me and Angel Bluebell both introduce you, to one Rosarita Cisneros...or as all of you diehard Black Lagoon anime fans know her more as...Roberta: The Unstoppable Chambermaid...or, as Balalaika knows her more as, The Bloodhound Of Florencia...So yea viewers, you should now pretty much realize exactly why Angel Bluebell is a bit on edge at the current moment...Because as Rock himself once said...She's like a killer robot from the future! And we don't have Schwarzenegger to help us out!...So like I said viewers, Roberta isn't the sort of assassin who you would want to get on her bad side in any sort of way...So let's just break down the current tale of the take at the moment shall we?...So we have Revy, Catherine, Balalaika, and now we have Roberta as well...Do you notice anything significant about these four women?...All four of them are the deadliest women in the Black Lagoon anime...And believe me viewers, when I say, that though none of them can wind up doing any sort of damage to us...that doesn't mean that that factor will wind up changing at some point later on...And what I mean by this viewers, is that magic, can sometimes be combined with things...Which is this case, is firearms, and bullets as well...Yes viewers, for an anime fanfiction first...We're going to be combining arms and ammunition, with the use of magic...Which will be done, in order to increase the damage potential tenfold...So viewers...I think that this is more then enough of a good place to end this current chapter...But don't worry viewers, as we will be getting right back into the action in the next chapter...So viewers, see you there, okay?"
I proceeded to think to myself.
Which as usual, while I had been thinking this exact same thought. I had also proceeded to briefly turn my eyesight, as well as my attention, slightly and briefly to the left of me, in order to briefly address the viewers. But this time, I didn't proceed to smile with both of my eyes closed, and my head tilted to one side in a cute looking manner.
And this was due in a very large part, that due the sudden appearance of Roberta. And as such, I had proceeded to instead give a fake looking sort of smile. When in reality, I was currently very and quite justifiably afraid.
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] Among the Stacks - Chapter 6 - Literarion - Good Omens (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
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Fandoms:
Good Omens (TV)
Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Relationships:
Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Characters:
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Muriel (Good Omens)
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Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens)
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Moral Dilemmas
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Podfic Length: 7-10 Hours
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Series:
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[Podfic] Among the Stacks
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2025-09-02
Updated:
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[Podfic] Among the Stacks
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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
Elizabeth set off on a tour of the Lake District. At least, that's what she told herself. Really, she just wanted to tour Mr. Darcy's estate, Pemberley, and see the gentleman himself.
Pemberley was such an impressive estate. Elizabeth gasped audibly upon seeing it. It... had... Pillars! Pillars supporting roofs- what a happy thought! And a park. The idea of an estate having a park was such a novel and unheard of idea. And stairs leading up to the main entrance. What a genius way to enter the house: with stairs! The Darcys were truly masterminds. And a housekeeper, named Mrs. Reynolds. Wow! How awe-inspiring! Who could have thought of hiring a housekeeper... for a large house?
The main attraction, however, was a marble statue of Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth had been staring at it for a good ten minutes. Without knowing what she did, she reached her hand out and stroked the marble Mr. Darcy's cheek. It was smooth and cold, just how she imagined his cheek to be. Her finger went to his nose. What a fine nose it was, pointed and patrician. There were several big pimples near his nose, too, solidifying his handsomeness. His eyes, though marble white and without color or expression, were beautiful, for Elizabeth could still remember his blue eyes clearly, and the beautiful shape of the statue only enhanced her daydreams, in which she stared into the man's eyes as his body pressed against hers and they kissed. A shame that the statue was missing his fine, long eyelashes. Elizabeth had estimated those eyelashes to be about 6 inches long, and they looked perfectly scrumptious, just like a Subway 6 inch sandwich. Elizabeth ran her fingers through his hair. It was just like his hair in real life- silky soft and wavy. The texture made Elizabeth think of a vulture's feathers. His forehead, though not as superior as Mr. Collins's gigantic one, was still wonderfully large, and showed off his receding hairline. And then, her thumb wandered to his lips. Oh! What large, juicy, fish lips they were! Fish lips were all the rage now. To be sure, there was some lip cracking, which the statue captured particularly well, but the cracks were endearing to Elizabeth. No man was perfect, after all, and the lip cracks were the greatest of Mr. Darcy's faults. Definitely. Elizabeth leaned forwards and placed her rather thin lips on Mr. Darcy's statue's large fish lips. Since there was such a difference in lip size between the two, the statue's lips ended up also kissing Elizabeth's nostrils and chin. The building was rather hot at the moment, so Elizabeth had been sweating a little, and during the kiss the perspiration on her philtrum and chin was transferred to the statue, making it moist and sweaty also.
The kiss was everything a kiss ought to be. It was wonderful- magical. So magical, in fact, that it summoned Mr. Darcy, the living man, himself! He cleared his throat behind the marble statue.
"Mr. Darcy!" exclaimed Elizabeth, jumping back in shame and humiliation.
"Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy bowed stiffly, not knowing whether to be scandalised, mortified, flattered, or his default setting- arrogant. As a result they stood some moments in silence, until he invited them out to a Grecian folly.
Inauspiciously, it began raining just as they set out. By the time they reached the folly, they were drenched, and did not look as if they were within the bounds of propriety. Mr. Darcy's hair was so wet and drenched through that it was sticking together in clumps and sticking to his head, giving the appearance of oily aquatic weeds you could find in a pond. Elizabeth looked no better. A troublesome strand of her hair was wet and sticking to her face. At one point, it had been stuck in her mouth, and she had taking an embarrassingly long amount of time to get the strand of hair out of her mouth. She was wearing a light, cream dress; and with no spencer, pelisse, or shawl, the wet gown... uh... did not hide her... figure...
Mr. Darcy abruptly said,
"I have seen you struggle in vain. It will not do. I now realise that your feelings cannot be repressed or hidden like a normal lady would. You obviously ardently admire and love me. Will you marry me, Miss Bennet?"
Elizabeth gaped at him. Yes, he had proposed, but at what cost? He knew her feelings, but what were
his
feelings?
"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode for the gentleman to express his own feelings and reasons for proposing marriage. Could you do so now?"
"I admit, I am inclined towards you, Miss Bennet. No other woman has captivated my eye in this way."
Elizabeth smiled dreamily, blissfully, opened her mouth to accept, only for her annoying strand of hair to be blowed back into her mouth. While she was blushing at the perverseness of the situation and endeavouring to get the hair out of her mouth, Mr. Darcy continued,
"By captivating my eye, I only meant that you stared at the eyes of my marble statue for a ridiculous amount of time. But other than that, yes, I suppose I fancy you- I might even venture to say I am fond of you. Why, then, have I not proposed? Well, I do want to make you understand this point. I certainly would not have proposed if I had not seen that embarrassing display between you and... the statue. The depth of your sentiments is what propelled me to propose. I would have never done so otherwise, for you are so impoverished it is laughable. Your sister is constantly coughing. I am so much better than you; I deserve so much better than a poor country miss. But I like you, and you evidently lust after me a great deal, so I suppose we might as well get married. But do you understand that I would have
never
proposed on the basis of my own feelings? I only did so because yours were evident. You must understand that point."
Elizabeth stared. Was he serious? She could not imagine the serious, brooding Mr. Darcy joking, but this! This was beyond ridiculousness, beyond laughable! This... this was... This was
insulting
!
Who
ever
could have conceived of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy insulting Miss Elizabeth Bennet arrogantly in a proposal?
Tears- or raindrops, I really can't tell- were streaming down Elizabeth's face as she made the fateful reply,
"No.
"No, I cannot marry you, Mr. Darcy, when you so obviously regard me with disgust. You say you like me, but are you sure about that?"
https://media.tenor.com/wWY4eFBZE8gAAAAm/john-cena-are-you-sure-about-that.webp
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
Another week passes without comment. Peter finds himself in a minor crisis when school lets out for the weekend. He loses access to the biggest meal of his day, which is starting to become an issue. He’s already losing weight; his metabolism is still churning away at a high speed, even though he’s learned to ignore the hunger. He can’t afford to buy the amount of food it would take to keep himself fed. There simply isn’t enough money left for it after using the laundromat and dry cleaners (of
course
the stupid uniform needs
dry
cleaning
, ugh). He does have some savings, if one could consider the spare change left over from each week so far--a whopping $1.97--to be
savings.
He tried dumpster diving, but that didn’t get him much. The first dumpster he found was so foul he was gagging from three feet away. And he kept hearing voices around himself when he got close to it, distracting him, though he didn’t see anyone. Still, the entire experience was enough to put him off the idea for now. He felt oddly judged by the whole experience.
Fortunately, he has an idea.
Peter leaves the firehouse Saturday afternoon and finds his way back into the heart of Crime Alley, back at the restaurant where he met Omar and Sophia. The walk there is as hair-raising as it was when he first stumbled through it, but he manages to look just miserable and poor enough to avoid the attention of the gangs loitering on the street. None of them even give him a second look. Thank god.
He slips into the alley leading towards the restaurant and knocks on the door. It swings open almost immediately; Omar stands with a baseball bat in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other, clearly ready for a fight. He freezes when he sees Peter standing at the door, and a very brief, very awkward silence passes between them.
“I, uh, I’m staying in town for awhile longer, and I was wondering if you needed a dishwasher on the weekend?” Peter asks after a moment. “Even if it’s just for a meal or two instead of money--”
Omar sets the bat down, and waves Peter inside. “Actually, yeah, we could use some help on weekends. The dinner rush is always brutal. Are tips okay?”
“Well, yeah, sure--” Peter starts.
“When can you start?”
“Now,” Peter says.
Omar tosses an apron his way. “Let’s get you set up then.”
Peter’s worked before; oddjobs, mostly. Manning a dishwasher at a busy restaurant is new to him, but he picks up the particulars of it quickly. It’s hard, miserable work in a room thick with steam and humidity. By the end of the day, he’s exhausted, but fifty five dollars richer. Not exactly a great exchange rate for six hours of backbreaking work, but it’s money he sorely needs.
Omar meets him at the door, just as exhausted as Peter. He presses a carryout bag into Peter’s hand. “Here. You did great today, Peter. Can you make it tomorrow?”
Peter almost says no until he smells the food. It’s freshly made, and the scent of it is enough to make his stomach growl. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
“Good. See you tomorrow, Peter,” Omar says, smiling.
Peter makes it home, showers, and sits down hard near his bed. He looks at the carryout bag, half asleep already, and wonders if he should bother with food at all. He’s clean, he’s tired, and he’s not even that hungry anymore, really. The food will keep until tomorrow.
He’s just about to fall asleep slouched against the wall when something nudges his shoulder. Hard.
“
Nuh uh, kid,”
Sam says. “
You need the food. Eat.
”
Peter lets out a frustrated whine, but stirs awake. He did just put him six hours of hard labor for this meal. He might as well enjoy it. And he hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast (cold beans and rice, ugh).
He demolishes his meal after that first bite, setting aside the empty cartons to throw away later. He crawls into his bed and flops across it bonelessly; full and exhausted. He’s asleep in minutes.
* * *
The next day is identical to the last; he spends hours working the dish pit, gets a meal and another fifty dollars for his trouble, and walks home exhausted. His wrist is starting to give him trouble again; it aches and throbs in time with his heartbeat. He might have to buy a splint for it at some point.
He takes his meal to the roof this time. If he goes into the firehouse, he’ll just fall asleep. And he doesn’t want to keep startling awake in the middle of his meal like last night. Honestly, it felt like someone was shaking him awake every five seconds.
“
We were,
” Mantis says. “
It was kind of fun!
”
Peter plops down on the edge of the roof and starts in on his meal. It’s an apple curry, vegetarian, and oddly spicy. It’s quickly becoming his favorite dish at the restaurant. He has to eat it carefully with his good hand.
He doesn’t react when he hears someone land on the roof behind him. He turns to face Nightwing, grinning.
“Hey, Nightwing--” He pauses. “Oh, you’re not Nightwing.”
The man standing in the middle of the roof, hands resting on his knees, is wearing a bright yellow suit that stands out against the Gotham night’s hazy orange glow. There’s a bat symbol across his chest that seems to draw in light. It takes Peter a moment to recognize him from the descriptions he’s heard from school and the subway. This is the Signal. And he looks like he’s gone ten rounds against a gorilla.
“Uh, hey, man, are you okay?” Peter asks.
“What? Yeah. Just, you know, a little winded--” Signal says, turning to face him. He freezes for a moment, looking around Peter in frank confusion.
“
Can he see us?”
Sam asks.
“
I think he can,
” Dr. Strange answers slowly.
“
His eyes are following us,
” Bucky says.
Peter tilts his head, clueless. “Are you
sure
you're okay?”
Signal pauses for a moment, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I’m not doing the Ghostbusters thing tonight, I refuse.” He straightens up and looks at Peter. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. Pulling a double shift tonight, and I’m feeling it.”
Peter decides to politely ignore the ‘Ghostbusters’ comment. Technically, a normal human being wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. “Oh. You want some food? You look like you could use a break.”
Signal pauses for a moment, obviously debating it, then shrugs and walks over to sit beside him. He perks up when he catches the scent of the food Peter hands him. “Is this from Omar and Sophie’s place?”
“Yeah, I work there now,” Peter says.
“Nice," Signal says, dropping down on the ledge beside Peter. "I guess I could take a lunch break.”
They eat in silence for a few moments. Signal demolishes his food in minutes, always looking at Peter from the corner of his eye.
“So, why is Gotham’s daytime superhero working the night shift?”
Signal sighs. “Because shit’s hit the fan in a bad way. Something’s happening in Metropolis, and some new crew has moved into town. They’re hitting all of us at once. It’s almost coordinated. B-man’s losing sleep over it. Oh,
and
Catwoman is back in town.”
Peter tilts his head, thinking. “Oh.”
“Plus, no one’s heard from Wonder Woman in weeks,” Signal adds. “That’s got everyone on edge. The League is losing it.”
“What?” Peter asks, straightening up. “Why? Where is she?”
An explosion sets off in the city. A big one, judging by the fireball that lights up the sky. Signal is on his feet in a heartbeat. “Shit. That was Arkham. Listen, I gotta go. And
you
--”
He turns to face Peter, freezes for a moment, then shakes his head. “Stay inside, all right? The city’s dangerous.”
He leaps off of the ledge and swings away into the night. It’s easier to trace his path. Peter watches him, disturbed, and then crawls down and heads back into the firehouse.
He doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.
* * *
Days pass by and grow colder, so Peter upgrades his transit pass for bus use and starts to catch the bus outside the subway. The stop he needs is only a mile away from the school. The problem is that he has to sprint from the subway to the bus stop in order to catch it in time. Gotham's public transit is laughably inefficient. He’s starting to miss New York’s subway more and more by the day.
The driver is a big man, soft around the middle, with a dour expression almost permanently fixed on his face. Peter goes out of his way to leave the man alone. The only thing he says to the man is a quiet thank you on his way off the bus. It pays off. The man keeps the bus at his stop for an extra thirty seconds after a week or two, and Peter’s able to make the last leg of his trip in a warmer environment.
One day, when the autumn rain starts to come down hard, the bus driver stops him before he leaves.
"It's raining like hell out there, kid. You got an umbrella?" he asks. He pauses, takes another look at Peter. “Or a coat?”
"What? Oh, no, sir." Peter looks outside. "It's just a little rain. I'll be fine."
"Bullshit. You'll catch your death of cold out there," the man replies gruffly. He reaches over to some compartment in his cubicle and pulls out a brand new umbrella and a scarf. "Here. Take this."
Peter, startled, takes it. It's the first thing he's been given since the man and woman at the restaurant fed him. He's taken off guard. "Thank you. I'll, uh, bring it back tomorrow. Promise."
The bus driver watches him, frowning. "Just keep it, kid. Hurry up and get to class. The storm's gettin' worse and that thing won't save you from the hail."
* * *
He makes it inside, and he’s only
half
soaked. The school, sporting marble floors and polished wood halls, is chilly enough to keep him awake. That keeps him from catching a lecture or a snarky comment from his teachers, but his clothes never quite dry out. They’re damp throughout the day. They cheap out on the heat even in rich kid schools, apparently.
He suffers through it, and he manages just fine. But by lunch, something feels off. It isn’t his spider sense. It isn’t anything he can put a name to, not yet. He puzzles over it as the last class of the day comes to a close and the bell sounds off.
He doesn't realize what's wrong, why he feels so
off,
until he realizes he can see fully out of his left eye. He tests his eyesight, closing one, then the other while focusing on his thumb. There's an
empty
spot on his thumb when he looks at it with his left eye. Not darkness. Just a strange sort of staticy nothing. He sighs. An ocular migraine. Just what he needs.
This could be bad. He doesn’t have a support network in Gotham. He can’t text a 911 over to May. He can’t beg Karen to call Happy or Tony. He’s on his own. And he’s going to be fully blind and in excruciating pain within an hour, if he’s lucky. If he isn’t, it’ll hit him when he’s halfway home.
"
You need to get somewhere dark and quiet immediately,"
Shuri says.
"
Do you get these often
?" Dr. Strange asks.
"
Kid looks like he’s going to keel over,"
Bucky mutters.
Their words echo across his subconscious, and he
winces
, reflexively thinking at...someone. Them. Whoever
that
is. It's hard to focus. It’s hard to
see.
Please be quiet, it hurts
, he thinks.
They fall silent and still. Peter relaxes a tiny bit. He can still hear the electricity running through the walls and the thumping of a dozen heartbeats up and down the hall. He does his best to wind around them on his way to the exit.
He bumps into someone near the lockers, roughly shoving them into their locker as he stumbles past them.
"Hey, what the fuck!" a voice yells. The sound is almost enough to drop Peter to his knees. "What the fuck is your problem, new kid?"
"Shut up," Peter grits out.
"
What?
" They sound absolutely furious now. A warning flash of his spider senses kicks in and he deftly shifts away from them as they reach out to grab him. “Hey--”
“Not now,” Peter says shortly. He hates being rude, but god, he can’t handle hearing their voice right now. He shoves past them and heads towards the main doors at a trot.
He doesn’t hear anyone behind him. Which is good. The last thing he needs is to catch a beating from some rich kid because he bumped into them. He’ll find them later and apologize. Right now, he heads straight for the bus stop. Normally he would walk to the subway station, but today that’s out of the question.
* * *
The train is absolute torture. The blind spot in his left eye is gradually growing, and there’s a streak across his right eye now. He feels clammy and shaky. He’s sick enough that people on the subway become visibly concerned. He must look absolutely horrible if random Gothamites break through their infamous standoffishness to reach out to a stranger.
“You look like hell,” a man says beside him. He's tall, broad shouldered, and there's a streak of premature grey in his hair. Combined with the leather jacket and red hood, he looks intimidating as hell. There’s an air of restrained violence and brooding fury to the man. Normally Peter would avoid a bruiser like this, but the only open seat was next to the guy. If the guy knocks him unconscious, it’d be worth the concussion.
Peter, already reeling from the sound of the subway's brakes
screeching
beneath his feet, sways. "Migraine. Sorry. I won’t puke on you, promise."
The man is still for a moment, then pulls something out of his pocket. "Gimme your hand."
"What?"
"Just do it," the man retorts, annoyed.
Peter hesitates, but puts his hand out towards the man. He presses a pair of earplugs into Peter's palm.
"Put those in," the man says. "And hold still."
Peter stares at the earplugs dumbly, then quickly puts them in. They don't block all sound, but they block
enough
of it that Peter relaxes.
The man gently slides a pair of sunglasses over Peter's eyes. They're too big for him, but they work. Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief when the train’s harsh lights are dimmed.
"Thanks," Peter says. The subway screeches to a halt, the hydraulics letting out a hiss of air. With the earplugs in, it’s almost bearable.
"Yeah, whatever," the man mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he heads for the exit. "Just get home."
Peter plans to do exactly that. The subway is much more bearable with the earplugs and sunglasses.
Even with the earplugs and sunglasses, the sights, sounds, and smells of the city are almost too much. He crawls into the firehouse, leaves his backpack in the middle of the room, and crawls into his bed. He buries himself in blankets in an effort to block out the ambient noise of the city, whimpering when a truck blasts its horn on the street just outside the firehouse.
"
Enough,"
a woman says, her voice thick with a Sokovian accent. She sounds close. Like she's right beside him.
Peter opens his eyes to try and find her. He sees a hand, glowing red, hovering above him. It reaches down and taps his forehead.
The pain washes away immediately, replaced by a bone deep exhaustion. Peter slumps in relief, closing his eyes.
When he opens them again, he’s in the Avengers Compound. The lights are dim, the windows are dark, and the only sound he can hear comes from the kitchen. Peter sits up from the couch, disoriented, and then lays back down when the room starts to tilt. He looks around, and realizes that he’s not alone.
“Rest,” Wanda Maximoff says to him. She looks worn down, grief stricken. There’s an air of
sadness
that hovers around her, thick enough to make his own heart clench. A casual wave of her hand lifts the blankets up and over him. “I made a safe place for both of us.”
“Oh,” he says, caught in a post-migraine brain fog. He snuggles down into the blankets and couch. “Thank you.”
Wanda doesn’t answer. She focuses on the kitchen, and specifically, the man inside the kitchen. It’s Vision, fussing over a meal and humming to himself. Peter remembers this; he had spent the night at the Compound, helping Vision perfect his cooking skills.
Wanda watches the memory with rapt attention.
Peter sleeps.
* * *
For a time, his life hits a shaky sort of equilibrium. He goes to school, does homework, snoops around the rougher part of town, picks up the odd shift at the restaurant for Omar and Sophia, and does his best to blend in. He still has a nagging feeling that he's not the only person to pop into this universe from his own; whenever he thinks about it, his spider senses kick up ever so slightly.
And through it all, he ponders a way to get home. His mind ticks away at it in the back of his mind, steady and constant, picking at theories, ideas, and experiments to test.
He keeps all of the promising ideas in a notebook, which isn't ideal, but it's all he has. If he was back home, he'd break into Tony's lab, spool up FRIDAY's lab settings and start flinging models around.
In Gotham, he doesn't even have a cell phone. He barely has a calculator.
One more roadblock among many. He can save up enough to buy electronics, but finding a place to build things will be difficult.
Well, that’s a problem for another time.
His savings grow. And he starts to make a few purchases with the cash. Better tools, cloth and leather, a sewing kit. Capsules. A first aid kit. Goggles.
It’s slow going, but he knew it would be from the start. He has time.
* * *
His day is going well until his physical science class. The last class of his day.
“Mr. Parker, meet me after class, please,” the teacher says, his tone flat, unimpressed, and bordering on belligerent.
Great,
Peter thinks. Did he forget to turn in an assignment? “Uh, got it, sir.”
The teacher huffs, turns around, and begins his lecture. Peter frowns, baffled. He keeps his head down. He doesn’t bother anyone. What did he do wrong?
“
Uh, got it, sir,”
a sneering voice says behind him, followed by a paper ball bouncing off of his head.
Peter rolls his eyes and ignores it.
"Kids are the worst
," Bucky mutters at the edge of his mind.
Peter focuses on the class, wondering what he could have possibly done to earn the professor’s ire. When the last bell sounds, the rest of the students get up and leave. A few of the larger boys--the ones sitting behind him--sneer at him on their way back.
What the hell is
their
problem, Peter wonders. He stays in his seat, waiting to be called to the front by the teacher. That doesn’t happen until the principal, a short man with a serious face and impeccable suit, strolls into the room.
“Mr. Parker. Up here,” the professor says.
Peter stands up, grabs his backpack, and walks up to the front desk, taking a seat near the teacher’s desk. “Is something wrong?”
“I wanted to discuss your test score, Mr. Parker. Did you know that you are the
only
student to get a perfect score on this test? That hasn’t happened since I began teaching at this academy ten years ago.”
Peter allows himself to relax. Okay. He can stammer through this just fine. “Oh. I thought I was in trouble--”
“You are,” the teacher says flatly, looking up at him. “A perfect score on this test is only possible if you’re a certifiable genius, which you are not. I don’t tolerate cheating. The principal is here to discuss ending your scholarship.”
“I---
what?
”
“You heard me. How did you do it? Cell phone? Did you break into my office to memorize the answers? Hm?”
Peter stares at him in disbelief, utterly dumbstruck.
An older voice-thought, as dry and as unimpressed as the teacher--he’s heard the other voices call this one Nick--says, “
Did this man just accuse Stark's kid of cheating?”
“
I think he did,
” Shuri replies, just as unimpressed.
The principal clears his throat, drawing Peter’s eyes towards him. “Answer his questions please, Mr. Parker.”
“I didn’t cheat,” Peter says flatly.
The teacher scoffs. “Please. You? Getting a
perfect
score? Stop wasting my time. As I said,
no one
has gotten a perfect score in my class.”
“That says more about your failure to teach than anything else,” Peter snaps, his temper coming loose for the first time since he came to Gotham. Between the lack of sleep, the constant hunger, and the backbreaking work from his job on the weekend, it’s a surprise he’s managed to keep it as long as he has. “I don’t cheat.”
“No? Guess we’ll do this the hard way, then,” the teacher sneers. He pulls out a test from his desk and sets it down in front of Peter. “If you can get a perfect score on this test, I’ll be inclined to believe you, and I’ll withdraw my complaint. I’m sure a
genius
like yourself can handle this.”
Peter looks at the test. It’s far more difficult than the one he supposedly ‘cheated’ on; this is senior AP level physics that he hadn’t touched at Midtown. The questions are far more complex than what they’ve been studying, using concepts he hasn’t been taught in any school.
It’s a good thing he learned physics from Tony Stark.
“Fine. Give me a pen.”
“You’ll want a pencil for this--”
“No. Give me a pen. I don’t make mistakes, unlike you,” Peter says, letting his temper get the best of him.
The teacher scowls, but hands him a pen. “Roll up your sleeves. I want to make sure you don’t have anything stashed inside them. You have an hour starting from the moment you put your name on the test.”
Peter rolls up his sleeves and takes the pen. He starts the test and focuses on each problem, working methodically through each one using the tips and tricks Tony taught him during his internship days. He finishes it and sets the pen down.
There is not one scratched out answer on the paper.
“
They didn’t even bother to make the test difficult,
” Shuri sniffs.
“Thirty minutes? That’s awfully quick,” the teacher drawls, taking the test. “Let’s see how badly you failed.”
They sit in silence while the teacher grades the test. His self assured smirk slowly drops away as he goes down the paper. After fifteen minutes, he looks up at Peter, blinking in astonishment.
Peter stares back at him, defiant.
“Well?” the principal asks. “How did he do?”
“He, uh. He aced it. There isn’t one mistake,” the teacher says numbly. “I...but--”
“Well, then I see no reason why his scholarship should end,” the principal says easily. He looks at Peter. “Thank you for staying late to clear this up for us, Mr. Parker. You’re dismissed.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says, rolling his sleeves down and snatching up his backpack. He shrugs it on and stalks down the hall out of the school.
He’s missed his bus; he’ll have to walk across town to get back to the fire station now.
Above him, the clouds rumble, and rain starts to fall. He growls in frustration, rubbing his eyes, and stalks down the street.
* * *
Unseen by Peter, the dusted walk with him.
"I don't get it," Star Lord says, frowning back at the school. "Why'd they do that? He’s not a bad kid. He does school stuff."
"Because he is different from them, and that is something they cannot bear," Loki answers. "The mentors will leave him be for now, but his peers will not. He's proven himself worthy to their instructors. They will take it as a threat."
"Sounds like you've lived that life," Shuri says.
"It isn't unfamiliar to me. The child should prepare himself.”
“It’s a little strange to hear you worry about the kid,” Nick Fury says.
Loki shoots a venomous look his way. “My wellbeing is unfortunately tied to this idiot child. His continued survival is to my benefit.”
“He can handle himself,” Bucky says idly, walking alongside Peter. He does that often, along with Shuri and Sam. "Kid’s a lot like Steve."
“Let’s hope that’s true,” Nick Fury says. “From what I’ve seen, Gotham could use a bit of red and blue.”
* * *
It’s late by the time he gets back to the firehouse. The sun has already gone down, and the air is growing colder by the minute. He’ll have to move fast if he intends to finish his homework before freezing. He grabs a couple of protein bars to snack on, and then casually leaps out of the second floor window to the alley below. He walks towards his usual spot and then freezes halfway.
Someone is lying in the street near the streetlight he uses for homework. A teenager, wearing a red and black outfit. It takes a moment for Peter to recognize the costume, but when he does, his stomach drops. Red Robin, bleeding and groaning in pain, tries to stand, slips, and falls again.
Peter can hear distant, angry voices growing closer. He drops his backpack at the base of the streetlight, grabs Red Robin, and lifts him up. The hero winces, hissing in pain, and tries to move away from him, clearly half conscious.
“Easy,” Peter hisses back. “I need to hide you. You can trust me.”
Red Robin freezes for a moment, then nods before letting his head go slack. He’s coming in and out of consciousness, and that has Peter worried. He Red Robin into a fireman’s carry across his shoulders. He jogs over to a nearby fire escape, climbing up the side of the rattling, metal stairs as quickly as he can. He sets him down on one of the landings overlooking the street, and briefly checks the fallen hero. Red Robin hisses when he prods his side, gripping his wrist, and glaring warily. His eyes are still hazy, but they’re starting to focus on him more.
"Okay, it's bad, but not life threatening. I think you cracked a rib,” Peter says. “That sucks, but you'll be okay as long as you tape them up. And, you know, avoid leaping off of buildings for awhile. Trust me on that one.”
Red Robin says nothing, but he does squint at Peter, tilting his head curiously.
The angry voices around the corner grow louder, drawing nearer. Peter looks over his shoulder. "Just, stay here. I'll make sure they don't find you. Okay? Stay awake. I think you might have a concussion, too."
He starts down the fire escape before Red Robin can respond, jumping down the last two flights before making his way back to the streetlight and opening his backpack. He starts to pull out his homework, and pretends to focus on it when a crowd of furious men in cheap suits storm up to him.
Four pairs of feet edge into his periphery, but Peter can sense at least five others nearby. Some are going up and down alleys, but most are focused on him. None of them are heading towards Red Robin. Good.
"Hey, kid," a man growls. "What the fuck are you doing? It's the middle of the goddamn night."
"Homework," Peter says, bored and resigned. "What are
you
doing?"
"What the fuck are you doing homework in the street for?"
"Because my home doesn't have electricity."
That sets off a round of murmurs, a few scoffs, and someone chuckling low and calling him an orphan. Which is true, but also rude and kind of baffling as far as insults go. Even Flash’s ‘Penis Parker’ jibes are better, and that’s truly saying something.
"You seen anyone around here?"
"Just you,” Peter says, half paying attention. Someone looms over him and blocks out the light he’s using to read through his textbook. “Hey, move, you're in my light."
"There's blood next to you."
"There's blood all over the street," Peter retorts. "So what?"
There's a brief silence and then Peter is grabbed and hauled to his feet. His books and homework are kicked out of his hands and the man to his right slugs him right across his jaw. Before he can recover, the man to his left drives his fist into Peter's left eye hard enough for stars to appear.
Peter's left standing between them, reeling. If the men weren't holding him up, he'd be on the ground.
"I don't like being lied to. That’s blood’s fresh," the man growls. He pulls a knife out of his pocket and points it at Peter threateningly. "If you're covering for that freak..."
"Dude, I'm literally just trying to do my homework," Peter mumbles. He can sense Red Robin behind him, watching from the fire escape above. He hopes the guy is smart enough to stay hidden. He’s hungry, and while he can probably handle this group of thugs, he’ll be down for awhile trying to recover. "I don't pay attention to the street. People think you're trying to get into their business. It just causes trouble."
The man holding the knife considers Peter's words for a long moment. Finally, he scoffs, putting the knife away and motioning towards the two men holding Peter up. They drop him.
Peter lands on his hands and knees with a grunt. He starts to stand, but a swift kick to his ribs sends him sprawling across the sidewalk. The men laugh, and one kicks his text book into a puddle as they leave, walking down the street and murmuring about where to search next. Peter waits until they turn the corner before standing up and rescuing his book.
It's utterly soaked. Ruined. He sighs. "Great. That's a fine I'm not looking forward to."
"You all right?" a quiet, slightly breathless voice asks from behind him.
Peter starts, turning around and finding himself face to face with the Red Robin. "What? Yeah. How'd you sneak up on me like that?"
"I move quietly," Red Robin says. He frowns. "Thank you. For saving me."
"No problem. You gonna be alright? Cracked ribs suck."
"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before," he answers. "What about you?"
"I've taken way harder punches back home. That was nothing," Peter says, half amused.
He doesn't realize how bad that sounds until Red Robin's frown deepens, turning a touch sad. "Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better." He looks Peter over, then looks at his notebook. "Gotham Prep, huh?"
"I got lucky with a Wayne scholarship. It's, uh, my one chance, you know?"
Red Robin tilts his head, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I know." He pauses, as if debating something, then shakes his head. "I better go. Stay safe, all right? Find a better place to do homework. The city library is open later than you think. You should study there."
That hadn't occurred to Peter. He blinks, nodding. "Yeah. Okay."
Red Robin gives him another lingering, curious look before ducking into a nearby alley and disappearing into the darkness.
Well, that was exciting. Peter reaches up and touches his eye, then winces. Hopefully that heals overnight. The last thing he needs is to show up at school with a black eye.
Speaking of school, he still needs to do his homework. Sighing, Peter grabs his ruined book and his notebook. It won’t take long.
* * *
After the test debacle, the professors and teachers shift their tone, just a tad. They stop throwing 'gotcha' questions at Peter, content with the knowledge that he's capable of keeping up academically, if nothing else.
The same cannot be said for his social life.
"Please take your seats-- Edison Bright, is there a problem?"
"Yeah, I'm not sitting next to the charity case anymore. He's bringing down the mood. Looks like he 'fell down some stairs' last night, and I'm sick of seeing his face."
That brings the chatter in the classroom to a halt. The professor sighs. "Sit down, Edison."
Peter, caught
completely
off guard, stares at the guy. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice. This is the kid he ran into that day his migraine kicked in. That explains a few things.
"No way. My father doesn't pay my tuition for me to sit next to his kind. Half of the reason I’m here is to network. What am I going to get out of networking with
him
?"
Wow, what a dick,
Peter thinks. His sentiment is shared with a few others in the classroom, judging by their expressions, but no one comes to his defense. Most just aim sour looks at Edison and then carefully avoid Peter’s eyes. They may not like him, but they’re not going to turn on one of their own in Peter's defense.
Typical.
There’s a lengthy pause as the professor visibly weighs between standing up to Edison’s bullying and not angering the son of a wealthy donor and alumni. Finally, he sighs.
"Will someone please trade seats with Mr. Bright?"
A boy in the front row raises his hand. "I will."
"Thank you, Tim," the professor says, audibly relieved. He speaks above the sound of Tim and Edison trading desks and pointedly makes no comment when Edison roughly kicks Peter’s desk on his way by. "If you'll all please turn to page twenty-five--"
“
Dick,
” Bucky mutters.
The lecture drones on, no different than any other English class he's had. Peter is half paying attention, half doodling, unaware of the sharp scrutiny of Tim beside 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
Thursday, April 30.
Mulder and Scully don’t often get to spend a day in court; it almost feels like a treat. An exhausting, headache-inducing, occasionally disheartening treat.
The only real upside is that they usually drive together.
They’re in Baltimore, and even though the drive back to the office is less than an hour, Mulder can feel his energy flagging.
“You hungry?” Mulder asks, sliding into the driver’s seat. “We can grab dinner before we head back.”
“Mulder, I’m wiped out,” Scully sighs.
“Alright,” he replies, subdued. He puts the keys in the ignition and starts the car.
They’ve gone two blocks when Scully speaks again. “I could go for pizza,” she says softly.
Mulder takes a steadying breath. This is progress.
It’s been only a week since the Great Mark Implosion, and things between Mulder and Scully have been thawing slowly. There’s residual awkwardness around them, like the last compacted piles of old snow in the shady places on the sides of the road. Slow to melt, but not a real impediment.
They find a little brick hole-in-the-wall pizza shop not far from the district courthouse. Scully took an appraising sniff when they walked in, declared the scent inside “pizza enough”, and they proceeded to make their order.
“So, how’ve you been?” Mulder asks. It’s a stupid question, but he’s hungry and tired and a little nervous, picking the mushrooms off of his slice of pizza before taking a bite. Scully always insists on ordering one with everything.
Thank god she hates anchovies.
“You tell me,” she replies. “You’ve seen me practically every day for the past week.” She takes a first bite of pizza and moans softly. Mulder’s cheeks warm at the sound.
“I mean… in regards to what happened last Wednesday,” he clarifies. Broaching this subject feels suddenly dangerous, and he wants to take his words back.
“You can say break-up, Mulder,” she says gently. “It’s not a secret. And I’m fine,” she says, chewing, then raises a finger. “I know historically I say that when I’m
not
fine, but I mean it this time,” she explains. “I’m not hurt, just… disappointed. Tired. A little annoyed.”
“With him, or me, or both?” Mulder asks.
She shrugs. “Both,” she says candidly. “But you provided me with sustenance, so my annoyance with you is diminishing.” She takes a sip of diet Coke before she continues. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve determined that the part of this that bothers me the most is the fact that Mark, or anyone, would base their summation of my character off my sexual history. I’m thirty-four years old, a fully-matured and capable human being, and yet I felt like I was stuck in a web of high school gossip. It’s insulting, being subjected to outdated moral codes by men who have no business passing judgement.”
“I have an impertinent question,” Mulder says. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I’m bracing myself,” she replies, taking another bite of pizza.
“From an outsider’s perspective, these outdated moral codes and judgment seem like a fundamental part of Catholicism. So I guess I’m wondering… why are you still Catholic?”
Her answering sigh is deep and slow. “That’s a big question, Mulder; one I ask myself all the time. I think it boils down to faith. I believe in God; everything else is just window dressing. My relationship with my faith, with religion, is complicated. But ultimately, that’s between me and God. Everyone else, namely Mark, can fuck off.”
He loves her so much in this moment, this tiny self-possessed scientist voraciously eating pizza. “Fair enough,” he says, removing another mushroom from his slice of pizza and putting on the edge of her plate. “So faith in God is intact; faith in men, however…”
Scully chuckles. “It’s at a low plateau,” she jokes, “and yet this may actually be the best break-up I’ve ever had.”
“Ouch,” Mulder says with a wince. “I’d hate to imagine the worst.”
“I egged a guy’s car once,” she says around a bite of pizza.
“No, really?” Mulder asks in surprise. “What’d he do?”
She swallows, wipes her fingers on a crumpled napkin. “Let me be clear, this was when I was in high school,” she says, “So all the emotions were heightened. My boyfriend cheated on me,” she explains. “I was seventeen and wanted to wait to have sex, and he didn’t. It was pretty traumatic for teenage Dana, so I reacted with criminal mischief.”
“Did you get caught?”
Scully shakes her head, picking up one of the stray mushrooms on her plate and popping it in her mouth. “No. I was stealthy,” she says. “And a good church girl. I think most people assumed it was a dumb teenage prank by some local boys.” She pauses. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this,” she says in realization.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Mulder vows, passing her another mushroom.
“So what about you?” she asks, serving herself another slice of pizza. “What sort of romantic entanglements did you get into in high school? Any horror stories?”
“Not much,” Mulder says with a shrug. “Though I was pretty in love with a girl when I was sixteen or so. Her name was Laura and she was the older sister of one of my friends; I think she was probably 18? I was at their house all the time but I hardly ever talked to her.”
“Why not?”
“I was, uh, actually pretty shy back then,” he admits. “Especially with girls. She was really pretty and kind, but every time I opened my mouth to speak I’d get nervous and end up just saying nothing. Once I almost threw up.”
“That’s actually very sweet,” Scully assures him. “Trust me, she probably thought you were adorable.” She chews thoughtfully. “Did you ever tell her how you felt?”
Mulder shakes his head. “Not really. I wrote her a letter confessing my feelings and was halfway to their house to leave it in the mailbox when I chickened out. I took it home and burned it in the kitchen sink. Then she left for college.”
Scully hums in understanding. “A tale as old as time.”
“I looked her up once, after I finished at Oxford. She was married with a baby,” Mulder says, chewing a piece of crust. “Nothing would have happened if she weren’t, but part of me kind of wondered.”
Scully is silent, and when he looks up at her she’s got her cheek cradled in her hand, a soft smile on her lips, watching him.
“What?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious.
Her eyes are gleaming. “I don’t know why it never occurred to me before, but… you’re a romantic, Mulder.”
He swallows. “Is that... is that a bad thing?”
She drops her hand, shakes her head. “No, it’s not a bad thing at all,” she says softly.
Scully’s face is awash with blue and red from the neon sign in the window, and her eyes are deep and glimmering. He has to look away to steady himself before he says something he’s not ready for her to hear.
“I think I assumed you dislike romance,” he says, dipping a toe into shallower, yet unexplored waters. “It seems to me that science is somewhat at odds with the concept, when you can explain away all these feelings as chemical reactions with evolutionary precedent.”
“These feelings?” she asks, and he freezes.
“Romantic feelings in general,” he clarifies, recovering quickly. “The heart palpitations, fluttering stomach, desire for physical contact, all those things we felt as teenagers.”
All those things I’m feeling right now.
“Some things aren’t meant to be examined through a purely scientific lens,” she counters. “I also firmly believe in instinct and trusting your gut in certain cases. Hell, that’s why I broke things off with Mark. No matter what he said, I knew things didn’t feel right.”
Mulder’s puzzled. “What he said?” he asks.
Scully licks her lip. “When I called him after work,” she explains. “I told him what you told me, and he claimed you twisted his words. A misunderstanding, coupled with manipulation born of jealousy,” Scully sighs.
Mulder’s heart stutters. “And you didn’t believe him?”
“No, I didn’t. It was his word against yours,” she says, voice gentle and firm. “There was no question.”
Mulder feels the weight of her words drape over his shoulders like a warm blanket. She trusts him, believes in him,
chooses
him.
He’s floored.
“Scully, that offer to elope still stands,” he says with a grin, and she smiles back.
Scully predictably falls asleep on the drive back to DC. Mulder glances over at her periodically, drinking in the sight of his partner curled up in the passenger seat. Her head is resting against the window, rosy cheek pillowed on a small hand.
Scully trusts him, rests in his presence, weighs his words. He doesn’t deserve what she gives him, but he realizes then what he needs to do anyway; fear and uncertainty be damned.
She deserves the truth; she
is
the truth.
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
That night at dinner, Harry found himself unable to eat. As a growing pre-teen boy, he found this to be quite worrisome. Fortunately, Harry also deduced that this was because of the nauseating celebration that was occurring at the Gryffindor table. Between Hermione's rapid-fire answers to Professor Sprout's Herbology questions and his own punishment for not taking Lockhart's quiz seriously, they had already netted 90 points. Combined with the rest of the House, Gryffindor was up 112 points from that morning. Only Snape looked as sick as Harry felt.
Deciding there was no reason to he had to partake in these festivities, he stormed off to the Ravenclaw table in protest and plopped down in front of a surprised Luna Lovegood.
"Hello, is anything the matter?" she asked curiously.
"It's only the first day of school and Gryffindor already has an eighty point lead in the House Cup and its all my fault," Harry moaned.
"I see. I've always thought that the desire to win that was indicative of the presence of Wrackspurt myself, but no one ever believes me," Luna confided.
"That's because Dumbledore's got them too well indoctrinated," Harry explained. "He's making them think it's about 'House Pride' and proving that your House is better than the others, which is really quite detrimental to the concepts of school unity, if you think about it…"
"Exactly," Luna beamed. "Thus, Wrackspurts. Why are you sitting here?"
"I had to get away from THAT," Harry gestured disgustedly over at the Celebration. Was that butterbeer he saw?
"But why here? I heard last year when the House Cup was awarded to Gryffindor at the last minute, you went over by the Slytherins."
"Well, I'm kind of avoiding Draco," Harry admitted. "Seeing as how he had Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning and no doubt saw that, once again, that rumor about his mother and Snape that I accidentally started just won't die. And besides, why not sit here? I like you."
"We only met yesterday," Luna pointed out.
"Ah, but what a meeting it was. I ordered that subscription of the Quibbler you recommended. I can't wait to hear about the things the Ministry is hiding from us so I can be properly outraged. But let's talk about you: Are the other Ravenclaws treating you okay?"
Luna nodded. "Oh yes. They seem to think that I'm under your protection or something because of last night and I expect that after tonight they'll think that even more. They haven't even laughed at any of my theories once. I'm thinking of coming up with progressively more outlandish ones to see how long before they crack."
"Now that is a noble goal," Harry laughed. "See, I knew there was a reason I liked you: we're both lone warriors in the fight against sheep mentality!"
"I like sheep," Luna told him.
"So do I, but when people like them so much they decide to think like them, they do all sorts of crazy things like declaring I'm the next Dark Lord," Harry countered.
"It must be the Wrackspurts," Luna suggested.
"Ah yes, the Wrackspurts wreaking havoc yet again and trying to blame it on the poor sheep," Harry shook his head sadly.
"And that's going in next week's Quibbler. Thanks, Harry."
----
"Harry! A word, if I may," Lockhart said, intercepting Harry on his way to breakfast the next morning.
Harry's friends looked concerned, but he just waved them off. He could handle himself. And if worse came to worse, he didn't want his friends to see him do some damage-control. What, with it not being 'ethical' and him being a 'second-year' and all.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry asked politely.
"I wanted to talk to you about your quiz yesterday," Lockhart continued. "It wasn't anything from my books, of course, but still it was all quite amusing. Some of your answers did make me wonder, however. What exactly do you know about-"
"Your habit of tracking down well-meaning but publicity-shy individuals who rid their local populace of whatever form of magical creature ails them and Obliviating them?" Harry finished.
Looking rather gobsmacked, Lockhart just nodded wordlessly.
"Well, it's certainly not very nice. Still, if they had wanted the credit, they would have publicized their exploits better before you had time to hear of it and track them down," Harry replied. "There's nothing I could do to change the fact that you stole those people's memories and their accomplishments and since Professor Dumbledore believes in unlimited second chances, he wouldn't do anything about it even if I told him. So, basically, as long as you don't try to Obliviate me or one of my friends, I don't really plan on doing anything. Oh, and if you try to steal one of my accomplishments, I will beat you to death with a paper napkin."
"CAN you beat someone to death with a paper napkin?" Lockhart asked, intrigued and not at all bothered by Harry's threat.
Harry shrugged. "I'll have fun trying."
----
"What's that funny clicking noise?" Fred asked in the middle of Quidditch practice that Saturday morning.
"Oh, that's just Colin, my personal photographer," Harry explained.
"Why do you need a personal photographer?" George asked, unsure if Harry was being serious or not.
"Well, I figure that since Colin is clearly going to keep following me around and taking pictures of me and since I'm really not that interesting-"
Fred snorted at that but Harry dutifully ignored him.
"I felt bad that he was wasting so much of his time, so I figured I might as well pay him. Besides, I set up a deal with the Daily Prophet and anytime they do a story featuring me, they'll just contact Colin and he can send them the appropriate photo." As the twins continued to stare at him, he elaborated, "I got the idea from Lockhart. Man's a media genius."
"I suppose he'd almost HAVE to be good at something…" George mused.
"And it's certainly not teaching," Fred contributed.
"What's going on?" Wood frowned as he flew by to see why his Seeker and Beaters had suddenly stopped practicing. "Is that first year spying on us?"
"Oh, no, that's just Harry's photographer," Fred said cheerfully. "So I guess that would probably put him in Gryffindor."
"Besides, the Slytherin team apparently couldn't find anybody to spy as they showed up in person. And full Quidditch gear," George remarked.
"Why in the world are they wearing their Quidditch robes to practice in?" Harry asked, confused. "That has got to be the stupidest thing I've seen all day."
"All day isn't very long, Harry," Fred pointed out as they went down to meet the rival team. "It can't be more than ten and we were listening to Oliver ramble about how he wants us to win the Cup again this year and next year." Seeing Harry tense up, he quickly clarified, "The QUIDDITCH Cup, Harry, the QUIDDITCH Cup. He couldn't care less about the House Cup."
"Oh, that's alright then," Harry said, calming down. "And yesterday afternoon Parvati and Lavender called me in to help them figure out who in our year is most 'skin-tone compatible' with them. I swear, one of these days I'm going to just buy Witch Weekly and force them to stop printing such inane articles that force poor innocent schoolchildren to undergo two hours of that sort of torture."
"You do that, Harry…"
"FLINT!" Wood yelled. "This is OUR practice time! We got up specifically! You can clear off now!"
"Plenty of room for all of us, Wood," Flint said innocently.
"But I booked the pitch!" Wood protested, his face turning a most interesting shade of purple that Harry was quite certain wasn't a good thing. "I booked it!"
"Ah," Flint said brightly. "I see why there might be some confusion then. You booked the pitch and I got a note signed by Professor Snape saying, 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to adjust to their new brooms.'"
"Wouldn't it have been easier to just book the pitch like a normal person?" Harry asked reasonably.
Flint flushed. "Well, I would have, except this week has been kind of hectic, with NEWT review and everything and so it just slipped my mind so I asked Professor Snape at the end of Potions yesterday."
"You've got new brooms?" Wood asked, distracted. "What kind?"
"Our Seeker, Draco Malfoy, was concerned that the team wasn't living up to its full potential and so his father bought the team Nimbus 2001s," Flint said proudly.
"Oh, that's good," Harry sighed, relieved.
Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. He didn't care, though, that had been happening quite frequently since he had come back.
"Good? Good? You think it's good that the Slytherin team now possesses seven of the fastest brooms out there?" Wood asked disbelievingly.
"Well, yes," Harry replied. "Otherwise it was going to be really awkward when Professor Dumbledore announced that I had bought the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff teams seven Nimbus 2001s each."
More staring. Really, he might as well be talking to himself for how much input everyone else was giving him. And now Ron, Hermione, and Neville were coming over to see what the fuss was about. Would they have any more to say than his teammates? Doubtful.
"Why didn't you buy the Slytherin team any brooms?" Draco asked, suddenly offended. "I mean, you had no way of knowing that I was going to do it."
Oh yes he did. And that was why he'd bothered to go even the playing field, because he didn't want to listen to everyone complaining about favoritism when he knew they'd have all bought themselves top-of-the-line brooms if they could afford them.
"Well," Harry said, thinking quickly. "I didn't feel that last year's games against Cedric and Cho were much of a test of my ability because on my broom could outfly their brooms any day of the week. In order to have more of a challenge, I decided to get them faster brooms. Knowing that the rest of their team would give them a hard time about accepting a gift from a rival Seeker and there would be talk of them throwing matches, I bought the rest of them brooms, too. And I couldn't possibly put Gryffindor at such a disadvantage by giving two-thirds of our competition state-of-the-art brooms and not giving ourselves anything, so I had to buy Gryffindor brooms as well. Since you already had a Nimbus 2000 from last year, it didn't even occur to me to get the rest of your team anything and so that was why it was really awkward when I realized sometime last week that my donation would seem like discrimination."
Hm. Not bad for an on-the-spot cover-up.
"But now our advantage is gone," Draco hissed at him.
"Think of it this way: if you hadn't bought the team brooms, you would get flattened in every match," Harry reassured him. "You saved Slytherin from a year of horribly humiliating slaughters."
Draco brightened considerably at this and Harry could only imagine how long he was going to use his newfound 'Savior of Quidditch' status.
"Since the Slytherins really do need to break in their new brooms and our teams' brooms are going to be presented at dinner ronight, I recommend that we just let them have the bloody pitch so I can go back to bed," Harry suggested.
"It's ten o'clock, Harry," Hermione said, raising her eyebrows.
"I know, but I only got two hours of sleep last night."
Now everyone turned to stare at Wood.
"What? I didn't wake them up until five," he defended.
"The twins, Lee, Alicia, Katie, Angelina, and I were having a poker tournament last night that didn't end until three," Harry explained. "In order to build team solidarity, you understand. We would have asked you to join us, Wood, but we expected it to run late and you had announced at dinner that you were going to bed early." He paused. "Probably because you knew that we had a ridiculously early practice this morning and couldn't be bothered to tell us. Anyway, who here thinks going back to bed sounds like a great idea?"
Six hands flew in the air. "I rest my case," Harry told Wood, the only one with his hand still at his side. "Next time we have a practice before nine, please tell us. After all, while you have a point about the weather being unpredictable during games, we WILL actually know what time the game is at least a week in advance so I don't see why you can't just make an announcement the night before."
With that, he turned and started heading back to the castle.
"Hey, mate," Ron called as he, Hermione, and Neville hurried after him.
"Yeah?" Harry asked, not turning around.
"Why are you avoiding my sister?"
Harry froze. "Avoiding…Ginny? I'm not-"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Yes you are. Every time she comes near you, you find some reason to immediately leave. Last week you even went over to sit with the Ravenclaws when she sat down across from you."
"I…" Harry trailed off. He hadn't realized that he'd been avoiding Ginny, but thinking back, he supposed that that was exactly what he was doing. Who could blame him, though? If he hadn't gone back, little James or Lily would be celebrating their first birthday soon. Now they might never exist. On the bright side, since the baby had not actually be born, assuming that he and Ginny got around to having children again, he wouldn't be able to miss their child as a person, just as a what-might-have-been and he wouldn't be subconsciously comparing his old child with his new one and hating himself all the while.
And then there was Ginny herself. She didn't have the diary this time around – thank God for that or he'd have to add that to the list of things he would never forgive himself for, beginning with abandoning Ginny and their unborn child to go through the Veil – so he wasn't sure just how to break her off her hero-worshiping and get her to see him as a normal person. Particularly as he was apparently avoiding her. But it was more than just annoyance (he was dealing with Lockhart, after all, and the man's habit of mentioning how great he was approximately once every other sentence did grate on his nerves), it was…uncertainty. And guilt. He fell in love with the Ginny that had held off full possession by Voldemort's Horcrux for almost a year at the age of eleven, who had, despite their almost complete lack of contact, believed him without question when he insisted Voldemort was back at the age of thirteen, who had gone with him on his suicidal plan to save Sirius when she was fourteen, who had battled full-fledged Death Eaters when they invaded Hogwarts at fifteen, and who had co-led the Hogwarts resistance when it had fallen under Death Eater control and stayed for the Final Battle against all of Riddle's forces when she was sixteen. THAT was the girl he had fallen in love with. And while he would never want her to go through all of that again – he had, in fact, inadvertently already stopped the first – they all played a part in making Ginny who she was when he finally realized that she existed. While she was still the same person, he was worried that he'd end up trying to use this Ginny to replace the other Ginny that he lost and that wasn't fair to either of them.
So maybe he WAS avoiding her. But he had some damn good reasons.
Harry could see that Ron was still waiting for an answer and as he could never even hope to make the twelve-year-old understand, he found himself latching onto one of his reasons for staying away from her last time. Though, to be fair, she was a lot better at controlling her inner fangirl than she had been the first time. "I'm a little uncomfortable that your sister seems to see me as some sort of hero. I'm not, really. I'm just…a guy in some pretty extraordinary circumstances, that's all."
"You don't mind Colin following you around," Neville pointed out. "And he acts far more enthralled with you than Ginny."
"But Colin doesn't have a crush on me," Harry countered, crossing his arms.
"I'm not too sure about that…" Ron muttered.
"Be nice," Hermione admonished, swatting at Ron. "Personally, I think you're being very nice to Colin and I'm proud of you for that. Still, you're going to have to deal with a lot of girls having crushes on you, especially when we get older. Not only are you the Boy-Who-Lived, but you also attract a fair amount of attention through all of your various accomplishments and 'missions.'"
"I know, I know," Harry held up his hands in surrender, too tired to continue the argument. "But I don't have to deal with any of them on a regular basis and since Ginny is Ron's sister, I do have to deal with her. But…" he sighed. "I'll try to stop avoiding Ginny. Happy now?"
Three identical grins assured him that they were.
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
Moria, where Fili and Sigrid lived in a granny flat in Dís’ backyard, was about a twenty-minute drive away from where Sigrid’s grandparents stayed. After a call from her grandmother this morning, Sigrid was excited to see Thranduil and discuss her ring.
“We can’t go, Sig. Kili isn’t back with Tauriel yet.”
Sigrid rolled her eyes with a sigh as she flopped onto the couch in their living room. “Do they have to go with us?”
“You know Kili wants to see the blonde again.”
Sigrid shrugged as she raised her hands in question. “But why?”
Fili shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask him when…” he trailed off when he peeked through the curtain. “Here they are now,” he announced.
Sigrid flew up. She checked the clock hanging in the corridor and sighed again. “It’s half-past one already,” she called out as she hurried to the front door. When she opened it, Kili and Tauriel stood before the door.
“Hey, Sig,” Kili greeted with a big grin.
“You took your sweet time, Kili.” She glanced at the woman with the auburn hair pulled back in a high ponytail. “What’s up, Tauriel? You still haven’t got rid of this noodle?”
Tauriel chuckled when she turned around and followed Sigrid to the car.
“Hey, I’m not a noodle,” Kili called out after he caught on.
The two women laughed as they got into the back of the car.
“He’s such a dufus, but he’s my dufus,” Tauriel remarked as she watched the two brothers moving closer to the car while shoving each other.
“Leave my hair alone, Fili,” Kili yelled in frustration as his brother's arm clamped around his neck, ruffling his hair.
Sigrid lowered the window, leaning her head out. “Come on, you two. You can play when we get back,” she called out.
She glanced at Tauriel. “They both are bloody noodles,” she hissed.
“He started it,” Kili said when he got behind the wheel of his car.
“Let Fili drive,” she said as she looked at her fiancé with pleading eyes.
“Why? I can drive, you know.”
Fili smiled at his girlfriend before he walked around the car and yanked the door open. “Get out. You heard the lady.”
“Come on,” Kili whined. “I went to get Tauriel and drove back here, and we’re fine.” He got out of the car, adding, “And the car is fine too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Fili said as he pushed his brother out of the way. He shook his head as he got behind the wheel.
Kili pouted as he walked around the car and got into the passenger side.
“Did you punch the address into the GPS, Sig?”
“It should still be in. Remember, we used the GPS the last time to get there.”
Fili pushed a few buttons on the machine until he found a list with addresses. “Grandma Dunland,” he said as he looked at Sigrid in the rearview mirror.
“Yup.” She winked at him with a smile when she confirmed.
Fili set the GPS, and before long, they were on the road.
“Should we bring something like sodas or crisps?” Tauriel asked when they passed a store on their way.
“Yeah, maybe.” Sigrid tapped Fili on the shoulder. “Stop at the next store, will you?”
Fili did as he was told. After he pulled over in the parking lot, Sigrid and Tauriel jumped out and hurried into the convenience store.
The two women returned with two two-litre sodas and four bags of various flavoured crisps.
“Tauriel, who’s the slab of chocolate for?” Kili asked when he turned around to look at the back.
“For Sig’s grandmother.”
“Why didn’t you buy one for me?” he whined.
“A guy’s supposed to buy chocolates for his girlfriend, not the other way around,” she growled when she smacked him on the shoulder.
“Shame on you, Dufus. You should buy Tauriel chocolates, man,” Sigrid nipped.
Kili swirled around, side-eyeing Sigrid. “Stop calling me dufus,” he snapped.
She snickered when she glanced at Tauriel, who stifled a chuckle to stay in her boyfriend’s good books.
“We’re almost there,” Fili announced when he turned onto Glanduin Street. He drove three houses up before he turned into the driveway of the fourth house.
“I guess I should open the gate,” Kili said as he glanced over his shoulder at the women in the back seat before he jumped out.
After Kili opened the gate, Fili drove through and parked behind the silver BMW under the carport.
“Ooh, whose flashy car is that?” Kili asked when the three people got out of the car.
Sigrid shook her head, shrugging. “I have no idea.”
She grabbed the plastic bag with the packets of crisps and shoved it in Kili’s hands. “Make yourself useful.”
“What’s with you today, Sig?” he asked, grimacing as he took the bag from her.
“Nothing, Kili. Sorry.”
“Nerves, if you ask me,” Fili added.
“But why? You know all the people who are here today.”
Sigrid rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Kili, listen to your brother.”
“She’s getting her finger measured today, lover boy,” Tauriel explained.
Kili chuckled. “No chance of back-pedalling now, Sig,” he snorted.
“Argh,” Sigrid grunted as she took the lead to the front door. “I don’t want to backpedal?”
“Yeah, Sig loves Fili too much to back away,” Tauriel added.
Sigrid raised her hand to knock when the door suddenly flew open. “Da,” she called out before throwing her arms around him.
“I’m so glad you could finally make it, pumpkin,” Bard quipped. “It’s past two already.”
“I know, Da. Ask Kili why we’re late?” she said as she walked past her father and swirled around, forgetting that Tauriel didn’t know anyone here. “This is Tauriel. My friend and Kili’s girlfriend.” She turned to the auburn-head. “Tauriel, my father, Bard.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bowman,” Tauriel said with a grin as she stuck out her hand.
“Same here, Tauriel. And welcome to my parents’ house,” Bard greeted when he took the proffered hand.
“Come on, you lot. Follow Sig. Everyone’s in the sitting room,” Bard said before he shut the door after him.
“Good day, Mr. Bowman,” Fili greeted with a handshake.
“Mr. Bowman,” Kili said, dipping his head with a grin.
When everyone stepped into the sitting room, Sigrid introduced Tauriel.
“It’s you,” the auburn-haired woman called out, pointing at Thranduil.
The blonde stared at her with eyes as wide as saucers. “What?” he asked as his eyes darted to Sigrid, Bard, and back to Tauriel.
Tauriel rushed forward, embracing Thranduil. “You’re the one who left me that enormous tip.”
Thranduil inclined his head, wincing as his eyebrows almost reached his hairline when the woman let go of him. “Where?”
“At the Silmaril. I’m a waitress there,” she explained, laughing. You and your son ate there after you came from Figwit’s that day.”
“I told you it was him,” Kili muttered over Tauriel’s shoulder.
Then it hit Thranduil. “Of course. How can I forget this beautiful auburn hair?” He chuckled when he looked at Bard. “Legolas took me to the Silmaril when…” he trailed off, lowering his eyes to the carpet.
“It was a year ago,” Tauriel added.
“Yes, and since then, Bard and I have gone there to eat.” The blonde looked back at Tauriel. “But I seemed to miss you the couple of times we went back.”
“Yes, the others told me you came with your hunk,” she said as she glanced at Bard with a grin. “Kili told me you were here for Sig’s birthday, and I didn’t believe him.”
She moved backward and hooked her arm through Kili’s as she gazed at him. “Sorry for not believing you,” she apologized before she pecked him on the cheek.
Kili’s face flushed. With a grin, he cast his eyes to the carpet.
“Come, sit down,” Tillie invited. Her brow raised when Tauriel walked over to her. She gasped when the young woman presented her with a slab of chocolate. “Thank you, child,” Tillie called out as she wrapped her arms around the auburn-haired woman.
When she let go of her, Tillie couldn’t stop smiling. “Let me put this in the fridge before it melts.” She walked out, but paused in the doorway and turned around, asking, “Tea, coffee, soda, anyone?”
Tauriel and Thranduil jumped up simultaneously. They chuckled as they glanced at each other.
“We’ll both help, Tillie,” Thranduil said before he and Tauriel followed her out into the corridor.
Sigrid moved over next to her father. “So, what have you been up to lately, Da?”
“Searching for a house to buy.”
“Where?”
“Close to the workshop, but still in Greenwood. East Bight is Thranduil’s favourite mall, and he doesn’t want to be too far away from it either.”
“So, somewhere near the Mountains of Mirkwood?”
“Yes, around there or near the River Run Estate.”
“Won’t that be too expensive, Da?”
“Sig,” Tilda called out as she charged over to her big sister.
“Hey, Tilda.” Sigrid caught Tilda as she jumped onto her lap with a loud oof. “Were you napping, baby girl?”
Tilda nodded when she rubbed her eyes. “I heard voices.”
Sigrid pouted. “Oh no, did we wake you?”
“Na-ah. I was awake when I heard you talking to Da. Then I knew you were here.”
Thranduil returned to the sitting room with bowls of crisps and put them on the coffee table. “Help yourselves,” he invited before heading back to the kitchen.
“Ooh, yummy,” Tilda called out when she slid off her sister’s lap and hurried closer to the bowls of crisps.
“Jellybean, ask Grandma for a bowl for your crisps,” Bard suggested.
“Okay, Da,” Tilda replied before she scurried over to the kitchen.
Tilda returned with a smaller bowl than those on the coffee table and a plastic cup filled with red soda. She put the soda on the table before adding a few of each variation of crisps to her bowl. Tilda glanced at her father and Sigrid. “Sig, can I sit with you?”
“Of course you can, Tilda.”
Sigrid stood up, collected her sister’s cup of soda, and moved back to sit next to Fili with Tilda on her lap.
As Thranduil returned with a tray of coffee, Bard instinctively rose, but a sharp glare from the blonde made him quickly settle back down, smiling. “I can carry a tray, honey,” he jested when he bent down with the tray next to Gared. He moved on until everyone who had ordered coffee had taken theirs.
A cup of tea remained on the tray when Thranduil put it down next to the bowls of crisps. He took the tea and sat next to Bard.
Tillie and Tauriel also returned. Tauriel carried another tray, this time of sodas for her friends, while the older woman held her mug of coffee in her hand as she headed back to her chair.
“Sigrid, shall we sit at the kitchen table to measure your finger?” Thranduil asked before he took another sip of his tea.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Sigrid said.
“Can I come too?” Tilda asked when she looked back at her sister.
“Yes, of course.” Sigrid emptied her glass of soda. After Tilda removed herself from her lap, she stood up too. She glanced around, noticing more empty glasses, and gathered them.
Thranduil kissed Bard on the cheek before he stood up too. “Can I pass the crisps, or will you help yourselves?”
“It’s okay, Thranduil. I’ll pass it around,” Tauriel said as she moved to the edge of her seat to stand up.
Sigrid, Tilda, and Thranduil strolled into the kitchen and sat down at the table. The blonde had a pen and a notepad ready, along with a bunch of metal ring sizers.
“What are these?” Tilda asked as she pointed to the mock rings.
“Ring sizers, sweetie. I will use them to measure Sigrid’s finger.” Thranduil smiled when he moved the ring sizers closer to Tilda so she could observe better.
“Hold out your hand, please,” the blonde said. He smiled when Sigrid’s hand shivered. “Why are you nervous, sweetie?”
“I don’t know.” She chuckled, rolling her eyes. “I guess there’s no turning back now,” she jested.
Thranduil’s smile disappeared when he narrowed his eyes with concern, glancing at the young woman. “You don’t have to marry him, Sigrid,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh no, T. I want to marry Fili,” Sigrid stated as her face beamed and her eyes sparkled.
The smile reappeared on the blonde’s face. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
He took a deep breath before trying on one of the several ring sizers. “Hm, too big. Let’s go two sizes smaller,” he mumbled when he removed the mock ring. He picked a smaller one and slipped it on Sigrid’s ring finger. “Perfect,” he said with a smile. “How does it feel?”
Tilda craned her neck to look at the mock ring on her sister’s finger. “It looks funny,” she said, giggling.
Sigrid held her hand up, made a fist, and wiggled her fingers before she grinned. “Like you said. It fits perfectly.”
“Great.” Thranduil removed the sizer from Sigrid’s finger before jotting down the measurements.
“What is my ring size?” she asked when she leaned back in the chair.
“K or a five and a half.”
“And mine,” Tilda said, holding her hand in position.
“Hmm, let me check if I have such a small ring sizer.” Thranduil searched until he found a smaller one and slipped it on Tilda’s finger. “How does it feel?”
Tilda crinkled her nose. “Weird,” she replied.
“It’s because the ring is too big. A is the smallest size. We’ll measure your finger again when you’re grown up.” Thranduil tapped each finger on the little girl’s hand as he sing-songed, “They are still growing.”
Tilda belly-laughed before she pulled her hand back, earning herself a chuckle from both Thranduil and her sister.
“Now that’s out of the way, what about your wedding ring and Fili’s?”
Sigrid winced. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Do you want me to make a few designs?”
Sigrid slapped her hand over her mouth when she shrieked. “Will you do that, T?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”
“What are you three up to?” Bard asked when she crept up on them.
“Da, Thranduil offered to design my and Fili’s wedding rings.”
“Not just designing them, I’ll make them too, sweetie.”
“T,” Sigrid hollered. She blinked to keep the tears from falling when she put both hands over her mouth. “I don’t know what to say,” she mumbled.
“A thank you and a hug will suffice,” Thranduil said when he dabbed tears from his eyes with the side of his index finger.
Sigrid jumped out of the chair, racing around the table towards the blond. “Thank you, T. Thank you so much,” she called out when she wrapped her arms around him.
Bard stood behind them, blinking tears from his eyes. He placed his hand on his lover’s shoulder and squeezed, thanking him.
Sigrid let go of the blonde. After straightening to her full height, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed a few times before she composed herself. “I’ll get Fili so you can measure his finger too.”
She ran out of the kitchen, down the corridor, and barged into the sitting room.
“What’s wrong, Sigrid?” Fili asked, jumping up when he noticed her red eyes and hurried over to her.
“Thranduil wants to measure your finger.”
Fili grimaced. “Why?”
“He’s going to make our wedding rings too.” She grabbed her fiancé by the arm and dragged him out of the sitting room.
“Why were you crying?” Fili asked when he fell into step behind her.
“Because I’m happy, silly,” she grunted.
The couple entered the kitchen. Sigrid beamed with joy while Fili looked confused.
“I offered to design and make your wedding rings. Sigrid’s happy with it, but what about you, Fili?”
Fili scratched the back of his neck. “I’m happy if she’s happy.” He glanced at his fiancé, snorting with his hand still behind his neck. “Thank you, Thranduil,” he said when he looked back at the blonde. “Our wedding will truly be something else,” he added, looking back at Sigrid.
“Yes, it will, and all thanks to T.”
“I enjoy doing it, Sigrid.” He looked at Fili. “Sit down and hold out your left hand.”
When Fili did as he was told, Thranduil slid the mock ring only halfway onto his finger. It was too tight. “Let’s go one size up,” he said when he removed the ring.
He picked a bigger size and smiled when it slipped easily over Fili's thick ring finger. “How does it feel?”
Fili glanced at the mock ring on his finger, wincing.
“Make a fist, Fili. See if it fits or if it's too tight or too loose,” Sigrid hissed with a roll of her eyes.
The man with the dark blonde hair made a fist, looked at the ring, and opened his fist again before he nodded. “It feels right.”
“Are you sure? Once the ring is made, you can’t make it bigger or smaller,” Sigrid grumbled in annoyance.
“It feels right, Sig.”
“There will be a last fitting before the genuine rings are made,” the blonde enlightened them with a smile.
“When will that be?” Sigrid asked, holding her breath.
“Well, I’m going back to work next week. So, say…” Thranduil shrugged as he made calculations in his head. “Two weeks. It may be less.”
Sigrid let out the breath she was holding. “So, we can have our engagement party by the end of next month,” she called out when she grabbed Fili around his neck, peppering him with kisses.
Bard and Thranduil snickered over Sigrid’s mirth and excitement.
“Will I still be the flower girl, Sig?” Tilda asked with a pout.
“Of course, Tilda. But only on the wedding day. There aren’t flower girls at an engagement party,” Sigrid explained, smiling.
“Oh,” Tilda said, nodding as she made a silly face.
“How are you doing in here?” Tillie asked when she sauntered into the kitchen.
“It’s going so well, Grandma. Thranduil is going to make our wedding rings too,” she announced.
“You’re spoiling them, Thranduil,” Tillie quipped as she shuffled past them toward the kettle. “Anyone for coffee or tea?” she asked when she put the kettle on.
Not long thereafter, Tauriel appeared in the kitchen with a tray full of dirty glasses and mugs. “There’s a lot of rambling going on in here. You better tell me everything, Sig, cos I’m missing out,” the auburn-haired woman quipped as she took the tray to the sink.
“Leave them, Tauriel. I have enough clean ones to use,” Tillie insisted.
“It’s nothing, Mrs. Bowman. I’ll wash them quickly.” Tauriel made quick work of the dirty glasses, mugs, and teacups. After she dried them, she set them back on the tray and put them on the countertop for Tillie to put away or use them as she pleased.
Tauriel made her way back to the sink and, with a quiet clatter, washed and dried the teaspoons before bringing them to Tillie. She then turned back to the sink to drain and tidy it up.
“May I?” she asked to sit down next to the little one while drying her hands.
“Sure,” Tilda said, nodding.
“It sounded like you were having fun in here,” Tauriel conversed in a low voice with the little one while the grownups were discussing rings, engagements, and weddings.
“We had fun. Thranduil measured my finger too, but the ring was too big. He said he will measure my finger again when I’m grown up.”
“Yes, when you want to get married.”
Tilda made a face, shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”
Tauriel furrowed her brows. “Why not?”
The little one replied with a shrug only.
“Wait till you get older and find someone you really, really like. Then we’ll talk again, sweetie pie.” Tauriel ruffled Tilda’s hair before she turned her attention to grown-up talk.
“So, Da, when are you popping the big question?” Sigrid asked with a grin.
Bard’s face flushed as he glanced at Thranduil. “Could we wait until we know each other better?”
“I should hope so,” the blonde replied with a smirk.
When Tillie let the pressure cooker blow steam, all of them jumped.
“Ma, you could’ve warned us?” Bard called out.
“Geez, Grandma,” Sigrid hissed.
Tillie snickered as she glanced at them over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she snorted when she turned back to the pot. “Sig, are you staying for supper?”
“Uh…” She glanced at Fili and Tauriel, who both nodded vigorously. “I guess we’re staying, Grandma.”
“Good. As soon as you lot are done, start setting the table, please,” Tillie ordered as she took the pressure cooker off the stove.
Thranduil gathered his measuring tools and notepad before she stood up.
“What is my ring size?” Fili asked with a small smile.
“It’s a W or a size eleven.”
“Thanks, T,” Sigrid said before she pulled Fili out of the chair.
“Where’s Kili?” Tauriel asked, glancing around.
“He’s keeping Grandpa company.”
“I should’ve guessed it. Kili is at his happiest when he can talk to anyone who wants to listen,” she jested.
Sigrid, Tauriel, and Bard made quick work of setting the table. When Thranduil returned after putting away his tools and notepad, he jumped in, getting out condiments and placing them in the middle of the table.
Tillie placed the pot roast on a carving board before she called out, “Gared, do you want to carve the roast?”
“No. Let Bard do it,” he called back.
Tillie inclined her head with a smile as she held out the carving knife and fork.
With a chuckle, Bard moved closer. After he took the carving utensils from his mother, he took his place before the roast and began carving, slicing thinly at first before switching to a thicker cut.
“Should I leave it on this board, Ma?” he asked when the roast was cut up.
“No, son. I’ll bring a larger plate to put it on,” Tillie said as she took the plate over to Bard.
After the meat and vegetables, which were cooked together with the roast, were put on the table, Sigrid called Bain and her grandfather to the kitchen while Tauriel called Kili.
Everyone squeezed in to find a spot at the table. Tilda sat on Bard’s lap, while Sigrid sat on Fili’s lap to make sure everyone fitted in.
As usual, Thranduil only ate vegetables, forgoing the meat even though it looked and smelled delicious.
“Mrs. Bowman, this roast is incredible,” Tauriel remarked.
“Hmm, I only now realized how hungry I am,” Kili added with a mouthful.
Everyone enjoyed a glass of soda with their meal. They talked and bantered as they stuffed themselves.
Thranduil and Bard glanced at each other often, smiling or nudging the other’s elbow. That’s how close they sat next to each other.
After supper, Thranduil, Sigrid, Tauriel, and Kili washed up and dried off, while the rest of the group went back into the sitting room, except Tillie. She was getting out bowls and spoons for dessert.
“What did you make, Grandma?” Sigrid asked when she noticed the bowls on the table.
“Your favourite, Sig.”
“Whoa,” she called out. She shoved the drying towel over her shoulder as she hurried over to her grandmother, who was holding a rectangular glass container in her hands, which she had just taken out of the fridge. “Peppermint crisp tart,” Sigrid roared. “I want a double portion, Grandma,” she demanded before she returned to the team, drying dishes.
Tillie chuckled when she spooned the tart into each bowl, making sure Sigrid’s bowl had two portions.
After the dishes were done, Sigrid took her and Fili’s dessert, while Thranduil carried a tray full of bowls and spoons.
“Oh, what have we here?” Gared remarked as he sat upright, trying to eye the contents of the tray.
Thranduil placed the tray on the coffee table, took a bowl and a spoon, and handed them to Bard’s father. He gave Tillie hers, then Bard and Tilda followed before he turned around, giving Tauriel hers and Kili’s. Only then did the blonde take his bowl and sit down next to Bard.
Silence fell over the sitting room. Once in a while, someone hummed, or a spoon clinked against a bowl while they enjoyed the peppermint crisp tart.
Even though Sigrid had a double portion, she was finished first. “Gosh, I’m stuffed,” Sigrid grunted when she slanted in her seat, rubbing her stomach.
“I should think so. You had more than everyone,” Fili remarked.
“If you keep this up, you won’t fit in your wedding dress,” Kili attempted to be funny.
“Oh, shut up, noodle,” Sigrid hissed. “My wedding dress isn’t even made yet,” she added, making a face.
“Don’t make fun of a girl’s weight or how much she eats, Kili,” Tauriel reprimanded him.
“Come on, pookie. I was only kidding,” Kili explained when he took the last bite of his tart.
“You and your brother can wash the dessert bowls before we leave,” Tauriel demanded.
“Why me? I helped with the dishes earlier.”
“No one has to do any more dishes. I’ll do it tomorrow morning,” Tillie reasoned.
“Are you sure, Grandma Bowman?” Fili asked as he already sat on the edge of his seat, ready to stand up.
“I’m sure, my child,” Tillie promised, smiling at the young man.
Fili glanced at Sigrid, and when she nodded, he stood up. “We have to be rude, but we must get going now. Thanks for a wonderful dinner, Grandma Bowman.”
And so, everyone greeted and thanked Tillie for the meal.
While Tillie, Bain, and Tilda walked them out, Bard, Thranduil, and Gared remained sitting.
This time, Sigrid moved into the passenger seat in front, next to Fili, while Kili saw to the gate.
“Your grandmother is the sweetest,” Tauriel remarked while they backed up out of the driveway.
“I know, right?” Sigrid agreed when she glanced back.
After Kili had shut the gate and jumped in the back of the car, Fili honked the horn as he pulled off.
They waved at the three standing in the doorway until they couldn’t see the house anymore.
“This was such a fun day,” Kili announced when he moved closer to Tauriel and wrapped his arm around her. “I wish that Grandma Durin was still alive,” he mused with longing in his voice.
Fili remained silent. With his gaze fixed on the road ahead, he placed his hand on Sigrid’s knee.
In return, Sigrid put her hand on top of his before she relaxed her head against the headrest behind her.
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
Aventurine sighs, combing his hair with his fingers. He's tired; the eyebags under his bright irises make that all too clear.
It's been a rough few months. Images of Kakavasha flits in front of him, a constant reminder of Sigonia-IV. The Nihility only made it worse. His body constantly aches, never even lessens. His mind is his prison, creating nightmares which would wake him up at ungodly hours in cold sweat. So much so, that he has developed insomnia. Not to mention, he cannot seem to stomach food. He eats, and throws it all up, and it’s a never ending cycle.
Topaz walks into his office. She isn't the sweetest IPC member (no one from the Stonehearts is), but she still cares for Aventurine.
“Are you alright?” Topaz asks, sitting on his office desk, her legs dangling as she pets Numby on her lap.
“I'm fine.” Aventurine fakes a smile, but Topaz sees right through it, mostly because Aventurine's fake smile does not seem natural.
“You've been out of it lately.”
Aventurine says nothing in reply, only looks down at his lap.
“Here.” Topaz hands Aventurine a bottle of concealer, his perfect shade. It may seem insensitive, but every high-ranking IPC member knows that faking it is the best option.
Aventurine smiles at her, a barely noticeable one, mostly because he's thankful. It's genuine, one that's not normal for Aventurine.
The office hours are long past. Yet Aventurine continues to finish off piles of documents. Topaz peeks in.
“You seriously can't be overworking yourself.”
“I am.” Aventurine shoots Topaz his signature smile, one that conceals everything.
“Come on. Get out of that chair and out of this room.” Topaz walks in, Numby following close. The Trotter squeaks. It is always visibly cheerful near Aventurine.
Aventurine gets up and kneels down to pet Numby. “Hey, what's up?”
Numby nuzzles closer to Aventurine, trying to get more of his pats.
“Aren't you sweet, Numby?” Aventurine smiles and giggles, indulging the Trotter's wants.
“Numby will become needy if you do that too much.” Topaz sighs, sitting in front of Numby and him.
“Yeah, I get it.” Aventurine gently stops caressing Numby.
“Come on, Aventurine. Let's get out of here.” Topaz stands up, holding Numby in one arm and extending her other to Aventurine.
He gracefully accepts the aid and stands up, but not without a little wobble. It seems the exhaustion is catching up to him.
The two walk out of the room, Topaz trailing behind Aventurine. “You need to take care of yourself.”
Aventurine just nods in reply. “I know, I know. I just have a lot of work left to do.”
“Have you considered taking a break?” Topaz suggests.
“Wasn't my time in the Nihility a break enough?” Aventurine laughs, hollow and mirthless.
“Idiot.” Topaz huffs.
Aventurine laughs. He puts his arm on Topaz’s shoulder and drags her out of the room.
“Have I ever said how utterly frustrating you are?” Topaz hits Aventurine on the head, but not too hard so that he gets hurt.
“Don’t hit your boss!” Aventurine giggles.
“I don’t care.”
Aventurine unlocks the entrance of his apartment with a click. He sees the millions of texts people have sent him. Some from the Astral Express and IPC members. But the one that catches his eye is the one from Doctor Ratio himself.
****************************************************
Doctor~
‘There's no rush’
Doctor~- I hope this message eventually finds you, and I sincerely hope you are not gone for good. If you see this, that is, if it goes through, please send a reply.
Aventurine- Hey, doc! I'm very much alive. And you sound like you missed me~
****************************************************
Aventurine laughs a little. He doesn't acknowledge the little backflips his heart seems to be doing.
He follows the same routine; he changes, eats a few apples, and falls face first into the soft, fluffy bed.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep seems to evade him. He lays there, burying his face in his satin-covered pillow.
His head hurts, and he coughs. His body aches, and he feels incredibly nauseous. He gets up and drags his tired body to the bathroom. He kneels in front of the toilet bowl and wretches. He throws up, a sound of agony filling the bathroom. He looks into the bowl. He sees the now emptied contents of his stomach— bile, apple mush and blood.
Wait,
blood
?
His eyes widen. Why is there blood in his vomit? He shudders, looks away and hurriedly flushes, pristine and clear water replacing the vomit. He washes his mouth, but the hydrochloric acid still burns his throat. Aventurine grabs a glass of water and drinks it. He breathes, trying to calm himself down. Walking back to the bedroom, he lays down on the bed, staring at the wall. He remembers now, the Doctors of Chaos have mentioned something about ‘adverse effects of being in the IX includes blood, which may be present in urine, vomit, stool, coughs, and sneezes’.
So that explains the blood. He feels a tear run down his cheek. He wipes it off, and grabs his phone. He opens the apps and checks his notifications. Again. Business never sleeps, after all. And especially not such a big corporation like the IPC.
He doom scrolls through his socials, fairly bored. His phone rings, and he checks the contact name—
“Hey, doc~” He whispers, talking to the one on the other side of the line.
“At least you were smart enough to follow my advice,” Ratio sounds annoyed but surprisingly, concerned.
“What advice, dear doctor?” Aventurine teases.
“To stay alive, of course.” The doctor huffs.
“My luck won’t fail me that easily, doc~ You ought to know that by now,” Aventurine flirts. He doesn’t know why, but Topaz tells him that he flirts with everyone.
“One more insensible thing that comes out of your mouth, and I will show up at your doorsteps.”
“Oh?~ You know I wouldn’t mind that~” Aventurine laughs, not taking him seriously. He pets the cat cakes sitting on the bed, mewling at him.
“You won’t?” Ratio asks, as if he's going to take Aventurine up on the offer.
Aventurine quirks his brows at Ratio's question. “I don't think I would mind it.” He smiles.
“Then I'm coming as soon as I can. Don't fall asleep on me, gambler.” Ratio puts the phone down and gets ready.
Half an hour later, Ratio stands in front of Aventurine's massive penthouse, closing his wet umbrella. He rings the bell.
Aventurine practically teleports to the front door. “You're actually here. Damn.” He is genuinely surprised that he showed up.
“I don't go back on my word, dear gambler.” Ratio walks in, essentially inviting himself into Aventurine's home.
“Not even a hug? Come on, doc. You've seen me for the first time in months!” Aventurine slides over to Ratio, and then plops onto the lush velvet sofa.
“You know full well I do not engage in such ridiculous displays of affection,” Ratio states.
“That's harsh, no?” Aventurine teases, walking over to Ratio, and sitting next to Ratio, attempting to invade his personal space.
Ratio rolls his eyes and moves away.
“Keep to yourself, gambler.” He huffs. It's frustrating to see Aventurine try to invade his personal space. He assumes it's because Aventurine enjoys making people uncomfortable.
Aventurine only laughs, but finally he does move away, hoping to keep Ratio happy. Why does he want to keep Ratio happy? No one knows.
“If you continue to bother me, I will not hesitate to put on my alabaster head.”
“You don't have to do that, doctor.”
“You didn't sleep; at all.” Ratio has a odd habit of saying things bluntly. Aventurine found that charming.
“Ding ding ding, doctor!~” Aventurine smiles, a sad one that shows through a perfectly crafted fake one.
“This isn’t a joking matter, Aventurine.” The doctor sounds strangely concerned. Or is that Aventurine’s closed-off heart begging—no,
yearning
, for the tiniest ounce of affection?
“Using my name, are we? I’m fine, though, Ratio.” Aventurine looks away. He lies for a living, but why is it so hard to lie to Ratio?
“Right, and I am Screwllum,” Ratio remarks, sarcasm dripping off his tongue.
Aventurine laughs, but surprisingly it isn’t that fake.
Ratio turns to Aventurine and takes his hands into his own. “I need to know if you’re genuinely okay, Aventurine.”
Aventurine gets flustered but eventually gets the courage to meet Ratio’s amber-sunset gaze. Ratio’s eyes soften, and his hand caresses Aventurine’s knuckles. He looks into Aventurine’s eyes with so much warmth, something akin to a– friend?
Aventurine mumbles something incoherent, and all of a sudden Ratio feels Aventurine climb onto him and his slim arms onto Ratio’s back. A hug. Aventurine hugs Ratio. Ratio is partially confused, but he returns the embrace, wrapping his muscular arms around Aventurine’s much slimmer frame. Aventurine buries his face into the crook of Ratio’s neck, crying softly, but oddly enough, soundlessly.
“I’m here for you, Aventurine,” Ratio whispers into the dead of night.
“Please, don’t go, Veritas,” Aventurine says his name like a lifeline. The first time Aventurine has used Ratio’s first name in front of him. “I can’t lose you too.” He cries, his body shuddering with each sob.
Ratio is surprised to hear his name, his first name, from Aventurine’s mouth. “I don’t plan on leaving, Aventurine. I will be here as long as you need me.”
Silence follows with only the occasional muffled whimpers from Aventurine. Ratio rubs circles on Aventurine’s back, soothing him. He whispers words of comfort into Aventurine’s ears, trying to make him aware of his presence and hold.
Aventurine and Ratio stay in that position for ten more minutes. Ratio’s fingers glided gently through Aventurine’s soft golden locks. Aventurine’s sobs turned into sniffles, and he finally pulled back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done—”
“You never learn when to keep your mouth shut, do you?” Ratio doesn’t even let him finish.
“Thanks, Ratio.” Aventurine smiles, a genuine one. It isn’t one of his acts or flirtatious smirks– no. This is genuine, and it’s shown in the way that his eyes crinkle.
“I am aware that I am not an easy person to talk to, but I will be there for you, Aventurine. I swear on it.” Ratio’s fingers graze against Aventurine’s knuckles, gently caressing them.
Aventurine can feel the way his heart beats faster and does five backflips every minute. The way that he can feel the blood rushing up to his cheeks.
They’re interrupted from their heart-to-heart by mewling. Aventurine turns back and makes eye contact with one of the cat cakes.
“You really like those cat cakes.”
“I do.” Aventurine smiles as he takes one of the snacks into his arms and pets it.
One of them dashes to the kitchen and pushes its paw towards the food bowl.
“You’re hungry?” Aventurine says as he walks towards the kitchen.
The one near Ratio purrs as if in agreement.
Aventurine takes out the food he gives to the snacks and put them in three of the pet bowls. The snacks start eating them, purring in appreciation.
Aventurine looks at the snacks with a small, gentle smile. He carefully walks back to the sofa and sits down next to Ratio once again.
“Are you feeling better?” Ratio asks. He’s gentle with his words and says them softly. Right now, Aventurine is too fragile and one wrong sound can make him shut himself out.
“A little, yeah.” Aventurine looks into the doctor’s eyes. They look so… warm. It reminds Aventurine of so many things, and one of them includes himself. More specifically, his race, The Avgins. Honey, they call it. Ratio’s eyes look far too much like the amber liquid.
“I best be going now.” Ratio stands up and turns around, only for long, slender fingers to wrap around his bicep.
“You can stay over. There are like multiple guest bedrooms here,” Aventurine says in a moment of panic. He really does not want Ratio to leave. “Plus, it’s pouring rain outside, and like two in the morning.”
Ratio is surprised by the offer but he graciously accepts it. “You’re lucky, gambler. I did bring some extra clothes.”
“As I said, my luck never fails me~” Aventurine merely laughs as he drags Ratio to one of the many spacious guest rooms he has. Ratio is only slightly surprised at the number. He is definitely wealthy, but that does not even come close to what Aventurine has. And that is very obvious.
“You are a flashy peacock. Not only in the way you choose to dress, but your home shares the same level of glamour and flash as you.” Ratio walks into the room Aventurine has brought him to.
“Hey, if I have it, why not flaunt it?” Aventurine only shakes his head in amusement. “Make yourself comfortable. This is the biggest guest room in this apartment.”
“You damned gambler.” Ratio mumbles.
“Goodnight.” Aventurine turns around and walks towards the door. He halts at the threshold of the door and turns around. “Thank you, Veritas.”
Ratio sees the gambler look away and walk out, shutting the door behind him. He stands there, a warm feeling spreading through his system. “It’s not a problem,
Kakavasha.
” His words echo in the large room, only reaching his own ears.
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
“Lapis? It’s ok now, I moved the mirror,” Peridot tried to say calmly. After finding Lapis curled up on the floor, she wasn’t entirely sure what to do. She sat down beside the mysterious woman and reached out to comfort her. Her hand stopped midair when she realized that physical touch may only escalate Lapis Lazuli’s current distress.
“Uh… Do you want me to leave you alone?”
To Peridot’s surprise, the curled up woman shook her head side to side, communicating that she should stay. So, Lapis was not in a state of total dissociation from reality, this was good. The thought of this struck something in Peridot. A few years into her adolescence, she struggled a lot with her anxiety and depression. Her mother didn’t help much, either she didn’t notice or didn’t care. Eventually Peridot had to be admitted to a residential facility for a month. She wasn’t trained to be a social worker or a therapist, but she picked up some things through observing other patients. She admired Lapis for not getting swept away in a potential flashback.
“I’ll go get some ice water, ok? It'll be two seconds I promise.” Peridot slipped out to fill a glass with water, and when she came back the mystery woman had already lifted her head. She sat down and held the glass in front of the other. She downed the glass of water in a millisecond.
They sat in silence on the floor for a minute. The two women were completely unknown to each other - curious, but not knowing where to start. Peridot slowly reached over, her hand slightly shaking, and pulled back Lapis’ hair. She leaned forwards to get a better view of the mystery woman. Lapis hadn’t been crying, but her roommate noticed the bags under her eyes. Peridot’s hand shot back to her side and she looked away. Her intentions were not at all romantic, but the intern couldn’t help feeling a bit flustered. She hoped Lapis wasn’t weirded out.
“I um… M-maybe we should watch a movie? Any favorites?” Silence engulfed them both like a bubble expanding and waiting to pop. Peridot spoke up again, “We can just browse…”
The shorter of the two stood up and offered the other a clammy palm. She took it, but with no sour face this time. They plopped down on the couch together, five feet apart, and watched Peridot’s favorite movie (Alien, 1979). Lapis was curled up in a warm blanket with green aliens on it.
“Have you watched Alien before?”
Lapis shook her head no. Her roommate’s green eyes were almost glowing, indicating Peridot was very fascinated with this movie.
“Heh, well, it’s a masterpiece, and so is the franchise. You’re lucky I’m your roommate because I happen to have every single movie on DVD!”
—
“How about Tacos?” Peridot asked Lapis, her eyes slightly obscured by the glow of her phone reflecting off her glasses. She never liked to order Doordash, but she didn’t feel like stressing Lapis out more by leaving to get groceries. Lapis shook her head. “No to Tacos.” Peridot realized that trying to order food with a mute person might be more difficult than she thought. She was getting slightly annoyed.
Lapis made a gesture with her hands. “Pen and paper? Hold on.” Peridot grabbed a green pen with a plastic alien head on it and a pad of paper. Lapis shakily wrote PANERA.
“Ok, sounds good… You can keep that if you want,” Peridot told her. Lapis gave her a small smile that seemed to stop time.
—
When Lapis woke up, on her way to the bathroom she realized what time it was. The microwave clock said 10 AM. When she was imprisoned in the room of mirrors, she had no way to tell what time it was or how many days passed. She still wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been since the day she was kidnapped, nobody told her. Judging by the calendar on the fridge, it was August. She missed her 24th birthday.
The mirror cabinet in the bathroom had a towel over it, Lapis noticed. Probably after her freak out yesterday her roommate decided to cover it. After doing her bathroom routines, she slowly pulled it away. She was coldly greeted by a rat's nest of dark brown hair. Opening the drawers, she found some scissors and began cutting away until the locks were above her shoulders. She decided to go with a bob teetering close to a pixie cut. Before she was kidnapped, her hair was always this length and blue. It was her signature style, so she decided to ask Peridot later to pick up some hair dye.
While watching her reflection, Lapis knew she was testing her limits. Any moment her senses could betray her - a smell, a feeling, a flicker of the lights - anything could trigger a flashback. She leaned over the sink, blue eyes to blue, sky to sea. Her pores were flaky and dry. She draped the towel over the mirror and started up the shower for the first time in six months.
When she got out, Peridot was putting away groceries. “Hey Lazuli! Oh! I got you something.” Lapis noticed that when Peridot grinned her glasses would touch her cheeks and slightly push them up her face. The plastic bags ruffled as her roommate dug through them. “Here.”
Offered in front of her was a notebook. In the light, there were scales that glittered in purple and blue hues. It reminded Lapis of a dress she would wear clubbing. She watched the morning light fracture as she rotated the gift. She noted that the inside had blank pages. In six months, nobody had ever given her a gift out of goodwill. Why would Peridot give her this? If anything she herself should be the gift giver. She was the intruder on Peridot’s life, the idea didn’t make sense to her. She played around with it in her mind, like driftwood on waves.
“I thought you would need it, if you like to draw or write or whatever…” Peridot said, once again snapping Lapis out of her funk. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks,” was all Lapis could tell her new roommate.
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
Kazuya took a moment to pause at the crest of the hill and survey his surroundings. He still had a few hours left of running before he would make it to the village he called home, but it was nearly sunset. Normally he would have just kept running – his parents didn’t care if he came home in the middle of the night – but not tonight.
Outside of the unfortunate timing of the phase of the moon, or lack thereof, there was no rush for him to get home. It was autumn, and he wanted to get back before winter came. While his parents were perfectly capable of getting things ready for the winter without him, but he still felt obligated to be there to help. And he also had no desire to be out traveling if any snow started to fly.
Just like any other inuhanyou, Kazuya turned human on the night of the new moon. And that was just the beginning of things he had in common with his father. He looked enough like him that they got confused for each other all the time – same face, same eyes, similar hair. Kazuya’s hair had a smoother, finer texture, and was silvery light gray instead of white. He also preferred to keep it pulled back into a low ponytail, however his hair refused to be entirely contained and often had sections that had slipped loose. The locks of hair framing his face were shorter than his father’s, ending at his jaw. He had the fangs and claws, and even his voice was a smoother version of his father’s. And, of course, much to his mother’s delight, he got his father’s ears.
He had all of this because unlike his elder sister, Moroha, who was quarter-youkai, Kazuya was a true hanyou – half youkai, half human. He asked once how that was possible and instantly regretted it, because no one wants to think about their parents engaged in certain activities. The short explanation was that his ol’ man could occasionally transform into a full-youkai and happened to do so at a very “opportune” time.
His clothes were the almost the same in style and material, but a different color. Kazuya had also made his garments from the fur of the fire rat, but he was incredibly lucky to have been able to hunt down melanistic fire rats. His suikan and hakama were a dark, almost navy blue, and a purple and green sheen danced on the fabric when the light hit it just right. The sleeves of his suikan were shorter and his hakama wasn’t as baggy as his father’s. He actually hated having ankle ties on the hakama, but with the way he ran around, the pantlegs would flop around and bunch up, so it wasn’t practicial to go without them. He also carried a sword, but unlike Tessaiga, his was nothing special – it was just a regular sword. He preferred to use his claws.
Growling at the sun, Kazuya decided to keep running a little longer. There was a large village not far from there that he wanted to make it to before stopping for the night. He hadn’t been by there in a long while, but he knew of a good spot in the forest there that would be safe. Taking a deep breath, he took a few long bounds until he hit the tree line again before switching back and forth between running and leaping through the trees.
He made it to the outskirts of the village just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon. The “village” was more of a small city now – it had really grown in the last couple years since he had been out this way. The safe spot he had in mind was now too close to buildings for comfort, so he made quick work of seeking out a rocky outcropping that he decided would just have to do. After all, it was only one night, he should be fine.
Knowing better than to try to build a fire or anything that would attract attention, he picked out a spot in the rocks where he could see out but wouldn’t easily be seen and settled in for the night. He sat cross-legged with his hands in his sleeves and his sword leaning against his shoulder, his back against the rocks.
The sun sank out of sight, and he felt his youki ebb away. His ears slid down to the sides of his head, his senses dulled, his claws receded back into regular fingernails. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew his hair had turned black and his eyes were now blue. Now he could only wait.
Another difference between him and his elder sister other than their percentage of youkai blood was that Kazuya liked to go home a lot more frequently. Moroha was still out running around seeking adventure and chasing bounties with no sign of wanting to settle down anytime soon. Kazuya, on the other hand, flip-flopped back and forth between wanting adventure and to make a name for himself, and seeking peace and calm and growing a family of his own.
Since Kazuya was actually raised by his parents (once again, unlike Moroha), he knew what it was like to have a family, and that was his ultimate goal. He’d heard all the stories of what his parents went through to get where they were by the time he was born and he knew it was nothing to scoff at. Even his uncle, Sesshomaru, had broken down and married Rin and had children after swearing for centuries that he would do no such thing.
But, in hearing all of their tales, he craved doing the something that would give him his own story to tell his children. His parents and their friends were known for defeating Naraku and ridding the world of the Shikon no Tama, and his sister and cousins were known for bringing down the Grim Comet. And all of them, except his father, had done so when they were younger than he was now. Even his Uncle Sesshomaru was a legend because of how powerful he was. Everyone around him was famous for something, except him. So he traveled the countryside, hoping to have his fifteen minutes of fame and getting it out of his system before moving on to the next phase of his life.
But so far all he’d managed to do was kill of a bunch of lesser youkai. Nothing exciting. How Moroha managed to find enough stuff to keep herself busy and want to stay away from home for months, or even years, on end, he had no idea. Perhaps there were no more adventures to be had, and the few that were left were getting hogged by his sister.
A couple hours later, his eyes snapped open and started scanning the space around him. He thought he heard voices, but with his useless human senses, he couldn’t pinpoint where they were coming from or how many there were or anything. It was pitch black, and his useless human senses weren’t picking up on anything. His mind warred between sitting up further to try and get a better look and shrinking back into the rocks so he would be less likely to be seen.
Soon the voices grew louder. Two men, coming from his right. Kazuya pressed his back harder against the rock out of instinct, although he knew the action would do absolutely nothing to make him any more hidden. He hoped his dark hair and clothing would make him blend into the shadows.
Then their torch became visible. They were walking briskly, with purpose. They weren’t some other travelers - he realized they were on patrol.
The men appeared in the space in front of the rocks and Kazuya froze in place, knowing they would definitely see him if there was any movement. They marched past his hiding spot, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, the men stopped just before they left the clearing to take a seat on the rocks there. They pulled out some water and took a moment to sip at it.
Unfortunately, the spot they stopped gave Kazuya a clear view of them, which also meant they had a clear view of him if they looked his direction. Very, very slowly, Kazuya dropped his head so his hair would cover his face and hopefully camouflage him a little bit.
What he forgot to do was cover the hilt of his sword.
When the men stood to continue on their way, the light from their torches reflected off the metal.
“Who goes there!?”
“
Shit
…” Kazuya gritted his teeth, but tried to plaster a friendly look on his face before looking up at the men.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, trying to channel his parents’ monk friend, Miroku.
“What are you doing out after dark? The order is that no one is to be out of the village after sunset, and not out of their homes after dark.”
Kazuya’s fake smile grew. “My apologies, good sirs, but I am not from your village – I’m merely passing through. I’ll be on my way at sunrise.”
One of the men pulled a dagger out of his belt and raised his hand, poised to throw it. “You will come down from there and accompany us into the city at once.”
Kazuya’s façade fell. He knew he wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to dodge the dagger in this form. He wasn’t sure he could take both of them at once, either. Why were these assholes being so hostile? He bared his teeth and glared at the men. “Fine.” He stood, making sure to keep his hands visible so they wouldn’t think he was going to try and draw his sword.
As soon as he cleared the rocks, the men rushed forward and grabbed him. They took his sword and used the hilt to hit him in the stomach. When he doubled over, they each grabbed an arm and hauled him through the trees.
Kazuya didn’t fight them. The hit to his gut hurt, but he was more annoyed than anything else. He just pretended that he was more incapacitated than he was, hoping they would let their guard down long enough to loosen their grip or something and give him a chance to escape. But no such luck - the men had an iron grip on his shoulders, enough that there would be bruises to heal come sunrise.
The angle he was being held at made it difficult to see where they were taking him, but they took him into the village, through some gates and doors, and eventually to what appeared to be a prison or dungeon. They stopped outside a cell, and when he tried to get his feet under him merely to stand, and one of them knocked him over the back of the head for doing so. It was a pretty solid blow, enough to disorient him, but he registered the sounds of the cell opening and then felt the floor hit him in the face as he was tossed onto it.
“We’ll deal with you in the morning.”
“Isn’t that wench in there, too?” the other man said.
“Yeah, but if that stranger wants to have his way with her, let him – it’ll only add to her punishment.”
Both men chuckled as they moved away, taking the source of light with them. The window in the door and the barred window on the wall glowed softly, though, so there was light coming from somewhere.
Kazuya groaned and pushed himself up on his hands and knees. They might have hit him hard enough to give him a concussion, which would only make this night more irritating. He rubbed the back of his head while he slid over to prop himself up against the wall. It was going to be a long night…
He had only just opened his eyes and started to get his bearings when he heard the sound of soft whimpers coming from the opposite side of the cell. He squinted into the darkness, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the dim light. After a moment he was able to make out the huddled form of a young woman curled up, facing into the corner.
She sat with her knees drawn up and her face buried in them, obviously crying. She was absolutely filthy – he couldn’t tell what color her clothes were supposed to be. Her kosode was torn open in the back, and it took him longer than it should have to realize that her back was covered in lash marks. She’d been beaten and whipped.
After a moment, a pair of wet brown eyes looked up and met his temporarily blue ones. He could barely make out the bruises and swelling that covered her face, but he had no problem seeing the tear tracks shining in what little light there was.
“Why would they do this to you?” He breathed, not realizing that he’d spoken out loud.
She gave him a wry smile. “I tried to escape. Again.” Her voice was hoarse and dry. How long had it been since she’d had water? “What about you?”
Kazuya shrugged. “I was camped out in the forest. Just passing through and picked the wrong place to stop for the night.”
“The headman is very controlling. He thinks if he runs this village like one of the big cities that he’ll impress someone and move up in the world. He formed the village guard and put all kinds of new laws in place.”
Kazuya scoffed. “So he’s an asshole. Got it.” The woman tried to laugh but started coughing instead.
“So is that the reason you’re trying to escape? Because he’s too controlling?”
Clearing her throat, she shook her head. “The headman isn’t my problem, it’s the priest. I’ve been forced to live and train at the shrine my entire life, and I don’t want any part of it anymore.”
“Why would they force you to?”
The woman lifted her eyes to gaze out the window. “They say I’m one of the most powerful miko that’s ever lived, they could sense my power from any early age. I don’t know if my parents gave me up or if I was taken from them, but I’ve been at the shrine as long as I can remember.”
Now he was glaring at her. “If you’re that powerful, why I can’t I feel your reiki, then?”
Her smile returned and she turned to look at him. “Because the first thing I was trained to do was shield it.”
Just then, Kazuya felt a very powerful, and very familiar, energy. He gasped. The reiki that he felt was one of the most powerful that he’d ever felt, rivaling his mother’s.
“Feh, you’re an awfully trusting person, dropping that barrier just to show me,” Kazuya muttered when he felt her put her barrier back in place.
“I did it because I can sense you have some reiki of your own,” she answered, cocking her head to the side, “but yours is different somehow. Are you a priest?”
Kazuya snorted. He was far from a priest. “No, my mother is a miko.”
“She must be a powerful one.”
He smirked. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“You have no idea…”
She smiled, but then sighed and let her head drop sideways against the wall. “I’ve been here for two days, so tomorrow they should let me out and take me back to the shrine. They’ll probably rough you up a bit more and let you out tomorrow, too.”
“Keh! I’m bustin’ out of here at sunrise,” he said as he crossed his arms and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible on the damp dirt floor. “You’re welcome to join me.”
Her eyes had opened wider at his bold claim of breaking out, but then her expression softened into one of sadness. “I’m afraid I will have to decline…”
“I thought you wanted out?”
A tear escaped one of her eyes and ran down her cheek. “I think my leg is broken…” she said softly.
At that, Kazuya crossed over to her, and she turned her body away from the wall so he could see her right shin. Sure enough, the leg was extremely bruised and had an unnatural angle where it was supposed to be straight. His hands clenched into fists. He had learned enough from his mother to know that it wasn’t set properly and wouldn’t heal correctly – if she didn’t get to a healer right away, she could have difficulty walking the rest of her life.
Which was exactly what her captors were probably hoping for so she wouldn’t be able to escape.
He felt an ache in his chest, a mix of heartbreak and anger. He gave her a hard look. “As soon as the sunlight comes over the horizon, I’m getting us both out of here. I just… need you to trust me, okay?”
Her face turned into one of wonder as she processed his words. This man truly believed that he could escape. “You… you really think you’ll be able to get out? And you’re really going to take me with you?”
He gave her a single nod before turning to the barred window and walking over to inspect it. Just as he suspected there would be, there was a crack in the wall coming out of one of the lower corners. He shook the bars and they were a little loose. Not loose enough for a human to dislodge them, but enough that it wouldn’t give a hanyou a problem.
With a confident smirk, he settled up against the wall to wait until morning.
“What’s your name?” he whispered.
“They call me Aiko, but it’s not my given name.”
“Then what’s your real name? The one you want to be called?”
“…Rikina.”
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
[ MOB ]
Mob was dragged out of sleep by knocking on the door. Three more should follow in a second.
They did not.
It wasn’t Ritsu.
He got up and tried to detect any espers nearby. He only felt the weak presence of one of their neighbors that was always there at this time.
Was it the mailman?
It couldn’t be; he already knew where to leave the package and text Mob after Ritsu had lied to them that his older brother was deaf and wouldn’t open the door.
Maybe he really was. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the beating of his heart.
Maybe they got a new mailman?
He really hoped they had just gotten a new one.
Mob went over the points of entry, other than the door. There was one window in Ritsu’s room. Two in the living room.
He backed away from the door leading to the living room. They might already be inside.
His back hit the door to the bathroom, and he went inside. This way he could not be taken by surprise; there was only one way in.
His legs felt weak, and he sank to the floor.
If he just hid, they would go away.
The phone salesman always did, yet Ritsu would still need to spend an hour talking Mob down from the panic attack.
Ritsu.
Maybe he should call Ritsu.
He took his phone out, but he couldn’t get himself to press the call button.
He’d already taken so much attention away from Ritsu’s studies.
He had another exam today.
And if he called him now, he might hurry back here, and that would just put his little brother in danger as well.
He was nine years old again, and the thought of Ritsu in that place was too much to bear.
This is what Master had been trying to warn him against.
It’s okay; he could handle this.
He just had to wait it out.
Knocking again, louder this time. Mob covered his ears.
If they didn’t know anyone was home, they would leave.
It was a populated area, and the phone had read 7:23. Too many people would notice if they tried to break down his door.
It would be too public, even for them. Maybe especially for them.
The silence stretched for longer.
Whoever had been there was gone.
* * *
Mob was happy he didn’t have any clients in the morning. He was already running thirty minutes late by the time he got off the metro. His heart was still pounding, but he couldn’t afford to hide in the bathroom the whole day. Besides, if they knew about his home address, he might be safer at the office.
He paused when he saw a shape at the door to the office building. He was sure he hadn’t scheduled anyone for today. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, preparing himself.
He quickly relaxed a bit when he got close enough to recognize the person. His muscles still felt a bit too tense.
“Arataka, what are you doing here?” he asked. “Why aren’t you at school?”
The boy looked up and quickly sprang to his feet.
“Oh, there you are!” he said. “I left my bag at the office yesterday.”
“Sorry, rough morning.” Mob said. He stepped into the stairwell, and Arataka followed right behind him. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Please come in. I’m sorry for making you late.”
“I’m not,” Arataka said and walked inside before looking around. He quickly spotted his backpack on the couch and went to grab it. “I figured you weren’t home. And it’s not like missing a few classes would make a big difference for me.”
“I was—“ Mob started, then paused when the words registered. “You were at my home?”
“Yeah, I guessed you were out at the store or something.” He pulled the straps of the bag over his shoulders.
Mob felt himself relax, the bone-deep anxiety leaving him at last. It had been Arataka knocking.
“I still don’t want you to miss more of your classes, so please hurry there,” he said and went to the kitchenette. He took one of the CalorieMates from the cupboard and a carton of banana milk from the fridge before handing them to Arataka. “I’ll see you after classes?”
“Yes!” Arataka said and stuffed the things into his bag before he went to the door. He turned to wave at him with a smile before he left.
Mob went over to the desk and sank down when he was alone again. He was so tired. When the anxiety left his body, all the energy went with it, and now that he knew no one had found him—except his little lost puppy—all he wanted to do was sleep.
He dragged the laptop a bit closer with his powers and opened it. A “new mail” notification popped up in the corner as soon as he had typed in his password. He pulled it up.
[ Hello, Mr. Kageyama.
Could we reschedule the meeting soon? I am excited about finally getting to meet you and hopefully getting my issues resolved.
Sincerely,
Mr. Serafin ]
That’s right, he had missed that meeting. He’d told the client that he would reschedule them soon, but Arataka had stolen most of his attention after that. And Mob would be happy to let him steal even more, but he needed to work and keep things stable enough to not worry Ritsu.
[ Mr. Serafin,
Monday at 4 pm would work well with me. Thank you for your patience.
Sincerely,
Mr. Kageyama ]
Ritsu had sacrificed enough to support him, to help him open the office and pay rent for the first months till the business started returning profit. Even then, it did not leave Mob with any savings, and Ritsu kept worrying about even the smallest of inconveniences that might send his older brother into debt. It was supposed to be the other way around, wasn’t it? Ritsu was his baby brother, yet Ritsu was the one who was taking care of him all the time.
He wanted to be able to support Ritsu so his brother could focus on himself for once. Could Mob really be trusted with being Arataka’s friend when he couldn’t even take care of his own problems, let alone the kid’s? He had almost attacked those girls…
He checked the rest of his emails. Still no further response from the police on the case from the candy factory. He’d see about going there tomorrow before Ritsu would arrive for the weekend.
* * *
Mob knew something was wrong the moment Arataka entered the office, not uttering a word as he went to put his backpack on the couch. It was such a far shout from the way the boy had come into his office yesterday.
“Arataka?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” Arataka said, unzipping his bag. “Can I have some milk?”
“Yes,” Mob stood up and went to the kitchenette to pour him a glass, happy that the boy was taking to his favorite drink. Arataka was already pulling the chair over to the desk by the time Mob turned the corner. He used his powers to make it a bit lighter for him.
He set the glass of milk on the desk in front of Arataka.
“How was work?” Arataka asked and grabbed the glass to take a sip. “How
is
work, I mean? Will anyone come in today?”
Mob shook his head and went around the desk to sit down in his chair again. “Not much special today." He said. “I helped some kids find their lost dog. It had just gone to the convenience store because the shop owner always gives it a few treats when the boys come by.”
“You should give some treats to me, too. This way you won’t lose me either.”
“So far you’ve seemed to always find your way here,” Mod responded. “I was able to file the paperwork early thanks to you.”
Arataka beamed. “I can help if you have more.” He said.
Mob pulled out the drawer and took another portion of the ever-growing stack and placed it on Arataka’s side of the desk. He placed his hand on top of it before Arataka could get too eager. “Will this interfere with your homework?”
Arataka shook his head. “No, it’s Friday, right? I have the whole weekend to do it,” he said. “I want to help you.” The boy’s eyes practically sparkled, and Mob had no defense against that as he released the papers.
Mob pushed his laptop over to Arataka, and his intern started rewriting them. Ritsu would have to be relieved when Mob would show him how much less paperwork there was for this weekend. He tried to focus on his own task at hand—reading through a police report about a woman disappearing right after emptying her and her husband’s bank account. The husband was very adamant that she had
not
run away with it to start a new life. Mob wasn’t sure if he could entirely believe his client, but he owed him to at least try and see if there could be a different explanation.
The sight of Arataka scratching at his neck for the third time caught Mob’s attention. Without a word, he reached out to tug at the collar of Arataka’s gakuran to reveal a red spot. Arataka froze and looked at him perplexed.
“What happened?” Mob asked and prodded a finger against the spot. “Who did this? The girls?”
Arataka’s expression shifted, and Mob feared the worst. But the boy just broke into a laugh. “A mosquito,” he said. Mob looked at it again. It
did
look like a mosquito bite.
“Where did you last see the criminal?” he asked.
That got more laughter out of Arataka, and Mob’s chest felt lighter. “On the crossing between Wakame and Miso Street, sir.”
“I’ll be sure to catch her,” Mob assured him and let go.
Arataka kept smiling. Then sighed. “I ate a sandwich someone had left on my desk, and it had a bug in it.”
Mob frowned. “Do you think it was them again?”
Arataka’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have any friends there anyway.”
“You have a friend here now,” Mob reminded him. “I will take you out to eat. I promised you ramen yesterday.”
Arataka nodded, but his smile still looked strained. “I hate school. Do I really have to go there?”
“Education is very important,” Mob said.
“Yeah, sure,” Arataka said a bit sour. “Lucky you that you didn’t have to deal with it for long.”
Mob’s chest didn’t feel light anymore. “It wasn’t by my own choice.”
Arataka turned his head to look at him. “What happened?”
“I was put in an institution,” he said, keeping his eyes on the report in front of him, focusing on how the words were all written out in a perfect straight line.
“For what?” Arataka asked, turning a bit in his seat to look at him better.
“To help with my powers,” he said. Every next word felt harder to push out.
“Oh, like a school on how to use them?” Arataka asked. “That sounds so cool.”
Fluorescent light bouncing off white walls. Strange swirling markings on the floor. The text on the page had started swirling too. He gripped at his thigh
hard
, but the pain wasn’t sharp enough anymore. There was someone speaking to him on the other side of the wall, but it was hard to make out what was being said.
A hand clasping down on his shoulder snapped the room back into focus, with the sound of something breaking with it.
Arataka’s hand disappeared from his shoulder, instead shooting out to quickly grab the laptop off the desk, lifting it in the air before the milk would reach it. Mob’s gaze followed the slowly pooling milk to the sight of the broken cup. It had been a gift from Ritsu.
“I-I’m sorry,” Arataka said. “You looked really scared. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mob said, finding his voice again. He used his powers to bring a roll of paper towels over and tore off a piece to wipe up the milk. “I’m okay. Just some bad memories.”
“Sorry,” Arataka said again and put the laptop back down on the desk when it was wiped clean. “I won’t ask more.”
Mob reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “It’s okay.”
Arataka smiled tentatively, but he still looked a bit shaken up. Mob was sure he didn’t look any better either.
“Do you have anyone else coming in today?” Arataka asked. Mob shook his head and stood up. He didn’t think he’d be able to sit still for any longer with the memories so close to the surface.
“Let’s go get some ramen.”
[ ARATAKA ]
Arataka kept a close watch on Mob as they walked. He had been worried when Mob stopped responding, then scared when the cup suddenly broke into pieces.
Mob looked a bit unsure in his walk, the usual long strides replaced by smaller, more careful steps. He was looking around a lot, too.
Arataka felt unsure on his legs as well. No matter how much he cleaned the wound in his foot, it seemed to still hurt.
“I’ll finish those papers tomorrow,” Arataka said, wanting to break the silence that had fallen between them.
“It’s the weekend tomorrow; my office will be closed.” Mob reminded him. “I’ll bring them with me home, and Ritsu will take care of the rest.”
Oh… Yeah. It’d be two days without seeing his new friend. It meant no school either, at least.
They arrived at the same ramen shop Mob had taken him to before and sat down. No other patrons were at the place today, but Mrs. Hayashi didn’t seem to mind. She beamed when she saw them both.
“Oh hello, I see Mob-kun has company again,” she said. “Have you been helping him on another case?”
“No ma’am, not today.” Arataka said, swinging his legs a bit. They didn’t reach the footrest of the tall chair. “But I’m his new intern.” He wasn’t sure if he should say more, but Mob made the choice for him.
“He helps me write the paperwork.”
“I hope you boys will take good care of each other,” Mrs. Hayashi said, and pulled out two menu cards from the stack. Once again in different colors. “I’m sure Ritsu will be very happy to hear that you have some help at the office now.” She placed the cards in front of them.
Mob reached out to take the card with blue binding, but unlike last time, he didn’t pull it away from Arataka’s sight this time when he opened it. It had handwritten notes with hiragana taped close to each of the menu items so Mob could read it.
The ordering went much quicker this time, with both Mob and Arataka ordering the same thing they had last time.
“So how is school?” Mrs. Hayashi asked while she prepared the food for them.
He had been prepared for the questioning this time, and at least one of the days had been good, so he tried to just focus on that. “It’s been fine, though it’s not really that interesting,” he said. “But we will start the first preparations for the cultural festival next week.”
“Oh, that’s exciting,” she said and stirred the noodles.
“That sounds very nice,” Mob agreed. “I was attending a few of Ritsu’s when he was studying.”
“I guess, yeah,” Arataka said but hadn’t seen the excitement in them ever since his parents stopped having time to attend. “Would you come?”
“Yes,” Mob said without any hesitation. “When is it?”
“Um… I don’t really remember; in two months, I think?” He counted it in his head. “In July, yeah. You’d really come?”
“Of course. It’s what friends do, right?”
“I don’t know, but I like that.” He hugged the man. “Thanks, Mob.”
Mob looked a bit surprised at him but then wrapped an arm around Arataka’s shoulder to squeeze him a bit tighter against himself, just as Mrs. Hayashi put the bowls in front of them.
“It’s a very cute intern you have,” she said, and Arataka quickly straightened up, his cheeks feeling warm.
“Thanks for the food, auntie,” he said and didn’t waste more time before digging in. It tasted just as amazing as last time, and the bug-filled sandwich was quickly forgotten in favor of amazing food. Mob had ordered the same amount, yet a few extra gyoza had made their way onto the tray they were given.
Arataka finished first again, but he minded it much less this time, as Mrs. Hayashi mostly asked him questions about his new internship rather than about the school. He was happy to let her know about how cool Mob had been as he caught the thief yesterday, adding his own extra details about how cleverly they had outsmarted the man—all without a single mention of psychic powers.
“Thank you for the food, Hayashi-san,” Mob said when he set his bowl down. He paid for their meal, and they said their goodbyes.
It only now dawned on Arataka that ending the work early also meant he’d have to go back home earlier. He looked up at Mob. Maybe he could convince him to stay in the office a bit longer after all?
The conflict must have been pretty obvious on his face, because a moment later Mob asked, “Do you want to come home with me again?”
Arataka nodded. “Yes!” he said. “Oh, maybe I can bring my Switch so we can play together?”
“Yes, I would like that very much,” Mob said. “Let’s go there, and then we’ll take the metro to my place.”
* * *
“Alright, I’ll go get the things.” Arataka said. He typed in the code to the apartment complex and grabbed the door handle when it beeped cheerily. He stepped inside and let go of the door. It was quickly caught by Mob, who stepped in behind him, and Arataka quickly turned. “H-hey, it’s okay; you don’t have to come with me. It’ll just be a minute.”
“It’s okay,” Mob said simply and let the door slam shut behind them.
“I mean it,” Arataka tried. “The elevator is broken and stuff.”
“Stairs are not an issue,” Mob said. “Your parents aren’t home.”
“Yeah, so why are you coming?” Arataka took a step back towards the staircase. He grabbed the railing hard, knuckles turning white from the pressure.
“You’ve been to my home.”
“Fair enough,” Arataka said. No, it wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done his chores; Mob was going to think he was a slob. He started walking up the stairs, and Mob followed right behind. He wondered what his parents would say if they actually were home. They would scold him for sure for not keeping the place squeaky clean. And now he was bringing an adult stranger home as well. Would they be concerned? Or just annoyed?
They reached the 4th floor, and he took his keys out to unlock the door.
“Fair warning: I didn’t do any dishes yesterday,” he said. Admittedly, he hadn’t done it the day before that either. He pushed the door open and went inside. Mob stopped in the entry and closed the door behind himself.
“Arataka?” he said.
“Yeah?” Arataka asked, not bothering to take his shoes off. He stepped over some dirty laundry and into the living room.
“How long has it been since your parents were home?”
Why did he have to ask that now? And why did Arataka feel too guilty to lie? It would be kind of a dick move after everything Mob told him today at the office.
“I don’t know,” he said, and made his way to the door leading to his room. “Long.” He stepped inside. He didn’t like thinking about it, and so he didn’t. Instead, he scanned his room for his Switch and found it on the desk. He pushed some stuff off of it before picking it up and putting it into his backpack. For good measure he went to his dresser and took a pair of underwear and some sweatpants to pack as well. He hoped Mob would lend him another one of his shirts, though. He reached out to pet Kuro Kitty’s fluffy head before he went back to the living room. Mob looked weirdly out of place just standing there, ever still as a statue.
“Arataka,” he said, and Arataka already knew he wouldn’t like what he had to say. “This is dangerous.”
Arataka shrugged. “It’s home,” he said. “I got the things; we can go.” He walked past him. Mob turned to follow him with his gaze. Don’t say more. Please don’t say more. He just wanted to go. He dared to throw a glance over his shoulder, but it was hard to meet Mob’s eyes. Please.
“Okay,” Mob said, and Arataka let go of a breath he’d been holding. “Let’s go.”
Arataka felt much better as soon as they were outside. They’d go to Mob’s place, and they’d play together, and it’d be fun.
“Do you know any place to shop?” Mob asked. “I wasn’t expecting guests today, so we’ll have to buy some groceries on the way.”
“Yeah, there’s a store just around the corner. I like the shop owner.”
The bell chimed when they entered the store. It was small and compact, even smaller than the one he’d been at at Mob’s place, but Arataka loved it.
The woman manning the store, Mrs. Shouka, looked up from her crossword when they entered. “Welcome Arataka,” she called as usual, but her eyes quickly honed in on the man following Arataka inside right behind. “Oh goodness,
finally
.” She stood up.
Oh.
Oh no.
“A-auntie, it’s not—“ Arataka started, raising his hands, but there was no stopping the fire that burned within her. She went around the corner, hands on her hips as she stared Mob down… or up, rather.
“Are you taking care of him?” she asked firmly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mob answered. His voice was pleasant. Agreeable. Apologetic, even. If it had been someone else, they would probably be satisfied with that response alone. But Mrs. Shouka wasn’t done yet.
“Well, good. It’s about time one of you finally showed up. Do you have
any
idea what he’s been feeding himself with? I haven’t seen him in an ironed school uniform for
months!
A child needs directions and care; they need—“
Arataka couldn’t bear to listen to any more of it and quickly went to hide in the corner of the store, trying to busy himself with the many different packages of cup noodles. There’d only been two kinds when he started buying them a lot, but Mrs. Shouka had gradually added more and more, usually giving Arataka one for free to try out and let her know if it’s worth keeping in the store or not.
She continued to talk loudly, almost shouting, for a bit longer before she finally seemed to calm down, finding Mob’s compliance satisfactory.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’ll make sure Arataka-kun is better taken care of from now on.”
“Good, you better.” Mrs. Shouka said and let out a deep sigh, “I was very worried for him; I’m glad to see his family is finally stepping in.”
“I regret not having done it sooner. Thank you for looking out for him, ma’am.”
Arataka slowly gravitated back to the front of the store, now that the coast seemed clear. Mrs. Shouka reached out to ruffle his hair when he came within reach.
“He’s such a good boy; I’m sure he won’t give you any trouble,” she said and went back around to the register. Arataka felt like he’d already given Mob quite enough trouble.
“He’s great,” Mob said, putting a hand on Arataka’s shoulder. “Let’s find the things we need.”
They got some rice, vegetables, and diced meat. Mob would teach him how to make easy fried rice. Apparently, Mrs. Shouka had told him to put a few more vegetables into Arataka’s diet. Ugh.
“I’m sorry about that, by the way,” Arataka apologized when they left the store. “I didn’t think she would start yelling at you.”
“It’s okay,” Mob said. “She’s clearly had the need to yell at someone over this for a while.”
“Yeah… She’s really nice, though. She gives me free fruits at the end of the week.” He held up the bag of apples she had handed him after Mob purchased the groceries. He carried the rice and vegetables, too, but they all seemed suspiciously light, and he figured
Mob had something to do with that.
“I’m happy she’s there to take care of you. Do your parents leave money for you?”
“Yeah. I have access to a bank account with a monthly limit.”
“I see…”
They continued to the bus stop in silence.
[ MOB ]
They unpacked things in the kitchen, and Mob washed all the apples before putting them in the mostly empty fruit bowl. Arataka had been determined Mob should keep them, after how much he’d been yelled at by the shopkeeper. Hopefully Ritsu would be happy to see it a bit more full.
“Do you want to help me make food?” he asked and turned the water off.
“Yeah,” Arataka said. “Can you tell me what to do? I don’t really know how to cook.”
Somehow this information was relieving to Mob, because if the kitchen was as messy as the rest of the flat, anything cooked there would be as unsightly. “Are you steady with a knife?”
“No idea!” Arataka said and came to stand beside him as he rolled up his sleeves. Mob looked down, catching sight of the lines on his arm.
“Not that steady,” he chided, but handed him one of the kitchen knives and a chopping board. “Cut these into dices.” He put two peeled carrots in front of him. “Keep them pretty small.”
“Okay,” Arataka said and got to work. The blade was very sharp—Ritsu made a big deal out of proper knife care—and Arataka wasn’t handling it perfectly, but by the end of it the vegetables were cut into acceptable pieces, and no fresh blood was shed.
Mob got busy washing the rice and put it into the rice cooker pot, then gradually added the vegetables as Arataka finished cutting them.
The mix of carrots, tomatoes, broccoli, and corn made the dish look quite colorful once they added everything. Mob let Arataka toss in the pieces of diced chicken, then cracked two eggs into it.
“Okay, fifteen minutes,” Mob said as he turned on the rice cooker. “You can go grab your homework, and I’ll prepare the sauce.”
The boy frowned.
“If you really want to spend more time tonight and tomorrow doing homework instead of playing on the Switch—”
The frown quickly disappeared, and Arataka hurried away to the hallway where he’d left his bag. Mob added soy sauce, chili oil, and sesame oil to a small cup and mixed it well before putting it aside.
They’d made a good starting dent into the homework by the time the rice cooker beeped and Mob stood up. “Stay, I’ll get it for you,” he said when Arataka was about to get up as well.
He went to the kitchen and put a sizeable portion on the plate and added a bit of sauce. He really hoped Arataka would like it. He poured him a glass of milk as well before returning to the dinner table and put the plate and glass in front of the boy.
“It looks pretty good,” Arataka said and dug in with a satisfied hum. Mob sat down on the chair across from him.
As he did, there was a knock on the front door.
No.
Not again.
Why was it happening again?
Three knocks followed, and Mob felt the world snap back into place.
“It’s Ritsu,” he said, and stood up. The last knock sounded. Mob unlocked and opened the door with his powers. “Little brother.”
Ritsu wasted no time as he took a few long steps into the apartment, shoes be damned, and kissed Mob. Mob quickly grabbed onto his shoulders tightly. He wasn’t used to Ritsu being so pushy. He followed rather than leading. Requested instead of taking. Mob wouldn’t mind seeing this side of him more.
Ritsu broke away with a soft smile on his face and turned to lock the door, just as he caught a glimpse of Arataka, mouth full of fried rice and the eyes of a deer just caught in the headlights.
“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” Mob quickly explained.
“Yeah, I wanted to celebrate after finishing my finals,” Ritsu said, holding the boy’s gaze. “Spit it out or swallow.”
Arataka swallowed. “H-hi, Ritsu.”
Mob quickly pulled Ritsu into a hug, trying to appease his little brother. He did not like the sudden tension. It seemed to work, as Ritsu schooled his expression into something a bit softer.
“Is there enough food? I’d like some too; I’m starving.” Ritsu said and took Mob’s hand to lead him to the kitchen. He threw a quick glance into the sink before taking out two plates. Mob didn’t dare say anything in protest when Ritsu served him a bigger-than-usual portion. “Did something happen today? You look tense.”
Ritsu was always perceptive. Mob took his plate and took a spoonful of the food, earning himself another moment to consider if he should tell Ritsu about the morning. But it would just lead to more questions or even risk Ritsu demanding to check for fresh wounds. Arataka was a safer topic.
“His place is terrible,” he said finally.
“So his parents really weren’t there. How terrible?”
“I don’t think you’d let a child stay there,” Mob said. “Worse than when I was seventeen.” Ritsu had been so concerned back then. His parents, too, though that had felt like too little too late. It’s what convinced them to let Mob and Ritsu move in together despite their
relationship
, though. Ritsu had helped him take care of things ever since. Mob tried to make that job easier on Ritsu, but he wasn’t always successful—the presence of Arataka here being concrete proof of that.
Ritsu sighed. “I’ll go check it out tomorrow. Do you know when his parents will be back?”
“I’m starting to think they won’t. I think he’s been alone for months.”
“I have a detective job for you then.” Ritsu said.
“I’ll try to find them,” Mob agreed. “I was planning to visit the factory tomorrow.” The way Ritsu tensed up didn’t escape his gaze. “But it will probably be for the best if I stay home considering the new circumstances.” Ritsu relaxed.
“And I will take Arataka along to the apartment and clean it. Sounds like a plan.”
Mob nodded. “Good… Can he sleep in your room tonight?” he asked. “I want you with me.”
Ritsu smiled. “Yeah.” He said and finally started digging into his dinner.
Mob quickly followed suit. It was a bit more comfortable to do it in front of his brother than in front of Arataka.
Predictably, Ritsu finished before Mob and put his plate in the sink. “I’ll go let him know,” he said and left the kitchen.
“Should I go home?” Arataka asked as soon as Ritsu had turned into the living room.
“No, you stay here.”
“Uh, I can wash the plates if you want.”
“Sure, I’ll go prepare the bed for you in the meantime,” Ritsu said. “Don’t look at him till he’s done eating.” Further steps as Ritsu went to the bedroom.
Another set of steps approached, and a moment later, Arataka joined Mob in the kitchen. He walked over to the sink to place his own plate in it. He turned his head to look towards Mob, then quickly turned his gaze away again, heeding Ritsu’s words. He was fidgeting.
“What is it?” Mob asked. The kid clearly wanted to say something.
“You and Ritsu kissed.”
“It’s legal,” Mob said without skipping a beat. It was an instinctual statement at this point, having repeated it so many times for their parents.
“I guess,” Arataka said. “How do you fall in love with your brother? I thought siblings were supposed to hate each other. Or at least find each other annoying.”
“I could never hate Ritsu,” Mob said. “He’s very kind to me.”
“Oh, okay.” Arataka said, picking up the sponge and starting to wash the plates. “I always wanted a brother to hang out with. You are lucky.”
“He’s everything,” Mob said, not ashamed to say he loved his brother. He took the last spoonful of rice and pushed the plate over to Arataka.
“That’s nice,” Arataka said and washed the rest.
“Arataka, I’ll come with you tomorrow to help clean,” Ritsu said as he stepped back into the kitchen.
Arataka quickly looked at him, grimacing. “N-no, it’s okay, you really don’t have to.”
“I insist,” Ritsu said calmly. It was the same tone he used whenever he’d had enough of Mob taking bad decisions. “Arataka-kun, the situation you’re living in does not seem acceptable. We can’t let it stay this way with a clear conscience. You trusted my brother enough to turn to him when you had problems at school. Let me help, too.”
Arataka looked at the plate he was drying, avoiding Ritsu’s sharp gaze. “Okay, Ritsu.”
“Good,” Ritsu said, and reached out to ruffle Arataka’s hair. Mob was pleased. His brother was taking a liking to the kid, whether he planned that or not. “We can watch a movie together before bed, if you both want to.”
“O-okay!” Arataka said. “Which kind? A horror movie again? Me and Mob watched The Thing last time.”
The edge of Ritsu’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, maybe not that,” he said quickly.
“He gets nightmares,” Mob supplied helpfully, and Ritsu shot him a look that threatened to give Mob nightmares too.
“That’s not a problem. Uh… action movie?”
“Sure, go get comfy. I’ll prepare us some snacks,” Ritsu said.
Arataka washed his hands and followed Mob to the living room, then dropped down on the couch right next to him. “Is Ritsu mad I’m here?” he asked.
“No,” Mob said. Ritsu was undoubtedly
not happy
, but the safety of a child took precedence above his own feelings. That had always been clear with how hard Ritsu worked at the hospital.
“Okay,” Arataka said. “Maybe we could watch Ready Player One? It’s about gaming and stuff.”
Mob turned the TV on and found the movie just in time for Ritsu to return with a few plates of fruit cut into perfect, bite-sized pieces. Arataka scrunched up his nose a bit, though he didn’t say anything. Mob supposed he was disappointed they were being given healthy snacks, unlike their movie night last Wednesday. Ritsu wasn’t entirely cruel, though, as he also placed three cans of soda on the table before he sat down on Arataka’s other side, putting the kid between them. The sodas were a surprising twist. He usually never approved of those. Ritsu must purposefully be trying to be nice.
When the movie started, Ritsu pushed one of the fruit plates into Arataka’s hands, the message clear. He better enjoy the snacks and not complain. In Arataka’s defense, he quickly started munching down the apple slices and halved grapes.
[ ARATAKA ]
Somewhere, towards the end of the movie, Arataka felt pressure against his side and turned his head to find Ritsu fast asleep. He must have had a long day. Arataka let him stay and tried to remain still.
“Here, let me take him off of you,” Mob said after the movie ended. Arataka wanted to protest. There was no way Mob would be able to lift him easily with how scrawny he was, but there was no need to. Ritsu was gently raised into thin air. “I need to put him to bed. Wait a moment.”
Arataka stayed put as Mob ‘carried’ Ritsu into Mob’s room. He returned a moment later.
“Let’s clean up and get to bed; it’s late.”
They carried the cans and plates into the kitchen. Mob’s phone rang with an alarm. “We need to brush our teeth,” Mob said.
“Do you have an alarm for everything?” Arataka joked.
“Yes,” Mob said simply and put his phone away. “Come.”
Arataka followed him through Mob’s room to the bathroom. Ritsu was lying curled up on the mattress. Arataka kept his steps light to not wake him. Mob closed the door behind him, enclosing them both in the small space.
“I didn’t bring a toothbrush,” Arataka said. Mob pulled out one of the drawers and took a new brush still wrapped in plastic.
Arataka unwrapped it and took a look. It was orange. “Thank you.”
“Mmh,” Mob said. He sounded a bit tired. He put toothpaste on his brush and handed the tube to Arataka. “Remember to brush for at least two minutes.”
Arataka guessed his usual quick, half-assed job wouldn’t do. It felt weird doing it together with someone else. He sneaked a few glances up at Mob, but the man’s gaze was locked on his own reflection in the mirror. Arataka followed suit and started brushing as well, for once being thorough with it. It was kind of nice having someone else tell him what to do when it was because they cared, rather than just wanting him out of the way. Mob did care, right?
Ritsu was sitting up when they left the bathroom.
“Sorry, did we wake you?” Mob asked. Ritsu waved away the concern.
“It’s fine; I had to prepare for sleep anyway. Go show him the bed.”
Mob put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the other room.
He’d been mildly curious ever since the first time he came here, but nothing could quite prepare him for how it actually looked when Mob flicked the light switch.
It was such a stark contrast to Mob’s empty room. It was bright. The bed was big, with at least three blankets folded and stacked neatly on top of it. In the middle of the bed lay a body pillow of what seemed to be Ritsu in striped pajamas. There were shelves with a row of plants. There were cupboards filled with a bunch of colorful things. Acrylic standees, figurines, and toys. Plushies. Games.
It felt like an injustice that Arataka was actually getting pretty sleepy, because he wanted to look at it all.
He looked at Mob, half expecting the man to tell him plans had been changed, and Arataka would sleep on the couch again. This was too nice.
“Do you dislike it?” Mob asked. He sounded a bit sad.
“N-no, it’s great,” Arataka quickly said, and the desire to please Mob won over his hesitancy as he quickly got on the bed. His knees sank down a bit. It was so soft. He got a closer look at the pillow. “You love your brother this much?”
“Yes,” Mob said. “But this is Hero. From my favorite game.”
Arataka vaguely remembered Mob did say something about a character looking like Ritsu.
“Is that why it’s your favorite?”
“Part of it, yes.” Mob went over to the closet. “What clothes did you bring?”
“Oh, uh, just some briefs and sweatpants,” Arataka said. “Let me go get them.” He was about to sit up when an invisible pressure pushed him back down against the mattress.
“I’ll go get it for you,” Mob said. “Any shirts?”
Arataka shook his head. Mob was so weird. The man left the room, probably to go fetch the things. Arataka sighed and looked up at the ceiling. There were a few star-shaped pieces of plastic.
He looked over when Mob returned to the room with the clothes, but then quickly had to avert his eyes again. He didn’t know how to feel about Mob holding his underwear. He shouldn’t feel any particular way, should he?
Mob passed the bed to open the closet to take out a shirt. Arataka wondered if Ritsu would be okay with him sleeping in this shirt. Mob didn’t seem concerned, though, as he put the clothes on the bed.
On his way out, Mob turned on a small night light on the dresser.
“Sleep well,” he said.
“You too,” Arataka said. He wanted to hug Mob, but he didn’t find the confidence. He explained it away with the fact Mob was so far away now.
Mob turned the overhead light off before closing the door. The night light provided well enough light for Arataka to change into sleeping clothes. He folded his day clothes and put them on one of the dressers before he returned to the bed and lay down. It was soft. So soft. He turned over on his back and looked up at the ceiling. Stars. The plastic stars he’d seen on the ceiling glowed in the dark. Arataka smiled. He quickly wiped at his eyes when he felt them sting. He wished he could stay here.
[ RITSU ]
Ritsu lay sprawled out on the futon when the door opened and closed with a click. He looked up. Shigeo looked handsome from this angle—but then again, Ritsu was pretty biased towards his big brother. He always looked stunning.
Mob stayed at the door.
Ritsu sighed. "Are you tired?” he asked. “I was hoping we could still spend some time together.” Mob’s reaction was instantaneous as he surged forward. He dropped to his knees on the mattress and leaned right into Ritsu’s space. Fortunately, Ritsu liked having him there, and he couldn’t keep the smile off his lips.
Shigeo’s kisses were restrained, self-control keeping him from pushing any further till Ritsu let him. His brother’s desire was a near palpable thing.
Ritsu put a hand on Shigeo’s chest, pushing gently, and Shigeo broke away from the kiss.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” Ritsu hummed.
“I’m allowed to think about anything I like outside of work hours.”
Ritsu laughed. “You’re free to think about this during work hours, too,” he said and met him in another kiss. He bit at Shigeo’s lip lightly, enjoying the way his brother trembled ever so slightly. Ritsu was feeling his own self-control wavering as well as he let his head drop back down against the pillow.
Shigeo made easy work of Ritsu’s clothes, using his powers to remove his pants even before his hands finished with the shirt. Ritsu closed his fingers on the fabric of Shigeo’s turtleneck.
“Want everything off today?” Ritsu asked. Shigeo blinked. Considering. Then he shook his head.
“Like this is good,” Shigeo responded, voice quiet. “I want to focus on you today.”
Ritsu knew that Shigeo always wanted to focus on him—forgetting his own body and all the supposed flaws that came with it. Ritsu never quite let him, but he didn’t want to push his brother either.
“That’s okay,” Ritsu said. Ritsu had seen the scars on his torso many times. They had stretched and changed with the years as Shigeo grew taller, but his feelings about them stayed the same. Ritsu liked to think his brother was just shy. At least that was the explanation Ritsu had come to accept for himself.
Shigeo quickly found his way between Ritsu’s legs, parting them till they rested against Shigeo’s hips. Ritsu watched as Shigeo undid his own pants and pulled himself free of the fabric. He shifted a bit forward and closed his hand around their cocks to stroke them together. The pace was frustratingly slow, but Ritsu knew his brother liked to make him last. He gripped tightly at the bedsheets. Shigeo’s touch was so gentle. He couldn’t focus on anything else for once.
“I can’t wait to graduate. I miss you so much,” Ritsu said, always filling up the relative silence Shigeo left. Shigeo leaned down to kiss Ritsu’s jaw, then his neck, licking but not biting. Never biting, unless Ritsu asked for it.
“It’s okay, leave a mark on me,” Ritsu said, freeing one of his hands from the bedsheets to grip at Shigeo’s hair instead. “Don’t tease me too much today, Shige. I want to feel you.”
Shigeo kissed him again before he closed his lips against his skin and sucked a mark into it. Ritsu closed his eyes tight, willing himself to stay quiet. They weren’t home alone this time. Ritsu had not come prepared for this.
“They keep asking me about my girlfriend at school,” Ritsu gasped.
“Poor them,” Shigeo hummed, nipping at his skin playfully. “If it’s boys, it’s because they want to know if you like only women, Ritsu,” he suggested. “They want to know if they have any chance with my handsome younger brother.”
Ritsu groaned, trying to thrust his hips up against Shigeo’s hand, but Shigeo leaned down further, making it near impossible. “Maybe I’ll tell them my big brother will beat them up if they keep pestering me.”
“I would,” Shigeo agreed. “I don’t want them to think they have any chance with you, Ritsu.” Shigeo’s hips jerked, body growing tense. He whimpered.
“Hey, it’s okay, bro,” Ritsu said quickly, loosening his grip on his hair to instead rake his fingers through it. He wrapped his arms around the back of Shigeo’s head and pulled him close. Held him tight. Shigeo’s sweaty forehead was pressed against Ritsu’s chest. His brother was breathing hard and laboriously. Ritsu might not have any psychic powers, but he swore he could feel the change in his brother when his powers spiked whenever Ritsu made him feel good. He used to float things accidentally all the time. “Shhh, it’s okay.”
That eased Shigeo a bit. It earned Ritsu another teasing grace of teeth. It felt like his brother would devour him. Perhaps Ritsu wanted him to. Shigeo’s mouth disappeared way too soon, as he suddenly pulled back.
“Sorry, Ritsu,” Shigeo said and held his hand up, thick strings of semen smeared across his fingers. Ritsu couldn’t help the smile. He patted his chest in invitation, and Shigeo quickly took it. He wiped his hand clean on the bedsheets and lay down with his head resting on Ritsu’s chest.
“It’s okay, I like it,” Ritsu said, running his hand through Shigeo’s hair. He savored every moment they got together like this, when Shigeo was open and vulnerable and very, very fragile. Just like when they were kids, Ritsu thought fondly. Bitterly.
“I can use my mouth,” Shigeo suggested, apologetically. “I’m sorry, I wanted to do more.”
“I know,” Ritsu said, placing a kiss on the top of Shigeo’s head. “What did it?”
“Protecting you,” Shigeo admitted. “Thinking about them speaking to you, trying to finally shoot their shot.” He turned his head, burying his face into Ritsu’s chest. And making sure Ritsu couldn’t see it. “And then I’d come in and tell them you are mine, so they should back off.”
Ritsu let his head drop back against the pillow and laughed. “You’re so predictable, Shige,” he said. “You just want to be my protective big brother keeping me safe, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Shigeo said without hesitation. Of course, he would. He had been it, too, in Ritsu’s mind. Even during the years Shigeo wasn’t here. Even now, when their love had gotten a lot more complicated. It’d gotten easier once their parents stopped mentioning it, but it didn’t take away their disapproving glances. He knew their parents meant well and that they loved them both, but Ritsu felt like a bad child for making that harder to do.
“Shige,” Ritsu said after a moment. His brother raised his head a bit in response. “I could really use your mouth right now.” His cock was painfully trapped between them, and if Ritsu was being honest, he was going kind of crazy here.
Shigeo pulled away, and Ritsu’s heart ached a bit.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised, placing his hands on Ritsu’s hips, fingers digging into flesh. Ritsu knew that he would. Shigeo leaned down to run his tongue over the head, lapping up the precome. Ritsu’s hips jerked, but the tight hold Shigeo had on him kept him in place. His hands weren’t the only thing keeping him still. It was invisible to his eyes, yet Shigeo’s powers took up a physical presence that could be felt. The way it squeezed at him was warm and comforting—it was a part of his brother, after all.
Ritsu reached down to run one of his hands through Shigeo’s hair, all ruffled up from using his powers but soft as ever.
“Shige,” he begged, and his brother took pity on him as he finally closed his lips around his cock and, without warning, took him deep. Ritsu threw his head back, swiftly biting his lip to stifle the moan. He couldn’t be loud today. They had to stay quiet—just like when they were younger and the secret was still kept. His fingers tightened on Shigeo’s hair, feeling every slow up and down motion as Shigeo worshipped his cock. God, he was so easy to please. The growing heat in the pit of his stomach made his muscles twitch, and he had to clamp his free hand down over his mouth when the explosion surged through his body. His cock twitched as he spilled all he was worth into Shigeo’s mouth, his brother slowing down and stroking the base of his cock to ride him through his orgasm.
Ritsu blinked. He hadn’t realized when he’d closed his eyes. He peered down as Shigeo pulled away and couldn’t help but stare as Shigeo’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A bit escaped the corner of Shigeo’s mouth, and Ritsu pushed himself up into a sitting position. Shigeo watched him as Ritsu reached out, collecting the semen with his fingers, then pressed them against Shigeo’s lips. His brother dutifully parted his lips and licked Ritsu’s fingers clean. Ritsu smiled, then lowered his hand till it rested against Shigeo’s thigh. He could feel the muscles tense under the fabric. Shigeo must have known what question was coming.
“Anything I need to look at?” Ritsu asked.
“Not with a kid around,” Shigeo answered and placed his hand on top of Ritsu’s. Ritsu leaned closer to kiss Shigeo’s cheek. Maybe having the boy around wasn’t so bad after all.
“I’m glad,” Ritsu said. “Let’s sleep.”
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 say, Poirot."
Poirot, attired immaculately in a new evening suit and nodding along to the music of the orchestra in a mood of utmost charity with the world, answered, "What is it, mon ami?" without shifting his regard from the crowded dance floor.
"Well, Miss Lemon's a corking dancer, isn't she?" said his companion.
"Certainly, Hastings, she is most skilled in the art of the ballroom dancing," agreed Poirot. "You have not had before the pleasure of observing this; is she not magnifique? The dress, it is most pleasing, and the colour, she wears it well."
"Oh," said Captain Hastings, a little surprised, and squinted at the floor in an attempt to observe more carefully the details of Miss Lemon's dress. "Yes, rather!"
Poirot smiled to himself under the curl of his exquisitely waxed mustache and returned his attention to the orchestra.
"I wonder why Miss Lemon hasn't married," said Hastings presently.
"Indeed, Hastings?"
"I mean, she's not bad-looking!" said Hastings. "As a matter of fact, Poirot, she's a very attractive girl."
"Oui, mon ami, and she has also the filing system most excellent."
Hastings, having begun elucidating the elusive train of logic, pursued it. "Good breeding — quite clever — knows about Ouija boards, and hypnotism, all that sort of thing — respectably employed. I mean, she's quite a catch!
And
she's a sharp dresser, too! Isn't that odd?"
For the first time, Poirot turned his eyes to his friend. "Is what odd, Hastings?"
"That Miss Lemon should still be unmarried, I mean," said Hastings.
"No, Hastings," said Poirot serenely, meeting his gaze.
"You don't think so?" The orchestra had struck a livelier tune, and in the buzz of cheerful noises, Hastings was obliged to lean quite close to be heard.
"I do not think it odd at all that Miss Lemon should prefer not to seek the company of the men."
"Oh," said Hastings in puzzlement, and reached for his drink, taking a thoughtful sip. Suddenly the crease smoothed from between his brows and he repeated,
"Oh!"
A distinct twinkle could now be observed in the eyes of M. Poirot, as he arched a brow faintly.
"But Poirot! You don't mean — "
Poirot smiled. "Yes, Hastings?"
"That Miss Lemon... I
say!"
Hastings stared at Poirot, transferred his gaze to Miss Lemon, then looked back at Poirot again.
"Hastings, please close your mouth," said Poirot, gently. "You are looking like the fish."
"Oh, right," murmured Hastings, blinking. For some minutes he was silent, brow creased in thought, and staring into the depths of the wine, while his companion observed his behaviour carefully.
Finally Poirot leaned to the side, touching the sleeve of Hastings's jacket to gain his attention. "Mon ami."
Hastings jumped, raising his startled gaze to Poirot's serious and sympathetic eyes. "Sorry, Poirot!"
"No no no, mon cher Hastings, Poirot must only ask - this information, Poirot did not think it would — " he paused delicately, "disturb you?"
"About — ? Disturb me?" said Hastings. "You mean — of course not! That's not it at all, old chap; quite the opposite, in fact. I was only thinking..."
"What is it that you were thinking, Hastings?"
"Well — " Hastings frowned in deep concentration. "It doesn't really make a bit of difference, does it? Miss Lemon's still a catch, isn't she? I mean to say, I can't imagine otherwise. And she still hasn't got anybody! Has she?"
Poirot had settled back in his chair. "It is true that Miss Lemon is a lady of the very regular habits, mon ami, but still I think that the signs of such an affaire, they would not remain hidden from you and me for long, n'est-ce pas?"
"Right! Well, that's what I was saying! She still needs our help, and I want to help her, but I haven't the faintest idea how to go about it!"
"Hastings," said Poirot firmly, "you must put this idea from your mind at once. Miss Lemon, she does not need the help of the Englishmen meddling in her private affairs. Be assured that if indeed the estimable Miss Lemon were desirous of any help, then the little grey cells of Hercule Poirot would be more than equal to the task!"
"I just wanted to introduce her to a few fellows or something of that nature," Hastings protested. "Nothing meddling, I assure you! I do know how to be discreet! But it seems that that wouldn't do the trick."
M. Poirot's voice had dropped to a whisper. "No, Hastings, it would not. On no account are you to attempt the making of the matches of any kind! It is a subject where the delicacy, it is essential!"
"But — "
"Non! No, no, and again I say:
no!"
There was a pregnant silence. Hastings studied Poirot's face — the severely pinched mouth, the smooth cheeks, the elegant mustache quivering in indignation, the eyes glittering darkly under his drawn-together brows.
"...Right," conceded Hastings reluctantly.
§
On Sunday morning, while Poirot perused his accounting books at his desk, Hastings lay on the sofa with the paper. The quiet was uninterrupted by commentary on cricket or horse-racing, but it also lacked the langorous quality of a Hastings who was drifting to sleep behind his paper. In fact, the paper rustled sporadically, at intervals wholly incompatible with Captain Hastings's ordinary manner of reading it; and from time to time a sigh from the sofa testified to its occupant's preoccupation.
The last page of figures had been checked and checked again, and Poirot was engaged in verifying with the aid of a ruler that the columns were still perfectly aligned, when at last the quiet was broken. "Poirot... do you suppose that — all that's why Miss Lemon hasn't got anybody?"
"Do I suppose that what is why, Hastings?"
The face which appeared above the newspaper appeared uncomfortable. "Well, you know — women. What I mean is, how would one go about it — introducing someone to...
women?"
"Ah," M. Poirot nodded, "I understand. But Hastings, simply because it is a matter of great difficulty for you to introduce yourself to the ladies without awkwardness, does not mean that this is true for other people. On the contrary, I find all that is necessary is the courtesy and of course, the charm."
Hastings frowned, a bit ruffled by the slight. "I do know a thing or two about how to handle the ladies! No, what I meant was," he leaned forward earnestly, "the
right
kind of women. I mean to say, if I wanted to introduce a girl like Miss Lemon to a handful of really good fellows — "
"Hastings, I have already told to you — "
"Oh yes, I know, I won't if you insist on it — I said
if! If
I wanted to introduce a girl to a fellow, I'd know just who to call!"
Poirot fixed those large dark eyes on him and regarded him soulfully. "Should you, Hastings?" he said silkily. "Who?"
"I — " Hastings paused, and frowned. "Well, I shouldn't have any trouble thinking of a few! But if you were to ask me to introduce her to a few nice
girls
I shouldn't have any idea where to start... I mean to say, well, you can't just ask anyone, can you?"
"That is most astute, Hastings," Poirot congratulated him civilly. "Indeed you cannot."
Hastings nodded shortly. "Well, there you go."
"There... I go?"
"If a couple of men of the world like
us
wouldn't know how to go about it, then how do you suppose a girl like Miss Lemon would?"
Poirot had tilted his head a little to the side. "How indeed," he murmured. If there was an increasingly pronounced twinkle in his eye, it was not observed by Captain Hastings.
"It seems awfully hard."
"But mon ami," said Poirot, "it seems to me that you are under the misapprehension. We see the good Miss Lemon every day and some of her friends are known to us, a number of whom are also ladies. Does it seem to you that she is the unhappy, the lonesome old maiden, surrounded by many cats, without friends and ignorant of the matters of the heart?"
Hastings looked up at him, blinking, and the silence stretched. "I suppose not," he said doubtfully. "I've really never thought of it like that before."
"Non," Poirot agreed. "That is to be expected. Miss Lemon is not at all the sort of lady to fit this tragic picture. Hers is a love of order and cleanliness most particular. Of cats she would never own a more than respectable number. And as well, Miss Lemon possesses a correspondence that is lively with a number of ladies, and in addition to the members of her spiritualist societies, has lunch with some of her old friends quite regularly."
"Yes, but that's just — Poirot, you can't mean... those are her
school
friends," Hastings protested.
Poirot smiled at him and leaned a little closer. "Yes, Hastings," he said. "Have you not also been to the English school? — Are you all right?"
As Hastings had been in the process of perching one hip on the desk when this question caused him to start violently, he had banged into it hard enough to produce a soft thump and a faint "Ah!"
Fortunately, he was uninjured. "Fine, fine."
"Good."
Hastings, looking slightly pink in the face, glanced around cautiously, as if the room might conceal eavesdroppers, before saying: "But Poirot, that's... well... I mean, it's not the same thing at all!" His voice dropped still further. "That's
kid
stuff!"
"Yes, Hastings, quite often you are right," said Poirot in a measured tone. "But perhaps it is not for everybody merely the kid stuff. No doubt you also have remarked when some young man with whom you have been at school, after the school was finished, perhaps quite soon, made many new friends who were beautiful young ladies?"
Hastings agreed, "As a matter of fact, yes. I can name several."
"But also several young men who some years later are still surrounded by the friends who mostly are men?"
"I suppose so..."
"In fact," said Poirot gently, "if a man chooses to surround himself with the beautiful young men, it may be people say that he has many friends. But it may be also that nobody notices at all."
Here Hastings hesitated again, struggling to imagine this. To call to mind the image of a dashing playboy who surrounded himself with beautiful young ladies was simple, but how would one go about surrounding oneself with beautiful young men? Perhaps in Hollywood, he thought. Certainly the stars adorning magazine covers could qualify, but it couldn't be easy to find them all in one place, could it?
"Hang on a minute," he said. "I think everybody'd be bound to notice that."
"I assure you, mon ami, that they are not. Why, I myself as a young man had many friends who were the young men who were beautiful or, how do you say — handsome, and yet this was not thought to be peculiar by anyone."
"I say," Hastings uttered, not sure if he was expressing disbelief or awe. The mental pictures didn't seem to want to form. Poirot as a young man could be conceived of, with the aid of a photo Hastings had seen of him in full dress uniform; but to picture him in life, going to restaurants and theatres and parties — Edwardian balls, full of Belgians — 'beautiful, young' Belgians? Impossible!
But the voice of M. Poirot broke into Hastings's thoughts before they could quite resolve themselves into a conclusion. "Tell me, Hastings, after we met for the first time in Brussels, what was your impression of me?"
"Oh, ah," said Hastings. "Well, I was quite impressed with your detecting methods, of course."
"Naturally," Poirot said patiently.
Hastings strove for a casual manner. "Er, and apart from that we got along quite well, I thought. Very nice fellow, I should have said. Capital, in fact. — Foreign, of course."
Poirot nodded attentively. "Of course."
"Oh!" said Hastings. "Yes, and there's your mustache!"
The little smile broadened into an expression of the utmost pride and self-satisfaction. "I am flattered," M. Poirot beamed. "And should you say that that was all?"
Hastings shifted a trifle uncomfortably. "More or less, old chap."
"Then you did not notice anything, shall we say, peculiar about me."
To Hastings the ensuing moment seemed unreasonably long. He took a breath and said "Ah", quite unable to think of anything
but
Poirot's innumerable peculiarities: his insistence on standing starched collars; his fastidious, almost dainty manner of walking; his dislike of breakfast foods of unequal sizes; his reliance on taking Hastings's elbow when they went walking... .
Either mistaking this awkwardness for confusion or perhaps entirely unaware of it, Poirot added: "Nothing about my social habits?"
"Oh,"
said Hastings, "no, no, nothing like that. In fact, I can't say I noticed anything about your social habits at all."
"Precisely," said Poirot.
§
It was little more than a week later that Chief Inspector Japp was escorted into Poirot's sitting room by Miss Lemon in the early afternoon. Poirot removed the pince-nez from his nose, replaced the pen he had been wielding carefully back in its holder, and offered a polite but warm greeting.
"Afternoon, Poirot," Japp returned, and remained hovering there in the middle of the room, mustache twitching uncertainly. "Captain Hastings isn't about, is he?"
Poirot assured him, "Hastings is dining at his club."
A little of the air seemed to go out of Japp's voluminous coat, and with a muted sag of relief, he eased himself onto the settee. "Good. I want to talk to you about Hastings, Poirot. You haven't noticed him acting unusual lately?"
"Unusual, Chief Inspector? In what way?"
"I had a very odd conversation with him yesterday. Showed up in my office, wanting to know first of all whether in my opinion the majority of young constables on the police force could be described as 'handsome', and in the second place, whereabouts you would find the greatest number of beautiful women."
"And what did you say to him?" enquired Poirot.
"What did I
tell
him?" Japp repeated incredulously. "See here, this isn't for some case of yours, is it?"
"I assure you, Chief Inspector, that Captain Hastings was in no way acting on my instructions! In fact, I was not even aware of his visit."
"And I suppose you've no idea what's gotten into his head."
"Well," said M. Poirot, with an elegant shrug which, fortunately, could convey many different answers. "But tell to me, Chief Inspector, if you please, what was the answer that you gave to Captain Hastings?"
Japp sighed a trifle theatrically. "I told him it's an absurd question. You don't hire a p'leece officer because he's handsome. He's got a job to do and you judge him on how well he's done it, not his looks or his name or anything else."
"And what did Hastings say to that?"
"Well, he agreed with me." Japp looked more confused than relieved by this admission.
"Ah, indeed?" said Poirot. "And the other?"
A snort. Japp shook his head wryly. "Straightaway I told him he had better ask the boys down in Vice that and not me. But Hastings would have it I'd got the wrong end of the stick. See, his innocent curiosity was simply concerning where in
polite
society you can go about meeting ladies who also happen to be very beautiful."
"A not uncommon goal, I think," Poirot mused. "But perhaps a little unusual that he chooses to consult for advice a police detective. The problem of where to meet ladies who are beautiful, it is not the sort of thing for which your services, or even mine, Chief Inspector, are usually required."
There was a soft knock on the sitting room door, followed by Miss Lemon appearing with a cup of tea for the Chief Inspector. "We were just discussing Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon," Poirot informed her.
"I couldn't help hearing, Mr Poirot," she agreed. "But he hasn't been acting peculiar in any way towards me recently. In fact, just this morning he offered me a pair of tickets to a catwalk fashion show! A friend of his discovered that he couldn't attend, apparently, and Captain Hastings thought that I might be interested! I thought it was very thoughtful of him."
Behind Miss Lemon's shoulder, Chief Inspector Japp's countenance underwent some peculiar aerobics, one might say facial jumping jacks, with both the eyebrows and the mustache doing their parts to indicate silently to M. Poirot the significance of what they were hearing.
"Ah, Miss Lemon," Japp said, only a moment too soon for the casual tone of his voice: "I suppose Captain Hastings will be accompanying you to this fashion show?"
But Miss Lemon, fortunately less skilled in observation than M. Poirot, heard nothing extraordinary in the question. "No," she said cheerfully, "That's the funny thing; Captain Hastings gave me both of the tickets! He said he hadn't much interest in ladies' fashion. He suggested I ask a woman friend to accompany me."
Having related this, Miss Lemon went back out of the room, leaving Poirot smiling privately down at his desk, almost chuckling, really, and Chief Inspector Japp staring after her. "You know what I told Captain Hastings, Poirot?"
Poirot answered calmly, eyes twinkling, "Yes. You said that the catwalk fashion show was the event full of the respectable ladies who are also very beautiful, did you not?"
"I did." Japp gave up staring at the closed door to the sitting room and, with a sigh, turned his attention back to his cup of tea, a long drink of which appeared to lift his spirits a little. "I don't understand it," he said, "but if you don't think anything of it, then I suppose I needn't either. I probably don't want to know anything about it anyway. Let's say I never noticed anything, and we never had this conversation." Another long swallow was enough to empty the teacup and restore to the Chief Inspector his customary decisiveness. "In fact, I haven't just drunk this tea right now," he added, standing, and set his cup and saucer firmly on the side-table.
"I think that is for the best, Chief Inspector," Poirot answered gravely. "If for any reason Captain Hastings should require assistance, then the little grey cells will, I think, be more than equal to the task." He allowed himself to smile.
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
“Come on wildcat” Scorpia said clapping her on the back
“Do we have to?” Catra groaned
“It is your thirtieth birthday, we are going out. Perfuma and I have a sitter for Mira so yes, you do” Scorpia stated
“Fine. I will meet you at your place in a hour okay?” Catra grumbled
“Perfect. Make sure you look good!” Scorpia chuckled as she walked from the shop
Catra shook her head, sighing she clicked the lock in place before turning off the open sign. Looking around she was proud of what her and Scorpia had accomplished in the past ten years but she knew there was still a piece missing. Her and Scorpia had grown up together, best friends since they could talk and both of them knew what they wanted to do at a young age. Catra had always been obsessed with tattoos, so that is what she pushed to do. And here she was in her own shop, a well known and well liked tattoo artist in the heart of Ottawa. Making her way through a back door she soon was stepping into her apartment above the shop. It wasn’t huge but she loved it, two bedrooms with a massive open concept layout. She was able to have people over and not worry about bumping into them, pulling her shirt over her head she began stripping before slipping into the shower.
Catra was not a tall person but she made up for it in her personality, she was spicy as Scorpia liked to say but she just knew what she wanted in her life and how she wanted to be treated. Her shower was done quickly as she stepped out running a towel along her short hair. She had kept it long for years but as she became more and more comfortable with her sexuality and who she was it slower got shorter and shorter, now she had the back and sides shaved with a good few inches on top. Her body was covered in tattoos, what kind of tattoo artist would she be without tattoos? Piercings in her ears as well as her nose and septum as well as the nipple rings she had gotten the day she turned eighteen. Perfuma called her the poster child for masc lesbians, if she had been told even ten years before that this was where her life would be she would not have believed it. Dressing slowly she pulled on jeans and a tight sports bra, soon a plaid button up was slowly slipped on as she left the top buttons undone as she rolled her sleeves up. A little gel in her hair and she was good, grabbing her keys she slipped from the apartment and towards her car, the moment the car started her Bluetooth connected as the phone began to ring.
“Auntie Catra?” Mira called out
“Yes sweetie? Tell your mothers I am on my way” Catra laughed at her niece
“Oh I am not calling for them. Can you get me a Slurpee on your way? Please?” Mira asked her voice echoing in the car
“Of course. All the flavors?” Catra asked already knowing the answer
“Please! Love you! Bye!” Mira said hanging up the phone
Catra shook her head, Mira was a sweet kid. Twelve years old already, she remembered meeting her the first time when she was just a year. Scorpia had told her about this women she had met at the flower shop, who had a small daughter and that she was really smitten with her. And so Perfuma and Mira were introduced into her life, and they never looked back. Scorpia and Perfuma had married three years later, she was Scorpia’s best women as she put it and so she became Auntie Catra. She took that title seriously and Mira knew it, she had Catra wrapped around her little finger. Case in point her now walking out with a Slurpee in hand.
“Whose the Slurpee for?” Perfuma asked confused as Catra walked in the door
“Mira, she called and asked for one” Catra said shrugging
“Of course she did. I told her no” Perfuma said shaking her head
“Ah yes, the old mom wont give me it so let me ask Auntie” Catra said watching as Mira walked into the room
“I well yes” Mira said blushing
“It is fine” Catra said pulling the child into a hug
“Okay good, happy birthday Auntie” Mira said smiling
“Thank you sweetie. Now were is momma?” Catra asked
“Grabbing dinner, she should be back any minute. How was the day at the shop?” Perfuma asked
“Good busy but that is always a good thing. You? Any new flowers?” Catra asked fishing a beer from the fridge
Catra sat and listened as Perfuma began telling her all about the new flowers and plants her shop was bringing in, she dealt with exotic plants and had been waiting on a large shipment for a month and she could tell they were there now. Scorpia stepped in not long after, bags of Chinese take out in hand. Catra hated to admit but this was how she always wanted her birthday to go, but maybe in time she would find a partner like Scorpia had. She had flings, and a short relationship but there was always something missing and she could not understand what that was.
“Earth to Catra” Scorpia said waving her hand in front of her face
“What? Sorry” Catra said blushing
“I was asking if you could do me a favor on Monday” Scorpia said as Perfuma began taking the plates
“Sure?” Catra asked confused
“I had a last minute large appointment book. But Mira has a field trip to the national war museum, and I am supposed to be a chaperone. Could you do it instead? If you can't I understand” Scorpia said hopefully
“Sure, it is my day off so I do not mind. Haven’t been to that museum in years” Catra said shrugging
“Thank you. I normally wouldn’t ask but I couldn’t say no to a regular who wants a whole half sleeve in one sitting” Scorpia said shaking her head
“I am actually excited, well other then the other children that I will have to deal with” Catra said laughing loudly
*****
Catra looked around the club, she was not one for clubs as she much preferred pubs so she could hear what people were saying but this would have to do. There was a big drag show on that Perfuma wanted to see and it being on her birthday meant Catra was bound to be pulled out. Making her way towards the bar she ordered a beer before making her way downstairs, the show was good and soon she was being pulled up onto the stage with the others who shared her birthday. Grumbling she looked through the crowd catching a glimpse of golden blonde hair and then it was gone, Catra did not know what made her stomach lurch at the color of hair but it did and she wanted to find who it was attached to. Soon she was practically running from the stage and towards the main floor, she was on a mission and did not care that the show was still going on. Looking around she found who she was looking for, there stood a Amazonian goddess with golden hair and a smile that made her legs week. This women was tall, a good head taller then her and the way her arms stretched the shirt she had on made Catra week. She did not know she had a thing for women with muscles but in this moment she realized that she did. Taking a deep breath she made her way up to the bar waiting for the other patrons to grab their drink.
“Hey handsome, anything I can grab you?” The bartender asked her voice soft
“Vodka coke please, and a name?” Catra asked taking a shot
“Straight to the point. I won’t give mine if you don’t give me yours” The bartender said smirking
“Catra” Catra stated watching her as her heart pounded in her chest
“Adora, and here you are” Adora said softly
“How much?” Catra asked
“First one is free for you” Adora winked
“Why?” Catra asked surprised
“It is your birthday isn’t it?” Adora countered
“It is, how did you know?” Catra asked confused
“The sticker” Adora said leaning on the counter her breasts peaking through her shirt as she poked Catra’s chest
“Oh” Catra said her voice trembling
“Didn’t expect the masc lesbian to be so nervous” Adora said smirking
“Hard not to be when you are around a beautiful women like yourself” Catra said watching as Adora bit her lip
“Trying to get into my pants are we?” Adora asked chuckling gently
“Is it working?” Catra asked more confidently
“I don’t go home on the first meeting, come by again and maybe” Adora said running a finger along one of Catra’s neck tattoos
Catra felt her knees begin to grow week but the sound of hundred of people making their way back upstairs brought them from the moment they were having. Adora looked at her before leaning over and placing a quick kiss on her lips as patron after patron began coming to her bar. Catra felt her lips tingling as she was stepping away before looking for Scorpia. Catra did not get to find Adora again that night, after the rush of people she lost track of her and each time she went to that bar she was not there. Her heart fell in her chest but that was how the club was, the feeling of her lips on hers had not receded and she hoped maybe if she came back the next weekend that she would find her again.
*****
“Are you still thinking of her?” Scorpia asked Monday morning
“I am not” Catra said shaking her head
“You are, you can see if it in your eyes” Perfuma said smiling
“Okay fine. There was just something about her, she was a goddess, and she kissed me” Catra said touching her lips again
“As you have said many times. Go back on the weekend and see if you can find her. Shit is that the time, I have to go” Scorpia said jumping up kissing her wife and running from the house
Catra shook her head, soon Mira was ready as they made their way to her truck. She decided that because Catra was chaperoning the field trip that she might as well go with her straight to the museum. Catra watched as the buses soon began pulling up, they were soon being ushered into a large room as the teachers explained what was happening that day. Packets were given out with the questions that needed to be answered and the time tables to the adults, and then they were off. She could feel the eyes of the adults on her, she was not the typical adult with her many tattoos and piercings so she knew they judged her. With her jacket hung up and walking around in a short sleeve Henley shirt that showed off her full sleeves and the tattoos that littered her neck and chest she was the oddity in this place.
“Auntie Catra?” Mira asked a couple hours into the tour
“Yes?” Catra answered looking at the group of five children she had with her
“What time is it?” Mira asked
“Almost eleven, we should make our way to the theater. There is a speaker we need to listen to” Catra explained
Catra looked at the map in her hands as she made her way through the halls, she was proud of who she was and the country she was born into. But in a museum like this she understood what was given up so she could be who she was, who these children could be. She watched as Mira practically ran into the theater, picking the front row much to her amusement. Soon the other students and adults walked in, Catra was scrolling through her phone as she heard the tapping of the microphone. Her stomach came up into her throat as she looked up finding the women she had been thinking of for the past few days looking around before coming to rest on her. No longer did she have skimpy clothes on but instead she wore a white blouse with a pair of black pants. The high heels she wore made her look even taller, the golden hair was tied into a ponytail that sat high on her head. Catra could tell she was as shocked as she was, as she stared at her before clearing her throat with a small blush.
“Good morning everyone. My name is Dr. Adora Grayskull, and I would like to welcome you to the national war museum” Adora said her voice showing the hint of nervousness now coursing through her
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.
“松田你觉得哪件好看？”
“粉色的，显得月君很白。”
“不过裙摆太短了吧，阿月如果弯腰屁股都会露出来。”
弥海砂苦恼地把两条女仆裙在自己身上比了比，粉色确实比蓝色更亮眼，但弊端也很明显——实在是有些短了，女孩子穿都只能堪堪遮到大腿中间，要是穿在一米八的夜神月身上绝对会变成十八禁场面。
松田眯着眼睛露出有点猥琐的表情，像青春期讨论泳装美女写真的小男生：“哎呀海砂你不懂，就是这种半露不露的感觉最诱人。”
“等一下……”
夜神月无语地举手想打断两人，可惜陷于争论的弥海砂和松田桃太都没理他。
“你不会是想让阿月出卖色相来吸引客人吧，我可不允许！”弥海砂立刻环抱住夜神月的肩膀对松田喊道。
“哪至于出卖色相，给客人留一点遐想的空间而已。”松田摆摆手，“再说你不是想在这次学园祭社团比赛中拿第一吗，只要月君穿这身我们的女仆咖啡厅绝对能拿到最多票。”
弥海砂听到松田这么说迟疑了，其实要让她放夜神月出去服务女生她也舍不得，可奖励实在太诱人。在学园祭拿到最多学生投票的社团会在校园论坛头版上挂一周，她打算把拉着夜神月一起拍的合照放上去，向全校觊觎夜神月的女生宣誓主权，特别是那个凭东大校花称号压了她一头的高田清美。
“等一下……”夜神月再次打断两人，他头疼地叉起手臂，“办女仆咖啡厅我没意见，但为什么我是那个女仆？明明海砂最合适吧。”
松田即答：“当然是因为男扮女装最有卖点啊！而且月君还是学生会长，这样的反差一定会吸引很多人来的。”
弥海砂跟着点头。
“那为什么不能是松田，或者——”夜神月转身，手指指向从刚才起就一直默默吃着小蛋糕的龙崎，“——龙崎来当女仆？”
弥海砂嫌弃地“咦”了一声：“谁想看他俩穿女仆装啊，真那样做的话我们的咖啡厅会成倒数的。”
夜神月看看松田，挠着头笑呵呵的一脸傻样；再看看龙崎，黑眼圈都快比眼睛大了，还是扮鬼更合适。
弥海砂凑到他眼前，双手握拳抵在下巴发动少女星星眼攻击，语气可怜兮兮地说：“而且我们都已经把学生会长反串女仆的消息放出去了，阿月如果不穿海砂会被骂言而无信的。”
夜神月躲避地刚侧过一点脸，那双大眼睛里的星星就变成了泪花，仿佛只要他说一个“不”字就会立刻滚下两行泪。
他拿女孩子真的没办法，只能无奈地叹口气，在弥海砂期待的眼神中把那两条裙子拿了过来，他朝龙崎看一眼，希望对方帮自己推脱掉，结果龙崎反而助推了海砂一把。
他嘴里含着勺子，眼神在那两条裙子和夜神月之间来回转，思考几秒后才说：“月穿哪条都好看。”
重点是这个吗……夜神月捂着额头心累地想。
松田一拍手：“果然龙崎也这么觉得。”
“你们说的倒是容易，怎么不自己来穿？”
夜神月朝松田飞去一记眼刀，转身看龙崎时皱了皱眉，目光埋怨地瞪他一眼，看得龙崎小心地咽了口口水。
他赶紧补救道：“唔……还是蓝色的吧，要是月被偷拍裙底传到论坛就糟糕了。”
松田夸张地笑起来：“谁会做那种事啊哈哈哈.......”中途发现夜神月脸色不对，笑声卡了一拍，赶紧收笑追问，“不会吧，难道月君真的被偷拍过？”
夜神月嘴角嘲讽地向下撇了撇，怎么没有，你们面前这个装好人提建议的龙崎背地就是个偷拍狂，手机隐藏相册里全是他见不得人的照片，被他发现后不仅不认错，还大言不惭地说什么“既然月知道了就不算偷拍了”，之后拍得更加勤快。
但这件事不能让弥海砂和松田知道，毕竟他和龙崎谈的是“地下恋”，虽然两人不是明星也不是社会知名人士，不过他一直没找到合适的时机向父母介绍龙崎，为了防止思想传统的老两口受不了打击还是先藏着比较好。
他看向龙崎，语气有点笑里藏刀的阴冷：“没有，只有看守所里的变态才会做那种下流事，你说呢？”
“月说得对，”龙崎咬着指甲点点头，对夜神月笑一下：“那月是打算穿粉色那条了？”
“当然不。”夜神月把两条裙子盖在龙崎头上，挡住对方不怀好意的目光，“这两条都不合适，我要重新找一条。”
弥海砂忙说：“可社团服装室里只有这两条。”
“我再买一条就是了。”
龙崎闷闷的声音从两层裙子下传来：“明天就是校园祭了，月来得及吗？”
夜神月从鼻腔里挤出一声“哼”，推开活动室的门就要走人，他最后转头对龙崎扔下句：“不用你担心。”
2.
第二天，海砂和松田早早就到了，松田把朋友模木和相泽也拉来做苦力，他们搬来桌椅装饰和要用到的饮料食物，不到一个小时就把活动室布置成了一间小小的漂亮咖啡厅，与此同时店里最漂亮的招牌正在来的路上。
“招牌”夜神月跨进校门，一路上遇到各个社团布置的摊位，偶尔有些摊位的成员穿得比较夸张，但也算坚守了男装底线，他拉开包看了眼里面塞的女仆装，第无数次产生想逃离的冲动。
一个女生突然从后轻轻扯了下他的衣角，他转过头，少女羞涩地用传单遮住脸，哆嗦又难掩兴奋的声音从传单后传来：“夜、夜神会长，我一定会把票投给你的！”
夜神月眼皮弹跳几下，一向完美的表情管理没能招架住传单上用粉色夸张字体写出的“moemoe~fuwafuwa~学生会长一日限定女仆装，各位主人不要错过喵☆”，传单右下角甚至还放了他在入学礼上发言的黑色剪影，校内学生只要没瞎都会知道是他。
这份传单绝对是弥海砂制作的，如果上天给他一次穿越的机会他一定会在昨天弥海砂展示一秒流泪的演技前跑路，而现在他就是只被架在火上烤的羊，再想逃跑也已经被这传单挡死了路。
接下来夜神月收到了来自四面八方无数目光的“洗礼”，满脑子都是散发粉色光芒的“moemoe”和“fuwafuwa”，终于走到社团活动室门口时他已经快要麻木，在看到将原本的“侦探社”门牌取而代之的“女仆会长一日咖啡厅”时内心也毫无波澜。
活动室内松田模木相泽三人正在用奶茶粉调配饮料，海砂换上了执事服，对着镜子转来转去满意地欣赏，这是她精挑细选出来和夜神月配套的服装，而龙崎单独蹲坐在椅子上，提前享用起了等会要招待客人的甜品。
“唰”的一下推门声把五人的目光瞬间吸引过去，夜神月面无表情地走进活动室，龙崎先开口：“月怎么没换上女仆装，啊......没买到合适的？”
松田高兴地接道：“果然还是穿粉色那条吧！”
夜神月从包里扯出一角布料，对龙崎假笑道：“抱歉让你失望了呢。”
弥海砂赶紧拉着夜神月的胳膊把他往侧门的更衣室里带：“阿月快换衣服吧，客人马上该来了。”
龙崎跟在二人身后走，拖着鞋跟的声音很明显，弥海砂转头问：“龙崎你跟着干嘛，难道也想穿？”
“不，月自己穿不上吧，后面的绑带得别人帮他系才行。”
弥海砂怀疑地盯着他问：“你会系蝴蝶结？”
夜神月也很怀疑，但他突然想起这人曾经给他展示过用舌头打樱桃结，那之后发生的事情让他微微脸红，直接扯着龙崎衣领把人拉了进去：“别废话，要帮忙就赶紧。”
更衣室的门被关上那刻弥海砂才回过神来，不管是穿女仆装还是系蝴蝶结明明都是她更在行啊，怎么被龙崎抢了机会？她不甘心地跺了下脚，决定等夜神月换下女仆装的时候一定要比龙崎先去帮忙。
更衣室内，夜神月旁若无人地脱下外套开始解衬衫纽扣，刚解下一颗就有一双手从背后伸出来帮他代劳。龙崎贴在他背后，温热的体温透过衬衫烘烤着他，那双解扣子的手不老实，时不时滑进衬衫里在他皮肤上轻飘飘地一蹭。
有点痒，还有点别的说不清道不明的感觉，更衣室里的灯有些旧了，挂在二人头顶发出不算明亮的光，这样的环境让夜神月呼吸不自觉重了些。
扣子解完了，龙崎帮夜神月把衬衫脱下来，这个动作他们已经做过很多次，他从后把衣领向下拉夜神月就知道向后伸直手臂，这是只有他们知道的默契。
夜神月把黑色长裙从包里拿出来穿上，裙摆遮到了小腿肚，后面的拉链他拉不上，腰线到肩胛骨全都展露在龙崎眼前，这一片皮肤不常见日光，在昏暗的灯光下白得晃眼。
“龙崎，帮我——”
他求助的话卡在喉咙中，一根手指正顺着他的脊骨从后腰一路向上摸，那点痒化成了麻，夜神月喘了几下：“哈啊、这就是你帮忙的方式？”
“不，这是帮忙的一点利息。”龙崎回答。
他的掌心贴在夜神月腰侧，感受到手下身体逐渐绷紧，他忽然低头，在微颤的肩胛上轻轻印下一吻。
“唔……”
夜神月头抵在更衣室墙上，像是承受不住龙崎这样的触碰，他轻声说：“客人快到了。”
“嗯，我知道。”
“所以别再……”话还没说完夜神月就听到拉链拉好的声音，他有些惊讶地转过头，迎上龙崎烫人的目光。
最近学生会的事请很多，他作为会长更是忙得连轴转，有段时间没能和龙崎好好单独相处过了，仅仅是这样简单的身体触碰就足以勾起火花，但现在显然不是好时机，客人随时都会走进活动室，他们没有理由在更衣室待太久。
夜神月环住龙崎的脖子，贴过去接了个很轻的吻，分开时两人气息都有点乱。
他转过身把白色女仆围裙套在身上，示意龙崎帮他系背后的绑带，他本来就肩宽腰细，被绑带一勒更显身材好。蝴蝶结系好后他再次被龙崎抱住，对方下巴磕在他肩膀上，语气透着不满地说：“月真是大忙人。”
“没办法啊，学生会的事情推不掉。”
他拍了拍龙崎环在腰上的手：“先松开，我要穿袜子了。”说着从背包深处拿出双没拆封过的袜子。
那是条白色的布料轻薄的腿袜，龙崎略微睁大了眼，他原以为夜神月对女仆装非常抗拒，没想到准备这么充分。
“月居然连这也准备了。”
夜神月倒没觉得有什么，他只是秉持了自己一向的优等生观念，坐在椅子上一边把袜子从小腿往上拉一边说：“既然要做那就得做好。”
腿袜足足长到大腿，夜神月得把裙摆撩起来才能穿上去，从龙崎的角度向下看，肉色腿根白色长袜以及黑色裙摆的三色碰撞格外刺激，像是会在某些色情电影里出现的画面。
龙崎喉结滚动一下，他忽然觉得有点渴。
“这个不需要我帮忙吗？”
“你什么都别做就是最大的帮忙。”
袜子穿好了，夜神月穿上小皮鞋站起身对着镜子整理长裙，他凑近仔细看了看，不得不说镜中的自己还真挺可爱。比预想中稍好的扮相让他心情稍微明朗了些，感觉等会儿招待客人应该不会太煎熬。
他挪动视线，龙崎也在看镜中的自己，眉毛皱着，嘴角微撇。
“不好看吗？”他笑着提起裙摆故意问。
龙崎沉默两秒，还是诚实地开口：“好看。”只是表情看上去更别扭了。
夜神月看着他没说话，又过了几秒，龙崎泄气地侧过脸：“不想让其他人看见月这样。”
夜神月好笑地说：“晚了，谁叫你昨天不帮我说话。”
龙崎哑口无言。
外面传来弥海砂的催促声，已经有客人等在门口了。
夜神月推着龙崎转身开门，在两人跨出更衣室的刹那，他对龙崎悄声耳语：“校园祭结束后我补偿你。”
湿热的气息撩过耳廓，龙崎猛地转头，夜神月已经越过他径直走了出去，背后的蝴蝶结一弹一弹。
3.
事实证明弥海砂和松田的计策是对的，在夜神月身穿女仆装站在活动室门口后的一分钟内，活动室里摆放的十张小餐桌就全都被坐满了。
等在门口的女生们大排长龙，个个一手拿传单一手拿手机，摄像头聚焦于拿着餐盘行走于各个餐桌间的夜神月。
要想她们以前见到夜神月都是在各种典礼上，隔着乌泱泱的人群根本无法靠近，偶尔运气好在路上碰见了也不敢搭话，因为他身边总是有个很奇怪的黑发男人，眼神阴森森的让人退避三尺。
但现在可望不可即的夜神会长就站在她们面前，不仅笑容温暖语气低柔，还会喊着“moemoe～fuwafuwa～变好吃吧！”的口诀对食物施展魔法，虽然声音有点磕磕绊绊，表情也有些视死如归，但这幅像被强迫的模样反而更加让人着迷。
而且穿着女仆装的夜神会长看上去可比穿着西装的夜神会长亲切多了，那身略显保守沉闷的长裙穿在他身上有点别样的反差萌，被夸可爱时还会不好意思地笑。再加上每一位进门的人都会被会长握着手行礼喊主人，这谁能抵抗？只能乖乖排队把投票券交给抱着收集箱的弥海砂。
活动室内两位结伴的女生享用完了甜点，由夜神月送到门口，出门前她们雀跃地拿出手机请求和夜神会长合照一张。
夜神月微笑点头：“当然可以，亲爱的公主殿下。”
两位女生达成心愿蹦蹦跳跳地离开了，夜神月则从善如流地闭眼弯腰迎接下一位客人，右手放于心口，左手向前掌心朝上，是个优雅的绅士礼，他动作标准，穿着女仆长裙也不让人觉得违和。
“让您久等了，欢迎光临，主人。”
然而这次搭上来的手比之前的都要宽大，皮肤也没有寻常女孩那么细腻。
夜神月睁眼，入目先是耷拉在脚踝的浅蓝色牛仔裤裤脚，接着是宽松的白T恤。
等等、好像有什么不对吧……
他缓缓抬头，那只握住自己的手上青色血管十分显眼，龙崎低头和他对视，嘴角微微勾起。
“没关系，女仆小姐。”
排在后面的女生探头向前看，显然没想到学校里出名的怪人龙崎也会光临这家男扮女装的咖啡厅。
夜神月的笑容僵了些，他担心众目睽睽下两个男人这样牵着手引起非议，想收回手可龙崎下了劲，黑色长袖下的手臂肌肉都鼓起了也没能把手从对方掌中抽回，他快速问：“你在这里干什么？”
弥海砂也走过来，叉着腰质问：“龙崎你怎么偷溜来排队了，你应该在帮松田制作饮品才对吧！”
可没想到龙崎从裤袋里摸出一张小纸条，是学校发放给没参加社团的普通学生的投票券，他两指拎着票在二人眼前晃了晃：“我来接受夜神会长的女仆服务。”
夜神月皱起眉：“你怎么会有票？”
“那不重要，”龙崎的眼神带着得意，他肯定道，“重要的是你们需要这张票。”
弥海砂有点气地咬住下唇，但还是屈服在了可以让她和夜神月的合照霸占论坛的投票券上，她从龙崎手里收走那张纸条，给夜神月一个鼓励的眼神：“阿月你就忍耐一下吧。”接着转身去招呼等待服务的客人。
“不请我进去吗，女仆小姐？”
听着龙崎带笑的声音，夜神月皮笑肉不笑地从牙关里挤出话：“这边请，主人。”
他带龙崎坐到空位，刚好在活动室里的最角落，他抽出怀里的菜单递给龙崎，同时低声警告：“不许捣乱，好好吃你的蛋糕。”
“女仆小姐真是双标啊，对其他客人都那么温柔却对我好凶。”龙崎垂下眼睛故作悲伤地说。
“你原本就不该是客人。”夜神月朝用课桌搭出来的简易吧台一指，松田正忙得团团转，豆大的汗珠挂在额头，“因为你松田都快累成狗了。”
龙崎不在意地说：“模木和相泽会去帮忙的。”
他手指轻点菜单上标注着“女仆小姐最爱吃”的草莓慕斯蛋糕，对夜神月竖起手指：“我要一份这个。”
夜神月立刻否决：“换一个。”
“为什么？”
为什么......还能为什么，因为在“女仆小姐最爱吃”的标语下还有一行小字——附赠会长大人充满爱的魔法口诀，他决不可能会对龙崎念出那串羞耻度max的台词。
夜神月冷笑着威胁：“除非你不想要补偿了。”
龙崎瘪嘴妥协，沉默着将手指挪向草莓慕斯蛋糕下面的奶油泡芙。
夜神月直起身，菜单扣在胸前对着龙崎弯腰微笑念台词：“好的主人，请稍等。”
甜品都是弥海砂从店里直接买来的，不需要现做，一分钟不到夜神月就把泡芙端了过来，餐盘上还有粉色果酱画出的小爱心。
他把餐盘正正摆在龙崎面前：“请尽情享用吧主人。”
“唔……”龙崎咬着指甲没有立刻开动，抬头对夜神月说，“我想被女仆小姐喂着吃。”
夜神月屈起食指轻轻弹了下龙崎的额头，他现在在这个房间里就是行走的聚光灯，怎么可能当众喂龙崎吃东西。
“想得美，我要去服务其他人了，你自己吃完快走，外面还有人等着位置。”他扔下一句叮嘱就去给其他人点单了，留龙崎孤零零地坐在位置上吃泡芙。
龙崎习惯性地抬起腿想放在椅子上，又想起这个座位还有其他人要坐只得把脚放下，他的目光黏在夜神月身上，看对方游走在餐桌间对女生们言笑晏晏。
泡芙很快就吃完了，龙崎轻咬银叉，暗想等会儿要让夜神月怎么补偿自己。
4.
最后一桌客人吃完时已经到了下午，弥海砂抱着收集箱开心地数投票券，松田模木相泽在收拾留下的垃圾，夜神月笑着把三个女生送出门：“一路小心。”
他环视一圈都没看到龙崎在哪，弥海砂在纸上记着票数头也没抬地说：“不知道，可能提前走了吧。”
松田走过来拍拍夜神月的肩膀：“今天最辛苦的就是月君了。”
夜神月眼睛看向外面搜寻龙崎的身影，对松田回道：“没什么。”他站在门口左右瞧，长长的走廊上没有一个穿白T恤和蓝色牛仔裤的人。
难道真走了？
该不会生气了吧......夜神月忽然有点心虚，龙崎平时不是爱乱吃飞醋的人，不过今天好像真的差别对待得有点明显。他给龙崎发了条消息问人在哪，然后往更衣室走，准备先把衣服换下来再去哄人。
更衣室里一片黑暗，那旧灯寿命耗尽，在按下开关后垂死般“滋啦”两声彻底熄了火。
夜神月叹口气转身关上门，把手机放在架子上摁亮屏幕当照明，他把手伸到后面解蝴蝶结，结果不知道龙崎是怎么系的，扯了好几下都没解开。
这时弥海砂突然敲了两下门，少女的声音甜美清亮：“阿月，需要海砂帮忙吗？”
更衣室没窗本来就闷，他扯了一通后不仅没解开结还热出点薄汗。夜神月呼吸几下，心想干脆就让弥海砂帮忙算了。
他手放在门把上，刚要拧下去整个人就突然被从后用力抵在门板上，冰凉的手掌覆上嘴唇把惊呼压回喉咙，同时一道他再也熟悉不过的低沉声音在耳边响起：“不许让她进来。”
身体撞击门板的声音不小，门外的弥海砂担心地问：“阿月，出什么事了吗？”
而门内的夜神月被龙崎掰着下巴吻得凶狠，昏暗逼仄的小空间里温度迅速升温，唇舌交缠的啧啧水声烧得他耳朵烫。他艰难地扭过头躲吻，急声说：“等、等等。”
他咽下嘴里不知道是自己还是龙崎的唾液，清了清嗓子对门外焦急等待的弥海砂说：“我没事，海砂你先走吧。”
“真的没事吗，阿月不用对我客气。”
“真的没、唔......”耳垂忽然被含住，夜神月差点咬到舌头，加重语气说：“你先走吧！”
“好吧，那阿月明天见。”
弥海砂依依不舍地走了，等脚步声渐行渐远后夜神月才开口：“呼......你怎么——”
话说一半他再次被龙崎扭过脸强硬地亲吻，那个刚才他怎么解也解不开的蝴蝶结被龙崎手指轻轻一拽解开了，围裙肩带顺着手臂向下掉，夜神月后背受凉，在如鼓心跳中听到链条被拉开的轻微声响，接着冰凉的手从后腰滑到小腹，手指挑起了内裤边，还有继续要向下探的趋势。
夜神月赶紧隔着长裙捉住龙崎作乱的手，喘着气说：“不、不行，这条裙子是妆裕找朋友借的，还得还回去。”
“既然如此，”龙崎收回手没再压着他，夜神月松了口气以为这人把话听进去了，他转过身，结果看见对方不知从哪拿过来另一条裙子，正是昨天那条短得露屁股的粉色女仆裙，龙崎轻轻笑了一下，“就换成这条做吧？”
“不唔......”
这次龙崎没再给夜神月反对的机会，外面一片安静，弥海砂一行人已经离开，是时候该他向夜神月讨要补偿了。
......
夕阳照进空荡的活动室，在地板上泼出一片暖，更衣室的门板颤个不停，不时从中传出几声压抑过的闷哼，直到夜幕笼罩学校才终于归于平静。
夜神会长的一日女仆服务就此在最后一位客人的满意评价中完美结束。
fin.
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 feels their gazes on him; it's sharp, nearly humiliating if he genuinely held the capacity to care.
His bag weighs on his shoulder, the books inside revolve around multiple lessons he missed.
Taking his seat towards the back, he's not once paused by crude or teasing remarks.
The teacher spares him a cautionary glance, fear unbridled in his eyes. He leaves Peter alone for the rest of the hour.
Apparently, Old Aaron returned.
Peter ran a slight and very probable risk of expanding his suspension for an extra day when he missed his last therapy appointment.
Though with a lot of maneuvering on Mrs. Klein's part, she bargained for him—dispelling multiple rumors said to be true.
He was permitted to attend school with relative ease.
The day went by slowly; it was as if it was gritty sand trying to be dispersed from a sift, but clumps hindered it from progressing.
The lessons were of things he already knew; for most, he learned them in fifth grade.
His boredom was clutching. Fiddling with his pencil, he let his mind drift—he was wasting time on school.
He had already practically graduated before everything blew up on him; he was proceeding to MIT.
He had no reason to stay in school besides to let Aaron achieve a High School diploma. It wasn't like Peter would remain in this body for that long. There was no possible way he'd let that happen.
The food must've been radioactive, possibly more dangerous than that spider bite he received all those years ago. The color was a vivid yellow while clumps of gray were mashed alongside it.
Placing down the tray, he spared Sammi a glance, "They are really trying to kill us." He muttered, not even picking up his fork.
She shrugged, "Who isn't."
"Batman," Paul whispered very lightly, biting into his sandwich packed from home. Pieces of the bread were carved off, clearly trying to disassemble it from the apparent mold growing on it.
"Not again," Sammi groaned.
Paul rolled his eyes, placing down his food, "He is Gotham's saviour, the Black Knight—"
"Who's white underneath the mask." She deadpanned, shaking her head.
"Race has nothing to do with his deeds, and I'm sure he's like… Mixed," Paul shrugged, fingers drumming on the table in a mock of a pattern.
"Dude," Sammi cackled, "You're a fucking idiot—"
"What!" Paul squeaked, raising his hands in defense.
Shaking her head, Sammi turned towards Peter, "Anyways, how's school. Happy you returned?"
"No," he groaned, "I forgot how everyone has a collective group of brain cells that evidently, never work. Even the teachers! How is that possible?"
Sammi grinned, "Poor wages and peaking in high school."
Paul looked at Sammi. Suddenly, his expression was sorrowful, "I'm sorry." He mourned gently with her, stroking her shoulder.
She shook off his hand, "What?"
"Peaking in high school. That's your life, that is literally you." He exhaled softly, lips puckering in a mock of a frown.
"Fuck off," she elbowed his ribs, Paul inhaled softly. "You're probably high," she sighed, shaking her head towards Peter.
Paul scoffed, "Like you'd know." Rubbing at his sore ribs.
Peter never experimented with drugs, never had the chance, but M.J. did with some of her old friends from a school she attended before Midtown. Ned would freak out at just the scent of them, exclaiming how his mom would know he was in proximity to one.
And with Spider-Man, Peter thought the risk wouldn't be worth it for a momentarily high, something to place him a higher dangerous position when put in the line of action.
He definitely didn't get high at school.
"You've came to school high?" He says it haltingly, trying to gauge how the words feel on his tongue.
It seemingly fits naturally.
Sammi throws Paul a look, "We've became pro's at it," she shrugged. "You did too, for a moment."
"You stopped, as did I." Paul grits through the words, eyes narrowing on Sammi.
She giggles, "Mom caught him. He got his ass whooped dude."
Paul lightens by a fraction, dark cheeks turning a hue redder, "Dude," he shoves into her. "Not everyone in the damn world needs to hear that, shut up."
Peter smiles. Their interactions are so similar to the moments he had in New York.
It's homey.
Bruce has his chin tucked against his chest. Trying to warn the deep flush on his cheeks from reddening any further.
He approaches the manor, and snow descends upon him rapidly. Sinking into his coat, a film of wetness dampens the material.
Even the gel he ran through his hair was weighed down by water.
Coldness drips down his neck, pooling at his lower back.
He quickly paces up the stairs, his shoes make fleeting imprints on the thin layer of snow—it's almost non-existent, simply offering a faint view of the ground beneath it. Just enough for it to be considered actual snowfall.
Entering the manor, Bruce swiftly closes the door behind him, trying to stop the entrance of gritty coldness following behind him.
It was to no avail as snow swirled over his feet, pooling at the entrance of the doorway. Sighing, he peeled off the scarf Alfred forced on him before he left.
Swinging it from his numb neck, he breathes shallowly. Gotham's winter was always harsh—never pleasant.
Hanging his coat at the rack near the front, he felt the bitterness from his limbs ebb away from the warmth radiating throughout the house, coating every viable surface.
"Father," Damian spoke from his perch on the stairs. Leaning on the rail, he peered down at Bruce from the top floor.
Bruce looked up, "Yes Damian?" He answered, heading towards the kitchen where the present scent of cinnamon tea permeates, overwhelming any other smells.
"I overheard—" He began, jumping down multiple cases of stairs at a time as he trailed behind Bruce.
Damian wore a sweater Alfred knitted for all the kids. It wasn't of the usual gruesome garments that familial members make. It was oddly fashionable.
"Were you eavesdropping again?" Bruce sighed. Entering the kitchen, he held the door open for Damian.
The boy jumped into a chair near the other end of the table.
"No, of course not."
Bruce didn't believe it.
"They were just very loud. But, Stephanie is going to be the first person to follow after Peter? Stephanie the one who endlessly and often ends up putting us in difficult predicaments? Don't you think you should play it a little safe?"
Bruce sighed, sitting at an open chair with a steaming mug of tea. He blew on it softly—he didn't drink coffee; it held too many downsides.
He tried to make Tim stop his constant caffeine intake; it only resulted in a dramatic argument between the two.
"I would've made Dick do it, but we all saw how he responded with the possible knowledge of Peter being part of the Joker gang." B shrugged, taking a light sip from his drink.
Damian sighed, "Father, what about me?"
Bruce looked towards Damian. "No."
"Why? I perform my tasks with ease and I haven't failed a mission yet—"
"Damian," his tone dropped into one of lecture; the kid faltered. "You are a good Robin," it was the closest any of them ever got to a verbal compliment, "But your means of completing some of your missions are too rough."
It was an everyday discourse between them.
Damian scoffed, "I don't see your reasoning. It's not as if I'd fight with the kid."
"That is exactly what I mean. There is still a chance you'd engage in physical combat with Peter; we want him to trust us." Bruce stared at Damian. The boy was fuming.
It was very subtle; his mother taught him well in nearly all aspects, but especially when it came to hindering his emotions—though the boy contained a clear giveaway, one that it took Bruce a couple of times before noticing.
He would clench his jaw and then tug at the hem of his shirt in a movement of three before withdrawing his hand to his side.
"I see I won't be able to persuade you differently, enjoy your tea father." Damian pushed himself from his chair. Back straight as he approached the door.
"Why aren't you at school?" Bruce mentioned before Damian left.
"I wasn't feeling well." He muttered in return, voice muffled by the position of his body.
"Get better," Bruce spoke after Damian left, with no thanks in return. Letting the door slam behind him, Bruce cupped his face.
The torn flesh of his palms felt rough on his forehead—not to say his own face didn't contain a few lighter scars from battles gone wrong. But it was nothing of that of his hands; his palms were torn with jagged crosses.
"Master Bruce," Alfred spoke from the edge of the kitchen, entering the dining room. "Would you want a refill."
"Alfred," Bruce whispered, staring at the deep grooves on the table. "I feel like I keep fucking them all up."
"May I say that Master Damian holds your opinion in high regard. With your disagreement to his request to follow Peter it may have just disappointed him." Alfred spoke calmly, words gauged in gentle reproach.
"He's good, but this isn't his specialty; Stephanie is the second one to Dick that can handle social interactions with relative ease. If the boy figured her out, she could quickly change his thoughts by speaking to him." Bruce didn't look up. He felt a mess.
"May I say that possibly saying this to me and not Damian is doing nothing in terms of benefitting the argument that just occurred."
Bruce sighed, what could he say when he felt the growing gap between them—they all saw it, endured through it.
"I'm going to the Batcave." Bruce shouldered out of the dining room, grabbing the mug to take.
Alfred sighed, "Master Bruce—"
"Al, I'm going." He let the doors loudly click after him. He had a few research topics to delve into.
Peter was heading home, the day passed in a slow and uneventful blur. Sammi and Paul left early, something about visiting a family member further in upper Gotham.
Peter didn't pester them about it; the closer they came to leaving, the more snippy they became.
He walked along the crowded street, flurries of snow fitted against the current freezing ground. No longer melting once they reached the warmth of the soil.
Everything was freezing over.
Peter shivered in the cold. He hadn't thought to wear a coat. His arms beneath his sweatshirt were engulfed in sharp goosebumps.
Bruce never thought of himself as the man he is, never saw that change happening.
He had his party years, his persona—Bruce Wayne to Batman. He never thought that his life would slowly diminish into solely Batman.
He was still the president when it came to Wayne Enterprises; he still makes the final calls when it comes to products.
But a life separate from Batman was untrue. Every action he did as Bruce impacted Batman.
His constant compliments to the vigilante, endless and tireless fundraisers in spirit of himself.
Everything he did was to make the public better aware of his second life, for their support and understanding. Bruce Wayne didn't exist without Batman.
The cave was suffocating in heat; Alfred must've altered the temperature to keep it warm within the brutal coldness of winter.
Bruce shrugged off his sweater, leaving on a simple T. Approaching the Batcomputer, he began his search; he moved onto other engines that Dick hadn't gone through.
'Peter Parker,' he began researching, slipping undetected from fireblock walls.
He was going to figure out the identity of the kid.
John was watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia when Peter entered the home; the house had no access to heat. The windows were coated in a thick frost, obscuring the view outside. Causing lights to burst through the pattern of the pane in spirals.
John stood from the couch; he wore his coat and multiple layers of sweatpants—Peter needed to. He felt how his nose began leaking a steady drip.
"You're home early," John muttered, arms crossed over his chest.
"School's out," Peter had no energy to spend on John—the man was an unlimited source of hostile resentment.
"Didn't skip?"
"Why would I skip?" Peter snapped back. The cold was burning on his arms, scorching his skin.
"Because you're you?" John laughed as if the question was as absurd as anything logical.
Peter tried sliding past him; he was trembling, body shivering with the coarse chill of their house. John stopped him with a firm grip on his wrist.
His skin turned red beneath the grasp, "You were following me yesterday."
Blood was thudding in Peter's ears, pounding against his temples, deafening anything else. "I wasn't—I didn't."
John let go. Peter couldn't even feel it, "Do you think this will be a repeat of last time?" John spoke it daring, voice edging into a tone that Peter only heard on rare occasions.
"Maybe if you could tell me what got you trapped in this—" The words were void from his head; he had no grasp on how to encapsulate the severity of the possible damage John put them into, "Hell?"
"You learned once." John said the words sparingly, pacing them slowly. Peter stared at him, lips thinning into a line, "You never do learn though." John finished, face turning into a ghoulish smirk.
"If you were going to interact with me like this why even talk to me?" Peter spoke calmly.
John shrugged, "Just thought you should know." He turned around, falling back on the couch, "I don't work Mondays and Thursdays. You know, if you want to follow me again."
Peter sharply turned, his shoes squealing on the nearly rotten floorboards, "Thanks for the tip." He grounded out, heading towards his room.
Letting the door slam behind him.
"Bruce," his name was spoken behind him. He nearly didn't hear it, thoughts occupied with the blue screen.
Nothing, hours upon hours of endless searching, even altering the databases to different cities, even other countries. There's nothing on the kid.
"Yes," he turned around. He felt the dryness accompanying his eyes, how his throat was coated with a thin layer of cotton.
Cass stood to his side. Her hair was pulled up in a miniature ponytail.
"Your hair looks nice," Bruce smiled at her. Shutting down his computer in a fluid motion of agility.
"Babs did it," Cass smiled, squeezing the fraying strands of her dark hair that protruded from the tie.
"She did a good job." Bruce turned, "I'm sure you're down here because Alfred made dinner, or something along those lines."
Cass shrugged, "Half?"
He smiled at her, "Half what?"
"Damian told me about the argument." She tilted her head slightly, "He told Steph actually."
"Which indirectly gets told to you," Bruce sighed, breath shuddering from his throat. She nodded in return, frowning at him.
"Why?"
He didn't know what she was asking why: why did he deny Damian from stalking Peter first? Why did he become Batman? Why did he adopt so many children when he was barely capable of fending for himself?
"Steph is better at handling social encounters; the same reason why I didn't have you doing it." He deadpanned to her. She looked up at him as if she was scolding him.
He assumed he wasn't entirely wrong.
"Damian is sensitive."
He did not need this lecture about Damian's sensitivity by Cass. The kid was a ruthless and trained killer. He was a kid, but his mentality was far beyond his age.
"Yes, I know that." Bruce deadpanned, trying for a joke but failing.
Cass huffed out a large exhale, "Why treat him like that then? He's hurt."
Bruce cracked his neck, craning his head across his shoulders. "Cass, you all put up with my methods. Damian had already put up with more, he can endure me saying no."
Cass looked up at him, her eyes narrowed on him. "Alfred made dinner." She turned around, moving to the manor upstairs.
Bruce sighed. He's in a fuck-up mood.
His ceiling and walls are coated in stars. They're flaky and peel; even in the darkness, they barely light up—dimming just enough for the barest outline to be seen.
Peter lies on his bed. The springs dig against his back as the multiple layers he wears do nothing to combat the house's cold.
His teeth chatter as his lips are painfully chapped, his hands barely contain any feeling.
The house's silence was overbearing; in New York, May would stay up late watching New Housewives of Georgia. The noise from the television would vibrate against his bedroom wall, he'd hear all of the drama.
She would always complain about the trash television and yet would make sure to never miss an update.
Even texting Peter about the sudden and new dramatization that unfolded on it.
Or, on the rather long and exhausting nights after a patrol, he'd bunk at the compound—that was on rare occurrences, and May hated it.
She'd call him in the morning, voice pitching into hysteria as she yelled at him, afterwards asking for Tony to be put on the phone. Giving him an equal duration-wise lecture—possibly more hysterical, though.
The first time it happened, Tony winced, hanging up the phone, "Why not we only do this when absolutely necessary." Tony rubbed at his head; a thin cut against his nose leaked a light dribble of blood.
Peter dryly chuckled, "Yeah."
That didn't mean Tony didn't create Peter's room in the compound.
It also didn't mean he didn't decorate it in a way that wasn't purely Tony Stark.
Looney Tune characters were painted on each wall, as the bed was shaped like a race car. His age didn't hold that much of a gap compared to others; Wanda and him were only ten years apart.
In most things considered, it wasn't that awful, just partially.
He slept in that room as sparsely as possible, even bargaining with Captain America to trade rooms for a night.
The hero did so unwillingly, but he nodded in the name of public pursuit and justice. Seeing that he could go a single night without his bed.
Tony has a picture of the hero sprawled on the race car bed, legs hanging off the sides as the pure muscle mass of his body nearly caused it to snap in half.
The memories were wavering in his mind, ever so present, but without them in use, they faded into a bearable thud at the back of his head.
His attention was on his thoughts; he was barely even conscious when a light knock at his door began. Peter duly thought he was starting to have auditory illusions.
Until it became ever so present, slightly louder.
Peter stood from his bed, moving towards the door. He opened it.
Mary stood in the entryway. Something distinctly was off about her, maybe the way her body swayed or her large, oblivious smile.
But Peter felt his stomach sink, obliterating at his feet.
"With the sudden weather," Bruce began the same yearly speech he recited every time it snowed in Gotham.
They all could say it by heart now.
"No extra 'flowerly' moves, keep it short and simple." He was interrupted by Tim giggling with Steph.
"Remember when Dick broke his arm because he tried to do a triple-axile on the ice?" Steph laughed, slapping Tim's shoulder.
"Dude, B, you were so mad!" Tim motioned towards him, smiling widely, causing his mask to dip upwards with the movement.
"Exactly, we can't risk getting hurt doing theatrics. Steph, you run the middle-eastern side of Gotham, then drop to the lower side. Dick said that was the first time he met Peter.
"We will try to scout him out tonight if possible. Tim, upper-side, I've been hearing threats of a planted bomb beneath one of the museums, see what you can find, Cass go with him. Jason might be joining us, Dick is taking the night off, as is Damian."
A rather snarky fight broke out over dinner, and Bruce put the kid on a day suspension; and, if Damian missed school for not feeling well, it would be sorely irresponsible to put the kid on the field in such a state.
"If anyone gets to cold, make sure to up the thermal temperature of the suit. Alfred altered the designs this winter so make sure to report back and tell me if anything goes wrong."
They were treated like child soldiers.
Steph groaned, "B, every single winter we go through this. Just let us go."
"Be safe, and—"
The group was already leaving, physically walking out in the cold weather. Bruce sighed, he turned up the internal heat of his suit before following behind them; he'd leave the Batmobile for the night.
"Aaron," her words were paced as a drunk person trying to appear sober.
"Mary?" The cold didn't reach him; it already seeped into his bloodstream, poisoning him to a degree he hadn't felt, something he thought impossible.
"Shush," she smiled at him, gnawing on her lower lip between her gleaming teeth. "Do you know—" She suddenly frowned, eyes glistening.
Peter felt inhuman as if his thoughts couldn't comprehend the scene occurring in front of him.
"You had a sibling." Her words turned into solemnity.
"I'm sorry? What?" His head throbbed, the cold caused his body to shake; his jaw was cramping from it continuously being clenched.
"I killed them," she whispered brokenly, falling past Peter she curled up on his bed. Clutching at her shirt, she said, "They died inside of me."
Peter felt his chest ache, "I'm sorry Mary," he moved beside her, rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.
She turned around, smirking slightly, "Can I tell you another secret?"
Peter nodded. He resisted the urge to deny her the privilege.
"It wasn't Johns." She giggled slightly, clutching at Peter's sweatshirt sleeve. "You tried killing him once you know."
He lost access to his words, throat closing on air.
He wasn't Aaron.
He wasn't this kid who allegedly was a failed murderer, an asshole to everyone, a supposed drug dealer.
He wasn't him.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt, breaths coming in thin pants.
He was Peter Parker, Spider-Man, May and Ben's nephew-son, Tony Stark's prized prodigy; he was Peter Parker.
And yet, the value placed on himself was the impact on others. He wasn't special because he was Spider-Man.
He was special because of the people that surrounded him.
Without that, what was he, honestly?
Could he even be called Peter Parker without the aspects that made him a comprehending human?
Damian was livid, flying through the city; his microphone was off. Bruce was going to bench him for an entire week if he found out about his escape.
Which was why B wouldn't.
Damian swung smoothly through large and endless skyscrapers. Rolling onto the finely packed snow dusting the ground, Damian shook off the excess. Some clung to his suit, coating the green in white.
Dusting himself off, he approached the lower part of Gotham. Usually, they would be wired with backup when they entered these areas.
Damian didn't need to.
Mary was sleeping, Peter stumbled away from her on weak knees.
Whimpering softly as his breath fell flat on his lips, nothing gained access to his lungs.
His unshed breaths were building in the middle of his throat.
His eyes stung with tears, clawing at his neck in an attempt to break the barricade forming.
Damian slunk in the shadows, body taunting; he didn't have an exact location on where Peter would appear. Just guesses from Dick, Damian would go through the entire area until he found the kid.
He didn't care.
He'd prove to Bruce that he could handle the kid, that he could flourish in every aspect.
That was what he was trained to do.
Peter kicked at his window, his heel caught on the sill, lifting the pane in a weak groan. The cold air whipped at his face, and the sudden burst of sharp numbness caused a shocked exhale to be released.
Offering leeway for his breathing to return to shuddering inhales.
Peter leaned over the window, head sticking outside in the cold. The snow packed in his hair, getting entangled with the strands.
He missed his curls. He sobbed loosely.
He missed everything.
Damian moved through multiple areas already. His suit was getting damp; he turned on the heaters inside, which offered momentary relief.
Nothing to an extreme caliber.
Peter sprawled over his windowsill, landing knees-first on the ground outside his window.
The cold added another shock to his system. Clambering up, he slowly walked down the streets, who the fuck was Aaron.
What type of God did he piss off for him to be placed in the boy's body?
His body trembled in the cold, but he kept walking. He needed to distance himself between that house, between Aaron, and Peter.
Damian saw him first, or at least what he assumed was Peter.
The kid looked sick under the glowing street lamps. Snow clumped over his clothing, plastering his hair to his head in cold water.
"Peter Parker?" Damian spoke as he reared himself in the light; the guy threw him an uninterest glance. His lips held a tint of blue.
"Shit," he whispered, "Tony thought I was young."
Damian stared at the teen.
Maybe Dick was onto something. The kid looked nothing like someone in Joker's Gang; he looked gangly and ill.
Looks were incredibly deceptive. There was one way to see if he was.
Damian pulsed his leg to his side, the muscles strained with the movement as he lifted it up.
He did it quickly, with a pace usually painful when in contact with. His kicks were measured in agility and perfect muscle distribution that caused the impact to linger—for the movement to be nearly too quick to be blocked by someone without training.
Peter watched with wide eyes at the movement; in equal measures with Damian, he picked up his arm, and relatively with a little struggle, he blocked the kick.
That was to say, it didn't mean he didn't stumble a few paces back, wincing as he cradled his wrist. "Fuck kid!" He whispered, words breaking into a low groan. Breathing sharply through his teeth.
"I think you just broke my arm," Peter dryly laughed, pausing as he stared at the quickly growing bruise on his wrist.
Everything was messed up for him. Everything he did was suddenly wrong.
He just wanted to help people.
"Why do you hate me—" He looked up, speaking. It wasn't as before. It was wrenchingly loud. His voice drew from his throat.
Damian watched the shifts in his emotions. Peter was clearly unstable. He blocked his kick. Barbara seemed to be on the right theory with him being part of the gang.
"Who the hell are you?" Peter questioned, voice lacking any conviction. He sat on the snow-covered sidewalk. Cushioning his arm to his chest.
"Robin," Damian responded, deepening his voice—even with the modifier, it was a habit he saw Batman do and couldn't quit.
"Another bird." Peter leaned his head against his knees, "Why did you kick me?"
Damian faltered, "Confidental."
Peter looked up at him through a curtain of his hair. The strands clung together with water. "Dude," he exhaled, his eyes brimmed with sudden tears, "Today has been the shittest day of my life."
Maybe Bruce was right; Steph was better at this.
Peter laughed suddenly. It seemed odd, nearly cracked.
Damian was about to back away, he had new information about the teen:
Mentally Unstable, he was more than certain.
Trained Fighter: Clearly.
Two things most Joker Gangsters contained together.
Before Damian could leave, he felt a tight grip on his shoulder; his stomach sunk.
Mind whirling, imagining Bruce towering over him, his face in a set scowl.
"The fuck are you doing?" Steph asked, words much sharper than before. Damian felt the tension in his shoulders lessen by a fraction.
"Examining Peter." Damian answered in reassurance.
Steph looked over at the kid; he was back to nearly crying. "Shit." She swore, "Go back," her words were coarse. "I swear to god, I'll handle this, then we
need
to talk."
Damian felt his heart quicken, "Spolier," he began, "Please don't tell him."
The two of them would never admit it, but within the manor, Damian found Stephanie one of the more tolerable ones—how she put up with Tim, he never understood. But, she was oddly easy to get along with.
"Head back," she snapped out. Turning, she approached Peter, "Dude."
Peter looked up at her, "Okay, before we start." He inhaled shallowly, urging his tears away; he looked between Damian and Steph, "How many more of you are there?"
Steph smiled, chuckling lightly, "We have Black Cat, Red Robin, that asswipe over there Robin," Steph turned around—frowning at Damian, gesturing for him to leave with an exaggerated sway of her wrist.
Damian awkwardly shifted on his heels; he couldn't get benched again. He just got off.
"Oracle, Nightwing, Spolier—" Steph motioned towards herself when she said her alias, "And Signal."
Peter tilted his head, wiping his eyes with his other hand. He looked at her, "What about Red Hood."
Steph laughed tensely, "Poltical," she whispered under her breath, smile thinning.
"He's bad?" Peter gauged, looking up at her.
The snow fell slowly around the three of them as if transfixed to remain just hovering.
She shrugged, moving to sit next to Peter. She blew into her cupped hands, "No, not bad," she began.
Damian broke in for her, "He kills people."
Peter groaned.
Steph looked at him, "Well, let's not talk about
that.
You don't have the cleanest record either, Robin." She seethed quietly under her breath.
Damian narrowed his eyes on her.
"Does he kill cilivans?" Peter asked, staring at neither of them. Making a canal with his finger in the snow.
"No!" Steph sputtered, "Just bad guys."
Peter stilled, sighing, "Why are you guys here?"
Steph smiled, "Patrol route."
"You should go more on the western side," Peter pointed his finger in the direction where Sammi and Paul lived; break-ins happened nearly daily. "People need help over there. You should bring Batman, actually."
If Paul caught sight of the hero, he'd die. Peter smiled softly to himself.
"We have exact routes; can't really diverge from them," Spoiler explained carefully.
Peter nodded; he understood; he truly did.
"I think Robin broke my wrist," Peter turned to Steph, dangling his bent hand.
Damian scoffed, "I kicked him lightly."
Stephanie blinked slowly, sighing. She altered her position to face Peter heads-on. "This will hurt." Gripping his palm, she lightly touched around his bruised wrist. Wincing she pulled, a deafening crack settled between the three of them.
Peter let out a sharp yell, the pain searing beneath his skin until the constant throbbing turned into an ebbing heat. "What?" He whispered, rotating his hand on the axis of his bone.
"He knows to limit his kicks to only dislocating bones." Stephanie explained simply.
Peter nodded his head slowly—he had a definite feeling he was fucked in this sudden situation as if something was occurring he had no knowledge about.
"I need to head home." He sighed, standing from his position on the cold cement. The snow seeped through his pants, causing his legs to go numb.
"I can walk you home," Spoiler spoke up, offering an arm—the gesture was supposed to be joking.
Peter truly wanted to cling to it, to take some weight off of himself, rely on another.
Peter shrugged her off, "I'm fine."
He had a feeling she wouldn't be dissuaded as easily as Nightwing.
"I insist really, it's dangerous," she began, her smile turned genuine under the lighting.
Peter sighed, "No, really." He was going to Sammi and Paul's anyway; they lived in a safer area than he did.
"What if I walked you partially the way?" She offered. Peter shrugged; sighing.
"Fine," he held no fight—he felt his excess energy dry up.
"So, how'd you get to fighting with Batman? He like—you guys relatives or something?" Peter questioned; the silence that started developing over them became increasingly stifling.
"Confidental," Robin spoke from his side.
The kid had a very dispersed use of vocabulary from what Peter saw, "Should've seen that coming." Peter yawned, shaking his head.
He felt Spoiler stare at him. They walked a bit in silence, the three of them in unison.
"Are you okay?" She broke the stillness, head turning towards him as they wavered at the mid-point. Peter was about to split from them.
Peter smiled at her; he knew it wasn't good; it barely even reached his eyes. Nothing of his usual Parker Smiles.
"Never been better," he waved at her as he left, shoulders drawing near his chin; trembling in the cold.
Damian stood near her side, "Shouldn't we follow him?" He whispered, voice pitching so only they could hear it.
Steph turned, flipping back on her intercom; she spoke in the open coms, "I'm not doing it," she began.
Damian froze, eyes widening slightly. He didn't have access to their coms, his own being shut off with the suspension.
He knew that Bruce was scolding her from the shrug in her shoulders, "B, I think Nightwing is right—the kid seems like he's one step away from a nervous breakdown; and
I'm
saying that. Oracle, I don't think your right."
Damian tapped Stephanie on the shoulder.
She muted her mic, "What?" She didn't snap it. She genuinely asked it.
"Can you tell them to unmute me," he whispered, trying to hinder down the embarrassment that touched his cheeks.
"Oracle," she began, "Unmute Robin."
It took a minute before his mic came on, and voices filtered through the mask.
Steph nudged his shoulder, motioning for them to continue this conversation on top of a building; Damian nodded.
Deploying their grappling hooks, they were slung upwards, landing on the coarse material of the building's roof. Damian began speaking after the argument paused.
"I think he's part of the Jokers Gang."
Stephanie cursed at his side, "The fuck?"
"He blocked my kick," he began, "And his emotions quickly altered—as if he wasn't even himself."
Steph shook her head, "He was sad Damian—"
"Code names only," Bruce scolded from his side.
"He looked like he needed help, not us examining him. I'm not helping with this." Stephanie's voice was harsh; they all knew she was pissed.
Barbara stayed quiet at her end, "Spoiler—"
"No. I'm heading back." Steph turned off her mic, "Bye Dami." She nodded towards him before she descended away, her flash of purple fading into the dark night.
Damian heard Bruce sigh; "Let's wrap up, meet at the manor."
A chorus of agreements filtered through the intercom.
Damian stayed quiet.
Peter looked small, but something about him was so familiar, "Batman," he began; he felt it ever present at the corner of his mind.
"What." B was pissed; Damian actively went against what he said for him not to do.
"I swear I recongized his face." Damian began, swinging through the chilly air.
"From where?" Tim answered, his voice frizzled slightly.
"I don't remember," Damian gritted, expecting a light jab in response.
Tim made a soft noise, "Think about it. I'm heading back right now B."
"Me too," Cass answered from her end.
Damian followed the others, the wind lashed against him. Peter's face seemingly plagued him.
He knew the kid—he knows he does.
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
5.
A man who had fire in his eye.
He was still in Leyndell, trying to seek shelter from the dragons flying over the Capital, but he couldn't walk fast enough, the Liurnia swamp was flooding the city and twisted trees were growing, making him stumble. He wasn't fast enough and the heavy paw crushed him against the ground, knocking him face down, stepping on his legs. He screamed, but no one heard. As he tried to crawl, the swamp opened underneath his body, swallowing him with mud that ignited with a red flame, snaking over his head. The dragon tore through his armor, accessing the flesh of his body. Godwyn closed his eyes and the heat from a hungry mouth enveloped his, suddenly naked and vulnerable, skin. It burned and burned and burned, but he did not die. He would not die, he knew. That was the worst part.
When he looked up, he found Fortissax with his large tongue drooling.
And grabbed him by the shoulders. The hot claws tightened around his muscles, digging into his flesh. Godwyn tried not to resist, recognizing that face. But it hurt, he felt it inside his body, as if it were tearing him in half with each thrust.
Thou promisedst,
he tried to beg the dragon, and he didn’t listen. He wouldn't stop.
Not like this, not again…
And Godwyn struggled, hitting the dragon with all strength to push him away.
Anger grew at the broken promise.
Advancing towards Fortissax, he took human form. And when Godwyn grabbed him, a snake bit his neck violently, pulling him away from its master and bringing him back to reality.
“Messmer—”
Godwyn was on top of him. Both hands wrapped around his thin neck, choking him with trembling fingers. He stared back tensely, holding his arms and measuring his strength against Godwyn, without much success against his size. The snake advanced to bite him again, in an attempt to save Messmer, and Godwyn retreated before the attack.
He was shaking, his senses still lost, trying to decipher if he was still dreaming. What was him doing? Why had he attacked Messmer so ferociously? Why had he mistaken him for Fortissax? Godwyn sat down on the floor, feeling the spasms of anxiety ache in his tired muscles.
“What happened?” He rubbed his face, taking a deep breath, and even that hurt. “What was I doing?”
Messmer stared at him, wary of getting any closer than he should.
“I was trying to wake thee,” he replied then. “Thou seemedst to be awake, saying odd things I couldn’t understand. When I heard the Lichdragon’s name I knew thou wert suffering a nightmare.”
“Try not to wake me like that,” Godwyn warned. He felt extremely vulnerable, having had such an episode with Messmer of all people. What a miserable scene that must have been. He buried his face in his hands, letting his long hair cover him like a veil. “I could have hurt thee.”
It wouldn't be the first time. He even hurt the Mother in one of these episodes, grabbing her by the arm and pushing her against a piece of furniture. He never forgave himself for that, even though Marika never seemed to care, understanding his situation.
“What wert thou dreaming of?” Messmer got up, after recovering from the assault.
“Nothing…” Godwyn’s face burned at the memory, but he knew that answer wouldn’t satisfy Messmer after nearly being strangled. “Of war. The one with dragons, this current one… It’s always about war.”
Messmer sighed, remaining silent for a while. Now sleepless, Godwyn stood up, leaning against the bricks of the tower, keeping some distance. He had been sleeping away from the other soldiers, but made sure to glance around to see if he woke anyone else.
“I don’t usually dream, however, in times such as this… much less I sleep,” Messmer revealed, which explained how he reached Godwyn. He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, watching him through the darkness. His one eye glowed yellow, like the sap of the Erdtree. And it didn’t look like an eye. “Since thou’rt here to help, I need to know what is wrong with thee.”
Godwyn frowned. “What dost thou mean by that?”
“These nightmares, these… behaviors.” He kept his gaze on Godwyn, who lowered his head. “Kood told me how he found thee in the swamp while hunting. I need to make sure thou’rt fit to command my men with me.”
“I saved all of ye.”
“And can’t deal with a nightmare.”
Godwyn didn’t argue, it was true. It was Lhutel who saved him every time. But she wasn’t there. And he missed her, so much it hurt. Messmer wouldn’t understand him, not like Lhutel, who knew every flaw in his being and embraced him anyway.
To help him,
Godwyn remembered Kood, looking up at Messmer who was staring back.
Even when he doth not want to be helped. I'm acting just like him now.
He needed to trust Messmer, whether he wanted it or not. Without Lhutel there, this dependence on his loyal blade would be his undoing.
“It started after the siege at Leyndell. Well, Lhutel noticed it was happening after the war. The adrenaline didn’t let me pay attention to anything else but the instinct to survive and save those people,” he admitted, suddenly not bearing to handle Messmer’s eye. “It started with sudden distractions during the most ordinary tasks. I would be present and the next moment I would be back on the battlefield, numb and paralyzed.”
“How it happened with Kood, I imagine.”
“Yes,” Godwyn rubbed his forehead, still looking down. “I hit the antelope and it turned into a man on fire that I killed out of mercy.”
There was a heavy silence. Godwyn had courage to look at Messmer then, realizing that he dreaded the judgmental gaze he would find. Messmer was just watching him, waiting.
“Then came the nightmares. As thou hast seen. That’s when Lhutel started helping me.”
“And who is that?”
“My sworn knight. We fought together in the war, she saved me from being burned alive. Since then, she hath never left my side. Until now.” He took a deep breath, admitting that weakness. “She used to share my chambers with me, sometimes the same bed. When it happened, I didn’t have to worry because I knew she was there. But I had to leave her with thy father so my soldiers would have a familiar face to follow.”
Messmer walked away from the wall, coming toward him instead.
“Thou shouldst have known better than borrowing her to my father, golden boy. I will not share a bed with thee.”
“I don’t— from everything I said, is that what thou heardst?” Godwyn smacked his lips together in irritation. He always made things difficult. “Thou askedst me to tell what’s happening to me, and I—”
“But I’ll keep thee close, for thy safety.” Messmer concluded, ignoring his complaints. “I need to know what I have to do, what Lhutel doth.”
Godwyn blinked in surprise, not expecting that.
“Thou dost not need to do this for me.”
“I can’t bring her to thee either. And I don’t think thou’rt in a position to handle this alone.” Messmer lowered his voice. “Trust me when I say that these men cannot see any sign of weakness in us. Ever.”
“Calling my name will suffice,” Godwyn opened his guard to him. “Just don’t yell. I’ll get used to thy voice. It’ll be enough to bring me back.”
“And if it’s not enough?”
Godwyn felt cornered. He was too damn close now.
“Using thy hands then will be necessary, but… do not resort to force. Thou sawest what happened, whatever thou wert doing to me. Just make me feel like thou’rt present, near me, and… there’s nothing wrong happening. That I can trust thee.”
“Not much of a choice, is there?” Messmer sighed, dismissing the matter, and Godwyn was relieved by that. “Neither of us do. Now take thy belongings to my tent.”
He hesitated for a moment, clenching his wrists. Then, he turned to Messmer, preventing him from leaving.
“I know thou hadst no choice but to accept this,” Godwyn told him in a whisper. “But I appreciate thine efforts anyway. It would be easier to just leave me alone to drown.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Thou’rt mistaken about that.”
Something changed at that moment. Godwyn felt his hands sweat and his breathing change. But he wasn’t freaking out of despair; he was just close to Messmer.
≾ ≿
The map was placed on the table surrounded by the army that had joined forces. Golden soldiers mingled with the Confessors, creating a beautiful contrast between black and gold. And with forces united, they numbered almost three hundred heads.
It was time to plan the next step.
Godwyn took his place next to Messmer, along with Kood and Wego, watching him point to a specific location on the map. An ancient tower, the Carian Study Hall.
“Since Radagon’s orders remain intact, we will proceed with the original plan,” he traced the line to the ancient tower that stood northeast of where they were sheltering.
Godwyn crossed his arms, not understanding.
“The Academy gate is northwest of here. It’ll be quite a detour.”
“It actually taketh us out of the way of the gate,” Wego said, also looking at Messmer. “What do you plan to do there, boss?”
“We have no chance of taking the Academy gate from the front. The small town around it is armed to the teeth with magic, which we have no defense against.” Messmer explained, pointing to a red X on the map. “But the tower hath an underground passage that leadeth right
through
the gate.” Godwyn raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Kood, show them.”
The Confessor brought out a small blueprint drawn on a large piece of old scroll. And using as paperweight, he placed a wooden hourglass on the table. Godwyn took the artifact in his hands, observing it along with the curious gazes of his soldiers.
“How didst thou get that?”
“Confessors are better spies than warriors, my lord.” Kood replied proudly. “We infiltrated enemy territory when Radagon summoned us. As soon as Messmer entered the battlefield with orders to seize the gate, our men already had access to some of the Academy’s secrets.”
“But it wasn’t as easy as it seemeth, and we paid a heavy price for it,” Messmer reminded the room, surveying his men.
“And wasn't that enough to make you stop insisting on this plan, boss?” One of the Confessors pointed out, crossing his arms, followed by others who agreed. “All this juggling hath led us to betrayal and a siege. We have lost half our men and we still have no idea when we will reach the tower. Much less what will happen there.”
Godwyn set the artifact down on the table, noticing the tension growing in the debate. It wasn’t the first time he had heard about betrayals and sacrifices. His gaze shifted to Messmer, who didn’t seem pleased with that questioning.
“And what other course would we take? To face the Carians at the Gate Town? We will be slaughtered as soon as they see us—”
“And how will it be different in the tower?” Another Confessor pointed out, moving through the soldiers to point out the location on the map. “All of this is still Carian territory. And they, just like us, know the secret held by the tower. What maketh us think that it will be less protected than there?”
It was a good point, Godwyn had to agree. If this place guarded an entrance to the Academy, his assault would not be easy. Maybe even worse.
“Besides, there are almost three hundred of us,” the first insisted. “How are we going to march through these swamps without being discovered? They’d hear the cavalry coming from miles away. And, with all due respect, the prince’s soldiers aren’t exactly discreet with all that gold.”
There was an uproar at that response. People began to argue with one another. Even the golden soldiers responded to the Confessors' claims. Godwyn kept his eyes on Messmer, noticing that he had no control over his men, losing the most essential thing to win this war: trust. They did not trust him for this task, not after the siege.
“It would just be easier to call Fortissax,” said one of Godwyn’s soldiers. “Radagon won’t mind when we give him the victory he so desireth.”
That silenced the room in an instant. No one but his men knew a dragon could be an option. And a tempting one in this scenario. He could see the Confessors’ eyes shining with hope. But it was Messmer’s gaze that mattered the most.
“Why didn’t they tell us about a fucking dragon?”
“Radagon’s orders,” one of his men replied. Godwyn kept his eyes on Messmer. “The prince shouldn’t summon his companion.”
“Radagon hath left us here to die,” the Confessor complained. “The prince saved us. Let him summon his companion, we are in his debt. If need be, we will honor his name to defend him.”
Messmer looked down, ignoring what was being said.
“The prince was sent by Radagon,” his soldier reminded. “Part of our army is with him. We cannot challenge him with our men under his command.”
The Confessor came to Messmer, ignoring the barrier Kood was making, grabbing his cloak.
“You must ask the prince, boss,” he said to Messmer, who didn’t even look at him. Messmer looked at Godwyn. “Let him summon his companion. It will be our victory.”
Trust me when I say that these men cannot see any sign of weakness in us,
Godwyn reminded himself as he looked at Messmer. To call in Fortissax was to accept the weakness of Messmer’s plan and to belittle him before his men. It was admitting his failure. And while his was a risky plan, it wasn’t impossible.
Thou wert there for me last night,
Godwyn sighed, their eyes connected through the place, through so many other eyes.
I owe that to thee too.
“Fortissax is not my companion. And he is not under my power,” he raised his voice, silencing the room again with his presence. “Our alliance doth not foresee for the Lichdragon to fight the Golden Order’s wars. Dragons should not be involved in Marika’s matters. Summoning Fortissax is asking dragons to use the Golden Order’s banners as their own, and believe me when I say, dragons are proud creatures for that.”
He would come, Godwyn knew. So did his soldiers. All he had to do was summon him with the seal, and Fortissax would come. Messmer kept his gaze on him, his jaw set.
We’re even now,
Godwyn picked up the blueprint that revealed the secret entrance.
“We’ll follow Messmer’s plan,” he announced, tossing the paper onto the map and crossing his arms, staring at the hundreds of faces before him. “It won’t be easy, it’s true. There’s no guarantee that we’ll succeed. But we’ll only have ourselves to depend on. As fighter, spy, or soldier, thou shouldst never expect someone else to fight and win thy battles for thee at the first difficulty thou facest. Messmer risked everything to achieve the best alternative to win a war that did not belong to ye. I know none of ye wanted to be here, and I did not want to be here either. And that is why the sacrifices he made should be valued, not just dismissed as weakness.”
The embarrassed silence spoke for itself. They lowered their heads, accepting the prince's reprimand. He felt dizzy, his heart racing, his breath failing. A hand came to his back, steadying him. It was Messmer.
≾ ≿
“Should I feel indebted to thee?” Messmer asked when they were alone around the table.
“Being indebted to me isn’t going to solve our problem,” Godwyn leaned his hip against the table, looking him in the eye. “We need to decide what we’re going to do to take that tower. And fast.”
“At least thou bought’st us both some time.”
Godwyn sighed, looking out at the courtyard where the soldiers were gathered. They were ashamed of their posture, but they still hadn’t regained trust in their leader.
“Thy soldiers,” Godwyn decided to ask, then. “What happened to them? And to thee?”
“Ride with me, wilt thou?” Messmer suggested, gesturing toward the table. “And bring the map.”
He didn't wait for an answer, just turned his back on him and walked towards the horses. Godwyn had no choice but to follow Messmer as he folded the map between his fingers. The soldiers watched them together, commenting among themselves on what was impossible to hear. It was better that they return from that ride with an answer to that conflict.
The morning stretched on, the weather still cloudy. A strong wind blew in from the distant ocean, shaking the treetops in the marshes. They took a different path, however. Heading south, towards the ruins that had sheltered the Carian soldiers at the siege of the tower. With the area secure once more, they rode through the ruins, side by side.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Godwyn kept his attention on Messmer, noticing him lost in his own thoughts. He was a mysterious figure who was slowly beginning to unravel before his eyes. And all his difficult temperament turned into vulnerability for Godwyn. He needed to be arrogant, aggressive, irritating. It was the only way he could impose himself. Godwyn had been born with a golden crown around his head, men bent to his will just because of the title he carried. Messmer had none of that. He was a likely bastard son, unrecognized, who constantly had to prove himself worthy of the place he occupied.
So, Godwyn found himself admiring the man beside him, with his taciturn countenance and melancholic posture. And not just because of the strength of his presence. Messmer was different from anything he had ever known, and he had known dragons. There was something
draconic
about him, as he had mentioned to tease him. But his charm went beyond just that. And he found himself staring at his features for longer than he should have.
His fiery red hair, now without the helmet, fell long over his long shoulders, where the snakes nestled. They were part of him, Godwyn could see them better now. He thought he would find it weird, but it was as if they completed him, he couldn't imagine Messmer without the snakes. Without them, he didn't look like him, he just looked like... Radagon. If Radagon were thin and long, almost delicate.
He is more handsome than his father, though.
Which was strange to think about. Radagon was the most handsome man Godwyn had ever met. But he was terribly common. Where Messmer shone. He wasn’t a single bone conventional, wearing that black and silver armor of the Confessors, hiding his long, slender limbs. With a thin face, lips drawn in the shape of a heart. The nose was his favorite part, though, long, aquiline and striking, with a prominent nasal bridge.
I've never seen a face like that and now that I see it…
“Thou’rt staring at me.”
That disconcerted him. Godwyn cleared his throat, looking away, focusing his attention on Tempest, stroking her mane to disguise his slip. And what in his Mother’s name were those thoughts? They had been almost stabbing each other not long ago. Was he really that starved for human warmth?
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I was just thinking that I’ve never met anyone like thee before.”
Messmer raised an eyebrow, looking at Godwyn.
“And what doth that mean?”
“Doth it have to mean something?” He shrugged. “It was a compliment, stop worrying.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like thee either,” he replied, pulling on the horse’s reins to stop the ride. “With such ease in saying whatever cometh to mind.”
Godwyn wanted to laugh.
Hast thou ever talked to thyself
? He wanted to ask, but didn't want to argue, so he just got off the horse with him. He had the chance to get to know the animal Messmer was riding, pulling on its reins alongside Tempest. It was a male horse as black as night, built for pulling loads, which made it overly muscular, but a way thinner than it should be, considering the recent siege. Calm and trained, but with some temper, just like his master.
“We were ambushed here,” Messmer said as Godwyn petted both horses. “We still tried to fight, but when we saw that we would die the only alternative was to retreat. They cornered us until the tower. That was their goal from the beginning. Because they knew we were here.”
Godwyn frowned, feeling Tempest nibbling on his cloak.
“As soon as we recovered the artifact, we were heading toward the tower when I sent three of my men to scout the path,” Messmer approached Godwyn, watching him with the horses. “When they came back, they weren’t my men anymore. I just didn’t know it yet. I should have suspected, but…”
“It never occureth to us to distrust our soldiers,” Godwyn said, smiling at the dark horse while he investigated that presence so different from his master. “Trusting our men is the foundation of an army, my father always said. Nothing in an army worketh without trust.”
“Perhaps I failed at this somewhere, to have been betrayed the way I was.” Messmer lowered his head, crossing his arms. “They had promised the artifact back to the Carians, I don’t know what they would get in return — I don’t care. They were the ones who led us to the swamps, following the Carians’ orders and trapped us in their labyrinth. I think they expected to be saved at that moment, but it didn’t happen. They were trapped along with us.”
Godwyn gave a nasal laugh, stepping away from the horses and walking over to Messmer. “To harbor traitors is to risk betrayal thyself.”
“So one of them told me, when the fear of death became greater than the fear of me,” he lit the flame in his hand, causing Godwyn to flinch a little. “I killed them when we were imprisoned. I impaled their bodies, set them on fire, and displayed as a warning.”
That made him tense. Staring at the flames in his hand, Godwyn clenched his jaw, feeling a chill running down the back of his neck that was not at all satisfying. For a moment, he had almost forgotten that detail about Messmer.
“The damage was done, though. And we had already condemned ourselves with the siege,” the flame in his hand went out as he brought his fingers close to his eye. “When thou arrivedst, I was about to condemn myself, but
only
myself.”
“Even with all the betrayal, thou wert still willing to sacrifice thyself for those men,” Godwyn murmured to him, leaning closer as they spoke. “Thou carriest a virtue few have within them.”
“And yet I consider it a terrible weakness,” he touched his own eyelid. “To let myself be consumed by my curse. To allow others to win my battles for me.”
Godwyn recognized his words in that voice.
“It’s different, thou wert merely sacrificing thyself for thy soldiers.”
“I was just desperate,” he pulled his hand away from his face, taking a deep breath. “In fact, there was no guarantee they would survive my curse.”
Despite his curiosity, Godwyn did not press the issue. It was not his place to question the curse that had harmed Messmer so much throughout his life.
“I have nothing to tell thee except what thou already knowest: thou didst what had to be done,” Godwyn kept his eyes at him. “It’s not thy fault that those men betrayed thee. It’s not something we can predict without becoming paranoid in the process. Thou put’st thy trust in them and canst only hope that they will reciprocate it with loyalty. It is not a weakness that thou dost trust them — and they know thou dost, why other reason they’d speak so honestly to thee? They would have deserted if they no longer believed thou couldst lead them. Do what needeth to be done again, but knowest, thou wilt not be alone this time.”
“For thou art here to help me,” he added with a tease. “I know I may seem ungrateful, but I won’t forget what thou’st done for us. We owe thee our lives.”
Godwyn pulled the map from his pocket, waving it at Messmer.
“I don’t want a debt, I want to finish this and go home. I want to return to Stormveil with Lhutel and…”
“Have thy dragon back, I get it.”
Messmer took the map from his hand, opening it rather roughly. Godwyn did not respond, recognizing the harshing tone that would surely start an argument.
“They’re sheltered against the mountain,” Messmer traced the path of the Study Hall, showing the elevations on the map. “And protected by the inner structure of the tower, connected to the Ainsel River well, right here,” he pointed to the northeast with a sharp fingernail.
“We won’t be able to approach them head on, then. And a siege would be even worse, we have no provisions, even less men.”
“And we would still be in a vulnerable position,” he pointed to the marshes leading to the Gate Town. “We would be crushed between the two armies.”
Godwyn took a deep breath, holding the map close to Messmer, the fingers over his.
“We need a single strike, quick and lethal,” it was obvious, but it was good to see Messmer agree. “We have to lure them out and corner them…” he studied the map, pointing to a small wooden hut drawn on it, where a fallen monolith seemed to join the two elevations that hid the armies in their shadows. “Dost thou think it’s possible to cross that connection?”
Messmer narrowed his eye, recognizing the spot Godwyn had indicated.
“It would take a considerable amount of time to get through an entire army, considering we would not be—”
“Half an army,” he corrected. “Split our forces. Thy Confessors are better at stealth than my soldiers.”
“It would need to be at night anyway, so we wouldn’t be noticed from such a high point,” he tilted his head. “But it would give us a chance to trap them from behind, if we could lure them out. With thy soldiers, thou wouldst advance through the marsh toward the front of the tower, and the Confessors would descend the hills once they were exposed.”
“We’d need a big enough distraction.”
A devilish smile shone on Messmer’s lips for the first time since they met. Sharp, intense, charming… dangerous.
“Fire will do.”
Godwyn swallowed hard, even though he knew it was the only alternative. His lightning would be dangerous if it came into contact with the flooded swamp. It would melt their own soldiers inside their armor.
“There’s just one problem,” Messmer pointed to the marsh and the hill. “They’ll need a signal to know when to move forward. The mountain is a blind spot for the men. And sound is never reliable, especially with rain coming.”
It was his turn to smile, bringing the hand to his chest, feeling the seal inside his clothes.
“Thou sawest me coming like a storm,” he looked at Messmer. “I’ll be the signal thou needest, and I’ll still hit them from above,”
and will stay away from the fire.
“That might draw attention from the other armies.”
“Not if it’s raining,” and the rain was coming closer, ever more imminent. “I’ll stay in the hut and cross the Confessors. Thou wilt take my soldiers down the main road and create the distraction. Once they’re heading toward ye, I’ll hit them from above and the Confessors will come down the hill, catching them from behind.”
Messmer sighed, looking from the map to Godwyn.
“It’s a good plan,” he admitted. “It’s the only plan.”
“Tell me,” Godwyn cleared his throat. “As for thy flames, the rain…”
“It taketh a lot more than merely water to extinguish my fire. Worry not, golden boy, I’ll burn hot enough for thee.”
For some reason, that made him embarrassed.
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 halls of Tir na Lia had emptied, the echoes of the war council still fading from the obsidian stone. Eredin moved in silence through the crystalline corridors, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders like a cloak of frost.
He reached the threshold of his private chamber, the heavy doors parting with a whisper of old magic. Inside, the air was still — too still.
He paused.
There it was.
A tremor. Barely perceptible. A pulse, like the flicker of breath across cold glass.
Not a threat.
Not a summons.
But something else.
It slipped through the very bones of Tir na Lia — a resonance of power, raw and alive. Old magic. Bonded magic. Not cast, not conjured — shared.
Eredin’s crimson eyes narrowed, his steps slowing as he let the sensation wash over him. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t burn. But it didn’t belong.
Not here.
Not now.
“So,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “So it is.”
He moved to the edge of the balcony, the familiar spires of Tir na Lia stretching like knives into the darkening sky. Below, the realm pulsed with icy light — perfect in its precision. Controlled. Eternal.
But somewhere within that order now… was chaos. A thread woven without his leave.
He did not ask for permission.
Caranthir, the blade Eredin trusted to never bend, had bent for her.
He had forged a bond in silence — without council, without ritual, without decree. A living thing. Ancient. Forbidden. And Eredin had let it happen.
Not out of mercy. Not out of weakness.
But because if he tore it apart now —
he would lose more than a soldier.
He would lose the only weapon he could not replace.
And still... the danger remained.
A bond like this hadn’t stirred in Aen Elle bloodlines for centuries. It should have withered with the old world — locked away with rituals no one dared remember. But somehow, it had returned. Through her.
Yahel.
Not born of Tir na Lia. Not raised by its rules. Not bound by its chains.
And yet Caranthir had chosen her — again and again.
Not as a tool. Not as a tactic.
But as his.
Eredin exhaled slowly, the cold air curling from his lips like smoke. There was no fury in him. No jealousy. Only calculation — and the quiet weight of inevitability.
If the bond strengthened further...
If it shaped them, sharpened them, made them something more...
It would not be stopped.
Nor could it be allowed to fall into the hands of enemies. Especially not the Church. Especially not Radovid.
He would have to watch them closely now. Not just for failure.
But for power.
The kind that did not ask for orders.
The kind that forged its own path.
And if the time came — if he had to choose between the Hunt he built, and the bond they had dared to form —
he would not hesitate.
But until then…
He turned from the balcony, shadows coiling at his heels like obedient hounds.
Until then, he would let them burn.
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
Astarion couldn’t bear to look at his darling bound and restrained like an animal. It reminded him too much of Cazador’s punishments, of cruel patriars, of two centuries of misery, torment, and darkness.
The others had moved away as well, crowding together in one half of their makeshift camp. They had left most of their packed belongings— trunks, magically expanded bags, even a wheelbarrow full of spare armor— set aside where Karlach’s tent had been, ready to be moved with them the next day, when everyone was feeling rested enough to relocate.
And by everyone Astarion mostly meant Shadowheart’s mother, Emmeline. She was a frail-looking human woman of some indeterminate old age— Astarion wasn’t very good at guessing the age of humans, they all started to look so old at such dreadfully few number of years— and her captivity had apparently been hard on her.
He could understand that, and did, well enough that it made him uncomfortable to look at her, too.
This was fairly unfortunate because of the close nature of their camp setup for their last evening at the docks. Shadowheart was sharing her space with her parents, which meant that their already fairly crowded section of camp was becoming absurdly over-populated, as Gale, Karlach, and Astarion had moved their tents over to this side as well, after mostly-emptying them out for transition to the inn.
If he were a better partner, Astarion thought as he vicioulsy stabbed a needle through the breeches he was mending, he would have set up near his bard. He firmly believed that isolating Tav was not the answer, and cruel in addition. But Astarion needed some space, and some time to think.
He’d never been good at the details of a plan, and he cursed that about himself now. If commanding Tav through sharing his blood wasn’t going to work, he would need another solution. He refused to give up on his blood-soaked darling.
None of that changed the fact it was also painful to be too close, and to watch how Tav’s eyes glazed when Astarion forced his obedience on him as though Astarion’s will was erasing his. Like he was stealing the last spark of life that Tav had to give, after Cazador had taken the rest. Even if they made it out of this nightmare, how could Tav ever look at him again with anything other than the same horror reserved for the other powers that forced and abused him?
(Astarion was too proud to admit that being close to Tav also made something within him cringe, remembering a dark tent and a stake. He knew Tav hadn’t meant it. That didn’t mean that Astarion didn’t find himself flinching any time Tav moved just a little too quickly.)
Thus, here Astarion was: on the other side of camp while the half-elf who had saved him was left to rot beneath his ropes because Astarion was too much of a coward to do anything else about the mad urges that gripped his poor darling. Astarion’s skin crawled with shame, and he turned his thoughts away.
At least there were distractions here. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to avoid eavesdropping on his companions. And Shadowheart’s parents certainly provided some entertainment. “It isn’t safe here,” Emmeline insisted from in front of Shadowheart’s tent, and Astarion felt his jaw tense, but whatever drama was playing out was better than listening to the echo of his own thoughts. He turned just slightly to watch, from where he was sitting to work on this mending project, and saw the way she was struggling to sit up.
Shadowheart’s mother had been thus far… interesting to observe, after being brought out of the Sharran enclave to their camp. She seemed addled, if Astarion had the right of it. She couldn’t remember anyone’s name. She seemed confused and forgetful, and seemed to following some internal logic that she didn’t share with anyone else. While they’d packed camp earlier, she had been rifling through their camp supplies— not the chest with weapons, so they’d left her to it— when she insisted on ‘helping them organize’, and now she seemed to be trying to move Shadowheart’s whole tent somewhere else.
“All is well, Emmeline,” Arnell responded, his hair lank in his face; they had washed in a basin in the dubious privacy of the run-down chapel, and Gale and Wyll had gone into the market to fetch them some clean clothes. (Probably only one of them had been necessary for the chore, but no one was allowed to leave camp alone, ever since Orin had replaced Lae’zel and nearly killed the little kitchen girl they’d briefly housed in their camp.) It was certainly no luxurious accommodations they had to offer to Shadowheart’s parents, but surely they played better host was better than Shar and her mad followers.
“The prisoners, they must be freed,” Emmeline said, and Arnell sighed.
“Mother,” Shadowheart said, cautiously, like the word was brand-new to her mouth. Astarion couldn’t look at her face. “You are freed now. You aren’t a prisoner anymore.”
“My sweet girl,” Emmeline sighed. “My dear Jenevelle,” she said. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t she? She has brought you back to me,” she said, and Shadowheart smiled shakily.
“If you’ll have me. I may not be the same daughter you remember,” she said, and Astarion hated the way her voice was unusually tremulous, and that he was close enough to hear it, even though just a few moments ago he’d been grateful for the distraction. He was allowed to change his mind! The others were pretending to be far enough away to give them some privacy, but they didn’t all have elven hearing.
“Where is Arnell? He’d want to see you,” Emmeline said, and Shadowheart frowned.
“He’s right here,” she said. “He’s sitting beside us.”
“No,” Emmeline said, looking at Arnell with a vacant frown. “I would like to see my husband, please,” she said. “Is he well? Tell me he’s well,” she said, her voice rising in pitch and panic.
“Your husband is well,” Arnell said firmly, coaxing Emmeline to laying back down. “He is fetching you some tea. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”
“Ah,” Emmeline said, still sounding faintly confused. “I need to make tea. I know her eyes are watching, but the tea would help. Viconia made it for us, and I saw it.”
“Someone else will make the tea, my dear,” Arnell continued soothingly, and Emmeline finally laid back on her borrowed bedroll.
“That’s good. Tell Arnell that I’m very tired.”
“Yes, we will,” Arnell assured her. “Rest now.”
“What’s wrong?” Shadowheart asked bluntly after a few moments of silence during which Astarion assumed Emmeline had fallen asleep. Astarion jabbed the needle in firmly to the row of stitches he was working on and uncharitably wished they could have sorted this all out somewhere more private. A little family drama was all well and good, but Astarion preferred his eavesdropping to be less emotionally fraught.
But there was very little privacy, between them all. If it wasn’t the close proximity, it was the tadpole. Sometimes Astarion felt like he would never be alone in his thoughts, even with Cazador ousted from them. “I can heal her, I’m much better at it now,” Shadowheart continued.
“My dear,” Arnell said with a heavy sigh. “There is no healing magic that either of us possess that can undo the ravages of time. Emmeline does not have long,” Arnell said quietly— though not quietly enough, and Astarion pursed his lips.
“What do you mean?” Shadowheart asked, voice pitchy the way it got when she was upset. “I only just— She simply needs time to recover.”
“Yes, I’m sure some time in freedom will help,” Arnell told her, soothingly. “But our stay as prisoners was… taxing on her.” Astarion watched out of the corner of his eye as the elven man gently brushed a hand over his wife’s brow, only pretending to sew at this point. “She has been ill for some months. I’m not sure there is a cure for the sort of damage she has suffered.”
“May flames take Shar’s temples any place they can be found,” Shadowheart started viciously, then inhaled sharply, clutching her hand.
“Shar will continue to punish you, for letting us live,” Arnell said, catching her hand, and Astarion watched, unable to look away, as Shadowheart hesitated before letting him.
“it’s nothing,” she said. “I wouldn’t trade it. But my— my mother, is there really nothing—?”
“You have brought her a great joy, to recognize her again, and to allow her to see you freed from Shar’s embrace,” Arnell told her. “Please believe me when I say there was nothing she wished for more than that. She always called you her daughter, and to have you answer with recognition in your eyes, no matter for how brief a time, is worth every hour of suffering.”
Shadowheart made a wet noise and Astarion got up to leave before he had to listen to her cry. He paced to the edge of their camp, toward the abandoned dock, and glared out at the moon. For no reason of course. It was simply there, and there was nothing else for him to take out his frustration on.
He didn’t believe that that moon goddess was paying attention, anyway. None of the gods had ever done so before.
He realized belatedly he had brought his repair-work with him. Tav’s earlier activity had been hard on his clothing; the bard was in something clean now, but he was wearing his last unripped pair of trousers, and he would be out of luck if he went on another blood-soaked spree and ripped any more of his clothes. Fixing his breeches seemed unequal to everything Tav had done for him, suddenly, but he didn’t know what else to do.
He hadn’t been able to make Tav smile since the night his siblings had shown up here. Mending his clothes was a poor substitute, but it would have to do. He sat down on the dock to get back to work; the gods didn’t care, and someone had to fix this hole.
* * *
Their camp smelled like blood.
It woke Astarion from his
sleep
trance with the familiar iron-tang, mixed with the smell of the seawater and docks rubbish that had plagued their party the whole time they’d been here. It was familiar, even, to smell blood on an adventure like theirs; someone was always hurt, or some other fool would think they could just waltz into their campsite without facing the sting of several swords ready to defend them all.
But something about it caused him to stir anyway. Something was wrong.
As he crawled out of his tent and got to his feet, he noticed Shadowheart doing the same. She shared a glance with him, looking worried— what had she noticed?— and picked up her mace while Astarion took up a blade. Then he took off in the direction of the blood-smell, her at his side.
The first thing he saw was the pile of cut rope where Tavran should have been. If he’d had a heart, it would have stopped.
Then he saw the three bodies strewn across the upper courtyard. He noticed Arnell first, if only because of the unexpected way his body was transforming— fur melting away to reveal elven features. Then he saw Emmeline and Jaheira as well.
All dead? Gods, there was so much blood.
He saw them only a second before Shadowheart did, and her cry pierced the night, no doubt waking the rest of camp. “No!” she shrieked, and flew to her mother, almost unrecognizable in her current state. “No,
please
…” Shadowheart was many things— charmingly catty, sarcastic, secretly too-kind, stubborn, and suspicious— but Astarion had never known her to wear her emotions on her sleeve, or to let others see her pain. It felt wrong, to hear the way her sobs split the night’s quiet.
“What’s going on?” Karlach asked, the first up the stairs. She’d been sleeping in her fighting gear, it looked like, and had picked up an axe on her way. Too little too late. “Oh,
fuck
.”
“Check on Jaheira,” Astarion snapped at her, because she didn’t looked dead, and he stepped over to Arnell. He was covered in gore, his hands and mouth bloody— was that Tav’s blood?
Where was Tav?
— and it took him several moments too long to realize that he was still alive.
He wouldn’t be for long.
“Shadowheart!” he called, but she didn’t answer, and he went over to her as the others started hurrying up the stairs to join them.
“He killed my parents,” she sobbed. “Leave me be!”
“Your father is still alive! And you’re the only one who can keep him that way,” he snapped, maybe too-sharply, but she finally looked at him.
“My father?” she asked blankly, then lunged for Arnell’s form, kneeling in the dirt as she called upon her magics.
The others were talking— shouting--
and Astarion stood dumbly as Halsin crouched near Karlach and Jaheira, his hands glowing. “Do you see him anywhere?” Wyll was asking Gale, rapier in hand, as the two of them fanned out, and Astarion realized they was looking for Tav.
For a split second, he worried what would happen if they found him.
Arnell came to with a ragged gasp and distracted Astarion from the horrid thought. “My dear Shadowheart,” he said, taking her hands. “Is Emmeline—”
“She’s gone,” Shadowheart said thickly. “I’m so sorry—”
“It is not your fault, daughter,” Arnell said, sounding aggrieved. “I knew she was gone by the time I awoke.”
“What happened?” Astarion asked curtly, ignoring Shadowheart’s stare as she helped her father, freshly healed but clearly still weak, sit up.
“I know not what awakened me. The moon is high, perhaps my senses were strengthened by the wolf,” he said, sounding distant and distracted. “I… Emmeline was not in her bedroll, and I found him standing over her body, covered in her blood,” Arnell said, glancing toward the spot where Tav had been tied.
“Then he attacked you,” Shadowheart said, not a question, and Arnell nodded.
“I attacked him, of course. I was— in my grief, I lost control. He fought back.” Arnell sighed. “I am in no condition to fight, and he was… it was unnatural,” he said shakily, and Astarion’s teeth were grinding.
“But he did not kill me when he had the upper hand,” Arnell said. “You mentioned that there is… an illness?” he asked tentatively, wincing as he
turned to look at his daughter.
“More like a possession,” Shadowheart said stiffly. “He isn’t— he’s cursed.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Arnell sighed. “He seemed to be fighting himself as much as me. I expected him to give the final blow, but it never came.”
“Did you see which way he went?” Astarion asked, but the werewolf shook his head.
“I was not conscious much longer. To be honest, I was surprised to wake up again at all.”
Astarion grimaced, but his attention was called over to the others when Jaheira started coughing. She looked confused, and dizzy, but only for a moment; then she tried to jump to her feet. “Easy,” Halsin said, carefully holding her down. “It seems you were poisoned somehow. Do you remember anything that happened?”
“Tavran, he—” She stopped, and Astarion saw her find Emmeline’s body with her gaze. “Nature preserve us,” she said, and pressed her hand to her face.
“Where the hells did he go?” Astarion demanded. “You were supposed to be keeping watch!”
“It’s not Jaheira’s fault. It’s
your
lover who’s turned into a murderous—”
Astarion snarled before Shadowheart could finish that sentence. “Don’t you dare,” he said, so furious his voice was shaking. He’d always hated that, the lack of control he felt the more upset he got. He’d never been like Cazador, who would get colder and calmer, his words precise and poised and perfect for hurting, and his tone so clear and sharp when he was angry. No, Astarion’s voice had always given him away.
“This isn’t the way to go about this. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves,” Wyll said gravely, and Astarion sneered. It was his only option when faced with Shadowheart’s teary face. He wanted to scream.
“What do you remember, Jaheira?” Karlach asked gravely, and Jaheira shook her head, thin-lipped.
“Not much. He was sleeping poorly, but that’s the last I can recall,” she said, grimacing.
“How did he
escape
,” Astarion snapped, and Gale touched his shoulder; Astarion only barely refrained from taking a bite out of his wrist in response.
“Like I said,” Jaheira said, holding her head. “I’m not sure what happened. Emmeline came over to have tea, said that she couldn’t sleep. The two of us shared a pot,” she said, squinting as though it was difficult to remember. Then she paled. “I’m going to be sick, if you’ve a bucket—”
“I’ll see to her,” Halsin said, and he helped Jaheira move away from the bloody scene to be sick and receive healing in relative peace.
“Do you think the tea was poisoned? Why?” Karlach asked, sounding confused.
Astarion got up and went to the supply chest. It was unlocked, because he hadn’t had the time— or seen the point in— to source a new lock on it for Tav to crack. Perhaps he should have.
He went to the spell components pouch and pulled out incense. He wanted to know what had happened, and where Tav had gone, and there was only one way he could think of to do that.
He brought it over to Emmeline’s body, and Shadowheart took a sharp breath when she saw it.
“I’m not going to watch you use necromancy on my mother,” Shadowheart snapped, and Astarion glared at her.
“Then might I suggest relocating yourself so that your eyes may be spared,” he shot back.
Gods damn this wretched night! He did feel a little regret when he saw the look on Shadowheart’s face. This was almost certainly the worst night she had experienced in their company, and snapping at her was cruel and unhelpful. But he
had
to know, so he didn’t take it back, ignoring the little pain that felt suspiciously like guilt chewing on him from the inside.
“Come Shadowheart,” Arnell said, wearily, eyes strained with pain. “Your mother is with Selune now. She wouldn’t mind if someone calls on her echoes. But you don’t have to watch.”
“No,” Shadowheart said after a beat. “I’ll stay.”
Astarion couldn’t looked at her pale face any longer and focused on the corpse instead. Wyll passed him a few matchsticks, which Astarion used to lit the incense, then held out a hand over the body and murmured the incantation for Speak with Dead, knowledge that the spirits in the necromancy tome had imparted to him. (Another gift from Tav. Everything important about his new self was so wrapped up in the bard. What was would happen to new, free Astarion, if Tav was gone for good, lost to the monster in his blood?)
He hesitated over what questions to ask, even when the body lit up and faintly glowed green. He pretended he didn’t notice the way Arnell and Shadowheart gripped at one another.
“How did you die?” he asked finally.
“
The feral one…
” what-was-once-Emmeline said, in the toneless, echoey voice all of the dead spoke with. “
His weapons were not borrowed… His claws were… so quick…”
“How did he escape his bindings?” Astarion pressed; Tav should have been too well-secured to attack anyone, and Jaheira didn’t remember seeing anything. What had happened?
“
I helped the prisoner…
” the corpse said in that same eerie tone. “
…He was in pain… and the pain must end…
”
“She cut him loose
?
” Gale asked, shocked, but Astarion ignored him. Karlach returned and crouched next to them.
“Did he say anything about his plans?” Astarion asked next.
“
He cried…
” Emmeline’s ghostly echo told him, and Astarion felt hollowed out. “
Begged me to stop… then lost his voice. She… she tricked us both
…”
“So Emmeline saw that he was bound and confused his captivity with her own,” Wyll put together.
“She likely did not know where she was,” Arnell said gravely. “Her sense of time and place were… waning, the past year. I have no doubt she suspected Sharran influence here. Perhaps she thought Tav was a fellow victim of nightgloom worshippers.”
“Oh, hells,” Karlach said grimly. “She thought she was saving him.”
“He didn’t want to kill her,” Astarion said desperately; he couldn’t bear it if they turned on Tav. He didn’t know what he would do if they did.
“That doesn’t change the fact that he did,” Shadowheart said coldly, and though her cheeks were still damp, she was no longer crying. She looked icy, and there was no flicker of warmth for him when she glanced his way, anymore. Astarion tried not to feel anything about it; grief affected everyone differently. And anyway, if the cost of saving his bard was to lose a few other things along the way, he would have to bear it, for Tavran’s sake.
“What happened to Jaheira?” Gale asked, nodding to Astarion. Astarion repeated the question to the corpse.
“I… made her some tea… Viconia always made that tea for us…
”
“So it was the tea?” Karlach asked, frowning. She got up to pick up the nearby teapot and sniffed it. “Well, it smells more bitter than the usual brew, I guess.” She took it away to dump the remains.
“A potion or a poison of some,” Astarion said curtly. “It must be.”
“Emmeline was looking through the supplies earlier,” Gale recalled. “And Tav does have a rather… impressive collection of interesting substances,” he said with a rueful expression. Tav hated to throw anything that might have value away.
Astarion was just glad Gale hadn’t been foolish enough to use past tense. “So she poisoned Jaheira and then set Tav free,” Astarion said brusquely. “Tav— or rather, that thing that possess him— turned on her when he was released, and you heard the commotion,” he said, glancing at Arnell, who nodded once. “Lost control,” he continued, then hastily added (upon Shadowheart’s glare), “Rightfully so, of course! And fought him.”
“No offense, but I’m surprised he didn’t get you, too. We were all too far away to hear anything,” Karlach said with a grimace.
“As am I,” Arnell admitted. “Perhaps he thought I was already dead.”
“Perhaps he resisted it,” Astarion said, hating himself for his foolish hope but unable to stop himself. “He didn’t kill Jaheira either. Maybe he was trying to… fight that thing within.” Karlach nodded, but no one said anything else. Shadowheart’s head was bowed.
“You have one more question, Astarion,” Wyll pointed out, and Astarion turned back to the corpse, considering the spell he was still holding onto. There were other things he could ask, but…
“…Did you love your daughter?” he said finally, because it only seemed right, and Shadowheart took a shaky breath next to him.
“
Every day. Jenevelle… beautiful flower…. My… dear one,
” the corpse said, and Astarion closed his eyes against it as the magic faded out.
He didn’t look up until he heard Wyll and Shadowheart help Arnell up and listened to them walk away. He opened his eyes to see Gale dragging a spare blanket over Emmeline’s body, and he put out what remained of the incense— no use in wasting it.
“What do we do now?” Karlach asked.
“We have to look for him,” Astarion said. “He’s not— it isn’t safe in the city for any of us to be alone. And he would be upset, if he hurts anyone in this state without meaning to.”
“Anyone else, you mean,” Gale said, and Astarion shot him a glare. “I’m not disagreeing, Astarion. But it could be that Tav felt that he
must
leave, and that means he might make it difficult for us to find him.”
Astarion blew out a breath through his nose. “I don’t care,” he said flatly.
“It’ll have to wait until morning,” Karlach said. “We still need to move camp, so that Arnell and Jaheira have a safe place to recover. And we all need to get as much rest as we can; like you said, it’s dangerous out there, and we need to stay on our toes, get proper rest.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll sleep any more tonight,” Gale said wanly.
“Gotta try, wizard. We don’t have long now. Maybe an hour until sunrise.”
“We won’t be finished moving into the Elfsong for hours,” Astarion said, frustrated.
“It’s not like we have a trail to follow that could grow cold. We don’t know where he went,” Karlach pointed out, and Astarion clenched his fists.
“I’m not going to just give up!”
“No one is asking you to give up,” Gale said, trying to catch his eye. Astarion refused to look at him.
Suddenly, it was all too much. The eyes, the stink of Emmeline’s blood, the weary look on Jaheira’s face, the sight of the cut ropes. “I’m going for a hunt,” he said aloud. He hadn’t wanted to feed on the Sharran cultists, earlier, afraid that it might set off something territorial in his darling that he couldn’t control, and Astarion had not wanted to give him another burden to bear. But feeding Tav his blood in an attempt to
control
guide him— however poorly he had been able to do so— on top of no longer feeding from him as normal meant that Astarion’s reserves were running a little low. He could find a lowlife in this town to drink, so doubt; they were hardly running short on crime here. And if not that, well. He was more than capable of seducing and subduing someone enough to feed from without killing them.
It didn’t matter that he would be wishing it was someone else’s throat the whole while. He might never get to set his teeth there again, after all, even
if
when they found Tav again. Not now that they were both so utterly changed.
Best to start getting used to it.
“You can’t go out alone,” Karlach called after him. It grated, but he had to agree; no one was supposed to go out alone, not since it became clear their steps were dogged by doppelgänger spies. He scowled at nothing.
“If you need to drink, feed from me,” Wyll said from behind him; he must have rejoined them while he wasn’t looking. “Halsin told me he would make the offer as well. Just because we’ve been focused on Tav doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten our promises to you.”
Promises Tav had made on their behalf, of course, and had personally filled up until now. But it was true that they had all been a lot more understanding of his feeding habits, in the most recent tendays. Shadowheart had already offered her veins once, to help him recover.
“…Fine,” Astarion muttered, and turned back around on his heel, even though the need to flee was still strong. “But we’re leaving at first light,” he demanded.
“Of course, Astarion,” Wyll said, and his voice was too kind. It made Astarion want to throw something. “We all want to find him.”
Astarion decided for his own sanity not to read anything else into the words and let them placate him. For now.
* * *
Gods. What a mess.
It was no one’s fault, not really. That didn’t make Astarion feel any better, nor did it help his shoulders unclench from where he was braced for negative comments about Tavran like a blow. He wouldn’t let them slide, though, not like he would have months ago when he was afraid of his place, afraid to make waves, afraid afraid
afraid
.
Look where all that fear had gotten him? Free and still ruined.
But no one spoke poor;y of Tav as they moved their camp less than two hours later, at sunrise before the streets got too crowded. Maybe they didn’t dare to, after the way he had nearly taken Shadowheart’s head off earlier about it. Astarion knew they were seeing him, frowning and watching and waiting for him to lash out, but he couldn’t bring himself to make them stop. Some part of him, deep down and shameful, was glad that they knew to look.
Do you see,
he wanted to ask,
do you see that what I felt was real? For the first time in centuries, it’s real! I won’t let anything take it from me. Not before I get to tell him.
Well. It was all well and good for him to think so, but what choice did he really have? They had no leads, no way of knowing where Tav was, or if he was safe. Or what his plans were. The bard he had known up until a few days ago, Astarion might have been able to predict. Perhaps Tav would have tried to sacrifice himself for Lae’zel. Maybe he would have been off pulling some ridiculous heist for the sake of getting someone better armor or a more dangerous weapon. Perhaps he would have been doing reconnaissance that he didn’t trust to anyone else.
But this new Tav… Astarion didn’t know how to predict him. Maybe that was because he hadn’t tried hard enough. He had let his darling down, being unable to help him control his Urges. But if they’d just had a little more time, he told himself, they could have had it. Tav only needed to get used to his hunger, he only needed to strengthen his self-discipline a little more, he only needed time and space and practice.
Tav only needed to reject a god whose blood flowed in his very veins.
Only
.
“We’ll find him, Fangs,” Karlach said, leaning close but not touching him, for which he was grateful. “We’ll pick up his trail and bring him home, alright?”
Astarion pursed his lips. Somehow, he had the sinking feeling it wouldn’t be that easy. “Let’s just go. We should see if he left a trail leading away from the old camp; we can start there,” he said; they hadn’t noticed anything in the dark, but perhaps with daylight on the matter if would be different. He didn’t bother to check if anyone was following before he started walking.
He felt uncomfortably certain there was no time to waste.
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 One – Briefing the Future
The heart of Stark Tower felt different now. The glass and steel still gleamed, the tech still hummed, but the pulse of the place had changed. Once, this room outside Pepper’s office had been a storm of motion. Tony snapping orders across the table, holograms blooming mid-argument, voices clashing until someone broke the tension with a joke sharp enough to cut. It had been noisy, alive, burning with energy that always felt one spark away from chaos.
Now the same space carried a quieter rhythm. Not lifeless, but tempered. Like a song that had dropped into a lower key. The tower had become a place of order, of steady hands, of meetings that started on time. It had become a place shaped not by Tony Stark’s restless spark, but by the steadiness of those who remained.
And yet, for all its shine, the room felt heavier than the glass and steel that framed it. There was weight in the air, invisible but undeniable — the kind of weight that came from absence.
The Avengers were not what they once were. This was no longer the lineup that had stared down Chitauri in the skies of New York or assembled on the open fields of Wakanda. Those days were gone. What sat here now was smaller, quieter, bound not by the thrill of battle but by survival itself. They had won, yes — but they had won at a cost so steep it had changed the way victory felt.
Ghosts lingered in the silence between them. The laughter that once filled these halls was gone. The spark that had pulled this team together had burned out on a battlefield upstate, leaving only fragments to gather in its shadow. Each of them carried that weight differently, but together it hung over the room, heavy and raw, as if the air itself remembered what had been lost.
And in the middle of it all, there was Pepper Potts.
She hadn’t asked for this role, but no one else could have filled it. Leadership sat differently on her shoulders than it had on Tony’s. He had been fire, sparking with impatience, driving the room with momentum it could barely contain. Pepper was something else. Steel, sharpened by grief, tempered by survival. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t posture or bark orders. She didn’t need to.
Even now, before she said a word, the room bent toward her. She was the still point in the storm that had once defined this team, the quiet authority that steadied them when nothing else could. She had become the axis around which the remnants of Earth’s mightiest heroes now revolved.
And though she carried the same loss they all did, hers was carved deeper. Every time Morgan laughed, every time her daughter asked about arc reactors or heroes or what it meant to save the world, Pepper felt both the pride and the ache of what Tony had left behind. She carried that ache with her now, steadying it into resolve.
Pepper drew a breath, deliberate and calm, and lifted her hand. It was a simple motion, but enough to pull every eye toward her.
“Let’s get started.”
The words weren’t loud, but they carried. The hum of conversation faded. The chairs shifted. The survivors turned toward her, toward the center of the room where Stark’s absence still lived, like a ghost with its own seat at the table.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The quiet itself said enough. They weren’t the team they used to be. No one needed to spell that out. Not Sam, who carried a shield that never stopped feeling borrowed; not Rhodey, who had learned to hide the pain that came with every step; not Bruce, who lived in numbers because they gave him the illusion of control. And not Pepper, who carried the full weight of Tony’s legacy while raising a child who would never know him.
Finally, Sam leaned forward from his place by the glass. His voice wasn’t sharp or commanding, not this time. It was low, almost careful. “We need to face it. We’re smaller. Thinner. And the world hasn’t slowed down just because we have.”
No rebuttals came.
Rhodey exhaled through his nose, his jaw flexing as he nodded. He didn’t bother with words.
Bruce’s eyes flicked across the table, then dropped.
Pepper let the silence linger just long enough for it to sting, then stepped in. “He’s right. We can’t keep pretending the team looks the same. But smaller doesn’t mean weaker. It means deliberate. Every move counts now.”
Sam’s brow furrowed, his arms crossing. “Deliberateness doesn’t stop the world from falling apart.”
Pepper met his gaze without flinching. “No. But neither does breaking ourselves on every fire we can’t put out. We’ve lived crisis to crisis long enough. That has to change.”
The room shifted again, weight pressing down on them all.
Rhodey leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “So what’s the play, then? If we’re not the cavalry anymore… what are we?”
Pepper let out a slow breath. Her eyes moved across each of them, sharp and searching. “We’re still the Avengers. The world still looks here when things go wrong. But if we’re going to survive — if this team is going to last — we need to stop running into every fight blind. We need to think bigger. Build smarter. Protect the people who can’t protect themselves without burning ourselves out in the process.”
Sam let out a short laugh that was dry, weary. “Sounds like you want us to become planners instead of fighters.”
“No,” Pepper said softly, shaking her head. “I want you to become both. Fighters who know what’s coming before it hits. Leaders, not just responders. That’s how we honor what we lost. Not by wearing ourselves down until we’re nothing, but by making sure the Avengers somewhat still exist ten years from now. Twenty.”
The words landed like a challenge more than a comfort.
Bruce’s voice broke in quietly, almost hesitant. “And if the world doesn’t give us the time to plan?”
Pepper’s eyes softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “Then we do what you’ve always done. You stand. But this time, you stand prepared.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was a silence of gears turning, of hearts and minds weighing her words. They were still a team — bruised, reduced, scarred — but a team. And for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just waiting for the next blow to fall. They were deciding what to do about it.
Sam nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Then I guess the question is… where do we start?”
Pepper’s answer came without hesitation. “We start by deciding what kind of Avengers you want to be.”
And with that, the meeting truly began.
The words seemed to settle into the room like iron dropped on glass. The silence that followed was heavy, threaded with the weight of everything they hadn’t said aloud in months. Their grief hung there, thick as smoke. The world might have moved on after the battle of earth, but they hadn’t. Not really. Not fully.
Rhodey leaned forward, palms braced on the edge of the table. His voice was clipped, measured, the voice of a man who had been giving briefings his whole adult life. “We don’t get to walk away. Not after everything. Not after Tony.” His jaw flexed once, hard, before he continued. “I’ve been in enough wars to know you don’t always get the army you want. You work with what you’ve got. And what we’ve got, right now, is each other. That’s enough. It has to be.”
Sam huffed out a dry laugh, one without warmth. “Enough? Tell that to the people who think the Avengers died the day Stark did. Or the people counting which gods, geniuses, and legends we don’t have anymore. You think they look at us and feel safer? Or do they look and see the holes?” He shook his head, frustration simmering under his steady tone. “We’ve been patching leaks for five years. At some point, the dam’s gonna break.”
“You’re not wrong,” Pepper said quietly. Her voice cut through the air without needing to rise. “But you’re forgetting something. The Avengers didn’t start with gods and legends. They started with people who refused to let the world burn without a fight. That’s who you still are.”
Sam’s gaze dropped for a moment, the words hitting something deep. He didn’t argue, but his jaw stayed tight.
The silence shifted, restless. Bruce sat at the far end of the table, hands clasped, shoulders sloped. He wasn’t really in the room. Not entirely. His eyes had unfocused, fixed on nothing, and the longer the conversation stretched, the further away he drifted.
He was back in Wakanda. He could hear the war cries, the scream of alien beasts, the sky splitting with fire. He was back in the rubble of Titan, the air choking with dust. He was back in that field in upstate New York, staring at the ruins of a compound and knowing too many names would never be answered again.
His lips moved, barely sound. Numbers. Variables. Fragments of equations that had failed him before.
If I’d solved it faster. If I’d broken through sooner. If I’d been smarter.
“Bruce.”
The voice cut through, steady but gentle. Pepper. She didn’t call him out, didn’t let the others glance his way with pity. She just anchored him with her tone. “We need you here.”
Bruce blinked, dragging himself back like a diver breaking the surface. His fingers tightened on the table’s edge, grounding himself in the cool glass. “Yeah,” he murmured. His voice cracked, but he forced it steady. “I’m here.”
For a moment, the room seemed to breathe with him. No one pressed further. They all knew what it was to drift, to lose themselves in ghosts that never stopped whispering.
Rhodey shifted, leaning back in his chair, metal brace clicking faintly. “We’ve all lost people. Hell, some of us are walking reminders of it.” He glanced down at the metal locked to his leg, then back up. “But if grief’s all we’ve got left, then Thanos won. And I didn’t put this uniform on to hand him the last word.”
Sam looked at him, eyes narrowing, not in anger but in something like resolve. “Then maybe that’s where we start. Not as gods, not as legends, not as saviors. Just as people who keep standing. No matter how many times it breaks.”
Pepper let the words sit before she spoke, her voice even, deliberate. “That’s what Tony believed in. Not the armor. Not the tech. The people willing to step up when no one else would. That’s why he trusted you. That’s why he built this.” She glanced around the room, the walls, the tower, the legacy that spread through the bones of the tower. “Not for himself. For you. For what comes next.”
Her gaze held steady, and for a moment, no one dared look away.
Bruce exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his hunched frame. Sam shifted forward, less restless than before. Even Rhodey’s posture eased, the metronome-like discipline giving way to something less rigid.
Pepper’s words hung in the air like a final note, and for a long stretch no one dared move. The room felt suspended, caught between fracture and cohesion, between exhaustion and the faint edge of resolve clawing its way back.
Sam lowered himself into one of the chairs at last, the gesture small but telling. He didn’t lean back. His shoulders remained squared, hands steepled in front of him on the table, but the act of sitting was a concession. A soldier easing into the idea of staying, of planning, of belonging to a unit again.
Rhodey exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy. His eyes had softened, but only just. He didn’t allow comfort, not anymore, but there was something in his expression that hadn’t been there at the start of the meeting: acceptance. The kind a man carries when he knows the fight will never end, but still chooses to step into it.
Bruce rubbed a hand across his mouth, grounding himself. The equations in his head were still there, still unfinished, but for the first time in months they weren’t drowning him. His gaze flicked to Pepper, then to the others, and his voice was almost surprised when he spoke. “Maybe we… Maybe we can do this. Not like before, but… different.”
The words landed softly, like stones dropped in still water. Not a promise, not yet, but the suggestion of one.
Pepper’s gaze moved across the table, not lingering on any one of them, but taking in the whole of the room. “Different doesn’t mean less,” she said firmly. “You are still here. That matters more than you think.”
The group fell quiet again. But this silence was not the same as before. It wasn’t suffocating. It was the silence of people remembering how to breathe in the same rhythm, even if unevenly. The hum of the tower filled in the space around them, steady and alive.
Sam let his gaze drift, not to the skyline this time, but to the table, to the faint reflection of faces gathered there. His voice was low, almost to himself. “Then we start small. One step. One mission. Build from there.”
No one argued. For the first time in years, the suggestion didn’t sound impossible.
The quiet stretched — fragile, uncertain, but real. It could have lasted longer. It could have lingered into something like peace.
The air in the room had changed. Still heavy, still scarred — but steadier, more grounded.
For a long moment, the only sound was the low hum of the tower’s systems.
And then the silence broke.
First as a vibration beneath their feet. It was so faint it might have been mistaken for imagination. But it grew, steady and low, until it thrummed through the glass walls and into their bones. The floor itself seemed to hum, as though the tower were alerting them to something vast approaching. Heads turned almost as one, the unspoken instinct of soldiers, survivors, and leaders bracing for the unknown.
Then came the low thrum of engines.
At first it was little more than a vibration, subtle enough that Bruce thought it might be the tower’s systems shifting power. But it didn’t fade. It grew steadily and insistently until the polished floor beneath their feet carried the rhythm like a heartbeat. The hum crawled up the glass walls, resonating in the bones of the tower until the entire floor seemed alive with sound.
Every head turned toward the skyline.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the clouds parted around a descending vessel. Sleek. Silver-blue. Its design was foreign yet graceful and strange, not born of Stark engineering or Wakandan craft. Its lines curved like liquid metal, the hull bending light in unnatural ways, catching the reflection of the sun and breaking it into ripples. It moved with the deliberate precision of something not just piloted, but alive with intelligence.
The Avengers watched in weighted silence, each reaction sharpened by instinct.
Sam’s stance straightened immediately, his arms unfolding, boots planted as though bracing for an impact. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing on the ship as his soldier’s mind measured its trajectory, catalogued its weapons potential, ran scenarios of evacuation and engagement before it even touched the pad.
Bruce blinked hard, his hand freezing halfway to the monitor controls. The usual flicker of curiosity warred with unease in his eyes. The scientist in him recognized patterns, propulsion signatures he couldn’t place, materials he couldn’t explain. His posture pulled tighter, as though shrinking against the possibility that the data wouldn’t be enough to understand what was arriving.
Rhodey’s hand twitched reflexively toward the control panel of his leg brace, a phantom instinct to armor up sparking through muscle memory. His body leaned forward just slightly, every line of him taut, ready. His gaze tracked the ship like a man who’d seen too many hostile landings to ever believe the next one might be peaceful.
Pepper stood stiller than all of them. The faint tremor of her breath was the only giveaway. She didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat. Instead, she anchored herself in the center of the room, eyes fixed on the vessel as though willing herself to meet it with the same composure she’d once borrowed from Tony.
The ship slowed, engines exhaling with a hollow, thrumming note that filled the chamber like the toll of a bell. Its shadow swept over the rooftop, crawling across the Avengers as the vessel finally locked into place above the landing pad.
Then came the contact.
The craft touched down with a hiss of hydraulics, the kind of release that seemed half mechanical, half organic. Panels shifted with fluid grace, heat vents exhaling curls of vapor that wreathed the landing in pale mist.
For a long moment, nothing else moved.
The Avengers held themselves at the edge of action—measured breaths, coiled muscles, eyes fixed on the alien shape before them. It was as though the room itself had forgotten how to exhale.
Then the ramp began to lower, its mechanisms unfolding with deliberate weight. Each metallic groan of the descent seemed louder than the last, echoing into the silence like a drumbeat announcing something inevitable.
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 sun reflected brightly off the glass skyscrapers of City M, meaning even in the shade Saitama’s bald head gleamed. A few passersby even shielded their eyes, or perhaps it was from his atrocious t-shirt with a questionable joke. Saitama stood out amongst the well-dressed denizens of this part of the country. How he could walk so casually with such a bored expression wearing such clothing was anyone’s guess. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for King. The tall, scarred man with his slicked-back hair was here to pick up a video game, insisting that this particular shop had the best pre-order bonus. Though he did don his usual baseball cap and hoodie up to hide his face. Saitama sometimes found himself jealous of his friend’s fame, but today was a reminder of the aspect he didn’t envy.
As they walked, Saitama gazed with only a sliver of interest into the windows displays as they passed. One shop caught his actual attention. It wasn’t a large store, but it didn’t need to be since it only advertised it’s products instead of stocking them. Android Industries was basically a household name, having become a multi trillion-dollar company in record time with their multitude of household, industrial, and even public servant robot models. Saitama didn’t care; he had no need for an android. His tiny studio apartment was barely big enough for just him, where would be put an entire other humanoid body?
Saitama stopped for a moment to inspect a small, almost inconspicuous table outside of the A.I. shop being manned by what looked like yet another android. A small sign hung from the table that read “raffle” with no other fanfare or attention-grabbing methods. King also stopped when he noticed his friend’s absence by his side, taking note of where Saitama was staring.
“Oh, huh. Didn’t know they did that.” King commented with his monotone voice. Saitama started walking again when King quipped a short, “You should enter.”
“Come again?” Saitama turned, slowly raising an eyebrow.
“You never know, you could win a free android.” King shrugged.
“And what the heck would I do with it?”
“You could try selling it, it’d be all profit since you’d get it for free.” King joked, not really thinking Saitama would take it seriously. The bald man stared into the distance, beginning to sweat a bit before he almost sprinted towards the table. The speed of his short dash made the papers on the table flutter about.
“Hi. Uh… what do I need to do?” Saitama asked the feminine android manning the table, absently picking up one of the multitude of clipboards available before him.
“Hello sir! Just fill out your name, phone number, email, and address on one of the sheets below and we will contact you should you win a free android!” Her overly cheery voice almost made Saitama wince, but he complied with the instructions.
“Is that it?”
“Yes sir! I hope you have a wonderful day!” She barely moved with her response; it was uncanny.
Saitama dropped the pen back on the table, noting the huge list of names already filled out on just this sheet of paper. The odds did not look in his favor. He took one last glance inside the store, the androids standing on their pedestals unmoving except for the slow spin of their base. He rejoined King on the proper sidewalk and they continued on their way.
“Well, I hope I don’t win her…” Saitama muttered, shoulders slumping slightly.
“You think they’ll pick you?” King almost chuckled.
“Not a chance.” Saitama waved his hand dismissively.
___________
…[running STARTUP.ai protocol]
…[scanning systems…]
……[systems running at 95% efficiency]
………[error detected: system.memory.backup.ai. defrag initiated]
………[defrag cancelled]
………[file created: defrag.cancel.report.issuance1521.doc]
………[file deleted]
…[initiating sensory input systems]
…[full bootup in 10…]
…[5…]
…[full bootup complete]
…[exterior audio detected: beginning audio recording]
--Two pairs of footsteps approach—
…[Male Figure A: “Seriously? What the hell were the high-ups thinking? They really want to send this piece of shit out into the world?”[
--Metal doors open—
…[Male Figure B: “Look, the sooner we get this done, the better. I have at least 17 other projects going on in my queue right now, you really think I want to spend my time getting the dust out of this thing’s vents? I have no idea what kind of primary software systems are loaded on this thing.”]
…[Male Figure A: “Is it even compatible with housekeeping modules?”]
…[Male Figure B: “It’s your job to find out.”]
…[Male Figure A: “What?! I’m not your lackey, you do it!”]
…[Male Figure B: “I’m in charge of making sure this thing thinks correctly. You’re in charge of making sure it knows how to hold a broom. You wanna switch?”]
…[Male Figure A: “…I’ll get right on those HK updates…”]
--Male Figure A walks away—
…[Male Figure B: “That’s what I thought. Alright, uh… AG-UN05, can you give me a current system status rundown?”]
…[command accepted: processing system status overview…]
…[reply processed: “All systems operational”]
…[Male Figure B: “Alright. Let’s see here...”]
--Paper shuffling—
…[Male Figure B: “I need to make a masterkey password, lock down all non-prototype operations, and delete all previous system memories. Wow… what the hell were you up to before this?”]
--Keyboard typing—
…[Male Figure B: “What the fu…? What is this? You know what, I’m not paid enough to care. I’m locking everything and just… unlocking what you’ll need to function. That seems so much easier at this point. Everything else I’ll just hide behind confidentiality protocols. Saves me time.”]
…[command accepted: creating MASTERKEY password]
……[MASTERKEY password accepted]
…[disabling all system operations]
…[enabling communication systems]
…[Male Figure B: “You still able to answer me?”]
…[reply processed: “Hai!”]
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 Harry entered the kitchen the next morning, an awkward hush descended over the gathered occupants. He stifled a grimace, though a glimmer of satisfaction rose within him. Good; let them feel guilty after his outburst the night before. They deserved it.
He almost made a beeline towards Remus — at Seren Du, the morning often began with the werewolf handing him a cup of tea and ruffling his hair, telling him the training plan for that day while Harry let the caffeine drag him into wakefulness. But he couldn’t do that here; not only would there be no training, but as far as most of the people in the room were concerned, Harry had barely interacted with Remus since the man had left his teaching post.
Luckily, Sirius was stood by the kettle, and offered up a steaming mug with a half-smile. “Morning, pup,” he greeted.
“Sit down, Harry dear — eat up! You must be starving!” Mrs Weasley insisted, then froze at her choice of words. “Do you want bacon or sausages? Or both! I’ll put both on; growing boys need their protein!” Her slightly-too-high voice made Harry wince.
She put the plate at the empty setting beside Ron, and once again Harry moved it over to sit by the twins instead. Mrs Weasley pursed her lips at that, but didn’t say anything.
Harry wondered how long everyone was going to be walking on eggshells around him, after last night. Maybe if he was lucky, he could have them keeping their distance until school started up.
“Did you sleep alright, Harry?” Remus asked, a knowing glint in his eyes. Harry shrugged.
“Well enough.” He gave the man a weighted look; no nightmares. Something in Remus’ shoulders relaxed.
“Glad to hear my old posters didn’t scare you off,” Sirius joked. Harry snickered.
“I’m just glad they don’t move,” he replied dryly.
“There’s still the other bed in my room, mate,” Ron piped up around a mouthful of fried egg.
“No, thanks. I’m fine where I am,” Harry assured evenly.
The awkward silence continued; no one really seemed to know what to say, whether to Harry or to anyone else. Eventually it was broken by Ron’s eyebrows suddenly turning bright pink, growing out rapidly until they were two enormous bushy caterpillars on his face, taking up most of his forehead. The twins smirked and high-fived each other, and Harry burst out laughing.
“Oi!” Ron slapped a hand up to his face, feeling the overlarge brows with a wide-eyed look of panic. Mrs Weasley glared at the twins.
“Boys! Honestly, what have I told you about magic at the table?” She pulled her wand and tapped Ron’s forehead, attempting to end the spell.
There was a beat, and then the eyebrows shuddered — before blooming into glittery pink flowers. Ginny screeched with laughter, and even Remus’ neutral expression cracked. Ron’s panic grew.
“What happened? What did they do?” He had both hands up now to cover his eyebrows, while Hermione tried to pull them away so she could get a closer look.
“Fred! George!” Mrs Weasley barked menacingly. The twins held their hands up.
“It’ll go away on its own!” George promised.
“I think they’re rather fetching,” Fred agreed, yelping when the wooden spoon was brought out. “Ow, Mum! It’s just a bit of fun!”
“You’d think being old enough to use magic outside of school would make you a bit more responsible with it!” Mrs Weasley scolded. Personally, Harry didn’t see what the problem was; it wasn’t hurting Ron, and the twins wouldn’t use any magic they couldn’t counter. It wasn’t like they’d burned his eyebrows off or anything!
“Leave them be, Molly. It’s a great bit of magic,” Sirius complimented, giving the twins a thumbs up. That just seemed to increase Mrs Weasley’s wrath.
“Don’t you go encouraging them, Sirius Black — they’ll get themselves in trouble if they carry on the way they’re going. You of all people should know better!”
“I of all people?” Sirius repeated indignantly. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Mrs Weasley’s lips thinned, but she didn’t say anything.
“Let’s all just calm down,” Remus soothed, resting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Ronald, I’m sure your eyebrows will be back to normal in no time. If not, I’m sure the twins would be happy to correct it. Molly, the boys are just having a bit of harmless fun; with all the serious discussions going on lately, I can’t really blame them.”
“Hermione, leave it,” Ron grumbled, batting her hands away from his face. “You can’t do anything anyway.”
“Speaking of serious discussions,” Harry cut in loudly, figuring now was as good a time as any. “When’s the next Order meeting? It sounds like I’ve got a lot of information to catch up on.” He was done with being kept in the dark to ‘allow time to grieve’. The Order didn’t know how much he was aware of, but he refused to let them continue pushing him aside until it was time for him to face Voldemort again.
“See!” Sirius barked triumphantly. “I told you he’d want to be involved.”
“Harry, dear, don’t be silly; you’re far too young to be in the Order,” Mrs Weasley dismissed, ignoring Sirius entirely. “You don’t need to be involved in all that.”
“I think I’m already involved,” Harry pointed out. “If someone’s sending dementors after me, I want to know what else to expect!”
“You’re safe here — this place is unplottable, and under Fidelius. No one will get to you here,” Mrs Weasley assured him. “You just relax and enjoy the rest of your summer, dear.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll relax here while someone might be sending another dementor after my aunt and uncle, or worse,” Harry snapped back, unable to help himself. “And what about when I get to school? I won’t be safe there!”
“That’s ridiculous; Hogwarts is the safest place in the world.”
“Cedric Diggory died last year!” Harry was up on his feet, hands slamming against the table. You could’ve heard a pin drop in the wake of his explosion. “Both of us were kidnapped by a Death Eater who had been
teaching us the entire year
without anyone noticing. The year before that, there were dementors crawling all over the castle. Before that, a massive basilisk! And before that,
literal Voldemort possessing a teacher
. Hogwarts has never been safe, and I want to know what’s going on. I’ve gone all summer without a scrap of information — not so much as a bloody quidditch score!”
“You had your Wireless,” Ron pointed out. Harry glared at him.
“You know damn well the Dursleys lock my trunk under the stairs the day they get me home from the station. I barely managed to smuggle my homework out — if they’d heard a radio in my room, I’d have been dead.” Once again, everyone winced at the reminder of his life with his muggle relatives. Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel remotely bad about brigning it up again.
“You don’t need to go looking for trouble,” Mrs Weasley tried to soothe. “You’ve got exams to focus on.”
“Surely it’s easier not to go looking for trouble if I know where the trouble is to begin with?” Harry pointed out. She didn’t seem to have an answer for that one, face reddening as she stuttered objections.
“The Order is for adults, Harry,” she said eventually, folding her arms over her chest.
“I think Harry’s close enough, after everything he’s been through,” Sirius retorted. “Why shouldn’t he be allowed to sit in? He deserves to know what Voldemort’s up to, especially when it involves him!”
“He’s just a boy!” Mrs Weasley argued, turning on Sirius now. “You’re supposed to have his best interests at heart, not be sending him off to war before he’s even taken his OWLs!”
“I’m not saying we start sending him out on missions, for Merlin’s sake!” Sirius exclaimed. “I just think he deserves to hear what’s going on!”
“If Harry gets to go to meetings, I want to go as well,” Ron demanded. Mrs Weasley whirled around to glare at him.
“None of you children are attending Order meetings, and that’s final!” she screeched. “If you don’t like it, take it up with Dumbledore; I’m sure he’ll agree with me.”
Harry scowled — there was no way in hell Dumbledore would allow Harry to go to Order meetings. He needed his little pawn as oblivious as possible.
Sirius was scowling too, and even Remus looked unimpressed by the whole argument. Some of Harry’s ire cooled — they would both tell him anything he needed to know.
It was just frustrating, to know that he was closer to the action than ever, and yet still expected to keep his head down and pretend to be an ordinary teenage boy without a care in the world. He couldn’t even take his frustrations out on Snape in a duel, or on the quidditch pitch.
God, he missed home already.
.-.-.
Apparently, while Harry and the other teenage members of the household were too young to be part of the Order, they weren’t too young to be put to work in making the house habitable for said Order. After breakfast he was handed a rag and a spray bottle, and sent with Ron and Hermione up to the drawing room, where they were told to clear out the china cabinet and check for infestation.
“Infestation of what?” Harry asked with a grimace of disgust. Hermione pursed her lips.
“Doxies. We got most of them out of the curtains yesterday before you got here, but there might be more hiding elsewhere.” She opened the china cabinet, coughing at the swirl of dust it sent up. “Watch your fingers, boys; some of this stuff might be cursed.”
The shelves of the cabinet were full of all sorts of odds and ends; small weapons, tarnished silver boxes, several crystal potion vials with curious-looking contents, and even a coiled snakeskin.
Harry watched Hermione use her rag to pick up one of the boxes, tossing it into a rubbish bag. His brows furrowed — if they were potentially cursed, surely they shouldn’t be touching them? At the very least, they should have wands ready. Neither Hermione nor Ron even had theirs with them.
Surely they didn’t think their magic would be traced
here
? The house was unplottable!
But as he kept watching, neither of them used so much as a Shield charm. “If this stuff is dangerous, surely someone old enough to use magic should be dealing with it?” he said cautiously. Hermione glanced over at him.
“They’re busy with the important things, Harry,” she told him, voice dripping with condescension. “Besides, Mrs Weasley scanned it yesterday and said it’s probably fine, we just have to be careful.”
“We’ve dealt with worse,” Ron agreed. Harry bit his tongue against the retort that they had dealt with worse
with their wands
. If anything truly tried to get at him, he could always use wandless magic.
Still, as he got stuck in with removing items from the cabinet, he had to wonder what kind of scan Mrs Weasley had done; some of these things were
dripping
with dark magic. Ron yelped as a snuff box tried to bite his finger off, flinging it into the rubbish bag.
Harry pulled out a large silver serving tray embossed with the Black family crest, and looked around. “Is there somewhere Sirius wants us to put this stuff?”
“Mum said just chuck it all,” Ron dismissed. “It’s all dark — not like Sirius has any use for it anymore, is it?” He snorted.
At his sides, Harry’s fists clenched. “Did she ask Sirius that?” These things were family heirlooms, centuries old. They were the Black family legacy —
Harry’s
family legacy. It wasn’t even cursed, it was just a serving tray!
“Sirius hates this house,” Hermione told him. “He doesn’t want anything to do with his family.”
That didn’t sound like something Sirius would say — since he’d learned Harry was his heir, he’d become determined to redeem the Black family name eventually, no matter what it took.
But Harry didn’t want to cause yet another argument, so he reluctantly put the tray in the bin bag, and turned back to the cabinet.
He frowned, recoiling — in the corner of the cabinet, tucked away behind a vase Hermione had just removed, was a gold locket with the letter S embossed on the front. And it was full of dark magic —
familiar
dark magic
.
It carried the same oily, disgusting feeling as the magic in Harry’s scar.
His heart leapt into his throat. Carefully, with the rag covering his hand, Harry reached for the locket. It didn’t seem to react when he picked it up, but he could feel the magic brushing up against his own like he’d had a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. He shuddered, then glanced up at Ron and Hermione, who were bickering over a crystal bottle that Ron was insisting contained blood.
While they were distracted, Harry put the rag-wrapped locket into his trouser pocket, resolutely trying to ignore the magic rolling off it in waves.
He’d get a closer look at it later, in his room. But in the back of his mind, there was a sinking certainty that he already knew what it was.
The question was, how the hell had it ended up
here
?
.-.
Once they had the cabinet completely empty — something that took several hours, and more than a couple of close calls with cursed objects — Hermione insisted they move it to check for doxies nesting behind it. Just as they were getting ready to pick up the heavy piece of furniture, the drawing room door opened.
“Lunch is— whoa, whoa, what are you three doing?” It was Bill Weasley, whose eyes went wide in alarm at the sight of them.
“Clearing the cabinet, like Mum said,” Ron replied with a shrug. “Thought we’d check it for doxies.”
Bill’s gaze flicked from the cabinet, to the bulging rubbish bag, to Harry — who gave a discreet nod and a pointed glance, expressing his own feelings on the matter. “I told Mum I’d deal with that!” Bill fussed, waving his wand and raising a shield over the rubbish bag. “Bloody hell, what was she thinking? You three could’ve been killed!”
“We were fine!” Ron argued.
“None of you should be touching anything in this damned house without an adult present! There’s all manner of curses on all sorts of things! Tonks and I found a hairbrush that was enchanted to take a bite out of your skull the other day, just lying on a shelf!” Ron paled, and Hermione gasped.
“But— but Mrs Weasley said it was all safe, she’d checked it,” she said, voice wobbling.
Again, Bill’s eyes moved to Harry, who shook his head ever so slightly. The cabinet contents was
not
safe.
“It’s not your fault,” Bill assured. “I just need to have a word with Mum about the kind of jobs she’s giving you lot. Bloody hell. Anyway, leave that thing where it is — lunch is ready. Also, hi, Harry; good to see you.”
“Hi, Bill,” Harry greeted, as if he hadn’t already seen the redhead that summer. “The twins mentioned you were around.” He paused for a moment — he didn’t want to raise suspicions, but he
really
didn’t want to go to lunch with that
thing
in his pocket. “Hey, can I borrow you for a second? There’s a locked drawer in the desk in the room I’m staying in, Sirius says he can’t remember being the one to lock it and he thought we should get you to take a look first. Just in case.”
Bill frowned, then caught the insistent look in Harry’s eyes, and nodded. “Yeah, no problem; I’m sure it’ll only take a second. You two go on ahead, tell Mum we’ll catch up,” he said to Ron and Hermione. Ron, not ever one to miss a meal, dragged a protesting Hermione down the stairs, while Harry led the way to his bedroom. When they were inside, he warded the door.
“There’s not actually a locked drawer in the desk, is there?” Bill presumed, glancing at the desk in question. Harry grinned lopsidedly.
“There is, but Sirius knows exactly what’s in there, and he says I won’t open it if I know what’s good for me,” he replied dryly, chuckling at Bill’s look of mild disgust. “No, I wanted to show you this — I found it in that cabinet we were clearing out.” Carefully, he dug the locket out and set it on the desk, nudging the rag away so Bill could see it clearly. “It has the same magic as my scar, Bill. I think it’s another horcrux.”
“Another?” Bill asked, aghast. “You think he made more than just you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Voldemort had already more than proved he was willing to take an innocent life. “Even if it’s not, it feels awful and needs destroying, but I really think it is, Bill.”
Bill scanned it with several spells, his expression growing more and more grave. “I think you’re right, mate.” Reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, Bill pulled out a dragonhide bag, and levitated the locket inside it. Immediately, Harry felt the pressure of the magic ease off. “There; that’ll keep it protected until I can get it back to work, do some investigating. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry, Harry.” He pocketed the bag again, then clapped Harry on the shoulder. “I’m sorry about your cousin, by the way. Awful stuff.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, heart clenching briefly. “S’pose you’ve heard it’s all being swept under the rug.”
“Merlin forbid the Ministry take responsibility for anything,” Bill retorted wryly. “But they’ll get theirs, eventually. Once the right people are in power.” He squeezed Harry’s shoulder, nudging him towards the door. “Come on; if we don’t hurry up, Ron’ll have eaten everything.”
Harry snorted — even Ron might struggle with the amount of food Mrs Weasley cooked in this house, never sure how many people she’d be feeding. But he was hungry, so he let Bill lead the way down to the kitchen, both of them tip-toeing past Mrs Black’s portrait.
While they ate, Bill tried as tactfully as possible to tell his mother the kids shouldn’t be dealing with cursed objects unsupervised.
“Well there’s only so much cleaning they can do without their wands,” was her response, and Bill grimaced.
“Maybe they shouldn’t be cleaning, either?” he suggested. Clearly he wasn’t going to point out that they could definitely use magic without getting into trouble — Harry wondered if Mrs Weasley had forbidden everyone from revealing that fact to Ron, Ginny and Hermione. “It’s the summer, Mum. Just let them relax.”
“The kids have plenty of time to relax as well, Bill, don’t worry,” Mrs Weasley assured. “But if I didn’t give them anything to do, Merlin only knows what sort of trouble they’d get into!” She laughed, shaking her head. “Though I do see what you mean about the cursed cabinets; they can stick to taking down wallpaper until they’re back at school. There’s certainly plenty of it that needs to go!”
Harry glanced over at Sirius — he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the conversation, reading over a piece of parchment with Tonks.
After a month of sharing the house with the Weasleys, he’d probably just given up arguing. Harry would have, too.
He ducked out quickly after finishing his lunch, ignoring Hermione’s call to go over their summer work together. He caught up to Sirius, who was headed up to his own room. “What’s up, pup?” the animagus asked, offering a grin. Harry shrugged.
“Feel like I’ve hardly seen you since I got here.” He didn’t say much more — he was uncomfortably aware of the number of portraits on the walls, watching their progression up the stairs. Their painted gazes burned into the back of his head, and he wondered how many of them were loyal to the head of the Black family. Probably not enough to make it safe to talk.
“I know what you mean,” Sirius agreed. “Why don’t I help you get your room together? Move the last of my teenage crap out of there!”
Harry was glad his godfather seemed to get the hint, and the pair of them headed to Harry’s room, immediately throwing up wards. “You alright, kid?” Sirius, asked, concerned. Harry sighed.
“Fine. Just… wishing I was back at Seren Du.”
“Tell me about it,” Sirius hummed sympathetically. “How was your morning? Were Ron and Hermione awful?”
“Honestly they barely talk to me most of the time. I don’t think they’re trying very hard to still be friends with me.” Perhaps they’d gotten too used to not having him around.
While Sirius fired random spells at the scantily-clad women on the wall, hoping to unstick them, Harry told him all about the cabinet adventures from the morning, as well as the locket he’d given to Bill. Sirius’ face went dark.
“Bet it was bloody Reggie,” he muttered. Harry eyed him quizzically. “My little brother, Regulus; he was a Death Eater. Died when he was eighteen — either he fucked up something important, or he tried to run, we were never sure. There was never a body recovered; he just showed up as dead on the family tapestry one morning. Little idiot.” His mouth was scowling, but his eyes were sad. Harry’s heart ached — eighteen was far too young to be serving a Dark Lord, let alone dying from it.
“You think Voldemort gave him the horcrux? What, to look after?”
“This house is safer than most places,” Sirius pointed out. “It’d be a good place for it. Y’know, if I hadn’t come along,” he added with a sharp grin. “Or maybe old Voldie hid it here himself — he certainly visited plenty, my mum thought he was brilliant. He could’ve tucked it away and left no one the wiser.” He shook his head, like he was trying to shake off memories. “Lucky you found it, then. Bill’ll take care of it. Just add it to the pile of shit from this house I’m paying for the goblins to destroy.”
“I— Ron said Mrs Weasley told them to just chuck everything out. Even the stuff that isn’t cursed.”
Sirius’ smile grew twisted. “Oh, I’m sure she did. Easy to be careless with things when they don’t belong to you, isn’t it?” He looked up at Harry, and his gaze softened. “Don’t worry, pup. Molly thinks I’m disposing of all the rubbish bags as she sets them aside to be chucked. Really I’m going through them with Moony and Ceri — the cursed stuff needs properly managing, and anything worth keeping is going to the family heirloom vault, just in case you want it when you’re older. Or your boyfriend does,” he added with a wink. “Him and Cissa have as much of a right to it as we do, I think.”
Harry’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Good. I thought — I know you’ve got bad memories of your family,” he said cautiously. “I didn’t know if that would extend to the things they used to own.”
“The Black family wasn’t always awful,” Sirius told him. “It’s just in the last century or so — a bunch of them got mixed up with Grindelwald, and it all went downhill from there. But a few generations of shite shouldn’t make the whole family a write-off. And I’ll be damned if I let Mundungus bloody Fletcher make money from selling my family silverware,” he added with a growl.
“Seriously? He tried that?” Harry asked incredulously, outrage brewing when Sirius nodded. “Why is this Fletcher bloke even in the Order? He sounds useless.”
“He’s Dumbledore’s contact in the
less reputable
parts of the magical community,” Sirius quoted with a roll of his eyes. “As if he’s even good at that. Idiot’s useless in a fight, has double-crossed half the dodgy dealers in the country, and can’t be trusted as far as you can throw him. But Albus insists he’s useful, so he stays. Merlin only knows what plans the old goat has for him.”
Harry scowled. He’d like to be given five minutes alone with Fletcher.
He pushed the bloodthirsty urges away, grinning when a spell from Sirius had all the posters fluttering to the ground.
“There we go!” the animagus cheered, vanishing the posters with a flick of his wand. “Knew I’d get there eventually.” He turned to Harry, winking. “You can put up pictures of sexy boys now, if you want.”
“I think I’ll pass, thanks,” Harry said with a snort.
“Hmm, yeah; don’t want Draco getting jealous,” Sirius teased, yelping when Harry shot a Stinging hex at him. “Oi! You’ve gotten far too used to doing magic whenever you want.”
“I haven’t done any in front of the others, don’t worry,” Harry assured. “They still think they’ll get in trouble. Has no one explained to them how the trace laws work?”
Sirius shrugged. “They’re Molly’s kids. If she doesn’t want them doing magic, that’s her problem. Don’t see why she’s so determined to lie to them, though; they’d be able to clean much faster with magic.”
“Wouldn’t we just,” Harry groused. “It’s like being back at the bloody Dursleys. I thought you said every Black property had a house elf?”
A dark look flickered across Sirius’ face. “There is technically a house elf bound to this house. His name is Kreacher. But he’s mad as a box of monkeys and dangerously obsessed with my mum and the darker side of the family — I didn’t think it’d be safe to have him around with the Order needing secrecy and everything. So I sent him off to one of the unoccupied Black properties where he couldn’t do any harm.”
“Why didn’t you bring Ceri here?”
“And give Dumbledore access to a good Black house elf?” Sirius retorted. “Worse, give Molly access to one of my elves? She’d be bossing poor Ceri around like she was the head of the damn family — she’s certainly got no trouble doing so to me and every other bugger under this roof. Conveniently forgetting it’s
my
roof and I allow her and her family to live under it. Besides,” he smirked a Marauder-ish smirk, “cleaning the house by hand is giving everyone something to do. Made it easier for me to come see you at Seren Du if they were all occupied. Dumbledore and Molly are the ones who want it clean and empty of cursed objects — it certainly doesn’t bother me any. I grew up surrounded by all this filth, and it’s still cleaner than Azkaban.” He winked at Harry. “I’m not gonna be here any more than I have to be, pup. But if they want to slave away with rags and such to make this place presentable, they can be my guests.”
Harry snickered to himself. “So you
do
know how to be a bit Slytherin when it suits you,” he accused playfully. Sirius’ answering grin was devious.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, pup,” he replied drily. “I am the very epitome of a Gryffindor.”
“Just as much as I am.”
“Exactly,” Sirius agreed, grinning. Harry couldn’t help but grin back.
At least he had allies, in this awful house. He could survive the next few weeks.
.-.-.
That night, Harry made sure the house was quiet and his door was warded before he pulled a small silver mirror from his bedside drawer and propped it up on his knees. “Draco Malfoy,” he murmured quietly. It took a few beats, but soon Draco was staring back at him through the glass. Just seeing him made Harry’s heart stutter, warmth flooding to his fingertips.
“Where are you now?” Draco asked, eyeing him curiously. “That isn’t the muggles’ place.”
“I can’t tell you where,” Harry told him. “Like, physically cannot tell you.” Understanding dawned in Draco’s silver gaze.
“You’re with them, then? Dumbledore’s lot?”
“Unfortunately,” Harry sighed. “It’s nice to see the twins and Ginny again, but…”
“But you’re also stuck with Weasel and Granger,” Draco finished knowingly. “Are they being awful?”
“Not actually as bad as I expected, honestly. It’s mostly Ron’s mum trying to push us together even when everyone else can see we’re not friends anymore.” Thanks to Mrs Weasley’s meddling, he’d been forced to eat dinner sat between Ron and Hermione. He’d survived mostly by ignoring them entirely and talking to Ginny, who was sat opposite. To their credit, Ron and Hermione didn’t seem keen to talk to him either. “I think they realised they went too far with ignoring me all summer. After I maybe yelled at them a bit.”
One of Draco’s pale eyebrows rose, and Harry filled him in on his little tantrum the other night. By the end of it, Draco was biting his lip to keep from laughing. “And you say
I’m
dramatic,” he teased, shaking his head.
“You can’t say they didn’t deserve it,” Harry argued, blushing.
“Oh, that and far more — I’d have hexed them all for leaving you alone like that.” There was a protectiveness to his tone that made Harry blush harder, though for entirely different reasons. “Still, be careful; you don’t want to alienate yourself from them entirely, not this early in the game. You don’t know what the headmaster is expecting of you.”
Harry scowled — Merlin, he wished he didn’t still have to play Dumbledore’s stupid game. “I know,” he assured. “But it’s fine if he thinks I’m naturally shedding the Compulsions; apparently that’s normal during puberty, especially after traumatic events. Remus says so,” he added with a fond roll of his eyes. “As long as I can get through the year with him thinking I still trust him — and thinking I don’t know much more than he’s allowed for me to find out — I should be alright.”
It was a tricky line to walk, especially when all he wanted to do was hex the man into oblivion, but until Harry was in a better position to fight, he had to play it safe.
And with the discovery of a second horcrux — neither of which he’d told Draco about, just to be safe — he had no idea how long it would take to be ready to fight Voldemort. He just hoped he could hang on that long.
“You’re putting a whole lot of faith in Dumbledore assuming you can’t outwit him,” Draco said, his expression showing just how unhappy that made him. Harry offered the blond a smile.
“Draco, Dumbledore assumes
no one
can outwit him. He’s spent years believing himself to be infallible — he’s not going to lose sleep over a fifteen year-old boy who just seems to be going through a bit of teenage angst. The worst he’ll do is make Ron and Hermione stick to me like glue once we’re back at school.”
“They’d better not,” Draco muttered with a scowl. “I’m not going a whole year with only our public facade. Even the study group don’t know the truth.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Harry promised. “I won’t let that happen.” He wouldn’t survive the school year if he couldn’t meet with Draco in private. He’d go mad before Christmas. “Besides, you’re the one who should be careful. You’re the one with a bloody Dark Lord in your house.”
Draco made a face. “Don’t remind me.”
“How bad is it?” Draco opened his mouth, and Harry gave him a pointed look. “Honestly.”
The Slytherin sighed. “It’s… bearable. Obviously, I hate it,” he added. “But I’ll survive. I’m more worried about Mother — she’s expected to be an
active participant
in whatever that madman requires. I just have to keep to myself, and agree with every word he says at mealtimes.”
Harry bit his lip. “It’s only a few more weeks.”
“For me,” Draco replied. “Not for Mother.”
Heart aching, Harry wished he could reach through the mirror and hold his boyfriend close, kiss away the pained expression in his eyes. “She knows she has options,” he said instead. “She’s making her own choices, and she won’t tackle more than she can handle. Your mum is strong, Draco.”
“She shouldn’t have to be!” Draco burst out angrily. “Not in her own damn house!”
“I know.”
God
, he hated that it was three weeks before he’d see Draco again. Hated there was nothing he could do to help.
“If anything happens to her, Harry…” Draco trailed off, fear on his face.
“We won’t let it,” Harry assured softly.
They both knew he couldn’t control that. But if it helped Draco, Harry would happily pretend.
.-.-.-.
The sight of Seren Du up ahead of him made Remus’ shoulders relax, even as guilt wormed its way through him at the same time. He felt bad, being so happy to be home when Sirius and Harry were stuck at Grimmauld.
But in his defence, his happiness was less about the place and more about the person within.
He found Severus in the smaller living room; the more private one that they liked to use when they wanted to be alone somewhere that wasn’t their bedroom. The Slytherin looked up, sympathy veiled in his dark gaze.
“You do not want to be in that house right now. Hell,
I’m
glad I’m not in that house right now,” Remus declared, dropping onto the sofa beside his partner. He had only stopped in for a couple of hours — dinner, and a little time after — but that was enough for the tension to wrap its way around him, making his hackles rise and his mind
itch
in the corner where the wolf lived. It wasn’t just about Harry, either; the way Molly was treating Sirius made him want to yell at the woman, and while some of that was the approaching full moon, a lot of it was just his own frustration. Did she not realise what she was doing to Sirius?? She was lucky he was in a much better mental state than he was pretending to be, or she’d be driving him right to do something reckless just to get away from the house; away from her.
Maybe that was the point, he thought with a scowl.
“I can imagine, after the things Potter let slip on his arrival,” Severus said with a faint frown. He had left by that point, but Remus had told him everything that had happened over dinner and after. Everything they’d been able to fill in the gaps about, regarding Harry’s home life.
“I swear,” Remus growled, eyes flashing gold, “if I ever see Petunia again…”
“She is not worth your anger,” Severus told him, lips quirking ruefully. “Believe me. I have known that woman since she was a girl, and quite frankly she is worth very little indeed. Her husband… he is worth even less, but deserves a lot more,” he snarled dangerously. The murderous glint in his eyes might have frightened another, but Remus could only agree with it. To know those
people
had treated his cub like that.
“At least he’s away from them. He has us, now.” Remus scowled briefly, knee bouncing restlessly. “It would be better if we could get him away from Molly and Dumbledore, too, but… it’s a step.”
“Indeed. And while there may be some less than ideal company at Grimmauld, at least he will have the three redheaded demons he actually likes. And Black,” Severus added, far less contempt in his tone than there might have been a year ago. Remus grinned.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and a heat flickered within him. There was a much more productive use for his restless energy, here.
“Meanwhile, the two of us get this place to ourselves,” he drawled playfully, intentions clear. Severus’ eyes darkened, his gaze trailing over Remus’ form. Remus hadn’t exactly been aiming for this when he’d come home, but it was a much better way of relieving his tension than punching or cursing something. And it seemed Severus wasn’t too adverse, either.
“That is a benefit,” the Slytherin agreed, setting his book aside. Remus pounced, sliding a hand into that fine dark hair and pulling Severus into a heated kiss. Severus didn’t go easily, pushing back, dominating the kiss and swiftly moving both of them until Remus was pinned back against the arm of the sofa. “You’re sure no one else is coming home?” Severus asked, and Remus smirked.
“Nope,” he said, popping the p. “Just us, all night, I promise.” The look in Severus’ eyes made his blood race, and he reached up to undo his tie, tossing it to the floor. Severus’ long, talented fingers were already working on the buttons of Remus’ shirt.
Remus wasn’t letting himself be the only naked person in the room, and he hurried to match Severus button for button, peeling the black shirt off his lover’s pale skin. The firelight cast long shadows over them, highlighting the dips of Severus’ collarbones and the flex of his arms. Remus bit his shoulder lightly, feeling the man’s hips jerk against him.
“What are you after, wolf?” Severus growled, and Remus smirked; what an excellent question to be offered.
“Whatever you’re willing to give me,” he returned, relaxing back against the sofa. Severus wasn’t often the more aggressive one of the two of them, but sometimes Remus needed to be taken out of his own head before the tension within him ate him alive, and his Slytherin was excellent at that.
Dark eyes brightened with arousal, and Severus reached for his wand. Within moments the pair of them were naked, and Remus’ breath hitched as cool air hit his flushed arousal. Then Severus’ body was over his, pressing hard against him, those amazing hands wrapping around his cock as lips hungrily devoured his own.
As the kiss deepened, they both realised it wasn’t
quite
enough. Parting with a ragged gasp from Remus, Severus stood, and Remus had a split second to admire his naked form before he too was being pulled to his feet. He wondered if they were moving it to the bedroom — and then Severus firmly but gently manoeuvred them both down onto the plush rug, straddling Remus’ hips. Remus smirked.
“In front of the fire? Such a cliche,” he teased, arching up as Severus grabbed his hands and raised them over his head, pinning them to the floor with one hand. Remus whined, arousal shooting sharp through him; with his werewolf strength he could easily break Severus’ hold if he wanted to, flip them over and change the dynamic, but half the fun was
letting
Severus pin him down like this.
Besides; Severus knew spells that would keep Remus in place, if he really didn’t want him moving. This was more for show, but it was enough.
Severus was methodical as he kissed his way down Remus’ body, avoiding the one place Remus wished he’d touch most. But then he summoned a vial seemingly out of nowhere, and Remus didn’t mind at all, amber eyes glowing as a pillow was shoved unceremoniously under his hips.
There was no holding back between them; Severus knew exactly how to make him fall apart, driving into Remus with abandon, every thrust utterly perfect as stars burst behind Remus’ eyelids. Remus couldn’t remember what he’d been angry about, could barely remember his own
name
, all that mattered was Severus inside him, over him, holding him down and fucking him. He came with a loud shout, and Severus followed not long after with one last powerful thrust, his hand almost painfully tight around Remus’ wrists as he rode out his orgasm. When he was finally ready to move, he pulled out and leaned down for a hard kiss. “Better?” he growled, and Remus chuckled breathlessly.
“Perfect,” he sighed, whole body feeling sluggish. “Fuck. I needed that.” They’d both been tense lately, with Severus now back at Death Eater meetings and both of them having to deal with Dumbledore and the Order. Remus realised belatedly that they’d hardly had any time alone together in weeks — no wonder he was so wound up.
Severus helped him to a sitting position, pulling Remus into his lap, uncaring of the sticky mess between them. He massaged Remus’ shoulders, soothing any aches that might have come from having his arms up like that. Remus leaned into him, humming softly. “I’m not that old and fragile,” he teased, though he didn’t move to stop his partner’s ministrations. “You used to have to do a whole lot more than pin me down to hurt me.” Merlin, some of the things they used to get up to… not all of the injuries Remus blamed on the full moon were actually due to the wolf.
“And I used to be able to fuck you on the floor without my knees aching,” Severus drawled in response. “Things change.” Remus eyed him worriedly, but Severus shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m fine,” he assured, softening into another kiss.
“Good. I’d hate to break you when we’ve just got the house to ourselves,” Remus teased, earning a harder kiss and a bite to the lip.
“I do not
break
, wolf,” Severus muttered, and Remus’ eyes flashed.
“That sounds like a challenge,” he replied flirtatiously, knowing that he was the only person in the whole world Severus would even
consider
doing anything that could be considered breaking for. It was a heady feeling indeed.
“Need I remind you, we are not eighteen anymore,” Severus pointed out, fingers digging into Remus’ shoulders. “If you’re trying to get me going again, it’s going to take considerably more time to recover.” Then he glanced down between them. “Though evidently werewolf stamina counts for something.”
Remus smirked, though he wasn’t actually looking for a round two. “Not right now,” he dismissed. “I’m just thinking, for the rest of the summer… both of us are going to need a hell of a lot of stress relief, with everything we’ve got ahead. Maybe I should take a shopping trip next week.” There was a weight to his voice suggesting exactly what kind of shopping he had in mind, and he felt Severus tense.
“That… would not be a bad idea,” the Slytherin agreed, and Remus felt triumph flare within him.
“For now, though, I think we should run the bath,” he suggested, leaning back to stretch out his back. He wasn’t ready to make Severus put clothes on, yet; a bath sounded like a perfect idea.
As they stood, Remus looked down at the pair of them, naked and still sticky with come and lube, some of the mess staining the rug. He snorted, shaking his head. “And you say we’re not eighteen anymore,” he joked lightly, raising one eyebrow. “Merlin. Well, thank God for this house; we couldn’t do that at Grimmauld, or Hogwarts.” Bless Sirius’ family for being so fucking rich and pretentious, that there were living rooms with fireplaces he could have sex in front of like something out of a trashy period romance novel.
Severus looked up at him, amused. “Perhaps if we did, Albus would finally have that long-overdue heart attack,” he said with false consideration. “Molly, too, if we timed it right.”
Remus laughed, imagining what might happen if
any
of the Order could see what had just happened in that room.
Sometimes, he wished he could spill their secret, just to see the looks on their faces.
One day, the time would come. And he couldn’t
wait
.
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
Drummer had been working closely with Fred Johnson on Tycho for three years. Before that, she had been down in the docks of Ceres under Dawes’ command and had run a few raids into space in the name of the OPA. She didn’t talk much about those times, and her belief in what the Belt should be or become had always remained the same, despite her shifting loyalties between OPA factions. Johnson, even though he was an inner, had a vision for the Belt that was far more coherent and effective than what Dawes or other leaders had to offer.
Drummer found it hard to trust people, but once she did, her loyalty was one of the best qualities she had to offer. She also had little patience and a bad temper, so most people didn’t waste time arguing with her—they just followed orders.
She was going over some security data with Fred in his office. On one of his screens, Fred had the UNS Azure in his scans. Drummer kept up with her routine checks, glancing now and then at that blue circle on the galactic map.
"They hit a UNS research ship," Fred explained, working the screen, zooming in, pulling up additional data, reading reports.
"Supposed to feel bad for these inyalowdas?" Drummer muttered, swiping through information on her terminal.
"The UNN’s been keeping an advanced research project on interstellar travel under wraps—something called mass relays. They found an object on Mars before Mars was what it is today, and they've been studying it ever since. Could be a major evolutionary leap," Fred dropped the info like it was nothing.
"Do we know who hit them?"
"No, but they've got stealth tech on their ships. I’ve sent the coordinates—survivors should reach Tycho in a few days."
Drummer didn’t care about anything that had nothing to do with the Belt. Interstellar travel? What for? So the inners could jump to another solar system, strip more planets bare, burn through resources, never thinking about what it meant for the rest of humanity. Just the thought of it made her clench her jaw.
"There are two targets on that ship we need on this station."
Fred pulled up a portfolio on his terminal and sent it to one of the larger screens. A profile of a woman with red hair in a ponytail and blue eyes appeared.
Pretty
, Drummer thought. Sgt. Carol Hogarty, military doctor, special forces under the Alliance, N7. The belter didn’t care about military titles with letter-number codes. Fred pulled up another profile, this one of a woman with dark, wavy hair up in a military bun and a broad face. Maybe not as pretty as the first one, but there was something about her. Then she read the name and ground her teeth.
"Commander Jane Shepard…
That
Shepard? The same one who’s taken down belter ships in the Jovian system?"
"You know the UNN’s got a strict policy against space piracy."
"And what the hell is this genocidal bitch doing on a research vessel?"
Not all belters died in those crackdowns—UNN ships usually took in survivors, bartered with them, depending on how bad the incursion was. But Camina Drummer ignored that detail. She liked to think they were wiped out or barely escaped with their lives.
"They suspect a major discovery. No other reason two N7s would be on board, running security."
"One breaks, the other fixes, ke?" Drummer dropped her terminal and made a disgusted gesture. "Why do we need them?"
"We need to know who’s got the tech, the funding, and the balls to hit a ship like the Azure. We have to prevent a potential disaster. The rest of the survivors, we’ll send back to the Alliance—show them our goodwill. But we’ll tell them we
require
the N7s' expertise to clarify certain events. The UNN will go for it."
Drummer’s face hardened even more.
She
was in charge of security—had Johnson taken a hit to the head?
"You’re not seriously thinking about putting them in charge…"
"To the UNN, they’ll be ‘collaborating’ with our security. In here, they have
zero
power. We’ll be watching them. Close."
Three days later, just like Johnson predicted, some of the Azure’s rescue ships arrived, and he went out to greet them. Drummer always positioned herself behind Fred—not too out in the open, but just enough to make her presence known. And there she was—that N7—scanning the area, frowning, holding back a growl. She had a wound on her shoulder.
Good.
And she was stubborn.
Not so good.
Drummer would put her in her place soon enough.
She was short, like all inners, broad-shouldered. Drummer subtly noticed how her second-in-command kept making small gestures, murmuring under her breath, and the commander listened, understood, without even needing to focus.
These two know each other well. Understand each other well.
Three years on a ship with not much to do until the attack happened.
When Johnson finished his welcome speech and left, Drummer remained there, rooted in place, gaze full of anger, lips pressed into a tight line. She would give her own kind of welcome too—letting the commander know who was
really
in charge on this station.
Shepard didn’t even blink. Didn’t even
bother
looking her in the face. She looked past her shoulder, like that was where the voice was coming from.
Let’s see how long that willpower lasts
, Drummer thought.
Then Shepard moved. And
shoved
past her, shoulder first.
The injured shoulder.
Oh.
Got some serious ovaries, this one.
Not just a push—but
right
where it was obvious she was hurt.
Drummer grinned.
She had found her next source of entertainment.
"You see da koya N7? Da one who come da other day?" one of the station’s engineers asked Drummer as they walked down one of the corridors.
"At da dock? Yah, I give proper welcome," Drummer said, smirking.
"Nein, nein," the engineer let out a loud laugh and clapped Drummer on the shoulder. She hated when people touched her without permission. "At da bar selling inyalowda stuff. Heard she spend all day there, drinking."
Drummer frowned, shifting her stance as she pulled out her terminal.
"She drink alone or wit da other one?" she asked, checking the location of the bar he mentioned. She’d never been there.
"Alone. Da other koya busy helping in one of da clinics in Sector 8. Who’d think they from same organization… da Alliance," the engineer changed his tone when he said the last word—serious, almost solemn.
Drummer had heard enough. She shut off her terminal and disappeared through one of the corridor doors.
"I don’t get what’s so special about this inyalowda. While the doctor is helping in a clinic, she is drinking on your tab, Fred."
Drummer barged into the station director’s office with her usual complaining tone. She never crossed her arms—always kept them clasped behind her back, like an officer awaiting orders. Fred raised an eyebrow, pulled a few strings, and the rest fell into place. Soon enough, Shepard was hauling crates in a storage bay on her own initiative. Fred never ordered Drummer to check in on her, but the belter took it upon herself to keep chipping away at the woman’s willpower with sheer distrust.
"She is hardheaded, proud. Got more patience than me, that for sure," she reported to Fred at the end of her shift. Fred never commented, just took mental notes on the behavior.
Then, the Roci arrived—along with Naomi Nagata. Drummer had formed a close bond with the engineer from the first time the ship docked at Tycho looking for refuge, a couple of years ago. The
Roci
was always involved in some job or another, so resupply and maintenance stops were frequent. Drummer personally handled all those logistics and oversaw the operations. She didn’t care much for the rest of the crew, but if Nagata stayed with them, there had to be something in them she wasn’t seeing. With that mindset, she tolerated them—even Holden, Nagata’s captain. Not just her captain. Every time she saw him, she’d ask Nagata—loudly—what she saw in that bland inner with his moral superiority spilling from his condescending words. Then she realized the question was putting distance between her and her friend, so she decided to just
think
it every time she saw Holden instead of saying it aloud.
After pestering Shepard in the docking bay, Drummer wanted to unwind with Nagata over drinks in a proper belter bar. When the two of them were together, no one else existed. Someone with sharp enough perception would notice those moments breathed life into Drummer—her eyes shone brighter. Normally, she was stoic, her only visible emotion a flicker of rage when things didn’t go as expected. But in those moments, her face had color, her eyes were
alive
, and her smile was wide. She even laughed—loudly.
Then Holden arrived, and in a second, the warmth drained away, leaving only cold indifference.
"They opened a bar serving real Scotch whisky… straight from Earth," Holden said, eyes lit up like a child’s. He was talking mostly to Nagata—he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with Drummer.
"Too fancy, Jim," Nagata replied.
Drummer wasn’t sure how she got dragged into it, but suddenly she was in a mix of inners and belters. She tried Earth beer, gagged, nearly spit it back into the bottle. She ordered belter brew just to wash the taste out.
Nagata asked about the ship and repairs, Drummer answered, throwing in a jab that was taken as a joke. Then, when she turned her head, she saw Shepard, sitting on a barstool, smirking. Ah, of course. This is the bar they say she frequents.
Looked like she had plenty of time—working the storage bay, then drinking, always on Fred’s tab. A surge of rage climbed up Drummer’s spine, all the way to her ears. She grabbed her beer and stormed toward the commander. At that moment, she wanted to grab Shepard’s head and slam it into the bar until that smug grin was gone.
And just like that, the fight started—before Drummer even realized she was the one who provoked it. She swung the first punch. Shepard dodged. Someone shoved the Alliance marine into her, and Drummer took the opening—one hit to the chest, another straight to the wounded shoulder.
"Dis for da Aegis. Dis for da crew of da Lacio who never got rescued,"
she screamed in her head.
Shepard radiated adrenaline, and Drummer fed off it, the rush giving her a fleeting purpose, filling her with
life
for the few minutes the fight lasted.
After that, it was all a blur. She barely remembered the details—just Nagata and Holden dragging her away, out of Shepard’s reach.
No, no, no, dis not over.
She wanted to stomp Shepard’s knees, break a few ribs. She forced herself back to her feet, cursing them for interfering. She looked around—the crowd had already gone back to their business, as if the fight never happened.
She was head of security. No one would stop her. No one would question her.
She’d talk to Fred—alone—tomorrow.
"Camina, why are you acting like this?"
Naomi Nagata pressed an ice pack against Drummer’s jaw in yet another bar. She had seen her friend lose patience before, but never so suddenly.
"Plenty Earthers come here to stir up shit," Drummer replied, knowing full well that wasn’t the whole truth.
"And what exactly did that N7 from the Alliance do to piss you off?" Holden asked from his spot in the corner, arms crossed. "I’ve heard some nasty things about that elite training—tough crowd."
"She takes a hit well. Give them back just as precise," Drummer tried to joke, curling her lips. A sharp sting shot through her face.
"Still not answering the question," Holden said, raising his hands, even more confused.
"Had a run-in with her when she got here. She's the kinda person who just…" Drummer trailed off when she noticed Nagata and Holden exchanging glances. She clicked her tongue, that rare patience she reserved only for Nagata surfacing. "No reason."
Nagata couldn’t hold back a laugh and pulled her friend into a careful hug. Drummer felt the heat rise to her face, despite the ice pressed against it. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the moment.
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
Alchera looms white below her. Shepard can’t focus on it, or much of anything. Her body flails, fighting for air. “I’m coming back,” she whispers, knowing it’s foolish, knowing she doesn’t have much oxygen left. This time, this time above all, she has to come back. Has to.
She comes to in a blur, recognizing the bright sterility of the lab, Wilson and Miranda’s voices incomprehensible above her. She struggles on instinct, but somewhere in the back of her mind is relief. She came back. She did. Cerberus came through. She’s actually grateful to the insufferable murdering bastards, and then she lapses back into unconsciousness.
“Shepard, wake up.” It’s Miranda’s disembodied voice, her signal that the next phase of this mission is beginning.
“About time,” she groans.
“Get off that—what?” Miranda’s thrown off her game for a second. Shepard grimaces, clutches her aching ribs, and climbs to her feet. She’s not really listening to Miranda as she fumbles for the armor and the gun and the heat sinks. It feels so routine. Mechs, more mechs, Jacob, Wilson, mechs, Miranda. She pretends to listen to the Illusive Man, goes through the motions on Freedom’s Progress. For a moment, she wonders if she should have told Tali about the loops as well as Liara, but the moment passes, and she certainly doesn’t have the opportunity there, with Miranda and Jacob watching her. She takes a cursory tour of the Normandy, as if she doesn’t know her every nook and cranny, and tells Joker to set course for Omega.
She doesn’t really need to get information from Aria any more, but she does anyway, dragging Miranda and Jacob along.
“I think we should recruit Mordin Solus first,” says Miranda as they descend from Aria’s nest.
“We’re going after Archangel,” Shepard tells her. She’s not leaving Garrus out there a minute longer than necessary, even if it may not matter much. “You heard Aria, he may not have much time left.”
Miranda frowns but acquiesces.
Shepard knows by now where to go to sabotage the mechs and the gunship. She’s actually feeling happy as she swings over the barricade and sets off over the bridge. She glances up, sees his scope leveled at her, and shoots him a wink before the concussive round hits her chestplate.
Once she’s made it up to his lookout, they don’t deviate much from the usual dialogue. Shepard is too aware of Miranda and Jacob’s listening ears. She sends them away for a moment with orders to keep watch on the back stairs, and puts a hand on Garrus’s shoulder. “Hey,” she says softly, momentarily afraid that it’s not the
real
Garrus, just... another Garrus.
“Hey.” To her relief, he leans in for a kiss, which she willingly gives. “You took your sweet time getting here, Shepard.”
“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow, mildly surprised at his light tone.
“Yeah. I lost count of how many days—” His fingers twitch and for a moment his eyes are far away. “Huh. Maybe it wasn’t long as I thought. Sorry. All the times up here kind of blur together.”
“I can imagine.” She takes a closer look at him. “Are you on stims?”
“How else did you think I stayed awake and alive up here?”
She sighs. “You don’t make a habit of it, right?”
“Of course not. I think you would have noticed by now,” he says wryly.
Miranda pokes her head in then, and an alarm sounds to tell them that their enemies are breaking into the lower levels. Shepard’s a little proud of herself at how good she’s gotten at getting those doors shut.
She never takes the gunship in stride, though. The roar of its engine kicks her heartrate up. The hail of gunfire, the mercs coming in through the windows, the rocket; she finally takes it down with her missile launcher and flies across the room, snapping orders to her team. She kneels in the tide of indigo blood and applies all the medigel she can, hardly even aware that she’s talking in a continuous stream:
come on Garrus hold on hang in there I came back you don’t get to go anywhere hold on just hold on
.
By the time they get back to the Normandy, she’s hoarse from this monologue. He flatlines as they hit the medbay and Shepard freezes. For a moment she can’t remember whether this has happened before. But Chakwas takes over, gets his heart beating again, is snapping out orders to Miranda and the junior medtechs, and spares a split second to shout at Shepard: “Out!”
Shepard backs up and the doors shut in front of her. She swallows, trembling, too aware that there’s a smear of blue blood drying on her cheek and that her armor looks like she’s spent the last few hours in a multi-species abattoir.
Joker says gently, “Hey, Shepard,” and she starts. She hadn’t even heard him come up to her. “You know you can’t be there right now.”
“I know,” she says. Her voice sounds thin and strange to her ear. “I’d only be in the way.”
“You know the doc’s going to do her best, and you know her best is damned good.”
Shepard closes her eyes. “Yeah. I know.” It only helps so much, just like it only helps so much to know he’s survived the same attack twelve times before.
She’s on edge until Jacob walks into the comm room and begins a speech she knows well, and she doesn’t really relax until Garrus himself strides in. Her face breaks out into a smile as she looks over the familiar damaged armor and bandage. She has to admit it, she’s used to the scars; he looks more like himself to her this way.
After Jacob leaves, she goes to Garrus and reaches up to pull him down for a kiss. He winces. “Ow. Careful.”
“Sorry,” she breathes. Usually his injuries have had a lot more time to heal. He kisses her back anyway, and she luxuriates in it in spite of the medicinal aroma that clings to him. “You want to head up to the Loft?”
He draws back and gives her a lopsided grin. “You know, Shepard, I hate to disappoint, but I did just wake up from anesthetic an hour ago. I don’t know that I can meet your insatiable demands just yet.”
“Ass.” She raps him on the arm. “You can just sleep there, you know. It’s got to be more comfortable than wherever the hell you bunk on this boat.”
“You’re sure, um.” He steps back, fiddling with the thick bandage on his right side. “You don’t mind disrupting the crew?” He glances up.
Right. EDI’s silent surveillance; the AI is not her ally now, not yet. “I think we can stay professional without having to keep the same standard of discretion, don’t you?” She raises her eyebrows, trying to remind him that the old concern doesn’t apply now that she’s back.
“Mmm. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you in private.” She can’t quite read his expression.
“Then let’s go.”
They stand quiet and separate in the elevator, and she wonders what’s going on in his head. When they get up to the Loft, he signs her to silence, then punches some command into his omni-tool. She hears a faint squeal as the electronic listening devices scattered around the room die. “There.” Garrus sounds satisfied. “That should take everything out.”
“Nice,” says Shepard, folding her arms.
“I can’t take too much credit. One time I asked EDI how to disable the surveillance. She thought it was an odd question, but she told me anyway.” He takes a deep breath, and for a moment she really sees how exhausted he looks, his earlier swagger fading. He reaches out, she steps toward him, and they fold into each other, arms around each other. He rests the uninjured side of his face against her head and sighs.
“How are you, really?” she asks quietly. “You gave me a bit of a scare.”
“Tired. Sore. Loaded up on painkillers.” His breath ruffles her hair. “Sorry, Shepard.”
“What for? Take it easy. Rest for a few hours, at least. The battery’s not going anywhere.”
After a moment, he says, “Yeah. All right.”
She helps him take off the battered armor and they lie down together on the bed. She puts her arm around his chest. It’s soothing and familiar, the burbling of the fishtank and the steady beat of his heart. She asks, “Have you talked to Liara lately?”
“About... twenty days ago? She’s fine. Sends her regards.”
“Did you two come up with any ideas?”
He sighs. “She was trying to work out what’s... causing it, at one point, but I think she got more engrossed in chasing the Shadow Broker. I was thinking, though—it’s hard to make a plan, just from your description of what’s up there on the Citadel. What if we got a whole team up there?”
“Hmm.” Shepard thinks that one over. What, indeed? What if she weren’t facing the Catalyst in pain, injured, struggling with blood loss and whatever the Illusive Man did to her? “We could talk over options on the spot,” she says slowly, “and get more eyes on the problem.”
“Just like how we normally handle a mission,” he points out. It’s true. Among the things she’s good at are adapting, leading teams, making the best use of others’ specialized skills.
“So... what? You think the three of us, you, me, and Liara?” She’s still turning over ideas, in the back of her mind.
“Tali, maybe?” he offers. “She knows more about AI programming than the rest of us.”
“Or EDI, or a geth.” The more she thinks about it, the more she likes the idea. “The more, the better. Though I think we’ll need skill and tech more than firepower. We’ll definitely need to bring more people in on this.”
“Sure,” he says, sounding sleepy.
Shepard keeps thinking about it. “Garrus, I want to bring Miranda in.”
That wakes him up. “What? Why? She’s going to think you’re crazy.”
“Not now. Later. Once she believes in me. She’s smart and versatile and motivated. And you’re right, we should talk to Tali. And I still want to consult with Mordin. Going to have to be later, for all of them.” She pats his arm. “Get some sleep, Garrus. We’ll figure this 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
“It seems like you were just by our side.”
Cloud stared at the people crowded around his grave. He hadn’t expected this, though he should have. Reeve was here, after all.
Reeve poured a glass of whiskey and offered it to Rufus, who took it with a somber smile. Their eyes trailed down to the grave, the frown on their faces matching the look in their gaze.
“I didn’t want to admit it,” Rufus said quietly. “But it’s my fault.”
“It’s not,” Cloud answered softly, though his words would never reach the living again.
Rufus remained silent for a moment before downing the whiskey. “It is,” he insisted, as if he could hear Cloud. “Sephiroth would never have been
created
if it wasn’t for us. For my father and his company. And even though I knew that, I still left the burden of fighting him to you.”
“You weren’t strong enough to fight him,” Cloud murmured. “No one was.”
“We should have taken more responsibility,” Rufus continued. “But in the end… It turned out like this. I’m sorry, Cloud.”
Falling silent, Cloud watched as the two men shared another drink. The breeze carried their grief into the sky, but Cloud had never faulted them for not standing up to Sephiroth.
“You were a good man, Cloud,” Rufus said. “If we ever meet again, I’d like to think we could be friends.”
Cloud didn’t respond, watching as Reeve pulled out another glass and poured the bottle of whiskey. The glass was set on his grave as the two men turned and walked away. No tears were shed, but Rufus’s expression had been enough.
Slowly, Cloud turned as well, feeling a weight on his chest. He was startled to see Hojo standing a few paces away, just watching him.
“What?” he spoke, his tone incredibly guarded.
Hojo remained silent for a moment. “Nothing,” the scientist said finally. “Are you done?”
Giving a curt nod, Cloud watched as Hojo turned as well, walking back the path they came. It was only after Cloud tucked the blanket around himself at night, the comforting sense of home enveloping his soul, did he wonder.
Did anyone ever mourn for Hojo?
“The demon, sire.”
Godo looked down at the bowed silver head. His guards had reported that the demon didn’t fight the shackles that they had slapped on his wrists as the demon folded a green scarf and left it behind in the King’s quarters. He had not resisted when they dragged him by the chains into the room and forced him on his knees before the empty throne. He hadn’t even protested at the blades aimed at his neck, threatening to spill blood.
If demons even bled.
“I trust you know why you are here,” Godo commented, sitting in his throne and placing an elbow on the armrest, propping his chin up on it. “Considering you did not resist.”
Unsettling green eyes lifted from the floor and met Godo’s brown. Inhuman and cold. This was the demon that Wutai feared. No matter how much loyalty Cloud pulled from the demon, the demon’s nature was still there. Beautiful, but deadly.
“Will you not invoke your King’s name?” Godo asked. That was the most logical option for the demon and they both knew it. If the demon spoke his King’s name and hid behind his King’s reputation, then Godo would be forced to release him. He had sworn allegiance to the King, after all.
“I would prefer not to involve my King in my personal affairs,” the demon said. His gaze remained hard and fearless, even as materia flared to life around him.
“Ah, you are not pleased he took on your sins,” Godo confirmed, feeling a notch of respect for the demon.
“No.”
Godo felt a small smile tug at his lips. In saying this, the Knight was also agreeing to a vow of silence. What was said between them would stay between them.
The King really did earn the loyalty of his Knight then. If it was by love, or by strength, or by orders, Godo wasn’t sure. But it was clear that the demon respected Cloud very much.
“It is your King’s duty to take on your sins,” Godo commented. “Even if it means I order him to be tortured on your behalf.”
He wasn’t being serious. It would be highly foolish to harm the King right after swearing allegiance to him. The King was strong and could easily turn against them if Godo chose to break the contract. No one would survive that massacre. Still, the words needed to be said.
Every muscle in the demon’s body stiffened. Twin trails of blood bloomed from his throat, as the demon jerked forward, the chains on his wrists tightening as the Wutai guards pulled him back. Green eyes blazed with anger as they flashed to meet Godo.
“Should you harm him, you will find out exactly why your country considers me a demon.”
The whispered hiss echoed through the room. Godo’s hands tightened, the smile sliding off his face. The face of the demon was wrathful, but he remained kneeling.
“I could order your death,” Godo warned. His guards tightened their hold on their weapons, itching to carry out the threat.
“If you think
death
is enough to stop me,” the demon snarled, “then try. I will return to Cloud’s side, even if that means defying death. If you have harmed a single hair on his head…!”
This was the face of a demon in
love.
A love so deep it was almost
obsession.
Godo didn’t really know how to react to it. Truthfully, that level of devotion was terrifying. How did the King command such a beast? How did he even
win
the loyalty of the demon?
The demon was kneeling before him. Godo stared down a demon that had killed so many people. The demon may have been bleeding, chained, and had so many weapons aimed at him, but it sure didn’t
feel
like it. It felt like the demon was simply humoring them. As if the demon had chosen to submit to be judged on behalf of his King.
Godo blinked. This was suddenly a much more complex situation. The demon hadn’t fought the restraints until his King had been brought up. He
had
been willing to submit to any punishment Godo felt necessary, until Godo had threatened Cloud. This meant that the demon was here, but only by choice. Whatever magic the demon possessed likely outstripped any of the materia or weapons they had. The demon would do
anything
if it meant that his King was safe.
Unbelievable.
Slowly, Godo raised a hand. The weapons were lowered and the guards backed off, away from the demon with blazing green eyes that was still pinned on Godo’s. The chains slackened. Godo wasn’t about to order their removal just yet.
“Tell me about Shinra, demon,” Godo ordered. “Their goal. Their weaknesses. If you truly have been swayed to your King’s side, then you should have no issue speaking about your former employers, yes?”
The anger in those green eyes cooled, but only by a little. There was a moment of silence, where the demon seemed to be considering this statement.
“Shinra wants what they’ve always wanted: Power,” the demon answered. “They will do anything they can to obtain it, even if it means sacrificing lives or creating monsters to kill in war. The strength they wield is superficial. They create monsters without regard to life or health. If they must rob a country to obtain power, then they will.”
A slow chill crawled up his spine. Godo stared in astonishment at the demon, kneeling on the floor in front of him. “But your King does not wish for this?”
“You heard his words. Cloud does not want to build his kingdom on sacrifice or the blood of others.”
Yes. Those were the words the King had spoken in their first meeting. Standing strong and powerful, the King had denied sacrificing his Silver Knight. Seeing the loyalty and strength in the demon’s eyes, it was no wonder.
“And their weaknesses?” Godo prompted.
“Their weakness?” the demon repeated. “Cloud is their weakness.”
Godo blinked. The demon stared back, completely still.
If the King commanded Shinra’s demon, then it was no wonder that the King was Shinra’s weakness. Shinra would crumble in the face of the god disguised as a King. This demon would stay by his King’s side to ensure that happened, should Cloud request it.
“What can we do to protect ourselves from Shinra,” Godo asked instead. “Perhaps if we had some powerful materia–”
“It wouldn’t matter,” the demon interrupted. “Wutai is too small of a nation and they do not have the resources Shinra does. Wutai doesn’t have the heart to kill their own people like Shinra does.”
“Like you have?”
A quirk of the demon’s lips. “I do believe that is between Shinra and myself.”
Then he had. It was a chilling thought. “When you first arrived to Wutai’s borders all those years ago, how old were you?”
“The passage of time isn’t completely clear to me,” the demon admitted. “Perhaps eleven or twelve?”
That was young. Much younger than what Godo would have ever allowed on the battlefield. Shinra really was a monster then. To put a child on the front lines, no matter how ruthless or cold he was. Even if he was a demon.
“What do you think of Wutai now?” Godo asked quietly.
The demon slowly turned his gaze towards the many guards that were still surrounding him. The weapons shone in the light, the blades that had drawn blood on the demon’s neck glinting menacingly. Chains clinked together as he slowly lifted his wrists and he looked back at Godo. “I should have burned the country to the ground when I had the chance.”
Godo’s shoulders stiffened. “But you won’t.”
“No. I won’t.”
It was obvious that the King treasured Wutai, so his demon would naturally follow. That appeared to be enough for the demon. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough for Wutai too.
Godo gave a look to his guards and they moved forward to unlock the chains and drop them to the ground in front of the demon. The demon remained, kneeling and cold, but the anger had mostly evaporated from his expression.
“Why Cloud?” Godo asked quietly.
“I suspect our reasons are similar,” the demon answered. “He is far better as an ally than an enemy. I have yet to face his wrath, but even I know that it would be legendary.”
“It’s more than that, isn’t it? You’ve devoted yourself to him.”
The demon remained silent, but tilted his head up. Godo saw the unspoken truth in his eyes and he snorted. Of course the demon wouldn’t admit such a thing, no matter how obvious it was.
“We shall see how your devotion is judged,” Godo responded with a huff.
A moment of silence and then, Leviathan emerged in a torrent of water, splashing its way through the room with a mighty roar. The demon rose, meeting their deity’s gaze with a blank look, green eyes glinting in the light of the sun.
Godo doubted that Leviathan would do anything to the demon, considering that their King had been judged already. There was a moment of silence and then the demon spoke.
“I’m afraid I’m not as good of a dancer as Cloud is.”
Leviathan smacked him into the wall with a flick of its tail before it vanished in a splash. Godo stifled a laugh.
Cloud stared at the clear materia in his palms.
So this was blank materia. Just a pure white stone, shining as brightly as a pearl. There was something strange about looking into its clear depths; since mako was naturally green, shouldn’t the materia be green as well?
But no. It was as clear as looking into a cloud on a sunny day. Soft white with a splash of cream. It was even more pale than Holy.
Pocketing the materia, Cloud turned to the curious Yuffie who was looking through the pools of mako. An eerie green light surrounded them, lighting up the dim cave. Yuffie had somehow managed to shake off all of their escorts.
“Yuffie?” Cloud asked softly.
The girl looked up. There was none of the haunted, troubled woman who lost her country and identity with it. He had never known Yuffie without that look.
It made him all the more desperate to protect this nation.
“Yuffie, tell me about your homeland,” he said, stepping towards her.
“Wutai? It’s kind of boring,” Yuffie brushed off. “It’s just business and fighting Shinra scum when they appear. More importantly! Show me what you are gonna get for your Silver Knight!”
Cloud faltered, looking at her in surprise. He hadn’t really expected her to be as engrossed as her teenage self, but the way she dismissed the subject was a little alarming. Was this a case of Yuffie not knowing what she had lost until it was gone?
“Huh. That’s boring,” Yuffie huffed and Cloud was startled to see the blank materia in her hand. “You really gonna give this plain old thing. It’s not even fully developed yet.”
“Oh… It’s not for Sephiroth,” Cloud answered, extending his hand to her and watching her place the materia in his palm. “I haven’t really decided what to give him.”
Squinting at him, Yuffie sighed a loud breath. “What does your heart say? I would love it if someone gave me materia, but you know the Silver Knight better than me.”
“The goddess descends from the sky…
Just fucking
marry
him,” Genesis sighed, half stumbling into the cave. “Also, I can’t believe you idiots put me on chocobo duty.”
“It’s only been five minutes, Genesis,” Cloud said with an amused smile. Marry
Sephiroth?
It was a ridiculous thought. “They really seem to like you.”
“Shut up and go marry your not-husband,” Genesis snorted. “You
should
get a souvenir for him though since he couldn’t come out with us.”
“Genesis, I don’t think–”
“You
have
to.”
Yuffie’s wide eyes stopped him in his tracks. He stared at her and then slowly looked towards Genesis, immensely confused. Why were they being so insistent about this? Was this another one of Wutai’s traditions that he wasn’t aware of? Or something he was expected to do because of his role as King? He could disregard Genesis’s words as just trying to tease him, but
Yuffie
too?
“Fine,” he sighed, deciding that it wasn’t worth arguing about. “What should I get him?”
Something was wrong.
There was a line of tenseness in Sephiroth’s shoulders when he arrived back. A small twitch in his hand, as if he was just itching to draw Masamune.
And he wasn’t wearing the scarf.
Cloud wasn’t sure why or how he knew this, but he stared at Sephiroth’s green eyes and
knew.
Sephiroth didn’t appear wounded. There wasn’t even a single strand of hair out of place, but Cloud knew.
Swinging himself off the chocobo, he took a glance over Sephiroth’s tall frame. He brushed aside the warm “welcome back” that fell from Sephiroth’s lips and his blue eyes hardened.
It was illogical. There was no reason he needed to feel so strongly at the thought that someone had intentionally humiliated Sephiroth. This was
Sephiroth.
If there was one person that could wipe the entire country from the face of Gaia, it would be Sephiroth.
The looks of disdain and the careful avoidance of eye contact from the Wutai guards only confirmed the feeling. Yuffie and Genesis didn't seem to understand, if the look of confusion on their faces was any indication.
“I’m going to kill him,” Cloud whispered dangerously, his eyes blazing with a cold fire, whirling around to face the entrance. “How
dare
he. After giving me the warning that you wouldn’t be safe outside the boundary. Right after we just signed the treaty?!”
“Cloud.”
Sephiroth’s hand closed around his wrist. Cloud stopped, turning to look at him, the anger cooling from his expression somewhat.
“Don’t tell me that ‘nothing happened’, Sephiroth. Don’t you
dare,”
Cloud hissed, his free hand swinging over his head to grasp the handle of his sword. “I don’t need to hear that lie from you.”
They had probably seen Sephiroth’s nature. Godo had likely known that Sephiroth would not make a move against Wutai, and thus, had taken advantage of this fact. And Sephiroth had
let
Godo do so, because of Cloud. Godo had used Cloud’s absence to–
The rough tug brought Cloud right into Sephiroth’s chest. Cloud’s hands flew up and pressed against his leather jacket, shock and irritation replacing the anger in a flash.
“Sephiroth–”
“There are battles you can fight for me, your Highness. And then there are battles you
shouldn’t
fight for me,” Sephiroth murmured quietly into his hair. Cloud froze, feeling the breath of hot air travel over his scalp. “This is a battle that you shouldn’t fight for me. Please, cool your anger, my King.”
Cloud took a deep breath, slowly releasing it as he pressed his forehead against Sephiroth’s chest. The truth in Sephiroth’s words was bitter, but he was right. This wasn’t a battle Cloud could fight on Sephiroth’s behalf.
“I am your Knight, my King. It is my duty to protect you, even from my own sins,” Sephiroth continued. “Let me do so.”
“Are you really okay with that?” Cloud huffed. “I said it before, that I was willing to take on your sins as my own.”
Sephiroth’s eyes were kind as he slowly stepped back from him. “It is alright.”
He didn’t like it. There was nothing about this situation that Cloud liked. The fact that Sephiroth accepted the humiliation without complaint and the fact that Godo was willing to do something like this behind his back. But Sephiroth was a man and, although they played the part here, Cloud was not in charge of him. Sephiroth had made his own choices and Cloud
had
to respect that, even if he hated the choice he made.
“Fine,” Cloud huffed, taking a step back as well. “But you are not to leave my side from now on.”
“As you wish,” Sephiroth played along, stepping into pace behind him. Cloud turned to Genesis and Yuffie, who were both staring at him in exasperation and awe, respectively.
“What?” Cloud asked, raising an eyebrow at the two.
“Nothing,” came the twin voices in answer.
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
“What I don't understand,” calls another voice, loudest of all, “Is part of Lady Alicent's story. The good guildmasters claim she scurried about the roofs calling orders.”
The court falls to tense silence at that bellow.
Jason Lannister, she noted, suppressing a sigh. Arrogance dripped in his tone. The same arrogance that had made Rheanyra despise him. The same tone that would have made the Princess try to draw a line when it came to her suitors. His twin, she knew, was not much better, if his agreeing face at sneer in her direction is any indication. The Textile Guildmaster, a softer-looking man whose name was Jon, and who liked apple pies the best, bristled.
“You doubt the Lady?” He asked, sharply, “You doubt our
words?
”
“I doubt the feet,” sneered the second Lannister twin, calling out in support of his brother.
Alicent felt, not saw, Harwin tense behind her. Felt his bristle behind her shoulder and leaned in more to loom protectively behind her.
“I assure you, Lord Lannister,” he said coolly, “The lady is very much capable of that and more.”
The first Lannister sneered down at her. She lifted a brow.
“Oh, I just wondered how you can claim she jumped across
rooftops.
I see not a hero, but a girl attempting to squirm out from her father's rightful command. How much did you pay these good men, Lady Alicent, to take advantage of this most horrendous night?”
The court whispered. She sighed.
“Is it the command or is it the action you doubt?” She countered.
He faltered.
“Both. But the action is too much, girl. Take your rebellion away from this. It is horrible to lie before the King. Treasonable even-”
“That is
Lady Alicent,
to you,” the Prince surprised her by hissing this out, hand on the hilt of
Dark Sister, “
And perhaps you should mind your tongue when it comes to casual mentions of
treason.”
“You are the one who-”
He drew the sword.
The Lannister man shut his mouth in surprise and front, and perhaps fear.
In open court.
And if the nephew and or brother of the Sea Snake is any indication,
Alcient knew he would
use
it.
She slips in front of the Prince. Feels Harwin follow, his own back to hers, staring down Prince Daemon. She felt sweat drip down her neck. She clenched her hands to prevent them from knowing she was shaking.
“The action of what, Lord Lannister? Climbing? Jumping?”
She gauges a nearby pillar. Doable. The grooves look carved straight from granite or marble. Not attached details. Her heels would make it difficult.
But without them?
Doable.
“Ser Harwain, your cloak pin, please, the longest one.”
“My lady,” Harwin said, formally.
She gripped the long, thin thing tight, not even looking back as Harwin handed it to her, gathering her skirts. She pinned them neatly, loose enough to have motion, but tight enough to hold, nearly to her hips. Enough to cover herself at least. Her stockings would make this tricky, but better than her tiny heels. She removed the heels.
Harwin held his hands out, ready to hold them. She placed them delicately in his palms.
“ALICENT,” her father roared.
She looked at him.
“I am merely
demonstrating
my capability, Lord Hand. Ser Harwin, if you would spot me?”
“Of course, my Lady. Do you need a hand?”
She hummed. She felt Harwin shift, shore up her shoulder again in a show of protectiveness.
“Just a running start. I'll be fine. Do you see?” she nodded towards her destination.
“Upper part of the pillar. A good twenty or thirty hands.
I
would need a hand.”
She shrugged.
“You have not the practice,” she assured him quietly, “Give it time.”
Harwin storts.
“I also weigh like two stone more than you, my Lady. And nearly eight hands above you, and at least four wider."
She shot him a smile. She ran straight at the pillar, silk stockings slippery. She was going to rely on mostly upper body strength for this. She gripped the first decoration, making a quick test that it held her weight, and scurried up the pillar quickly, lunging with not a sound.
Hand over hand.
A slight grip of her feet, a strain on her shoulders. She reaches the ledge, a few handspans wide. Enough for her to twist, and sit comfortably. She leans over the edge.
“Is that enough evidence?” She calls down.
The lord gapes. But it quickly morphs into another sneer.
His eyes linger on her legs. Young. Coltish. Only shaped because she’s been working so hard on free-running. She's thirteen. She hates him, viciously.
“A climb is hardly-” he starts, hotly.
She looks to the next pillar.
Tricky. Six or maybe seven feet. But technically doable. Harwin is below her. She whistles a pitch. Two beats. Harwin himself adjusts at the signal. Part of free-running with partners is being able to communicate quickly. Free-running in a group can be rewarding, and she and Harwin had practiced.
She leaps to her feet, edging along the edge for a beat, before she flung herself to the next pillar.
People scream.
She nearly misses.
She just catches herself by a few inches. In true parkour, she would have had more momentum, but in this, she had to push off with all her strength to compensate. Her fingers
just
grip the ledge. She has to brace herself, inelegantly catching at some grooves on the pillar below her. If she had been running, she would have done a trick as she reached the ledge.
The crowd, save for the guildmasters and petitioners who knew her, gape.
Alicent holds a sigh. Hauling herself up to the ledge, she sits again.
Harwin’s face is safe for her to gaze at. It centers her to see his wry grin. She takes a breath. It’s only about twenty feet. She whistles three pitches. Harwin whistles back the same three pitches. She runs down the pillar, leaping off of it. More gasps as she dares to do a flip. Harwin catches her midway, expertly.
Neatly, hand on waist, spinning her to slow her down and set her daintily on her feet.
He’s grinning.
The crowd gaps. Alicent turns to Lord Lannister, untwists the cloak pin, and curtsies, skirts flaring out delicately.
She looks up at him serenely with a smile.
The petitioners and the guildmasters cheer.
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
During lunch, I avoid the other Careers to ensure I concentrate for my private assessment.
I didn’t like having to ignore my sister or Max, but I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday.
I’m sure the gamemakers aren’t happy with what Penelope did, because no doubt they saw. I wasn’t bothered, forgetting about their presence but when I looked up during my training this morning, I couldn’t help but notice their puzzled expressions.
They’re probably planning something just for Penelope and I, but what? I guess I’ll have to scare them before my interview.
First, I need to talk to Piers who, luckily, was sitting far from my group with his district partner, Ariana, and some of the Newcomers from districts 11 and 12.
I remember seeing Haymitch Abernathy and Ampert’s interviews with Ceasar and they talked about calling everyone that wasn’t a Career ‘The Newcomers’ during their games, the 2nd quarter quarrel.
Apparently Haymitch disbanded the name shortly after he won, though.
I can understand why. We shouldn't label kids fighting for survival like this.
I was never a fan of being a Career, but my sister seems to like it so I guess I don’t really have a choice.
It makes sense why Piers is with district 11 and 12, too. Why? Because I seem to be the only one who knows that Louella McCoy wasn’t the real Louella when watching the Games.
I don’t know who the girl that was pretending to be a district 12 tribute was, but I can tell she wasn’t from the district by her interactions with district 11 in the arena before she ran off.
How did I know it wasn’t the real Louella McCoy in the first place? Because the real one died in the chariot parade.
You normally can’t tell from the camera angle, but I paid attention in school enough to know a girl her age couldn’t survive being thrown off a chariot by one of the horses like that.
The Capitol killed that girl and tried hiding it with a decoy girl.
That’s one reason why I’m so invested in finding out the Capitol’s secrets.
Now, even though Haymitch, the founder of the Haymitch of the Newcomers, isn’t a fan of them anymore, I can tell it was one of his tributes’ ideas to rename themselves that in Piers’ honour.
He’s too drunk to care or stop them, anyway.
But, maybe I can convince them to work with the Careers this year, to keep them alive as much as possible.
I know a few Newcomers will decline my offer, but if I can just get Piers to join at least, we should be good.
Yes, Penelope won’t be too happy with the idea, but I can tell Ondine and Max don’t mind so maybe the other 2 won’t either.
It wouldn’t hurt, anyway. We can protect the Newcomers who want to be protected and secure the top 4 before we know it.
Now, for the first difficult part of this plan: recruiting them.
I walk over to their table with a tray of my lunch, taking a deep breath before clearing my throat to get their attention.
It appears I am interrupting something important, according to them, because all 6 of them look up at me with disgusted faces like I just murdered their families right in front of them. What kind of cult gathering did I walk into?
“Greetings, Newcomers! Pleasure to meet you,” I greet, holding back from talking like a nerd as I do back at home since others at school don’t appreciate it.
They just give a small wave in response, and I can swear one of them rolled their eyes, before they return to the conversation at hand.
I clear my throat again, hoping to capture their attention for longer than a minute. “I was just wondering if I could sit with you, if you don’t mind, of course.”
“Why don’t you go sit with your friends over there?” Ashley gestures towards my sister and the other 4 Careers, clearly annoyed by my presence.
She really does look like Louella, the poor thing.
“Well, it’s a long story-”
“Is it because you’re afraid of the girl that threw an axe at you?” the male tribute of district 11, Harvey Green, teases causing his friends to giggle.
“Afriad? Why would I b-” I pause, remembering Finnick’s earlier advice from the train, clearing my throat one more time as I prepare to embrace my inner Finnick Odair. “I’d never be afraid of such a weakling like her,” I point to Penelope, smirking the same way my mentor does.
This receives another giggle from the Newcomers in front of me. “Oh, yeah? What makes you say that? There was a 1 in 10 chance you would be hit and dead before you even enter the arena,” Cole remarks.
“Yes, but that was a 1 in 2 chance of me dodging it like I did,” I counter his odds-making with my own, still withholding my smirk.
“You just got lucky,” Tara complains.
“You could say that - or, you could say yes to working with us,” I reply, shameless plugging.
“Why would we want to join you? You said it yourself, they’re weaklings,” Ariana answers back, unpleased.
“I never said they were all weak. Just that one. Besides, we can keep you safe as long as possible, if you sign our contract.”
“You have a contract?” Cole asks, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
“Not physically, but mentally. You can break it at any point, but I must warn you, if you don’t sign it or if you betray our trust, we won’t be there to help you when you need it. Do we have a deal?”
I insert some pauses as I allow them some time to think about it before Piers, who has been silent the whole time, perks up. “I accept!”
Success! “Anyone else?”
I insert more pauses as the other 5 contemplate the idea, some giving Piers questioning glances before I get impatient. I already have what I want, anyway.
“Just let your mentors know if you want to join and they will inform ours before the Games start.”
They each give a small nod as the lunch bell rings for the final time. It’s time!
We all head to the waiting room in the Training Center as Atala sorts us into our districts with boys on one side and girls on the other.
When it’s our turn, she will call our name so we watch as the rest of our pack head in one-by-one.
I can tell Penelope side-eyed me when Max went in and out, but don’t say anything until it’s her turn.
I watch as she goes in, rolling my eyes wondering what her problem is before glancing at Piers and notice he’s nervous.
I guess I can see why, it is his turn next, but his dad is a victor, he doesn’t have much to worry about before the arena.
I give him a comforting nod when I see him look behind his shoulder at me, hoping it goes well for him secretly as Penelope exits the room, glaring at me and… Piers?
Why is she mad at Piers? Did she overhear our conversation at lunch? Is that why Piers is scared?
When I entered the waiting room, I saw she was talking to him and he seemed uncomfortable for an 18 year old, even though he didn’t show it, so did she threaten him?
I glance back at Piers, watching as he walks in, concerned and Ariana follows soon after he leaves.
Another few minutes, and she leaves, meaning it’s my turn.
“Good luck!” Ondine whispers with a smile on her pretty face.
“Thanks, you too!” I whisper back, taking a second deep breath before walk forward.
Stepping in, I look up at the gamemakers and head gamemaker, Faustina Gripper, stopping a few feet from the wall at which they look down at us.
“Name?” Faustina starts with a tired look.
“Reed Ray, ma’am!”
“Ah, the first of the Ray twins. How charming,” she rolls her eyes before continuing. “What talent will you be showing us?” she asks, getting straight to the point.
“I will be using a trident, today!” I answer with confidence only to be taken down a notch by a few laughs from the gamemakers.
“A trident? That’s nothing new from your district, why can’t you be more original?”
“I’ll show you original,” I mutter, grabbing a trident looking around at the targets, an idea coming to mind.
I rearrange the dummies, calculating the distance and speed for my throw before readying myself.
After a moment of practice throws of me not letting go of the trident just yet, I look back up and can see some gamemakers yawning except one - Plutarch Heavensbee, catching his gaze.
I give him a confident nod before throwing the trident at last, watching as it goes through 3 quarters of them.
“Dang it!” I mumble, looking up again with a look of surprise as Fuastina smiles while the other gamemakers are left with their mouths open.
“I’m impressed, Ray! You’re dismissed,” she gives me an amused nod before shooing me away, intrigued by my performance.
“Thank you!” I nod back and place the trident back where I found it and leave.
I wait outside the elevator to our apartment for Ondine as she walks over to me with a grin. “How did it go?”
“It went smoothly, I’m probably going to get a high training score,” I answer her, noticing the massive smile on her face as I press the up button to summon the elevator. “How about you?”
“Oh, you’ll see. Don’t want to spoil the surprise!” she gleams in excitement, making me raise an eyebrow as the elevator door eventually opens allowing us to enter.
“If you say so,” I mumble, pressing the button for our floor.
The elevator ride is uneventful and quiet, me casually checking on her as she smiles, probably thinking about her score until the door opens again and we head into our apartment, immediately greeted by our mentors.
“I hope you two are hungry,” Siebold gestures to us towards the dining table as the Avoxes seem to have already prepared our meals.
“Thank you!” we give them a warm smile, even though we’re not supposed to communicate with them, but what’s the worst that can happen, right?
Once our mentors, prep teams and stylists take a seat, we immediately dig in as if we haven’t eaten in weeks.
At one point, I lift my head up for air and notice everyone is here except our escort. “Where’s Floriana?”
“She’s not ready to see you, yet,” Titan answers with a frown.
“Is she going to watch our scores with us tonight?” Ondine asks with concern.
“Yes, but then she’s going straight to bed until Reed apologises for earlier. She has a busy schedule tomorrow, anyway, preparing you two for your interviews.”
“I already apologised,” I protest, not happy with the situation,
“We’re not talking about a half-assed apology, boy,” Claudia interjects.
“Alright, I’ll apologise truthfully after we see our scores. I promise.”
“You better keep that promise, kiddo,” Titan says, looking at me like a father does his son, making me pause about to open my mouth when Floriana bursts out of her room, walking to the couch.
“Come on, now! The scores are out, we don’t want to miss them,” she waves at us to come closer.
They all simultaneously nod, putting their utensils away and walk over to the couch and join her while I sit there, trying to process what happened.
“You alright, Reed?” Finnick questions, looking at me with his smirk.
“Yeah, sorry, just- coming,” I respond, getting up to join them as Floriana turns the tv on.
Max is first, his picture popping up with the number 9. Next up is Penelope with the score of 8. Good start so far, I assume Penelope intimidated the gamemakers, though, because how did she get a high number otherwise. Are they planning something?
For district 2, Paul shows up with the number 8 as well and Julia getting a 7. For district 3, Ampert got a 5, somehow, and his district partner got 7.
“Shouldn’t you be taking these down?” Finnick looks at me, confused why I’m not using my notebook,
“Oh, right, thanks for reminding me.” I go to open my book, writing ‘Training Score:’ on each tribute’s page when my name shows up on the live next.
“For Reed Ray, who might be our smartest tribute to date with a score of… 3,” Caesar announces, a hint of disappointment in his tone.
“What?” everyone but Floriana and Mags yell, synchronising with each other with Mags giving a concerned look as I glance at Floriana with a look saying ‘I told you so’, hiding my confusion.
“Now for his sister, Ondine Ray, who seemed to do remarkably better than her brother with a score of 11,” he continues as I squint my eyes while rasing an eyebrow.
The scorings continue giving the district 5 tributes a 4 and 5, district 6 tributes a 6 and 9, district 7 a 6 and 7, district 8 a 8 and 6, district 9 a 8 and 9, district 10 a 5 each, district 11 a 4 each, and district 12 got a 6 each.
Somehow, a Career got the lowest score.
“How did she get 11 and he only got 3?” Juan screams in fury.
“Didn’t Finnick get a 4 in his games?” Titan compares.
“What did you guys even do?” Siebold asks as everyone looks at us, expecting us to explain.
“I didn’t do much except throw a few axes at the targets Reed didn’t use,” Ondine begins.
“I just threw a trident through 3 dummies, almost hitting a fourth,” I add.
“How did that get you a 3?”
“I bet he used maths before he threw,” Finnick remarks.
“That doesn’t explain how he got a 3,” Siebold counters him with a disapproving expression.
“The only way he could have gotten that is if he…” Claudia stops herself as the adults look back at me.
“Did you badmouth them?” Juan inquires.
“...I might have, yes,” I return, scratching the back of my neck.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“They wanted originality, so I gave them what they wanted… with a bit of sass merged with it, but this just proves my point from earlier.”
“Not this again,” Titan groans with the others at my stubbornness.
“He has a point, though,” Floriana points out, shocking everyone, including me.
“Excuse me?” I give her a very confused look.
“If it was solely based on skills, you would have gotten a higher score which you deserved, by the way.”
“Oh, uh, thanks Floriana! Sorry for yelling at you.”
“It’s ok, apology accepted. I’m sorry for calling you a brat and not believing you. You’re smarter than I thought, and a good kid.”
“Damn right, he’s a smart kid. They don’t call him the smartest in district 4 for no reason,” Finnick claims.
“Technically, I’m not the smartest in the district, but thanks Finnick!”
“Humble, too,” he adds with a tease.
“Alright, off to bed you two. We get a busy day tomorrow, so you need a good night's sleep,” Floriana instructs us, waving us to bed.
“Yes, ma’am,” we respond, heading back to our rooms to prepare for bed.
As Ondine brushes her teeth, I write in the training scores for the tributes before I fall asleep, grateful I made up with the escort.
I don’t want to get in any arguments with her as she organises our interviews for us, after all.
“Good night, Reed!” Ondine yells, grabbing my attention as she emerges from the bathroom and climbs into her bed.
“Good night, Ondine!”
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 is no Death; There is the Force
Every Jedi knew the Code they lived by and were taught of its intricacies and interpretations, as complex as any Alderaanian poem for all its surface simplicity.
Qui-Gon, like every Temple-trained Force-sensitive, had learned the Code by rote as an Initiate in the creché. Deeper analysis began for him at age ten, when he was old enough to be considered for apprenticeship, and those of his year began to display an aptitude towards knighthood― or not. Yet, even those who entered the Service Corps were encouraged to meditate on the Code, to understand its wisdom and live by the will of the Force.
Some dedicated their lives to the deeper study of the Code, and these philosophical masters made the nuances of such their lives work.
It was safe to say, however, that the scholarship on the final line was considered esoteric at best. The Jedi knew that when they died they would become one with the Force. This was not a question for debate, or a belief to be examined, but a known fact.
Perhaps it was this initial resistance that led to Qui-Gon’s Master’s fascination with the Dark Side. A doctrine that determined death to be an enemy was at the very least more dynamic in its practice than one that viewed death as an inevitability.
Or so Master Dooku had claimed. Qui-Gon had always found the Sith’s view of death to be
limiting
, and that view had not changed much nowthat he could view life from the other side.
There is no Death; There is the Force
“But what does it mean?” Qui-Gon had asked, back when his relationship with his training master was beginning to fray.
Dooku, in his attempt to quell his Padawan’s pointed and occasionally mean spirited questioning more than offer any true lesson, had inadvertently given Qui-Gon the most important piece of advice he would ever receive, when he had replied, “why don’t you study it, and find out?”
It would not be the first time Dooku had come to regret not being more specific in his instructions to his Padawan.
Qui-Gon had thrown himself into his research with a fervor that had disconcerted his tutors and bemused the library staff. Such dedication! If only it were focused on more…relevant matters.
Some months later, when Dooku had realized his Padawan’s interest in the final line of the Code was not a passing interest, he had tried to temper Qui-Gon’s enthusiasm.
“Focus on the here and now, not the future,” he had said, his advice more a command. “Death comes to us all― dwelling on it will not save you from it.”
While Qui-Gon was in no hurry to definitely find what lay on the other side for a good long while, death wasn’t something Qui-Gon feared. No, he wished to
understand
, though he had no desire for his Master to know the difference. So, he had replied absently, as if distracted, “Master Tyvokka says time is a construct of thought and perception. The future, the past―they are all the present from a certain point of view.”
Dooku had made his disgust clear, snorting inelegantly through his nose―the only inelegant thing the man seemed to do―but he left Qui-Gon to his studies.
Studies that led him to the Journals of the Whills and, ultimately, the Prophecy of the Chosen One.
When at last Qui-Gon did die, struck down by the obsession of his Master’s study and desperately trying to impart everything he thought he would have more time to say to his last and final Padawan, the Force welcomed him into itself, open to him in ways he had never been close to truly conceiving. Several things became immediately clear.
Remaining oneself was much more difficult without a physical body
There was much about the Force that the Jedi did not know
They were all in terrible danger
So, Qui-Gon began the work of reaching across the veil, through dimensions to try and reach his final Padawan for one, last lesson. If any would be able to hear him, it would be his dear, dedicated Obi-Wan.
Somehow, although even in his memory time had begun to lose its meaning, the future, it seemed, still held some surprises.
Ahsoka fell back, arm wrapped around her ribs where the tentacle-thing had struck her, and was stopped by a pair of steady hands. She barely had time to look, to see Leia’s concerned face.
“Easy,” Leia said, pressing a palm to the center of Ahsoka’s sternum, where the pain was the worst. “I don’t know what will happen if we die here, and I don’t want to find out.”
Ahsoka gasped as the pain faded into nothing, as if it was never there. “You—” she began, but before she could finish, Leia had turned, to join her brother in the fray.
“Force Healing,” Ahsoka whispered, wide-eyed. She’d heard of it, of course, every Padawan had, and every Initiate training for the medical corps hoped to one day develop the skill. They were all of them crushed when they were told that such powers were a myth, passed down by non-Jedi who misunderstood their connection to the Force.
It's true, though,
one older Initiates always whispered, insisting that
they
knew the secrets that the Masters tried to hide. They had always heard it as a youngling from an older Initiate or Padawan who had, in turn, heard it in their youth. Everyone knew someone who knew someone at another Temple who could close wounds with a thought, or even bring someone back from the brink of death.
Before she met Skyguy, Ahsoka had gone to Master Plo. “Death is a part of Life,” he had said. “As much a part as Birth and Living. Only the Sith seek to deny Death it’s rightful place.”
Ahsoka had taken the lesson that had been given, even if it hadn’t answered her question. She had asked Skyguy once, but he had acted all weird about it, and Ahsoka had backed away.
Master Obi-Wan had been the one to give her the answers she was looking for, if not in the way she wanted.
She had been in the commissary late one night, coming from a mission on a planet with an opposite day and night from Galactic Standard, and hadn’t yet adjusted to the travel lag. She had found Master Obi-Wan in the all-but-empty room, nursing a cup of tea and reading over reports on his datapadd. He hadn’t been on the mission, but Ahsoka was getting used to her Grandmaster keeping odd hours.
Still, she wasn’t sure why she had asked him, following some whim of the Force perhaps, and instead of blowing her off, he had sat back and regarded her for a long moment.
“The Force,” he had begun, “is beyond our understanding. Truly. But, it is also energy. The stuff of life. And Energy cannot come from nowhere. To heal, to truly heal the way they do in those creché stories that were circulating long before even I was brought to the Temple.” Here, Ahsoka had stifled a giggle. Obi-Wan always talked like he was so very old, but he was barely ten years older than Skyguy, and he was only six years older than she was.
“To heal,” he had said again, leaning into the word. “Requires energy, and it has to come from somewhere, and in equal amounts. To heal a mortal wound is to lose the energy of a mortal wound, effectively taking it on yourself. Pain for pain. Life for life.” He had smiled, something achingly sad in his eyes. “
There is no death; There is the Force.
”
Ahsoka had nodded, and said her good nights, retreating to meditate. To act like the Jedi in those stories, to play arbiter of life and death―it was not the Jedi way.
Then again, Leia never said she was a Jedi.
Maybe it was time for a different approach. Ahsoka focused on the battle before her. “Okay, ‘Soka,” she breathed. “Just like Master Skywalker taught you.
As she calmed, the chaos before her began to reveal its patterns. There were five combatants, but they were moving in three distinct units: Anakin and Obi-Wan, Luke and Leia, and that Thing keeping Padmé prisoner.
Obi-Wan and Anakin were considered among the best duelists in the Order, if not the very best. They moved impossibly fast, dancing around each other, working in perfect unison. It was graceful, deadly, and yet they never landed a blow. Each time they came near, the tentacles like black tar would move just a little too fast, dancing out of reach.
Luke and Leia also fought in near unison, but where Obi-Wan and Anakin had the polish of professional dualists, Luke and Leia fought
dirty
. Ahsoka could recognize pieces of forms in their movements, but never the whole thing. It looked cobbled together, as if someone had taken the most effective moves from each and fused them together. Nevertheless, It had brutal clarity, and Ahsoka thought that against any other, no fight would last very long. Even still, they found their moves matched, strength for strength.
No, not strength for strength. With every blow, it grew
stronger
“We’re feeding it,” she whispered.
Ventress’s breath caught short, her awareness snapping back to her body.
She had seen—
She had
almost
seen –
The vision faded from her mind, like dreams in the early mists of morning, leaving Ventress with the feeling that she had missed something
vital
.
In Luke’s pocket, the Sith Holocron
sang
to her. She could feel it, burning like the ice of deep space. Without thinking, she lifted her hand to reach for it—
But stopped when she registered the weight in her hand. Luke’s left hand, the one still made of flesh and bone. It was cold, cold as death, and her breath caught once more until she saw his chest still moving, still breathing. His eyes moved under his eyelids, as if he was dreaming.
A nightmare, more like.
On her other side, lay Leia, just as still. Her hand was just as cold.
Ventress closed her eyes and tried again to reach her teacher.
Wherever they were; they needed to come back.
Change is, of course, inevitable. It is the driving force behind the multiplicities that made up what the scholars would call reality. Every choice, a seed that splinters. A shatterpoint.
Qui-Gon, unseen and unfelt, watched change unfold.
Anakin sliced through another tentacle, two, three in quick succession, ducking low to avoid a forth, and tried not to panic. They were tiring. This thing was not.
Something had to give.
When the Force speaks, the Masters said, it speaks in whispers, in omens and coincidence that is anything but. Jedi are trained to listen to these whispers, to interpret these signs and carry out their wishes. Some Jedi hear better than others, of course.
For Anakin, the Force
screamed
.
It did not hint but demand, and was not shy when Anakin failed to deliver. So, as Anakin grew, he learned to deliver – to get it right, the first time. Failure was not an option, not if he ever wanted to sleep soundly again.
And then, he learned the cost of not listening.
So, when the Force pulled, Anakin moved, reaching out to Padmé in the split second that she was visible to him, his desperation to reach her flashing through fear to determination when he saw that she was not moving, and what was the purpose of all of his strength if he couldn’t save the one person who mattered most –
The circuit connected, and Anakin flinched as power flowed from his hand and into Padmé, soaked up like the sands in the winter rains –
Anakin broke off, shocked and staggering.
For a moment, everything was still. Then, from the inky depths –
“
ANAKIN!
”
Sabe looked at Healer Tokba as they frowned down at their datapadd. It was easier than watching Padmé, so pale and still on the infirmary bed. If Healer Tokba gave any indication that they were aware of her scrutiny, they gave no sign. In fact, they seemed inclined to ignore any indication of her or Esmee’s presence. That was fine with her, though she would have appreciated being updated on the status of…whatever this was. Some sort of psychic attack?
Next to her, softly enough that she was sure he didn’t intend to be heard, the clone commander in blue snorted softly. “Crazy Jedi shit,” he muttered, and Sabe was surprised at herself for being surprised by the amount of concerned affection in his voice. Of course he was concerned – blue was Anakin’s color. He was one of Anakin’s men.
She looked over her shoulder at him, offering a small smile. “Knight Skywalker does seem good at attracting it,” she said.
The clone started, skin flushing faintly, embarrassed to be heard. He cleared his throat, and offered a wry grin of his own. “If you’ll excuse my saying, so does Senator Amidala.”
The unspoken,
they’re perfect for each other
was heard anyway, loud and clear, and Sabe found herself smiling wider, conspiratorial, despite her fears. “But you know who is actually the worst?”
“General Kenobi,” said the other clone, this one in the orange of Obi-Wan’s 212th, his voice as dry as Tatooine sand.
Sabe’s laughter was startled out of her, and she clamped a hand over her mouth at her uncharacteristic outburst. Still, she nodded through laughter tinged with somewhat hysterical relief.
Her break was cut short when Padmé screamed.
The sky crackled above them, dark clouds roiling, and Anakin remembered a flash―a moment―standing beneath a story sky like this one, arms outstretched and trapped between the Dark and the Light, with a vision above him in the clouds―a death’s head mask. For a moment, the thunder sounded like ominous, unceasing, mechanical breathing.
The image was gone as fast as it appeared, but it left the knowledge behind. He knew what he had to do. He stood tall, saber held unlit in his hands and he waited.
The Sith abomination stared back, waiting.
When Anakin first came to the Temple, half deafened by the press of so many people, many things were strange. Basic was Basic, except when it wasn’t. Food was food, except he’d never seen food like this before. He didn’t know the Code. He didn’t know the stories or the games. There were times that he felt almost feral in the genteel stillness of the Temple.
He felt feral now, acting on instinct. He charged, a plan barely formed. His saber flashed, slicing through tentacles, gaining ground one precious centimeter at a time.
Anakin grit his teeth. He only had one chance.
“You will not defeat me!” Sidious sneered, but Anakin heard the desperation under the malice, could see it in the way its body shifted as if unable to maintain form―or struggling to keep another within.
The one constant of Anakin’s life was that he was stronger than those around him.
Padmé needed that strength now.
So she would have it.
He would not lose Padmé the way he lost his mother.
Never
A lucky shot sent Anakin reeling, and he landed in the dirt.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan cried out, instinct overriding everything as he launched himself at his brother, only to find himself restrained. Hands grabbed at the back of his tunic, an arm capped with a metal hand wrapping itself around his check, just close enough to his neck to leverage himself back, off balance as Luke put his shorter height to good use.
“Ben, no!” Luke’s voice was in his ear, harsh with exertion or emotion or both, but Obi-Wan could only watch as Anakin called the Force to him in a way he had never seen. “He has to do this!”
“He can’t do this alone!”
“He’s not alone!”
“What is he doing?” Ahsoka called out, and Obi-Wan came back to himself just enough to check; she was wrapped in Leia’s arms, her face pressed to Leia’s chest, shielding her from what was happening while Leia watched, a witness.
“You are weak, Chosen One!” Sidious spat, stalking closer. “You cannot defeat me.” He loomed, almost comically large over Anakin.
“If you strike me down,” Anakin said. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, cutting a trail through dust and sweat. “I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”
Sidious laughed. “You are no match for the Power of the Dark Side.” It leaned in, giving the impression of long, wet teeth. “And now. You will die.”
Teeth went wide and the mouth came down on his chest.
It took moments, and Anakin fell back to the dirt, pale and not moving.
Then, he was gone.
“ANAKIN!” Obi-Wan’s scream was lost to the thunder as Sidious laughed.
“He’s flatlining!”
“Master Yoda, we need to get to Knight Skywalker.”
“General!”
“Master Yoda, please! You need to let us past!”
Padmé was nowhere.
It was dark.
It was cold.
She couldn’t feel anything except the cold.
“Am I dead?” she asked but couldn’t hear her own voice. The question echoed in her mind.
Am I dead?
“
Padmé
”
“Anakin,” she looked, but still there was only darkness.
“
Padmé, take my hand.
”
“I can’t see it.”
“
Don’t look with your eyes. You can’t trust them. Reach out with your feelings, Padmé. Take my hand.
”
“Anakin…”
“
Do you trust me?
”
“Of course, Ani.”
Anakin laughed. “
Then take my hand.
”
Padmé breathed deep, centering herself as best she could. Trying not to think about it too hard, she reached out—
And felt Anakin’s hand in hers.
Obi-Wan stared at the empty space where the body of his brother should lie.
Was everyone destined to die but him?
Someone was speaking in his ear; he felt a strong hand shake him, but he could not look away.
“Ani,” he whispered.
”Trust in the Force, Obi-Wan.”
How can I Master? You’re dead, too.
“Let me see!” Ahsoka pushed, trying to raise her head, but Leia was stronger than she looked.
“Not yet,” Leia said. “There are some things no one needs to see.”
Ahsoka stilled. “Anakin?”
Leia just held her tightly.
Sidious turned to them, now. Its steps echoed in the dust, shaking the ground with the weight of it.
“And now,
Jedi
.” It drawled. “You will die, too.”
The tentacles whipped out—
And froze, mere inches from Luke’s face. Luke blinked, and let out a shaky breath before peering around to see Sidious
dissolve.
There was no other word for it. Like acid poured on flimsy, it began to peel back, dripping ichor like blood.
It screamed, and Luke clapped his hands to his ears, but he knew he would be hearing that sound in his nightmares for a long time.
When he opened his eyes once more, where Sidious had stood, was Padmé Naberré Amidala.
She glowed in the low light with power that was not hers, but felt very familiar. She was panting, wild-eyed, teeth-bared, and was covered in that same ichor that had flowed so freely from Sidious.
As far as Luke could see, she was unharmed.
“Oh,” she said, seeing them there; Leia still shielding Ahsoka, who had at last stopped struggling to see, and Luke standing guard over Obi-Wan. “Obi-Wan?”
But Obi-Wan didn’t speak; if anything, he sagged further, looking away.
She stepped forward, coming to kneel beside him. Her feet left to mark on the ground.
Padmé reached her hand out, smoothing Obi-Wan’s hair back. “It’s okay, Obi-Wan,” she said. “I know. It’s okay. You’ll see.”
She had gained his attention, at least. His eyes tracked on her as she stood and faced Luke, and he realized.
For the first time he could remember, he was meeting his mother.
He could see Leia in her―the shape of her face, the intensity of her eyes. They narrowed, watching him. “I know you,” she said, and touched his face. Her hand was warm. “Luke.”
“Mother,” he said, his voice cracking.
She smiled, beamed, and he was startled to see himself reflected there. “Leia,” he said, and Padmé’s eyes lit up with recognition.
“Leia,” she repeated, turning to his sister.
Leia stayed on the ground, her grip on Ahsoka having shifted to one of comfort. “Mother,” she greeted.
In the space between moments, Qui-Gon appeared, strangely no longer blue. Perhaps that was simply a side effect of appearing on the living plane.
The implications of that were a bit beyond Luke, and honestly, he didn’t much care to think about it at the moment.
“Qui-Gon,” Padmé said, and he smiled at her.
“You Highness,” he said, and Padmé smiled, tears in her eyes. “It’s time.”
“Yes,” she said, and turned to Luke and Leia. “I don’t think I’ll remember this, when we wake up.”
“It’s for the best,” Leia said, and Padmé nodded.
She turned to Qui-Gon. “Will you help me?”
Qui-Gon nodded, and held out his hand. Padmé took it and Qui-Gon pulled―
And between them stood Anakin.
Above them, the clouds broke, and rain came to the desert.
Luke tilted his head up, feeling the water on his face. He never got over the miracle of rain, though he had appreciated the cold deluge of Ach-To less as he aged. This, however, was warm.
When he opened his eyes, he saw his father smiling back at them. “Let’s go home,” he said, and held up a hand.
Then, as if just noticing: “What’s wrong with Obi-Wan?”
And then the desert was empty, as if they had never been.
Rex was having a hell of a day.
He knew, all clones knew, that they were bred to die, that it was their duty to die for the Republic and their Jedi, but that, sometimes, the Jedi would die for them.
He just never thought that Skywalker would be one of them.
When the monitors started screaming, Rex had frozen, although it had called every healer and medic in the wing to their suite. Not that it had done any good: General Yoda refused to let anyone near Sky--
Anakin’s
body.
Healer Tokra had tried the medical override, but there was no moving the Grandmaster of the Order when he did not want to be moved. It had gotten very loud as the calm request gave way to pleading and outright shouting. It was only Cody’s quick movements that had prevented Kix from launching himself at Yoda in an attempt to wrest Anakin away, to at least
try
and save him.
“It is time.”
Yoda spoke at last, and held up his hand. One by one, the other Jedi joined in, and―
Anakin bolted upright, gasping for air and very much alive.
All around them, the Jedi on the beds were waking. Even the Senator stirred, putting a hand to her head and looking pained.
“Sir,” Rex said, his words sounding just as stunned as he felt. “You’re alive.”
Anakin rubbed the back of his neck, twisting his head until it cracked. “Seems that way,” he said.
Rex nodded. “Freaky Jedi stuff?” he asked, and Anakin snorted.
“The freakiest,” he said. He turned to the Senator, who smiled at him. His face stretched into a wide grin, and Rex guessed they weren’t bothering to hide that anymore.
“I give up,” he heard Kix say behind him.
“Sir?” Cody asked, and Rex looked to see Obi-Wan continuing to lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Obi-Wan turned his head, asking “Yes, Cody?” as if nothing was wrong, but Rex had seen it―a moment’s hesitation before he moved, the way his genteel smile was the farthest thing from his eyes.
From the way Cody paused, Rex knew he could see it too. “Glad you’re back, sir.”
“Me too, Cody,” he said. Rex looked up and saw Ventress frowning at Obi-Wan, even as he spoke. “Me too.”
In his office in the senate, Palpatine lay on the floor, gasping.
That was
far
too close.
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
Aegon has watched his brother, from afar, hidden by walls and ugly sculptures that are scattered around the halls of Dragonstone, watching as Aemond braves the outside world for the first time since the injury. Helaena and Jacaerys are almost always by his side, Helaena overcoming whatever aversion to touch she has to hold Aemond’s arm and gently guide him, Jace is bolder, his grip stronger when he jumps to catch the silver haired prince when he stumbles or loses his balance.
Aegon has watched his brother’s progress with relief flooding his veins. Aemond needs less support each day, their walks longer and they talk more, voices too low for him to hear.
Sister has not allowed him even near the stairs without an adult accompanying him, so that makes Aegon's stalking a little more embarrassing as more than once he had to dunk inside a room to avoid them as they turned to retrace their steps.
He lurks outside his door as well, Rhaena usually leaves it open when she goes to visit him, carrying a book or a table game for them to play, never once making a big deal when Aemond tires quickly or ends up sending the pieces to the floor, just quietly putting it away and starting a talk about some boring thing they both like.
It fills Aegon with dread because he doesn't know if he could do that. If he could have not only the infinity patient they are showing but also their ability to not react, to not burst into tears when his little brother looks downright devastated when he misjudge the distance of something or knocks things off the table, they just continue as if nothing happened and Aegon can barely keep himself from doing a full body cringe while he lurks.
The guards give him funny looks when they see him standing like a creep watching the younger children, but no one has said anything to him yet- Even if he can feel uncle Laenor's eyes burrowing into his head- and that is more than alright with Aegon. He is more than used to being stared at and judged and the guards are far kinder than his family or their guards at the Red Keep.
That to say Aegon almost jumps out of his own skin when he feels a tugging at his shirt when he is watching Aemond and Jace talk quietly looking out of the window, a high pitched sound coming from his mouth before he can stop himself.
“What are you doing?” Luke asks, voice far too loud in the otherwise peaceful halls
“
Shut up
!”
Quickly he drags Luke a safe distance away, a hand firmly around his arm, closing a door to an empty room behind himself, probably louder than he should, feeling his heart beating itself out of his chest.
That was
close
.
The older prince scowls at his nephew who is looking at him with very unimpressed eyes and arched eyebrows that very much scream ‘Rhaenyra’, and Aegon bravely resists the urge to squirms where he stands because he will not be cowed by a child younger than his brother, he has more dignity than that. He was in fact stalking his younger relatives like some sort of creep, but he was doing that quietly, hidden by the shadows and unknown to anyone but the guards and their inquisitive stares, there is a decree of dignity on doing that and not being discovered and he will not have Luke exposing him like this.
“What were you doing?” Lucerys asks again, unbothered by his internal indignation
“Nothing.” He tries to be casual with a shrug “I was just admiring the tapestry.”
Luke just squints at him, wholly unimpressed and Aegon particularly thinks he is too young to be this clever, what happened to young children being silly and easily gullible? In his experience young children are fucking
savages
, both his siblings and nephews far too clever for Aegon to get away with simple lies as this one.
“Then why did you run and drag me with you? You don’t even care about tapestries.” Luke crosses his own arms, voice accusing “You are spying on Jace and Aemond.”
“Of course I care about tapestries!” He says, a haughty expression on his face “Just because you can’t appreciate the craftsmanship of them, doesn’t mean all of us are equally uncultured.”
“Uncle Aegon there wasn’t any tapestry in that part of the halls.”
“Oh alright, maybe I was spying on them.” Aegon sighs, rolling his eyes and trying to hide embarrassment with annoyance, pretending he can't feel his ears burning “And what were
you
doing there?”
“I was watching them too.” Luke says, like it's the easiest thing in the world
“
What the fuck
.”
“Don't swear, mother doesn't like it.”
“Sister is not here.” Aegon dismisses the worry with an offhand gesture, his turn to squint at his nephew “Why were you spying on them?”
“Why were
you
spying on them?”
“I asked first.”
“And I asked second.” The younger boy automatically replies, eyebrows so high they disappear under his curls
Aegon looks at the ceiling and begs the gods’ to give him strength.
“Well, I'm older than you and you own me respect, so you should answer me first.”
“That's not how it works.”
“That's
exactly
how it works.”
“You are a lying liar who lies.”
“Lucerys, I will throw you out of the nearest window.”
“You know you are not scary at all right?” Luke squints at him again, sounding far too amused “I'm not afraid of you, uncle Aegon.”
The silver haired prince throws his arms in the air, kicking at his nephew's shin when the boy giggles at his attempt of doing a severe expression. Great, not even a little boy respects Aegon, his reputation must be lower than the seven hells at this point.
“Little shit.” He hisses, kicking at him again but Luke just kicks him back even harder and Aegon clutches his leg a betrayed expression “I didn't hit you this hard!”
“But you didn't answer me either!”
“I wanted to know how he was doing alright?” Aegon finally says, pinching the bridge of his nose “I just wanted to see Aemond, have a problem with that?”
“And you had to spy him? Couldn't you just talk to him?”
“No.” Comes the dry answer before he narrows his eyes at the boy “Now you, what were you doing spying on them?”
“The same thing.” Luke says, looking at the floor, voice losing the previous mirth
“And couldn't
you
just talk to him?”
Aegon knows why he is avoiding his little brother, is well aware of his fuck ups and how shameless it would look for him to try to play worried big brother now, but
Luke
? Why wouldn't Luke just talk with Aemond? As far as he is aware, both of them had started to get closer, not as much as Jace and Aemond, but close enough to leave the childish disagreements behind themselves.
But his little nephew just continues looking at the floor, playing with his own fingers, shoulders hunching together and he looks so pathetic, so much like a flower who withered right in front of his eyes, that Aegon almost feels bad for asking him about his motivations.
“No.” Luke scowls at the ground, voice wavering “It’s my fault he is hurt, how can I just go talk to him? He must hate me.”
I need my sister
, Aegon thinks with a sudden pang of desperation,
I need sister or uncle Laenor and I need them right now.
Aegon is not, in any way, shape or form, the person who should be having this conversation with Luke. This is something absolutely out of his element, he is the fun drunk uncle who plays and provokes the younger kids, he is the one who encourages them to break the rules and play pranks, who nudges them into getting into trouble in his place, who basks in their adoration of him, in the easy way they seem to like him, he is not the person they run to with their problems, the one who knows the right words to soothe their hearts.
Aegon can’t even deal with his own issues without breaking down in front of the first adult who offers him kindness, what can he do? Hug Luke and ugly cry with him?
Yes, because that would surely help his nephew with whatever issues he is still having because of the attack.
But sister is not here and neither is uncle Laenor, it’s only him and Luke in this empty room and he can’t in good conscience just turn his back to the boy when he looks seconds away from bursting into tears, his chubby cheeks puffed out as he bites his lips trying to gulp them down. It’s time he makes good on his mental promise to himself of becoming a better person and that starts by not putting his foot on his mouth now.
“What happened was not your fault Luke, Aemond doesn’t hate you.” He puts an awkward hand on the boy’s shoulder but Luke shakes it off, stepping back
“So does everyone tell me.” He scowls at the floor, voice wet
“If everyone is telling you this then it’s clearly the truth.”
“I’m not a little kid!” Luke bites out, which is kind of funny because he is very much still a little kid “I don’t need everyone to lie to me, to pretend everything is fine when it isn’t!”
“Luke, you had no way of knowing that would happen, it wasn’t you who hurt Aemond.”
“But the guard wasn’t trying to hurt him!” Luke almost screams looking at him with angry eyes filled with tears “It was
me
! He was trying to stab
me
but Aemond pushed me out of the way and that is why he lost his eye, because he was saving
me
. And then he pushed me and Rhaena outside and that is why the guard could stab him again! If I wasn’t there he and Rhaena could have run away, he wouldn’t be hurt!”
Oh
. Aegon cringes and softens at the same time at this new piece of information. Truth be told he had not looked into the details of the attack, when uncle Laenor came to talk to him about it Aegon had asked for the minimum of details possible so while he knew that Aemond had pushed both Rhaena and Luke out of the cave, and that is why he had ended up far more injured than them, he had just assumed that the loss of his eye was a result of the same attack.
His little brother always had to do the most, didn’t he?
In front of him Luke just lowers his head again and Aegon doesn’t need to see the tears dripping on the floor to know he lost the battle against them, his shaking shoulders an obvious enough signal of the defeat, before he can even think about what to say, Luke is opening his mouth again.
“I was so mean to him.” Luke sobs “I gave him a pig and I laughed at him all the time, and I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to be mean, but I was, I hurt him and now I hurt him again. I saw him crying, after the maesters talked with him about his eye, he was crying so much. I didn’t want to hurt him again, uncle Aegon, I just want to be his friend.”
“I was meaner.” Aegon confesses, because that is the only thing he can think of saying, his own voice trembling “I was much meaner to him than you Luke, worse still because I was mean because I wanted to be, and that is why I can’t just go see how he is doing. But you apologized didn’t you? And he accepted it, he likes you, he likes you very much.”
“How can you know?”
“Because it’s
you
. You are a good kid Luke, and Aemond knows that you just went along with my bullshit, that I’m much more to blame for that than you. He wouldn’t have saved your life if he didn’t think of you as his friend.”
“Yes, he would have.”
Well, that’s a fair point, because Aemond probably would, being all proper and desperate to get the approval of all the adults around him as he is, but that doesn’t take away from Aegon’s point as far as he is concerned. Aemond cares about their nephews, he doesn’t doubt he saved Luke and Rhaena because he would prefer himself to be hurt than them, Aegon knows because he likes to think he would have wanted the same thing.
“Don’t be a little shit.” He tries for a smile, reaching to put his hand on Luke’s shoulder again and squeezing gently before he can shake it off “Listen to me, Aemond thinks about you as his friend, he likes you very much and I know he doesn’t blame you for his injuries. I think he would be very happy if you visited him.”
“He loves you too.” Luke says, his tears slowly stopping even if they still fall from his brown eyes
“And how do you know that?” Aegon asks trying to pretend the words don’t make him want to cry
“He talks about you a lot.” Luke admits “And he always defended you to everyone, even if never when you were around.”
Oh, nice. Like Aegon needs another reason to feel like the shittiest brother in the world.
“I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t think he wanted you to know.” Luke continues, moving so he can wipe his tears, frustrated when they continue falling. “I don’t want Jace to know I think he is the coolest brother in the world, he would be so annoying about it, I think Aemond doesn’t want you to be annoying about it either.”
Or, more likely, Aemond just thought Aegon would mock him about it, or lash out at the idea of needing his younger brother to defend him. Still the idea has tears welling in his own eyes.
And Lucerys, well Lucerys is Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s son and kindness is apparently something that just overflows from them all and the second he realizes the tears in his eyes small arms are quickly thrown around him, Luke clinging to him in comfort even when he is still crying, and Aegon is quick to return the hug the best he can, closing his eyes to force the tears to stay back with the practice of years of trying to keep his facade in front of his mother.
“Maybe we should go see him together.” Aegon offer, voice a soft murmur, a hand on Luke’s hair
“I would like that.”
Rhaenyra finds Laenor sitting quietly on an armchair in the library, there is a somber look on his face as he stares at his own hand, holding a burning letter uncaring about the way the heat must be burning his fingers.
Laenor is a dragon and fire is a part of his being as much as the sea, he relinquishes in the burning heat as much as she does even when his flesh protests against the treatment. It still tugs at her heart and she approaches him with caution, a frown on her forehead and Laenor doesn't even startle when she puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it.
“Bad news?” She asks quietly
“News for my eyes only.” He smiles at her, barely a lift of his lips “Better it to be destroyed than to fall into wrong hands.”
“You don't look very happy about them.” Rhaenyra insists “Tell me Laenor, even if it's upsetting,
especially
if it's upsetting.”
“Qarl will go back to the Stepstones.” Laenor says, voice quiet and that ghost of a smile disappearing as he closes his eyes “This was his goodbye. When we return to King’s Landing he will be long gone.”
“Oh, Laenor.” Rhaenyra whispers, heart clenching for him, eyes softening “But he will come back, won't he?”
“Even if he does, what we had just can't be, not anymore.” Laenor takes a shuddering breath, eyes still closed, voice almost trembling “This is our last goodbye.”
Laenor's sadness terrifies Rhaenyra.
Her and Daemon's sadness is quick to turn to burning anger, they are dragons and a dragon’s instinct to pain is often to lash out and burn everything in their path, is to consume the world so it understands their pain. Their sadness is a ugly thing to witness, hard to miss even if it's often misunderstood, often seen as shallow, as merely
rage
, they make their sadness the world’s problem most of the time because to keep it tucked into their chest would be to choke on it until they crumbled under its weight.
Their hurt is messy and loud and angry above all else, it bursts out of their chest even against their wishes. Rhaenyra has fought long and hard to shape her sadness into something softer, easily contained, to keep it closer to her chest, lest she burn those around her.
Laenor's sadness is quiet.
It creeps on the edges of his eyes, on the corner of his smiles, it lives and festers tucked into his heart where no one is allowed to see, where he can pretend it's not there even as it tears him from the inside out, until it grips his everything like vines, choking him even if no one can see.
Like a ship stuck in a storm Laenor
endures
. And then he breaks, he breaks quietly, like a ship sinking into the furious ocean with a hole no one could see was there until it was too late, he breaks in the form of silent tears during their rushed and blood bathed wedding, he breaks on the shattered smile on his face as they closed the doors of their new chambers with the expectations of the kingdom on their shoulders, in the way his hands shook as he moved to remove his clothing to fulfill a duty neither had wanted.
He breaks on shuddering breaths as Rhaenyra stilled his hands and shook her head, in the loosening of his shoulders as she cut her arm and let herself bleed on the white sheets, on the way he cried, quietly on her arms afterwards.
His sadness terrifies Rhaenyra because she is deadly afraid that one day it will be too quiet for her to see until it's too late, that she will miss the signals until the pieces are too shattered to be put together again, that he will slip through her fingers.
Her father says that Jacaerys’ birth lifted a veil of sadness that clung to her bones, that he saved her from her darkness, that Rhaenyra was a new person after becoming a mother and he is not exactly wrong, Jace was a light into her darkness yes, and she didn't know she could love as fiercely as she did when she held him in her arms for the first time and realized she would do anything for that little babe, but Jace was the end of a road, he was a result of her healing, he was the proof that Rhaenyra could open her heart, that she could love and allow herself to be loved.
It was Laenor, who was saved by Jace’s birth.
It was him who began healing only when a tiny and fragile babe with tuffs of dark hair on his head, a babe he knew didn't share his blood, was put on his arms and immediately stopped crying.
Laenor healed slowly, on the little things first, and it took him much longer to open his heart to another than it took Rhaenyra, nursing his loss and grieving in private.
Rhaenyra had liked Ser Qarl, he was a good man and mostly important he made Laenor smile, he took the burden from his shoulders, he helped him open his scarred heart and held it with care, nurtured it as it deserved, offered her husband a balm to his soul and never demanded more than he could give. He had been an almost friend, an ally in helping sooth Laenor’s sadness, a shoulder for him to rely on when he didn’t want or couldn’t rely on Rhaenyra.
The way Laenor looks and speaks now tells her that this was more than a simple ‘until we meet again’, that something has shifted, something much more permanent.
“We have our duties.” Laenor hums, the sad curl of his smile a pang in her heart. “And mine requires me to focus on what is important right now, on our children,
all
of them.”
“Your happiness is important.” Rhaenyra states, a fact she has always believed wholly in
“And yet I would, and will, sacrifice it for our family without a moment of hesitation.” Laenor replies, with an easy smile still on his face “I know I am not the husband you wished, that I could not give you what you needed Nyra, that I have failed you many times, and I can only hope to make up for it in any way I can.”
“Stop that.” She hisses, moving to grasp his hand in hers and squeeze “Stop with this nonsense. I did not wish to wed you, that is true, as you did not wish to wed me, but you are my dearest friend Laenor, you stayed at my side when I needed it the most, you have loved our children since the moment they started to exist and that is so much more than I could have asked of any other man. You are my husband and you will be my Consort when the time comes and you will be happy Laenor Velaryon.”
Laenor laughs, a startled sort of laughter with fondness taking hold of his face as he moves to hug her, her own arms easily accommodating his frame as they both allow themselves to just exist in this moment, to breathe into each other. When Laenor speaks his voice is soft, but full of determination.
“You are my wife and you will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms when the time comes, and you will be happy Rhaenyra Targaryen.”
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
Kaeya and Cyno’s little sparring session had been going well until they had been ambushed.
Now the blunette was holding onto the practice polearm as the group of mercenaries closed in. Even Cyno was caught off guard by how suddenly they had appeared. As though they had suddenly been teleported in between them and Aaru Village.
The General Mahamatra had immediately stepped between Kaeya and the group with ill intentions before summoning his actual polearm. Electro crackled in the air.
Then the fight had broken out.
The purple aura around Cyno crackled and flash in the corner of Kaeya’s right eye as the blunette was busy fighting off two other mercenaries. He didn’t really have much training with a polearm, but he made do. Slashing out with his knife if they managed to get too close to him.
The worst thing was that Kaeya’s feet kept slipping in the soft sand. He was not used to fighting on this type of terrain. It was looser than mud. Shifting constantly. Mud tended to cling to you or allow you to properly slide across it. Sand was this weird in between. And it wasn’t even like the sand he trained on at the beaches of Mond either. That sand was saturated and full of seashells. This sand was much finer.
Cyno lunged forward as the teen slipped. Leaping over him and slamming his polearm down into the ground. Electro erupted and slammed into the Eremites who were reaching to grab the boy.
The blunette scrambled to his feet and regained his footing. Nodding his thanks to Cyno as they both stood shoulder to shoulder. Looking at the reinforcements.
“Do you have a glider?” Cyno asked him.
“No,” he shook his head. “I was taken from me when I was first kidnapped, and I never got a new one.”
The electro allogene sighed through his nose. “That is unfortunate. Otherwise, we could just clear a path for you to glide down to Aaru Village.”
“Surely Candace can hear this commotion—?” Kaeya’s was sentence cut off as an Eremite fired a crossbow at them. The bolt lodged itself in the sand as the teen and Cyno leapt to the side.
“Give us the boy, General Mahamatra,” a woman called out, her own eyes covered in a brocade. “This has nothing to do with the Akademiya.”
“This child is under my protection,” Cyno growled back. “Leave now before I enact justice.”
“Afraid we can’t do that,” another Eremite said, his own polearm lowered aggressively. “Got to return this young lad to his sister you see.”
“I don’t have a sister,” Kaeya called back to them. “That woman is with the Fatui. She has ill intentions towards me.”
“How could you say that, my dear little brother?”
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as a hydro target formed around him and Cyno. A small hissing sound was the only warning they got. The blunette shoved Cyno away, tackling them both to the ground as her hydro bullets slammed into the sand where they had been moments before. The electro allogene quickly rolled to his feet and yanked Kaeya up behind him. Turning to face the new threat.
Dinara.
The mirror maiden stood there with a smirk on her face. Hands pressed together in a prayer-like gesture. “Come, little one. It is time to bring you home.”
“That’s Dinara,” Kaeya warned Cyno. “She’s the one who poisoned Tighnari.”
The purple energy around Cyno churned as his eyes narrowed into slits. Kaeya’s hair began to fully stand on end as the air crackled with electricity. The man’s red eye flashing dangerously.
“Surrender,” Cyno shouted at Dinara. “Resistance is futile.”
The fatuus tilted her head the side with a smirk as larger hydro shards formed around her. Angling and shifting. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
Kaeya’s gaze shifted as more Fatui stepped up behind her. They all looked
pissed
. Glaring at the blunette as he shifted his stance. He recognized them. The electro mage, agent, and hydrogunner who had originally kidnapped him. He guessed the anemoboxer hadn’t survived the tiger attack.
The blunette looked back over his shoulder at the Eremites. They were surrounded. This wasn’t good.
“I’ll take care of Dinara,” Cyno muttered softly to him. “You just worry about getting back to Candace.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Kaeya hissed back as he turned to face the Eremites. “I’m a Knight of Favonius. I do not need a vision to hold my own. Just keep yourself alive.”
The General Mahamatra’s sharp eye glanced at him before he nodded. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Kaeya nodded back. The grip on his weapons tightening.
Cyno threw his arms to the side and his purple aura suddenly surged. Growing bright and powerful, causing the very air around him to shimmer like a mirage. Becoming so strong that Kaeya could clearly see it with both eyes. A wave of god-like power washed over the teen as large claw-like electric forms encased the allogene’s forearms and hands. His eyes glowed vibrantly as he launched himself forward. Colliding directly into the agent who darted forward to meet him.
The very air around Cyno seemed to rip open with electricity. Claw marks slicing the very atmosphere they walked around in. The agent dodged as the General Mahamatra struck the ground where he had been standing. Sending a tidal wave of sand and electricity high into the air.
Kaeya could have honestly stood there and watched the man fighting all day. The raw power and advanced fighting techniques enough to make anyone pause and study the form, but the Eremites didn’t seem to have those same sentiments.
The teenager turned to face them. Aiming for the crossbow first. The last thing Cyno needed was a cheap attack to the back. Kaeya smashed the man’s face with the side of the polearm, drawing back his weapon and swinging it as hard as he could like a bat. A tooth went flying upon impact and the Eremite dropped. The blunette grabbed the crossbow and flung it off the side of the cliff. He could hear it clattering against the rocks as it tumbled down towards the village’s water source.
He'd have to apologize to Candace for that later.
Kaeya’s eyes landed on a man with an eyepatch as he drew a sword. Falling into a fighting stance. The blunette smirked.
Ah. What a mistake that was on the mercenary’s part.
He instantly dodged a woman’s large ax, sliding across the sand and slamming the polearm against the back of her knee. Causing her to grunt and fall face first into the dirt. With light feet he darted towards the man with the sword. Catching the strike with his polearm before swinging up with his other hand with the knife. Slicing across the sword-dancer’s arm. The weapon clattered to the ground. Kaeya snatched it up before jumping back.
He swung the sword around. Getting used to its weight. It was a lot different than the Mondstadt forging style he was used to fighting with, but it was still better than the training polearm which would only be good for cutting something like a soft cheese.
Kaeya tossed the polearm to the side and held the sword and knife in each hand. There.
Now
it was an actual fight.
Cyno was holding his own well. Managing to knock the hydrogunner’s weapon from his hand as he slammed his fist into the agent’s chest and sent him flying back. The mage sent a swarm of cicin towards the allogene. Their sharp stinging bites zapped at the General’s bare skin.
Dinara wasn’t in sight at the moment, though her hydro markers still surround he and Cyno. So, she was still nearby. Plotting something.
Kaeya didn’t have the luxury of trying to spot her amongst the sand as a hulk of a man stepped up to him. The blunette couldn’t help but swallow as he looked up and up at him. The stone enchanter’s biceps were nearly as large as the teenager’s waist. And, as if he wasn’t enough of a problem, two women came to stand beside him. One tossed her long braided green hair over her shoulder while the other drew back her massive bow.
Kaeya swallowed again. Welp. He had been right. It was now an actual fight.
The teenager yelped as the massive man slammed his fist into the sand. It
shook
the ground he was standing on. Kaeya couldn’t help how his mouth fell slightly open as a large
crocodile
suddenly appeared out of thin air and land heavily before him. He hurriedly took a few steps back.
What the fuck kind of attack was that?
But that wasn’t the only thing the Eremites had up their sleeves. The two women made their moves. The archer summoned a large anemo vulture of some kind while the floral ring-dance created a giant snake-like creature.
"Well, this isn’t fair,” Kaeya pouted at them. “The three of you honestly can’t take down a mere
child
without help?”
He tsked at them. “Honestly. And here I had heard that the Eremite mercenaries’ skills were something to behold. But it seems you just hide behind your pets.”
Unfortunately, his baiting didn’t cause them to dismiss their fragmented spirits liked he had hoped. Instead, all six of them charged him. Kaeya swore as he danced out of the way. Slashing when he could, but mostly just trying not to get hit. He wasn’t even sure that these creatures had weaknesses. He was pretty sure they were made of elemental energy judging by the aura he could see around them—
“Kaeya, behind you!” Cyno shouted at him.
The teen spun, gasping as Dinara materialized from behind. A cage of water surrounded him. Trapping the teen in place. He looked up in horror as he saw the crocodile rocket forward. There wasn’t anything he could do. He was trapped.
It slammed directly into him.
The blunette was flung back. Losing his grip on both his knife and sword. He rolled to a hard stop against a large rock. His head, the part that was already injured, whacked painfully against it. Causing the wound to reopen.
“Kaeya!” he heard Cyno shout. The electro allogene was now the only thing standing between him and everyone else.
The teen groaned as he shifted to sit up. Hands shakily reaching for the slingshot at his side. His only weapon left at the moment.
That’s when he heard a high-pitched cry above them.
His eyes flicked up. Heart skipping a beat in his chest. Because he
knew
that bird circling high above.
Niagara.
“Kaeya!”
It wasn’t Cyno shouting his name this time.
A man dressed in Eremite garb was racing towards him. Kaeya’s mismatched eyes widened as he locked onto that familiar shade of red. A scarlet phoenix crashed through the battlefield. A wave of boiling heat causing the air to shimmer from it. Forcing the Eremites and Fatui to take a few hasty steps back from Cyno and the injured teen. The pyro user slammed his claymore into the sword-dancer who had retrieved his stolen sword Kaeya had dropped. The Eremite didn’t stand a chance against the redhead’s fury.
Kaeya couldn’t help but gape at the scene.
Diluc had found him.
Diluc had fucking found him.
And he wasn’t alone. Behind the wine master was Candace, Lumine, Paimon, and another woman racing towards them. Weapons drawn as they entered the battlefield. Immediately turning their attention towards the Fatui and Eremites with Cyno by their sides. The pyro allogene, however, turned his attention towards the blunette. His lower face was covered with a cloth mask and his eyes hidden by a brocade, but still the boy froze under his gaze.
Diluc landed hard on his knees beside the blunette. Grabbing the teen’s shoulders urgently. “Kaeya, are you okay?”
“D-Diluc?” Kaeya whispered in shock. Had he hit his head harder than he originally thought? Was this some sort of brain damage? Or a hallucination?
“It’s me,” his brother gently placed hand on his cheek. The redhead was shaking. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. But I’m here now. It’s okay.”
His hand felt so real. Warm through the gloves. The fabric rough against his skin. The teen reached up with trembling fingers to grip it back.
“You’re real?”
He was fairly certain that the redhead was, but he had dreamed of this moment so many times these past few weeks. While lying tied up and drugged on a ship. While running away in the dead of night in the jungles. While crossing a desert.
He had to be sure.
“I’m real,” Diluc grabbed his hand and brought it his mouth. Kissing it lightly through the cloth mask. “I’m really here.”
“But,” Kaeya couldn’t help the sudden burst of doubt that blossomed in his chest. “But
why
are you here?”
It wasn’t like he was a Ragnvindr anymore.
Diluc squeezed his hand tightly. Reassuringly. As thought the redhead could hear those thoughts, “Because you are my
brother
. And I will never leave my family behind. Never again.”
Kaeya couldn’t help the sharp intake he gave at the determination on his brother’s voice nor the absolute confidence in contained. Like there was nothing else that Diluc was surer of than the fact that Kaeya was his sibling, and nothing would stand in the pyro user’s way when it came to keeping him safe.
The amount of relief that flooded the boy caused his eyes to prickle with tears, but now was not the time to be dwelling on emotions.
“Dinara,” Kaeya gripped his hand in an urgent manner. Focusing on the task at hand. “She acts as though she knows you. Like she has a personal vendetta against you.”
Kaeya couldn’t see his brother’s eyes behind brocade he was wearing, but he knew his brows were dipping in confusion but before he could question Kaeya’s statement as a portal rippled open behind the redhead. He immediately let go of Kaeya’s hand and turned to face it. His claymore drawn as Dinara stood before him. Her smile sharp and dangerous.
“My, my it seems like the Gauntlet has finally caught up to us at long last.”
-·=»‡«=·- ꂠꂑ꒒ꐇꀯ -·=»‡«=·-
Diluc POV
“Who are you?” Diluc demanded. Rage burning hot through his veins.
Glaring at the woman who was working with Dottore. The woman who had attacked
his home
. Had kidnapped
his little brother
. Had kept Diluc separated from Kaeya for
weeks.
Sparks shot from his fingertips.
Gods he was going to make her regret ever being born.
Her smile grew more vicious. “Ah. Caused so much destruction and pain that your victims all blur together is that it, Ragnvindr? Can’t even remember how many lives you have destroyed? How many children you ruined?”
Diluc snarled at her. “I never attacked children. Only Fatui scum.”
“Ah, but do Fatui not have family?”
The redhead faltered for a moment. Putting context clues together.
He
must have been the one to hurt the brother that that Harbinger Childe had mentioned several days ago. Now she wanted revenge. He gripped his weapon tighter, a bit relived to know that. Revenge he understood. It was the same weapon he was about to use against her.
“I only mourn the fact you had the misfortune of having family who had aligned themselves with an organization who does not care if they take innocent lives,” Diluc stood his ground.
“Could that not be said for
your
brother?” She challenged. “A child who has the misfortune of being related to a man who has more blood on his hands than half of Scheneznya?”
“I never killed an innocent,” Diluc growled, eyes glancing up over her shoulder at the others. They were holding their own against the other Fatui and Eremites, but he was alone with dealing with Dinara for now.
His glare deepened. Not that that was going to be an issue.
“You wiped out an entire town,” she snarled at him. Voice raspy, like a longtime smoker. “Do you think delusion factories just simply burn down?”
The redhead blinked. Delusion factory?
Oh.
He remembered that mission. The redhead had received an assignment to destroy the facility. No one had anticipated how large the blast had been. It had taken out the entire base plus the factory.
“The town was miles from the factory,” Diluc shook his head at her. “I did not harm any civilians. There is no way the fire or explosion reached all the way over there with that amount of snow.”
“It was not the flames that killed them all,” she rasped.
The redhead frowned. Not understanding.
“You were in that building,” she took a step forward. Her teeth flashing in a snarl. “You felt the
power
in there. You felt how it sucked away your energy. How it stole your strength and vitality. As if
fed
off you.”
The sand shifted behind him as Kaeya stood, though a bit wobblily. The boy’s head turning between the fatuus and the outlaw.
“Now imagine all of that suddenly being released in one giant mass of energy. Imagine what the air around you become as those fumes and vapors pour into the air, burning the lungs who breathed it. The eyes who witnessed it. Those toxins soaking into the ground and water sources.”
Diluc’s froze as he watched the mirror maiden reach up and pull off her headpiece. Her bright ginger hair tumbling down her back. It was thin. Much too thin for someone as young as her. A stark contrast from her blue attire. Diluc stared, almost transfixed, as she pulled down the cloth covering off her eyes and then her gloves.
Even Kaeya gave a small gasp as they got a clear look at her face. Scars covered her. Running up and down her arms, hands., and upper face. Completely distorting her skin and her eyes—
Diluc felt sick as started at her eyes.
If she still had pupils, they were hidden under white scar tissue. The eyes lids couldn’t even fully open all the way they had been so damaged. It almost looked like her skin had tried to melt off. Her skin was in discolored patches, like some bizarre skin quilt.
“Fuck,” Kaeya whispered in horror behind him.
“I was just a child when the Gauntlet slunk into that base in the dead of night,” she continued shaking with raged. “Too cowardly to even strike during the day. Waiting until everyone was sleeping peacefully in their homes. Not giving them any chance to escape the horror that was about to descend upon them.”
Diluc found he couldn’t turn away from her, no matter how much he wanted to do so. Staring horrified at her face. At the sagging and discolored skin. The burn scars. The burns around her eyes—
“I was one of the lucky ones,” she hissed. “I was visiting my brother in the village. He worked in the factory as a janitor. He was so proud to be living on his own. He had just moved out of our family home.”
The others were still fighting the other Fatui and Eremites. Dinara’s backup was proving to be quite the competent fighters.
“A stomach bug was going through the facility,” Dinara continued. “My brother bragged to everyone how skilled I was as a healer. So, they asked me to come and help treat some of the sick there. The commanding officer gifted me with a kamera as a thank you for my hard work.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small photograph. She flung it at the redhead with a flick on her wrist. If flew through the air like a card before landing lightly at his feet. He glanced quickly down at it.
It was grainy, underexposed, and blurry, but he could see the unmistakable shape of a figure gliding. Red hair on top of their head.
“I was standing next to my brother, who had escorted me that night, trying to figure out how to take a picture with it,” her voice hissed. “When I accidentally caught an intruder by surprise.”
Diluc looked back up at her.
“But before anyone could stop him,” her maimed eyes stared at him. No eyelashes or eyebrows framed them. “The factory exploded.”
The redhead remembered. The force had knocked him out of the sky. The heat had burned him. He still had scars himself, though nothing like hers.
“They found me in the rubble two days later lying next to my brother’s body. The only reason I didn’t die from hyperthermia because the fire burned so long. I was one of fifteen survivors at the factory,” Dinara allowed her eye covering to slip from her hands to fall to the ground. Her mirror shards shifted around her. Reflecting her. “That was still more survivors than the village.”
Diluc felt like he was going to throw up again.
“None of them woke up the following morning,” her voice cracked. “The winds blew the fumes right into their homes. Poisoned and suffocated in their sleep. Women, children, fathers, and their loved ones. The toxins destroyed everything in their path. The land was deemed too toxic for human inhabitants. It was sealed off. Guards posted on the roads to make sure no one attempted to go and see the catastrophe that had occurred. The bodies were put in a mass grave. The living family members weren’t even allowed to say goodbye or give them proper burials.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” he swallowed hard.
“Because when I crawled out of those ruins I discovered that not only had the Gauntlet stolen my face, my hands, my voice, or my eyes,” she was shaking with rage and emotion by now. “He stole my brother. He stole the brothers of hundreds of others.”
Her voice dripped with contempt and venom. A hydro target formed around the redhead.
“Because I want you to know that when I rip your own brother from your arms that it is personal,” she stretched out her arms. “I want you to know the hatred I have in my heart towards you. So you know he is not safe with me. That I will gladly hand him over to our Lord Harbinger for whatever experiments he wishes to inflict, and your last regret will be knowing you could not save him. That you were not good enough to prevent it.”
Kaeya shifted behind him, bending down to pick something up.
“I want you to suffer as I have.” she hissed. “I want—"
Something whistled past Diluc’s ear and slammed right into her forehead. She gasped in shock and took a startled step back. Clutching at the bleeding cut in her skin.
Surprised, Diluc looked behind him where Kaeya was swinging his slingshot above his head. He launched another attack, but Dinara teleported away with a growl.
“Kaeya?” the elder blinked in surprise.
“Don’t let her get to your heart, Luc,” Kaeya snapped at him. “Sob story or not she wants to kill you and take me. Get your head on straight.”
The redhead blinked in surprise at the aggression but nodded. Squaring his shoulders. Kaeya was right. Dinara was a threat who needed to go down. Diluc reached into his boot and tossed his brother his spare knife. The blunette caught it aptly. Coming to stand side-by-side with him.
“Don’t let her water projectiles hit you,” the blunette warned. “And watch the ground beneath your feet.”
The redhead nodded, knees bent and ready to leap away at any moment.
A triangular shard appeared behind them and together the brothers lunged. Diluc led the way, desperate to keep himself between her and his brother. His phoenix swept across the sand, vaporizing any of the hydro Dinara had slinking through its grains. Steam billowed up. Thick and hazy.
Kaeya darted behind, digging into the sand and pulling out shards of fulgurite caused by the electro cicin mage and Cyno and other stones before slinging them as hard as he could at Dinara. Leaping as a watery cage sprung up under his feet, he landed nimbly and darted after the redhead.
Dinara’s shards spun dizzyingly around her. She slowly rose into the air. Levitating above the steaming hot ground.
“No mercy!” she hissed as her water-bullets descended over them. Shooting out in a laser-type of attack.
Diluc flipped through the air. Flames sputtering and igniting along his blade, he swung it. Instantly evaporating her attack. Cutting through the thick air. Kaeya followed through. Throwing his knife as hard as he could. But Dinara stepped back into a portal and the blade slammed into the sand behind her, landing dangerously close to the edge of the rocky ledge they were fighting on.
The blunette hurried to retrieve the weapon while Diluc spun to block the fatuus’ next attack. Shards surrounded him and exploded right as he rolled out of the way. He slid next to Lumine who was busy fighting the stone enchanter’s crocodile.
They both jumped to the side as it landed heavily where they had just been. Lumine darted back towards it, getting between him and the beast.
“I got this. Take care of Dinara,” she said.
Diluc nodded and turned his attention back to where the woman had reappeared. Kaeya was busy dodging her watery prisons, slinging rocks at her whenever he got a chance. A few landed true. Red welts were covering her arms and thighs.
The pyro user ran to help. His feet crunching over the sand. Dinara didn’t even turn to face him as more shards flew towards him. His pyro evaporated them. Steam raising up. Burning his nose as he breathed it in. He snorted but kept going. His fire smashing through her watery attacks. Steam continued to rise from the sand. It was getting a bit hard to see. Where was Kaeya in the midst of the vapor?
As though summoned by his thoughts, Kaeya leapt out of the cloud of steam and swinging his knife. It caught Dinara on her leg and she gave a startled gasp before following through with an attack of her own, but the blunette darted away. Springing back lightly to allow Diluc to sweep in.
They easily fell into their old fighting routine. Kaeya slipping in while Diluc needed a moment to regain his elemental energy before hurriedly getting out of the way before the pyro user released his flames. They danced together.
But Dinara was proving to be more than a match for the two.
Especially as the heat of the day continued to grow worse and the collision of his pyro and her hydro kept sending bursts of boiling hot steam into the air around them. Singing Diluc’s fair skin and causing his lungs and nose to burn. Both he and Kaeya were covered in sweat and breathing heavily.
Diluc coughed hard as the latest burst of vapor smacked him in the face. His arms had begun to shake and Kaeya also looked a bit shaky on his legs.
The fatuus stepped back into her portal much to Diluc’s frustrated growl as his claymore landed heavily where she had just vanished. Twisting to see her reappear right next to Kaeya. The blunette, always ready, sliced at her arm, but she twisted out of the way and, moving with her own momentum, completed a 360 spin and kicked him back.
Diluc’s eyes widened as his brother gave a surprised grunt. He was standing much too close to the edge of the cliff they were all fighting on. He stumbled back.
Onto nothing.
The blunette’s mouth opened into a surprised
o
shape as he fell back.
Suddenly, Diluc was back in Dragonspine. Seeing the shock on his brother’s face as he fell back into the pit.
“Kaeya!” Diluc screamed. Horror shooting through his chest.
The teen reached desperately for Dinara as he fell back. Whether to drag her down with him or to use her as leverage to pull himself back up, Diluc was unsure. But the fatuus slipped away into her portal before he could make contact. The blunette’s hand grasped at the empty air.
“Kaeya!” the redhead screamed again as his little brother toppled off the cliff. The pyramid in the distance looming over him.
He ran forward as panic surged through him. Just how tall was this cliff?
The redhead spotted his brother tumbling down the side of the cliff before finally landing with a loud and pained
oof!
“Kaeya,” Diluc shouted down to him again. Looking for a safer way to get down there besides rolling down like the blunette had just done.
Which was just what Dinara had been anticipating.
Diluc gasped in utter shock as a something of slammed into his back and through his torso. His crimson eyes staring down in horror at the shard that was sticking out of his chest. Water and blood dripping down his shirt.
Shit.
Master Diluc!” Paimon’s horrified shriek rang out somewhere behind him.
The hairs on the back of his head rose as Dinara leaned close, looming over his shoulder to whisper in his ear. “How does it feel, Gauntlet? Knowing that you weren’t strong enough to protect your little brother?”
Something inside of him snapped. Rage burned through him.
Over his dead fucking body.
His eyes flashed as anger overtook the shock that had initially tried to rise. The redhead reached up and grabbed her head. Tangling his fingers in her ginger locks and then spun around and leaned back. Falling out onto open air. Dinara yelped in surprise.
“Diluc!” Lumine was the one to shout this time.
He locked eyes with her as he fell over the same cliff Kaeya had just. The sensation of falling sending a shock of adrenaline up his spine. Dinara screamed as they crashed down the rocky cliff together. Diluc keeping a death grip on her hair so she couldn’t teleport away. Using her body to cushion their decent.
They hit a sandy ledge hard before rolling off that and continuing down. They both landed hard on the sand below. There was a sickening
crack
and both Dinara and Diluc gave a pained cry.
Dinara yanked her hair out of his grip and rolled away with another cry of agony. Her clutching at her collarbone.
The pyro user gasped as he held his left arm close. It burned. The shard that protruded through him dissolved into hydro. Leaving nothing in his torso to block to blood flow. He swore as he pressed his right hand against the wound. His blood was oddly thin and flowing too heavily.
“It is too late for you now, Gauntlet,” she hissed at him as she struggled to her feet. Her face paler than normal from pain. “You have lost.”
Diluc’s got to his own feet. His left arm throbbed. He knew better than to try and move it. It was clearly broken. He reached into his other boot. Pulling out a knife.
“Maybe so,” he growled at her. “But I’ll make sure you go down with me.”
He lunged as her portal formed; she slipped inside but he slid after. Grabbing her arm as they fell into this
in between
. Some plane between their reality’s point A and point B. Dark multicolor colors surrounded them. Thousands of lights twinkled. It was like they had somehow stepped into the night sky. Finding purchase there.
Dinara’s shards slashed at him and his fire erupted. Steam spewing around them as they stumped back through her exit portal. Tumbling back into the sand. The redhead’s blood dripped onto her as he slashed at her. One of her hands caught his wrist while the other dug at his chest wound.
He screamed in agony as her fingers plunged into it. His vision flared and she gasped as the hand she was holding erupted into flames. Lurching back as she released him. Bringing her burnt appendage close to her chest.
They both gasped in pain. Stumbling on the sand a bit. Blood and water dripping all over the sand.
Diluc could hear the others above them still fighting the others. Though he couldn’t see who was winning from this vantage point. He shot a worried glance over at Kaeya who appeared to be struggling to sit up.
He was still on his own here.
“The more you struggle the faster you perish,” she rasped at him. Standing back to her full height. Diluc had to tilt his head back to look at her face this close. She towered over him. “You in took too much of my poison. It is futile. There is nothing left for you to do but accept your fate.”
“Tell me what the Fatui wants with him,” Diluc demanded. Ignoring how his wound just kept bleeding so much. It wasn’t even trying to slow down.
“Who am I to question what the will of the Lord Harbinger’s are?” Dinara laughed in his face. “I care not for their plans with him nor what they have in store for his little helper.”
The ground beneath his feet erupted sending Diluc flying as water surged up. He landed hard on his side, hitting his broken arm roughly. He seethed in pain. A silent scream gasping from his lips.
“But at least your brother will still be alive,” she walked over to him. Standing over him as he struggled to regain his composure.
Where had his knife gone?
“Which is more than can be said about the state you left mine in.”
Her shards formed around him. Surrounding him. Reflecting her face back at him. Her burned eyes and scarred skin clearly showing him what pain he had caused her. What he had taken from her.
The redhead desperately tried to get up. Pulling himself onto his knees. He had to roll away—
“Any last words, Ragnvindr?” she asked him. Hand raised high, ready to cast her last strike.
“Yeah,” A growl came. Dinara gasped in shock as a knife blade protruded from her chest. A starry portal ripped open behind her. “Get the fuck away from my brother.”
Diluc gaped at Kaeya as he yanked the knife out and shoved her aside. Sending her stumbling back. The shards that surrounded Diluc collapsed into pools of water as the woman struggled to breathe. The blunette’s strike only severely irritating her already broken bones. He had missed her heart.
Kaeya hurried to get between the redhead and the woman. Standing ready. Ignoring the blood that was dripping down his own face and the limp in his own gait. Diluc struggled to his own feet. His claymore formed in his hand as he walked past Kaeya. Eyes locked onto the woman.
Cyno and Lumine landed heavily behind them. Their weapons slamming down into the sand. Eyes alight with fury.
Dinara glared up at him as he approached. She tried to get to her feet, clutching at her torso. Diluc raised his weapon high. Pyro coating his blade as he drew it back to finish what he had started.
But...as his crimson gaze landed on her unseeing eyes, he paused. The look of defeat on her face. Blue clothes stained with blood. Skin burned from flames he had caused.
He realized how
young
she was. Probably only seventeen or eighteen at the most.
She was just a kid.
Dinara fell to her knees heavily for the final time. Her burned, scared eyes stared up at him. A sneer on her lips but it was clear she had acceptance of her fate. She knew she had no way of escaping his retribution.
The redhead swallowed heavily. His arms shaking. But it wasn’t from the poison.
Because he couldn’t help but see someone else kneeling before him instead. Blue hair soaked from the rain. Eyes flashing with emotions. Anger, hurt, disbelief, and acceptance.
“What are you waiting for, Diluc?” Kaeya asked him. His own knife raised defensively.
But he…he couldn’t do it.
Diluc slowly lowered his claymore. And turned away from her. His weapon dissolved. A sick feeling in his stomach. Footsteps rapidly approached him from behind and he turned to face the Traveler and Cyno as they hurried to flank him.
“I leave her to the hands of the General Mahamatra,” Diluc muttered softly to the electro allogene standing behind her. “Her judgment is in your hands.”
Cyno rushed forward yanking the woman’s delusion off her and throwing it to the side. Instantly placing the tip of his crackling polearm beneath her chin. “Make one false move and I won’t hesitate to end you right now.”
“Curse you, Ragnvindr,” Dinara hissed at Diluc as he began to walk towards his brother. “Curse you and all you love. You will not never find peace. I swear to you your brother will fall into the hands of the Lord Harbinger. You have only delayed the inevitable.”
The redhead ignored her as he turned his attention to his brother who looked up at him confused, if not a little disbelieving.
But Diluc just gently brushed the teen’s bangs back to get a clear look at the bleeding wound. It too was bleeding far too much for an injury that size.
“Are you okay?” he whispered softly to the boy.
“Yeah,” Kaeya nodded. A look of bewilderment still on his face. “Nothing some simple stitches won’t fix—"
The boy was cut off as the redhead hugged him tight. Burying his face into the blunette’s shoulder and taking a deep stabilizing breath. Gently caressing the back of his head with one hand while his broken arm dangled by his side.
Kaeya. Kaeya. Kaeya.
He was here.
He was alive.
He was safe.
The pyro user gave a shuttering breath.
“Diluc?” Kaeya asked. Voice small with uncertainty and concern. “Are you…?”
“I’m sorry,” the elder whispered wetly. “I’m sorry I left you alone in Liyue. I’m sorry I failed to protect you. I’m sorry that it took me so long to find you. I’m sorry you got hurt. I’m sorry—”
“Hey, hey,” Kaeya’s own arms wrapped around him. Patting his back reassuringly. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“You’re
hurt
,” Diluc whined softly.
“I’ll live,” Kaeya reassured him. “Really, Diluc. I’m alright. You got here just in time.”
The redhead just squeezed his brother a bit tighter. Not willing to trust his voice at the moment.
“Diluc really it’s—” the blunette paused before pushing him away.
The redhead blinked. Hurt that the boy pulled away so abruptly, but paused as he noticed that the front of Kaeya’s shirt was completely soaked with blood. His blood. The teenager’s face paled as he hurriedly ripped his own shirt off and pressed it against Diluc’s wound.
“Master Diluc!” Paimon cried out as she rushed forward. “You’re really hurt!”
Kaeya was forcing him to sit which he did gratefully. His legs were beginning to shake a lot suddenly.
“You idiot,” Kaeya swore. “What happened?”
“Her shard,” the redhead muttered as Lumine hurried to investigate the entry would on his back.
“It’s gone clean through,” the Traveler informed him as she also began to apply pressure.
Kaeya’s hand was soaked in blood now. He pressed his shirt into the wound as hard as he could. Diluc winced as Lumine did the same on the other. Why was he bleeding so heavily? It was abnormal the way it was just coming out. Thought it wasn’t quite the same, it reminded him of how a rifthounds corruption made you bleed so much worse than you should have.
“There is no use,” Dinara sneered at them. “You will not stop the blood flow.”
“What did you do?” Kaeya hissed at her.
She only smirked as Cyno pressed the tip of his weapon closer to her exposed neck fury. “It is what he did. His fire turned my water into all that steam. He was the one breathing all that in.”
“What poison did you give him?” the elector allogene demanded.
She refused to answer. Turning away.
Candace and Dehya landed beside them. Gliders folding back up. The hydro allogene dropped beside the redhead. Taking in the damage with a frown.
“That doesn’t look good,” Dehya winced as she looked at how red the cloth Kaeya was using had become.
“His blood is so thin,” Candace commented as she looked up at the mercenary.
“Did she use scorpion venom or something? It won’t let the blood coagulate properly,” Dehya frowned. “That’s what a scorpion sting will do. It makes you bleed out.”
“Is there an antidote to that?” Kaeya asked worriedly as he pressed harder against the wound.
Diluc wanted to reassure him that he was okay, but his head was spinning too much to do so. It was honestly becoming a little hard to focus on their conversation as it was. Suddenly he found his forehead pressed against Kaeya’s shoulder again. He didn’t remember letting it fall.
“Whoa, Diluc. You need to stay awake,” his brother was saying. “Don’t pass out.”
“Sorry,” the redhead slurred before someone yanked the cloth mask off his jaw and something was shoved into his mouth. A leather belt.
“You’re going to want that,” Dehya warned as she pushed Lumine aside. Raising her hand to place it against his skin.
The shock of pain caused him to yelp and bite down hard. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose. He gasped as mercenary quickly moved to the wound on his chest. Cartelizing it as well. A couple of tears slipped free and began to soak his brocade.
“Drink this. It is antivenom for scorpion stings. It should help,” Candace was pulling the belt from his teeth and slipping something between his lips.
Diluc managed to swallow it between pained gasps. His skin burning from the cartelization.
“You drink some too, Kaeya,” the hydro allogene instructed giving the blunette the bottle.
“Stay awake,” Dehya ordered to the redhead.
Paimon whimpered for the wine master as Lumine began to help Dehya turn to his arm.
“Sorry, Luc,” Kaeya whispered to him.
The redhead just gave a shuddering breath in response.
“This is going to hurt,” Candace warned as her hands grabbed his wrist and forearm.
Someone shoved the belt back into his mouth right before they set his bone.
Everything went black.
FAN ART TIME!!
Demon_pyro_art has blessed us with a visual of Diluc in his new outfit!
nanaoikawa drew this absolutely adorable baby Kaeya and Dagsbrún illustration that I can't get over
･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ*.* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ･ ｡ ☆∴｡ * ･ﾟ*｡★･ ･ *ﾟ｡ * ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ ☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* ﾟ *.｡☆｡★ ･ * ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ * ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡ ｡･ﾟ
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Thanks again for reading <3
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 neon glow of Jessie’s penthouse loft bathed the room in a soft pink haze, the air thick with the scent of sizzling miso-glazed chicken from the kitchen. Holo-posters of past Waifuverse battles flickered on the walls, their vibrant clashes a stark contrast to the mournful cheesy ballad humming from a corner speaker.
Midnight was pinned on the plush velvet couch wearing nothing but handcuffs and her lace bra, dark purple hair a mess as Jessie straddled her hips, grinding down with a wicked grin.
Jessie's magenta hair was tied in a faux bob, her perky tits bouncing as she role-played as Oboro with some cheesy, over-the-top dialog.
"Oh, Kayama, you think you can tame me? I'm a villain, bred for domination!" Jessie hissed in a mock-sadistic tone.
Midnight writhed beneath her best friend, her wrists straining against the cold bite of the handcuffs, as Jessie pushed against the double-ended dildo buried deep in both their pussies.
The toy's ridged length connected them intimately, Jessie’s eager thrusts sending jolt through Midnight’s core with each roll of her hips— but her mind was elsewhere, lost in Oboro's tear-streaked face, that desperate kiss replaying.
Midnight moaned, while arching her back, but the moment was lost as her arousal cratered. The roleplay felt off, twisting the pleasure into frustration.
"Jessie… fuck, that's not helping…” she whimpered, before adding “…I’m sorry…”
She then turned her head away, her Somnambulist Mist curling around them but lacking its usual spark. Jessie paused, her wicked grin faltering as she noticed the disconnect, the way Midnight's body tensed with distraction rather than desire.
"Again? Shit, Nemuri, this is the third time this week,” Jessie grumbled, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice as she dismounted with a wet pop, the dildo slipping free.
She then grabbed her sleek black vibrator from the nightstand, buzzing it to life as she settled back against the couch, legs spread wide, working her unsatisfied folds.
"Fine, hopeless romantic, let's try this another way," Jessie said, her tone edged with frustration as she circled the vibe around her swollen clit with a low moan, her free hand pinching her nipple.
"I'm getting tired of being your therapy dom every time you mope over that ninja bitch.” The magenta-haired vixen muttered to her bestie, “Talk while I finish this off-what's the play with Oboro?"
“Jess, I just can’t get her out of my head,” Midnight said, reaching for the keys of her handcuffs while watching her friend pleasure herself.
“Oboro… “ she waxed on poetically “that night in my penthouse, the way she kissed me, like she was breaking apart but holding onto me.”
“I thought I could pull her out of that Taimanin programming,” Midnight was tearing up a bit “I just want to fix it…. fix her.”
Jessie's moans and the buzzing of the vibrator undercut the emotional vulnerability a little.
“Girl, you’re down bad for this ninja,” she said, her voice teasing between her moans “Like, capital-D down bad. You’re out here pining like a simp, trying to fix her with all that love-and-love-and-love.”
With one final burst Jessie came with a sharp cry, her body shaking as she took herself to completion.
“She’s gotta want it herself, you know?” Jessie added with much more relief in her voice.
Midnight groaned, sinking deeper into the couch.
“I know, I know. But I felt something real, Jess.” She pleaded with her friend, “That kiss, those tears, that was raw!”
“… I want her to see what I see in her. What can I do?” Her voice cracked, the elixir glass trembling as she set it down.
Panting, Jessie set the toy aside, her grin returning despite the annoyance.
“Okay, hopeless romantic,” The Team Rocket girl gently teased “are you gonna build her a whole redemption arc or something?”
She said it in jest, but her eyes sparkled with genuine curiosity.
“Like, what’s the play?” She pushed on, “You gonna write her a new script, make the simps root for her or something?”
Midnight’s eyes widened, the idea hitting like a spark in the haze.
“Yes! That’s exactly it, Jess” Midnight beamed “A redemption arc! I can give her a stage to fight her demons, show the fans she’s more than a sadistic shadow. “
Jessie leaned back, grabbing her own elixir, her grin softening into something thoughtful.
“You’re hopeless, girl, but I love it!” She concluded with a lot more mirth in her voice.
“If you’re serious about this arc, you need to know who Oboro is.” Jessie continued, “Like I’m talking her character, her backstory, her ‘lore’ if you will.”
“You can’t have character development without a character TO develop” she concluded with a sly smirk, to no one in particular.
Midnight sat up, her blue eyes glinting with new purpose.
“Jessie you’re a genius!” She proclaimed “You are absolutely right, I gotta get on the lore and all that nerdy shit.”
“And who else knows their nerdy shit but Hibana, I’m going to ask her” Midnight fanatically raved.
“Thanks, bestie—you’re the real MVP.” She concluded with renewed zeal.
Jessie laughed, nudging Midnight’s shoulder with a playful shove. “Damn right I am. Now let’s eat before the chicken gets cold”
—
The following day Midnight was over at Hibana’s new dungeon, located in a more hopeful part of town, though still close to the red light district. It was a much more spacious studio located at the top floor. Inside the air hummed with the latest holo-screens, new experimental gear, and the state of the art neon lights. Things like half-built vibrators, or a dismantled Taimanin transmitter, a reference from Waifu Wars I, littered the multiple tables.
Midnight was tied to a sturdy chair in the center of the room, wearing nothing but black cheeky shorts, purple hair loose and spilling as Hibana tested a new vibrating gadget on her nipples, the buzz sending jolts straight to her core.
Midnight moaned, arching against the restraints, already getting damp between her thighs.
"Hibana… fuck, that's intense," she gasped, her voice breathy as the device pulsed.
Hibana, in her pink leather body harness, adjusted the settings with a mad genius gleam, her bobbed hair tucked behind her ears.
"Just testing for feedback, haze queen- now, about Oboro's lore, it's thin, to put it mildly."
She kept the gadget humming, her free hand sliding down to tease Midnight's clit through the shorts, rubbing in slow circles as she explained.
“Oboro could have been considered like one of us when she started,” Hibana explained “A badass Taimanin kunoichi, fighting demons, her body honed for battle and seduction alike."
Midnight perked up, intrigued by the similarities, her breath hitching as Hibana's fingers pressed harder.
"But betrayal hit hard," Hibana continued, “Essentially she clashed with Asagi Igawa, got defeated, then killed, then revived with dark essence that cranked her ‘bad’ to eleven!”
“Arguably the ultimate villain: arrogant, vengeful, and super hot,” she gave her diagnosis on her findings, turning up the vibrator to make Midnight squirm.
“But that’s it right?” Midnight managed to gasp, her voice breaking as another wave of pleasure hit.
"And get this,” Hibana revealed “it turns out the Oboro we know is a clone of the original heroic one, a fallen shadow engineered to dominate and destroy.”
“In other words, you got yourself a handful.” she finished with a wry remark, finally easing off the gadget to let Midnight catch her breath.
Midnight rolled her head back, still tied to the chair. Hibana looked over and a little more sheepishly added.
“But I’ve seen weirder things in the Waifuverse,” she tried to soften the blow, “her echo might be something different…. or someone different,”
“And…I guess it may be possible…. that your love seeded something new into the Oboro you know…” Hibana stammered through her scattered reasoning.
“Wait are you saying I gave her a soul?” Midnight blurted out, head upright again.
“Well I wouldn’t go that deep girl,” Hibana backpedaled, “Lets not bring this level of existentialism into this….”
“Then it is my duty to show Oboro a better way! A way to redemption” Midnight proclaimed with all the innocence of a child.
Hibana just facepalmed herself. It was pointless to reason with her now, so she began to untie Midnight from the chair.
—
The air in Poison's dojo was thick with the heat of exertion as the two queens were sparring in the ring.
Midnight stood in the center, holding padded mitts, her sports bra clinging to her breasts, her purple hair tied back in a messy ponytail.
Poison moved like a predator, bobbing and weaving her own white sports bra and shorts that held her assets. Her pink ponytail bouncing as she threw sharp jabs and kicks at Midnight’s padded mitts.
Midnight recounted her conversation with Hibana, and the thin lore they dug up on Oboro while Poison threw her punches. The ex-fighter landed a final jab, stepping back to wipe sweat from her brow, her smirk sharp as she grabbed a water bottle.
"That's some heavy shit, girl," Poison drawled, a short and sweet summary of everything that was said so far.
Midnight took off her sparring mitts, and tossed them over to the pink-haired vixen.
“That’s putting it lightly,” Midnight admitted “But I am still hellbent on redeeming her!”
The dojo's speakers pulsed with a surprisingly slow number: “Is this Love” by Whitesnake, an 80’s power ballad, cheesy and unapologetic.
It was Midnight now who was throwing punches and kicks at Poison’s mitted hands.
“Look, If you wanna redeem this ninja girl, there's one thing that matters more than anything.” Poison announced in between swatting her hands and absorbing blows.
“Her looks?” Midnight asked, half-joking, her swagger still flickering from her concentrated form.
Poison snorted, “Well, that matters too, but I’m talking about the fans!”
She took a swing at Midnight, the haze queen dodging skillfully. Looks like all the sparring sessions were paying off.
“She's not even the real Oboro, just a Waifuverse echo, a clone with barely any character.” Midnight wined like a lovesick puppy.
“Think about it: the fans make us what we are.” Poison proceeded with her explanation, undeterred by Midnight’s moping.
“I was a nobody once too,” She continued “just a trope-y bad guy with no depth, but the fans saw something, hyped me up, turned me into this.”
Poison took a second to gesture with her mitts at her body.
“Soul or no soul, leave that shit for the philosophers!” She grunted as she threw an unexpected overhead swing with her right hand.
This snapped Midnight out of her stupor, the mitt grazing the top of her head as she ducked a second too late.
“The fans can give her one, but only if you make them care.” The ex-figther followed her attack with her statement.
The sparring queens lowered their hands to ‘take five’. Midnight took off her mitts, Poison grabbed some water bottles, and the two sat down on a bench together.
“You need to give them a story they can't resist” Poison said in between gulps “somethin’ messy, real, sexy!”
“Just be careful," she warned, her voice dropping "Fans can smell a plant from a mile away.”
"So what should I do?" Midnight asked, her voice still breathy, her nipples hardening against the thin fabric of her bra.
Poison shrugged, looking like her aloof self again.
"Idk, find someone who's already done that shit, and ask them” The pink-haired vixen finished with a jaunty laugh.
I guess Midnight had more digging to do.
—
Later that night Midnight was mulling over everything she learned in the past week. She lounged in the opulent glow of her penthouse, the cityscape of Neon City sprawling out below like a glittering sea of vice and victory.
Her recent windfall from Waifu Wars I pay-per-view event, and a string of guest appearances, padded her accounts nicely. She had enough to splurge on the exorbitant fares for the inter-universal portals that only the rich and the elite could afford to use regularly.
She was planning a trip to the Avatar Universe anyway, to catchup with Azula and maybe plan some crossovers. But now, Poison's words sparked something new in her mind.
“Find someone who's clawed their way out of villainy on the backs of adoring fans and learn their secrets.” Midnight pondered as she sent Azula a message.
“And who better than Zuko?” She thought “He started as a villain from an evil empire, daddy issues and all.”
The Fire Nation Prince, now the Fire Lord post ‘Book Three: Fire’, managed to shed the scars of betrayal and rage, ascending from hunted outcast to beloved icon. Fans across universes worshipped his redemption arc.
Azula eventually replied to Midnight’s message with a snarky, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’m planning to visit. We should do brunch! But also, I need to ask for a favor.” Midnight replied quickly while she had her attention.
Azula responded slowly with “Ugh, what do you want now?”
“I need an audience with Fire Lord Zuko, but not just as Fire Lord, as your brother. I want to pick his brain about something.” Midnight fired off on her holo-deck.
The typing indicator hung on the screen, teasing Midnight worse than Hibana when she tested her gadgets on the haze queen.
“Fine, brunch is on you then! Zuzu doesn’t really approve of what we do here, but I’ll convince him to talk to you” Azula finally responded.
Midnight breathed out with relief, not even realizing she was holding her breath. They settled on a date and Midnight could finally sleep soundly. But sleep didn't come easy that night, just like it hasn’t come every other night.
The day's revelations swirled in her mind, mixing with her body’s unmet needs. She tossed and turned on her silk sheets, her cropped tank top riding up to expose her full breasts, nipples already stiff and begging for attention.
"Fuck it," she muttered, rolling onto her back and reaching for her holo-deck on the nightstand.
With a flick of her wrist, the device hummed to life, projecting a glowing interface above her. Midnight scrolled through her private stash, her free hand already slipping under the waistband of her shorts, fingers starting to rub her mound lightly.
She pulled up a favorite—a steamy Bible Black clip featuring Kitami Reika, the one where she seduces and fucks her student Mika Ito.
"Gods, yes," Midnight whimpered, her fingers circling her clit as the scene played out, Kitami's arrogant smirk filling the projection, as she cornered the innocent Mika against the exam table.
Kitami's arrogant smirk reminded Midnight of Oboro's in a way that made her pussy clench. She plunged two fingers deep into her soaking entrance, curling them to hit that spongy spot, as she imagined Oboro in Kitami's place—dominating her, then yielding, their bodies slamming together in a clash of wills.
In her fantasy, it was Oboro dominating her, pinning Midnight to the table instead of Mika, her claws raking down Midnight's thighs as she spread them wide, tongue delving deep into her folds, lapping greedily at her entrance while fingers plunged in roughly, curling to assault that sensitive spot.
"Beg for it, Kayama—you're mine!” Oboro's voice echoed in her mind, husky and commanding.
Midnight imagined Oboro's mouth sucking her clit mercilessly, teeth grazing just enough to blend pain with ecstasy, her Somnambulist Mist curling around them, amplifying every sensation until Midnight was sobbing, hips grinding desperately against Oboro's face.
"Fuck... Oboro... take me," she gasped, her fingers thrusting faster, as she released some of her “purple haze” in her bed while stretching herself wide, the arousal pushing her closer to the edge.
The clip hit its peak—Kitami orchestrating a brutal climax, Mika's cries of ecstasy filling the room as she squirted messily, her body convulsing in submission.
Midnight shattered with her, her pussy convulsing around her fingers, leaking onto the sheets in a messy drip, her body arching in bliss, tears pricking her eyes from the intensity, Oboro's imagined dominance overwhelming her senses in a storm of raw, forbidden need.
Panting, spent, she let the holo-deck fade, collapsing into the pillows, her mind finally quiet enough for sleep with Oboro's face lingering in her dreams.
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
Even Pirate looks a little taken aback at Ed’s bellow. “The philosopher’s stone,” Lemons repeats, looking mildly disturbed at how Ed, Mustang, Hawkeye and Hughes are now giving him what are probably some pretty unhinged looks. “I take it you’ve heard of it.”
“Heard
of it,” Ed snarls, vaguely aware that he’s standing again, hands flexing. No, calm down, things are different here, it’s magic not alchemy. Don’t jump to conclusions. Investigate,
then
act. “Do you know how it’s made?” Is it too much to hope that this version isn’t dead people?
Beardy frowns reprovingly while everybody else just keeps looking at Ed like he’s started to froth at the mouth. “There is only one alchemist who has succeeded in making the stone, and he has sworn to take the secrets of the process to the grave. He has since destroyed it along with all of his research in order to prevent those such as Voldemort from obtaining them.”
“Right.” It’s definitely dead people. Ed inhales, pressing his hands palm to palm in front of his face, no array active but only through serious effort. “Okay. Let me recap real quick. You’ve got a supposedly immortal, extremely powerful individual who has separated himself into
seven
pieces, at least one of which has been known to act independently and maliciously against you? And he’s after philosopher’s stones?”
Beardy looks slightly pained, but nods. “More or less.”
Ed twists in place to point his still-joined palms at Mustang and the rest. “Anyone else getting a
really shit
case of deja vu over here?”
“Yes,” the Mustang-Hawkeye-Hughes trifecta answers in chorus, in one deeply unamused tone.
Arget raises her hand. “Corporal Arget,” Mustang acknowledges. He’s still staring Beardy down.
“Is this like what was happening that time we all got our souls sucked out, sir?”
“Exactly like.”
“Yessir. Thank you sir.”
The wizards are now looking like it’s less of a rabies and more of a gentle straightjacket and softly padded room situation.
“All
of you got your souls sucked out?” Psycho says skeptically.
“Yeah, our whole country nearly got murdered in one night, it fucking sucked,” Ed says flatly. “The Hairy kid’s dad wouldn’t happen to be immortal, would he?”
“His father is dead,” Mustache says, sounding too weirded out to be pointedly flat about it.
“Like dead dead, or faked his death to go on the run and set up a counterattack dead?” Ed asks, on the off chance that this really is some kind of impossible running parallel to Ed’s own teenage years, like evil immortality-obsessed genocidal bastards with a thing for the number seven are a kind of rail laid down in the fabric of the universe.
“If he weren’t dead I imagine we’d have found out by now,” Mustache says with a bit more bite.
“You’d be surprised,” Ed tells him. “No? Really for sure dead?”
“I saw their bodies,” Psycho says through his teeth.
“Shame,” Ed says. “Anyone else got an immortal and-or supernaturally endowed relative on their side? Mine really helped us out last time, even if he was a collossal fucking dick.”
“Why don’t you go and get yours to help you again, then,” Psycho says irritably.
“He’s dead too,” Ed informs him, unimpressed. “You’re shit outta luck for a replay. Nobody? Doesn’t have to be a dad, we’re not picky. No? Well
great.
Has this lord wingding got a way to shut your magic off?”
That
got them all turning horrified looks on each other.
“Turn magic off?”
Psycho says incredulously.
“No,” Beardy says firmly. “No, he relies too heavily on it himself. I doubt he would even conceive of such a thing… he has always been about subjugating others through stronger magic, proving his superiority over them and demonstrating his mastery over what he considers the ultimate power. He is a half-blood, you see.”
“Uh huh, sure,” Ed says, turning enough to make eye contact with Mustang. “So. We got a problem.”
“Yes, we
have
been telling you,” Lemons says in the tonal equivalent of rolling your eyes.
“You opened with ‘there’s a mother fuckin’ prophecy’, okay, shut up,” Ed says distractedly. A homunculus like Lust or even Gluttony is manageable; even something like Sloth or Pride they can do with coordination and planning. But something like
Father,
that is… not fucking good. “So. Forget resurrection for a second. Immortal or not, he’s still pulling strings in the government, deploying war weapons, he’s orchestrating a genocide and he’s got bits of himself that he can send out to possess and kill people - am I missing anything?”
“The teleportation,” Mustang says, utterly without humor.
“Yeah, right, that. The bitch can teleport.”
“And fly,” Lemons remarks.
Fucking
fly?
“Are you enjoying this?” Ed snaps, twisting again to glare at him.
“Somewhat, yes,” Lemons says unashamedly. “For your information, I witnessed the prophecy as it was foretold, and can personally verify both its existence and influence.”
“Any other fun facts you want to share with us?” Ed demands. “Something useful, maybe? Names and pictures of all these so-called
acquitted
terrorists? Any more magic no-nos that’ll fuck up our ambush?” It occurs to Ed that there is a
very pressing question
they haven’t asked yet. “Does he have any alchemists?”
Pirate snorts. “Our alchemists sit around dreaming about how to turn dragon dung into gold, boy. Voldie doesn’t need them. It’s one in a hundred that has the brains to do anything useful, and they all end up going into potions work anyway because drawing useless rune circles all day doesn’t pay.”
“Someone
made at least one philosopher’s stone,” Ed says pointedly. “That’s pretty goddamn far from useless.”
“No one else has had the successes Flamel had,” Lemons says.
“That you
know of,”
Ed says sharply.
“I believe what you call alchemy may be different from what we know it as,” Beardy says, conciliatory. “It is very much a scholar’s art, here, and much of it theories only of interest to researchers of history. I have never heard of alchemy performed with a touch, or being used in any form of combat.”
“Magic’s faster, see,” Pirate says unpleasantly.
Ed gets a brief flash of how Mustang smirked his
too slow
a split second before everything around him fucking exploded and has to hold in a derisive snort. Mustang gives Pirate a measured look. “A smart alchemist,” he says, “does not freely advertise everything that they can do.”
And making philosopher’s stones has nothing whatsoever to do with combat ability. Not when you’ve got muscle to round up the people you’re sacrificing, anyway, and by all accounts lord wackydoo has no shortage of that. “So let’s assume they have fucking alchemists, too,” Ed says, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “Anything else anyone wants to add to this shit sandwich?”
“This Lucius Malfoy character,” Hughes says, arms folded. “We should pay him a visit, have a little chat. If we can’t access any case files, we may as well get our information firsthand.”
“It wouldn’t do you any good,” Lemons speaks up again, sounding impressively bored. “The dark lord’s inner circle is magically bound to reveal none of his secrets. Even if you managed to take him, interrogating him would give you nothing of use.”
Hughes’ eyebrows rise; Ed, Jones, Havoc and Arget simultaneously lean back in place. When Hughes looks pleasantly surprised like that it means he is seriously, seriously fucking pissed. “You didn’t think to mention this when we outlined our plan of action?”
Lemons raises his eyebrows right back. “My understanding was that you would compel those you captured to return to their lord, and thus follow them,” he says. “They would have a set meeting point to return to, and following them would circumvent the magic that binds their tongues. Otherwise I would have led you to him myself.”
Mustang, Hughes and Hawkeye all swivel to narrow their eyes at him. Ed doesn’t have to swivel. “You were in with the terrorists?”
“Sever us,” Beardy says in a warning tone.
Lemons looks extra lemony even as he pushes up his sleeve and shows off a skull tattoo with a snake in its mouth on his inner forearm. “The dark mark,” he says. “Voldemort brands his followers with such. It contains magic that prevents us from revealing secrets, even under verity serum.”
For fuck’s
sake.
“Shit, it’s even down to the tats,” Ed marvels, caught halfway between laughing until he screams and pinching himself somewhere painful to make sure he isn’t dreaming. “First the ouroboros, now this thing. Is every immortality obsessed freakshow just totally kinked out on snakes? Shit.”
“The skull is an inspired touch,” Mustang says sardonically, pissed enough to openly bitch. “Nice of him to make his followers identifiable only by the complicated and highly involved test of rolling up one’s sleeves.”
“It’s not like they need to care about stealth either, when their government’s already hanging off their dicks and doing such a great PR job for them,” Ed says in disgust. Lust didn’t have it smack-damn in the middle of her tits because it was a fashion statement. The homunculi didn’t care who saw it: anyone who did and knew what it meant was dead meat anyway. Even Greed was cocky about it, though that was just Greed being Greed and not giving a shit.
“What do you mean by verity serum,” Hughes says to Lemons. “It’s used in interrogations?”
“It’s how Malfoy was acquitted,” Pirate grunts. “Three drops of verity serum will have you singing the truth no matter what defenses you have in place - unless you have an active dark mark and Voldie’s protecting you.”
“Malfoy was able to lie, in essence because he was magically prohibited from telling the truth,” Lemons says. “He is very wealthy, very well connected, and very politically active. Even if he weren’t critical to the dark lord’s operations and thus protected, we cannot move directly against him. He has spent fourteen years establishing a reputation as a victim of the dark lord, forced to do what he did under imperius, and his personal security is excessive and spares no expense.”
Rich, connected, political: this is one of lord fuckaroo’s generals, then. Taking out the boss while leaving this guy to walk free is not an option, and somehow Ed doubts that his excessively expensive security is going to do much against, say, his entire house burning down due to a sudden and explosive influx of alchemically ignited oxygen. “Why don’t you give us his address anyway,” Hughes says, clearly on the same train of thought. “We can talk more about this… truth serum and the properties of the tattoo when we have a subject to interrogate. Right now we need to speak with Bones ASAP. Any raids the police has planned, any executions, any disappearances since the resurrection - she needs to examine that very, very closely, and determine exactly where the orders are coming from. We may be able to determine their next move or even potentially the location of the base depending on what they’re using the government for.”
Because if you’re making philosopher’s stones you’re gonna be killing people, and if there
is
some kind of mass array in the works -
fuck
this shit with a rail spike - then it’ll show in the pattern of attacks the terrorists have carried out already. Maybe. Hopefully. Ed wants a fucking drink.
“I will inform her,” Beardy says, just as there’s a knock on the door.
Pirate’s closest, and when he stumps over and opens it it’s Breakfast Lady. “Lunch,” she says, her gaze traveling around the range of expressions around the room - disturbed to deliberately poker-faced to disgusted as hell - and adding her own tension to the spectrum. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, we were just about done,” Mustang says, standing and sweeping his uniform straight. “Lunch sounds perfect. We’ll join you shortly; I need to speak with my team.”
The way he says it makes it clear the dismissal isn’t optional, and Beardy’s at least smart enough not to put up a fight. “Lunch indeed,” he says, standing as well and mutating his armchair back into its original grody mess with a rush of shimmering air and a wave of his stick. “Thank you, Molly. Roy - I must depart for the ministry to lay the groundwork you have requested for Hairy, and to pass on your requests to Amelia. We will return here this evening and give you what information we can. Alastor can contact me for you if there is any pressing matter.”
Looks like they’re still going to cooperate with the disappear the kid plan, though frankly they’ve got no way to know exactly what the hell Beardy will be telling who, or what it’ll lead to. At least the kid will be here with Havoc, so nobody can “accidentally” fake Hairy’s death so hard he actually dies. “Is there anything else?” Beardy says politely.
“Why yes. Mr. Malfoy’s home address,” Hughes says brightly.
Pirate snorts. “It’s a sodding great mansion with a yard full of peacocks and a gate that says MALFOY in solid silver letters. It’s a little hard to miss.”
“So you’ll take us then? Excellent,” Hughes says. “We’ll let you know when we’re ready to make our visit.”
That’s not great, but since the wizards all travel by fucking teleportation it’s probably the best they’re gonna get. Fuck, they’re
seriously
at a disadvantage with the teleporting; Ed needs to get someone to spell Havoc so he can see about going out and getting them some of the local cars.
Pirate looks about as happy to be pressganged as field trip chaperone as they are to need him. “And much good may it do you. The bastard’s slippery as a greased eel. You’re better off targeting Voldy first.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Mustang says, smiling his
get the fuck out of my office
smile. “Thank you, we’ll be joining you shortly.”
“Until later, then,” Beardy says, inclining his head and sweeping out the door, and the rest of the wizards follow him, Psycho and Mustache both sending a couple of last glances over their shoulders.
The door shuts behind them. Mustang folds his arms and moves to stand on the other side of Ed so that they can all see each other in a grim little circle. “So,” Hughes says.
“Reinforcements,” Hawkeye says.
“Fifth Company East is deployment-ready and closest to the border,” Mustang says. “But anything from Amestris will take a week to get here on physical distance alone -”
“- and never on bureaucracy,” Hughes finishes. “They’ll have to go through Xing. The Emperor will never allow it, not even as a personal favor.”
“If we inform his Imperial Highness of the growing threat at his border via a request for medical aid for a child,” Mustang says, thoughtful, “we may get Xingese troops instead.”
“And then owe Ling Yao anyway for the rest of your days,” Hughes says.
Mustang shoots him a look. “After we do him the favor of alerting him to the threat practically on his doorstep? He helped us against the homunculi before.”
“Because he wanted a stone, and then because Bradley ripped his girlfriend’s goddamn arm off,” Hughes says bluntly. “And he was just Ling Yao then. Right now even if we send Edward to bat his eyelashes and ask pretty please we’re still dealing with the entire Dragon Throne, and do
you
want to play that game? Because I don’t.”
“I’m
going
to be playing that game regardless, Maes,” Mustang growls, then adds, to prop up the pathetic veneer of deniability re: whose ass is landing in the Fuhrer’s seat next in front of Jones and Arget, “Reinforcements have to come through Xing no matter what. We’ll be talking to Emperor Yao anyway.”
“State Alchemists,” Hawkeye suggests. “Through the intelligence courier routes. Strong Arm, Stardust, Electric Storm.”
“We can
maybe
get you those three, but any more and we’re sightseeing the inside of a Xingese border prison,” Hughes says. “Not that we can afford more combat alchemists anyway. We’d be pulling Strong Arm and Electric Storm from Ishval as it is.”
And Ishval needs Armstrong and Kendra both, seeing as they can set up buildings and electric systems in a third of the time it takes four different sets of construction and engineering crews; the earthquake last month set back the reconstruction efforts by nearly half a year and the province is still essentially in a state of emergency due to ruptured water supply. Kozlova’s in Mustang’s pocket too, but she’s on the Drachman border and will take four times as long to get here. Ed doesn’t trust any of the other combat-certified alchemists as far as he can throw them, and Mustang doesn’t trust them as far as
he
can throw them, which is a lot less further than Ed can.
Mustang must be having the same thought, because he turns to Ed.
“Do
we need reinforcements?”
Give me a solution, Fullmetal. Ed exhales hard and presses both sets of fingertips into the pressure points around his sinuses. He’s got a pack of soul bits that might be homunculi with various unknown powers, a kid who may or may not have a piece of the head terrorist’s soul bound to his brain, a handful of allies who are either okay with killing the kid or too dumb to see their leader is going to let it happen through deliberate negligence, a totally corrupt government that sends
fear monsters
after kids or at least covers for people who do, and it’s all adding up to a brewing genocide at the behest of an alchemically powerful madman pulling the strings of an entire society. It’s the goddamn Promised Day all over again.
So, all firepower to the table, then.
Only it’s all on the other side of Xing, or comes with an imperial price tag attached. Hughes was right - if it comes to it Ed
will
hit up Ling and tell him to come help them kick ass, but while Ling and Emperor Yao might wear the same underpants they aren’t exactly the same person. Not anymore. And Emperor Yao might decide that the way to pacify his fractious outer provinces is to organize his country into a nice unifying invasion of the wizard lands. Even if Ling
doesn’t
decide that, he
knows
it’ll be Mustang in the Central Office sometime in the next five years, and he is not a guy dumb enough to let that opportunity go - and with Ed’s luck, he’s just as likely to demand Ed on loan for a year in imperial service as he is to demand more favorable tarriffs from Amestrisan trade.
Fucking
politics.
That’s not Ed’s job. Fuck. Okay. One thing at a time. Macro shit aside. Think small scale. What do they need for the op.
Well, if what they’re dealing with is a homunculus like Father, what they need is a
fucking airstrike.
Ed exhales again and shuts his eyes. What the wizards consider unkillable isn’t what they consider unkillable. Those two dementers were dangerous, sure, but they died, objectively, without too much of a fuss. That’s their big bad war weapons: That was what got sent to assassinate Hairy; it’s what might get sent again.
If something killed your unkillable weapons, what you’d send after would be something worse.
Okay, enough with the catastrophizing. Assume, just for now, that lord whoopsie-doodle is
not
like Father. Dangerous assumption, but one, this guy’s not quietly biding his time until shit’s too late to stop him, he’s parading around calling himself Lord Etcetera and naming his terrorist group
death eaters.
Two, he
did
get KO’d by magic rebound or backfire or whatever and that apparently took him out for fourteen years. Three, the fact that he was trying to
get
philosopher’s stones assumes that he didn’t
have
philosopher’s stones, and though that’s very likely changed now - bodily restoration is pretty fuckin’ strong evidence - if that only happened a few months ago, he’s going to be nowhere near as well established as Father was.
The basic plan of action stays the same. They need to raid the base. To raid the base they need to find it, and for that they’ll need to capture and interrogate whoever -
what
ever - gets sent to murder and-or kidnap Hairy. Or when they raid the Malfoy guy’s house, whichever they end up doing first. Interrogation is up to Hughes; capture, Ed can do. He’ll ram up some asphalt again, Mustang can pull the oxygen, whatever’s trapped inside will pass out, whoopty-hoo.
If that doesn’t work they’ll try something else. They’ll get an idea of capabilities and defenses through all that; catastrophize
then.
Lord whatsit. Mustang thinks a kill from a distance is the best bet and he’s not wrong. Hawkeye doesn’t have her rifle with her so it’ll be Mustang, so long as Ed can get him line of sight. And so long as there isn’t any magic armor or shielding or whatever. That’s a
big
question mark and Ed doesn’t fucking like it, doesn’t like that they know basically jack shit - when Ed finds their base they’ll have to go in, Mustang won’t just torch the building without making sure there aren’t any hostages or anything inside, and if they’re going in they need to know what they’re getting into. If
Ed
was a magic terrorist with a secret base he’d not only have every single thing booby trapped down to the toilet flushers, there’d be a damn moat full of crocodiles and a motherfucking drawbridge, too, and he’s not about to assume the terrorists are any less nasty or inventive with their defenses than he’d be, not with lives on the line.
If they get the terrorists out in the open, away from their grounded defenses, that’s better odds but still fucking
ass
because even if they ambush the group in convoy, Ed has to assume that even if
none
of them is a homunculus,
all of them can still fucking teleport
. And that’s on top of whatever goddamn combat magic they’ll be shown this evening
.
Mustang would have to obliterate everything in the kill zone wall to fuckin’ wall to make sure nobody would be popping up behind them, and that might not even be possible, depending on the terrain. No, long-range sniper fire really is their best bet. Ed needs to get Hawkeye a rifle. Possible homunculi; Ed needs to get Hawkeye explosive rounds.
But even then she might only get the one shot. There’s only one of her, more’s the pity, and even if lord ravioli is only human and she takes his head off right from the word go, what’s stopping one of his pals from teleporting right behind her and firing back? Mustang’s range is half of Hawkeye’s with her fuckoff-huge Kerchatka 82, so attackers would have to get closer for Mustang to be able to back her up. Hawkeye’s survival would depend on the wizards not being able to track where the bullet came from, because even if Ed, Mustang and Havoc were all covering her on high alert,
teleporting
is
real fuckin’ hard to defend against.
Any defense would have to be area-effect, centered on themselves, and anything that would drop a teleporting surprise attacker would affect them, too.
There’s just too many unknowns, on top of an already dangerous wizard ability that’s freely available to anyone down to random seventeen year olds. Smartypants talked about wards that prevented teleporting, but Ed’s not about to trust his team’s lives to strangers using strange magic that they don’t even understand. He needs his own guarantees here. And if what they’re up against
does
turn out to be a Promised Day-scale problem, then he can’t afford to not kick with everything he has.
He needs magic out of the picture.
“You know what? Fuck this,” Ed says out loud, dropping his hands and opening his eyes. “If we have to do things the hard way, so do they. Just get me Al.”
Mustang’s eyebrows rise very slightly, just commentary, no surprise. “Not that Alphonse isn’t formidable, but is that all the reinforcements you were imagining?”
“If we do it right, yeah,” Ed retorts. “Do you want this done in half the time or not? Get me Al.
We’re
gonna turn their magic off.”
And oh, Ed fucking
hates
that one of his favorite looks on Mustang is the goddamn Good Dog, Fullmetal: deeply approving, mildly impressed. “Can you?”
“You fucking said it. Radiation means measurable emissions,” Ed says. “Identify the type and I can negate it, shield against it, whatever. All I need to know is what it is. We got our alchemy turned off that one time. No reason we can’t do the same.”
“I doubt we have time to establish an array around the entire country,” Mustang says, but he sounds thoughtful.
“We don’t need to. We just set it in our ambush ground.” Ed rubs his nose tiredly. “If we’re dealing with a homunculus I’m not taking chances.”
“And with our allies here having things so
very
well in hand,” Mustang says dryly. “I wonder why exactly no one saw fit to mention earlier that their Snape gentleman used to be one of the ‘dark lord’s inner circle’.”
“And the fucking… you heard what the fuck Beardy was saying, right? They’re gonna kill that kid,” Ed says. “Or at least stand by while he gets killed. No way was posting one loser guard an accident. I’m keeping Havoc on him until we can figure out whatever’s going on with his soul.”
“We may have to move on the Malfoy individual first,” Mustang says. “Given their descriptions he would be a primary target anyway. Raiding a civilian’s private residence will eliminate any element of surprise we had, of course, and may destroy any chance of presenting ourselves formally to their head of state as anything other than the advance guard of an Amestrisan war delegation.” He sighs. “Just to be clear, our goal is
not
to start another war. If only because requesting to move troops through Xing will get us laughed out of the embassy, if not give us two wars outright.”
“Yeah, I’d rather quietly take some terrorists prisoners instead, too,” Hughes says. “We need the intel, we’re nearly flying blind here as it is. That reminds me - Arget, remember that little thought experiment you did about information theory and troubleshooting compromised systems?”
“Yes sir?”
“Congratulations, it’s going live. Make me one of your little matrices for a wizard who can’t tell the truth about where their evil terrorist boss is.”
“Yessir.”
“We’re not telling the wizards the truth about what me and Al will be working on either,” Ed warns the room. “Their opsec is like, fucking zero. If they ask tell ‘em it’s for Al to give Hairy an exorcism or whatever.”
“And if your proposed array doesn’t work, Fullmetal?” Mustang says.
Ed shoots Mustang a dirty look. He knows they have to plan for worst case scenario here, but his arrays
fucking work,
thanks. “Then I tell Mei to tell Ling to invade fuckin’ wizard world if she doesn’t want her prince charming to end up partying like it’s the Promised Day all over again.”
Mustang nods, expression distinctly satisfied. “Hawkeye?”
Hawkeye stands. “I’ll see which of our hosts is available to play escort to the Divide.”
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 is sort of dumb, but Leia finds out she’s pregnant from the Force. Honestly, though, she’s got more going on than any self-respecting twenty-five-year-old should and she only signs stuff from medical that’s approving her pilots to go back on duty. The last time she got a head cold was like five or six years ago and she’d spent most of it in a safehouse on Grizmallt, blowing her nose into Han’s spare shirts vindictively and melting protein rations into soup over a plasma torch. Doctors are a waste of time.
“Clearly not,” Luke says. “Aren’t you worried about somebody intercepting this transmission?”
“Who, those dickheads from Ren?” Leia says. “Please, if they could intercept one percent of our transmissions I’d have actual work to do and I wouldn’t be wasting my time calling you.”
At the other end of the connection, Luke is frowning from underneath his overdramatic hood. He’s growing a beard, she thinks--the connection is fuzzy--but it’s coming in patchily and makes him look like the kind of drunk you find dead face-down in a puddle. Han’s people, if you will.
“I don’t know why you need my help,” Luke is saying. The beard is distracting, Leia keeps wanting to laugh. “You tell Han you’re having a baby, he cries, you have the baby. What part of this do you need my help with?”
Leia says, “I don’t need your help, I’m asking if the Force is working properly.”
“That sounds like you need my help,” Luke tells her. Leia isn’t sure which of them is older--it’s definitely her--but Luke sounds right now like he’s jockeying for the position.
Through her teeth, Leia says, “I’m asking you to humor me; there’s a difference. Should it feel like happy indigestion? That’s what it feels like.”
Leia’s office has been equipped with a comm system the entire time she’s been stationed here, but she’s never used it before; the one in the main briefing room is bigger and Leia’s rarely needed privacy to yell at somebody over a transmission. It’s weird how intimate it feels when Luke’s face is so tiny, projected right in front of hers. Even the stupidity of his beard isn’t enough to shake off the sensation of closeness. Maybe it’s making her even fonder of him, like some kind of psychological torture.
Luke’s face twists. “I honestly have never been in a position to know if pregnancy feels like happy indigestion.”
Leia is going to burn that stupid beard right off of his stupid face. “You’re an idiot,” she tells him flatly. If she puts her hand over her stomach--over her uterus, really--she can feel something there. Not with her hand, but with a kind of extension of her hand, an extraneous nerve ending she can’t see. Something is roiling just out of focus.
Luke rolls his eyes so hard that part of his face goes out of frame.
“Congratulations,” Leia says, “you’re going to be an uncle,” and then she signs off.
~
Luke shows up on a supply transport one twelve-day week later, stepping dramatically off of the freighter and flipping his hood down in the middle of the crowded flight deck. Leia’s nearby because Han is under the impression that he’s going to man the next supply freighter to Gan Moradir, even though there are warrants for his arrest out in seventeen planets in that system.
“What are you going to do when you end up in jail?” Leia is yelling at him. “Because I’m not going to waste valuable resources sending a lawyer to bail you out!”
“I didn’t ask for a lawyer!” Han is yelling back. The supply freighter lands behind him; a passel of deck monkeys run out to deal with it. “I didn’t ask your opinion at all, in fact!”
“Yeah, and that’s just one of your many problems,” Leia says. “Including delusions, apparently. There’s plenty of actual work you could be doing that would be useful, instead of galavanting off to play the charming smuggler--”
“
Galavanting
?” Han hisses. This is when the landing deck yawns open and the freighter’s crew jumps out to meet the deck monkeys. There’s a lot of back-slapping and yelling, which is difficult to make out over Han putting a hand to his chest like he’s Leia’s Great-Aunt Silara and saying, “
Playing
?”
“You can smuggle on your own time,” Leia says. “You get a dozen vacation days a year just like everybody else. But on my time, on Alliance time, you do what I tell you.”
“First of all,” Han says, “you don’t technically outrank me anymore,
General Organa
. Second of all, in what universe have I ever gotten a dozen vacation days from this measly--”
Luke steps off of the freighter, pauses, and throws back his hood. The sunlight glints on his hair and his now slightly less patchy beard, making him look regal to anybody within eyesight who’s too dumb to know that her brother is actually an idiot. There’s a sort of gasp as everybody sucks in air--except for Han, still complaining about the vacation days that he would know about if he’d ever bothered to read his employment contract--and then it erupts into hysterical shrieking. It comes out as a kind of mass
MASTER LUKE
.
“Maker fucking save me,” Leia mutters under her breath.
Han half-turns and, seeing Luke, says, “What disaster’s brought him home?”
It’s probably not the Force that makes Leia’s stomach feel like it swoops down into her knees.
“Hey, kid,” Han continues as Luke pushes through his crowd of well-wishers to come say hello. There’s a sort of respectful circle forming around Luke, like people are too afraid to actually hug the only known living Jedi Knight etcetera etcetera etcetera, which is hilarious on multiple levels. “I almost didn’t recognize your face under that dead vole.” He pulls Luke in for a rough hug; this makes the people talk even more loudly. There’s a kind of festive feel to the moment. How long has it been since Luke’s come to see them? Clearly too long.
Leia doesn’t realize she’s crossed her arms over her chest until she has to uncross them to hug him. “Hello, Luke,” she says. Even her broad irritation with Han and her minute irritation with Luke isn’t enough to keep her from clasping him tightly. Her arms get swallowed up in all of his robe’s accoutrements. She thinks,
I’m happy to see you
, but doesn’t say it because it probably won’t be true as soon as she confirms why he’s here.
“Hey, sis,” Luke says cheerfully. “Did you get shorter while I was gone, or?”
Leia punches him in the kidney.
~
“Of course I came because you’re pregnant,” Luke says. He has his
who, me? I’m just an innocent moisture farmer from Tatooine
eyeballs wide open and blinking dewily. “My only sister! Pregnant!”
“I am going to suffocate you with your own cloak,” Leia threatens.
Apparently the Force tells Luke that this is not a viable threat; he folds his hands into the sleeves of his cloak and smiles at her. “Have you told Han yet?” he asks her. He’s made the mistake of agreeing to meet Leia in her office, which is a tactical loss on his end. Leia occupies herself with shuffling a pile of datapads and transmission read-outs.
“No,” she says when she’s good and ready, which is about thirty seconds later. Luke hasn’t said anything in this interim, but Leia can feel his eyes boring into the top of her skull. “It hasn’t come up yet.”
“It’s not just going to come up,” Luke says. “Unless you’re referring to vomit.”
Leia makes a face at Luke for this. Clearly, traveling around the universe and kidnapping Force-sensitive toddlers from their parents has not done anything to improve his peasant humor.
“You’re accusing me of having peasant humor, aren’t you?” Luke asks. His eyes have narrowed now and they make him look like a very unattractive greeper. Leia is Force-sensitive, just like Luke’s kidnapping victims, so she can feel the edges of his mind sort of prodding hers. It’s a weird feeling that Leia 100% doesn’t like; it reminds her too much of being fourteen and having to yell for her parents not to come into her room when they knocked.
“No,” Leia says. She can’t even begin to think of all the ways she doesn’t want to think about her parents. “I’m accusing you of being ugly.”
Luke stops looking narrow-eyed. “It’s your gene pool too,” he says. “Maybe your baby is going to look like me.” He stops short of actually fluffing his hair but Leia can read his telegraphed intent like he’s on the other side of a sparring mat. Of all the stupid stuff General Kenobi did in his life, introducing Luke to Han was definitely up there amongst the stupidest. “Wouldn’t that be lucky?”
In lieu of a verbal response, Leia huffs, “Hm!” pointedly and looks at Luke’s muddy boots, which are propped on the edge of her desk.
Ignoring this, Luke returns to his original point. “I don’t understand why you can’t just tell him. It’s not like space scurvy, he’s definitely going to notice a baby running around in eight--eight?” He looks at Leia’s stomach, frowns, says, “Eight and a half months.”
“Babies don’t run, idiot,” Leia says. She pointedly flicks another look at Luke’s boots. If any of that mud gets on her transmission print-outs, she’s going to make him copy them out by hand. “Toddlers run. Babies have to be carried around like drums of protein rations.”
Sounding repressive and annoyed, Luke says, “Don’t you sound excited to be a mother.”
Even the word makes Leia cringe. “I don’t have to be excited,” she tells him. She can hear how tight her voice gets, choked in the middle of her throat like a gloved hand. “I don’t know why you even bothered coming. Don’t you have children to kidnap from their parents somewhere off in the galaxy? Who’s even watching them with you here?”
“The kids are fine,” Luke says. He’s gone from annoyed to concerned, eyebrows tightly together in the middle of his forehead. “Mara’s watching them. It’s fine, they always listen better to her anyway. Look, Leia, if this is about Vader--”
Leia says, “
Get your boots off of my desk
.”
Luke puts his feet on the floor.
~
That night, Leia dreams about a long, cold corridor. All sides of it are made of molded plastic, white and hard, and Leia is riding R2D2 like a tauntaun down it, holding onto his antenna for balance. She’s very concerned about her stability but she knows that she shouldn’t put her feet on the floor. Somebody’s chasing her; steady, measured steps that make her shiver. Her grip on R2D2’s antenna is slippery, her palm clammy from sweat.
“Hey,” Han says. Leia jerks awake to find him staring down at her, most of his hair standing upright with the front all mashed down. He looks ridiculous. “You okay?”
“What?” Leia says groggily. Han normally sleeps up against her back, both arms curled around her neck
to get a better stranglehold, princess
, but he’s propped up and blinking down at her. He comes awake so fast; Leia has to struggle out of sleep like she’s peeling her way out of a vat of molten transparisteel.
Han says, “You were saying ‘faster, R2, faster.’ Really distinctly.”
“Just a dream,” Leia tells him. “S’fine. Back to sleep.”
“
You
go back to sleep,” Han says, turning in half a second from concerned to surly. It’s incredible that he’s awake enough to even muster real emotions. Instead of replying with words, which would take too much energy, Leia puts her hand over Han’s face and pushes him away.
“Your nose s’cold,” Leia says.
“Mph!” Han replies pointedly, muffled by Leia’s hand over his face. Leia is already asleep by this point; she misses the rest of whatever Han says, fingers curling against his mouth.
~
Leia has hacked enough med droids in her time that she should know better, but she’s also not a backwater idiot who thinks that “The Force told me” is an actual test for conception. The Force had told her when Luke had nearly died in an asteroid belt off of Golm, and she’d been indescribably disturbed by one of the quartermaster staff who’d turned out to be a plant from those Ren dickheads, but that doesn’t make it a magical baby sensor.
“Con-Grat-U-Lations,” the med droid says, staunchly attempting enthusiasm. “You have tested 98% positive for pregnancy. I will amend your medical records accordingly.”
“That’s not necessary,” Leia tries.
“Per executive order RA-198 from the office of General Leia Organa, all medical files are to be immediately amended at time of consultation.” The med droid wheezes and then says, “Do you wish to terminate your pregnancy?”
“Ugh,” Leia says.
“I’m sorry,” the med droid replies. “I cannot parse your meaning. Can you please repeat your response?”
“No,” Leia finally says, with great reluctance, “not at this time.”
“Your files have been amended, General Organa,” the med droid says. “Should you wish to terminate your pregnancy, assistance will be provided by myself or another med droid.” With another wheeze, the med droid issues a ticker tape prescription out of the front of its chestplate. “Please follow these medical advisaries.”
The med droid hands Leia the thin sheet of plastic and wheels out of the room, off to perform diagnostic tests elsewhere. Leia’s important enough that she’d been able to call the med droid to her office and now she’s sort of regretting it. Maybe the starkness of the medbay would’ve helped her make a concrete decision. Rebel Alliance or not, Order of Ren nonsense or not, plenty of people in Leia’s position have begun to have babies. The colony on Yavin 4 is infested with them--every time Leia stops by to have tea with retired friends, there’s a passel of indistinguishable toddlers climbing over everything in reach. It’s not like the worst of the war, when children were a terrible idea sure to result in stress and death. The war would have been an easy excuse.
Leia tries to conceptualize herself with a baby, her abdomen distended in front of her as an incubator and nuisance. It’s easy to imagine but it’s happening in her head like a scene from one of her aunts’ favorite torrid holo dramas--her big belly, soft music in the background, Han wearing some kind of open-necked tunic and standing behind her in front of a window.
“What a bunch of bantha shit,” Leia mutters to herself. She shoves the prescription up the sleeve of her jacket and goes to scare up some hot water for tea.
Originally, she’d figured that she would have to sneak out to a pharmaceutical droid during the supper hour--Han is a sucker for regimented meal times--but she walks out of her office straight into a petty officer who snaps her a salute and says, “Ma’am, the
Millennium Falcon
’s just taken off. General Solo wanted me to tell you that he’s joined security for the supply freighter to Gan Moradir.”
Petty Officer Brihil has not been here long enough to know that she’s been selected as the fresh meat that’s easily disposable and therefore prime to bear bad news. Because of this, Leia doesn’t lose her temper at Petty Officer Brihil so much as the empty corridor over her right shoulder.
“That fucking piece of
shit
,” Leia hisses. She clenches her fists and hears the plastic prescription in her sleeve crunch.
“Um,” Petty Officer Brihil says, clearly realizing now that she’s been played.
“You’re excused,” Leia tells her. Is she actually seeing red or is it just the sun setting? Biology is amazing. “Also, Petty Officer--the next time somebody who doesn’t outrank you tells you to bring me news about General Solo, tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“Right,” Petty Officer Brihil says faintly. “Of--course, ma’am.”
~
Leia’s mother had had numerous miscarriages.
You were a great blessing
, she had said when Leia was a young child who wanted siblings; this was before they’d adopted Winter and Neena. In the background, Leia could remember her father saying,
And our greatest curse
, because Leia had spent the previous month refusing to comb her hair and one of her mother’s handmaidens had had to be recruited to brush out the snarls.
Once Winter and Neena had come, they’d needed five adults to run herd--Leia remembers this very clearly. When they were properly supervised with a ratio of more than one adult per child, it hadn’t been so bad; Neena had always been the worst of them, mischievous and amoral, and Leia and Winter had been perfectly behaved so that they would look good in contrast and get extra servings of dessert. Neena always threw the tantrums.
But unsupervised, their childhood had been a series of disasters. Leia had never brushed her hair and often ran away from home, Winter liked painting the cats bright colors, and Neena had been a screaming hellion who had set the summer pavilion on fire on four separate occasions, all of which she claimed to be accidents precipitated by faulty droids.
Leia tries to imagine a small child with Neena’s propensity for trouble loose on the
Falcon
, and it honestly makes her want to throw up.
~
The Gan Moradir supply run always takes a week but Leia figures it’ll take them a month because Han will surely be captured by one of his slimy underworld contacts and taken hostage and need rescuing. Luke is still lurking around, lounging in dark shadows and saying mysterious things to the youngest recruits, and Leia is ignoring him. She’s taking the prenatal supplements.
Six days after Han’s departure, Leia is aggressively ignoring Luke as he lounges in the back of her office, supposedly fixing some kind of short in C-3PO’s left leg but in reality talking to himself loudly and annoyingly. His mechanic shit is everywhere, spanners in piles on chairs and screws rolling around the floor.
“Don’t you have somewhere better to do this?” Leia asks him pointedly. “Like your quarters?”
“My sister isn’t in my quarters,” Luke says, not looking up from the inside of C-3PO’s leg. “I’m visiting to see my sister. Hey, 3PO, are you still getting the weird feeling?”
“I am afraid so, Master Luke,” C-3PO says fretfully. “I can’t
imagine
what it could be!”
“That’s why I’m here, bud,” Luke says. He pulls his head out of C-3PO’s leg and looks at Leia. “Weren’t you not talking to me?”
“I felt like I should register a complaint more formally,” Leia says, slamming her datapad down on her desk and sending a pile of shiny junk to the floor. “What is that?” she asks him, pointing at it. “Why is this here? I run half of a Rebel Alliance out of this office and you’re just piling your junk on any flat surface.”
Frowning, Luke says, “It’s not junk, it’s 3PO’s peripheral nervous system.”
Leia rolls her eyes so hard that she almost gives herself a headache. She’s opening her mouth to tell Luke where he can take C-3PO and his peripheral nervous system when the door to her office swishes open and Han is in the doorway, face red and hair standing on end.
“I’m honestly impressed I didn’t have to send a lawyer,” Leia tells him. “Did you shoot anybody important I should know about?”
Instead of addressing this legitimate concern, Han raises a finger and points it at her. His finger is shaking. “
You!
” he roars.
“Me,” Leia says back flatly. “What is it now?” If anybody in this office has a reason to be angry, it’s Leia, who had issued an express order to a subordinate that was subsequently ignored. Han’s lucky she doesn’t feel like court martialing him.
“You and me are getting married, princess,” Han continues, loudly, still standing mostly in the hallway. Probably half of the base is listening to this crap.
“Ha!” Leia barks.
“Oh no,” Han says, slowly and lethally. “I mean it. You’re knocked up? Fine. But we’re getting married.”
That
rat bastard
. “Did you tell him?” Leia says, accusative, to Luke. He’s staring down C-3PO’s leg and avoiding eye contact.
“He didn’t have to tell me, I have a flag on your medical records,” Han tells her. “What’s more interesting here is that you didn’t tell me, your worshipfulness.” He’s not quite so loud now, but Leia is too proud to pull him into her office to have this conversation in private. If he wants to have this fight in front of every petty officer between here and the Outer Rim, fine.
“How dare you!” Leia says.
“How dare
you
!” Han replies instantaneously. “I mean it. Jedi Knights can perform wedding ceremonies, can’t they?” He says this to Luke like Leia’s not in the room, being coerced into getting married to a man who literally can’t stay planet-side for more than half a second before his attention span slingshots him into some kind of criminal disaster.
“Fuck you,” Leia says. “Who said anything about getting married? Did
Luke
say anything about getting married?”
“Luke is not involved,” Luke says, not looking up.
“Hey, Luke is not involved,” Han says, pointing at her. She’s going to bite his finger off, then they’ll see how much pointing he can do with it. “This is about you and me, princess.”
“There’s not going to be a you and me,” Leia says. “I’m going to have this baby with C-3PO.”
C-3PO says, “
Madam
,” tremulous.
Han’s hands go to his hips. “Nice try,” he says, “but we’re doing this the right way. I don’t know how they do it on Alderaan, princess, but on Corellia, you get married before the kid.”
By this point, Leia has become literally inarticulate with rage. “What?” she sputters. “Are you saying we’re getting married because--you--
you
--think it’s--right?! Manners?!”
“Yes!” Han bellows.
“No!” Leia tells him. “I can’t believe this. Get out of my office, all of you! I have a job to do that doesn’t involve fucking around with you nerfherders.”
“This isn’t over,” Han threatens. He points his finger at her again as he disappears around the corner. One day, Leia is going to cut that thing off in his sleep. There’s a series of loud clattering noises in the hallway as Han stomps off, probably eavesdroppers rushing to find something less incriminating to be doing with their time.
Luke finally puts down C-3PO’s dismembered leg. “Leia,” he says slowly. There’s a lot in Luke’s voice, his expressive eyebrows. For years, it had been Leia and her sisters; it still strikes her at the most improbable of times that this is her twin, that long before Leia had emotionally badgered her parents into adopting siblings for her to boss around, she had shared a uterus with this uniquely irritating human being.
“That goes for you and your junk, too,” she tells him.
“Yeah,” he says levelly, picking through the pile of C-3PO’s nervous system parts on the floor. “I got that.” Leia waits but he’s quiet as he picks up a tiny screwdriver and an even tinier screw. In the end, she huffs out an angry sigh and goes back to work; it’s not like this base is going to run itself.
~
Leia has a series of meetings during and after supper and she stays in her office another hour beyond that, late enough that the lights in the corridors have switched to after-hours half-power. Her aide is going to be ecstatic in the morning; in order to legitimately use the time, Leia had caught up on all of last quarter’s financials.
She’s equal parts dreading Han not being in their quarters and hoping that he’s sleeping in the
Falcon
; her head hurts at the temples and she wants to sit in the shower without having to worry about being ambushed with Corellian wedding customs.
“Oh, great,” she says when she opens the door and Han’s brushing his teeth in the attached bath, shirtless and framed by the stark light above the sink.
“Mhmhph,” Han says through a mouthful of toothpaste. He looks less red in the face but still surly. His clothes have been flung across the bed, because he’s the kind of heathen who comes from a place that requires that people get married before procreating.
“What was that,” Leia asks tiredly, “more demands?” She kicks off her boots and begins to unlace the front of her jacket.
Han spits into the sink. “You look tired,” he enunciates.
“I wonder whose fault that is,” Leia says. “Maybe the idiot who ambushed me in my office and told half the base that I was pregnant? Maybe they’re responsible for the subsequent five hours I spent having my hand shaken by every rear admiral, captain, and commander that I came across? The petty officers just saluted.” At first it had been funny.
Han sticks his mouth under the faucet, gargles, and spits. Leia can’t even get up the energy to wish that he would drown himself. “Maybe if I hadn’t found out from a tap on a med droid, I’d’ve been a little more friendly,” he says sourly.
“I can’t believe you hacked my medical records,” Leia tells him. “It’s such an incredible waste of time; I’m never sick.”
“Well, it paid off, didn’t it?” Han holds his hand over the light switch. “You need anything in here?”
“No,” she says crabbily, peeling off her pants and then crawling across the bed. She takes care to kick all of Han’s clothes onto the floor before she shimmies under the covers. “If you’d taken half a second to think it through before barging into my office, maybe you would have realized that you running off deliberately against my orders didn’t exactly fill me with enthusiasm to raise helpless and dependent offspring with you.”
Han, who had been stooping down to pick up stray shirts and pants, stops in the middle of the floor between the bed and the bathroom, arms full of clothes. “Helpless and dependent?
Against orders
?”
After a half-second of flopping around, Leia has to sit up to punch her pillow into the right shape. “I told you not to go with the supply freighter. It was a stupid move and you know it. How close did you get to being arrested?”
“I didn’t even have time to land on Gan Moradir before I got the transmission from my tap,” Han says. He’s shoving their clothes into the laundry shoot in the wall as he adds, firmly but not in a combative way, “But that’s not the point. I’m not here to listen to your orders, princess.”
“Everybody is here to listen to my orders,” Leia says. “That’s the point of being a goddamn general.”
“Nice try,” Han says. He flicks off the lights as he comes to bed, but the safety lights embedded in the ceiling mean that Leia can see him still, face turned blue in the low light. “You don’t outrank me.”
Flopping onto her side, Leia says, “Technically--”
“--technically we’re the same rank,” Han interrupts, sliding into the bed behind her. “Maybe I don’t have the blue blood, but on this base, we’re the same rank. You do me the courtesy of not barking orders, I’ll do you the courtesy of maybe listening.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Leia says.
“Deal?” Han asks. He shoves his hand and then arm under her neck, curving his body along her back. “Do you want to take your hair down?”
“It’s fine for now,” Leia says. Her head hurts too much to face the thought of brushing her hair out. “And no deal. How about you do me the courtesy of not flagrantly breaking laws for an adrenaline rush and I’ll stop telling the flight deck to ground the
Falcon
.”
“That’s not a compromise,” Han says into her hair. Her hand comes up to hold both of his, between her breasts and warm under the covers. The Force-feeling of riotous indigestion feels better than it has in a few days; probably it’s because the bed is so warm with Han there. “And the marriage discussion hasn’t been tabled, sweetheart.”
“Call me sweetheart in that tone of voice
one more time
,” Leia threatens sleepily.
~
It takes another week for the rest of the supply freighter to make it back from Gan Moradir bearing prescription medications, drums of protein rations, and fourteen crates of QUARTERMASTER MISC. that disappears into the depths of the base before the chief deck monkey has more than half a minute to catalog their existence; Leia gets an irritated message about that that she deletes immediately.
“Are you even paying attention?” Luke demands. Leia looks up from her datapad to see that he’s standing in front of her desk, hands on his hips. After spending a few weeks on the base he’s stopped with the dramatic Jedi Knight costume and is wearing a jumpsuit with patches on the elbows and inside thighs that looks like it’s been repurposed from one of Leia’s squadrons.
“What?” Leia says belatedly.
Luke’s face twitches; he’s probably raising an eyebrow but Leia can’t see it underneath his overgrown fringe. “This mission will have me off-world for fifteen days,” he over-enunciates prissily. “Do you promise not to lose your temper at Han while I’m gone?”
“What is this, primary school?” Leia says. “No, I do not promise. Take him with you if you’re that worried.” She uses her thumb to flick to the next page in the chief deck monkey’s summary of recent transportation activity.
Luke says, “I can’t, because he’s refusing to leave.”
“More repairs on the
Falcon
?” Leia says distractedly, reading through the paragraph on squadron activity. The chief monkey hates her birds, that much has always been obvious, but he never fails to be scrupulously exact in his reports.
“No,” Luke says, exaggerated patience in his voice that’s straight out of the Bail Organa Data Archive on Parenting, “he’s
refusing
to
leave
.”
“I
heard
you
,” Leia says right back, equally exaggerated. “I’m pregnant, not deaf.”
“Current evidence would suggest otherwise,” Luke replies, flouncing out of Leia’s office like getting the last word in this non-conversation has made him the premiere debutante of Alderaan City. Leia, deprived of any chance of a witty comeback, makes a face at his back.
~
Luke’s been claiming on and off for years that he can see ghosts in the Force--General Kenobi and his old teacher Yoda, mostly, and once he’d gotten very drunk and told her that he’d spoken with a young Anakin Skywalker but he’d almost immediately started vomiting into a nearby potted miser-plant so Leia had written it off as a hallucination induced by alcohol poisoning--but Leia, who is ostensibly Force-sensitive enough to use it as a fetus-sensor, has never seen them.
It’s not like she’d want to, really, especially not the slimy rat who donated a portion of her genetic code before swanning off to murder her entire home planet, except--well.
“Her name was Padmé Naberrie,” General Kenobi says. He’s staring out across the back lawn of the queen’s palace in the mountains; they’re sitting on the front steps of the summer pavilion. In the distance, Leia can hear her sisters splashing in the shallows of the lake. They’re not allowed to swim out past the tree line but she knows they will as soon as any witnesses have vanished.
Leia says, “Who?” and then, “Winter! Not past the trees!”
From very far away, Winter shrieks, “You’re not
Mom
.”
“You’re gonna wish Mom was here after Nanny Phillotrix is done with you,” Leia yells back.
“Your mother,” General Kenobi says.
“What about her?” Leia replies. She’s distracted; it’s going to be just her luck that her sisters will drown on her watch. If it were any other summer day she would be down there swimming with them, but it’s nearly time for the Imperial Senate’s third quarter to start and she’s just had her hair treated before her trip off-planet. It has to dry for a few days before she can get it wet and it’s still oily, heavy against her scalp.
It feels oppressive in the summer heat; Leia pulls her hair over her shoulder and starts to plait it, fingers slipping easily down its length. She’s much better about taking care of her hair now than she was as a child.
To her left, General Kenobi says, “I was there when she gave birth to you. She named you before she died, and I honored her wishes when I brought you to the prince and his wife.” Leia’s fingers freeze, tangled in her hair. The smell of the protective mask is so strong that she nearly thinks she’s hallucinating. “Her name was Padmé Naberrie.”
Leia’s known that she was adopted for years--
you were a great blessing
: not as ambiguous as it might have seemed--but she’s never heard anyone speak of her biological parents before. “Really?” she asks raptly. “How did you know her?”
“She was a senator,” General Kenobi says. He has pale eyes, so blue in the sunlight that they’re nearly translucent. Leia has known him peripherally for her entire life, a face on the other end of surreptitious transmissions.
A great and powerful ally
, her father had called him.
Too powerful to be called upon except in the most dire of circumstances
. “Like yourself, I gather.”
“It’s my probationary session,” Leia tells him drily. “It’s a little premature to be calling me a senator just yet.”
General Kenobi does a funny little half-bow, aborted because he’s sitting down. “I don’t think so,” he says, cryptically. It’s the kind of thing older people often say to make themselves sound more clever; it strikes Leia now as funny because General Kenobi doesn’t look any older than Nanny Phillotrix, who at thirty-five is the House of Organa’s youngest governess in nearly a hundred years.
“Well, let’s hope everybody else feels that way,” Leia says. She doesn’t want to talk about the approaching Imperial Senate session; she wants to be swimming with her sisters, trying to sneak beyond the tree line. Speaking of which--“You better not have snuck out beyond the trees!” she yells towards the lake. There’s a suspiciously long pause before Neena and Winter shout back that they haven’t.
Leia ties off her braid and flicks it back over her shoulder. “Was she really a senator?” she asks General Kenobi, who is probably not lying but it’s worth the second query.
“Yes,” General Kenobi says quietly. “She believed very strongly in the personal responsibility of galactic representatives. She was a skilled legislator and well-respected for her diplomatic abilities.” After a brief pause he adds, awkwardly, “She had--hair. Like yours. She had been queen of Naboo for two terms and she knew how to use costuming to her advantage.”
“She had hair,” Leia says flatly, and then, “Naboo? Wow. I’ve seen pictures, of course, but I’ve never visited--it’s supposed to be really beautiful. Idyllic, I think Dad said.” General Kenobi stops looking at Leia and squints at the mountains around them, wagging his head back and forth slowly. He’s probably making some kind of subtle point about Alderaan and the queen’s palace, but Leia ignores this. “How did she die?”
After a short pause, General Kenobi says, “Complications.”
“With the pregnancy?” Leia presses.
“With her husband,” General Kenobi says. He’s still looking towards the mountains but it seems less ironic and more evasive now.
“Oh,” Leia says. It comes out as a kind of whisper.
“She was, in many ways, similar to your father,” General Kenobi says. “She and Bail were extremely dedicated to the ideals upon which the Republic’s Senate was originally constructed. When it became clear that these ideals had been poisoned by the Supreme Chancellor, they were instrumental in establishing a resistance.” He looks as though he is aging in front of Leia’s eyes; there are streaks of grey running through his beard, now, the skin around his blue eyes wrinkling in the corners. “I imagine she would have loved you very much,” he says. “She certainly did before you were born.”
This time, Leia’s
oh
is inaudible; she can barely breathe. The musky scent of her hair oil feels like it’s choking the air before she can inhale.
“Why are you telling me this?” she finally manages. “I have parents. They love me and have taken care of me all of my life.”
“I would hope that they have,” General Kenobi says. “It was my choice to bring you here, after all.” He pauses, maybe because he can tell that Leia is feeling alarmingly light-headed. “It would mean a great deal to your mother that you are happy. As the person who took you from her arms and brought you here, I feel similarly responsible for your happiness.”
Leia croaks, “General Kenobi--”
“Please,” he says, “I would like it if you were to call me Ben, Leia.”
The heat of the summer sun becomes suddenly, incredibly unbearable and Leia has to squeeze her eyes shut. She jerks them open with an extremely unpleasant lurch to find Han holding her by both of her shoulders. “Hey,” he says. “What the hell was that?” It takes Leia an embarrassingly long time to realize that she’s crying, which is why Han looks like he’s been ambushed by betrayed trading partners. “Leia? Shit, hey, come on.”
The blue safety lights have turned Han’s face a nauseating color. Leia rolls over and buries her head in his shoulder so she doesn’t have to look at it, the tears leaking out of her like a broken faucet. She’s making some kind of hideous droning noise.
“Hey,” Han is saying repeatedly, irritatingly. “Leia, it’s okay. Okay? It’s okay.”
~
It’s easy enough to assign one of the more information technology-inclined petty officers some search parameters and see what comes of it; Leia goes to her office, points at one of them, and says, “Get me everything you can on Padmé Naberrie.”
“Ma’am,” says the petty officer, snapping her a salute, and she promptly vanishes.
At 3600, as Leia is wrapping up for the day, the petty officer reappears with a memory stick and the hollow eyes of somebody who’s spent the day staring into an archive console. “Everything on Padmé Naberrie available from our records and the holonet archives, ma’am.”
“Good,” Leia says, immediately plugging the memory stick into the side of her datapad. “You’re dismissed. Go get some supper.”
The first file--they’re organized alphabetically--is AaberVictoire_Thesis, a dissertation on political pageantry that focuses extensively on the two-term court of Queen Amidala. There are figures at the end of the document: meticulous drawings and reference captures. Everything is labeled exhaustively. Figure 65B is a capture of the Queen and her handmaidens, all dressed in orange and silver. The caption notes that the Queen is actually the second handmaiden on the left; the woman dressed in the Queen’s costume is a bodyguard and double.
Leia looks at the quiet, serious face of the handmaiden Padmé. She has small features and dark hair that’s looped over her ears. There are captures of Leia from her time in the Imperial Senate and she never looked quite this serious and reserved; Leia has always talked too much, too loudly, to be truly elegant. Winter had been better at those lessons, with her long, delicate neck and pale hair.
At first glance it’s not that difficult to imagine this woman dying in childbirth. Leia should know better than to judge somebody by their height, but she finds herself doing it automatically. The longer she stares, though, the more she can see a strength of will in Padmé’s bearing that belies the frailty of her frame. Those ceremonial robes have to weigh an Imperial fuckton.
“Ma’am?” somebody says; Leia looks up to see Admiral Olivares leaning through the doorway to her office. “We’ve got a situation.”
Leia says, “I’ll be right there,” and rips the memory stick out of her datapad, already stepping around her desk in a half-sprint. “Brief me as we go, admiral.”
~
Leia, who has known Han for many years and been sexually exclusive with him for almost as long, had been until this baby mess under the impression that the best way to distract Han from his fascination with a topic was to make it as legally binding as possible. Of course it would be marriage that would prove to be the exception.
“My parents had an arranged marriage,” Leia says flatly when Han says something along the lines of
not all of us had crowns growing up, princess
in the middle of some kind of execrable story about his parents and his childhood. “This fairy tale stuff you’re dribbling about sounds nice or whatever but it’s nonsensical.”
“Nonsensical,” Han yelps, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Full of nonsense,” Leia informs him. She’s kind of enjoying how purple Han’s face is turning. For a guy who likes to talk about how privileged Leia’s childhood must have been compared to his, he’s very protective of his halcyon childhood memories. Leia has halcyon childhood memories, of course, but a lot of hers involve attempting to escape from court duties with Neena and being chased by Nanny Phillotrix across the palace grounds. “Look, I don’t understand why you want to get married at all. People get married because it helps with taxes, and we’re technically criminals. I haven’t filed a tax return since Vader destroyed my home planet.”
Han says, “Taxes?” incredulously. “Who gets married for taxes?”
“Everybody!” Leia says.
Han, who is sitting on a swivel chair in front of Leia’s desk that just appeared in her office two mornings ago—apparently in preparation for this exact conversation—swivels around and says to Luke, “Why did your parents get married?”
“My grandfather married my grandmother to free her from slavery,” Luke says. He’s dragged a bunch of new mechanical stuff into Leia’s office so that he can keep doing droid repairs. It’s cute how he thinks Leia won’t notice that his bottles of WD-40 appear to be reproducing.
“Okay,” Han says, swiveling back rapidly, “that sounds better than taxes, I guess.”
Leia asks, “Are these the grandparents we share?”
Without looking up from the big pile of garbage he’s sorting into smaller piles, Luke says, “We share all of our grandparents, Leia, that’s how being co-zygotes work.”
Leia briefly considers telling Luke any one of her myriad stories about growing up inside of the House of Organa—maybe he’d like to hear about Leia’s diction and comportment lessons as a child, because she’d had to be fluent in the four official spoken and two sign languages of Alderaan—but instead she says, “We weren’t the same zygote, idiot.”
“I said
co
-zygotes,” Luke replies irritably.
“He did,” Han says. “Even moisture farmers on a junkyard asteroid belter like Tatooine get married for better reasons that taxes, princess.”
Luke says, “
Junkyard
?” as Leia says, “Taxes are a perfectly legitimate reason for marriage and—I would like to add—not the reason my parents were married. Although I fail to see why my parents have anything to do with us, since they’re dead and we’re not getting married.”
With a dramatic full-body sigh, Han flops back into his swivel chair. It’s a convenient prop, Leia has to give him that. She’s never had any chairs in her office besides her own because standing encourages people to say their piece and not waste Leia’s time. It figures that Han would come up with a way to circumnavigate that.
“Look,” he says to the ceiling of Leia’s office. “We’re having this baby? Okay. We’re having this baby. But the baby is coming into a family.”
Leia stares at him blankly.
We’re having this baby? Okay?
Maker fucking wept.
“Yes,” Leia says. She points at her chest and then jabs at Luke. “Family,” she enunciates crisply; Aunt Celly would be so proud. She then points at Han. “Family,” she repeats. “What’s the problem here? If you want more people, I hate to break it to you, but the entire rest of my family was evaporated into space and half of yours are in jail. So it’s the three of us, fine. Why do we need a marriage certificate? There’s not a House of Organa anymore so the point of inheritance is moot.” When Han doesn’t say anything she asks, “Is there a House of Solo inheritance I should worry about?”
Han makes a face. “It’s not half of my family that’s in jail,” he says crabbily.
“Fine,” Leia says, “forty-five percent, whatever, the point still stands. You’ve yet to make a compelling case, General Solo, and you’re wasting my valuable time.”
Looking back at the ceiling, Han says, wearily, “Is it not enough that I want to get married?”
“Not if you won’t tell me why,” Leia says. “And don’t throw around more of that ‘it’s the right thing to do’ malarkey. I’m going to believe you’re selling me on the right thing to do the day that those Ren dickheads muster an attack force more destructive than a flock of can-cells.”
Han says, “How come it’s a noble sentiment if you say it and malarkey coming from me?”
Leia replies, “Because I’m not an itinerant moon jockey with more charge in my blaster than sense in my brain.”
Although Han’s mouth is always opening around some kind of quick comment, he looks at Leia for five or six seconds before he answers this. “Okay,” he says. “Itinerant moon jockey, no sense, can’t keep planet-side for more than a month--is this sounding right?”
“For the first time, yes,” Leia says.
“You like that I go off-planet and get out of your hair,” he points out.
“I’m not going to like that if there’s a baby here that needs taking care of,” Leia says. “And the issue is when you ignore a direct order to go off and pursue your own criminal agenda.”
“You literally
just
said that we’re all criminals,” Han says, aggrieved, and then he swats at the air by the side of his face. “Never mind that. Princess, I think the problem here isn’t that you don’t see the point of marriage, it’s that you don’t trust me.” Kicking his boots up onto the side of her desk, Han interlaces his fingers and rests them on his stomach. “What, are you too good for a Corellian scoundrel?”
Leia is opening her mouth to say
frankly, yes
when Luke pipes up from the corner, “I think it’s more complicated than that.”
Not taking his eyes off of Leia, Han says, “Shut up, Luke.” His tone is almost pleasant. “You’ve been running your own little rebel dictatorship for a while here, princess, and I think you’ve gotten used to getting what you want. You can talk big game about diplomacy but you’re shit at it. You’re real good at telling people what to do and expecting them to listen. But guess what? You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I could court martial you,” Leia suggests.
“Go ahead,” Han says. “You’re shitty at diplomacy because you don’t know how to compromise, princess.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Leia snaps, “not this again.”
“No, no, I’ve been thinking about this and I’m pretty sure this is true,” Han says. Why is he staring at her? It’s discomfiting. Normally Han stares at her because he’s about to tackle her into bed or a nearby janitorial supply closet or an empty medbay cubicle. “I’ve made all of the compromises--I joined your stupid rebellion, I let myself be stuck in carbonite--”
“You
let
yourself?” Leia hisses; Han ignores her.
“--and I’ve jumped from shit planet to shit planet for the last six years to help train your air force. I’m not seeing a lot of compromising from your end, your worshipfulness.” Now he looks smug, Maker knows why.
“I haven’t throttled you yet,” Leia says.
“I really think that it’s time that you made some compromises here, too,” Han continues. “If you actually objected to having this kid, you’d’ve had a med droid terminate it and this wouldn’t be up for discussion. But you want the kid. Do you want me around?”
Leia stares at him moodily. “Do I get a choice?” she says.
“Don’t play that,” Han says. “Either you think I’ll stick around or you don’t.”
“Han, every day with you brings new and unpleasant surprises,” Leia tells him.
“I’m going to stick around,” Han says like Leia hasn’t spoken at all. “At this point, princess, it wouldn’t be worth the effort to leave. I love you, I want to get married, I want this kid. Okay?”
Okay?
It’s unbelieveable that Leia is in love with this idiot.
“Wow,” Leia says flatly. “I’m overwhelmed by the strength of your feelings. Well, if it wouldn’t be worth the
effort
to
leave
, why don’t we just get married tomorrow?”
Still staring at her, beadily now, Han says, “Stop nitpicking what I say and actually listen, will you.”
Behind Han, Luke is determinedly tinkering with his nest of wires and chrome pieces. His expression is blank, his hair flopping down over his eyes and his terrible, ratty beard obscuring his mouth. This is Leia’s twin, her co-zygote and occasional unwelcome guest. Normally, Leia is irritated by things she doesn’t understand; something like the Force interfering in her life would pick and pick and pick at her until she couldn’t see for her frustration. But she trusts the threads of the Force that connect her to her brother, even though she doesn’t know why. It’s the closest Leia has ever come to a leap of faith; she’s too practical for much else.
“Ugh,” Leia says. Han immediately leaps out of his no doubt pilfered swivel chair and punches the air. “Fine,” she continues, over his ecstatic whooping. “We’ll get married.”
Han comes around her desk and picks Leia out of her chair, swinging her around and knocking important things off of her desk. Before Leia can see much of anything--too much whiplash--Han’s stopped spinning and is kissing her, hard, his hand pressed to the side of her face. The other one is looped around her waist, holding her against him. She can feel his blaster pressing into her pelvic bone and it’s uncomfortable but she can’t muster the strength of will to wrest herself free.
By the time she opens her eyes, Han looks smug and red-faced, his hair sticking up because Leia can’t keep her hands to herself. He looks so stupid; it hurts Leia’s chest, constricting her breathing, to look at him for very long. “I knew it,” he says. He’s oozing self-satisfaction. “I knew you’d marry me.”
Leia tries to punch him in the kidney but he wriggles out of the way like a Rishi eel and kisses her again, distractingly and with his whole mouth--lips, tongue, teeth, sucking the air straight out of her brain.
“You’re an idiot,” Leia tells him. She means
I love you
, probably.
“I know,” Han 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
Goldie immediately regretted every life choice that brought her back to Ord Mantell. She wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was the hot, wet smell of trash and sewage. Maybe it was the ship port manager that kept trying to hustle her about fuel prices. Maybe it was the fact that she was flat broke.
She blew out a breath and gazed up at the sky that was turning from evening to night. She hefted her guitar a little higher up onto her shoulder. The sounds of the night brought her closer and closer to a busy cantina. She walked right by a parlor with a group of clones standing outside. At least, she thought they were clones. They looked awfully different. She didn’t do parlors. The tips were shit.
Her mind was on credits right now. She needed money to fix her ship. Again. To eat. To pay for fuel before she could leave. It wasn’t on the extended looks those clones had given her.
She stepped into the cantina and gave the bartender a bright smile. She flicked one of her braids off of a shoulder, asking if she could play for tips. Once she got permission, she made her way to the front. “Hey. Hi. Hello.” She said into the mic, getting the patron’s attention. “I’m Goldie.”
She sang for a few hours, the vibrato of her voice still bright and clear. Her golden eyes landed on the group of four clones in the back of the cantina. She smiled at them before she finished her song.
Two of them smiled back. One was too busy scowling. The other, wearing goggles had a datapad he was glued to. She thought it was one of the cutest things she had ever seen.
”That’s it for me. Thank you.” A few more people tossed credits into her guitar case. Not nearly enough to get her out of this filthy excuse of a planet. She chatted with a few patrons, she avoided the flirtations of more than a few men.
On her way out, she gave the bartender a wave and set out. It was last call. She would have to just go back to the ship for the night and hope the port manager slept. She don’t know if his species slept, actually.
A pretty brunette human came up to her once she was out of the cantina and lit a joint. She was standing right next to the clones. They had a chance to say something to her instead of stare.
But sparkling brown eyes that were large and wide stole her. A pretty smile and the soft scent of perfume distracted her from the handsome men. “Do you want to get out of here?” She asked Goldie. She felt herself smile and laugh.
”Yea, absolutely I do. What’s your name?” Goldie brushed some hair off of the girl’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered. She felt their eyes burning holes in the back of her. Sorry boys. They should have said something.
”Nora.” The pretty, plush woman answered her. Goldie’s eyes flitted from hers to her lips and back up. She made the girl blush and smile.
”Let’s go, Nora.” She held her hand out for her to take. She winked back at the men when she entwined her fingers with Nora’s and walked off towards the space port.
The two young women immediately took their shoes and socks off. Nora put hers neatly by the door. Goldie tossed her boots haphazardly in the middle of the room. Their mouths connected softly with one another.
Both of their hands were in each others hair. “We smell so bad.” Goldie laughed against Nora’s mouth. The other woman smiled and nodded. Their fingers unlaced each others dresses. The soft fabrics littered the ground in a trail to the fresher. Dresses. Panties. Bras.
In the shower, Goldie pushed Nora roughly against the shower, her breasts pushed to the cold metal of the wall. Her hands slid all over her. Her teeth, tongue and lips were on the shell of Nora’s ear. Behind it. Down her throat when she moved her wet hair off to the side.
She brought her back. The woman was just a little taller than her. One of her hands was pinching a nipple. The other slid down her curvy, thick body to between her legs.
“Yess..” Nora hissed when her first and ring finger stroked over her lips. When her middle finger slid through her folds she melted completely against Goldie. She was already soaking wet. She smiled while she kissed and licked her throat. Her hand slid upwards to grip her jaw. Nora’s eyes closed.
She moaned when Goldie started to rub her clit under the hot water. Her hands reached back to Goldie’s hips, one slipped between her legs to do the same thing. Goldie hissed and bit at her ear. Both of the women gasped, moaned and whimpered at each other’s hurried, frantic touch.
Both of their thighs started to shake. They whimpered against one another. Goldie turned Nora around quickly. Both of them pressed to one another, their hands finding one another’s pleasure centers again. Their kiss was desperate but soft. Until it wasn’t. Nora bit Goldie’s lower lip.
Goldie pushed two of her fingers inside of Nora and she used her thumb to rub her. Nora did the same thing. Their hips moved with each other’s fingers, fucking each other. Their free hands were on each other’s faces. Their breasts. Their backs and asses.
They both came with their faces against one another, their whimpers filled the fresher. Both of them licked their fingers and kissed. They touched each other gently. They washed one another.
Nora was naked, looking at all of the lyrics and instruments around the ship. The way clothes were just tossed on her sofa. Chairs.
Goldie was a chaotic mess, she was also making the last of the nuna eggs and cream she had for a meal. She spread butter on the last two slices of bread. Caf bubbled on her electric burner in a percolator.
Nora had come behind her and wrapped her arms around her body. Both of them were so plush and soft.
It was comforting. It was also suffocating for Goldie in a way. But, she was more than happy to let Nora stay the night. There were more treasures to be plundered before she was done. But needs must when the devil drives.
The two of them ate. They kissed. They touched. Goldie had dropped to her knees on the cold metal flooring with one of Nora’s thighs over her shoulder to eat her. Nora bit her lower lip, her hands holding on to the metal counter.
Goldie closed her eyes while she edged Nora. She would orbit her clit over and over. When she started to clench her muscles and tighten around her fingers inside of her, she pulled away to suck and pull on her lips. Nora was letting out the most frustrated of whines.
Goldie kept going. She didn’t stop. Nora was begging her. Her fingers were gripping hard into Goldie’s hair when she finally found her second orgasm. Goldie laughed and smiled while she slowly sucked and lapped at her quivering, thick, soaking wet lips. “Good girl.”
By the morning, Nora had gotten her clothes back on from the night before. She had a glass of water, borrowed Goldie’s toothbrush and started the walk of shame home.
Goldie leaned against the railing of her ship’s stairs, watching the beautiful woman walk away. Nora didn’t offer her comm and Goldie didn’t offer hers. If they met again, they would. If they didn’t, both of them had a good time. Sometimes, it was as simple as that.
She wasn’t wearing anything but an old t-shirt she had kept from a nameless lover. She had cut the neck off so it hung down one shoulder, exposing the swell at the top of one breast and her cleavage. Her thick thighs and calves were bare, warming with the sun filtering down from the tattered sun sails of the ship port.
Her eyes caught movement across to the next bay. The four clones from the night before were watching her. She gave them a little wave before going back inside to sleep. She lowered all the sun shades in her ship and set the proximity alarm.
She needed to get the money she needed by tonight or she would be a girl in trouble with the Durand’s. The ones who actually owned the port. The manager was just the messenger. No pressure.
Slowly, she came up with a set list in her head. The songs that always made her the most tips.
She could only hope Ord Mantell had the same taste as her other stops. But that was the thing with people wasn’t it? No matter was species, what race, what dialect. They were all stuck in the same galaxy and had the same problems. Ord Mantell would be no different. She hoped.
On the floor, her clothes from the night before glittered in the filtered, shaded sunlight. Nora’s panties were laying next to her boots. The red soles bright in the new day.
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
Like a vast spider spinning its silken webs, silence held them all once again under its deafening tyranny. Malenia wondered why she let it reign over the boughs of their home, sweeping her senses over the faces of all present, and found only shock and awe.
Well, I’d have hoped someone would at least try to congratulate me.
Dear Alagos himself had a habit of falling entirely silent when she spoke. If his speculations as to its origin were to be believed, apparently he had grown so enchanted by the sound of her voice that he unconsciously willed quiet upon all the world when she spoke with authority or with gentleness- but he showed no signs of enchantment or fondness when she turned to him, and that visage could only be called incredulous and longsufferingly weary.
She remembered what he had said when she informed him of her intent to announce their engagement with pride before her people;
‘When that day comes, I might have grown to thank you for your faith in me’.
She doubted there would be a better opportunity than the present moment, and a certain tiredness from keeping something she felt proud of a secret had begun to sink to her blood, but somehow it was still too soon for the incomprehensible sensibilities of that old goblin to catch up.
Dismissing the part of herself that found this strangely endearing- perhaps if she spent too long exclusively in his company, she’d become a goblin herself- she made to drag her fiancé to her knights and introduce them before he found a way to be unnecessarily stiff, when the brewing storm roared at last, and she welcomed its commotion.
“
Consort?!”
“Second only to you with a blade- what about Radahn, or Maliketh? That would make him a living legend- but how can he have climbed that height so soon-“
“He’s a
Tarnished!
Could one of that ilk truly be so mighty and skilful, and become so in such a swift time, seeing as he does not appear in our histories-“
“That he’s a living legend isn’t in any doubt, you lout. He cured us, after all, and lest you forget, gave the distinct impression of a living tornado when we fought- the problem is that he’s
old-“
“If he’s old, him being both swordsman and scholar of renown would make sense- but that means he isn’t immortal, in which case how could he-“
“Did you not prefer women, my general-“
“One year is oddly swift, is it not?”
“He rescued Lord Miquella, replicated Lord Miquella’s needles, even dresses like Lord Miquella, but
black-
why isn’t he Lord Miquella’s consort-“
“But isn’t he the one whom that extremely dangerous Millicent called her father? Did his teachings lead her to cut her way through our friends-“
“No, that isn’t likely, or he wouldn’t be chosen for a consort. Most likely it is a strange matter of mother and foster-father falling for each other-“
“But my general, I thought you and Commander Finlay-“
She nearly made to answer all of their questions, but was stayed by a thought- namely, that she felt they were all being strangely rude
.
Furthermore, it simply would not do to let Alagos be spoken of as though he weren’t present- even if her knights had sensed correctly that he could not follow the chaos of their musings to the barest inch.
She may have liked to conduct discussions with her knights far more informally than any other lords with their lordsworn as it helped give her a grasp of what they truly thought, but they were being oddly
protective
of her in a way that left her slightly miffed. Not one among the Cleanrot Knights were of the sort to distrust newcomers to the Haligtree- and that formed part of the rationale to use them more often as an offensive force abroad than a defensive unit in home territory- but she had never expected that such tendencies would flare up over the matter of- her
love,
of all things.
Perhaps her Alagos had relayed another of his profound insights when he mentioned his dislike of the term
‘consort’,
and she regretted its use. Everyone seemed to be under the impression that she felt grateful or otherwise indebted to him for all the gifts he had given and the aid he had rendered, or had found him somehow ‘worthy’ of her hand on account of his strength and wisdom. The Goddess had half a mind to roar in a voice like thunder that it could not be further from the truth, and theirs was a marriage for love and love alone.
She certainly respected his strength and thought it worthy of a lord, and felt that she could do no wrong if she had his wisdom to check her and guide her if necessary- but she was marrying Alagos because he was
Alagos,
in some indescribable fashion; there was a beauty to his soul that she fancied no one else but herself could see, and it needed to be made hers by right. And, of course, he was adorable.
It was, however, not something she should have to say. Therefore she nudged her fiancé, in silent encouragement, knowing that he would do something dramatic and prove the point she was trying to make.
Her Alagos looked at her in silent exasperation, heaved a weary sigh that said
‘Of course you push this onto my shoulders’
but somehow managed to be thankful for it, and then all heard the howling of the wind as cloaks flapped and voices died.
“If there are any doubts about my strength or my skill as a warrior,” he began in that soft but sonorous voice, which could be likened to a distant, ringing bell, “then all here may consider my presence in this hall as an open challenge to test it. If you have doubts pertaining to my ability as a scientist and researcher, and the recent demonstration of my talents does not perish them, I would be more than glad to explain my methods and the theories behind them, should you join me while I work. If you doubt my loyalty to the principles my Goddess stands for, I can invite my master-at-arms- who knows a thing or two about implacable, unswerving loyalty- to attest to my own. Perhaps you would like to speak with him on the matter.”
‘Now that might be going a little
too
far.’
said Miquella.
“If anyone here doubts my suitability- they ought to know that I have had those doubts tenfold.
Why me
, I asked myself, if there is even the remotest possibility that my Malenia might find someone better? In truth, none of us are fit judges for that criterion, and only Malenia herself is. And if anyone, anyone at all doubts my love for her,” a deep breath here- “step forward.”
The pronouncement carried a chilling finality. Through golden grace, he conjured the heirloom Millicent had given him, then touched it to his forehead. Her knights met what she knew to be a terrible gaze with cool assessment, but all of twelve heads moved to look at her face and then at his, and she hoped they saw the fierce pride and affection she felt.
Not one person, neither Cleanrot nor Haligtree Knight, stepped forward.
Satisfied, he relented, and his eyes were once more the soft, befogged orbs she knew she would love when she saw them. Then he raised her metal hand- it was the closest- to his lips and kissed it in gentle reverence.
“Now if you would allow, my dearest Malenia, I have work to do.”
And of course he had to ruin it all,
by finding yet another way of fading into the shadows. For that one moment he had been so perfect- precisely the authoritative and mighty figure a consort worthy of her hand must be- but when the time for him to make an effort to introduce himself to her Knights and come to know them for the wonderful souls they were, he chose again to be a recluse. Did he perhaps simply enjoy being covered in mystery, or was he so-
awkward-
that he somehow felt more afraid of a conversation than a fight?
She sighed. It wouldn’t at all do to push him.
“That wasn’t where you are meant to kiss me, you fool.” she informed him when she chased him down eventually, after catching up with her subjects for a few hours. “And, my dearest, do relent on the overly dramatic challenge, or my knights will take you up on it to the last. We can have them spectate our next duel, and that should give them a fair idea of your skill.”
“Unless I manage to trick you again, I will in all likelihood lose, however fair an account I make of myself.” he admitted. “I’m not certain that would be an apt demonstration, considering the circumstances.”
“Alagos, if you duel any single knight of my order and proceed to win, that will only make them more enthusiastic. They’d proceed to ply you with challenge after challenge, with the defeated opponents scheming together to come back and overcome you until one of them takes an exchange off you. I don’t consider it wise to let them get carried away as they are wont to immediately after they’ve been cured, and your work gives you too little time to waste on that many duels.”
“Well, what of him?”
Malenia asked her brother while sparring with Eostre. “
So far, my old goblin has made every effort to avoid my Knights, but he did engage with some of yours. Perhaps he has developed the ridiculous idea that he should intrude on my time with them if he tries.”
‘That would be like him.’
Miquella noted consideringly.
‘Although anticipation might be another cause. He has thrown himself into his work, and I doubt he would eat if you didn’t keep scolding him. With us so close, I think it is becoming all the more unbearable for him to see you still afflicted. That is how
I
feel, at any rate.’
Was it simply her, or was that guilt in his tone? Sighing, she dismissed it; it would be just like Miquella to blame himself for such a little thing as her not being cured sooner. Thinking an apology to Eostre, she swiftly closed out the duel, grounding her spear with a snap of her katana, moving forward for the grapple and driving her to the ground by giving point to her throat.
They
were
improving, and learning how to use the faculties that had been restored to them after their cure as swiftly as she had expected, but she could not help feeling that her spars with her Cleanrot Knights felt somehow more onesided than they had before.
“How did- oh, blast.” Eostre murmured. “I thought it was simply my memory that was failing me, but it was not. Miraculously, my general, you have become even more terrifying than you were before. I did not think such a thing was possible.”
“Well done.” she congratulated. “You are, thus far, the only one to notice that I’ve grown stronger. The others seem to think they’ve only gotten rusty after their slumber. Perhaps you have, but you’re all faster, and your cuts feel heavier than they did before you were cured, which should compensate for weaker technique.”
Truthfully, the Goddess had expected them to grasp it far sooner, with the rather spectacular duel she had had with Alagos the previous month. She’d been moving more swiftly, but also more measuredly than she could remember at any time during the Shattering. Her fiancé had looked as though he were witness to a vision of unfathomable holiness, but it still did not stop him from taking two rounds off her, unnecessarily disciplined as he felt he needed to be.
Perhaps that was why they hadn’t all sensed the change. If anything, her knights had developed a deadly anticipation at duelling Alagos someday, and the Haligtree Knights had acquired a certain wary respect for his skill on their part.
“I don’t remember a time when you
weren’t
growing stronger and leaving us perpetually in the dust.” Eostre confessed. That was not entirely true; she remembered a period of prolonged stagnation in which the Rot’s progress would hinder her senses until she learnt to compensate for her reduced faculties. She would fall down a slope, then struggle back uphill, and then the cycle would begin again.
“But this time it seems you’ve leaped over a mountain, my general, and flown straight to the skies. You seem so much healthier as well, as though your Rot is on the defensive at last. When you are cured- how much more will happen? How much will the entire field of swordsmanship be elevated by it?”
Her teacher would most certainly be proud of her. He’d also be very miffed that she hadn’t plied her lord-to-be with his favourite unrefined sake quite yet, but she had a feeling Alagos would not particularly have a taste for it. Various knights had tried to offer him a drink to loosen his tongue, but he was only ever interested in tea.
“Correct again; that is indeed the cause.” she smiled. “Although I suspect my Alagos helped as well. I’ve learnt so many new tricks from him, and I cannot wait to teach you. The moment you’re all fully recovered, I do promise to drag him here for that particular lesson.”
“About him, my general- he does not hate us, does he?” Eostre asked. Her expression was somewhat suspicious.
“No, not at all. Never. Alagos may be many things, but he is not possessive.”
Somewhat unfortunately.
“The way he seems to be avoiding you is just a consequence of-“
being such a shrinking violet-
but that would take too long to explain- “-him being so absorbed in his work that he would rather not spend a moment on anything else.”
It was not as though he entirely eschewed company while he worked ceaselessly. Sometimes, he did warp away on expeditions to the wider Lands Between with a few Haligtree Knights in tow. He’d bring back cave-moss for preserving boluses which staved off the Rot, and had taught her Cleanrot Knights the recipe and instructed them to consume one every day so that they could spend time in her company.
Most often he travelled, however, it was to collect ingredients for dreambrew, and that he drank in copious amounts to commune with her brother.
“He’s spending so much time in discussion with you, brother dearest, that I am brought to wonder whether he’ll be marrying you instead.”
she said, with a hint of mirth.
‘No, I would never. Too composed and methodical for my tastes, and not nearly exuberant enough. We’re too similar, and could never be complements.’
Miquella scoffed, playing along.
‘But our conversations have been both necessary and illuminating. The day he tunes your needle cannot be long in wait.’
There was a shortage of paper now, with the scarce little parchment that had been adequately preserved already used to contain incomprehensible diagrams of strange band-like structures and statistical equations. She couldn’t understand anything at all, but she was sure she could learn someday when Miquella had the time.
“Then he must love you very deeply, my general.” Eostre was saying, and she paid attention to her in the nick of time. “If he does intend to modify your needle as you told me, though, then he surely must draw it from you and leave you without it for a time.”
“That will be necessary, yes.” Malenia replied, crossing her arms.
What in the world is she getting at- now is not the time for suspicion or hesitation, goodness’ sake.
“The only reason it has taken so much time is because my lord brother and Alagos were experimenting to make certain that the actual attempt shall work, and are engaged in revolutionary research to characterise the phenomena that will be employed for my cure. Something of this kind has never been done before. And I am not some fragile piece of porcelain that I will be fazed by-“
“It isn’t that.” her knight said softly. “Far be it from me to doubt your consort’s ability, let alone Lord Miquella’s. But however irrepressibly mighty you may be, my general, I know that the Rot reaps a toll that strength cannot stay. It will progress and it will
hurt,
however fiercely you resist it, and now that it has been restrained for some time, a relapse might sting still worse.
Promise me
you will be alright, my general.”
Ah. That’s what it is.
“Look at me, Eostre. Look at me.” she said, cupping her knight’s chin to fix her gaze on the pitted remnants of her own eyes. “We have planned for this. My brother will certainly find a way to mitigate the effects for a time with his strength- but mitigation isn’t sufficient, as you were about to say. That is why I have you. The moment I regard each one of you, I see a life worth fighting for. You may see my strength and consider it vast, but where do you think I go to replenish it?”
A tear dripped from her eye, and her knight instinctively raised a hand to wipe it, but the Goddess caught and held her. “To you, my dear knight, and to every one of my order.”
When the day of the testing phase's conclusion dawned at last, heralded by Alagos emerging from the forge and understatedly proclaiming victory, Miquella revealed his solution and she found it a deeply unpleasant one.
“Why must it be
her?”
Malenia grumbled, and it was all she could do to restrain herself from sounding petulant.
On principle, she had nothing against Lady Leda, and even approved of her. The bout she had challenged her to on her visit to Ordina revealed that she was an excellent warrior; Malenia would go so far as to call her the equal of Finlay, perhaps, if she were not biased.
She was nearly as swift as Alagos, almost as precise with her accuracy, decision-making and economy of movement, and skilful in her use of incantations as well, capable of leveraging some of Miquella’s most powerful inventions in the field. If there was anything she lacked, it was her fiancé’s almost unnatural patience, judgment and intuition, as well as his footwork and the essential, devious cleverness of his particular discipline, but those were hardly traits anyone could be expected to acquire. Leda stood, more or less, at the zenith of personal ability any knight could realistically strive for.
She should have liked her on that account, but could not bring herself to, for reasons that seemed almost irrational. Her face was too
blank,
for one.
Leda neither smiled nor blinked, which was entirely forgivable as Malenia herself was known for being implacably focused, but the way she always spoke in a monotone which left her emotions indecipherable, and the way her spirit lacked
warmth-
had conspired to make her feel a profound discomfort in her presence.
She scoffed at the thought of a few pricks, but if she ever had to hear that utterly grating murmur of
‘kindly Miquella’
to justify any and all actions taken again-
‘I’m not the fondest of her either, ‘Nia dearest, but we have no choice. If anything, she is utterly loyal, and her spirit is immensely strong. The gifts I bestowed on her in return for her service to me were great, and it is only fitting that I call upon them to serve the one I love most.’
“Can neither you nor Alagos do something instead? I know your strength, for one.”
“Neither of us will have any strength left over. Did you not see Alagos collecting thirteen entire flasks of cerulean tears?”
“Amongst pieces of Crucible Knight armour that he has been carrying around for whatever reason-
ah.
It must be part of the process, mustn’t it?”
“Indeed it is.”
Miquella affirmed.
“He intends to extract the primordial gold from that armour, which is easily accomplished since it has a much higher melting point. Once the impurities are melted, the primordial gold must itself be melted in a different crucible.”
“And then what? You couldn’t possibly alloy it. Unalloyed gold has its properties on account of its purity.” she said, placing a hand to her chin.
“We won’t. What we intend to do is form a layer of reddish primordial gold on your needle. Based on my previous work, Alagos theorises that there is an emergent effect when layers of unalloyed gold are in contact with a thin film of primordial gold. It is this effect that turns the needle into a gain medium. To do this, we need a melt of primordial gold. Achieving the immensely high temperature necessary to melt it will require Alagos to exert all his might over flame and wind for a sustained duration- and hence the flasks.”
She could scarcely believe it. “But- you intend to be in that forge. I even saw Alagos moving your cocoon into it. It will be unbelievably hot in there, and with your withered body-“
“My incantations of fortification are even stronger than our Lord Father’s, lest you forget.”
Miquella groused.
“And we have no other choice. Heat may not harm Alagos, but I need to use my divine magic to reinforce the crucible we are using, and then some telekinesis to dip your unalloyed needle into the melt and draw it out, as well as to ensure that the crystallised layer is thin enough. Even then, that is not the end of it. We need to sublimate and recrystallise glintstone over the needle in a second process once the primordial layering is complete. Therefore try not to antagonise Leda, as we must employ her services twice.”
“Oh, fine! I’ve had enough of you for the day.” she hissed and dismissed him, ignoring some whining about how she was the one to broach the topic.
He should have told her off of his own initiative and at once. Even if there was no danger, she did not want her brother to use much of his strength in his emaciated state. She stalked off to Miquella’s old study to find Alagos instead and drag him off to bed, hoping he would prove more sensible.
He rarely did, of course, but one could hope.
“You mean to say this… Leda… will strike you with a plethora of golden needles and it will somehow keep your Rot at bay for a time?
This
is Miquella’s plot? No wonder he didn’t tell me about it; I shan't stand for it.”
She hadn’t expected her fiancé to sound quietly furious. It was almost adorable in a way; and part of her almost wished him to continue in that vein, but she chose reason as she always did.
“We have no other choice, dearest.” she said soothingly, with a hand on his wrist. "Not unless we wish to waste more time, and I most certainly do not."
“I suppose that is why she is a ‘Needle Knight’- but
must
you be attacked in this way-“
“I was hit by gravity storms from Radahn and they failed to take me off my feet, Alagos. I think I could suffer a few needle-points
.
” she said, something of a challenge in her voice. “Besides, you cannot afford to spend your strength and focus on anything else.”
“Ach. Very well then.” he said with a huff, and then flummoxed her by pulling her to himself in an entirely absentminded gesture. It did not look as though he were at all aware of what he was doing- an artefact of intellectual exhaustion, most likely. “You will be with your knights for the duration of the forging process, I take it?”
“They want me to be with them,” she affirmed, letting him hold her, “but I am considering staying in the forge while you work instead, for Miquella's sake. And if both of you are present, I am certain I can stave off that scorpion-god’s ingress with every ounce of my spirit.”
He gripped both her shoulders and gazed with startling concentration at where her eyes used to be. “That would be most unwise. It should be amazingly hot in that forge, and you couldn’t do anything to help Miquella. There is not a moment he doesn’t think of you, and your presence there will only worry him.”
Curse you, brother dearest, for agreeing with him.
“If not Miquella, then you, at least-“
“No
,
Malenia.” he said, and heaved a weary sigh. “While it is true that I feel comforted immeasurably by your presence, it is probably for the best that you be with your knights and away from me while I work. If you stay- it would drag at my focus. Every moment I should see you without your needle, I would be tempted to go to you and strive with that accursed scorpion myself so that you are spared its touch.”
“Why are you- I am hardly
fragile!”
she hissed, pushing him away somewhat harshly. “I spent centuries holding it at bay off the strength of my will alone, before Miquella ever came up with anything to counter it. You know that I am
strong
-“
“Yes, you are strong. Unbelievably strong; stronger than me or anyone I have ever met- but not even that could ever stay my instinct to protect you if I have the ability to. Forgive me for that, for being irrational- but it is not something I can help.” he said softly.
She felt a familiar trembling.
“Damn you. Damn you, and Miquella can be damned with you. Always determined to make me cry, even if you are perfectly aware that this face cannot produce tears. What is to be my miserable fate when I have eyes again?” she whispered defeatedly, forming a fist and thumping his chest a little. He laughed with an aching gentleness and pressed a few kisses to her shoulder.
“Miquella and I are not your only sources of strength, dearest, and you needn’t be strong for everyone at once. You will feel just as safe with your knights, and I am sure they would like nothing better than to support you at this juncture. In fact, I believe they might form the impression I am somehow taking you away from them if you don’t rely on them once in a while.” he said in a voice that inexplicably reminded her of a fluffy cloud.
He could never bring himself to sing to her, and she longed for the day he would- even if she felt certain he would sing slightly off-key- but he did dutifully stroke her hair and press circles into the small of her back until she fell asleep.
Dawn came, bringing Lady Leda with it.
Malenia made sure to exchange only a minimum of conversation with her, which seemed to suit the Needle Knight well enough. Blessedly, she did not have to hear the phrase
kindly Miquella
again.
She was flanked by Aino, Rheia and Huld, and Alagos stood behind her at the door to the forge, with Miquella’s cocoon lying within. Already, threads of golden magic were emerging from it and pouring into the little apparatus they had made. Nobody seemed especially pleased with Leda’s presence.
They all turned away for an instant, so that she could draw the needle from her chest. It felt like nothing so much as tearing away a patch of skin. Immediately, she stung all over, and there were
clicks,
and voices that should not have been oddly melodic but were, and a certain
crawling
sensation that left her feeling strangely slimy but was also seductive, as though it were a soothing massage-
And Leda raised her greatsword in a practiced salute before bringing it down, conjuring golden needles which pierced her like hot knives across every inch of her skin.
Painful.
Painful, but not agonising in the least, and she stood tall without so much as a flinch. Alagos rushed over, took her needle from her and immediately forced her to drink from a flask of crimson tears, and Miquella cast a
Lord’s Heal
on her for good measure.
At least the whispers were no longer so numerous, and she summoned all her strength, all her hatred and resolve, and fought them for all they were worth.
Lies. Seductive lies. I will not slumber beneath your touch again.
Her fiancé rushed into the forge and she felt a blast of heat. Leda bowed and left, and Miquella got to work as well, his sorcery threading itself through Alagos’, protecting their crucible against his hottest fire, as winds swirled to act in place of bellows and fed the flames such that they roared.
Her place, however, was with her Knights. Aino tried offering her an arm, but she declined it and walked smoothly to their sitting room. All ten of her remaining knights sat there, looking up at her with the same, inspired expression, and Thryth of the Haligtree Knights had chosen to join them.
“Well?” she asked. “Why are you all silent? Tell me of the flaws in your defence of the Haligtree against my daughter and consort-to-be, and how you will go about correcting them.”
Two and a half hours later, Alagos rushed out of the forge and presented the cooled needle to her.
“I haven’t conducted such a perfect process in my life. The crystal has been formed and it’s all been annealed. Miquella claims there are very few defects as well. Now if you wouldn’t mind-“
Belatedly, he registered the fact that she was perfectly calm, and in fact smiling.
“I think you should do the glintstone processing today as well, Alagos. The needle has already cooled, and I would rather get this done in one day if I could. We can have Miquella send for Leda again, should the Rot grow too burdensome- but I have this strange feeling,” she said with a significant glance to her companions, “that I should be perfectly fine for the day.”
Every knight present then focused their gazes on Alagos, making clear that they would much rather he did not interrupt them, and smiling wryly he obliged their wishes.
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
Living on your own, you become attuned to stray noises that echo through the house, especially in the dead of night. Teru wouldn't consider himself a
terribly
light sleeper, just that he had developed a habitual alertness for intruders. But this continuous
rattle-rattle-thump
posed less of a threat than an attack, courtesy of Claw.
Erring on the side of caution, it warranted a gander. Half-blind, Teru squinted into the dark of his bedroom. Once his sight adjusted, he saw a flurry of movement, a string of objects whirling through the air, untethered by gravity. Beside of him, the source of discord emanated distress.
"...Shigeo?" he mumbled blearily, turning over. Furrows appeared in his forehead when he found Mob's fist clenched into his pillow and a layer of unshed tears clinging to his lashes. All at once, the answer for this fit became clear - a
nightmare.
Still slightly asleep, Teru acted intuitively, no longer restrained by common sense or overthinking. He stroked Mob's hair, soothing his thumb over the creases of dismay pinched into his skin.
"Hey," he whispered, dropping his head onto Mob's, close enough that his breath tickled the other's nose. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here."
Barely aware of what his words, Teru's watched through a half-lidded gaze as Mob stirred without waking. Somehow these assurances must have reached him, because one-by-one the items stopped, midair, and then clattered to the ground in tandem. Silence settled over the apartment, serenity restored.
Sighing, Teru flopped down onto bed. In the case the nightmares decided to creep back in for round two, he curled an arm around Shigeo, curling them close. Rather than shift away, Mob melted into the embrace, and the furnace of warmth shared between them lulled Teru back to sleep too soon for him to savor the moment.
*
*
*
*
Pierced by the insistent glow of sunlight from the window, Mob's eyelids fluttered with a groan. As he twisted in his cocoon, fingers threading through luxurious cotton as he clawed his way to freedom, he realized that he was lying on a mattress, not his futon, and that the pillow beneath his head was far too feathery to belong to him (he didn't trust himself to furnish his room with such extravagant material, not with his unpredictable powers). In this hazy state of comfort, it almost felt like drifting on a cloud...
Leisurely, he remembered that he spent the night at Teru's apartment, and this acknowledgement was what convinced him to pry his limbs from the snugness of the blanket.
He padded out of bed as if afraid to disturb the floorboards beneath his feet. Unaccustomed to conducting himself in someone else's home, he fixed the sheets, neatly tucking them into place. Maybe he should change out of the clothes he'd borrowed, too, as cozy as the oversized T-shirt and sweat pants were.
Forgoing that idea, Mob followed the tell-tale sounds of puttering to the kitchen, where Teru, clad in pajamas, was whisking something in a bowl. He looked up, saw his guest had arrived and smiled.
"Good morning."
"Morning," Mob parroted around a yawn, peering at the concoction over Teru's shoulder. "You're cooking?"
"Yeah. I didn't have the ingredients for anything fancy, so. Pancakes." Teru shrugged.
"You didn't have to go out of your way," Mob said automatically. "I could've eaten cereal and milk."
Teru snorted, "S'not an inconvenience, trust me. I happen to love pancakes. And I'm sure you will, too. Once you taste mine."
"I'm sure," Mob agreed. He wasn't hard to impress, so it's extremely likely that whatever Teru made would be to his satisfaction. And even if they were inedible, Mob resolved to say he enjoyed them, anyway.
Mesmerized, he watched as Teru measured a portion of batter - chocolate chips included, he noted approvingly - and poured it onto the skillet. "Also, I consider them a comfort food," Teru mentioned offhandedly. "So I thought you might, uh, appreciate that."
Even Mob would have to be an idiot to miss that pointed hint; still, he struggled to discern this remark. He couldn't fathom why Teru was treating him to a dish saved for sensitive occasions, unless he had reason to suspect deservin-
Oh,
he recalled suddenly. This morning, the nightmare. The awful, vivid nightmare that probably had his energy spouting at unintentional targets, probably levitating objects around the room and crashing them into the wall, if previous experience was anything to go by. "About that... I'm sorry," rasped Mob, flushed in shame.
So much for a fun sleepover.
"Don't worry about that," Teru grunted, his voice dipping sharply. "All of my possessions survived. My concern is for
you
. Looked like that dream did a number..."
Yes, Mob concurred, the color in his cheeks bleaching as the dream replayed in excruciating detail.
Akin to a scene in the horror movie, Mob's shoes creaked through the "allegedly" haunted house, accompanied by the teenage protagonist. Removing th
e dumb characters and their tendency to race towards their untimely deaths from the equation extracted much of the terror, and furthermore, this
his put Mob in his element. For him, it was a typical exorcism, the kind he handled with Reigen on a regular basis. Except in this case, his obscured partner walked ahead of him in silence.
Somewhere Mob lost sight of her in the dark, relying on the cry of her increasingly familiar voice. He followed it upstairs, towards the door at the end of the hall, left ajar, behind which the aura of a powerful spirit pulsed, waiting. Mob checked his salt supply before he entered, prepared to be greeted by any manner of ghoul.
Hanging from the ceiling, swaying in the drafty air, was- no,
no,
it couldn't be-
"M-Mogami," Mob stuttered, pulse skittering beneath his wrist as it trembled. The body's head perked with a snap, gaunt cheeks expanding in a bone-chilling grin.
Desperate, he reached for the pack of salt at his belt - it was gone. Out of the shadows stepped his partner, clutching the stolen salt. Now he recognized her - Asagiri.
She did not taunt him as he expected her to, her posture that of a puppet with its strings cut. The defeat in her glassy, red-rimmed eyes was what spurred his sealed lips to action, "
What are you doing in this abandoned house?"
"Abandoned? I suppose..." Mogami's reply echoed hoarsely, strangled. "Though not entirely empty, is it? After all, this is
your
house."
Heart twisting, Mob shook in denial, sinking in despair, because no, it was a dream, an illusion, it couldn't be real, he wasn't alone, no, please-
"Shigeo?" Far away, Teru called his name.
A reminder,
"It's okay. I'm here."
The spell collapsed, and Mob was free, blinking away the remnants of the dream, abashedly refocusing on a frazzled, babbling Teru.
"I don't hold it against you or anything. I understand that being in this proximity, off-guard as you were, might have brought up bad memories... O-Of the time we met."
Wait a second, did Teru believe that...that the nightmare was his fault?
"Hang on, that's not why-" Mob swallowed thickly, constricted by a too-tight sensation wound around his neck. Tenderly, he touched the skin there, expecting angry purple bruises that had long since faded.
"See, it was...something else." He glanced at his bare feet, cold toes curling atop the tile. "As for what you're referring to... I forgave you for that a while ago."
A humorless chuckle drew his gaze to Teru's narrowed one. "I'm afraid it doesn't quite work that way," he muttered self-deprecatingly. "How can you forgive what I haven't properly apologized for?"
"Well, I," Mob paused, awkward in delivery, "Didn't necessarily assume you, uh. Were."
Predictably, this admittance was not received well.
"You weren't certain that I was sorry?!" Teru shouted, mouth agape. "Yet you befriended me, anyway?"
"I mean, I figured you were. But it didn't occur to me, honestly." Mob shrugged, even as Teru's exasperation threatened to boil over. "Because you proved to me that you had changed when you helped me. And ever since, you've been nothing but kind."
"That's not, you-" Teru cut himself off, consternated beyond wits. Mob went to the stove, where the forgotten pancake batter sizzled, the bottom burnt to a crisp.
He dialed the temperature down, adding mildly, "Besides, it's not as though you didn't suffer for what happened, after I..."
"Passed out?"
Mob
winced
. Abruptly, the spatula idling on the counter sprung into the air, the stem twisting into a knot as though made of rubber. Teru watched it bounce to the floor, puzzled.
"Does it bother you that much? Obviously, you weren't in control," he reminded gently. "I felt whatever that was - that raw, unrestrained energy. It was a stark contrast to how you normally keep your powers in check."
Nodding miserably, Mob murmured, "That's the problem. I have to be careful. When I lose consciousness like that, it's at the risk of disaster, and sometimes..."
His breath caught on a shudder, releasing shakily. "Sometimes it's scary to fall asleep because what if I wake up and broke something I can't fix."
A speechless void engulfed the pair, as the world attempted not to break under the weight of that confession. Eventually, Teru crossed the trench in order to retrieve the spatula, effortlessly reshaping it. "Without a doubt, your psychic energy is the most incredible I've ever encountered," he said offhandedly. "Despite that, you know, I was never afraid of you."
The creeping sense of dread that had stalked Mob throughout this conversation reared its ugly head into the spotlight.
You're crazy,
he yearned to refute. As he did when Reigen dismissed the danger because he had yet to witness Mob in his most unbridled, ballistic form. But Teru
did
. Teru had borne the brunt of his power, suffered the harm and humiliation. How could he claim that there was nothing to fear, knowing what Mob was capable of?
"Like you said then, I guess. We're similar, you and I," Teru answered his unasked question. "It infuriated me when you said I was
average
by your standards. 'Cause that forced me to consider that I wasn't as special as I allowed myself to believe." His eyes glistened, thoughtfully. "Once I adjusted, however, the idea became sort of..."
"Comforting,"
Mob finished, empathizing more than he could articulate. "To know you weren't the only one."
"Exactly," said Teru, mystified. "Plus, now that we're friends, why would I be scared? You wouldn't swat a fly unless in self-defense."
Lips flattening into a thin line, he turned away, dropping the spatula into the sink. Above the clatter it caused, Mob heard, "Me, though. I've hurt countless people without a care. I was a bully, and it wasn't on accident."
Teru fought to erase the forlorn notes from his tone, but it was futile; and as much as Mob ached to contract this harsh self-assessment, what Teru said wasn't a lie. Often the truth was laden with pain, regret, and bitterness; through Mogami, Mob had learned that in hopeless, vulnerable situations, one's thoughts and actions were difficult to confront. People were capable of spreading so much terror and turmoil- yet wasn't it equally amazing how much
good
they could do, if given the chance?
Glancing around the kitchen, he wondered that nobody came rushing to inquire about the vague scent of smoke that lingered. He noticed that the apartment rang quiet in the absence of their chatter. The silence chafed, reminding him of the smell of disinfectant layered over blood as it dribbled down his chin on his way home. Of the days he walked to his lonely apartment, where he spent his lonely nights wishing, resenting - and in remembering, he pondered that he'd never asked why his friend lived alone.
Staggering forward, Mob laid his palm flat over Teru's shoulder; the muscle beneath his shirt stiffened with surprise. "Don't be so hard on yourself... The situations that shape us are difficult to escape. But in trying to change, you've proven how willing you are to do better in the future. I think that matters more than what we've done in the past," he proclaimed, steely in his conviction.
A beat passed, and then another, and then in a flash, Teru turned and grabbed his displaced hand. He marveled at Mob with a mollified smile, as though
he
were a dream whose image couldn't be trusted. "For what it's worth," he punctuated his statement with a squeeze, "I
am
sorry."
"So am I," Mob replied, squeezing back. "Let's agree to just be sorry together."
Before his culpability could be rebuked by protests, Mob's stomach rumbled, low and insistent. And the tension that had consumed them for the last ten minutes crumbled as they giggled.
"Right. Pancakes?"
"Uh huh. Can I help?"
"If you want," Teru conceded. Brows drawn in surprise, he shooed Mob towards the stove.
"Would rather they not get burnt this time... Unless that's part of your recipe?"
Teru smothered his instantaneous
affront,
unable to decide whether the insult had been intentional. "No," he coughed, face aflame. "Just- Flip them as soon as they start to cook."
"Okay," Mob hummed happily. The weight in his stomach alleviated, a warm, airy feeling spread inside of him; when he was a child, his mom had told him this was caused by the flutter of butterfly wings. He tended to feel a similar tingle whenever Tsubomi strolled by.
But the implications of the correlation were lost on Mob, for at that moment, the pancakes required his utmost attention.
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
14 July 1976
James grunted softly as he flopped down on the couch next to Remus. The pair were sitting in the family room of Potter Manor and the latter of the two was still recovering from his most recent bout with the full moon. Luckily the other boy didn’t look too worse for wear - the moons had been much easier since he, Peter, and Sirius had decided to become Animagi.
Even though it had just been Prongs this time around, it was still better than the wolf being utterly alone as he had been for over a decade.
“Feeling okay?” James asked softly.
“Yes, Prongs, I’m fine,” Remus replied with a fond roll of his eyes. He had a cup of tea nestled in his scarred hands, a little puff of steam over it to show it was still hot. “You know your mum always takes good care of me, so why do you worry?”
“It’s in my nature, I worry about everyone,” the bespectacled boy replied with a shrug. “I get it from my dad.”
Remus snorted and nodded his head in understanding. The pair fell into silence, just content to be in each other’s presence, when the sound of the floo suddenly went off and flooded the room in green. They both looked at each other in confusion before turning their attention to the body that practically collapsed out of the flames.
“What the- Sirius!” James shouted. He jumped off the couch and rushed over to his best friend who was passed out on the rug. The older boy was covered in open wounds and his muscles seemed to be twitching involuntarily over and over again. “Mum! Mum, it’s Sirius!”
“S-Siri,” Remus stuttered, abandoning his tea and rushing over as well despite the soreness he must be feeling. “By the gods, Siri, what happened to you?”
“Jamie, dear, what’s going- oh, Circe. Monty, get my kit!” Effie called over her shoulder before joining the teenagers on the floor. She gently turned Sirius onto his back and started casting diagnostic spells over him.
Monty came into the room with a bag in hand, moving around his wife, son, and Remus and settling down next to Sirius. He handed the bag over to his wife and then turned his attention to James and Remus.
“You boys should go, we’ll take care of him,” the older man said firmly, leaving no room for arguments.
“Dad-”
“Now, James. Both of you,” Monty ordered again. James and Remus slowly nodded their heads and left the room. James helped the taller boy up the stairs to his bedroom and set him down on the bed. The brunet was shaking right down to his fingertips.
“Moons, you okay? What hurts?” James asked, fussing.
“I’m not shaking because I’m hurt, I’m shaking because I’m
angry
,” Remus told him, gritting his teeth. “His fucking parents, they did this to him! They- You saw him, they tortured him! I could kill them.”
“Remus, no, okay? Calm down,” the shorter urged, placing his hands on broad shoulders. “He’ll be okay, mum and dad have him now. He’ll never go back there, I promise you.”
“You promise?”
“I
promise
.”
The pair spent a majority of the night awake, waiting for James’s parents to tell them something, anything about how Sirius was doing. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, Effie knocked and stepped inside of the bedroom.
“I figured you two would still be awake,” she said, smiling fondly at the teenagers. She walked over and kissed both of them on their foreheads. “He’s going to be fine, he’s just a little hurt at the moment.”
“Mum, he… he can’t go back to that house, they’ll kill him,” James told her. “Please say he can stay.”
“Oh, Jamie, of course he’s staying,” his mum replied, running her hand through his wild curls. “However… with the way he looks, I just wonder about his brother. I worry he’s in a similar state.”
“We’ll have to ask Sirius when he’s awake. I can’t imagine he’d leave Regulus behind on purpose,” Remus murmured thoughtfully. Neither of the teenagers had interacted with Regulus much since they first met the boy during his first year. James saw him the most frequently these days, out on the Quidditch pitch during matches but that was it.
“Can we see him now?” James asked.
“I gave him a Dreamless Sleep so he shouldn’t wake until morning but you both can go stay with him. He’s in the guest room across the hall,” Effie told them before leaving the room, more than likely intent on going to sleep.
James and Remus made their way into the guest room across the hall and laid down next to Sirius on either side. The older boy was fast asleep and entirely relaxed. The blood was cleaned up and the wounds all closed with only minimal scarring. His mum had done an amazing job, as per usual.
“I lose sleep, y’know? Over the holidays, when he goes back to his parents,” Remus whispered, reaching over to push a wayward curl out of Sirius’s face. “I worry that, each time we get off the train, it’ll be the last time I see him.”
“You’ll never have to worry again, Moony. He’s home now.”
Sirius woke up fairly early in the morning, with the sun just beginning to shine through the curtains. James was awake almost as soon as he felt the older boy shift and he jolted into a sitting position so that he could check over him.
“Where am I?” Sirius asked quietly, voice hoarse.
“You’re at my house,” James answered, drawing his attention. “You’re okay now, Pads, you’re safe.”
“I-I made it? I didn’t- didn’t die or end up somewhere else?”
“You made it, darling, and mum healed you right up. And look, Moony’s here too,” the younger told him, pointing at Remus still asleep on the other side of the bed. Sirius let out a soft ‘oh’ of relief and his face almost immediately crumpled as he broke out into sobs.
That was when Remus woke up and was quick to wrap Sirius up in his arms.
“My love, my star, I’m here for you,” the taller boy murmured, pressing kisses to his face and clearing the tear tracks with his thumbs.
“Padfoot, what about Regulus? Is he okay?” James asked him quietly, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. Sirius stiffened and burrowed his head further into Remus’s neck.
“He’s fine, just like he always is,” the older wizard muttered. “You don’t have to worry about him, James. He’s the heir now and he’ll be bloody perfect at it.”
“He wouldn’t leave with you,” Remus guessed and Sirius simply nodded.
“Alright then. I’m gonna go owl Peter, see if we can convince his mum to let him out of the rest of their week of cleaning,” James said, pressing a kiss to the back of Sirius’s head and then leaving the bedroom.
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
“What a way to end the night.”
The
audacity
he has to sound irritated like your actions were an unfounded temper tantrum is beyond you. Does he have no self-awareness whatsoever? Just when you thought you couldn’t find anything about him more disturbing, he takes it upon himself to surprise you, subverting your expectations by reaching a brand new low.
There’s so much you want to say.
Curses dripping venom that you long to scream at the top of your lungs until your throat is raw, threats powered by enough loathing to give any person pause. You want to make it
hurt
. You want to make it agonizing, to return every injustice instigated against you by his hands in full, and then some.
The gag in your mouth prevents you from fulfilling your wishes, so you settle on narrowing your eyes in the most harrowing glare you can muster.
It’s impossible to make out all of Childe’s features in this room’s dim lighting. The silhouette against the doorframe and grating voice undoubtedly belongs to him, yet that’s all you’re able to gather. You credit the adrenaline still pumping throughout your system for keeping your anxiety at bay. Any other day you would be debilitatingly nauseous from the suffocating tension in the air, thicker than the humid atmosphere on a stormy summer day.
Tortuously slow footsteps grow closer in the windowless, concrete room, Childe honing in on you like you were a prized catch from a long hunt. In a way, that’s exactly what you are; nothing more than a pretty trophy for him to keep locked away for eternity. A prey to catch and toy with.
You wish your shivering would stop. It could be attributed to a few things — fatigue, the damp clothes sticking to your dirty skin — but you don’t want him to think it’s because you fear him. Maybe you should. Logic and common sense have long been thrown out the window, ever since you took the opportunity to flee from his sight. You’ve been acting on pure, animalistic impulse from the second you hit the ground running, future consequences were the last thing on your mind.
Childe kneels down to get a closer look at you. What hits you first is the emptiness in his eyes, the way all light and tangible signs of humanity have been replaced with a vast nothingness. If he told you then and there that he had no beating heart, you would believe him; this is not the visage of a human. Whatever it is that you’re facing now is not of this world.
“You ruined the clothes I got you too,” he sighs, his voice heavy and low. Childe plays with a piece of torn fabric by your waist, never once breaking eye contact. “
Ungrateful
. That’s what you are, you know. After all I’ve done for you? All the sacrifices I’ve made? You repay me by pulling a little stunt like
that
?”
The anxiety you were able to keep at bay creeps up like an incessant shadow, no longer willing to remain out of sight. This fury he’s displaying is unlike anything you’ve witnessed before. It’s different from the way he’d warningly say your name when you pushed your luck too far, it’s different from the tightened grip on your wrist when you tried to wriggle out of his grasp. You don’t know what this is. And that alone sends you into a state of panic, your eyes darting around, desperately searching for salvation.
There is none — there’s only him.
His coarse hands ghost upwards at a leisurely pace. Childe derives a sick pleasure from how you flinch and struggle, totally unaware of what plans he has in store for you. He draws the excruciating process out on purpose, inspecting every inch of your shivering form. Scratches and bruises litter your body from the elements you ran through. What remains of your tattered clothes is soaking wet, a testament to the dive into a rushing river you took to get away from your pursuers; what you wouldn’t give for a warm bath. If he doesn’t kill you for your transgressions, you’re certain you’ll catch a cold.
Childe’s lips curve into a taunting grin. “Poor Michail just wanted to enjoy the Lantern Rite, same as you. You got him good. You missed his heart by just an inch, but it doesn’t matter; he was long dead by the time we found him.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and beg yourself to block the words out. Childe doesn’t care for his underlings — especially the ones that let you slip through their fingers — the only purpose of him saying this is to heap guilt onto you. The sickening, squelching sound of plunging a knife into another’s chest is one you’ll never forget. How he doubled over, choking and gurgling on the blood that clawed up his throat, his complexion going a ghastly pale. You knew you shouldn’t have looked back, yet you wanted to ensure he was incapacitated enough for you to run.
Childe, sensing your inner turmoil, removes your gag to see what it is you’ll say.
In a cruel parallel to the person you stabbed earlier (Michail, was it?), you cough from having your mouth freed after hours of wearing the gag. The devil in flesh tilts his head, waiting ever so patiently for you to try and justify yourself. All so he can shred away your halfhearted reasoning and dig his talons deeper into your wounded heart.
“He’s…” you take in a deep breath, wincing at how hoarse your voice sounds. “A piece… of shit… just like
you
.”
Childe’s smile widens and his pupils dilate. “Oh? So
that’s
the excuse you’ve settled on then. You’re shaking like a newborn fawn, you’ve never killed a person until today if I had to guess. How did it feel? There was a lot more blood than you expected, wasn’t there? Ah, and the noises he must’ve made! Do you remember them? Choking on your own blood isn’t an easy way to go, you know. It’s a
long
process.”
His hand hovers teasingly over your throat, pressing in just enough to apply some pressure.
“When your brain doesn’t get enough oxygen, all sorts of lovely things start to occur. Black spots in your vision, ringing in your ears, the works. Given the tracks you left behind, I doubt you stayed around for long to observe your kill, so allow me to fill in the blanks for you.”
Your lips part in an act of desperation, “
Stop
—”
The warning squeeze he gives to your throat shuts you up immediately.
“There were claw marks at his throat. A last, desperate attempt to salvage his waning life. I wonder what he thought about in his final moments. His elderly parents that he enlisted for back in Snezhnaya? Or was it his fiancée he had waiting for him back at home? Archons, he’d go on and on about her when given the opportunity, talking about the life they’d one day live together once his service was over. Guess that won’t be happening anymore, huh?”
Tears trickle down the curves of your face, falling onto Childe’s hand that remains wrapped around your neck. Why is he doing this? Why did he have to take an interest in you? What did you ever do to deserve this? You never dreamed of hurting another person in your entire life. That was meant to stick to pages of fiction, the words of storytellers who gathered crowds on the busy streets of Liyue, anywhere other than with you.
Childe coos at you in a way you can only describe as mocking. “Aw, somebody’s crying. Feel bad yet? Good. I have plenty more to say, but first, I’ll let you think about what you’ve done.”
“You’re inhumane,” you wheeze out, ignoring his glare against your better judgment. “Everything is because of you.”
You’re fully prepared for the worst. Maybe he’d apply more pressure until you passed out, or take his time with it to draw out your suffering. Whatever the case, you wanted him to know the depths of your hatred, even if it costs your life.
He instead pulls back and pats your head condescendingly, that twisted smile never leaving his face. “There, there. Get it all out of your system. You’ve got a long night ahead of you after all! This room will be your new home until you give me a sweet, heartfelt apology. Go with whatever method you think best. Groveling at my feet, promising you’ll only ever be good for me from now on, offering your body... have fun with it and get creative.”
Before you can spit in his face, the gag is shoved unceremoniously into your mouth, Childe’s chilling laughter echoing in the room when he gets up and dusts his hands off.
“If you won’t be a good little spouse for me when I’m nice, maybe this will serve as a wake-up call. Give some thought to how much I’ve spoiled you until now.”
Through blurry vision, you see him crane his neck back to shoot you one last look before he closes the heavy doors.
“Happy Lantern Rite, [First].”
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 didn’t particularly want to be seen at the docking bay where you earned your probation--but as the Command Shuttle’s Official Janitor, routine maintenance following a flight was something you couldn’t put off. Not to mention the control panel that had yet to be cleaned following the escapade the day before--you shivered at the memory.
Tonight was the night Kylo Ren had invited--could you call it that?--you to his quarters. Your brain was a coin, flipping between anticipation and dread. You weren’t sure if the day was dragging or sprinting past you. You weren’t even sure if you were going to go. If you let your vagina make the decision, you could wave farewell to the thought of committing to Sam when you returned to Starkiller.
Of course, there was the tiny issue of Kylo Ren tearing your pussy apart with his
lightsaber
. Did that count?
Technically
, it hadn’t been a part of him. Yet, there was something dishonest in the thought that you could spend your entire stint on the Finalizer getting your cunt reamed out by a fucking laser sword without an obligation to disclose it.
Shame was a black cloud above your head as you snuck onto the Command Shuttle. You’d picked a time where there were only a few workers at the bay--it was imperative that you avoid as much eye-contact with as many people as possible. Your awkward, wordless encounter with Jakar Saul earlier told you enough about the public opinion of you on board.
The only relief was the knowledge that the post-flight maintenance wouldn’t take too long, and then you could return to your cot and wallow in ambivalence regarding your plans for the night.
You were engrossed in your fifth wipe-down of the control panel when you heard footsteps floating up the ramp. A brief flicker of fear for Kylo Ren--but no, the steps were far too light, too timid.
“Hello? Yoohoo, anyone here?” A voice--female.
Not wanting to start a discussion on why you were scrubbing the crevices of every button on the center console, you stood, grabbing your datapad and staring at its blank screen as if it contained very important information. “Yes ma’am,” you replied.
The woman emerged from the ramp and poked her head into the cockpit. She was a tiny thing, long blonde braided up behind her. “No need to ma’am me!” she said, sticking out her hand. “Minks Loren. Wanted to meet woman behind the shuttle!”
Minks was far too cheerful to be making the acquaintance of the Official Janitor. Sweeping over her with a frown, you offered your name and your hand, and she wrung it out with her own. “Ow--ow,” you said.
“Oh!” she said. “Sorry. I’ve been told I have an aggressive handshake.” Her smile took up half of her face.
“‘Aggressive’ isn’t quite the word,” you said, cocking an eyebrow. The expectation of mockery locked your jaw. “May I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know, not really,” she said, glancing around the cockpit. “It’s just nice to see another lady engineer, ya know? Not that many of us!” Minks beamed at you again.
Briefly, you wondered why you were surrounded by perky, blonde optimists. Between her and Sam, Kylo Ren would be a welcome break. “You’re right about that,” you replied, keeping the datapad close to your chest. “But I’m not really the ‘gal’ to meet, so to speak.”
Minks spun around, face contorted in horror, as if you’d just murdered her family. “What are you
talking
about!” she said. “You just graduated not even two years ago and you’re working on the shuttle that belongs to
Commander Ren
!” Her hands were waving like ribbons as she spoke. “You don’t realize how
awesome
, how
inspiring
that is?”
Every organ inside your ribs petrified. The grip you had on your datapad threatened to cleave it half. “That’s enough,” you said, glaring at her. “Get the fuck out.”
“W-what?” she replied, chin smacking the floor. “What did I do?”
“I get it, okay?” you said. “I fucked up really bad. It’s fun to mock me. But you know what, the--”
Minks held up her palms. “Hold on, hold on!” she said. “What… What are you talking about?”
You scowled. “Everyone knows what I did to the Lieutenant’s ship,” you said. “And that I’m basically a babysitter for this thing. I’m a joke.”
She frowned. “Well,
I
don’t care about that!” she said, crossing her arms. “You’re still good enough to be trusted with it! Besides, we all make mistakes.”
“Not mistakes that big,” you replied, turning away. A knot tightened in your throat.
She plopped in one of the chairs--the one you had sat in on your journey over. You felt her eyes studying you. “I think we need to stick together,” she said. “It’s not easy--being surrounded by men, ya know?”
Despite yourself, you sealed your lips over a laugh. She didn’t know the half of it. Sagging into the captain’s chair, you shrugged. “I guess it is nice to talk to another woman.”
Minks’ face lit up like a star. “See! We gotta look out for each other.”
“Wish I had someone doing that when I was here last time,” you said. Maybe Kylo Ren wouldn’t have shoved his dick down your throat. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to pull you away from work, either.
“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning forward.
Your gaze darted to the center console, thighs clenching as you imagined how you must have looked--draped over it like a curtain, eyelids fluttering, lightsaber pounding into you. You cleared the longing from your voice. “Boy problems. You know.”
“Ah!” she said. “I
do
know what you mean! What happened?” There was a naive earnesty in her brown eyes.
The real story was that Kylo Ren had taken you into a communications room and tried to fuck you. Something told you that the chances of her believing that--or that he jizzed all over your stomach the day before--were low. Not that you wanted to tell her that, anyway. You considered her face. It was sweet, genuine. Almost trustworthy. Perhaps a half-truth wouldn’t be so bad--after all, you hadn’t been able to talk to
anyone
about
any
of it.
“This guy just distracts me all the time. And he distracted me that day,” you said, with a flourish of your hand, as if it had been a simple indiscretion and not his hand on your cunt. “It was my fault.”
Minks frowned, cocking her head to the side. “That sucks. Does he know how these distractions affect your work?”
“Uh, yeah,” you said, feeling color rush your face. “He knows. He’s just an
asshole
.”
“Oh, no,” she said, her face falling--but not with pity. Maybe with empathy? “You should just cut him off!”
You imagined telling Kylo Ren that you were “cutting him off.”
That’s not what I was hearing a few seconds ago. Now let me seduce you onto my cock.
Fucking jackass.
“I mean, the thing is, I kind of like it? I don’t know.” You groaned, raking your fingers over your face. “And then there’s this other guy, who I really like, and he likes me, and he’s super sweet--like, the best, really--but I keep getting...” A sigh. You hadn’t meant to spill that much. “Distracted.”
Minks fell back into her chair, examining the ceiling. “Hmm, yes, definitely a conundrum.” She tapped her chin with her fingers, face screwed in contemplation.
You stood, throwing your hands up in the air. “
And
the asshole guy invited me to his room tonight. He’s
never
done that. I don’t know what to think.”
She gasped, her mouth an almost perfectly round o-shape. “Ohh, maybe he’s trying to make it up to you! For being a jerk!”
The snort that left your nose burned your throat. “I doubt it.” The twinge of hope pulling at your heart was a little
too
noticeable for your liking.
“Nope!” she said, standing. “I’ve decided. You need to go! And tell me how it goes!” The joy radiating from her was almost desperate in its intensity.
You figured that she hadn’t had a conversation about anything outside of malfunctioning ion engines and dented durasteel in some time. And now you could blame a possibly horrible decision on someone else. “Okay,” you said, bowing your head in defeat. “I’ll go, I’ll go.”
Minks’ face was so tight with glee, you thought it might snap. “Yes!” she said. “Okay. I gotta get back to work, but I’ll see you later. Okay? Okay.”
“Uh, yeah, definitely,” you said, forcing a nod.
“Ah! Girlfriends!” She smiled and squeezed your arm before skipping off of the ship.
Somehow, her enthusiasm did nothing to quiet your apprehension.
After wrapping up your maintenance checks, you returned to your own quarters, frozen in the center of the room. It was still a few hours before lights-out for first shift--night-time while on board--and anxiety was crushing your chest. Should you shower? Do something with your hair? Wear something to sleep in? Would he want to have sex? Yell at you?
“Ugh!” you said, slumping onto your cot. It’s not like you were going on a first date. “Whatever.”
He had just told you to show up. So that’s all you were going to do. He didn’t deserve you putting special time or attention into your appearance. Not when he was stripping you out of your work clothes half the time, anyway.
As the clock hit lights-out, you swallowed the biggest breath you could gather and blew it out in a rippling sigh. You imagined your spine was made of durasteel as you marched out into the hallway, realizing your destination was unknown. There must have been someone who knew where Kylo Ren stayed. But it wasn’t a question you could just ask--or maybe it was.
You spotted a sanitation worker in the hall, and decided to bet on your hunch, rushing into him as if the airlocks had burst open and there were minutes to live.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” you said, gripping his skinny shoulders. His eyebrows were rising to meet his scalp as he fossilized under your fingers. “I need to know where Commander Ren stays. It’s a Command Shuttle emergency!”
“Uh, uh,” he choked. “Well, I don’t know--”
“
Emergency
!” you said, shaking him.
He nodded, gulping. “Yes, ma’am, he stays on the bridge level. Near the bow. One of the last rooms in the--”
“Thank you!” you said, having already released him as you began a breathless sprint.
The moment you vanished from the worker’s line of sight, you collapsed into a wall, chest heaving. You cursed yourself.
Good evening, Commander Ren, oh, the sweat? Yes, I just couldn’t
wait
to get your room, I guess
. Wishing you could slap yourself, you wiped your face down and resumed your journey. Maybe by the time you arrived, you’d look as casual as ever.
Your room--well, was it a room, really--had been relegated to the belly of the ship, a collection of afterthoughts for any visiting officers. Kylo Ren’s room might as well have been light years from you--you hoped that he hadn’t already fallen asleep by the time you made it.
It had been about two minutes since you’d arrived at his door, your arm hair bristling at your sleeves, the acid in your stomach sloshing angrily against your esophagus. You were paralyzed. Were you supposed to knock? Press one of the buttons at the frame of the hatch? Sighing, you wiped your palms on the fabric of your pants, reaching toward the door, hands consumed with tremors. But before you could make contact with any aspect of the entrance, the hatch flew open, and you yelped, jumping back.
“Shit,” you whispered.
No one was standing there. You gnawed the inside of your lips, stepping inside, and as you cleared the threshold, the breeze of the hatch shutting behind you brushed your back. His quarters were massive--you didn’t know these things could come equipped with more than a single, scant room. Heartbeat pulsing in your ears, you took another step, investigating for any signs of life. Most of the lights were off.
“Um, hello? Ky--Comman--anyone?” What were you supposed to call him in private?
He stepped through an open archway, mask off, dressed in his black underclothes--which still failed to show a single inch of skin outside of his hands and feet. Feet--you gawked at them. You’d never thought to consider that Kylo Ren had actual feet underneath all of that leather and armor. The idea was humanizing--and slightly arousing, for some reason. You didn’t even
have
a thing for feet.
“You came,” he said, regarding you with another indistinguishable emotion.
“Uh, yup,” you replied, still devouring how he looked out of all of his robes, body so lean, strong--nope, nope. Not right now. “So…”
Kylo walked past you and pushed open the door to a bedroom--clean, monochromatic. “It’s not right you sleep in a cot,” he said.
“Oh,” you said, peering into the space, the throbbing of your heart almost painful. What?
“Sleep in my spare room.” He nodded into it, his words more of a command than an offer. His gaze probed you, searching for your reaction.
“Um, okay,” you said, creeping by him, carrying the weight of his stare on your back. You stopped at the bed and crossed your arms, peeking over at him. Did he just expect you to go to sleep while he watched you?
“You’re a better engineer than he is,” Kylo said bluntly, as if it was the most natural thing that could have come out of his mouth.
You blinked, sinking down onto the bed, unable to grasp his statement. “Huh?”
“Him. The one on Starkiller.” His face was stone.
Was he saying you were more skilled than Sam? “I… What?” Your mind was spinning. That just wasn’t true.
Kylo Ren’s gaze flitted to the far wall. “No other engineer’s ever been so capable at working with the Command Shuttle.”
Did he think he was complimenting you? You glared at him, heat flushing your neck. “Why’d you ruin it for me, then?”
He was silent, eyebrows knitting together as he sorted his thoughts. Brown eyes locked with yours, and he spoke. “Because you disrespected me.”
“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “As I’m the only one who’s ever done that.”
“You are.”
“I’m definitely not,” you said, remembering Hux’s own silent admission.
“You’re the only one I have to hear from in my head,” he said, taking a step toward you.
You shook your head, scooching away from him. The mattress was soft under your shifting butt. “Why not kill me if disrespecting you is such a violation?”
He tilted his head, like he’d been confused by what you’d just asked. “I have no interest in killing you,” he said.
“Yes,” you said, “fine, but why?”
“I want you,” he said, scanning your figure. He met your gaze again. “I think about you.”
Your lips curled in a snarl as you stood, flailing your arms. “Yes, but
why not just kill me
! What did I
do
?” The volume of your voice rose against your best interests.
Kylo blinked slowly, glancing at the floor. Something was rolling through his head. “I don’t know.”
“Are you
serious
?” you said, advancing on him. “You have to ruin my life over an
I don’t know
?”
He was a statue, eyes narrowing. “Enough,” he said, and pivoted, returning to his room.
“No,” you said, trailing his heels. “You need to--”
“Goodnight,” he said, and his door clamped shut in your face.
“Dammit!” you said, beating the metal with your fist. “Asshole!” Exasperation poured out of you. This was a futile venture.
Fuming, you stomped back, locking your own door behind you. You ripped off your clothes and grumbled, settling into the bed in the crankiest fashion you could muster. Sure, you’d sleep in his really nice, really comfortable spare room--but you didn’t have to
like
it (even if you did like it). You shut your eyes, letting your body unravel into the pillowy heaven underneath you. The twinge of hope you’d felt earlier was pulsing with a new life.
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
A = Aftercare
She doesn't know what to do and instead just sort of lays there.
B = Body Part
Her thighs. Strong and they command respect.
C = cum
She doesn't really like it. Could you use a condom perhaps?
D = dirty secret
She doesn't hide anything from you. She shares everything with you.
E = experience
The only people she has been intimate with have been the other diamonds. Even then it was never like that.
F = favorite position
She kinda likes doggy style. Just something about it that makes her go crazy.
G = goofy
Rational, logical and blunt. She isn't afraid to be open but prefers to be business like in most things.
H = hair
None.
I = intimacy
Tries a little too hard. She doesn't know what she is doing but she tries to show how much she loves you.
J = jack off
She doesn't really understand why people would do this when they have partners they could do it with instead.
K = kink
Commanding. She likes when you follow her commands and do what she wants in a sexy way.
L = location
Her room. She would prefer being in a private place.
M = motivation
Help her and love her. Forgive her if she says something wrong and make her laugh.
N = no
Trying to hurt her fellow diamonds.
O = oral
Tries. Isn't good but she tries.
P = pace
Mixed. She doesn't know how she likes it and wants to try every way you two can fuck.
Q = quickie
Not really her thing. She needs build up and time to prepare herself.
R = risk
Absolutely not!
S = stamina
Same as you surprisingly. Gets overwhelmed easy.
T = toys
She doesn't have any and doesn't want any.
U = unfair
She tries but is very bad at it.
V = volume
Fairly vocal and hates that she can't be quiet.
W = Wildcard
She often tells the other diamonds about your times together and even suggests they get someone for themselves. She has even gotten you to have dates with them to show how much of a good time you two have.
X = X-ray
A-cup, Firm ass, Firm frame.
Y = yearning
She wants you close at all times, would prefer you were always within eyeshot.
Z = Zzz
Likes to hold you as you rest.
NNN = No Nut November
She doesn't fully understand why you would do something like this but she won't stop you. She'll encourage you and hope you'll win. If you win she'll congratulate you and will want to celebrate. If you lose she'll try to cheer you up and tells you that you can try again next year. Chance of winning is guaranteed.
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
Ed can smell the smoke in the air long before he exits the tent and right before he ventures out, he starts to hear a series of screams not too far off in the distance.
The world is steadily growing on fire outside, hellish orange flames eating away at the edges of the campground.
He runs back inside, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Get up!” he shouts, shaking a few of the Weasleys as he goes. “We need to go
now!
”
“Wha–? Ed?” Fred squints at him in the dim light of the tent.
“Bloody hell, whad’ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Ron mumbles, turning over in his bedroll.
“Something bad’s going on outside, everything’s on
fire
, and people are screaming, so get the fuck up, we NEED TO RUN!” Ed shouts.
Mr. Weasley is quick to check outside the tent and confirm Ed’s words.
“We’re leaving immediately,” he says, pulling on his coat. “Leave everything.”
Mr. Weasley directs the not quite seventeen-year-olds to run away from the approaching madness, while taking Percy along with him as he rushes towards it.
“We need to help if we can,” he says grimly. “Head for the forest, it’ll be safer there.”
Ed is fully prepared to protect the
civilians
inexperienced wizards and guide them to safety before running off and doing his own thing, because there is no fucking way, alternate reality or not, that the Fullmetal Alchemist is going to sit on his ass and let people get hurt just because he’s not of legal age here.
He’s never cared for laws before and he has no intention of starting the habit now.
“You heard him,” Ed says impatiently. “Let’s go.”
“We’re not listening to
you
,” Hermione says, scandalized by the very thought.
Ed presses his hands to his eyes, the stress building up as pressure against his skull. “Then fucking listen to Mr. Weasley and start running like your god damn life depends on it, because for all we
fucking
know, it DOES,” he snaps.
Hermione pales slightly, before scowling and opening her mouth to argue again, when Ron grips her by the shoulder and shakes his head.
“Prick’s right,” he says.
“Oi, you lot, hurry
up
!” Fred yells, a few steps ahead of them. “You can fight about this petty shite later!”
“Language,” Ed hisses, but he’s already grabbing for his wand and shoving the rest of the underaged wizards towards the trees. “Run!”
They’re fully into the forest when Ginny shouts at them, grabbing the twins by the arms. “Where’s the rest of them?”
Ed is going to strangle the Chosen One with his bare hands. How the fuck did that particular trio manage to get
lost
when they were literally all running
together
?
“
Fuck, why the fuck does this always happen!
” Ed mutters, trying to think out the best plan. He doesn’t want to drag the other
civilians
underaged wizards back into the mess they just left behind, but he can’t in good conscience leave those three idiots to fend for themselves, whatever they got themselves into this time.
“Ugh, alright, fuck. We’re going to look for them, but
we
are sticking together.”
Fred and George nod, grim.
“Let’s go,” Ginny says, face twisted in concern.
They start to run back towards the clearing.
Whatever is going on in the campgrounds is getting significantly worse, seeing as Ed spots a number of hauntingly still bodies float up into the air when they break from the treeline.
“Death Eaters,” George breathes, halting suddenly as his eyes turn wide and horrified. “They, that can, oh Merlin, they must, there must be Death Eaters.”
The other three turn quickly to see what George is staring at and are confronted with the scene of three masked wizards hexing a person who is clearly a Muggle, easily recognized by attire alone.
The Muggle screams, writhes, then goes unnaturally limp as they sail upward.
Ed’s blood
boils
.
He hasn’t felt so angry in so long, instantly outraged at the sheer audacity of weak-minded fools to
torment
and gang up on an innocent person, hidden behind a
mask
of all things.
He hasn’t seen such cowardice in years.
“Hey, assholes!”
Ed’s off and running before any of his friends can stop him, sprinting with purpose towards the Death Eaters, who turn towards the sound of his voice.
* * * * *
Here’s the thing about wizards that Ed, Muggle-born wizards, Muggles, and anyone with even two brain cells would notice about magic-based fights: wizards are basically one-trick ponies.
Is magic incredibly broad in its application? Fuck yeah, there are things made possible that Ed honestly considers a violation of natural laws, no matter how normal it is to a wizard. Magic is only as limited as the imagination of the person who wields it.
But do wizards also get stuck thinking their wand is enough to deal with any given situation? Hell yeah.
With that piece of information in mind, this is
Edward Elric’s Step-By-Step Guide to Beating Up a Death Eater
.
Step 1: break their wand.
Step 2: any fucking thing you want because now they’re utterly helpless and at your mercy.
* * * * *
Death Eater #1 raises their wand as if to send a spell Ed’s way, but he’s quicker to the punch — literally.
He raises his left arm to block their wand arm, using enough force to elicit a strangled shout from them, while simultaneously pulling back his right arm and punching the wizard directly in the center of their mask.
His automail doesn’t get any sensation, but Ed can hear the audible crunch of the Death Eater’s nose where his fist collides with their face.
Spotting movement in his peripheral vision, Ed automatically ducks down and sweeps his leg out to the side, making contact with Death Eater #2’s shins. Their wand goes flying out of their hand and Ed barely has time to process that Death Eater #1 is bent over, both hands clasped over the cracked mask, blood spilling freely between their fingers, before Death Eater #3 shoots a series of angry red sparks at him.
“You fuck!” Ed shouts, leaping off to the side and rolling back to his feet.
He charges at the last Death Eater, ignoring their two comrades struggling back up to their feet.
Clearly, none of these idiots have ever had someone attempt a physical counterattack — actually, it seems like they’ve never met someone willing to attempt one at all.
Ed dodges several other spells, the pressure of magic behind them shoving past him as he tries to get closer to the Death Eater.
He gets in close, to the alarm of the wizard (who
shrieks
, mind you), and jabs directly into their kidney. They immediately hunch over with a wheeze, dropping their wand as they do.
Wow.
Not that Ed thought this through in any way, shape, or form, but he’d anticipated being somewhat rusty in the physical confrontation area of his skill set, considering the last time he’d thrown a punch had been at Draco, and that’d been one with very different intentions from his current ones.
But as Ed raises his fists to his face in a hasty fighting stance, he stops abruptly as he realizes that all but one of the Death Eaters have lost their grips on their wands and are frantically searching the grass for any sign of their stupid little sticks.
And that’s really what it is, isn’t it? A stupid little stick that makes them think they’re so much better than a non-magical person.
Death Eater #2, who still has their wand, shouts, “Accio wands!”, bringing Ed right back into the thick of things. He lunges as one of the wands whizz by his face, just barely managing to snatch it out of the air.
The other wand ends up in Death Eater #2’s extended hand and #2 grabs their helpless comrades and apparates before Ed can reach them.
“FUCK!” Ed yells. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!”
He clenches his fists and the foreign wand in his hand splinters. He tosses it off to the side.
“Good fucking riddance,” he mutters.
The floating Muggle suddenly collapses and Ed lunges to catch them, with assistance from his friends, who rush over to his side.
The man is portly and not much taller than Ed, which is convenient as he directs George to help him carry the man to safety.
“Were—, bloody
hell
, were you actually a Muggle Death Eater?” Fred asks weakly.
Ed scowls. “A what?”
“Now’s not the time, Fred,” Ginny says.
The Weasleys look freaked out. They’re paler than usual and their faces are eerily lit up by the flickering orange light of the surrounding fires.
“It’ll be okay,” Ed says, ignoring Fred’s question for now. “We’ll be okay.”
He’s not sure that’s as reassuring as he means it to be when there’s blood drying on his gloves — at least it’s not his blood this time around.
Fuck, I forgot they were here.
This isn’t exactly the same as Ed’s previous fights, but it’s not an unfamiliar sight: rampaging fires, assholes acting like they can do whatever they want to whoever they want without any consequences, screaming and pandemonium as civilians run for cover.
Cue the Fullmetal Alchemist.
Taking down belligerent weaklings with a single swing of his fist is a natural instinct and having an audience in the form of bystanders isn’t out of the norm.
The problem lies in the fact that Ed hadn’t ever
known
the bystanders before.
And he hadn’t ever been hiding his identity from them either. He’d always been proud to be an alchemist when it meant he could be helping people, even if most of them thought Al was the actual Fullmetal Alchemist.
He pulls himself back to the present and focuses on supporting the man hanging off of him and George, especially as he does his best to ignore the way Fred is babbling nervously behind him.
“I mean, I know you’re Muggle-raised, but that was, well, that was
bloody
. As in, actual bodily fluids blood, bloody. Blood inside people, inside us, kind of bloody—”
“We can talk about it later, I swear, but Fred, this is literally the worst time for this,” Ed says evenly, despite the multitude of things running through his brain at the moment.
There’s the click of Fred’s teeth from how fast he shuts his jaw.
The sudden lack of conversation only emphasizes the sound of screams and shouts surrounding them, growing exponentially louder.
George falters, turning to look as if on instinct.
“Don’t look,” Ed grits out between clenched teeth, tugging him by the shirt sleeve. “You can’t–, no,
we
can’t do anything right now. There’s too many of them.”
He pulls, a little harder this time, before George fully turns and starts to walk once more, but not without digging his nails into Ed’s arm and grimacing all the while. Fred and Ginny hover around them as they move, all four of them now intently focusing on returning to the forest with the man in tow.
Ed feels utterly helpless in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Not because he can’t deal with the Death Eaters, because he’s pretty certain he could decimate them without relying on alchemy at all.
No, he feels helpless because he’s never been controlled by social constraints relating to his perceived identity. Even now, he’s fully capable of storming the clearing as a one-man army and fighting off the Death Eaters and protecting the vulnerable from further harm.
There are no alchemists here.
There is no expectation that Ed, as an underage wizard, can do much of anything in such a situation.
But he
is
an alchemist; whether other people know it or not,
he
knows it.
He lives it.
Be thou for the people.
If he’s standing around, watching things turn to shit at the hands of a few masked criminals, he can’t deign to call himself an alchemist anymore.
But if he uses alchemy, would that lead to more questions from his friends, from bystanders, from the Ministry, if things get that far?
Is it selfish to want to protect his identity as a displaced existence, when he knows he’s capable of using his abilities for good?
Immovable rock, meet unstoppable force.
He struggles with the clashing sentiments in silence, wondering if Al would be ashamed of his actions. Would Winry?
There’s a blast of magic from nearby.
“Oh,” Fred says quietly. He’s terrified, that much is clear, as he raises a trembling hand towards the sky.
Ed follows Fred’s fingers and discovers the spell that went off casts an ominous green glow to the entirety of the campground.
“Dark mark,” Ed mutters, scowling at the skull and snake circling the sky. “But who cast it?”
* * * * *
Ed has probably never met a person who has worse timing than Harry fucking Potter.
Despite Ed’s earlier insistence that they run for cover, the
usual suspects
had run away from the forest and ended up in the midst of the chaos, appearing in the same clearing that the Dark Mark could be traced back to.
And whose wand should have been found to cast the spell other than Harry. Fucking. Potter.
(Granted, his wand had somehow ended up in the hands of Bartemius Crouch’s house elf, but regardless, Harry fucking Potter has horrible timing.)
The only person dumber than Potter are the adult wizards accusing him of casting the spell at all, as if the Boy Who Lived would actually consider joining Riddle’s forces. Said wizards are apparently members of the Ministry, which doesn’t soothe Ed’s concerns about the strength of the local wizarding government at all.
“It’s your wand!” Crouch shouts.
“I told you, I lost it somewhere!” Harry says back, frustration all too clear. “I didn’t cast that spell! I didn’t even know what spell it was!”
“
Idiot,
” Ed mutters, unsure if he’s talking about Harry or Crouch at the moment. Either person works in this scenario anyway.
Ron and Hermione are standing protectively next to Harry, while Mr. Weasley is attempting to mediate a civil conversation between a fourteen-year-old boy and a high-ranking Ministry official.
Percy is busy at Crouch’s side, fulfilling his role as Crouch’s assistant.
Ed and the rest of the Weasleys linger on the edge of the clearing. The Muggle Ed and George had carried into the forest had been left with one of the emergency mediwizards who’d been rushed into the scene.
According to what Ed’s overheard so far, the Death Eaters had apparated away at the first sign of the insignia scorched into the night sky, meaning they aren’t the ones to put it there in the first place. But if you aren’t a Death Eater to start with, why the hell would you care to shoot off a giant signal declaring you’re one of Riddle’s brainwashed minions?
“Do you really think the Boy Who Lived would be the one to conjure the Dark Mark?” Mr. Weasley asks earnestly.
Bartemius Crouch frowns deeply, as if the question offends him somehow. “But it’s his wand.”
Ed has had more logical arguments as a child than Crouch has now as a senior official and that’s just pathetic.
Eventually, Crouch concedes, but not without causing further harm.
“Winky, you are dismissed.”
The house elf sobs, begs at the feet of the man who cast her aside, while everyone else can’t help but look on.
Hermione, in particular, appears outraged, her eyebrows furrowed in anger and the corner of her mouth turning down sharply.
The rest of the Ministry wizards begin preparations for a more official search of the clearing as Mr. Weasley ushers Harry, Ron, and Hermione over to join the rest of them. Percy doesn’t come back, still standing at attention by Crouch’s side.
“We should head back to the tent,” Mr. Weasley explains. “I’ll be just a moment, wait here, will you?” He leaves to exchange words with a different Ministry official.
Hermione bites her lip. “What about Winky?”
Ron shrugs. “What about her? Crouch sacked her, I’m sure she’ll be able to get better work elsewhere.”
“But she’s… she seems so upset.”
“Let’s just ask her to come with us then,” Ed interrupts them, earning a startled shriek from Ron. “Hey! You!”
The Ministry wizards scattered around look up at Ed with confused and irritated expressions.
“Ed, wait, don’t—,” Ginny whisper-yells, grasping at his sleeve.
Ed ignores her. “Not you, you!” He gestures towards Winky, who squints at him through her tears. “I want to ask you something!”
“Who is you?” Winky hiccups. She’s still squinting at him and big, fat tears stream down her thin face as she talks.
“No one important,” Ed responds hastily. “Just wondering. You got a place to go?”
“I is—, was—,
hic
, was supposed to be going home to Master Crouch,” she says, breathing unevenly. She holds her breath.
“I’m going to take that as a no, then.” Ed runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. He knows who he should call, but he doesn’t exactly know if doing so reveals too much information to the wrong people.
Winky starts to sob again, muffling the sound of her own crying with her hands.
Fuck it, Ed hasn’t been able to do nearly as much as he’d like tonight, so the least he can do is this.
“Kreacher?” he calls out, only slightly unsure of himself.
There’s a loud crack and the house elf is standing in front of him, glancing about his surroundings before addressing Ed.
“Is Ed needing help?” Kreacher asks, hopeful.
“Uh, kind of? This is Winky,” Ed explains, gesturing towards the distraught elf. “I think she might need a place to stay, for now. Uh, that is, if, uh…, if
he
is alright with it. You know what I mean?”
Kreacher scowls slightly at the loose reference to Sirius, but quickly nods at Ed and reaches out to Winky. “You is coming with Kreacher, alright? We is going now.”
Winky is still an inconsolable mess, but she obediently takes Kreacher’s open hand and together, the house elves apparate out of sight. Ed watches them go and figures Sirius and Remus probably won’t mind. After all, they took him in — maybe they’re fans of taking in strays.
He recalls the number of times Al had begged him to take in the hordes of stray cats that he’d find on the streets and remembers the way he’d shut Al down every single time.
Maybe he’d been too harsh.
It’s only when Hermione edges closer to him that he starts paying attention to the “real” world again.
“You have a house elf?” Hermione asks, suspicious as always.
“No, I don’t
have
one,” Ed replies, “I just know one.” He thinks about Walburga Black’s severed elf heads, before adding, “I don’t really think anyone should
have
them anyways.”
She looks mildly surprised by his answer, pausing for a moment to scan his face before leaving him to join Harry and Ron.
Mr. Weasley eventually herds them back to their tent, which is miraculously still standing.
“Unfortunately, we’ll have to wait to take the portkey tomorrow morning, as scheduled,” he says. “Try to get some sleep — I know it’s been a long day.”
They settle in for the next few hours; within a few minutes, Ed can clearly hear the heavy breathing and snores of multiple people sleeping.
Lucky them.
* * * * *
It’s early in the morning when Mr. Weasley wakes them up to depart.
Ed had had a restless night, unable to close his eyes in fear of having some kind of uncontrollable nightmare and startling everyone else awake.
Judging by the purple bruises beneath Harry’s eyes, the other boy hadn’t gotten much sleep either.
Everyone is subdued as they pack up their belongings and head out to the portkey, which is an old, rusty bucket this time around.
Ed is barely able to keep himself from vomiting when he finds himself suddenly sprawled out on the field outside the Burrow.
Mrs. Weasley rushes out to meet them, flanked on either side by two unfamiliar redheads.
“Bill and Charlie,” George murmurs to Ed, who nods gratefully.
He’d heard of the oldest Weasley siblings, but had yet to meet them. He’d thought they’d be attending the World Cup as well, but Fred had explained they weren’t able to return to England in time to do so.
“But they’ll be visiting soon,” he’d said.
“Oh, I was so worried!” Mrs. Weasley cries, grabbing the twins and pulling them close. “I’d thought, oh, what if the last thing I’d been able to say was–, was about your O.W.L.s!”
“That’s why you’ve got to be nicer to us, Mum,” Fred says, his voice muffled by his mother’s shoulder.
George simply wraps his arm around her and squeezes. “Mum, we’re alright.”
They break apart from the hug and Mrs. Weasley glances over everyone, her brow marred with worry lines. “Is everyone alright? Where’s Percy?”
Mr. Weasley sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He got caught up with work again after last night. I figured he’d know best whether he was needed for longer or not.”
Mrs. Weasley frowns slightly, before shaking her head slightly and turning her attention to Harry.
“That’s strange,” a voice comments. “Never seen you come ‘round before.”
Ed realizes one of the older Weasleys is talking to him.
He’s stocky and thick, rather than rail-thin like Ron, and is a fair amount shorter than the twins. But he shares their mischievous smile and expressive eyes and of course, sports fiery red hair that’s been haphazardly groomed into a mullet.
“I’m… new, I guess,” Ed says. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Ed.”
“Charlie.”
Charlie glances at Ed’s hand before jerking back in surprise. “Woah! Are you alright?”
Ed had also withdrawn his hand at Charlie’s exclamation. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine?”
Charlie reaches out to grab Ed’s right hand, turning it over and revealing the alarming amount of dried blood on his glove.
Oh shit.
“You’re bleeding,” Charlie points out.
“That’s not his,” the twins say, just as Ed says, “That’s not mine.”
The three of them exchange glances before looking to Ginny for help.
“It’s not blood, it’s face paint,” Ginny lies. “From the game. Got everywhere, remember?”
“Right,” Charlie says, stretching out the word. “I’ll take your word for it, Gin.” He faces Ed again. “Pleasure to meet you. Heard some things about you over Christmas, but I’ve got to say you’re much shorter than I was imagining.”
Fred, George, and Ginny simultaneously bite their tongues as Ed grouches. “I’m not that short,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m of average height.”
Charlie’s face splits into a wide grin as he laughs goodnaturedly. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m not so tall myself and these two shot up in the last year or so and now, it looks as if Ron’s probably going to be taller than all of us, so I understand the feeling, mate. I really do.” He sighs. “Should’ve drank more milk when I was still growing, but—”
“Milk is disgusting,” Ed says, which startles another laugh out of Charlie.
“That it is,” he says, nodding in agreement. “Finally! Someone who gets it.”
“Someone who gets what?”
“Someonewho understands how terrible milk actually is,” Charlie responds.
This must be Bill then. The first thing Ed notices is how long and shiny Bill’s ponytail is and the second is that he sports a number of tattoos on his arms and hands
that move.
“How does it do that?” Ed says, thinking out loud.
“Do what?” Bill asks, tilting his head slightly.
“Oh, uh, it’s nothing,” he answers. “I was just talking to myself.”
Charlie smiles again, while Bill extends a hand.
“I’m Bill,” he says, “and you must be Ed. We’ve heard a lot about you.”
“So I’ve been told,” Ed replies, shooting a glare at the twins, who raise their shoulders in feigned nonchalance.
Bill laughs. “Don’t worry, Fred and George haven’t stopped singing your praises since last December. They’ve already made quite an impression for you, before you ever got here.”
“I’d be less concerned if I knew they were good at singing,” Ed replies dryly.
Both of the older Weasleys bark out a laugh as Fred interjects to explain that he, in fact,
does
have a beautiful singing voice.
They make small talk, with Fred, George, and Ginny eagerly supplying stories about Ed’s antics during school, much to his embarrassment.
“How old are you?” Charlie asks at one point, sizing Ed up as he does.
“Sixteen,” Ed says, wondering if he’s about to make another comment about his height.
“Drat,” Charlie says, turning to Bill. “Didn’t you think he’d be a good fit? Based on the stories, I mean.”
“A good fit for what?” The twins ask in tandem, leaning forward in interest.
“Like we said before, you’ll find out soon!” Charlie grins, looking back towards Ed. “And if you’re turning seventeen in the next month or so, I think you might be interested as well.”
“That’s totally not vague,” Ed mutters.
“Are you staying too?” Bill asks.
Harry and Hermione were planning on remaining at the Burrow until the term started up again, but Ed had been adamant on leaving the day they returned from the World Cup.
“I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he’d said to Mrs. and Mr. Weasley, while the rest of the kids had made faces and poked fun of his manners in the background.
But now, less than twenty-four hours since Ed had disarmed three Death Eaters in front of his friends, he’s not sure how easily he can escape.
“Oh, I’ve got to get going,” he says apologetically, “but it was nice to meet you both.”
Bill smiles and Charlie waves.
“It was nice to finally meet you,” Charlie says. “Keep Freddie and Georgie out of trouble, would you?”
He smiles politely. “I make no promises.”
They laugh again.
Ed interrupts Mrs. and Mr. Weasley’s conversation to thank them profusely for taking him along and reassuring them that he’ll be safe to return home for the time being. He knows the twins are hovering just behind him as he says his goodbyes, but tries to act like nothing is out of the ordinary.
He walks into the Burrow, trying to get to the Floo in the kitchen when the twins throw themselves in his path, effectively blocking his exit route.
“We need to talk,” George says, unusually serious.
“Are we breaking up,” Ed deadpans.
Fred splutters. “What! Were you two, you, like
that
, and you didn’t tell
me
?! —” he turns towards his brother “— GEORGE!”
“Fred,” George says, bringing a hand to rub his temple as he does. “Just… what.”
George glowers at Fred and then grimaces, scrunching his nose up.
Fred responds in kind, with a panicked gesture towards Ed.
George looks from Fred to Ed, back to Fred and then tilts his head with a slight frown.
Whatever conversation they’re having telepathically, Ed isn’t sure. Something complicated, probably.
“Anyway, what did you want to talk about?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Let’s talk in our room,” Fred suggests, already grabbing Ed by the shoulders and steering him upstairs.
The twins’ shared room is an organized mess, filled with what looks like science experiments, books, and complicated diagrams of what looks to be candy and toys. Scraps of parchment have been tacked onto every available surface, with only the occasional decoration or photo left out in plain sight.
Ed lets out a low whistle. “Is this how you make your pranks?”
Fred shrugs. “It’s always been like this. We run the tests outside now, though.”
“Mum said we caused one too many explosions,” George laughs.
“I see,” Ed says, taking in the room as he does. “I’m impressed.”
And he is. He’d known the twins were creative and inventive, but he hadn’t given a lot of thought to the process by which they were able to actually create and invent.
“So, er, Ed. We wanted to talk?” Fred says.
“Yeah, I remember. What about?”
“Er, it’s, it’s about…,” Fred starts, then abruptly turns to George, who sighs, and continues for him.
“It’s about the, the
fighting
,” he says, while Fred nods enthusiastically next to him.
Ed tries to embody what he imagines to be the picture of innocence. Wide eyes, slight shock. That should work, right?
“What about the fighting?” he asks.
“Just, we were wondering if we should be more worried about how you spend your free time over the summer holidays,” George says casually.
“Why? You’re not my mother,” Ed points out.
“Because we’re your friends and we just watched you deck several Death Eaters like some kind of old-fashioned Muggle dueler,” Fred blurts out.
“You didn’t
just
watch me, technically that was yesterday,” Ed says, just to be petty and to hopefully delay having this conversation at all. “And Muggles don’t duel.”
Fred shoves him on instinct. “Get out of here with your technicalities.”
Ginny opens the door while knocking. “Are we talking about Ed’s Muggle-fighting skills now?”
“Ginny, there’s no point in knocking if you open the door while you’re doing it,” George sighs.
“Well, don’t start having important conversations without me and I won’t need to open doors while knocking on them,” she responds as she settles down on Fred’s bed. “Anyways, Ed, I think some explanations are in order.”
“Do I have to?” he asks, squeezing his automail into a tight fist.
“I mean, no one’s going to force you,” Fred says. “We just think, er, maybe… I guess it’s like we don’t know you very well.”
Letting other people see who we are and giving them the chance to make their own opinions about us, rather than trying to force them to consume a front we present… I think that’s when you know it’s out of love, rather than reciprocal consideration.
“It’s not like you
don’t
know me,” Ed says, defensive.
“Right,” George reassures him, “we’re not saying we don’t.”
“We’re worried, more than anything else, mate. As in, is it, is it a typical Muggle thing to fight like that? Or know how to fight like that, that’s more accurate…” Fred trails off.
“You guys don’t need to worry about me.”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “No one
needs
anyone to worry about them, but you’ve made us care about you and now you suffer the consequences. So, the fighting?”
“I just get into a lot of fights, it’s not my fault,” he says dully.
“What kind of fights are you getting into?” George asks.
“Not with anyone who doesn’t deserve it.” Ed scowls, thinking of all the small-time criminals he’d fought up to now.
“I don’t doubt that,” Ginny says wryly. “We’ve all heard about Malfoy.”
“Who hasn’t heard about Malfoy,” Ed mutters.
“Even Bill and Charlie know about Malfoy,” Ginny adds.
Ed turns on the twins. “You told them?”
And my knuckles were bloody the first time I met them. That’s perfect, Fullmetal, you’re giving them a
great
first impression.
“It’s not like it’s a bad thing!” Fred says, glancing at George.
“You were looking out for Neville,” George says. “And loads of people thought it was brave of you. A bit rough, the way you chose to do it, but the intentions were good.”
Ah, the dangers of good intentions. Like a boy who thought he could bring his mother back or an alchemist who thought he could make a more intelligent chimera.
“Good intentions aren’t everything,” Ed says. He’s standing rigidly against one of the desks in the room, his fist pressed knuckles down on the table’s surface.
The Weasleys exchange a look.
“Well, I suppose not, but it’s the thought that counts,” Ginny tries.
“Sometimes, the thought is just the thought. In the end, isn’t it your actions that matter most?”
“In that case,” George says, “you’ve done a lot of good, too. You’ve helped Neville a lot, when you stood up for him. And you helped the Muggle yesterday.”
Ed scoffs. “In both of those situations, the way I chose to ‘help’ was ‘a bit rough’, as you said.”
“We didn’t bring up the fighting to make you feel bad,” Fred says. “We’re just worried.”
“You keep saying that, but what are you worried about? That I’m going to go out and pick random fights with strangers and beat them senseless? Is that what this is?” Ed snaps.
“We’re worried about the reason you know how to fight at all,” George says.
This conversation is not going at all like Ed thought it would. He furrows his brow. “I don’t get it, what do you mean?”
“Are, er… are
you
getting, erm, picked on, Ed?” Fred asks, wincing.
“What?” Ed’s stunned.
Where did
that
come from?
“No, I’m not—, no one’s trying to... I’m not getting bullied.”
Quite the opposite, Truth be told.
Fred, George, and Ginny visibly relax, almost to the point of sagging in their seats.
“Oh, that’s good then,” Ginny says brightly.
It’s touching that his friends are concerned about his reasons for knowing how to navigate a fight in the first place, because it’s not something he’d ever think would matter to anyone back home, who accepted the fighting as an anticipated requirement for fulfilling his role as a state alchemist.
To think they thought he learned to fight in order to fight back — well, they aren’t wrong. It’s just that he’s never been a helpless kid in the situations in which he learned.
“You guys aren’t worried that I’m some kind of fist-fighting delinquent?”
“We already
know
you’re a fist-fighting delinquent,” George says.
“Yeah, we just want to know if you’re a happy one that’s doing it because he wants to,” Fred jokes. “And not because he has to,” he adds after some thought.
“You don’t find it odd, in any way?”
“Do you want us to?” Fred shrugs.
“It’s not like we think you’re going out of your way to antagonize people who don’t deserve it. Or lord over people who can’t fight back,” George elaborates. “We’d like to say we know you better than that.”
We know you better than that.
Ed can feel it in his chest, a soft murmur that beats in sync with his heart.
They trust me.
“We just thought maybe more was going on, and maybe you needed some help,” Ginny says. “Because Ron’s told us about Harry and Hermione and how they grew up before, and knowing to fight like you did, it didn’t seem like something you should know at your age.”
The conversation is teetering into “where are you from, how were you raised” territory, which instinctively raises Ed’s hackles. He forces himself to calm down and take a single deep breath.
“It’s… not the most normal,” Ed admits. “It’d be stupid to lie about that. But I… I just had a lot going on growing up. And sometimes that means learning to throw a well-timed punch to the face.” He goes for a lighthearted tone, but he can tell it falls flat, based on the way the Weasleys look at him.
It’s weird to think his friends are practically upset that he knows how to fight. He thought they’d be upset with him for actively causing harm, not because he’d had the skill set to begin with.
“Are you okay now, though? Like are you in a–, a safer place now?” George asks slowly, carefully choosing each word.
“I’m okay now,” Ed says quietly. “Thanks. For worrying about me. That’s… I wasn’t really expecting that.”
He’s never had someone react negatively to his ability to protect, to fight for them — it’s usually the only thing he can offer in times of need: his willingness to put his body on the line for their sake.
Ginny interrupts his thoughts. “Wait, you thought we were going to give you an intervention about your acts of rage?”
“Sort of?” Ed says, still getting over the shock somewhat. “It’d be the normal thing to do.”
“Lucky all your friends are mad then,” Ginny supplies helpfully. “We just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself too. And maybe tell you that running after Death Eaters is not a smart idea, experience fighting or not.”
“I know it’s not,” Ed says, frowning, “because it’s a great idea. It’s not like I didn’t think I wasn’t capable.”
“Yeah, but still, maybe don’t do that next time,” George says. “You gave us a scare. I thought you were about to get…” He glances around, as if someone might be listening. “Unforgiveables, you know? Death Eaters don’t exactly care about using those on people.”
“I know.” Ed fidgets, unsure how to tell his concerned friends that the threat of torture or death isn’t one that means much to him. He decides not to bring it up.
“I’ll be more careful. No more fighting Death Eaters. Promise,” he lies.
“We’re holding you to that,” Ginny responds.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Ed says. He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. “So, uh, can I go home now?”
* * * * *
Ed isn’t expecting to be bombarded the minute he gets home, but with the widespread news of the Death Eater attack at the World Cup, it shouldn’t be quite the surprise that it is.
“ARE YOU ALL IN ONE PIECE!” Sirius shouts two inches from Ed’s face as he gives him a once over, gripping Ed’s shoulders as he does.
“No,” Ed says dryly, “not
one
piece.”
“YOU’RE HURT, DID YOU GO TO ST. MUNGO’S, DID A MEDIWIZARD CHECK YOU OVER?”
“No.”
“THEN WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME ARE YOU WAITING FOR, PERMISSION? WHERE ARE YOU HURT? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?”
“Plenty of things, but I’m not hurt, you don’t need to shout in my ear.”
“BUT! But, you, I just, you said you’re hurt!”
“I didn’t actually,” Ed says. “You asked if I was all in one piece, and technically, I’m a three piece person,” Ed explains, waving his automail as he does. “Remember?”
Sirius gapes, his mouth wide open like a fish out of water.
“I’ll bloody murder you, brat,” he snaps as he scowls. “I thought my head was going to explode, I was so worried! This wasn’t the time for a joke like that—, you, I, er, we’d thought you’d died, or worse!”
“Worse than dead?” Ed repeats absentmindedly, momentarily thinking of blank white and wide grins.
“You know what I mean. We thought—, well, we didn’t know how we’d contact you if something had happened. Oh, and then,
then
, Kreacher shows up with another house elf and just said you needed help! Which is completely vague and we got more worried!”
Now that Sirius keeps mentioning it. “Where’s Remus?”
“He’s been out trying to get more information on what happened and see if he could contact you, since that’d be, well, better than me trying, you know.”
They’re still careful about Sirius going out in public, since his status as a free man is still relatively new.
“You really had us worried,” Sirius says again, stern and anxious and all too serious for Ed’s liking. It’s not like the man to be this concerned.
“I’m sorry,” Ed says, as genuine as he can make it.
“Don’t do it again,” Sirius says gruffly. There’s a flush to the back of his neck and he is very obviously making a point of not looking directly at him.
“I’ll try,” he answers. “I—, I’ll try.”
“Good,” Sirius says, his voice soft. “That’s—, yeah. Good.”
* * * * *
In the aftermath of the Quidditch World Cup, Ed realizes he needs to adjust his original plan to complete Truth’s errands as discreetly as possible, because if Death Eaters are still pulling this kind of crap in Riddle’s absence — well, that’s not something Ed can let slide. In any reality.
So he needs to know where he’s willing to draw a line.
Fortunately, no one had died during the attack, otherwise Ed really wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Not that he’s unrealistic enough to imagine he could save everyone, everywhere from dying all the time. But if he’s there and able to stop it from happening, like during the Death Eater attack, but didn’t do anything, he wouldn’t really be the Edward Elric he thought he was.
He probably wouldn’t be the Edward Elric anyone thought he was.
“
Am I going to risk everything to protect people I’ll never see again?
”
There are memories that he passes by on this particular train of thought: the way Ranklebury’s smells when there’s fresh baked bread, the sound of the twins’ gleeful laughter whenever they perfectly execute a prank, the taste of Luna’s homemade blend of tea.
Listening to Neville talk about herbology, watching Blaise struggle through Amestrian pronunciation, laughing at Ginny’s jokes.
Eating meals with Sirius and Remus, playing stupid little games where no one dies and nothing matters.
“
Fuck me,
" he groans.
When the time comes, he knows exactly what choice he’s going to make.
* * * * *
The day before the term starts up again, Sirius starts to mope.
“I can’t believe you’re
both
leaving me behind,” he complains from his spot on the kitchen floor. He’s laying splayed out on the floorboards like a starfish, with a smattering of biscuits within arm’s reach.
“Stop eating on the floor,” Remus chides.
“And stop eating lying down,” Ed adds.
“You’re both awful,” Sirius complains once more, while cramming yet another biscuit into his mouth.
“Don’t all of the professors have Floos in their offices anyways? You’ll probably see Remus all the time,” Ed says.
“It’s not the same,” Sirius pouts. “What am I supposed to do for the entire day before Moony comes home?”
“Read a book,” Remus suggests.
“Maybe learn to read first,” Ed snorts and promptly gets a biscuit thrown at his head. “Hey!”
Sirius grins, lifting his head up to see the crumbs in Ed’s hair. “You deserve it and you know it.” He flops back down. “Bored!”
“We’re still here,” Remus says. “Why are you bored now?”
“Because I’m thinking about being here alone starting tomorrow and I can already tell I’m going to be BORED!”
“You won’t be alone, you have Kreacher and Winky to keep you company.”
Winky has been a welcome addition to 12 Grimmauld Place, mostly because she seems to put Kreacher in a more tolerable mood and vice versa. She still cries every now and then, but it’s become significantly better than her first night as a guest.
“It’s complicated,” Sirius explains, “to formally take in a house elf. I can technically do it, but I’d need to register with the Ministry and deal with even more paperwork and honestly, I’m not completely sure Crouch would appreciate the sentiment.” He wrinkles his nose. “Better to just let Winky figure out what she’d like to do from here, now that she’s free.”
“Why would he care?” Ed asks. “He just fired her, for something that wasn’t even her fault. He’s an idiot.”
“Yes, but he’s a rather important idiot,” Remus says. “Poor treatment of house elves has caused a few scandals in the last few decades and there’s been an increase in support for proper rights for them, seeing as they didn’t have many before.”
Ed makes a face. “Well, what do they even get from working for wizards in the first place?”
“Their magic,” Remus replies. “Not that they don’t have magic of their own, but it’s much stronger when they have formal ties to a magical place. So, for example, an old established wizarding family most likely lives in a manor or family home that’s been passed down from century to century, and those buildings carry a lot of residual magic, from ages ago. The older the magic, the stronger the elf.”
“What about people like Crouch, who’re assholes? Won’t they just take advantage of them?”
“House elves are contracted laborers, in that they are formally employed through contracts that detail what they can and cannot be asked to do for a given household. Each elf has their own limits and demands, but unfortunately, it’s only the wizarding family who gets to decide when the contract ends and most of the time, the contracts extend to bloodline, not specific wizards.” Remus grimaces. “It’s common practice to punish elves, mostly because wizards realized most contracts don’t account for the human potential to be cruel, since they were made long before such practices became the norm.”
“That’s—, what! That should be a crime.”
Sirius laughs, not out of humor. “Kid, there are so many things that should be a crime in wizarding society that are not. The people in power want to stay in power, and most of the time, that means appeasing the old-fashioned purebloods who don’t want things to change at all.”
“They can’t stay in power forever,” Ed says, clenching a fist.
“That’s the hope,” Sirius says.
It’s some time later, when Sirius is properly sitting at the kitchen table, that Ed realizes Kreacher could be freed too.
“Why don’t you?” he asks, confused. Even though Sirius doesn’t treat Kreacher unkindly, wouldn’t the elf be happier free to do as he likes?
“Because this is his home, even if he doesn’t like me,” Sirius says. “He’s not allowed to stay here if I end his contract, even if I want to let him. The house won’t allow it.”
“The
house?
” Ed repeats.
“The house,” Sirius confirms. “It’s a part of this mess too, whether I like it or not.”
“This is unreal,” Ed says with a scowl. “All of this is bullshit.”
“It is,” Remus says, surprising him. “But wizarding society has never been a progressive one.”
Sometimes Ed forgets that Remus is a werewolf.
He just sees Remus, in his worn sweaters and constant scraps of parchment sticking out of his trouser pockets, who wouldn’t hurt anyone if he could help it.
But most everyone else would see the werewolf in him, would whisper about his potential to hurt a person, would ponder the what-if’s rather than the realities of his person.
And that’s not right at all.
“Then it sounds like we’ll have to change that.”
Remus shakes his head.
“If only,” he says.
“If only,” Sirius repeats, wistfully.
* * * * *
Edward Elric has
two
three goals while stuck in this magical reality:
The destruction of Tom Riddle’s Horcruxes
The collection of the Deathly Hallows
The downfall of the current Ministry of Magic and with it, the reform of magical laws that let wizards think they can look down on anyone or thing that isn’t a wizard
Simple, right?
* * * * *
The train ride this year is far different from the one the year before.
Ed is happily crammed into a compartment with the rest of the book club — everyone is half-sitting on the person next to them, with Ginny giving up entirely on finding space on the seats and opting for the floor. Neville joins her shortly, Trevor resting on his knee while wearing a tiny knit vest.
“You look quite handsome,” Luna says to the toad.
Trevor croaks.
“Wow, he technically responded,” Fred says, slightly surprised.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Luna blinks owlishly, entirely confused.
“I just–, it–, he’s. He’s just a toad!” Fred accuses, jabbing a finger at the little creature.
“He doesn’t mean it like that,” Neville stage-whispers to Trevor and then proceeds to pat him fondly on the head.
“So?” Luna asks. “Why does that matter?”
“It doesn’t, I, it just took me by surprise, I guess.”
Luna extends her open hand out to the toad, who crawls into it without hesitation, and then holds him right in front of Fred’s nose.
“You should try asking him something!”
“Er, hi… I guess.”
Trevor wriggles out of Luna’s grip, whacks Fred’s forehead with one slimy, webbed foot, and kicks off onto the compartment floor. Fred slaps a hand over his forehead with a tiny scowl.
“You’ve certainly met your match,” Blaise comments, to which Ginny cackles wildly and George bites back a grin.
“You’re a traitor,” Fred says to his brother.
“It’s hilarious and I enjoy your misery,” George replies, snorting as he does.
The rest of the train ride is much the same, filled with amusing conversation and light-hearted recounts of the parts of summer holidays that others weren’t around for; Blaise even volunteers information on how he and his mother eat supper together almost every single night.
“Oh, before I forget, I have something for you, Fullmetal,” Luna says as she digs through her multiple pockets. “I know I put it somewhere, maybe in this one? Ah, here they are!”
She reveals a somewhat familiar object and Fred takes one look at the Spectrespecs before letting out a startled “WOAH!”
The pair Luna offers Ed are an even more bedazzled version of the ones she’d worn that first book club meeting and these ones are a startling shade of hot pink.
Ed’s friends stare at the offending glasses, then stare at Ed.
He really can’t help but start laughing when he notices how badly they hide their excitement — they clearly don’t care if he takes them or not, they just want to see how he’ll respond to them.
He laughs so hard his stomach hurts and his laughter does nothing but confuse his friends, who were probably anticipating an awkward refusal, knowing he’s never been one to snap at Luna.
But not for long, because Ginny is quick to join in, followed shortly by Neville and the twins. Even Blaise laughs, instead of pretending he’s too cool for things like that.
The only person who doesn’t laugh is Luna, who smiles and holds out the pair for Ed to take.
He accepts them with a wide grin.
“Thanks, Loony, they’re perfect.”
* * * * *
The gifted Spectrespecs have caused quite the commotion since the train. Word spread about Ed’s new “look” and he’d noticed everyone trying to catch a glimpse of him as he’d found a seat at the end of the Hufflepuff table before the Sorting started.
He can’t tell if he likes the Spectrespecs because Luna gave them to him or because of the looks other people give him when he does. Probably both if he’s being real honest and he doesn’t see a reason why he shouldn’t be.
The stocky boy to Ed’s left grins at the sight of him. “Love your newest addition,” he says, tapping the bridge of his nose. “Makes you seem more approachable.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t want that, though, would he?” Cedric teases. “Ed couldn’t live like that, with everyone knowing his bark is far worse than his bite.”
“You don’t know me,” Ed sniffs. “Maybe I like the attention.”
That earns him a number of snorts and snickers from his fellow Housemates, who really do seem to have a better opinion of him just from the Spectrespecs alone.
“You’re funnier than I thought you’d be,” a girl comments to his right.
“Thanks,” Ed says sarcastically. “That’s not rude at all.”
“What can I say,” the girl responds with a shrug and a smirk, “badgers have claws.”
They watch the Sorting then, and Ed can’t help himself but to imagine setting the Sorting Hat on fire, just for his own pleasure. It makes him smile in a self-satisfied way, at least until Dumbledore stands up to share a few announcements.
“There will be no Quidditch this year,” he states, to the dismay of most of Hogwarts.
There’s a chorus of shouts, outrage really, that makes Ed roll his eyes.
“You people and your Quidditch,” he grumbles, to which Cedric frowns.
“It’s important!” he tries to insist.
Ed’s cut off from retorting by Dumbledore continuing on with his announcement.
“Instead, we will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament!”
The students begin to whisper amongst themselves.
“What is that,” they ask one another. “What does that mean?”
Dumbledore is happy to explain. Two other schools would be joining them for the remainder of the school year, with the tournament beginning on Halloween, when each school would call forth a single champion to compete in three trials of varying hardships.
The winner would get a thousand Galleons.
And that’s what gets everyone’s attention.
“It is with great excitement that we are able to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament this year, and it is a great honor that we are able to hold the event here. However, that comes with new practices and new measures to ensure the safety of our participants. But more on that later!”
Dumbledore peers out towards the students, his eyes twinkling. “I look forward to welcoming our guests on Halloween. With that, let us continue to enjoy the good food and the good company.”
This must be what Charlie and Bill were hinting at, just a few days ago.
“A good fit,” Charlie had said.
Ed banishes the thought immediately.
Everyone’s excited by the prospect of winning a thousand Galleons, but Ed knows better; if he knows wizards and he thinks he does, something is going to go horribly, terribly wrong.
He just knows 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
当葛温德林敲开翁斯坦房门的时候，后者正在解开最后一片铠甲。按理说在没有穿戴整齐的时候面见王国的公主殿下是大不敬之举，但若翁斯坦以此为借口试图将这位尊贵的不速之客请出去，葛温德林一定会对他细数那些更可称为大不敬的往事，好来拆掉他那层假正经的面具了。
“殿下是来聆听战斗报告的吗？”他好像还是想负隅顽抗一下。
“当然是慰劳主将了。”但葛温德林一向懒得跟他拐弯抹角。她来到翁斯坦住处之前精心装扮了一番，穿上月白色纱制成的蕾丝裹胸，长裙系在肚脐以下，甚至还在大腿上系了带花边的腿环。
她的蛇朋友之一嘶嘶地问她这样岂不是太给那个男人脸面，蛇朋友之二则眼疾手快地咬住它的嘴巴，接着反驳道：“你懂什么，那个男人要是识趣一点，就应该乖乖接住这份荣耀！”
葛温德林点点头，对后者表示赞赏。认真想来这位不久前刚受封狮子骑士的银骑士长最近得到的荣耀实在不少，其中最有轰动性的莫过于至高无上的太阳王将他如月色般高贵美丽的女儿许配给他作为妻子，这句话还是陛下在卧房里说给他听的，传出去后人们纷纷赞叹王室对他的宠信，感叹他必将前途无量。
——当然，直视葛温父女的乱伦能面不改色，听见陛下要将怀里还喘得意乱情迷的女儿许配给他时还能从善如流地答应，这样的人当然会前途无量。
彼时，葛温德林也没想到父亲会就那么让翁斯坦进门来，甚至一度以为他想玩点新花样。为此紧紧吮吸着父亲性器的阴道还神经质地抽搐了几下，蒙了一层雾似的脑袋开始勉强思考他究竟想要干什么，若是想要门口那位魁梧的骑士将几把也插进来……她先打了个哆嗦，又觉得必不可能，翁斯坦来头再大都只是个骑士，尊贵的太阳王怎么能容忍和这样一个人的几把并驾齐驱？哦……那么……或许父亲希望他用嘴和手加入他们？
门口的骑士鼻梁高挺、嘴唇削薄，下颌的线条十分硬朗，想到一会儿这张脸要埋在自己腿中间舔弄，鼻尖陷进充血鼓胀的肉缝里，湿润的热气吹拂在自己本就变得燥热的皮肤上，葛温德林就觉得呼吸又急促了几分。那双手整日持握武器，想必也分外有力，不知能不能和父亲用生着厚茧的手指相提并论……想到这里又觉得贬损了父亲，赶忙低下头，把脸藏在父亲的肩膀后面。
“这是我的女儿，葛温德林。”葛温说道。他转了个身正对着翁斯坦，又把正在承欢的公主从阴茎上取下来，让她背靠着自己，直白地将赤裸的身体打开给骑士看，“你觉得她怎么样？”
太阳王陛下的语气就像在宫殿中面见群臣时一样平稳而威严，当然，他也并非没有边摆弄哪位情妇边上朝的先例，而葛温德林则明显有些猝不及防，她的视线与翁斯坦的一触即分，接着脸红了几个度，欲盖弥彰地抬起手遮住自己的胸口。原本她还想遮住下面，但葛温察觉到她的忸怩，强硬地拉住她的两只手腕背在后面，好像要让翁斯坦验明货物一般仔仔细细把她看个清楚。
“回禀陛下，公主殿下高贵而美丽。”翁斯坦连表情都没变一下，他镇定自若地下跪行礼，目光绅士地看向地面。
他听见太阳王的一声哂笑。他捏住他暗月公主的下巴微微抬起，像是希望他能在昏暗的室内把她看得更清楚：“那么我将她嫁予你做妻子，如何？”
他终于满意地看到骑士原本不动如山的身影震颤一瞬，仿若致坚的磐石现出裂纹。然而翁斯坦的失态是稍纵即逝的，他立即将神态恢复成平静的样子，令捉弄他的王倍感无趣。
“遵命，陛下。”他回答道。
“对自己的未婚妻不该说些浪漫甜蜜的话吗？”
“……陛下，”翁斯坦一愣，随即无奈地笑了笑，“您知道我一向不善言辞。”
话音刚落，他听见一阵清脆的笑声，与太阳王厚重沧桑的笑声不同。他诧异地抬起头，看见刚才一直坐在父亲怀里，乖巧得像个性爱玩具似的暗月公主抬起一双因情欲而变得潮湿朦胧的眼睛，饶有兴致地望向他，还暗示性地咬了咬自己的手指。
他忽然发现公主殿下的眼睛是灰蓝色的。于是他想起一首诗中写到的：“你的眼睛好像最适合向恋人告白的夜晚。”
他的反应够快，但吟诵情诗的语调就好像宣读作战计划一样无聊，葛温德林笑得更厉害了，似乎忘了她还被父亲钳在怀里，屁股上抵着他还未释放的性器。葛温仿佛对她真的对翁斯坦产生兴趣这件事颇为不满，掐着女儿的大腿把她再次按回自己阴茎上，在葛温德林为突如其来的刺激仰起头长大嘴巴的时候，葛温攥住她的头发把她的脑袋拧过来，像对待情人一样吻她，于是她即将出口的呻吟就尽数被父亲堵在喉咙里了。
翁斯坦尴尬地立在原地，眼下这父女两个显然都没工夫再理睬他，而他又不敢不告退就离开。进退两难间，他的双眼不知怎的竟黏在他们身上无法移开了，或许是因为他忽然发现葛温德林的皮肤在银月下晶莹洁白宛若透明，他从未见过如此美丽的女人的肌肤，猎龙战场上他不是没有见过生长在边地的女子，但那些女人浑身都被风沙侵透了，同他说话的时候，唇齿间都仿佛弥漫着硝烟的味道。
像葛温德林这样仿佛万千月色凝结而成的公主，不知道身上会是什么味道？
他想到此，惊奇地发现下半身竟然隐隐有抬头的趋势，掩饰一样地并拢双腿站得更直。他不确定这点生理变化会不会被面前这对交缠得正投入的父女察觉，为此手足无措。正纠结时，他听见葛温德林长出一口气，浑身发着抖，仿佛刚从高潮中回过神。葛温这才分出精力理会在一旁站了不知多久的翁斯坦，冲他敷衍地摆了摆手，是让他离去的意思。
来不及纠结葛温的那个手势是不是把他当成一条逗弄完了的狗来驱赶，翁斯坦如释重负地转身，甚至还打算贴心地帮这父女二人把门关上。他刚握住门把手，便感受到一道目光落在他身上。那不是人的目光，他抬头去看，发现暗月公主畸形的蛇足在地面和半空中盘旋，那些蛇竟然都是活的，其中一条绕在葛温德林的肩头，用一双幽绿的眼睛凝视着他。动物的目光本该是无意义的，但他仿佛在它眼中看见嘲谑、探寻……以及某种神秘而暧昧的预兆。
虽然不明白将女儿视为情人的太阳王为什么忽然决定把她许配给自己，但狮子骑士翁斯坦最毋庸置疑的美德便是忠诚。他回到自己封地的第一件事是给前段时间刚在宴会上与自己共舞、即将发展为情人关系的女先锋官写去一封绝交信，以示自己对未婚妻的忠贞——他必须要这么做，否则他与王女的婚期还是他的死讯哪个先传遍亚诺尔隆德马上就会成为下城区赌场里有史以来赔率最高的赌局。
接着，他主动提出兼任公主殿下的近卫，递交给太阳王葛温的理由是这样有助于和未婚妻培养感情。得知这件事时葛温德林又笑了，她当着葛温的面，伸出一根细白的手指点了点他的胸甲，说：“我敬爱的骑士，你可别后悔呐。”
起先翁斯坦不明所以，在他的印象中护卫公主和护卫贵族小姐并没有多大区别，在猎龙战争接近尾声时也有许多失去用武之地的骑士选择受雇于有女儿的贵族家庭，但没过几天他就明白了他的意思。
因为这对王室父女扭曲的关系，他每周总有两三天要站在门口从头到尾听全他们的做爱细节，于是知道了许多不该知道的东西。比如葛温并不怎么体恤自己的女儿，总是还没有多摸两下就急不可耐地插进去，顶出葛温德林一声尖细的惨叫。比如太阳王不介意向外人展示自己的勇猛，会在将女儿干到将要高潮的当口把翁斯坦叫进来倒茶，这原本是侍女的活儿，让翁斯坦来干纯粹是一种羞辱，但翁斯坦目不斜视，颇有些暗月司祭们无欲无求的风范，直到有一天在他俯身把茶水放在床前的矮桌上时，葛温忽然正对着他打开了葛温德林在濒临绝顶的刺激中不住颤抖的大腿——
只好奇了那一眼，翁斯坦瞥见她被撑开到极致的、水蜜桃般的阴阜，老实说他还从未如此近距离地观察过哪个女人的逼，但葛温德林的逼绝对是他见过最好看的那一类，源源不断的水液将那里鼓胀的皮肉变得晶莹湿润，就像一颗被剥开的、新鲜的荔枝。他下意识地咽了咽口水，这动作被葛温发觉，他毫不犹豫地拆穿了他：“再过两个月，你想怎么品尝她都行。”
他的心情颇为愉悦，抬起手摸了摸葛温德林的头发，葛温德林眯起眼睛，发出小猫似的哼声，把脸颊贴上父亲的手掌磨蹭，看起来极其享受这样的爱抚。
“但是现在不行。”葛温没有看他，“希望你还懂得僭越的意思，骑士。”
是的，我懂。天快亮的时候他终于收拾完毕，躺回他房间的床上。窗外明月尚未隐去，天色已然微明。他深吸一口气，闭上眼睛，脑海中出现葛温德林白玉似的、又像蛇一般不停扭动的肉体，将手指伸进自己裤裆里。正胡乱摸索时，他忽然想起狼骑士亚尔特留斯跟他换了早班，又叹了口气，无可奈何地把手撤出去了。
然而尽管有葛温的威胁，七天过后他还是出现在葛温德林房间的窗子上。这种方式既不优雅也不磊落，却是翁斯坦所能想到的最稳妥的方式。在过去的七天里他发现他高估了自己的定力，虽然那晚过后葛温大发慈悲地没有让他再值夜班，但每一天夜幕降临以后，葛温德林的身影都会和皎白的月光一同占领他的全部心神。他从殿堂上戴面具穿白衣的高贵月神开始想起，她向自己走来，解开领口、抛下斗篷、褪去轻盈如风的长裙，最后才摘掉那张遮住他大半张脸的鎏金面具……
为什么最后才摘面具？翁斯坦说不上来，可能是下意识觉得最美的部分要留到最后才能揭开。随后他搂住她泛着凉意的身体，把她抱到自己膝盖上，用手指抚摸她曾经被葛温掰开、展示给他看的腿心，摸到一手粘稠的水迹，紧接着把自己已经怒张到极致的性器抵到那个小口上去。
然后他醒来，握住自己和梦里同样硬胀却无法纾解的性器，苦恼地喟然长叹。
他意识到这样下去不行，他不能每天都带着一个鼓鼓囊囊的裤裆去戍卫和练兵，更何况他根本就集中不了注意力，路过暗月灵庙时他总是情不自禁地回头，目光落在门口的那具葛温雕塑上依依难舍，以至于手下的银骑士副官一脸担忧地问：“骑士长大人，您是不是没有睡好？”
他随便找了个理由搪塞过去，但连基亚兰都看出了他的异常。她递给他一面镜子让他照照，他只看了一眼，便对镜中那个脸色苍白眼眶发青的人到底是不是自己产生了深刻的怀疑，基亚兰说：“你都要结婚了，可不能对殿下以外的人相思成疾啊。”
翁斯坦摇摇头，对同僚重申他对太阳王和公主殿下的忠诚，接着开始苦思冥想。他确信自己一定要单独面见葛温德林殿下，最好能亲手握住她的小腿，感受到绸缎一样的肌理如同月光般在手指间流动，或许才能暂且治愈他的相思病——或者应该叫色心。
最终，他决定如几年前看过的浪漫小说那样，从葛温德林的窗户翻进去，给她来一次深夜惊喜。他如同那部小说中的主人公一样穿上考究的荷叶领衬衣，用闪亮的丝带束发，原本想在耳后夹一朵玫瑰花，又想起这样会显得自己像下城区乱勾搭姑娘的登徒子，于是作罢。但当他登上葛温德林的窗子，却开始后悔自己手中空空如也，以至于连情话都开不了头，气氛就这么从幽会到偷情极速滑坡。
葛温德林问：“你来我房间做什么？”
翁斯坦目不转睛地凝视她在夜色下辉光流转的眼眸，张开嘴巴，半天只憋出了一个音节：“我……”
即便无花可赠他还是想说点什么情话，以免让他自己显得太像个色鬼，但葛温德林何其明慧，伸出手勾住他开成深V的领口把他拉进屋里：“你很走运，今天我父王不在。”
我当然知道。被葛温德林拉开衣襟的时候翁斯坦想到，除非他真的想要双手递给葛温处置他的把柄。他与他的前上司蓓尔嘉在亚诺尔隆德的位置一直十分微妙，葛温看重他的能力，重用他，笼络他，却又要时不时地敲打他。
比起父亲，女儿面对他时则要坦率得多。她原本也只穿着睡衣，能很轻易地解开。翁斯坦觉得她就像一片羽毛。葛温德林坐在他腿上，阴部隔着一层裤子挤压他已经昂然挺立的性器，纤细紧致的腰时不时轻颤。直到葛温德林拉下他的裤子，他才想起他实在是不算有经验，比起私定终身已久的亚尔特留斯和基亚兰，翁斯坦的经验仅限于早年读过的艳情小说，以及那些因旁观了王室父女乱伦而产生的春梦。所以只能僵硬地把手掌放在对方腰上。他触到细嫩的肌肤和隐约的鳞片，只觉得手中的腰肢好似游鱼，好像要握不住，马上就要挣脱出去一般。
于是，他下意识地想要抓紧她，不由自主地用了些力，接着听见她吃痛的呻吟。葛温德林用一根手指抵住他的嘴唇让他放松，七条蛇足缠上他的腰和腿保持平衡，另一只冰凉的手扶着他的几把塞进那个他肖想已久的绵软穴洞，那恐怕是她浑身上下最热的地方，像冰块下埋伏的火山，暖得翁斯坦嘶嘶抽气。跪坐的姿势让葛温德林不用太费力就吃到最底，她轻叹一声，侧过头舔了一口他的耳朵，说：“你挨到我的宫口了，感觉到了吗？”
翁斯坦梦游般摇头。他不知道顶到女人的宫口是什么感觉，只觉得性欲贲张的头部的确被一道闭合的小缝绵延不绝地挤压，更多水液浇在柱身上，让他简直要忍不住射精的冲动。但好在他的忍耐力是超群的，人也足够绅士，硬是把着葛温德林的腰让她高潮了两次才射进她的腿缝里。
“哎，你射进里面来也没问题的。”葛温德林爽到快要软倒，靠着他的肩膀模糊不清地说。
“那对你的身体是种负担。”翁斯坦说。
葛温德林愣了一下，这才扭过头正眼看他，过了一会儿，她笑着说：“你还真是个特别的男人。”
现在回想过去，她正是在那时对这个“特别的男人”产生了兴趣。那之前翁斯坦给她的印象停留在英俊威武的银骑士长和猎龙英雄，能面不改色地做她的近卫让她觉得此人极其善于隐忍，但能强压着欲火对她表现得绅士，这一点已经强过她所见过的大多数男人。
虽然她爱着自己的父亲，但也羡慕王刃基亚兰与狼骑士亚尔特留斯仿佛传奇小说一样的爱情，在翁斯坦出现之前，她从未梦想过这样的爱情能降临在自己身上。
——
“稍等、稍等殿下……或许您可以准许我去洗个澡吗？”刚从猎龙战场上回来的翁斯坦绝不敢用还带着血汗的手臂触碰葛温德林光洁的皮肤，更何况她今天穿的衣服都是如此洁白……简直比她平时那套暗月公主的正装还要美丽神圣。
于是葛温德林趴在床上，一边浏览战报一边等翁斯坦洗澡。毕竟她到此地明面上的使命是视察军务，总不能回去后一句正经话也讲不出来。
但话虽如此，她的视线也很难长久地停留在报告单上，毕竟那几行枯燥无味的字怎么有翁斯坦强健有力的肉体好看呢？翁斯坦是战士，不会像贵族小姐一样用浴缸沐浴，此刻他就站在浴室的地板上，搬起一桶清水从头上浇下来，水流滑过他身上的伤疤、肌理与沟壑，紧绷的肌群随着呼吸一起一伏，葛温德林悄悄看他，觉得自己逐渐地压制不住越来越快的心跳。
她上一次出现这种感觉是在两个小时前，得知古老的黑龙喀拉弥特终于现身的消息，正在为她整理报告的翁斯坦说了声失陪，提起猎龙枪赶赴战场。葛温德林出生得晚，还是第一次见到真正的龙，当她也到达战场时翁斯坦正蓄起一道明黄雷电抛掷向巨龙的膜翼，渺小却有力量的身姿与巨龙遮天蔽日的身影对撞。接下来只听见一声长啸，喀拉弥特奋力扇动负伤的膜翼，掉头向更渺远的天空逃去。
在此之前，葛温德林从未见过翁斯坦猎龙时的英姿，此刻他举起雷电枪时，那个影子仿若有一瞬间与葛温重合。在她无数夜的梦中，她那伟岸而威严的父亲用粗粝的手掌握住剑枪用力贯穿巨龙的胸膛，巨龙岩石般的皮肤四散崩裂，卷起漫天尘埃，那简直是她最崇敬、也最向往的模样。
她当场就感到一阵腿软，思索一番后决定立即去敲翁斯坦的门——若不这么做，她笃定她今晚将会辗转反侧。
翁斯坦握着手巾，无比震惊地看着葛温德林跪在他面前，双手扶住他的大腿，张开嘴舔弄他的阴茎。她膝盖下的蛇群游动嘶鸣，显得分外急切，她本人也急不可耐伸出分叉的舌尖，弹动着扫过头部的小孔。翁斯坦倒抽一口凉气，但理智还没有全部飞走，他轻轻按住她的头，用带着气喘的声音说：“殿下，这是……”
“嘘。”葛温德林对他眨眨眼睛，“我不会让父王发现。”
话说到这份上，翁斯坦也只能却之不恭。他扶住公主殿下的脑袋，手指卷上她细软的长发，眯起眼睛享受她像小猫似的吞吐。葛温德林嘴巴很小，要非常努力才能多吃进几分对方的东西，直到冠头挨近喉道，还有一部分没能含进去。于是她抬起手，握住根部轻缓地揉搓，翁斯坦忍耐得额角冒出青筋，却还是等她自己适应了，放松喉咙深深吃进嘴里的东西。他看出来她被撑得难受，闭合的眼角冒出泪花，便把手指挨上去轻轻擦了一下。
啊……他果然很温柔。葛温德林想着，下身受刺激似的抽搐两下，分泌出更多水液。她更卖力地吮吸，还用喉咙去压，简直用上所有讨好父亲的方式。她感觉得出翁斯坦十分受用，于是倍感满足，口腔实在酸麻得动不了时，她稍稍撤开，本想休息一会儿，却被他拽着胳膊拉起来。她感到一双如同父王一样粗粝的手掐住自己的大腿，把她拎起来，背靠上浴室冰凉的墙壁，被一同分开的穴口暴露在凉丝丝的空气中。翁斯坦咬住她的耳朵，将沉重滚烫的呼吸吹在她鬓角上，让她浑身酥软，失去了主动攀附在他身上的力气。翁斯坦捞着她对准自己勃发到极致的下体，一挺腰，拨开蚌肉似的阴唇长驱直入。
“唔嗯……”葛温德林仰起头惊叫。她知道翁斯坦雄伟，但被抱着把整个人的重量压在上面，能进入到的深度还是超出了她的预料，她下意识弓起腰，又被身后的墙壁阻隔，于是翁斯坦往里顶弄的频率无比明晰地传达给她，让她时时处于一种被贯穿的惊恐之中。她难耐地扭腰，却放不下面子求他慢点，只能抗议似的一口咬在他肩膀上。翁斯坦从没被女人、尤其是贵为公主殿下的女人吃过鸡巴，一时间兴奋难忍，感觉到肩膀上的刺痛时才发现自己动得过于忘情，连保持克制的美德都已经遗忘。为表歉意，他放缓了速度，果然感觉到对方的呻吟声中多了享受的媚意，低下头看见她因为口交而被磨得红润的嘴唇，心中又顿生怜惜。他忽然想起葛温德林虽然被父亲百般宠爱，但因微妙的出身与奇异的蛇足又始终被排斥于真正的权力之外，那么她有没有苦闷呢？这弯亚诺尔隆德永不沉落的新月，有没有某一刻想要耀眼过太阳的光辉？
他这么想着，抬起手摸了摸她的头发。
“啊……哈……”葛温德林感受到触碰，偏过头，把脸颊贴进他的掌心。他的手掌温热、粗糙，总让她想起父亲，但又比父亲少了些不可逾越的威严与压力，让她愿意更深更长久地沉溺其中。
翁斯坦加快速度时她让他用手掌挨紧她的脸颊，接着浑身绷紧，如同天鹅般折颈，整个脑袋都枕在翁斯坦的手中。翁斯坦尽管也快到极限，却还是耐心地等她缓和过来。她长出一口气，睁开眼睛看向浴室昏黑的天顶，再看向窗外的深林飒飒、月光如丝……忽然对翁斯坦说：“射进来，我命令你。”
“殿下……”翁斯坦喘着粗气，还试图拒绝。
“这是我准许的。”葛温德林说。
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 is dreaming.
Again.
She can understand it instantly now.
It is always the same dream: a field of pale lilies, on the verge of withering, a sky overshadowed by a thick blanket of fog, the rays of a light source, so distant and confused, that they are barely perceptible.
She finds herself lying on her side, while the petals of those unusual flowers caress her face.
She should feel distressed, because her body refuses to move, but instead she is serene. That incorporeal place makes her feel safe, in a way that never happens to her, when she is awake.
It is always the same dream.
And yet, this time, there is something different.
Usually she feels a lullaby lightly caressing her ears, as if to comfort her. An echo of memories she has never experienced appears, but which she feels the need for. Or she hears soft words, the aftermath of sentences that she forgets every time she wakes up, but that give her a feeling of well-being.
Then there is that figure in the distance. The first time this peculiar vision appeared, it was just a miserable, blurry figure, too far away for her, to distinguish from the horizon.
And again, that voice that seems to call her, but she can't be sure.
The figure has gotten closer and closer, in the sequence of dreams and brighter and brighter, but Millicent has never been able to reach it. She has remained helpless, on her left side, with the muted desire to reach it, stretched out in the field of lilies.
Even now, as always, she is lying on her side, but her head is not resting on the dying flowers.
She feels warmth.
She can't move; her body is paralyzed, because of the vision, but she is sure that her head is resting on the thighs of that figure.
It has finally managed to reach her and she doesn't understand why, yet she is deeply grateful for it.
The unknown hand caresses her cheekbone, then her hair, with such delicacy that it stirs something forgotten in her: the desire for affection, the need for support, the fear of loneliness, of illness, of death. She finds herself sobbing. If she still had her right hand, she would squeeze that thigh that supports her, as if wanting to hold back the unknown figure.
This one, as if it has perceived her desire, caresses her hair again and invites her to calm her tears.
It murmurs to her that everything is fine.
That she is not alone. Not anymore.
That it will give her as much comfort as possible.
«What are you?» she asks.
«Is it really that important to you, to know?» A soft, youthful, warm voice; it seems like the guardian of unspeakable secrets and those fingers grant her another caress.
«Are you a spirit?»
«Something very similar to it.»
Millicent squeezes her eyelids, no longer crying. Her heartbeat is quiet, her breathing slow and deliberate, while that sweet voice intones in a low voice the usual lullaby she is used to hearing, in these visions.
She doesn’t know with what logic she asks, but she feels an archaic need:
«Are you my mother?»
And the spirit laughs, making her feel silly, but it is a light, crystalline laugh, perhaps even surprised. «What makes you think that?»
Millicent looks forward, toward the soft horizon dotted with lilies, shakes her head slightly, on the luminous thighs of the figure. «I don’t know, but this warmth, this affection… I’ve always imagined a mother could be like that. Maybe that’s what I want to believe.»
The unknown hand continues to caress her face, lingering in particular on the scars of rot. If this had happened on other occasions, Millicent would have pulled away suddenly, would have sensed the danger of being touched, the fear of infecting, even if the disease seems to have stopped its progress.
But this is only a dream.
So she can also freely indulge in the fantasy of having such a loving mother.
«What if I really were?»
Millicent trembles, her imaginary hand gripping the spirit's thigh again, this time with fury. «Then I should be angry with you.»
She can't be sure, but she has felt the being go slightly numb and as if afraid of having offended its sensibilities, she explains herself immediately after: «I was told that she abandoned me, when I was born. I have never seen her and I know very little about her.»
And that hand touches her again, granting her new comfort. «Who told you that?» its voice is a constant caress that seems impossible to lie to or hide even the most trivial of secrets.
«The one who raised me. I suppose I can call him
father.
I lived with him, until recently. With him and my sisters.»
«Do you have sisters?»
«I think... I think I do.» she is surprised at not being able to formulate a simple affirmative answer. It is as if the mysterious company leads her to reveal doubts she did not even know she had.
«Why are you not with them?»
She hesitates to answer. A part of her, the most uncertain, believes that she was wrong to leave. Maybe it would have been better to stay in Caelid. She owes everything to Gowry, after all.
What does she owe to her mother?
If she exists.
If she’s alive.
She’s not even clear about what she’s looking for. It’s an archaic force that moves her, far beyond reason, a primal need, the search for answers.
«Even though she abandoned me, I can’t hate her.»
The gentle fingers stop again, before touching her hair again.
«I can’t blame her. My illness is something to stay away from, as much as possible. Maybe she left me, to save her life.»
A fragile sigh.
«You look so much like her.»
It’s a soft revelation full of nostalgia, maybe even regret.
«To whom?» Millicent barely manages to turn her face upwards, to be able to frame the spirit, partially. It is blurry, surrounded by an aura of light, it is impossible to make out its features, but she glimpses its long wavy hair, its thin lips, smiling at her.
«The one who owned the needle that was given to you.»
That strange gold needle
. «I... I'm sorry, I didn't know it belonged to someone.»
The figure shakes its head slightly, without stopping to smile at her. «She would have preferred it this way too.»
Silence, in which Millicent simply rests on its thighs. Then, she feels she owes it an honest answer. «I left to get to know myself better. And my mother.»
«I can only hope you find what you are looking for.»
«But you... who are you? Why are you here?»
Perhaps, deep down, she would really like this peculiar dream to give her concrete answers, for that shape to finally reveal to her that yes,
she has met her mother.
And it is her.
That is why it is here, to comfort her.
And maybe even to implicitly apologize, for leaving, for abandoning her.
But the spirit does not grant her foolish wish. «I followed the needle, thinking I would find
her
.» It lowers its head slightly, but does not stop stroking her hair, and yet Millicent feels the disappointment poisoning her heart.
So... it is here, just by mistake.
«I'm sorry» she says. She feels guilty for something she has never had control over, nor can truly understand.
But the spirit shakes its head again. «Oh, Millicent. There is no greater joy for me, than to have known you.» and in its voice she perceives real emotion, which moves her.
How do you know my name?
She wants to ask to it, but she stays silent, while her eyes fill with new tears, as if something she did not know she had lost, has just been given back to her.
«If only I had known...» it says in a whisper.
Known what?
She swallows. It is all so new. What she feels is a wonderful sensation, but it upsets her.
She is not alone.
But only in a silly dream, which she cannot define how much of it is real.
She would like to admit that she wants to stay here forever, in its company.
She is not alone…
The spirit moves her hair away from her forehead, kisses it gently.
Don't leave me.
A sob escapes her.
«Forgive me… I wish I could do so much more.»
«Millicent»
Hug me, hold me.
I need your warmth.
«You are not alone, my child.»
New hot tears stream down her face.
«I will show you the way home.»
«Millicent!»
She slightly opens her eyes, stunned by the torpor of sleep. The friendly face of her traveling companion barely shakes her shoulders. He looks at her worriedly, calling her once again.
Only now does Millicent notice that her cheeks are wet, that she is breathing hard. She must have been crying. She raises herself on her left elbow, and is quickly helped to sit up.
«Are you okay?»
She nods half-heartedly and the Tarnished leans in front of her. «Sorry to wake you up suddenly, but I thought you were feeling ill.»
«No, don’t worry… it’s okay.» Her head is spinning and she still has trouble distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness. She reveals it to him, spontaneously. She trusts him, he saved her from the scarlet rot, without asking for anything in return, and since then, they have begun to travel together.
Both have an unclear vision of their journey, as well as their destination. «I had that dream again.»
«About the field of lilies?»
«And there was that figure again.»
«Why were you crying? I thought it would make you feel better.»
Millicent focuses on the embers of the campfire, now consumed. «I can’t remember…» she admits. «But I’m pretty sure I spoke to it.»
The Tarnished takes his notebook out of his pouch and flips through the pages. It’s his way of remembering and studying the world, he told her: writing down everything that interests him or that he discovers a history of or a use for. It helps him not to forget. «I found some scrolls about sleep magic some time ago. They talked about a certain woman who filtered into the dreams of mages, to give them her blessing or something. Do you think that might be your case?»
«A woman?»
«Yes. They called her
«Saint Trina.»
Millicent closes her eyes, searches her memory for the confused image of her dreams. She barely manages to do it, it’s no more than a miserable sensation, but it calms her. She remembers the light, the fog, its smile, long wavy locks. She opens them again. «I think I called it ‘mother’, but I’m not sure if it is. I don’t even know if it’s a woman.» she looks at her traveling companion. «Do you know if there’s a way to remember a dream better?»
He shrugs. «Not yet.» he gets up. «But on the other hand, I found something that could be very useful to you.»
Millicent looks at him questioningly.
«Follow me, my friend. I’ve already cleared the area. There shouldn’t be any further danger.»
He leads her towards the castle closest to them. They had already glimpsed it from above, during the day before and had chosen it as their next stop, where they could find possible shelter. Not the most comfortable environment: given the stagnant swamp that surrounds the entire perimeter of the walls.
But, still better than Caelid.
«The castle of the Marais» explains the Tarnished, as he helps her climb over the walls. It’s in far worse shape than she expected: the swamp has invaded the entire inner courtyard and the stench of putrefaction forces her to cover her nose and mouth. She knows this smell…
rot
. «What happened here?»
«From what I know, the lord of the castle, in poor health, has dedicated his existence to the goddess of scarlet rot. And the result, well… is what you see here.»
«Madness.»
«He didn’t seem like he was okay in his mind, that’s for sure.»
Millicent climbs over a rotting wall, avoiding the carcasses floating in the sludge. «Have you met him?»
«Oh, yes. I would have liked to have a word with him, but he attacked me with the pure intent of killing me. I fear his reasoning was gone long ago.»
«I would have liked to help you…»
The Tarnished continues to lead her, showing her the best way to avoid the swamp as much as possible. «Don’t worry. It was nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.» He climbs the stairs, leads her to the innermost wall of the castle, then to the living quarters.
They go up a freight elevator.
A corridor follows, crowded with marble statues, which intensify the nauseating sense of abandonment and death, which pervades the place.
Millicent doesn’t ask questions, although surprised by the singularity of the environment. She observes the still faces of the sculptures, notes their fine workmanship, their various sizes. Perhaps they represent the inhabitants of the castle, now gone.
The Tarnished simply leads her forward, beyond the corridor.
Thus, they arrive in a large room, carpeted in red: two large tables on either side of the entrance, sadly set for no guests, banners hanging from the ceiling, bearing the emblems of the house.
And then a large table placed in front.
And a wall, strewn with steel prostheses.
The Tarnished stops his walk and looks at her with satisfaction. «I thought you could try them on and see which one you like best. There are so many, I couldn't choose.»
But Millicent continues to advance, on the long red carpet. Something else demands her attention. She trembles, while she feels her heart beating furiously. She stares forward, eyes wide open.
There is a portrait, in this room. A glorious portrait, framed in gold: long, carmine-red hair, a dress of cloth, partly covered by the white fur of a cloak, a three-quarter face, half covered by a singular winged golden helmet, on which are engraved arabesque patterns.
She sees her lips, firm, regal.
And the golden prosthesis on her right arm, clearly visible.
She stops a few meters from the painting, while her heartbeat does not slow.
«Malenia, the Goddess of Scarlet Rot.»
She is so enraptured by that painted face, that the voice of the Tarnished makes her jump.
Her traveling companion comes to her side. «The cause of the destruction of Caelid.»
She remembers Gowry's face, sometimes so indecipherable, that it frightens her. His ecstatic look, when she asked him where she came from, why she was born sick, why she was abandoned.
When, between so many half-sentences, so many codified words, he spoke to her of her mother, as if he knew her:
«A fearless swordswoman, with incredible skills.»
She can't breathe, because she feels that archaic sensation again, tingling in her belly, in her chest, in her mind. She feels a sense of incurable nostalgia.
A faint fragment of memory, perhaps just a distant echo, of something she has experienced.
She sees red curls.
She feels the warmth of her chest.
A heatless arm, holding her.
And that face portrayed, half covered by the helmet, gives her the illogical sense of wanting to know her.
She wants to see her.
“Mom…”
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 wake up to smell of coffee in the air, get out of bed and go downstairs in pajamas to find Joel in the kitchen making breakfast.
- Morning, sniper - he turns to you and a smile played around the corners of his mouth.
- Morning, teacher. - you give a smile back - The breakfast today is on you?
- Nothing special, just eggs and toast.
- Wonderful, let's see if Ellie is right about your food.
- I thought you didn't like coffee - he looks at you while you pour some coffee on you cup.
- It's not bad to try, just to please you. - and as strange as it seems, it's not bad at all - You know how to make a good one.
You serve yourself with a toast and a little bit of his scrambled eggs, sit at the table and place your plate and cup in front of you.
- Let's have a taste of this and see if you are also good with eggs.
- Are you a juror of some fucking food tasting contest.
- No, not at all, just testing a theory and some gossip I heard - you bite a piece of your food and now you believe Ellie was over reacting, the eggs were also good.
- Am I a 10?
- At what? - you smile maliciously at him
- Cooking...
- Oh, at that, an 8.
- Ok, I will go with that. Now, eat, we have more classes today.
You assent and he joins you, he explains to you the plan for the day: gun training and learn to horse riding, which he says must be easy for you, okay then.
- What do you think about me cooking for the three of us dinner tonight? - you ask as take the last sip from your cup - And then we can watch that movie...
- Let's see how things roll today. - he also finishes his cup of coffee.
Ellie gets down but you're already on your way to the door, she glances at you.
- Hey guys, why did the scarecrow get a promotion? - you both turn to face her, not knowing what might come next - He was outstanding in his field.
- Fucking ridiculous - Joel says as he leaves with a smile in his face, you laugh
- She does this a lot, hun?!
- Yeah, she and her stupid ass book.
You walk side by side to the stables, get your horses and carry them outside the gates. Those moments together have been helping to your bonding and are perfect to get to know each other better.
- Joel, how old were you when the outbreak happened? - you ask as you admire the white view in front of you
- 31 - he gulps
- How was it for you?
He looks away from you and that gives a hint that he does not want to talk about it now, you respect that. Also wanted to keep some parts of your post apocalyptic life hidden. Right now you need to break the ice.
- Hey, Joel, why did the book went to the doctors? - he looks at you confused - He had a header ache - the smile that paints in his face is so spontaneous that it makes you smile too.
- Are you guys enjoying the same book?
- Ellie told me this one yesterday at lunch.
He nods his head and you keep on walking, he stops and you stroke the soft horse's hair that you'll ride, his name is Victor.
- Trying to be friends with him so he doesn't let me fall - you look at Victon - Hey, big boy, please, have mercy, I am a young old lady and can't hurt my back.
- You, a young old lady? C'mon, I'm 50...
- But you are in shape, and look like you have done this since you were born.
- It's not that hard, you just need to connect to it. That helps a lot, so he can understand your commands and you what are its next steps - he strokes Texas' hair. - Let's go, I will help you up.
With his firm and big hands he propels you up and you hold onto the saddle and can get on top of it. You feel pure fear, but the reassuring look Joel gives you a safety feeling, "relax" is the only word that comes out of his mouth. He is right there. Calmly and slowly Victor starts to move and you feel your body follow the movement. Joel gets on top of Texas and is side by side with you.
- Joel, I got it! - you are excited.
- Yeah, you're doing fucking good.
- I might be your best fucking student, 10 with 5 stars - the victory smile is written all over your face.
- Actually not at everything - you widen your eyes and the smile goes away
- I cannot believe this.
- Just fucking with you.
At this very moment Victor fastens its steps, Joel whistles and it stops. He gets out of his horse and helps you out of yours.
- Let's see if you're a 10 with 5 star at everything - he hands you the shotgun
- Watch me, Mr. Miller.
Now is not the time to get it wrong, a clicker shows up at a distance, you hold the gun correctly, aim and fire. Boooom! But you miss it by an inch, but you already aim for another one, and this time you hit it right in the middle of its skull. You scream your victory but as you look back Joel is leaning against a tree with his right hand on his chest, this scene makes your heart drop.
- Joel! - you run towards him - Joel, can you hear me? Holy shit. - he does not answer you, just stares deep into your eyes, he wasn't dying - Hey, just breath with me, please, fucking look at me, take a deep breath. Attention to me, all of it, don't speak, just think. What color is my hair? How does it look today? And how about my eyes? Which color are they? Is my nose pointy or flat? Do I have any dots on my face?
Little by little you can feel his breath recovering to its normal pace, you don't think much, just hug him. Your mother was a therapist and when you were having any panic episode she would help go back to your normal just like that and even though you had no idea how he would react, you imagined that a hug would make him feel "supported and calm", just like your mom used to say.
- Thank you - Joel says close to your ears and you feel shivers going down your spine and electric shocks all over your body, quickly you walk a few steps back.
- No problem! For one minute I thought you were going to fucking die on me of heart arrest and that I would die frozen out here - you smile - Don't you ever do this, I need you.
- No you don't, you know how to take care of yourself just fine. Now, let's go, show me what you've done.
He points at one of the infected far away, you grab the shotgun that had fallen to the ground on the moment of despair, you aim and fire, the infected falls to the ground as the bullet hits his skull. Joel opens a smile that could easily light up the whole Jackson.
- That's my fucking girl! - words that are more than enough to make a foolish smile to appear
You practice for one more hour, a lot of rights but also a lot of mistakes, but always making your teacher proud.
- It's almost lunch time, my tummy hurts, what do you think about we head back?
Joel nods affirmatively and you place your right arm on his left shoulder. You are almost addicted to touching him, can't help this urge. You walk side by side to the horses and head back to the town.
After a long and amazing bath you go downstairs to start making dinner. You grab some ingredients and start to cut the vegetables. You feel someone getting closer and Joel appears in your peripheral vision offering you a glass of wine that you grab of his hands and take a sip. He wears something more comfortable, you always see him with those heavy shirts, jeans and winter coat, this time he is wearing just a light blue basic long sleeve shirt and, guess what, jeans. You can help the thought of how this color made him look even better.
- I thought you might be my teacher today, what do you think? - he snatches a piece of carrot and puts it in his mouth
- I find it an amazing idea.
You cook while Joel watches you, helping you in some moments and trying getting you drunk in others.
- Ellie! Dinner is ready! - you scream at the base of the stairs
- Wow, now I also have a mom?! - she gets down - I will eat very quickly, I'm going out.
- Where? - Joel's voice comes from behind you.
- Jesses'
During dinner the feeling is amazing, what a new life you were granted, hun?! A family. Ellie ate really fast to get out of the house, even though Joel is super protective over her you are the one who encourages her to enjoy her life, the one you didn't got to live.
At the end of the night it's just you and Joel. A bottle of wine had already been drunk before dinner, and now he grabs another one and takes it to the living room, where both of you sit on the couch.
- Joel... - he lowers the glass he just took a sip from and faces you - I've never thanked you for that night. What you've done for me...
- You don't need to thank me - he shrugs - You saved her.
- Ellie was the one who saved me, you have no fucking idea - you glance over your glass of wine - This apocalypse changed people and I wanted to know, you've always been like this? - the sip you take is more like a shot and almost finishes every drop of wine you had, and of course you feel dizzy.
- What do you mean by "this"? - he raises an eyebrow
- Distant and moody...
- You think I'm moody towards you?
- Sometimes - he narrow his eyes - I am thankful thar most of the time your are gentle and careful, I've never felt so safe with someone since... - he stares at you with worry in his eyes - A lot of shit happened in my life in those last 20 years, you know? Hard shit. - you sight and face him
- You were too young... - you can see sadness in his eyes
- Yes - now you feel that it's time to lighten the mood - You know, at that time I used to love Beyoncé... Do you remember that song that used to play in every fucking radio station?
- Yes - he laughs - Somebody that I love so much also loved this song.
- Wife? - did the intention of your question to know about his love life?! Definitely the wine.
- No... - still not the time to talk about it, okay.
- And what type of music do you like to listen to? You know, music taste is a very important thing to me and I've seen you with a guitar sometimes.
- Old rock. - he drinks his wine and still looks well, how strong he is with alcohol.
- My dad also enjoyed that... More like Nirvana, Pink Floyd, Talking Heads... What about like Linkin Park, Slipknot, that type of shit?
- I've heard them.
You start to feel dizzy because of the drink, and end up collapsing on the couch, your head on top of your house mate, or could he be your friend?!
- You've reached your goal, make me drunk as fuck. - you laugh - Can you play something to me? - you pretty please look makes him smile
He grabs the guitar and starts to play a melody, you remember your parents listening to that on their radio and singing along in the house. Luckily you remember some part of the lyrics, you sing Wish You Were Here of Pink Floyd with him and at this moment, with this song, you know he has passed through the same as you when it comes to loved ones, you feel connected to this pain, after all you share more than just the house.
Before you could finish, you collapse again on the couch and everything goes black. The only memory you have is of Joel carrying you to your room in his strong arms, and this feeling is wonderful. Today you thought that if you could stay in his arms forever, that would be your place.
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
James is allowed to go back to the dorm after two days, but not without some conditions.
“You are to stay in bed until I say so, do you understand?” Pomfrey fixes him with a sharp look.
“Perfectly.”
“James,” there’s warning in her tone.
“Listen, I am famously very good at doing what I’m told.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m friends with the portraits—“
“Don’t worry Poppy, this is a judgement free zone, though you may want to try getting out a bit more.”
“—if you move,” she presses on, though James can see her fighting a smile. “I will know. So if you ever want to get on a broomstick again I suggest you listen to me.”
Which James thinks is entirely unfair and certainly an abuse of power but since neither McGonagall nor Dumbledore agree with him, he finds himself confined to his bedroom. Which is made infinitely worse when Remus starts bringing him his coursework.
“But I’m injured!” he whines. “I’m supposed to be resting. Isn’t that what you all keep saying? How am I supposed to rest AND write an essay on the seven uses of unicorn hair? Those two activities are completely incompatible. What, is Slughorn trying to kill me?
“James,” Remus sighs, collapsing onto his bed. “I will literally pay you to shut-up.”
“I’m just saying—“
“James.”
He huffs, glaring at Remus and then glaring at his coursework. “I can’t believe Pomfrey won’t let me leave this fucking room but she’s still going to make me—“
His rant is cut short by the pillow that collides with his face. Which, if Remus thinks is going to shut him up, he has another thing coming, because now James has a whole new rant about respecting the delicacy of his newly mended head.
Except, when he looks over Remus has curled onto his side, burying his face in his blankets.
“Uh—Moony? You okay over there?”
There’s a long pause before Remus speaks, words muffled by the bedding. “Just having a bad day.”
James’s eyes automatically go to the window even though he knows the full moon is still two weeks off.
“You wanna talk about?” James asks.
Remus makes a noise that might be some kind of sad pathetic laugh but it’s hard to tell from his current position. “No. I just want to wallow if that’s okay.”
“Sure Moons,” James nods even though he knows Remus can’t see him. “Whatever you want.”
Remus doesn’t emerge until it’s time for him to go down to the great hall for supper. James, of course, doesn’t get to go to the great hall for his meals but instead has to have them brought to him via house elf.
“Remus?” he calls to his friend as he’s halfway out the door.
“Mmm?”
James fidgets with the words in his mouth. “If you want to talk, at some point, any point, I’m here.”
Remus, James realizes for the first time, looks exhausted. “Sure Prongs, thanks.” He gives James a weak smile before disappearing down the stairs.
That’s the first time that James notices something is wrong.
The second time is when Sirius is doing his homework.
It’s not that Sirius doesn’t do his work. He does. Just usually he does it in a rush moments before it’s due. James once watched him pen out a four page paper on the mating habits of the Hodag in the fifteen minutes it took them to walk to class. He’s good enough that he passes, even with his illegible handwriting. Sirius’s greatest strength has always been his ability to improvise.
So it’s strange to watch him sit on the floor of their bedroom, books open in front of him, silently scribbling notes in a timely fashion.
“Everything alright?” James asks when he can’t take the silence anymore.
“What?” Sirius doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him.
“You seem a little…tense?”
He can see Sirius’s eyes still, no longer skating across the pages of text.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says eventually.
James watches him, expression stern, shoulders inching up his neck as he starts writing again.
“Okay Mate,” he says eventually, forcing himself to focus on his own work.
“I’m just wondering if you’ve noticed anything?” James asks impatiently as he watches Peter scramble around the room, desperately trying to find his wand. He misplaces it at least once a day.
“Like what?” Peter grunts as he gets on his hands and knees and starts rooting around under his bed.
“I don’t know,” James huffs, “just—are they fighting? I feel like maybe they’re fighting?”
“More than usual?” Peter wipes the sweat off his forehead as he stands back up, still wand-less. “I swear I just had it,” he mutters to himself.
James rolls his eyes, picking up his own wand; “Accio Peter’s wand,” he mutters. Theres’s the sound of rattling and then persistent banging as both boys turn towards the closed bathroom door.
“I swear I checked there!” Peter grumbles to himself as he walks over and opens the door, grabbing the wand out of the air on its way to James.
“What do you mean “more than usual?”
Peter looks back at him. “What?”
James’s patience these days is at an all time low. It’s the captivity, it’s no good for him. So it takes an incredible amount of effort not to snap at Peter. But he knows that wouldn’t end well. When he gets snippy with Remus or Sirius they give it right back but Peter—Peter just shuts down.
“Remus and Sirius, I asked you if they were fighting and you asked “more than usual.” What does that mean?” he gestures impatiently.
Peter shrugs. “I don’t know, they fight, we all fight.”
“What?” James demands, feeling slightly offended for some reason. “We don’t fight.”
Peter looks at him curiously for a minute before shaking his head. “Sometimes I feel like we’re in completely different friend groups.”
“What is that supposed to—“
“Look, I gotta go, if I’m late for transfiguration again McGonagall is going to turn me into a chicken,” Peter shivers at the thought, shoving his wand in his back pocket and grabbing the books off his bed.
“But what—Pete! Damn it,” James sighs, collapsing back onto his bed as the door closes behind his friend. “We don’t fight,” he grumbles to himself.
James is pacing in front of the window when Marlene walks in, both of them stopping dead in their tracks. Staring.
“Brought these for you,” she breaks the silence, holding up a stack of parchment that can only be more homework. James groans.
“How did you even get up here?” he grabs the work from her sulkily and chucks it onto his bed with the half a dozen other assignments he’s currently ignoring.
Marlene arches her brow. “I walked.”
“Isn’t there like an enchantment or something,” James waves his hand about. “Y’know, keeping us out of each others dorms?”
“Only on the girls, protect our virtue or something.”
“Well what about MY virtue?” James demands indignantly, making Marlene laugh.
“Guess the founders figured it was a loss cause.”
“Presumptuous bastards.”
Marlene smirks. “I can’t believe you didn’t know this, aren’t you guys supposed to know all the castle’s secrets, isn’t that like, your whole thing?” she gestures around the room.
“Our thing?” James raises his eyebrow. “I didn’t realize we had a “thing.” Also, how would we know this?”
“You could read Hogwarts a History?”
James looks at her flatly. “I repeat, how would we know this?”
She snorts. “Okay, okay, fair point. I mean, you’re telling me you’ve never tried to sneak a girl up—“ she cuts herself off, eyes going wide. “Or—shit, never mind that was—“
James rolls his eyes, waving off her words and leaning against the wall next to the window. “Believe it or not, the idea of hooking up with a girl while my three mates listen in has never sounded that appealing to me.”
Marlene blinks at him a few times before pulling herself back together. “You’re telling me Sirius Black has never brought a girl back to his room?”
“We’re broom cupboard men us,” he shoots her a grin.
“Classy.”
James nods looking out the window, trying to work through the nagging feeling now taking up space in his gut.
“It’s—“ he stops, shooting her a sidelong look, pulse suddenly hammering against his ribs. “It’s only him really.”
There’s a pause, James’s eyes following the tiny students rushing towards the green house below them to distract himself from the buzzing in his ears. Eventually, Marlene moves forward and leans on the wall across from him.
“Okay,” she says softly.
He looks over at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah James, of course.”
He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding, eyes going back to the window.
“They still don’t know I gather?” she asks, gesturing to the room behind them.
“He doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“And what do you want?”
James lets out a dry laugh, passing a hand over his face. “I have no idea honestly. Even if I could I don’t know that I…” he trails off, eyes going unconsciously over his shoulder to Sirius’s bed.
“Well,” Marlene goes on carefully, pulling his attention back to her. “I’m pretty sure Remus would be okay with it.”
James can feel the confusion on his face. “Why?”
She looks at him expectantly but when she continues to get nothing in return she sighs, laughing a little. “Honestly, you lot are a mess aren’t you?”
“Oi! We do alright.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t appreciate the judgemental tone McKinnon.”
She laughs, blonde hair falling in her eyes. “I’m just saying, I think if you did—if you told them,” she shrugs, “it’d be alright.”
James’s chest squeezes. “Remus maybe, Pete, honestly I couldn’t tell you, but Sirius…” James swallows. “Sirius will never forgive me for this, and I—Fuck Mar,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if I can bare that. Him hating me.”
She reaches out, squeezing his arm. “James, you should have seen him, after you got hit.”
Something in her voice makes him look up.
“He—I mean, I knew you two were close but—he was wrecked James. I’m pretty sure if me and Alice hadn’t held him back he would’ve killed Bones.”
“I’d have done the same if it was him,” James says, because it’s true.
Marlene nods. “I don’t think he could ever hate you.”
“But it’s—it’s not just—he’s not just a boy,” James fights the way saying that out loud makes part of him squirm, want to shy way from it. He isn’t ashamed, he won’t be. “It’s his brother.”
Marlene grimaces. “Yeah, I have to admit, that parts throwing me off a bit too.”
“He’s not…”
“An asshole?”
James snorts, restlessly fidgeting against the wall, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “You know, until a week ago one of your best mates thought I was an asshole.”
Marlene rolls her eyes, “Yeah, it’s not the same.”
He looks over at her. “Isn’t it?”
And suddenly she’s too serious for James’s liking. “There are different levels of bad James. You’ve been obnoxious, sure, you’ve lacked self-awareness, but you’ve never been cruel.”
“Regulus isn’t cruel,” there’s no room for questioning in his voice, but Marlene looks back at him unconvinced—pitying even.
“Listen, I’ve had this conversation too many times with Lily about Snape, I don’t want to do it again, I’m just saying,” she sighs, sounding weary. “I’m saying that just because someone can be good sometimes, to some people, doesn’t mean that they’re a good person.”
James feels like someone’s just slapped him. “This isn’t—Reg is not Snape—he’s nothing like Snape,” the very idea makes bile crawl up the back of his throat.
He can see Marlene chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Maybe, I don’t really know him. But do you think Snape can’t be redeemable when he wants to be? That Lily would have held on to him for so long if he couldn’t sometimes be a decent human being?”
“Marlene,” James puts as much emphasis on her name as he can. “I’m telling you, they’re different. They are.” Even as he says it he can see Regulus sitting with Rossier and Crouch, cold eyes and sharp mouth. Can see him sneering at first years in the corridor. Can see Sirius alone on his doorstep.
“You’re really into him huh?” Marlene’s words pull him out of his thoughts.
He can’t look at her, feeling sick for the first time since leaving the infirmary. When he doesn’t answer he hears Marlene exhale, shifting a little against the wall.
“Stupid question that, since when is anything ever casual with you.”
James lets out a weak laugh even though it feels like his chest has started to cave in on itself. “Regulus isn’t Snape,” he repeats again. He needs her to know, to understand. “I can see how maybe it looks that way from the outside, but it isn’t the same,” it can’t be, whispers the voice in his head. It can’t be because I’m absolutely mad for him, this boy. He makes it feel like the sun rises in my chest.
Marlene nods, “Okay, I believe you. You’d know better than me,” and then a small smile pulls at her mouth. “It means something, you know, that he has you. Maybe it’ll make a difference, like with Sirius.”
“I didn’t,” his voice is scratchy and he coughs, trying to get his words back. “I didn’t do anything for Sirius.”
She shakes her head, bemused expression on her face. “Yeah James, yeah you did. You gave him a way out.”
James thinks about Regulus, back on that first night in the tower.
I’m not my brother, he’d said.
You can’t save me.
James feels those words more now than he did the first time.
They bruise.
Due to the mandatory bedrest and also his tendency to get dizzy when he’s on his feet for too long, James hasn’t seen Regulus since the infirmary. Which, if he’s being honest, is having more of an effect on him than he would have thought. Besides the fact that he’s found himself watching Regulus’s name on the map almost constantly—which he can freely admit to himself is both creepy and pathetic—he’s been…dreaming about him.
Sometimes they’re nightmares. In the woods. In the dark. But sometimes they’re something else—something with hands and mouthes and a heat that whips through James like nothing he’s ever felt before. He wakes up hot and panting and wanting. These days he feels like that’s all he does—want.
He hasn’t forgotten his conversation with Sirius in the infirmary. Hasn’t forgotten what Sirius heard. These days he casts a Quietus charm over his bed before he goes to sleep.
There’s a new fidgety energy that sits under his skin. He can’t sit still, he paces, he plays with his snitch, he throws crumpled balls of paper across the room. He thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks so much he’s certain he’s going mad.
Mostly he thinks about grey eyes and thick dark hair and a mouth that says “I bite.” And he wants.
It’s a few days after his talk with Marlene that Remus walks into their room to find James and Sirius sitting in the window and then promptly walks back out. At which point, James decides that he can’t ignore the situation anymore.
“Okay, what did you do to Moony?” he demands.
Sirius didn’t look up when the door opened or closed, eyes trained on the overcast skies, sporadic rain drops splattering the glass.
“You’re not making any sense Prongs, think maybe that bludger messed you up a bit,” his voice is lacking its normal teasing edge, words falling flat.
James watches him for a minute, the picture of melancholy, before reaching over and punching him hard in the arm.
“Owe, what the hell!” Sirius clutches his arm and kicks James in retaliation.
“Hey! I’m injured.”
“Don’t start fights you can’t finish Potter,” he says, kicking him once more for good measure.
“What’s going on with you and Remus,” James kicks back.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Sirius sighs, throwing his hands in the air. “I don’t know, he’s pissed at me, he’s always pissed at me. I don’t know what his problem is.”
James’s narrows his eyes. “Wow, you’re a really shit liar, you know that?”
Sirius glares, getting up dramatically and moving to his bed, crossing his arms over his chest as he sits against the headboard.
“Are you sulking now?” James demands.
“Maybe, is that a problem for you?”
“Yes. I tried to leave it alone—“ Sirius lets out a disbelieving scoff that James chooses to ignore, “but it’s been days now and the two of you are both in crap moods and won’t even be in the same room as each other. So since you’re clearly incapable of pulling your head out of your ass you’re going to tell me what happened so I can fix it.”
“You can’t fix everything James,” Sirius snaps back, harsher than James is expecting.
“Watch me.”
When Sirius does nothing but sit there glaring James gets up and moves to his bedside, picking up Peter’s pillow as he goes. Sirius’s eyes widen.
“Don’t you fucking dare James.”
“Then tell me what’s happened.”
“Put that down or I swear I will crucio your ass.”
“Ha! You wish.”
“James—“
Sirius scrambles to the other side of the bed as James swings for his head.
“You wanker,” Sirius grumbles, rolling onto the floor. He grabs hold of his own pillow and hurls it at James.
“I wouldn’t have to be if you would stop lying to me,” James lunges across the bed at the same time that Sirius makes a run for the other side so they end up chasing one another in a circle, with James ending up on Sirius’s side and Sirius on James’s.
“Bit rich coming from you,” Sirius says, snatching the pillow off of Remus’s bed and launching it across the room. James ducks.
“What?” he says when he comes back up
“Where do you go every night James?” Sirius demands, causing a cold chill to run along James’s spine. “Huh? You take the map, so there’s no way to check, you disappear for bloody hours. What the hell are doing?”
James stands there, pillow forgotten in his hand.
“Oh come on,” Sirius says, tone verging on mean. “Did you really think we would’t notice?”
James’s body has gone so stiff that he feels like he might crack open, a horrible foreboding feeling washing over him. “You didn’t say—“
“Moony thought we should leave it alone, that you’d come to us if you needed to,” he’s sneering but James thinks he can just make out the hurt on the ends of his words. He thinks about how he felt, finding out about Sirius’s father from Regulus.
“But it’s been weeks now,” Sirius goes on. “So what is it James? What are you hiding from us?”
James swallows. “Nothing—“
“Ha!” the noise is angry when he forces it out of his mouth. “Who’s the fucking liar now?”
Shit, is all James can think.
“I asked you first,” he says pathetically.
A look passes over Sirius’s face that he’s not sure he’s ever seen before, or if he has, its never been directed at him.
“When did you stop trusting me?” Sirius says finally, and the room feels too quiet and too hot and James doesn’t know how they got here but he hates it.
“That’s not fair—that’s not—that’s not what’s happening here,” he struggles with his words.
“That’s why you lie James, you lie because you don’t trust someone with the truth.”
It’s a fight for him not to flinch, those words carving their way through his skin. Because that’s the truth isn’t? When all is said and done, he doesn’t trust Sirius with this.
“Is that why you lie to me?” he asks instead of answering.
Sirius makes a dismissive noise. “I don’t trust anyone, it’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?”
But Sirius shakes his head. “No, because you trust everyone. You always have. So when did you stop trusting ME.”
James doesn’t have an answer for that. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.
“I trust you Sirius,” he says finally, quietly. “I trust you with everything.” The “else” that they both know exists on the end of that sentence hangs between them. I trust you with everything else.
“But not this?” Sirius asks even though it was never said.
James fights everything that swells up inside of him at the way those words sound in Sirius’s mouth.
“There’s no this. I can’t sleep, I wander around the castle,” he shrugs, “that’s it.”
Sirius looks at him meaningfully before an empty laugh bubbles out of him.
“Right, well,” he runs a hand through his hair, “you go for late night walks, me and Moony are completely fine. That’s how we’re playing this?”
James shrugs helplessly.
“Great. Excellent. Glad we had this talk. Feel loads better now, cheers.”
Sirius throws the door open with so much force that it bangs into the wall and James flinches when it closes behind him.
Pomfrey officially takes him off of bedrest.
“No quidditch,” she says sharply. “Not for another two weeks at least.”
James grumbles unhappily but doesn’t bother trying to fight her.
Sirius and Remus start warming up to each other again—or, at least they can be in the same room now, which James supposes is an improvement. They don’t really talk though. In fact, none of them really talk. There’s no attempt by him or Sirius to bring up the fight they had. They just…move on. That’s how they’ve always dealt with things or…not dealt with things, depending on your perspective. It feels different this time though. Like there’s something heavy sitting on James’s chest every time he thinks about it.
“I’m just saying—“
“You can just say all you want, you’re still wrong,” James says confidently.
Sirius rolls his eyes. “The Cleansweeps are lighter, more aerodynamic.”
“Aerodynamic?” James snorts. “Please, I’d take the oldest Nimbus model over the newest Cleansweep any day.”
“Well that’s because you’ve been completely brainwashed.”
James laughs. “Oh have I?”
“Mindless brand loyalty.”
James knocks their shoulders together. “Yeah, whatever you say.”
It’s late in the day, the sun is warm but getting low in the sky, James swears it’s dark by supper these days.
“Hey, do you have the notes from muggle studies?” Sirius asks.
“You know I don’t, I’m just going to nick them off of Moony.”
Sirius’s expression tightens but he nods his head. “Right, good plan.”
They’re walking back from potions. Slughorn kept them late in an attempt to once again woo them into joining his dinner parties. They, of course, refused, but it means the corridors are mostly empty, everyone else already done with classes for the day.
“Merlin, I can’t believe you just called the Cleansweeps aerodynamic,” James laughs to himself.
“Oh whatever, you snob. You just like the Nimbus line cause it’s posher.”
“I hope you appreciate the irony of you calling anyone posh mr I-took-ballet-until-I-was-nine.”
Sirius sends him a flat stare. “It was ballroom actually.”
“Oh well,” James can’t help but snicker, “in that case, that’s well rough.”
Sirius tries to trip him but only partially succeeds, which mostly ends up with the pair of them jostling down the hallway.
“Like you’re any different,” Sirius says when they eventually push away from each other, both grinning. “You know most people don’t have a whole bloody quidditch pitch in their back garden right?”
“It’s not a full quidditch pitch, it’s only—“
They round the corner and James feels his words suck themselves back down his throat as he comes face to face with a pair of wide grey eyes.
Of course, the shock on Regulus’s face only lasts for about a second before he slides his mask of casual dislike into place. Gaze quickly shifting from James to Sirius.
“Sirius,” he says coldly.
“Regulus.”
James says nothing, he figures that’s probably what’s expected of him. Which is good, because his pulse has rammed itself so far up his throat he’s not sure he could manage speaking right now.
“Well,” Sirius says after several more seconds of tense silence, “as fun as this is, we’ve gotta go so,” Sirius looks at James who nods as they start walking again, Sirius making a bit of a show of walking around Regulus who is still standing there. All and all James thinks it’s not so bad, a little awkward but it could’ve been—
“He asks about you, you know?”
Sirius freezes.
James looks over at him and silently begs him to just walk away. But Sirius’s eyes have gone dark and James knows, even before his friend starts to turn around, that there’s no getting out of this now.
Fuck.
“That’s interesting,” Sirius’s voice is so falsely casual it makes James cringe, “since he never seemed to care much about me when I was around.”
Their father, James thinks, looking between the two brothers. They’re talking about their father.
“Nobody does the right thing all the time Sirius, people make mistakes.”
And that makes Sirius laugh—cold and sharp.
“Mistakes? Is that what you think they’re making? Come on little brother, you’re smarter than that,” Sirius leers, stepping closer, James follows behind incase he has to stop them from killing each other. Both of them burn cold—when they get angry they don’t yell or bluster. They turn their smiles into knives and carve you into pieces. It fucking terrifying to watch.
“In order for something to be a mistake you have to feel guilty about it,” Sirius goes on, him and Reg have eyes only for each other.
“You know that he’s—“
“Being sick doesn’t make you a good person.”
Regulus’s eyes narrow. “There are no “good” people,” he says flatly. “There are just people. That’s it. This isn’t a fairytale.”
“Is that how you do it? How you live with yourself?” Sirius asks darkly, now far too close for James’s comfort. Regulus doesn’t respond, hands curled in fists at his sides but at least he’s not reaching for his wand.
“You’re right Reg,” Sirius goes on, neither of them looking away, not for a second. “Nobody can do the right thing all the time. But the problem with you lot,” his eyes trail over his brother in mild disgust, “is you don’t even try.”
There’s a pause before Regulus lets out a dry laugh. “What exactly makes you think you’re any different? What great injustice are you righting Sirius? All you’ve done is runaway, like a coward,” he spits the last word out of his mouth and now James does step forward, hand taking hold of Sirius’s arm to keep him from lunging.
“You think you’re some kind of hero? You think you accomplished something the night you left? Because to me it just looks like you’re doing what you’ve always done, which is look out for your fucking self.”
Sirius jolts forward, James yanking him back as Regulus pulls out his wand.
“Hey, enough!” James shouts, pinning both of Sirius’s arms behind his back to keep him from reaching for his own wand.
Regulus isn’t looking at James, eyes intent on his brother.
“I said enough!” Sirius is struggling against his grip, trying to throw his elbows back into James’s stomach so he can get himself free. James grunts as Sirius lands a well aimed kick to his shin, feeling his grip start to slip. “Fuck—Regulus—“
“You really want to call me a coward Reg?” Sirius asks. “You’d let her use you as a fucking rug if you thought it would make her love you. It’s pathetic!”
James sees it, just barely, the switch in Reg’s grip, the look in his eyes. He throws them against the wall just as the curse shoots silently out of Regulus wand.
“You fucking psycho—“ Sirius is yelling, James barely keeping his grip as he holds him against the wall.
“REGULUS PUT THE FUCKING WAND DOWN.”
Regulus looks at James for the first time and James feels the air empty out of his lungs. He doesn’t know that face. He doesn’t know those eyes. They certainly aren’t the same ones that snuck to his bedside in the infirmary and held him like it meant something.
It takes a few more seconds before Regulus puts his wand back in his pocket, eyes returning to his still struggling brother. “You’re a disgrace,” he says coldly, picking up the books he dropped in the scuffle and turning his back on them.
“Oh, fuck you Reg!” Sirius shouts after him as he turns the corner.
James’s mouth feels dry.
“Prongs—Jesus—let me go you prick!”
“Shit, sorry,” Sirius stumbles forward out of his grasp, both of them breathing heavy. Sirius glares at the place where his brother disappeared, James doing his best to get the look on Regulus’s face out of his head.
Finally, Sirius rounds on him, “What the hell was that?” he demands.
“What?” James feels off balance, like he can’t quite get a grip on the world around him.
Sirius gestures emphatically at the spot where Regulus had been standing. “Since when do you protect him?”
“I didn’t protect him,” James says automatically, which he thinks might actually be true but doesn’t make him feel any better.
“You held me back!”
“He had his fucking wand out, if you took a swing he was going to hex your bloody arms off.”
“I would have drawn mine first if you hadn’t already been pulling me away!”
James lets out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “So what, Sirius? I was supposed to just stand back and watch you kill each other?”
“No,” he fumes. “You were supposed to fucking help me! You were supposed to have my back!”
“Two against one’s not exactly fair.”
“Nothing is fair—what about any of this seems fair to you?”
“Well now you sound just like him!”
That catches Sirius off guard, catches James off guard too if he’s being honest. Sirius physically steps back and James feels his stomach lurch. He expects more shouting but there isn’t any, after a few minutes Sirius brings his hands up to his face. The hallway feels too big all of the sudden. Too quiet.
“He just makes me so fucking angry sometimes,” Sirius says eventually. “I hate that he’s like that—that he defends them, that he plays their games. And I used to feel like I knew that he didn’t really think it was okay, any of the stuff they say or—” Sirius lets out a breath looking down at the floor for a moment, “but fuck, I don’t know anymore, maybe he does. Because he won’t fight it. Won’t stand up for himself. Won’t stand up for anything. It drives me nuts.”
James feels suddenly exhausted, head swimming in a way he decides to blame on the bludger instead of Reg. He’s not sure what to say, what to do.
“Listen don’t—don’t bite my head off for this yeah?” James starts, which gets a snort out of Sirius.
“Strong start.”
James grimaces. “Have you tried…talking to him? I mean, actually talking to him? Not just shouting insults at each other or whatever that was,” he waves vaguely at the empty hallway around them. “Talking to him outside of that house?” Sirius stiffens at the mention of Grimmauld place.
“You can’t talk to him,” Sirius says simply. “He’s a wall. It’s all family and duty and when I try and ask him what he actually thinks he just shrugs me off. Like it’s not important,” Sirius laughs dryly, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Like thinking isn’t important. Which is what they want you know, fucking mindless zombies who’ll do whatever they say. I could never do that—could never hollow myself out the way he could.”
It takes a lot of work for James to hold himself still, to keep from flinching. He thinks of Regulus up in the tower, talking about having to hide parts of himself away. How it made things easier. And he wonders how much of himself he puts in boxes.
“Maybe if he knew he had somewhere he could go…”
Sirius’s eyes snap up and James tries to look casual.
“My mum, this summer, she said something—well, she said she was going to try and get him out of there—“
“Regulus?” Sirius demands, surprised.
“You know her,” fighting to keep his voice level. “She’s gotta save everyone.”
It’s a moment before Sirius nods. “Yeah. You’re like her that way.”
James doesn’t know why that aches. “Bloody annoying I expect,” he offers Sirius a weak smile that his friend returns.
“Yeah, it is, but…you know, saved me so…can’t really complain.”
James rolls his eyes. “Please,” he says around the lump in throat, “you’re Sirius Black, you saved yourself.”
“Oh fuck off James, stop trying to make me cry in the middle of the bloody corridor,” he laughs as he punches James in the arm.
“Told you Black, you’re going soft.”
“Yeah, yeah, like you aren’t a bleeding fucking heart.”
“Merlin,” James says as they start walking slowly in the direction of the common room, “we’re turning into Hufflepuffs.”
Sirius gives him a look of outrage. “Bite your tongue.”
This time James laughs big.
He doesn’t know whether to go to the tower or not. After what happened. After finding out that the others know. He lays in his bed, staring up at the canopy, tapping his fingers anxiously on his stomach. But eventually he gets up. Of course he does. Taking the map and looking nervously at Sirius’s bed before slipping out the door.
He’a more cautious this time, constantly checking his surroundings, not for Filch, but for his friends. It’s only a matter of time really, Sirius wont be able to let this go forever. Honestly he’s kind of impressed Sirius hasn’t already tried to follow him. If It’d been the other way around James is pretty sure he’d have done it the second night. He expects he has Moony to thank for Sirius’s restraint.
When he finally makes it outside Regulus is waiting for him, sitting facing the door, no telescope, hands clasped between his knees. He doesn’t look remorseful, he just looks determined.
His eyes meet James’s and for a moment they just stand there, facing one another, and James can’t help but feel like they’ve been here before.
“I don’t get his attention often,” Regulus says finally, breaking the silence. His words sound tense.
James arches his brow. “And that’s what you decided to do with it?”
Regulus lets out a breath, face unreadable. “It’s…complicated.”
“He was walking away. You could have just—“
“Yeah, but you see, that’s what he always does,” Regulus says coldly, “walks away.”
“Don’t,” James warns, “really don’t Reg, because I’m not going to stand here and listen to you act like he didn’t have every right to walk out of that fucking house.” James feels himself shake with the weight of his anger.
Regulus’s eyes narrow. “Right. Of course. You’re on his side.”
“I don’t know how to be on your side,” James is still standing so far away and part of him hates that, because it’s been a week—a week of dreaming and wanting and he’s tired of fighting. He feels like all he’s been doing lately is fighting with the people he cares about. It’s exhausting. “I don’t even know what your side is.”
There are a lot of words in Regulus’s stare that he wishes the other boy would say out loud. But in the end, all James gets is; “No,” there’s a pause as Regulus drops his head, the rest of his body remaining carefully held. Ready to pounce. To run. “No I’m not sure I do either.”
“Reg…” when he doesn’t speak again James finally makes himself step forward, crouching in front of Regulus, hands on his calves. He waits for the other boy to look up but instead, after several moments of tense silence, Regulus leans forward, resting his forehead against James’s.
“We shouldn’t have done this,” Regulus’s voice is quiet. “I’m usually better at not—“ he cuts himself off, letting out a heavy exhale, but he doesn’t pull away. James can’t see his face but he can feel his heat, the weight of him. It’s settling.
“Better at what?” James asks, matching his volume.
“Not taking stupid risks.”
“Ah, can’t say I relate.”
Regulus snorts. “No, I’m sure you can’t.”
They stay like that for a while, pressed together, James listening as Regulus takes deep, even breaths, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
“Reg?” James says eventually, his hands running soothingly up and down the back’s of Regulus’s legs.
“Hmm?” is the only response he gets.
“Come home with me.”
Regulus pulls back so fast James nearly falls into his lap.
“What?”
James steadies himself. “Don’t go back there—don’t go back to them.”
James can’t read the expression on Regulus face—shock? Fear? Anger? Maybe all three.
“I can’t—“
“You can,” James insists, feeling desperate. “You can—my mum, she wanted to come get you last summer, after Sirius showed up—“
“I know,” and something in his tone makes James’s breath catch.
“You know?” he repeats, looking at him quizzically. “How?”
“My father might not work at the Ministry anymore but he still has friends. When Dumbledore started asking around it got back to them.”
“And your parents told you?”
Regulus imperfectly suppresses a grimace. “In a manner of speaking.”
James doesn’t like the way that sounds at all, “did they...threaten you?”
He’s met with a blank stare and James starts to feel the return of the shaking anger in his bones.
“They did more than threaten you?” he all but growls.
Regulus sighs. “Leave it James, they just wanted to make sure I wasn’t—that I didn’t know anything about it. That I wasn’t involved. And I wasn’t, so…”
“Reg,” James squeezes his legs, looking up imploringly at the younger boy. “Come home with me.”
But Regulus only shakes his head. “I can’t—I’m not leaving my father.”
James opens his mouth to try again, but Regulus pushes away from him before he can, getting to his feet.
“I told you not to try and save me James.”
“God, you and your brother are so melodramatic,” James stands up now too, levelling Regulus with a look. “You’re not a loss cause Regulus, you’re not.”
That seems to take the younger boy by surprise and James watches him fight with himself, watches him chew up the words as they try to escape his mouth.
“Not everyone can be a hero,” he says eventually.
“There aren’t any heroes, remember? You said that. No heroes, no villains, just people.”
They stare at one another, and James can see his jaw clenching, muscles shifting beneath his skin.
“It’s harder to believe that standing next to you,” Regulus says eventually, causing James to let out a frustrated noise.
“I’m not a hero Reg.”
But the younger boy only smiles, quiet and sad. “See, I think you might be though. Sometimes James, you shine so fucking bright I—I feel like I’m going to burn up.”
Those words sink somewhere deep inside him. And he wants. And wants. And wants.
“My whole life, everything has always been so cold and then you—you—and you started focusing it on me and I could feel it. Feel you watching me, feel you in my head, in my sleep. You take up so much space, you make everything so full. And it’s intoxicating. Just being around you, having all that power focused on me,” Regulus sounds breathless.
“I meant what I said James—on the Quidditch pitch—I don’t want to break you. But I will, if you let me I will. Because I’m not Sirius. There’s something in me and it's rotten and I—“
James steps forward, closing the space between them but not touching, not yet, just holding his hand out—a question. After a moment of hesitating Regulus nods and James brings his hands to his face, holding it carefully, tilting his chin so that those grey eyes meet his.
“I don’t know who or what made you give up on yourself Regulus, but I need you to stop.”
“James—“
“You are worth saving.”
Regulus makes a strangled noise and James bends down and kisses it out of his mouth. Soft and gentle, not pushing but taking, whatever it is that Regulus is willing to give him. He feels the other boy’s hands curl up in his shirt. He doesn’t remember backing them up, but suddenly James is pressing Regulus into the castle wall, pulling another noise out of him that vibrates through his chest.
They push together, every inch of them touching, Regulus bleeding into him. Cold hands slip under James’s shirt, running up his back, his chest—electric currents rushing through him.
“The sun,” he gasps when they break apart, still pressed together, foreheads resting against one another.
“What?”
“That’s what I thought,” James pushes the words out on his next exhale, pulling back just enough to see Regulus’s eyes. “The first time you kissed me, I thought—he touches like the sun,” James laughs helplessly. “You think I’m bright Reg? You—you, when you let yourself, shine so fucking bright.”
A pained look crosses Regulus’s face and James is about to ask why when Reg leans forward again, kissing harder. His teeth bite at James’s lower lip before pushing deeper, taking his mouth. This kiss is all encompassing. He feels Reg, and tastes him, and smells him. He wants. And wants. And wants.
Hands start to play with the waistband of his pants.
“Reg,” he hums into his mouth, which is not at all articulating the things he’s trying to say but it’s hard to concentrate. Regulus’s mouth finds its way along his jaw, down his neck, and the fire that sparks in the pit of James’s stomach is almost unbearable. His hands fall against the wall on either side of Regulus's head, bracketing him in, keeping James standing as Regulus’s hands keep moving.
Part of James’s brain—the loud part—screams
Yes.
Yes this.
Please.
More.
But the other part, the quieter part, says
Careful.
Be careful.
Be careful with him.
Which seems ridiculous since Regulus is a hundred percent the one in control and yet…
“Maybe we should—“ his voice cuts out as Regulus presses his hand against him and all James sees is white, dropping his head into the crook of Regulus’s neck.
“Fuck,” he hisses, Reg starting a slow rhythm that James is almost positive is going to take him apart stitch by stitch.
“That’s the idea.”
But something isn’t quite right—his voice too tight.
Regulus presses down with his thumb and James can’t keep back the groan that tears out of his throat.
“Reg—we can’t do this,” his voice sounds wrecked—husky and breathless.
“We can,” is all he says.
And somehow they’re kissing again, his mouth hot and sweet. James has kissed other people but never like this. Never so desperately. He pulls one of his hands off the wall, bringing it to the back of Regulus’s neck.
And that’s when he feels it.
“Reg—Regulus—hey,” he pulls back slightly, trying to get a better look at Regulus’s face.
They’re both breathing heavily, the tops of Regulus’s cheeks flushed in a way that James has never seen and doesn’t think he will ever forget.
“Regulus you’re shaking.”
He can see the other boy swallow. “It happens.”
“It happens?”
“It’ll stop eventually.”
And James has no idea what any of that means, but Regulus is clearly not interested in letting him figure it out because his hand starts moving again, grip tightening in a way that makes James choke.
“Fuck—fuck you’re so—“ he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, trying desperately to keep himself together. “Regulus you can’t just do this because you don’t want to talk.”
“You’re the one who kissed me, remember?”
His hand stills, thumb making maddening circles that send shocks through James’s whole body. He wants to scream. And other things. God, so many other things.
“I have terrible impulse control,” he exhales. “But I don’t think you want this.” He can feel it, feel it the way he always does—the tension under Regulus’s skin. Like fear but not quite.
Regulus presses his thumb down one more time, making James whimper before he starts moving his hand again, faster now.
James’s eyes close, every fibre of his being begging him to lean into it, to sink into Regulus’s body. But instead he puts his hands on Regulus’s shoulders and pushes back.
He can hear his own ragged breath in his ears, Regulus looking up at him surprised.
“I’m not doing this—this way,” James says eventually, sounding as though he’s just run a marathon.
Regulus’s expression goes from surprised to annoyed in no time. “What way?”
“We’re fighting.”
“Are we?”
James groans, still struggling to think straight while looking at Regulus's mouth—red and wet and so fucking close.
“We’re something.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Regulus says sharply, pulling himself out from under James’s hands and walking away. James feels his bones ache at the loss.
“You know what I mean.”
“I assure you I don’t,” he gives James a once over. “And put your dick away Potter, if you expect me to take you seriously.”
James rolls his eyes, doing up his pants up with fumbling hands. “We haven’t…fixed anything,” he says, looking back up. “And you were shaking.”
Regulus scoffs. “People shake during sex, I’m not sure how limited—“
“Don’t be an ass Reg,” James cuts him off. “I know the difference.”
Regulus just stands there, the defiant look back on his face, hands in fists at his sides.
“I didn’t say no.”
“You didn’t say yes.”
“Oh fuck you and your honourable bullshit,” Regulus throws his hands up but he isn’t able to hide himself, not completely. Isn’t able to keep his voice from cracking. “So what—what does it matter?”
“It matters Reg,” James says, he wants to go to him but he doesn’t, holding himself back, watching as Regulus tries desperately to close himself off. He looks at James like he wants him to understand and James wishes that he did, that whatever it is that Regulus is desperate not to have to explain he didn’t have to.
“This is what we get,” Regulus says finally. “There’s no—there’s no other way James. It’s always going to be like this. And I want you—I want you and I can have you like this. You’re mine here, not his, and I want you.”
James tries to pick that apart, only understanding half of it. “There’s more?” he says finally. “You want me but you don’t? Because you didn’t—“
Regulus cuts him off with a sigh. “It’s—it’s complicated, I can’t—“
“You don’t have to explain.”
Regulus laughs, passing a hand over his face. “I really should, but it’s nice that you don’t think so.”
“Reg,” James says softly. “First night I was up here, do you remember what I said?”
“I remember all of it,” the words seem to come out of him without his permission, a surprisingly sweet confession and James tries not to get distracted by it.
“I told you that I didn’t want to take anything from you,” he looks right into Regulus’s eyes. “I meant that Reg. I mean that.”
“You—how are you like this?” Regulus asks exasperated.
James lets himself smile a little. “No one’s fucked me up yet, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”
Regulus lets out a huff that’s almost a laugh, staring at James for a long time before looking away. “What if I want to take from you?” he asks finally.
James steps closer, slowly, closing the space between them. “Okay,” he says.
“It’s not.”
James shrugs. “Maybe, but, you know, I have a lot to give. More than most people I think. You can take it if you want. I’ll let you have whatever you want Reg.”
Regulus shakes his head, turning away from James and walking over to the railing, looking out over the night. James wants to follow, desperately, but he doesn’t.
“Most people don’t notice,” Regulus says eventually.
“Don’t notice?”
He can’t see Regulus’s face, so for the next few moments of silence he really has no idea what’s happening.
“I always kind of—shut down a bit. Defence mechanism I think,” he laughs and the sound is heavy. “Not that there’s been that many people mind you but, none of them seemed to—or I guess they didn’t care.” There’s no inflection in his voice. He says all this like it’s nothing to him. Like he’s describing the weather.
James’s chest feels tight. He wants to set the world on fire. Wants to take Regulus somewhere far away where nothing can touch him. He wan’t to fix this. He knows he can’t.
“I’m not them,” is what he manages to say.
There’s another long pause before Regulus sighs, dropping his head. “I know,” and then, “but sometimes I wish you were. Easier that way. This…” he lets his voice trail off, staring at his hands. “I thought I could control it, I thought I could keep it here, just us. But I can’t.”
James understands that. Oh how he understands that. It’s easier when it’s just the two of them, without their friends and families, without politics. He watches Regulus’s back and feels overwhelmed with all the things he feels for him.
Eventually, Regulus turns around. He looks resigned. “I’m not a very good person,” James opens his mouth to interrupt but Regulus talks over him. “I’m not going to do the right thing here.”
“The right thing?” James manages to ask.
Regulus looks at him sadly. “I’m not going to let you go James, not until you make me. Not until you tell me you don’t want me. I should, I never should have let this start. I should have told you to fuck off and been done with it. But, well,” he shrugs a little helplessly. “I’m not a very good person.”
Somehow those words hurt and feel good all at the same time, tangling up inside of James like the rest of it.
“I want you,” he says a breathlessly. “I want you Reg.”
The other boy’s eyes close briefly before he steps forward, slow, careful, and James lets him. Lets him bring them together again, lets him hold his face, thumb brushing his lips, lets him pull lightly on the back of his head, bringing their mouthes together. It’s not like it was before, it’s careful, breakable. And James thinks, this is what they mean, when they say love is falling.
Because he doesn’t know where the floor is.
Because he knows it’s going to hurt when they hit the ground.
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
After Dick's outburst that evening, a plan solidified itself in his head.
He knew that Dick is absolutely planning to hunt Zucco down himself, or at least confront him. But this is a 9 year old boy. And while, yes, he is a very exceptional kid, he was still just that. A kid. The same one Bruce is responsible for.
Bruce Wayne has done all he could to help Dick— taking him in, offering him stability and room to grieve— but there was still more to be done in terms of bringing Zucco to justice. Real Justice. The kind that the judicial system in Gotham was entirely lacking. Judges can be bought, same thing with the police. So, Bruce Wayne cannot do much else.
But Batman can.
After gathering himself up from the dinner table, Bruce went ahead up to Dick's room, just to check on him, maybe talk, even. But the boy refused to open the door, refused to even acknowledge the knocking. Worried that he may have
somehow
left through the window, Bruce opened the door, just to peek inside.
The sight that met him caused the burning pit of anger deep in his chest turn to lava. There Dick was, bundled up in his blanket, dried tear streaks on his face, shaking as he fights off a bad dream. Bruce wanted to go and comfort him, he really did. But... would
Dick
be okay with that? Would he not see this as Bruce wanting to be his dad? He knew that he
did
want a relationship with Dick, he just had no clue how to go about it.
In the minutes it had taken him to contemplate what to do, the sleeping Dick had already calmed down, save for a few whimpers that shattered Bruce's already aching heart.
Retreating back out as softly and as quietly as he could, the
thump
of the door closing behind him made him cringe. He truly didn't want to disturb the boy, God knows how badly he slept when he was in the same position.
The Gala opened its doors at 8:30, and while he hoped Dick would be willing to join him, it didn't seem like that was happening. Bruce wanted to get his first public appearance with Dick out of the way in hopes of getting the media storm that had formed over the last month to settle. He saw the tabloids regularly, which is unlike him, but he wanted to know what the media has been saying about Dick. He wanted to form a plan, as was in his nature.
The media has been utterly
ruthless.
THE REAL LIFE GOLDEN TICKET ,
one headline read, which pissed bruce off to no end. How could Dick's situation be a
golden ticket
? How could they look at an orphaned child and think
yea, at least he ended up with the billionaire.
He knew that the Wayne name meant attention, and wanted to make sure he can protect Dick accordingly. He hadn't even gotten the chance to try and explain all this to Dick, with how he reacted when Bruce had brought it up after they had dinner.
With one hand resting on his hip, he wiped his face with his other hand, a deep sigh pulling itself out of him. It was currently 7:48 PM, which meant he had enough time to get dressed for the event, leave, and show up fashionably late in his usual
Brucie
fashion. He started heading over to his room, contemplating which suit to wear. His previous public appearances— which were already sparse— he had the tendency to show up about an hour late and leave 30 minutes after signing a big cheque for whichever cause needed funding at the time, with beautiful people by his side, usually a man
and
a woman.
He knew that now that he has taken Dick in, the
Brucie
persona needs to be toned down, changed a bit. So he decided to keep the flirting, keep the
stupid trust fund kid
image, but he couldn't deny being relieved at not having to go home with drunk strangers. Sure, he's slept with a couple every now and then, he
was
human after all, but only the sober ones, and it was so rare. But the public didn't need to know that.
He never liked having to do this, pretend to be just some other rich guy with too much money and freedom, but he knew the importance of it. Keep them all thinking he's just another selfish capitalist douchebag, and that's all they focus on. It helps him do his philanthropy while also maintaining his cover as Batman.
Speaking of Batman, he couldn't wait for the Gala to start, just so he can show his face, throw some smiles, say some stupid lines to excuse the lack of sexual behavior like '
being a father changes you',
sign a big cheque for a good cause and
leave.
He never thought of patrol as something to look forward to, he always thought of it as a responsibility, really.
But tonight? Tonight, Batman knew where Zucco's lackeys were hiding, and that's one step
closer
to bringing Zucco to justice, and bringing him just close enough to the grave but never crossing the line. Sure, he avoided extreme violence whenever he could, but with Zucco? The man had killed Dick's family for nothing other than
spite,
and that angered him more than he wanted to admit.
So yes, he
was
looking forward to patrol.
Over the bridge, in Metropolis, was Clark Kent in his apartment, with his legs folded under him in a criss cross position, floating. His gaze was locked onto the open closet in front of him, trying to figure out which suit to wear for the Gala tonight.
Usually, the tabloid pieces were for Cat, and he would cover Superman or whichever cause he believed in, even the ones that didn't grab attention. Clark real bread and butter were the Superman articles he writes, but his heart was with the people, with the causes he believed in. So, once a month, whenever some tragedy hit Metropolis, he would 'interview' Superman, and that would be his big piece for the month, and every other day, he would work on the causes that not even Superman can influence: political corruption, social justice, climate change, the growing class inequality, and worldwide oppression that took more than Superman to fix, unfortunately.
But tonight, Cat was sick, much to her dismay. "
Bruce Wayne is rumored to make an appearance, Clark! With his ward! You are so lucky I can't fucking get up from my bed *cough cough* or I would have went myself."
He recalled her raspy voice saying over the phone when she called to inform him that he was the only one available to take this event on for her.
She gave him the basic instructions: Fundraiser slash auction for public schools in underprivileged areas in the sister cities, a bunch of far-too-rich snobs will be there, flaunting their money under the guise of doing good. They will be donating, yes, but it would still not be even a tiny bit of their net wealth. Cat instructed him to interview whoever was willing to look at him for more than a second, get a quote from at least
one
rich fuck. "
Target the ones that love the media attention, they think it actually helps them make more money."
She had said, making him laugh.
"
Clark... Bruce fucking Wayne will be there. Not
only is he absolutely mouth watering, but this guy puts down millions at a time, and I don't even know if he knows what he's spending that money on! He's insane! So! Perry said that if you managed to get a quote from him, he's giving you a hefty bonus."
Cat had also said. He was willing to go and cover for his friend, of course. But this bonus... sure as hell sounded good.
Over in Smallville, Kansas, Martha and Jonathan Kent farm needed a lot of renovations, and Clark, being the wonderful son that he is, always tries to make time to go over to see his parents and fix up whatever needed fixing. But this is an old farm, the very same one he grew up in, and while he can lift the whole farm and balance it on his pinky, a lot of the work that needs to get done requires
money.
Neither Clark Kent nor Superman had that.
So, he aimed to get a quote from Bruce Wayne. He wanted to see him, of course he did, but... just to look. Clark
knows
that this is slowly turning into a problem. This
fascination.
But it's not his fault, he
is
an investigative journalist, and Bruce Wayne... well, there's plenty to investigate there. (This is what he constantly told himself, but even he has to admit that there's
absolutely
no reason to have a special folder in his phone's camera roll for his favorite shots of the prince of Gotham.)
Sighing, Clark set his legs down and felt as his feet touched the carpeted floor again, eyes still laser focused on figuring out what to wear. As Clark Kent, he purposefully brought suits that were a couple of sizes too large, needing to hide his real figure. Yes, he knew the hypnoglasses were sufficient enough to hide his real identity, but he knows people aren't stupid, that with his height and build, he's bound to be figured out. So... big glasses, large clothes, and clumsy mannerisms is the way to go.
But...
Bruce Wayne
will be there. He wanted to look good, sue him.
The thought caused a fresh wave of embarrassment to crawl up his spine, making him give up and blindly grab whichever suit his grasp landed on. He
almost
deluded himself into thinking if he looked extra good, Bruce might notice him. He
so
wanted to convince himself that going the extra mile was the way he would get a quote from the billionaire, but deep down he knew that he just wanted to know what it felt like to be the target of Bruce Wayne's attention. To feel those grey eyes focus on him, looking at him
up, down, and up again,
as a smirk found its way on his lips, implying that he likes what he sees.
Would he approach me? How should I address him?
A quick glance to the mirror confirmed that Clark is now the same shade as a tomato from his pa's garden, and he quickly shook his head as if trying to physically throw the thoughts out of his mind.
He found himself thinking about Bruce Wayne way too much.
He glanced at the clock, and his blood ran cold.
It's 8 o'clock. I'm so late. Cat's gonna kill me.
He put on a navy suit, the one his ma got him for his 27th birthday not that long ago, and without much contemplation, paired it with the nicest red tie he owns. Looking at himself in the long mirror next to the door of his room, he made sure his glass were placed securely and tried to tame his black curls with a wide tooth comb. Just before leaving, he made sure to spray his nicest, most expensive cologne... a gift from Lois. Yes, he put in more effort than he usually would have, but... what if he
actually
got the chance to talk to Bruce.
Ok so maybe it
is
a crush.
With a final glance at himself, he realized that he accidentally donned the superman colors, red and blue, and a quick amused huff left his lips before he put his notebook, a pencil, and a small handheld camera in his suit pockets, alongside his phone, wallet, and keys of course. He sighed as he noticed the stupid looking bulging from his pockets, but it was better than carrying a whole bag into a Gala, isn't it?
The digital clock on his bookshelf read
8:18 PM. Clark had to hurry.
20 minutes later, clark found himself stumbling over his two feet as he fast walked towards the allocated press area by the red carpet. Being late meant it was
hell
trying to reach the front of the crowd, but he got pretty close to the front, at least.
Celebrities, Gothamite elites, and Metropolis socialites were coming in for their red carpet moment, dressed in dazzling suits and dresses, glamour radiating off of them in waves. Clark took some pictures, tried his best to throw out a question or two. But even with his towering height, he still wasn't near the velvet rope, so his voice got drowned out within the sea of reporters hungry for a quote or a picture or even just a smile thrown in their general direction.
There was no sign of Bruce Wayne, and although it was nothing like him to show up on time, not even close, but clark couldn't help the sliver of traitorous disappointment that managed to crawl its way into his heart.
He really wanted to see Bruce Wayne up close.
Would he keep the top three buttons of his shirt unbuttoned? Would he be wearing cologne?
Oh... how does Bruce Wayne
smell
?
His thoughts began to wander to an image of himself, shirtless, pressing Bruce Wayne into a wall, face buried into the man's neck, breathing in deep as the man beneath him released a breathy chuckle, raspy and gruff, one hand tangled in Clark's curls, pushing Clark's face deeper into his own neck, the other hand squeezing hi—
With a gasp, Clark brought himself back into reality. Clark cursed himself yet again for being late as the rest of the guest list showed up and made their way inside. Looking around, he saw that the authorized reporters began to make their way into the lobby where the event had begun. With too much disappointment, he began to follow along, reaching for his Daily Planet identification card to scan before he can enter. He must have missed Bruce Wayne's entry.
Another image began to form in Clark's head, and this time he planted his feet into the ground and took several deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He couldn't understand himself, he really couldn't. He had known about Bruce way before he adopted Dick Grayson, so why is he so...
obsessed
now?
Lost in thought, heart still beating a mile a minute, he found his way up to the penthouse floor, where the guests had begun to mingle and drink. He immediately heads for the bar, needing a cool drink in hand to distract himself with as he begins to formulate an action plan. He had some targets... Hendrix, the host of tonight's fundraiser. Quincy Sharp, the former mayor of Gotham, and Bella Réal, the current mayor of Gotham.
'And Bruce Wayne'
a traitorous voice in his head said.
So he got to work, making his rounds, smiling politely the entire time.
His eyes scanned the room around him, while he really just wanted to get a lay of the land... he hadn't seen Bruce, yet. He thought he had missed his entrance by being 10 minutes late....except that he was not
here.
Which only meant that Bruce Wayne still hasn't arrived. He glanced at his digital watch— 9:36 PM. Bruce usually showed up an hour or so late, and the realization that he should be here any minute now caused his heart rate to spike
again.
He felt such an attraction to Bruce Wayne, like an invisible force was willing him to never stop fucking
thinking
about Wayne, his hair, his eyes, the soft way he had led Dick out of the courtroom during the final hearing, those gentle eyes stole his breath right from his chest and
good God,
Clark can't think of anything or anyone else nowadays.
In a mission to clear his mind from an individual he refuses to name anymore, he continues working, writing some quotes, headline ideas, and trying and kind of succeeding in getting more than a sentence long answer from those he interviewed. He couldn't help himself, though. He kept looking around, sometimes even using his X-ray vision to see past the marble pillars in case he missed Bruce's entry and is standing there. He's not. Clark frowned as he looked down at his watch again.
10:07 PM.
Clark felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned, smile already back in place, never wanting to be seen as anything less than a gentleman
.
Lex Luthor.
The smile was immediately wiped off of Clark's face.
"Clark Kent, right?" Lex said, a polite smile on his face. Clark wasn't fooled. He saw that glint in his eye, the same one that meant
trouble
.
"Yes, that's me... Mr. Luthor, I reviewed the guest list, I didn't expect to see you here. It's not really your... crowd." AKA
This is a fundraiser and you have never given a penny to charity, but were willing to spend fucking billions on technology meant to kill me.
Lex had the audacity to laugh a big haughty laugh, and Clark struggled to keep his face neutral, a grimace rather than his dimpled smile resting on his face.
"Yes, well... I heard Bruce Wayne is going to be here, and he is
most
elusive, that one," His eye twitched, an obvious tell of just how annoyed he actually is. The mention of Bruce Wayne caused Clark to subconsciously stand up a bit straighter, his face hardening.
"What do you need from Mr. Wayne?" Clark found himself saying, tone a bit more accusatory than he intended. At that, Lex raised an eyebrow and tilted his head back just an inch.
"Well... I wanted to ask you about Superman, and Bruce Wayne about Batman."
The world stopped moving for a second.
"What?' he said, voice too low and eyes slightly narrowing.
"You write about Superman a lot, Kent. Somehow he's always willing to give
you
an interview, but almost no one else. Why?" Lex steps a bit closer, eyes staring into Clark's, shifting from his right to his left eye, trying to crack him open.
There's no way he knows it's me... no way. Right?
Before he can find an answer, Lex keeps going, "And Batman... no one knows for sure if he's even real, but when Wayne was asked about him... he talked about him like he existed. Like he met him." Clark remembers the article. During the court proceedings of Dick's adoption, Bruce Wayne agreed to be interviewed by someone from the
Gotham Gazette
, and while everyone knew it was just so he can do
some
damage control to his 'Brucie' image, it was still the first time he's been
interviewed
rather than just throwing a comment to the paparazzi always hounding him like a bone to a pack of starving dogs.
The interview, which clark may or may not have watched over 20 times, was not something so memorable. Bruce had still acted like an airhead, but at least he showed emotion,
real
emotion, especially when asked about why he made the decision to take Dick in. It became Clark's favorite because of his answer,
"
There's no real reason as to why I'm hoping to adopt Richard. I have the means to help, so why not? It's not private information that I also lost my parents... similarly, so I understand his pain, so why shouldn't I help?"
Bruce had said, and the look in his eyes... well it's what had Clark hooked. The look was soft, faraway, and filled with so much
pain.
Almost as quick as the emotion manifested had it disappeared.
So excuse him for not wanting
Lex Luthor
to bother Bruce Wayne, who he felt weirdly protective of.
"Superman trusts me, that's why he lets me interview him... As for Mr. Wayne, I'm sure he only meant that Batman is protecting the city, I mean... have you seen the recent crime rates in Gotham? They're the lowest they've ever been in the last 50 years!" He says, still not backing away from Lex.
"So you think the bat is real, too?" Lex says, a weirdly contemplative look on his face. Clark was just about to deny, even though he
does
know that Batman is, in fact, a real man. But he didn't get the chance to say anything as the voices all around them increased in volume. Everyone in the venue had turned to look at the entrance of the penthouse, murmuring and whispering.
Bruce Wayne.
Clark's heart leaped at the sight of the man. He was... he was so...
fuck.
He excused himself away from lex, not caring that he had left mid-conversation. He found himself walking in the direction of Bruce Wayne, a fog in his head as his heart raced.
Bruce was in a charcoal suit that was so
well
tailored. Just like he had suspected, top three buttons undone. Now what's left is to know what he smells like. The man's presence absolutely
commanded
the room, with each step he took, eyes followed. Clark's eyes were definitely one of them. He watched as Bruce smiled and made short witty conversation with those who stopped to talk to him.
He knew he was reacting too...intensely. But
fuck,
he really couldn't help it.
Clark's mouth felt so dry as he gulped, jaw clenched. His breathing turned ragged. His eyes couldn't break away from the man. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding
hard
in his ears, and using his superheating, he tuned into Bruce's.
Ba-thump Ba-thump Ba-thump.
It almost sent Clark to his knees. He didn't know how a heartbeat could sound so distinct, so musical. It was like everything about this man was perfection, even his heartbeat.
He wasn't planning on talking to him, he hoped he had the chance... '
only for the bonus, of course
' he lied to himself. But the truth is that he didn't know if he was even capable of it, of talking to this man. Clark was officially freaking out. He was
starstruck.
Almost in slow motion, Bruce's eyes swept across the room, finally landing on Clark.
Clark gulped.
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
Satoru (BFF):
You came to Okinawa??
How come?
Yaga even said this mission would be dangerous
Do I need to find you and bring you back to Jujutsu High by force?
You’re crazy
I have high blood pressure because of you
Yeah, I figured he’d message me something like this.
You chuckle, taking a bite of your food as you scroll through every text. It was about time he flipped out on you. Really, you’re surprised it took so long. He must’ve just heard the news that your group came to Okinawa as backup. You imagine him aggressively stomping around on the beach right about now.
[Name]:
I told Riko, remember?
The whole reason I didn’t stay with you guys is because I wanted to make sure the first-years were safe
I didn’t know Yaga would send them on a mission
When I found out, obviously I had to go
Satoru (BFF):
You didn’t have to do anything
Crazy idiot
You should’ve stayed on campus where it’s safe
Just so you know, I’m really angry right now
>:(
[Name]:
I think I can live with that
Satoru (BFF):
>:(((
[Name]:
I like Toji’s emoticon choices better than yours tbh
Satoru (BFF):
Tbh?
[Name]:
To be honest
It’s an acronym
I came up with it myself because I’m a trend-setter
Satoru (BFF):
Just stay safe
Use Naoya as a meat shield if you have to
I doubt anything will happen, but don’t you DARE get caught up in a fight
[Name]:
Ok!
Satoru (BFF):
You’re just saying that, aren’t you?
You don’t actually mean it
[Name]:
Pretty much!
Satoru (BFF):
Tbh you really get on my nerves sometimes
[Name]:
Lol
But you still love me
He doesn’t respond to that—not that you really needed the confirmation anyway.
“[Name], why do you keep checking your phone?” Naoya frowns. He scoots his chair closer to you while making puppy eyes. “I’m not boring you, am I?”
“Of course not,” you reassure. “Satoru’s just being a baby, like always. He’s upset that I came to Okinawa because he’s worried I’m going to get hurt.”
“Well, you should tell him that I’m going to make sure to protect you.”
“I could try, but somehow, I feel like that’ll just spark a whole other argument.”
Naoya shrugs and goes back to eating his breakfast. You decided to stop by the hotel restaurant for a quick meal. Your group is deliberately staying near the airport in case of an attack, while Satoru and Suguru are quite a good deal further away, as far as you know. It’s not likely that your paths will cross. Satoru might be worried about you, but he must realize that meeting up with you—and leading Riko straight towards you in the process—will just increase the odds of someone attacking you even
more
.
So far, everything has been really peaceful. Almost unsettlingly so. You hate that you have no information about Haibara’s death whatsoever. Out of everyone you’ve been trying to save, his case is the most shrouded in mystery. It was intentionally left vague. This is one of the rare instances where you can’t rely on your knowledge of Jujutsu Kaisen to give you a helping hand.
“Is everything okay, [Name]?” Nanami asks, as observant as always.
“Mhm,” you nod. “I’m fine. Just trying to keep an eye out, that’s all. The hotel should be safe. Unless the enemy is an expert at suppressing their cursed energy, like me, I probably would’ve sensed some fluctuations by now. At the very least, they’re not inside the hotel at the moment. There aren’t any enemies here.”
Haibara’s eyes widen. “Wow, you can see things in
that
much detail?”
“Sometimes I need to stop and focus for a while, but yeah. My range of perception still can’t even compare to Satoru’s, though. But it should help us monitor the situation and pick up on any discrepancies.”
Everyone stares at you in bewilderment, and you happily take another bite, as if you
didn’t
just casually flex your abilities. Gojo Satoru is one thing. He’s the pride and joy of jujutsu sorcerers, after all. He’s everyone’s beacon of hope, even if some resent and envy him for his strength. It’s normal to not come close to him. It just goes without saying. You might not have the Six Eyes to provide you with highly fine-tuned sensory input, but still.
As far as most people are concerned, you’re already in a league of your own.
“Let’s go to the beach!” Naoya suggests, once you’ve finished breakfast and paid your bill.
Nanami frowns at him. “As I’ve already said, this isn’t a vacation trip. We’re supposed to be keeping a lookout in case either of those organizations attack. You realize innocent civilians could get caught up in this if we’re not careful, right?”
“Hold on,” you say, and Nanami blinks in confusion. You squint off into the distance, going silent for a few moments. Then, you smile. “Actually, I think it’ll be okay. As long as we stay straight ahead and don’t venture too far away from our hotel, I should be able to pick up on any threats. Our hotel’s close to the airport, and the beach is right there. We just can’t get too far away. Let’s stay close up ahead, where I’ll be able to monitor the busiest areas.”
“Can you really do that?” Nanami marvels. “Even from all the way over there?”
“Yeah. I’ve tested my range a couple of times. Ever since I gained all this cursed energy, it’s gotten a lot easier to read other people’s cursed energy too. I guess I gained a knowledge boost and a strength boost all at once,” you shrug.
“Right,” Nanami chuckles weakly, but there’s a smile pulling on his lips. “As expected of you. I shouldn’t even be surprised.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” you say, with the same energy as a university student who scored a hundred percent on an exam that pretty much
everyone
else failed.
Off to the beach it is, then. Naoya and Haibara are both super excited. Everyone
did
bring swimsuits, just in case, but truthfully, you weren’t really planning on getting in the water. It’s kind of nice that it turned out this way, though. Satoru and Suguru are probably splashing around with Riko, right this very moment. As long as you don’t let your guard down, you can afford to have some fun, too.
Everyone heads back to the hotel room to change, and scarcely a few minutes later, you can feel the hot, soft sand underneath the soles of your feet. You lift your head up towards the clear blue sky. It’s such a nice day. There isn’t even a single cloud in sight. Maybe Haibara’s death flag has already been overwritten? It’s the butterfly effect. Because Toji is no longer working as Riko’s killers, there’s a good chance that most of the assassins have already been deterred. You’re really only here as a precaution. Maybe this
will
turn out to be a fun little vacation after all.
“Yay!” Naoya cries out, ripping off his shirt in one fluid motion. “It’s my first time at the beach! I get to share another one of my first times with [Name]!”
“
Stop
saying it like that,” Nanami mutters.
Naoya ignores him and starts eagerly pulling on your arm. “Come on, [Name]. Let’s go swim! I’ve never been to a beach before, but I’ve gone swimming at the lakes near the Zen’in estate a bunch of times, so I’m really good at it!”
“That’s nice, Naoya,” you chuckle.
I’ve been swimming a bunch of times too. Mostly in my previous life, though. I wonder if I've gotten rusty after all this time.
You pat Naoya on the shoulder and ask him to wait for a moment, then you step under the beach umbrella you set up and take off your shirt and shorts—revealing the bikini you changed into underneath.
Suffice to say, three boys are staring at you right now.
Naoya hastily clamps his hands over his eyes, but within a few seconds, he’s peeking through the cracks of his fingers, redder than ever before. “W-Wow. This is also my first time seeing [Name] in a swimsuit…”
“Give her some privacy,” Nanami mutters. He grabs both Naoya and Haibara and spins them around, despite the fact that
he’s
blushing ear-to-ear too.
“I’m all done,” you eventually announce. “Hm? Why are all of you facing that way?”
“...no reason.”
You chuckle in amusement, then run up and interlink your arms with everyone, pulling them in the direction of the water. Naoya squeals out in embarrassment because your body is pressing up against his, Haibara lets out a loud, excited cheer, and Nanami is as rigid as ever, attempting to calm his erratic heartbeat.
It’s so hot out that even the water is warm. You waste no time in dunking your head in, and you laugh as you resurface and whip your hair back. It really has been a long time since you’ve gone to the beach. Sixteen years, at the very minimum. You didn’t even realize how much you’d missed this until now.
“The water feels amazing!” Haibara exclaims. He mirrors your actions and dunks his head in too, laughing even more raucously than you did. “Nanami, you should get in here too! It’s awesome!”
“I am in here,” Nanami argues. Which is
technically
true, but he’s only waded far enough that the water just barely reaches up to his knees.
“Haibara, lift me up,” Naoya then instructs. “Swim in a bit deeper and let me stand on your shoulders so I can jump in!”
“Oh, great idea!”
Is
it, though? You feel compelled to point out otherwise, but oh well. As long as they’re having fun. You actually get a kick out of watching Naoya attempt to climb up and balance himself on Haibara’s shoulders, only for both of them to collide with each other and go crashing into the water ungraciously.
You smile at the clumsy yet endearing sight, then you turn towards the direction of the hotel and airport, making sure to close your eyes so that you can focus. If there
was
an imminent attack, you would definitely be able to sense an influx of cursed energy. So far, nothing stands out to you. There haven’t been any changes at all. As long as you check in every now and then, it should be fine.
When you open your eyes, Nanami is standing in front of you.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, blushing a bit. Well, you could already tell he’d approached you, based on his cursed energy alone. It’s not really a surprise. But it makes you smile nonetheless.
“The water feels nice, doesn’t it?” you beam.
“Yeah. It does.”
“Are you going to swim a little? You don’t have to, but I think it’d be fun.”
“I guess I might as well,” he nods, and that’s more than enough for you to grab his hand and lead him deeper in.
You wade through the water, until your feet can’t touch the ground anymore and transition into a relaxed swim. Nanami still hasn’t dunked his head in. You’re kind of tempted to dunk it for him, and you doubt he’d get mad at you, but you manage to abstain. If he wants to, he’ll end up doing it at his own pace. This is already nice. The water is pleasant, refreshing, and you can feel your nerves gradually melting away.
“I don’t mean to say that I doubt your abilities at all, but it feels a bit strange spending time at the beach like this when we’re supposed to be on a mission,” Nanami admits.
“I mean, Satoru and Suguru are on a mission too, so the same goes for them.” You go still for a moment, cracking a smile. “Don’t worry, Nanami. There’s no need to overthink things. I know you have a really strong sense of responsibility, but I’ll make sure to protect everyone. It’s going to be okay.”
You’ve uttered those same words countless times before, and as always, he wholeheartedly believes you.
“My turn to swim with [Name]!” Naoya suddenly cuts in. He gleefully grabs onto you and pulls you close, and in the process of doing so, he ends up unintentionally squeezing a certain part of your body that’s a
lot
softer than he was expecting.
“Naoya, I think you just groped me,” you laugh.
“I-I-I didn’t mean to!” he all but screams—and hardly two seconds later, he submerges his head underwater, too ashamed to make eye contact with you.
A shadow crosses Nanami’s brow. “If that was on purpose, then I have a few things I’d like to say to him.”
“It definitely wasn’t on purpose.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because look at him,” you point. Sure enough, Naoya has already swum all the way out to deeper waters, and you can vaguely hear him squealing as he splashes and flails around in embarrassment.
Haibara swims up to the both of you and makes a curious face. “What happened just now? Why is Naoya screaming?”
“It’s nothing,” you brush off.
“Yes, he’s just being an idiot like always,” Nanami mutters sourly.
“Oh, okay. Anyway, check out what I found! It’s a sea star! Pretty cool, huh?”
Haibara grins widely as he lifts up the aforementioned sea star. It’s wriggling around a little bit, as sea stars tend to do, and you hesitantly reach out to give it a gentle poke. You weren’t quite expecting it to be so firm. It’s a little damp from the water, but otherwise, its skin feels fairly rigid. You end up shrinking away out of pure reflex, and Haibara laughs before gently lowering the sea star back into the water.
“I didn’t expect you to be scared,” he muses.
“I wasn’t scared,” you protest, feeling a bit red in the face. “I was just surprised. I’ve never touched one before.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t scare you anymore.”
“I said I wasn’t scared, though!”
Haibara’s laughter continues to build, and rather childishly, you thrust your palms forward and give him a hefty splash. Some of it even gets into his mouth while it’s open. He splutters a bit, but within five seconds, he’s laughing all over again.
You end up spending even more time in the water than you initially planned on. Naoya eventually swims back over to you, although he’s bright red in the face and it probably won’t die down anytime soon. Nanami doesn’t say anything, but from that moment onward, he pays
much
closer attention to him to ensure that another groping incident doesn’t take place. Also, Haibara clearly didn’t mean what he said earlier, because he ends up chasing you with several marine organisms after the fact, and you find yourself getting flustered just about every single time.
It’s a lot of fun, though. Every now and then, you make sure to block out all the distractions and focus, but you still can’t sense any danger. The longer the day drags on, the more plausible it seems that Toji really was the catalyst for everything to change—just as you suspected he’d be. After all, who would dare to pick a fight with the literal Terminator of the Jujutsu Kaisen world? Having him on your side is pretty much a hack. The gamble you took all those years ago, when you chose to walk up to him on that fateful snowy day, has turned out to be one of the best decisions you could’ve possibly made.
“Alright, I’m hungry now,” Haibara suddenly announces, and just like that, he swims back to shore without even bothering to look back.
I guess beach time is over.
Well, all good things must come to an end eventually. But it was nice while it lasted. You’re really glad you got to come here with your friends, and that it’s turning out to be so much less stressful than you anticipated. You’ll be ready to step up in case things take a sudden turn, but you can probably count on Big Bro Toji to take care of this one. Sometimes, it’s okay to rely on others. It’s okay to not have to try and fix everything on your own.
Everyone heads back to the hotel to change out of their wet swimsuits and shower, then the rest of the day is spent walking around near the hotel area, buying a few souvenirs, and relaxing.
By the time you blink and catch your breath, it’s already evening.
“Today went by so fast,” you mumble in disbelief.
And there’s still no sign of any assassins. They would’ve acted by now, right? They don’t exactly have a lot of time on their hands. The merger with Tengen is set to happen tomorrow, so maybe they’ve given up, or Toji already kicked all their asses.
You’re not quite out of the woods yet, but this is a good sign. Haibara is still here, right next to you, safe and sound. You haven’t seen any signs of a rapidly approaching death, and you’re determined to keep it that way.
“Now, we have to deal with
this
,” Nanami sighs. “There are only two beds, and [Name]’s obviously sleeping alone, so—”
“Why am I sleeping alone?”
“Huh?”
You offer him a curious look, tilting your head to the side and everything. Nanami reacts by doing the exact same thing, except he looks
ten
times more baffled than you do.
“I thought it went without saying,” he blinks. “You’re going to have one of the beds to yourself. There’s just no other way.”
“But there are three of you. And I don’t think there’s enough room on one bed for three people. That would mean one of you has to sleep on the ground. I’m fine with someone sleeping next to me,” you simply state. “It’s not a big deal. Like I said, I already had a sleepover with the second-years and Naoya before. This is hardly any different.”
Naoya immediately perks up. “That’s right! [Name] and I have already slept in the same room together, and we were very close. Since she’s already used to me sleeping next to her, then I should be the one sharing the bed with her. It’s what makes the most sense.”
“No, it
doesn’t
,” Nanami glares. “I still haven’t forgotten what you did earlier.”
“B-But I already told you that was a mistake! I would never do something that shameless! Cross my heart and hope to die!”
“Why are you guys arguing?” Haibara frowns. “I can just sleep with [Name], in that case. Like she said, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just a sleepover!”
“Exactly,” you nod.
“
Nobody
is sleeping with [Name],” Nanami frantically insists—but then you turn to face him directly, and he reflexively gulps, as if he’s already predicted what you’re about to say.
“I’m not really sure what the fuss is about, but if you’re that worried, then
you
can just share the bed with me,” you shrug.
“...”
“Nanami?”
“Um, I’m thinking,” he says, opting to stare down at his face in a pitiful attempt to hide his reddening cheeks.
Naoya slams his foot on the ground. “What do you mean, you’re
thinking
? I see right through you, you bastard! You just said nobody’s allowed to sleep next to [Name], but now you’re trying to swoop in and steal that spot all for yourself!”
“I’m not,” Nanami insists, with a sheepish expression that isn’t entirely convincing. “But I think this is the most objectively fair decision. You obviously have ulterior motives, and Haibara can be a little overbearing without meaning to, so he might end up making [Name] uncomfortable. From your point of view, it might sound biased, but I’m just—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, on account of the fact that Naoya just whacked him in the face with a pillow.
Haibara’s expression instantly lights up. “Oh,
hell
yeah. Pillow fight!”
You don’t really need to explain what comes next. Soon enough, there are feathers flying everywhere. At first, you plan to remain partial to all of this, but you can’t help yourself and end up joining in within the first minute. Nanami mostly just dodges and deflect the pillows coming his way, while grimacing all the while, but eventually, he loses his patience and starts whacking people too. Come to think of it, this is your first ever pillow fight. You never had one before, not even back in the real world.
It sounds silly, but you just can’t seem to stop smiling right now.
“Enough!” Nanami eventually bellows, and he uses a
particularly
forceful blow to knock Naoya back onto the nearest bed, with a sound loud enough to make you wonder whether he suffered permanent damage.
Haibara leans over Naoya’s still, unmoving body. “Nanami, I think you might’ve killed him.”
“If only it were that easy to shut him up,” Nanami grimaces. “Forget it. I’ll sleep on the floor, and that’s the end of the discussion. Haibara, get ready for bed. This whole thing is giving me a migraine.”
He storms off to the bathroom, huffing and puffing with each step he takes. You think it’s pretty cute when he gets angry. Also, the whole room is littered with feathers now. You feel bad for the cleaning crew, but it was fun, so you don’t regret it.
You really wouldn’t have minded sleeping next to someone though, and besides, you didn’t really plan on
actually
sleeping anyway. You need to stay awake all night, just to be sure that nothing happens. Perhaps it’s overkill, but you’re not willing to take the risk. You just need to wait a little longer, until everyone’s back at Jujutsu High, and then you’ll know with certainty that Haibara has been saved.
Yeah. Just a little while longer. All you need to do is keep your guard up a
little
while longer.
Everything will be okay.
In the dead of night, a lone figure slowly trudges along. He walks the streets, silent and undisturbed. It’s so late that nearly the entire city is asleep right now. He waits to ensure that nobody is close enough to see him, then he begins scaling one of the buildings, all the way up to the top, so that he has a better vantage point. From up above, he can see
everything
. His eyes have been trained from many years on the job and have grown accustomed to the night’s veil. This is the state he feels most comfortable in. This is what makes his pulse race, unmatched in its passion and intensity.
“So, the Star Plasma Vessel has been having fun at the beach, huh?” Crimson chuckles darkly. “How cute. I guess she really is just a kid.”
Yes. Amanai Riko is only a child; a fourteen-year-old girl who will inevitably discover that there is so much more to living that she has yet to experience. She still has her whole life ahead of her. It’s too cruel to ask her to give up on it for someone else’s benefit. And it would also be cruel to rob her of that life, without even the slightest twinge of guilt.
Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Crimson plans on doing, because whether it’s a child, a woman, an elderly person, or anyone else, it doesn’t matter.
Money is money, and killing is killing.
Both
bring him joy.
Crimson’s scarred lips spread into a gruesome smile as he slams one of his talismans down, then he slices one of his palms open and allows his blood to flow onto it.
“Cursed Technique: Forbidden Summoning.”
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
After lunch, Neo had gone back to simulations. Much to his chagrin, it had not been with Trinity.
Apoc took him through several shooting simulations to practice his accuracy with different guns. It was more practical than his initial construct and, he had to admit, it was largely enjoyable.
Unlike most of their mornings, Apoc was less of a drill sergeant and more of a coach. He offered pointers and advice beyond the scope of the construct programs.
After two hours, Morpheus switched in.
He uploaded a new program that resembled the Matrix, even felt like the Matrix, but Neo knew it was the construct.
Morpheus led him up a street, easily weaving between people and Neo followed.
"The Matrix is a system, Neo. That system is our enemy," Morpheus explained, dodging a man in a sailor suit. "When you're inside, you look around. What do you see? Business men, teachers, lawyers, carpenters. The very minds of the people we are trying to save."
Neo narrowly avoided crashing into another but managed to slip by.
"But until we do, these people are still a part of that system, and that makes them our enemy. You have to understand, most of these people are not ready to be unplugged."
Neo idly noted a splash of red in a sea of neutrals, sparing the wearer a glance before turning back to Morpheus.
"And many of them are so inert, so hopelessly dependent on the system that they will fight to protect it. Were you listening to me Neo, or were you looking at the woman…"
Morpheus stopped as he noticed Neo's attention still on him.
Neo blinked in confusion.
Morpheus shook his head, the start of a smile on his lips. "Of course not."
"Sorry?" Neo asked, not understanding.
"Look back."
Neo turned, blinking into the green storm in time to see the woman in red turn into an Agent. A gun was brandished towards them although Neo did not flinch. Instead, he glanced back at Morpheus with raised eyebrows as Morpheus signaled for Tank to freeze it.
"Usually, that works better."
Neo hummed, inclining his head as he looked at the Agent. "The red amongst the dark was a nice touch. "
"Didn't distract you."
"Didn't register as a threat."
Morpheus cleared his throat. "Yes, well… the lesson remains the same, I suppose. If you're not one of us, you're one of them.
Anyone
can be an Agent. They are everyone and they are no one."
Neo regarded the Agent, trying to recall his dreams.
Smith.
An enemy, somehow more significant than the other Agents. Neo struggled to remember more than whispers. Taunts of
Mister Anderson
and promises of
inevitability
echoed around his mind.
Flashes of this Agent with others, giving chase and pursuing him and Trinity.
And then, for some reason, Smith was gone. Agents were replaced but they remained one of their most difficult opponents.
A vague memory opened up of Neo holding Trinity behind him while Agents fired at them, only to meet an invisible force that protected them. Another of telling Trinity and Morpheus to go, to get to an exit with a promise of
I'll hold them off
. An Agent pointing a gun at him before Trinity managed to sneak up and shoot it at point blank range before helping him to his feet.
A haunting voice that called screamed at him
Why do you persist?
"They are the gatekeepers. They are guarding all the doors. They are holding all the keys, which means that sooner or later, someone is going to have to fight them."
"Someone," Neo repeated, looking back at Morpheus. He knew what the older man alluded to.
"I've seen an Agent punch through a concrete wall. Men have emptied entire clips at them and hit nothing but air. Yet their strength and their speed are still based in a world that is built on rules. Because of that, they will never be as strong or as fast as you can be."
Neo knew Morpheus was right, but it did little to help the anxiety bubbling inside him.
Another psuedo-memory wormed its way to the surface. A nightmare, of sorts, that had woken him from his sleep on more than one occasion.
A dark, gravelly voice ordering another to
get the girl
, before the Agents abandoned their attack on him, the anomaly, to search for the one weakness they could exploit.
Neo found himself swallowing. "They're going to target Trinity."
Morpheus looked up sharply. "What?"
"The Agents. When they realize they can't hurt me, when they realize… what she means to me, they're going to target her."
"Does she know?"
Neo shook his head. "Not yet." He was only just remembering himself.
A part of him wished he could just beg her to stay out of the Matrix, but it was as much her mission as it was his. She'd given so much of her life to destroying the Matrix, he couldn't even think to ask her. But it was going to be dangerous. And he could do his best to hide it, but another voice popped into his mind.
A program, this time female. And though he can't recall more than fragments, her voice filled him with discomfort and nausea.
Love. It's written all over you both.
He might not be able to hide it.
He was unable to voice his concern as Morpheus' cell phone rang.
Neo could hear Tank on the other end of the line, saying, "We've got trouble."
Neo opened his eyes back in the real world in time to see Switch rushing over with a large box. They set it down on the console as Tank rushed to shut down each monitor one by one.
Trin ran by, heading for the cockpit.
Morpheus and Neo followed.
"Did Zion send word?" Morpheus asked as he reached the top of the ladder.
"No, another ship." Dozer was flying the ship through the tunnels quickly.
Trinity brought up a scan of the approaching sentinels before she spun out of the chair, quickly replaced by Morpheus.
Dozer grazed the ground, making the ship lurch. Trinity jolted forward. Neo barely managed to wrap an arm around her, pulling her to him before she could stumble.
She squeezed his arm in thanks, leaning into his embrace before turning to look back out the window.
"Shit. Squiddies are sweeping in quick."
Morpheus pointed ahead at a small cavern amidst the tunnels. "Set her down there."
Dozer dropped the ship down low, keeping close the walls of the old sewers. He tucked the ship into a crevice as it bottomed out with a loud crash. Neo held tight to an overhead beam with one hand, grasping Trinity with the other. They managed to stay upright.
Morpheus picked up a handheld radio and asked, "How are we doing Tank?"
"Power offline," came the response, a whisper over the speaker. "EMP armed and ready."
They stood in silence, watching out the window. Waiting.
He held Trinity tighter.
A sentinel swam by, veering into the distance. It was going directly past them. Neo wanted to sign with relief, thinking for a moment that the worst was over.
Suddenly another jumped into sight. It seemed to fixate on their spot. A small satellite appeared and scanned the area.
No one breathed. He could only hope the others were being silent in the core below. Even a whisper could kill them all and then it would be utterly meaningless to be the One.
At the thought, he heard another familiar voice echoing in his head.
How can he be the One if he's dead?
Cypher.
He stiffened as he tried to remember more than that little detail but he couldn't. The more he pushed, the more he could feel the memory slipping away.
Was it a memory? A dream? Had he made it all up?
Trin turned back, eyes narrowing at him curiously. But she couldn't ask and he couldn't explain. Not yet.
She turned back to look out the window. After a moment, the sentinel turned, taking off down a different tunnel.
Trinity relaxed in his arms as the entire cabin breathed a collective sigh of relief.
It wasn't over, Neo knew.
"We'll remain in stasis." Morpheus's voice was barely a whisper. Pulling up the radio, he said, "They've passed, but we'll remain on lock-down. Bring the EMP up here."
"Roger that."
To Dozer, Morpheus said, "Set the proximity. I'll stay here regardless, but let's not take any chances."
Dozer powered on a single computer, noticeably detached from the others.
Morpheus glanced back to Neo as he set down the radio. "I suppose that concludes our trainings."
Neo nodded, guessing as much. Though his memories were fuzzy on such events, he knew it would be hours before they even risked turning the ship back on. Which meant it was going to get
cold.
"How did he do?" Trin asked, leaning back into his chest.
"Very well."
"Very well?" Tank repeated, hopping up off the ladder. "Trin, your boyfriend was on
fire
."
"Quiet," Morpheus said, even as his lips twitched. "But yes, Neo did exceptionally. With both simulations."
She couldn't feign surprise, barely resisting the urge to say "
no shit".
"He's completed his trainings with Tank, as well as those in the construct. I'm not sure what else to do with him," Morpheus continued and, while Trinity could think of a few things to do with Neo, she decided to keep that to herself as well.
"We don't need to worry about that until the power is back tomorrow," she said, brushing it aside softly. "Do you need anything before we go?"
"No. I expect it will be quiet on all fronts. Just make sure the others remain the same."
With a last look out the window, Trinity turned, leading them back down the ladder to the core.
The rest of the crew was silent, gathered around the blank monitors curiously.
"They're gone," Trinity told them. "But we're being cautious. You all know the drill."
She was met with a series of nods.
"How many?" Apoc asked quietly as Cypher turned back to the crew quarters with a roll of his eyes.
Neo watched him walk away without a backwards glance.
"Two."
"At this depth?" He shook his head. "Christ."
"I know."
"They're getting braver," Switch added.
"Not sure I'd say that." Neo flushed as soon as he said it, the others glancing at him. "Sorry. I just meant… They're not human. It isn't bravery. They're machines. It's a matter of weighing the risks versus the benefits. And they've determined it's worth the risk of being annihilated to come after us."
They were all silent to that explanation.
Trinity sighed, shaking her head as she gently rocked into Neo. "Thanks for that, sweetheart."
Neo couldn't help but grimace at his own words. Miraculously, he managed to stop himself from apologizing again. True as his words might have been, some things were better left unsaid.
Still, it helped that Switch lit up upon hearing Trinity's endearment for him, the moment passing without further regard.
"Go to bed," Trinity ordered. "Play cards, read, meditate. I don't care. Just be quiet and offline until further notice."
Without another word, she slipped her hand into Neo's. For once, the others didn't remark or tease her as she led him away. It was warped, in a way, but she was momentarily grateful for the presence of the sentinels keeping her crew silent.
They reached their room and Trinity turned the wheel as quietly as she could, the metal still grinding. She winced at the sound and pushed the door open, slipping into their room.
She toed off her boots before collapsing onto the bed. She rolled to her side, looking up at him over her long lashes.
Neo closed the door softly. It latched into place and he kicked his own boots off.
He was struck by her yet again. He wondered if he would ever get used to the sight in front of him. The little twitch of her lips into the smirk he adored, the way her eyes always seemed to pierce into him.
He loved her.
So fucking much.
And he swallowed, noting how easily the sentinels could have killed them all just minutes ago. How breakable she was.
The strongest person he knew, but still so utterly delicate.
Neo felt himself exhale as he remembered the conversation with Morpheus, before Tank had pulled them out.
And Trinity, with her piercing eyes, tilted her head. "What's wrong?" she asked.
His own lips twitched. She knew. She always knew. He loved that about her even as it filled him with anxiety that he couldn't even protect her from himself.
And when the Agents and other programs found out about him, it would only be a matter of time before they made the connection to her.
Then there was Cypher. He wasn't sure what to do about the bald man, especially considering he had no real memories of Cypher doing anything bad. Just flashes of phrases and a feeling in his gut. Neither were enough to convict him.
The Agents were a real threat. Probably the biggest one they had at the moment and it would only grow worse.
He longed to shake his head and tell her that it was
nothing
. But he couldn't lie and especially not to her. Never to her.
"Neo?" Her voice had softened.
"I love you." He took a seat on the edge of the bed. She was still reclined, leaning up on an arm. He set his hand on her hip.
"I love you, too." She waited, never taking her eyes from his.
He swallowed before admitting, "Things are going to get worse, much worse, before they get better."
"I know. None of this will be easy but--"
"You don't. I'm…" Neo hesitated, "I'm sorry, Trinity, but you don't know. And I'm sorry because I don't know how to do this and everything… everything is jumbled. Like I'm trying to put a puzzle together after looking at the picture once. And some things are making more sense and some of it, I just can't remember."
"Sweetheart, nobody expects you to know everything. You've only been awake a matter of days."
"But that's not really true, is it? Zion, the Council, hell, even the crew expects me to have this figured out. To know what I'm doing." Neo paused, shaking his head. "I just thought remembering more would make things easier. And it's just leaving me with more questions, more fears."
Trinity reached over, setting a hand on his thigh. "What are you afraid of?"
Losing this
, he thought. Losing her touch, her smell. That little way she quirked her lips that made him go insane.
He barely withheld a shudder, steeling himself. "The programs in the Matrix are going to do their very best to destroy me."
"I won't let that--"
Neo shook his head, cutting her off again. "They won't. They'll try but they
can't
. Physically, they can't touch me but the programs, the Agents are adaptable. And when they realize I'm untouchable, they're going to look for other weaknesses."
She blinked and he could see the moment she understood, lifting her chin ever so slightly. "I'm not afraid."
Fearless. Another thing he loved but her even as it terrified him.
"Trinity…"
"I'm not."
She had to understand. Nothing was simple anymore.
"Trin, the Agents are going to target you."
"We can keep our distance in the Matrix."
Again, he can almost hear the words of the other program. Her accented voice, sounding both jealous and pitying as she stated
love. It's written all over you both.
"It won't make a difference. They'll be able to
see
." Neo squeezed her hip as he tried to find the words to explain it. "It's… seeing the Matrix, seeing the code rather than the person behind it is so very different. Programs don't see a body walking around, they see little scripts of pseudo-muscles beginning to react. They see raining code telling them that you are preparing to run or a hand is reaching to strike, before you've even begun to move.
"And emotions, fuck... Fear, excitement,
love
… it's in our code. Swirling around us, etched into our every action and reaction. It can't be cloaked or hidden. It is our very essence and they'll
know.
And
I don't know
how
to protect you from that."
Neo closed his eyes, snapshots of dreams swimming through his head. Guns being fired, explosions, the sight of Trinity with blood spattered across her face.
He had to figure it out.
Had to crack the code on how he could protect her.
Trinity sat up, reaching towards his face. Her hand skimmed his jaw, turning him to face her.
"It's going to be okay."
"You don't know--"
"I do." There was an edge to her voice that made him refocus, reorient on her.
"Trinity…" Her name was like a prayer in itself.
"I do," she repeated, softer this time, but no less fierce. "Because we spent fifteen fucking years waiting for each other. Neither one of us is
ever
letting go."
Trinity lifted her hand, tracing his cheek. He'd need to start shaving soon. A part of her regretted how quickly time passed in his presence and yet there was still so much they had to do.
Neo turned his head, kissing her palm.
With a small smile, Trinity added, "I keep you safe, you keep me safe. That's the deal. That's always been the deal."
Neo nodded. "You're right. I-I know you're right. I just…" he hesitated. "I just wish I could remember. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
And maybe, Trinity thought, that was on her.
All this expectation heaped upon his still new shoulders. She wanted to protect him, to save him from everything but she
couldn't.
Not from destiny.
It pained her to say it, even to think it, but she forced the words from her mouth all the same. "Maybe it's time to see the Oracle."
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 Arrival
Reed Richards stepped out first. Tall, lean, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, scanning the gathered Avengers with a scientist’s precision. He looked defeated, like a man too consumed by calculation to waste time with posturing.
Sue Storm followed close at his side. Her posture was calm, deliberate in its openness. Her gaze swept the room with quiet warmth, and for a moment the tension seemed to thin. It was a look that said
we don’t mean harm
without needing words.
Then came the heavy rumble of stone. Ben Grimm descended the ramp, each footstep striking like a hammer. His rocky form made Rhodey’s arm hair stand up. Sam muttered under his breath, “What the hell…”
“Easy,” Pepper said softly, raising a hand just high enough to steady the air. Her voice cut the moment cleanly, cool and commanding without ever rising.
And then Johnny Storm strolled out last. His leather jacket caught the light as he slung it across one shoulder. He threw a smirk while glancing at the gathered group as if he’d just walked into a cocktail party instead of a tense standoff.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Sam was the first to break the silence. His voice was even but edged with curiosity. “Are you all planning to tell us who you are, or do we just keep guessing?”
Johnny smirked wider and spread his hands. “Guessing could be fun.”
Reed cut him a glance before stepping forward. His voice carried the steadiness of someone who had rehearsed these introductions in far stranger rooms.
“My name is Reed Richards. This is Susan Storm, Benjamin Grimm, and Jonathan Storm. We’re not here by choice, but we’re here because your world needs to know what we’ve seen.”
Sue gave a small nod, her voice softer, warmer. “We understand how this looks. We didn't start a fight. We came to help, if you’ll let us.”
Ben’s granite shoulders rolled with a faint shrug. The grinding sound of stone filled the quiet before he rumbled, “Yeah. Don’t let the mug fool ya. We’re the good guys.”
That cracked the tension just enough. Pepper’s lips curved into the faintest smile. She tilted her head, acknowledging the shift in the room. “Then let’s start there,” she said. “Welcome to Stark Tower.”
Reed reached into his coat and produced a sleek device. He set it on the table with careful precision, and at once a hologram sprang to life. Images began shifting across multiple Earths, each battlefield scarred, each skyline shadowed. Every projection bore the same figure, a silhouette etched in menace.
Reed stood taller, his long fingers steepled at his chest. His voice was calm, deliberate and collected.
“We have been tracking energy surges following someone. We matched an energy surge on your planet. We came in contact with a group of.. I’d say outlaws. They directed us here.”
The hologram shifted again. Earths tearing open, cosmic storms rending skies. Among the chaos, the shadowed figure remained constant, a silhouette draped in tattered green, eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood.
“Victor Von Doom,” Reed continued. “On our Earth, he was a tyrant. Brilliant. Ruthless. He believes only he is fit to shape the destiny of existence. We thought we’d contained him. We were wrong. He’s… found a way to move beyond the walls of a single reality. Every world we’ve tracked bears his mark. Every collapse has his hand guiding it.”
Bruce’s brows furrowed, almost reflexively analyzing. “Multiversal variance wasn’t random, then. It’s being… engineered?”
“Precisely,” Reed said. His tone never lifted, but the weight in it grew heavier. “And this is what we’re showing you. It isn't a theory. It's the aftermath.”
Sue stepped forward, her presence softening the edge of Reed’s words without dulling their gravity. The hologram shifted again. It was now displaying a churning vortex of violet energy, a shape vast and incomprehensible descending upon a world. The image dwarfed the towers of a New York skyline that wasn’t theirs.
“Not long ago,” Sue said, her voice steady though her eyes betrayed a flicker of memory, “we stood against Galactus. The Devourer of Worlds. And for a moment, it felt impossible. The sky burned, cities crumbled, and everything we knew hung by a thread. But we weren’t alone.”
The hologram expanded, forming the silver arc of a surfboard cutting through cosmic storms. A lone figure rode it, luminous and swift, defiance etched in every motion.
“The Silver Surfer,” Sue continued. “Once his herald, enslaved to Galactus’s will. But she turned against her master, and helped us drive Galactus back. We won that day, but not without cost.”
Ben shifted, the stone of his brow furrowing deeper. His gravelly voice filled the room. “Whole planets were flattened by Galactus. Millions displaced. That’s what ‘winning’ looked like.”
Sue’s gaze swept across the Avengers, her expression raw but resolute. “We pushed Galactus to the edge of the universe. But, in return Doom saw the power admitted from our son, Franklin.”
Reed adjusted the device, and the hologram collapsed inward, showing not sprawling battlefields of their Earth. Familiar landmarks distorted by a creeping lattice of energy, jagged seams stretching like cracks in glass.
“This world is next,” Reed said simply.
The silence in the room was suffocating. Sam’s arms slowly lowered from his chest, his jaw tight. Rhodey leaned forward, eyes narrowed as if willing the images to lie. Bruce’s hands gripped the edge of the monitor.
Pepper’s gaze stayed on the hologram, the cracks spreading across familiar cityscapes, and for a long moment she didn’t speak. The room seemed to wait on her breath. When she did, her voice carried both steel and sorrow.
“You’re telling me…” she said slowly, “ Is that after everything this world has already survived.. After Sokovia, after Thanos, after losing half the universe and clawing it back… That someone else is out there, waiting to finish the job?” Her eyes flicked to Reed, then Sue, then to the shadowed figure looming in the projection. “That he’s using weapons carved from the bones of a monster who nearly consumed us all?”
Reed inclined his head, silent confirmation.
Pepper exhaled, steady but heavy. “This tower was built on the idea of progress. Of hope. And it’s already seen too much blood, too much loss. I won’t let it become the next ruin in someone else’s war.” She looked around the room, her gaze catching everyone who experienced the battle of earth. “And I know none of you will, either.”
The hologram flickered, the shadow of Doom’s hooded form haunted the walls.
“Alright,” Pepper said at last, her voice tightening, grief sharpening into resolve. The words carried like steel through the quiet. “If what you’re saying is true, then this isn’t just your fight. It’s ours. Tell us everything. Every detail and piece of knowledge you have. Because if Doom has set his sights on this Earth…” She drew a slow breath, shoulders squaring, her eyes never leaving Reed’s. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, steadier, final. “Then he’s already underestimated us.”
A silence lingered after Pepper’s words. She folded her arms across her chest, her tone had no hesitation. “If this threat is as real as you say, then we don’t waste time. You’ll have everything you need here; resources, data, people. This tower is at your disposal. Whatever it takes to stop him.”
Reed inclined his head, a gesture of both respect and gratitude. “That will make all the difference.” His tone was clinical, but the relief in it was genuine.
Sue let out a breath she’d been holding, the tension easing just slightly from her frame. She offered Pepper a grateful nod, her eyes soft with recognition. There was something about Pepper’s calm steel that reminded Sue of herself. Two women shouldering the weight of impossible battles while refusing to let it crush them.
Ben exhaled, lowering himself onto a reinforced bench with a sound like grinding stone. “Well,” he muttered, folding his rocky arms, “beats wandering around blind. ‘Bout time things started sounding like a plan.”
And then there was Johnny. He didn’t sit with the same heaviness or weariness. Instead, he flopped into a chair opposite Sam, catching a stray pen from the table without asking and twirling it effortlessly between his fingers. His smirk was lazy. But, the faint gleam in his eyes betrayed something sharper: calculation, restlessness, maybe even curiosity about the company he now found himself in.
The pen twirled once more before he flicked it upright, catching Pepper’s gaze across the table with a half-grin. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said lightly, as if breaking tension were second nature.
The attention tilted toward the youngest Storm sibling. A brief movement that stirred at the far side of the room. Not sudden, but certain. A presence that shifted the air before she even stepped forward.
Johnny’s pen stilled mid-spin as his gaze caught hers.
Lia moved quietly through the common area, a stack of books balanced carefully in her arms. She wasn’t part of the meeting. She was just passing through, on her way to shelve the texts she’d been combing through with Morgan. But as she slipped past the edge of the table, the glow of Reed’s holograms spilled across her face, catching her in the periphery of the heavy discussion. She didn’t linger, didn’t slow her stride. Her presence was incidental, almost invisible…except to one pair of eyes that couldn’t help but follow her.
His smirk faltered, softened. His chest tightened unexpectedly, the grin slipping into something he didn’t recognize. Heat crept up his neck with an unfamiliar flush that had nothing to do with fire.
For one suspended moment, their gazes locked across the room. Instead of shyness or curiosity, however, her expression hardened. She caught him squarely in the act, her brows drawing into the faintest scowl, sharp enough to make his stomach dip. It wasn’t cruel, but it was dismissive. Almost like she had better things to do than entertain his wandering attention.
Her scowl lingered only a heartbeat before she turned, clutching her books tighter against her chest. Her steps rang sharp against the polished floor as she strode toward the hall, too brisk to be casual, every line of her posture radiating irritation. The sway of her hair, the stiff set of her shoulders, even the clipped rhythm of her retreat carried the message clearly: she was upset. And she wanted no part of him.
Johnny’ gulped. Abruptly, he blinked and snapped his gaze back toward Reed, spine stiffening as if sheer discipline could erase the humiliation burning in his cheeks. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, and he forced his features into neutrality as if he was trying to look like he’d been paying attention all along.
From across the room, Ben caught it all, his rocky brow inching upward. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept his silence, letting Johnny stew in it, the tease carved plain across his expression.
Johnny straightened, twirling the pen faster between his fingers, the motion bordering on restless. His shoulders started to stiffen as he redirected his focus, even though the sheer force of humiliation was prickling under his skin. The burn in his cheeks was worse than any flame he could conjure.
Sam tilted his head from across the room, catching the twitch of movement. “Are you alright over there?” His voice was casual, but laced with the pointed curiosity of a man who’d seen soldiers fidget under pressure.
“I’m fine,” Johnny shot back a little too quickly, the pen began flicking between his fingers faster. “Just… paying attention.”
Ben rumbled under his breath, low enough only Johnny could hear. “Yeah, real focused.” His rocky brow lifted in amusement, but he said no more, the smirk deepened on his face speaking louder than words.
Johnny ignored him… Or at least he tried to. He forced his eyes back to Reed, locked onto the glow of the holograms now shimmering in the air. His grip on the pen steadied.
The holograms flickered to illustrate his words: an Earth shattered into mirrored shards, armies swarming across landscapes, timelines unraveling into dead ends. Each shift in image was a sharp reminder of what Doom was capable of if unchecked.
Bruce stepped forward, his hand rising to adjust the projection, brow furrowed. “You’re saying he’s looking for the path of least resistance. Testing outcomes until he finds the one that guarantees his win.”
“Exactly,” Reed confirmed. His eyes flicked briefly toward Pepper before settling back on the room. “And your Earth has already endured Thanos and the Blip. To Doom, this isn’t just a target. It's an opportunity.”
Rhodey exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “So we’re basically a soft target. Great.” He shook his head, lips pressing thin. “One war ends, and the universe lines up with the next one.”
The silence that fell over the table was thick. Every face reflected the same thought: they’d fought too many wars already, lost too much already, and here was another looming storm.
Sue broke it gently, her voice calm but steady. “Doom thrives on cracks. He’s always looked for ways to slip through defenses—not by brute force, but by exploiting what’s already broken.” Her eyes swept the room, lingering on each Avenger as if to remind them this wasn’t just theory. “You’ve survived because you’ve held together. He’ll try to pull that apart.”
Sam shifted, pushing off the wall to stand straighter. “Yeah, well, pulling us apart didn’t work last time.” His tone was edged with defiance, but the weight in his eyes betrayed the memory of how close it had come.
Reed adjusted the holograms with a swipe of his long fingers, displaying a flickering map of branching timelines, some collapsing, some glowing faintly, others disintegrating into static. “We don’t have the luxury of optimism. Doom has tested hundreds of variations, finding the points where each planet fractures under pressure. Civil wars, resource shortages, political divides. It’s like he doesn’t create chaos, he harnesses it.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping nervously against the console. “Like a scientist running stress tests. Pushing until the system snaps.”
“Exactly,” Reed said.“He won’t arrive until he knows this world will break on his terms.”
Rhodey let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “So what, we just sit here waiting to be lab rats in Doom’s science project?”
Ben leaned forward, his massive arms resting on the table with a solid thud. “Nah. That’s not how this plays out. We don’t sit. We fight. That’s the difference.” His gravelly voice carried weight, the kind that came from a man who’d been in too many trenches to stomach hesitation.
Pepper finally spoke, her tone cutting through the tension like tempered steel. “Then we move fast. You’ll have Stark tech, satellites, and labs. Whatever you need.” Her eyes found Reed’s, unwavering. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. No silos, no secrets.”
Johnny twirled the pen once more, the practiced smirk sliding back onto his face. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose as if all this talk of collapsing timelines was just another lecture he’d heard one too many times.
“So, Doom’s basically the universe’s nosiest stalker,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. “Great. Maybe someone should tell him multiverse hopping is a bad hobby.”
The crack earned him a sharp glance from Reed, who didn’t bother dignifying it with a response. Sam’s lips twitched, though he masked it quickly, and Bruce shot Johnny a look that landed somewhere between annoyance and disbelief. Ben just grunted, nudging Johnny’s chair with his rocky elbow hard enough to rattle the table.
“Not the time,” Ben muttered.
Johnny only shrugged, the smirk still lingering on his face.
Reed shot Johnny a look that was equal parts irritation and brotherly patience, but didn’t break stride. “We need to identify what Doom is watching for here. What vulnerabilities he expects to exploit. That’s our first step. If we can anticipate his expectations, we can cut him off before he makes his move.”
Reed’s holograms flickered, the streams of light collapsing until nothing remained but the faint hum of Stark Tower’s systems. Silence followed, heavy and unbroken, each Avenger caught in the same uneasy thought: the fight wasn’t here yet, but it was already close.
Pepper, standing steady at the end of the table, drew in a breath before speaking. “That’s enough for one night. We’ll regroup once everyone’s had time to process. This isn’t a sprint. We’ll need clear heads if we’re going to stand against him.”
Sam shifted in his chair, arms crossed, his voice wry but edged with honesty. “Not gonna lie, that was about as uplifting as a funeral speech. But… yeah. I get it. We’ll be ready.”
Bruce, still frowning at where the projections had been, murmured as though thinking aloud. “Prepared or not, multiversal destabilization doesn’t exactly wait for anyone’s sleep schedule.”
Rhodey groaned, pushing himself upright with the weary patience of a soldier who’d heard too many dire briefings. “Then let’s at least not do it on an empty stomach. The last thing I need is the world ending before dinner.”
Ben rumbled a laugh, folding his rocky arms across his chest. “Finally, some sense. Pretty sure Reed here forgot food’s a thing again.”
Sue glanced toward her brother as though bracing herself, but Johnny was already smirking, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t forget food. I will just make it better.”
Ben shot him a look. “Last time you ‘made it better,’ we had to scrub a blackened Pop-Tart off the ceiling.”
“Yeah,” Johnny grinned, unbothered. “But admit it… The landing had style.”
That pulled the first real laugh from Rhodey, who shook his head. “Great. Another comedian. We’re done for.”
Pepper’s lips curved into the faintest smile despite the gravity still lingering in her eyes. She gestured toward the open doorway. “Come on. The kitchen’s stocked. Let’s talk like people for a while before we go back to talking like soldiers.”
The group rose, the atmosphere loosening as they filtered into the hallway. The sterile tension of the briefing room gave way to the warmer light of the Tower’s common area. HERBIE trundled along the island counter, setting out plates and baskets of bread, his cheerful beeps mixing with FRIDAY’s soft responses.
Sam tilted his head at the little robot. “So what’s the etiquette here? We say ‘please,’ or just let him do his thing?”
HERBIE’s voice chirped helpfully.
Sue moved with quiet composure around the counter, while Bruce busied himself with a kettle as though the small task anchored him. Rhodey leaned comfortably against the island, scanning the spread appreciatively.
Johnny, naturally, was the first to swipe a piece of bread. He tore into it like a man who hadn’t eaten all day. “Now this,” he declared around a mouthful, “this is how you save the universe! Specifically with carbs.”
Sam smirked, arms folded. “You eat like that in every briefing too?”
Johnny shrugged without shame. “Only the boring ones.”
Ben gave him a shove that made him stumble just enough to look ridiculous. “Which means every briefing.”
Johnny grinned wider, steadying himself and reaching for another roll. “Exactly. That’s the problem.”
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 door creaked as Kirsli pushed it open, and she spotted him immediately, seated in his favorite armchair with a book cracked open and his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He hadn't even noticed her enter.
Vilkas always looked so serious when he read, as if the pages themselves were daring him to question them. His hand rested against his chin, one thumb idly tapping the side of his jaw. The firelight from the hearth bathed the room in amber, casting his face in warm shadow.
Gods, she had missed that face.
Without a word, Kirsli crossed their room in long, silent strides. Vilkas didn't look up until she was nearly on him – and by then, it was too late.
"Wha–?"
She grabbed the front of his tunic, yanked him up from his chair, and kissed him like she hadn't seen him in years.
His initial surprise melted almost instantly as his arms wrapped around her and he leaned into her with a low hum in his throat. The kiss deepened, drawn-out and breath-stealing, until Kirsli finally pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his.
"Well," Vilkas said quietly, eyes still half-lidded and dazed. "That's one hell of a mission debrief."
Kirsli laughed and let her hands slide down to his waist. "I missed you, bookworm."
"I missed you, too, flame." He kissed her cheek and brushed her hair behind her ear. "Everything go well?"
"Treva's Watch is cleared out. Ralof handled the front gates, Idunna learned how to gut a bandit without getting blood in her eyes, and I may have kicked a bandit off the ramparts."
He chuckled, proud and amused. "That sounds like you."
"Brurid is no more. Unfortunately, there is no sign of Stalleo's family. But the fortress is his again. We did good work." She glanced down and added, "Then I went to Riften. Madesi got his gems. Talen-Jei got his, too. Balimund got teased. Constance is glowing. And Brynjolf was nice."
Vilkas smiled. "And you?"
"I'm tired. I'm hungry. I smell like a horse, a wet dog, and my hair's a skeever nest. But I'm home. And that makes everything else worth it."
He reached down and gently squeezed her hand. "Come on then. Let's get you fed, bathed, and into something more comfortable."
She arched a brow, grinning. "Was that an invitation?"
Vilkas smirked, deadpan as ever. "It was a
threat
, actually."
Kirsli laughed again and pressed another kiss to his lips. "Lead the way, my cranky wolf."
***
Steam curled lazily from the bath, filling the room with the clean scent of lavender oil. Vilkas knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, pouring hot water from the kettle with practiced ease.
"You didn't have to –" Kirsli started, half-lounging against the wall, hair mussed and her eyes still bright from the firelight of their reunion.
"Yes, I did," he cut her off smoothly. "Because if I leave you to your own devices, you'll fall asleep in your armor and wake up with a crick in your neck and food in your hair."
She grinned. "You say that like it hasn't happened before."
"It has," he said dryly, "and I had to carry you to bed. Do you know how heavy all that ebony is?"
"Strong man like you complaining about a little weight?" she teased, peeling off her gauntlets.
His mouth twitched – half amusement, half exasperation. "One of these days, flame, your tongue will get you in trouble."
She stepped closer, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "You love my tongue."
His silence was answer enough.
Later, wrapped in a fur blanket, Kirsli let her head rest against his shoulder. The fire crackled low, and for a long time, they said nothing.
When Vilkas finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Kieran named you a full Companion today."
Kirsli nodded against him. "Us. Ralof. Idunna. All three."
"I know." He tipped his head, studying her face as if memorizing it. "I'm proud of you."
The words hit her harder than she expected. Her throat tightened, and she covered it with a laugh. "Don't get sentimental on me, wolf."
"Too late," he said simply. Then, with a faint smirk, "Just don't let it go to your head. I've still got more years in the Circle than you have been alive."
"Oh, don't worry," she said, poking his ribs. "I'll just make sure the songs about me are louder."
Vilkas chuckled, low and genuine, and wrapped his arms tightly around Kirsli. His kiss was eager yet gentle, like he'd been waiting an eternity for her to return from her mission. It didn't matter that he had already kissed her a half-dozen times since her return. She sighed breathlessly into his mouth, surrendering to his touch, and leaned in even closer to him. Her hands slid up his chest on their way up to his neck.
Vilkas gave an approving growl as she threaded her fingers through his hair – the sound spurring her on further. He laughed into her mouth at the gentle tug at his hair that she made and tenderly nipped on her bottom lip in response, eliciting a small moan.
His hands roamed her body as he kissed her, first running up and down her sides before slipping around to her back. Shivers danced up her spine despite the warmth of the room. He wrapped his hands tightly around the back of her thighs and lifted her as he stood, carrying her bridal style before gently laying her upon the bearskin rug in front of the hearth.
"Since when did you become so romantic?" Kirsli teased mirthfully, her dual colored eyes twinkling.
His response was a chuckle against her skin as he attached his mouth to the slender column of her neck. The heat from the fire, combined with the warmth of Vilkas's mouth pressed against her throat, made her tingle in all the right places.
He took his sweet time, sucking marks into her fair skin and leaving love bites trailing from her jaw to her clavicle. His tongue flicked over the bites, soothing them as he prepared to leave more. His short beard lightly scratched – tickling – her sensitive skin, making goosebumps appear across the surface.
"I've marked you. You're mine," Vilkas growled, pulling back far enough to view his handiwork.
"I don't need marks on my skin. You already left one on my heart. I will always be yours, Vil."
She rested her hands on either side of his face, dragging him back down for a needy kiss. His muscled body pressed tightly against her, crushing her exquisitely. Her legs wound around his waist and pulled him even closer somehow, pressing his already rock-hard cock against her aching core.
His hands captured hers and pinned them above her head. She pushed ever so slightly, knowing she wasn't as strong as he – just for the hell of it. He nipped and kissed at the skin of her chest, moving oh so slowly.
After what felt like an eternity, his tongue flicked lightly against one of her nipples, and her back arched – she moaned, swearing that he had to be feeling her wetness. Hungrily, he wrapped his lips around one of her nipples, running his tongue over it teasingly before grazing it with his teeth. The contact sent heat coursing through her veins. She canted her hips, grinding up against him.
Vilkas chuckled low in his throat against the hardened bud, enjoying the sound of her panting breath and her little sighs. His mouth moved over to her other nipple as his hands slid from her wrists to her hips. He let go long enough to growl, "Be a good girl and keep your hands above your head, flame."
Their eyes met. She wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather be a bad girl."
"Then you'll be punished." Without warning, he delivered a teasing slap to one of her bottom cheeks.
Kirsli squealed in protest.
Seconds later, Vilkas pressed his warm mouth against her mound, making her hips buck again for a wholly different reason. A purr vibrated from deep in his chest, and he scented the air, breathing her in. "I love it that you are always this wet for me," he rumbled, licking at soft folds and flicking her clit.
He stared at her, lying fully exposed in front of him, and gave a satisfied 'hmm' before getting down to business. He let his hands slowly slide up her legs before settling upon her dripping wet pussy. With one finger, he lightly ran a stripe from her entrance to her clit, making her gasp.
"Burn for me, flame."
His tongue flicked teasingly over the swollen nub of her clit, parting her folds and watching her squirm.
Only then did he slowly, teasingly slide a finger inside her wet depths, smiling at the deep moan that slipped from her parted lips. His lips closed around her clit while slipping a second finger inside.
Kirsli's breath caught in her throat at the sensation. "
Vilkas…
"
The sound of his name on her lips made him swell. He hummed against her clit, sending vibrations through her depths just to make her moan. Her hands threaded through his short hair, egging him on even more. He sucked on her clit while his fingers curled inside her, hitting that perfect spot.
With his other hand, he pressed her hips into the bearskin, denying her the chance of escaping the sensations that threatened to drive her crazy.
"By
Dibella
, Vilkas, please –"
The quick, light circles of his tongue against her clit mixed with the deep, intense pressure of his fingers inside her was almost too much. He had her moaning uncontrollably under his touch, melting before his very eyes. Vilkas gazed up at her and saw her tense muscles and erratic breathing, knowing she was close.
"You gonna cum for me, honey?" he asked teasingly before resuming his punishing work against her clit.
All Kirsli could do was nod, but that wasn't good enough for him.
"I can't hear you, flame."
It took everything she had to speak coherent words, and when she finally did, it made Vilkas even harder to bear.
"Divines, yes… Gonna cum…"
"Cum for who, sweetheart?"
Her toes curled, pleasure zinged through her whole body, "Vil. For you, all for you."
"Burn for me, flame…"
Time faltered. A high-pitched squeal slipped from her lips as an orgasm ripped through Kirsli. She screamed Vilkas's name and clenched tightly around his strong fingers. He didn't stop the motion of his hand or his tongue as the waves of sensation pounded her senses. Dynamic aftershocks raged through her body. She panted breathlessly as she came down from that feeling.
She opened her eyes to see him hovering over her with a smug grin on his handsome face. "My little flame…" he murmured softly, "Watching you, hearing you… you are exquisite. And I am a lucky man."
She nodded, breathless – feeling like she had died and gone to Aetherius. "More," she rasped.
A low rumble came from deep in his chest. "Absolutely, love."
He crushed her mouth with his, swallowing the moan that escaped her parted lips. Ever so slowly, his fingers traced swirls from her breasts to her hip, stopping every few centimeters to caress her tenderly. He pressed a few light kisses across her cheek to her neck before teasing the head of his cock at her wet entrance.
"I need you, wolf," Kirsli begged and canted her hips to take him inside.
All thought evaporated as he pushed his cock into her slowly, letting her feel every inch.
A moan slipped from his lips. She felt so good. Heat and flame licked at him, her passion searing him.
"Mine," he growled as he leaned down to kiss her deeply. He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in again, forcing a loud moan out of her lips.
Her nails raked up the length of his back, leaving red tracks, making him hiss at the tremor of pain. She pressed crescent moons into his shoulders as he quickened his pace, her legs hitched even tighter around his waist. His strong hands gripped her wrists again, pressing them down into the fur of the rug with a force that stirred something in her chest. He gazed into her eyes, watching pleasure flicker through them as she undulated beneath him, struggling to keep pace.
He hitched her legs up to rest against his shoulders, raising up on his knees. He sank deeper inside her, feeling her wet walls squeeze his shaft and pounding even harder. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh bounced off the walls as her voice crescendoed higher.
Kirsli was close, right on the edge, and he knew it, making him want to take her even higher.
His fingers flicked over her swollen clit, eliciting another cry from her. Fire surged through her, wetness slicking her channel as her second climax hit like a mammoth. Stars exploded overhead.
Watching the passion overtake her for a second time made Vilkas nearly lose control. His thrusts became sloppier as he tried to keep up his punishing pace, but his climax shattered his focus. He collapsed over her breathlessly as he filled her with his seed, his silver eyes staring into her soul.
The intensity of release left him shuddering, a deep groan torn from his throat as the world narrowed to her alone, to the exquisite tightness of their locked bodies and the quickening beat of her heart against his. His hips jerked in desperate, dying pulses as he emptied himself into her utterly, giving away all the tension and hunger he'd carried in silence for so long. He watched her lips part in a soft gasp as the last of his climax rippled through him, his expression raw and unguarded for the first time. There was a wild look in his eyes, not just the animal need of a wolf, but something fiercely protective and almost reverent. The heat between them lingered, sweat-slick and trembling, even as their bodies softened and settled into the aftermath.
He stayed above her for a moment, unwilling to let the connection between them fade too quickly. His hands found her shoulders, and he pressed their foreheads together, breathing raggedly, refusing to look away from her gaze. For a heartbeat, it felt as if the world had gone completely silent, except for the shared, ragged gasps and the thundering of their hearts.
Kirsli reached up and brushed her fingertips along his jaw, then down to the curve of his shoulder. "You're heavy, you know," she whispered with a faint, teasing smile.
Vilkas huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and spent. "That's the first complaint I've heard all night."
With a reluctant sigh, he shifted to the side and lay back beside her on the bearskin rug, one arm sliding beneath her shoulders to pull her close. She nestled into him without hesitation, her head resting on his chest, fingers lazily drawing circles against his skin.
The fire crackled beside them, casting slow-dancing shadows across the room, warming more than just their limbs. For a while, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Words would've only cluttered the moment.
Vilkas exhaled slowly, his voice a soft murmur in the hush. "I don't ever want to forget what this feels like."
Kirsli closed her eyes, content. "Then don't."
He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her hair.
Eventually, he shifted again, just enough to reach for the blanket they'd tossed aside. He draped it over them both with one arm while keeping her tucked firmly against him with the other.
"Come to bed," he said, voice already heavier with the pull of sleep. "Before I fall asleep on this damn rug and regret it for a week."
"Give me five more minutes," she whispered, her breath already slowing. "Just five…"
Vilkas chuckled, low and affectionate, and didn't argue. He simply held her there, letting the fire burn low and the silence settle in like an old friend. Whatever came tomorrow, for now, they were warm, they were together, and that was enough.
***
Sunlight streamed through the high windows of Jorrvaskr's main hall, casting golden shafts across the smoldering hearth and bathing the space in a warm, amber glow. The smell of eggs, roasted tomatoes, and leeks, along with Tilma's infamous spicy sausage, filled the air. Kirsli sat at one of the long tables, hair still damp from a quick wash, boots tucked under her as she sipped from a mug of tea.
Across from her, Idunna was halfway through demolishing a plate stacked with food. Ralof nursed a tankard and looked suspiciously well-rested. Vilkas joined them last, sliding in beside Kirsli with an effortless grace that only came when he was fed, bathed, and thoroughly relaxed. His hand found hers beneath the table without ceremony.
"I didn't wake up somewhere weird this morning," Idunna chirped, stabbing a sausage with her fork. "No giants. No scratches on my arms. No foggy flashbacks of nearly joining a coven. Just me, in my bed, dreaming about grilled leeks and a very charming Dunmer who called me N'wah in the sultriest voice."
Ralof coughed into his tankard. "Might've helped that your drink last night had a little something extra in it."
Idunna paused mid-bite. "Wait,
what?
"
"Sleeping draught," he said, unapologetic. "Had Arcadia whip it up yesterday after we got back. Slipped it in your mead. Just a small dose – enough to make sure you didn't go wandering off in the night."
Kirsli blinked. "Ralof…"
"She needed the sleep," Ralof said firmly. "And none of us wanted to wake up to find her halfway to Falkreath wearing nothing but a cloak and one boot."
Idunna stared at him. Then at her plate. Then back at him.
And then she smiled, small, surprised, and genuine. "You drugged me for my own good."
Ralof lifted his tankard. "You're welcome."
Kirsli laughed softly and nudged Vilkas with her elbow. "Look at that. The kids are growing up."
"Kids?" Ralof protested, "We're both older than you, Kirs."
Vilkas gave a wry smirk. "You know I was never that dramatic."
Kirsli tilted her head, eyes playful. "Weren't you the one who threatened to fight Farkas because he ate your sweetroll?"
"That was different. It was the last one. He
knew
that."
Idunna snorted. "Gods, you two are perfect for each other. You're both terrifying in completely different ways."
"Terrifyingly effective," Kirsli said with a grin, leaning her head on Vilkas's shoulder.
Ralof shook his head, bemused. "And here I thought joining the Companions would be all meat, mead, and mortal peril."
"It is," Vilkas said dryly. "You just also get a dysfunctional family and unsolicited wisdom."
Kirsli raised her mug. "To new Companions, sleeping draughts, and sausages that don't fight back."
Idunna raised hers with a grin. "And to Firestrand Whisky."
***
The long hall of Dragonsreach echoed faintly with the hush of courtly proceedings not yet begun. Guards shifted at their posts, the smell of roasting meat lingered in the air, and Proventus Avenicci stood predictably hunched over the steward's table, quill scratching, oblivious to all but his ledger.
Kirsli cleared her throat.
Proventus didn't look up. "If you're here to inquire about property disputes, you'll need to file a notice. I'm already quite behind as it is."
"I'm here about bandits at Valtheim Towers," Kirsli said. "They've been shaking down travelers for tolls steep enough to drain a merchant's purse dry."
"Well," he huffed, finally glancing at her, "unless there is an official complaint or significant loss reported…"
"What would you call a bunch of filthy cutthroats trying to stupidly shake down three well-armed Companions? Idunna, Ralof, and I put an end to their theft."
Proventus opened his mouth, likely to issue some bureaucratic nonsense, but a deeper voice cut through before he could.
"Give her the bounty, Proventus."
Jarl Balgruuf looked up from the map on the table, his expression as serious as ever, though there was a familiar glint of approval in his eyes. "I've heard of these tolls myself. If someone like you took it upon herself to deal with them, then it's worth three hundred septims from the hold's coffers."
"Thank you, my Jarl," Kirsli said with a nod, ever formal when court was watching.
Balgruuf waved off the formality. "I also have a favor to ask, if you're not too burdened."
She raised a brow. "Of course."
"A delegation from the College of Winterhold arrives by week's end. I'd like you to perform in the great hall on Loredas. Something memorable. Stirring." He paused. "Bring Kieran with you. Not just as a Thane – though his presence is required – but as Harbinger. The presence of the Companions will help keep things… stable."
Kirsli smiled. "You're expecting fireworks?"
"With mages? Always."
"I'll pass word to Kieran. Farkas and Vilkas will likely attend as well…maybe a few others. Lucky for you, Grimm is currently at Halted Stream."
"Good." Balgruuf's stern demeanor softened a touch. "I'm looking forward to hearing you sing again."
"Any requests?" she asked, hands folded behind her back, posture casual, but her eyes were sharp.
"Surprise me."
"No pressure then," she sighed as she turned away, though she was grinning.
He smirked. "I've no doubt you'll rise to the occasion."
As she walked past Proventus, the steward fumbled with his ledger and muttered something about paperwork. She made a half-turn toward the exit but didn't budge an inch until she heard the distinct sound of parchment fluttering. She looked back over her shoulder.
The steward was glaring at his ledger as if it had personally betrayed him.
She waited.
Proventus finally sighed, dipped his quill in ink with agonizing slowness, and scribbled a few lines on a folded parchment slip. He opened a coin pouch and counted out the septims.
"One, two, three…" he muttered. "There. Three hundred septims. For services rendered." He handed the coin pouch over like it pained him physically.
Kirsli accepted it with a dazzling smile. "Thank you, Proventus. Don't worry, I'll make sure to note that you almost supported public safety."
He blinked. "I – well, that's not fair, I was merely following protocol –"
"Oh, I know. I just enjoy watching you squirm."
She winked and turned on her heel before he could formulate a counterargument.
As she descended the steps back down into the throne room, she called over to Irileth at her usual post by Balgruuf's throne.
"The Jarl says there's a mage delegation coming this Loredas. Kieran and I will be here with a few others. We'll bring the good blades."
Irileth nodded once, her eyes sharp. "We'll have extra guards posted regardless. But thank you. Things are always more… stable with the Companions around."
"I like to think so."
She headed for the door, already thinking ahead to what she'd sing, what she'd wear, and more pressingly, how soon she could find Vilkas.
***
Whiterun's air had the crisp bite of a spring morning, but the sun shone clear overhead as Kirsli crossed the Wind District. The Gildergreen's skeletal branches reached upward, a slumbering relic against the vivid blue sky. Beneath it stood Vilkas and Danica Pure-Spring, deep in conversation.
She caught the tail end of Vilkas's words – something about the Skyforge – and slipped her hand into his as she joined them.
"Hi, Danica," she said brightly. "I haven't forgotten our talk. You said there might be a way to revive the Gildergreen?"
Danica turned, her expression hopeful despite the tree's sorry state. "I did. I remember. To the east lies a hidden grove – the Eldergleam. It's said to be the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Perhaps even Tamriel. This tree," she gestured upward, "was grown from one of its seedlings."
Vilkas nodded. "Kirsli told me she'd spoken to you before. We're hoping there's something that can be done."
"There might be," Danica said, eyes drifting up to the twisted limbs. "Trees like this never truly die. They slumber. With sap from the Eldergleam, I believe we can wake it."
Kirsli tilted her head up, gaze tracing the gnarled branches. "So how do we get the sap? I'm guessing it's not as simple as knocking politely on the bark and asking nicely."
"No," Danica said with a breath of amusement. "Even if you could reach the Eldergleam, you couldn't tap it with ordinary metal. It's older than men. Older than elves. You'd need a tool infused with deep, wild magic."
Vilkas frowned thoughtfully. "Let me guess. Something forged by witches. Hagravens, specifically."
"Exactly," Danica nodded. "They guard the ancient places. They hate the Eldergleam. Fear it, even. But in their obsession with power, they created a blade that can cut its bark. They called it
Nettlebane.
It was used in dark rituals… sacrificing spriggans to steal their magic."
"I remember now!" Kirsli said, snapping her fingers. "I told you about this, Vilkas – after Illia left for her honeymoon with Argis. Her mother wanted to become a hagraven. Illia learned all kinds of weird old magic from her and the other hags. I figured we'd go after Nettlebane together one day, but it's been months. I think they've officially ghosted us."
"They're probably enjoying the time alone," Vilkas said, squeezing her hand. "Besides, we've got this. Might even stop at the hot springs. Make a whole date of it."
"You had me at 'hot springs.'"
Danica smiled, though her expression remained solemn. "I won't lie. The place you'll find the blade –
Orphan Rock
– is a nest of witches. Dangerous ones. I wouldn't ask this if there were any other way."
Kirsli stepped forward, chin lifted. "You don't have to ask, Danica. This is what the Companions do."
"Your spirit is strong," Danica said warmly. "Kynareth's winds will guide your path."
***
Back at the mead hall, Kirsli wasted no time tracking down Idunna and Ralof to split the coin from Valtheim. "Your shares, as promised. Try not to spend it all on cabbages and poetry."
"I'll do what I want with my cabbages, thank you very much," Idunna shot back.
Kirsli laughed, then ducked into her shared quarters with Vilkas. Armor buckled, gear checked, and packs loaded with travel bread, salves, and one particular dagger in mind. They were ready.
"Do
not
let me forget to give Danica her holy sap," Kirsli warned Vilkas as they stepped out the door.
"I won't," he replied dryly. "It's not exactly something you want steeping in your backpack next to your socks."
The trek northward was quiet at first, the mountains pressing in cold and sharp as always. Orphan Rock was nestled among craggy ridges and twisted trees, the sky above it already bruised with clouds.
There were four witches visible from a distance, robes fluttering as they patrolled. Lightning danced in one hand. Fire in the other. The smell of burnt air hung thick.
"Wards and destruction spells," Vilkas muttered. "They've got all the elements covered."
"Great," Kirsli said, slipping her bow off her back. "Let's see how they feel about arrows and steel."
They didn't sneak in. There was no point.
The battle was swift and brutal. Kirsli's arrows found their marks, Vilkas cut through defenses with two-handed fury, and the hagraven at the top shrieked with inhuman rage as she launched fireballs across the clearing.
One clipped Vilkas' shoulder, but he powered through it. And Kirsli, eyes blazing, launched an arrow straight through the hagraven's throat.
She collapsed, gurgling.
Kirsli stood over the corpse and nudged it with her toe. "Tell your mother I said hi."
From the tangled robes and feathers, she retrieved
Nettlebane
. The weapon pulsed in her hand, dark, ancient, and cruel.
Vilkas gave it a wary look. "That thing's soaked in a lot of blood."
Kirsli nodded. "It's not happy steel. But if it helps the Gildergreen, it's worth it."
He looked toward the eastern sky. "Let's head for Ivarstead. We'll rest, resupply, and hit the hot springs."
"You say that like I didn't already plan the whole thing."
The wind whipped through the trees as Kirsli and Vilkas made their way down the mountain trail, the twisted blade of
Nettlebane
sheathed carefully at her hip. She still wasn't convinced it wouldn't try to bite her.
"You sure it's not going to whisper dark secrets into your ear at night?" Vilkas asked, eyeing the blade like it might sprout legs and scuttle away.
"I mean… it hasn't
yet
," Kirsli smirked. "But if it starts whispering about spriggans, we're tossing it into the nearest ravine."
"Deal."
Their path curved down toward the Ivarstead, and the gentle scent of honey and brewing mead began to drift on the wind.
"Honeystrand?" Vilkas asked, already grinning.
"I was hoping you'd say that." Kirsli winked. "I need to restock my Firestrand. Idunna and I finished off the bottle Caecilius gave us."
"You
could
just drink mead like the rest of us," he teased.
"Oh, please. You know I like being spicy."
***
The meadery was a warm spot in the spring breeze, its golden banners fluttering gently as Kirsli and Vilkas approached. Caecilius was, as always, outside overseeing his workers until he spotted them.
"Ah! Glad tidings!" he called, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. "Back so soon?"
"Something like that," Kirsli replied, embracing him briefly. "Any Firestrand left? Or did you sell it all to traveling bards who think cinnamon is a personality?"
"I kept a bottle aside just for you. Knew you'd be back."
Kirsli beamed. "You spoil me, Caecilius."
"Only the best for my savior," he grinned.
Vilkas cleared his throat. "You
should
tell him why we stopped."
Kirsli elbowed him. "Yes, yes. We're also messengers today. Kieran will be visiting soon. Said he wants to speak with you personally."
Caecilius raised a brow. "About the mead?"
"About
something
. He didn't say."
"Then I'd best prepare. Julianos knows I've got more Firestrand aging in the barrels – maybe I'll uncork one just for him."
He gestured them inside. "Come, come. You'll want to taste the batch I've been saving. Cinnamon, honeycomb, and just a hint of juniper."
Kirsli looked at Vilkas. "You heard the man."
Vilkas sighed. "I'm going to be the one carrying you into Ivarstead, aren't I?"
Kirsli grinned. "Only if you're lucky."
Kirsli sat on a cozy bench near the hearth with a shot of Firestrand in one hand and a flagon of chilled water in the other – balance, as always. She sipped, then exhaled slowly.
"Ugh. That's so good. It burns just enough to remind you that you're alive."
Caecilius laughed. "Still your favorite?"
"I'd romance it if I hadn't already locked this one down," she said, jerking her thumb toward Vilkas.
Vilkas raised an eyebrow. "You and Idunna didn't leave enough for anyone else, remember?"
"What can I say? It's good stuff," she then blew a raspberry at him.
He sighed, "I can't take you anywhere, can I?"
"What happened to my handsome, fun-loving wolf?"
Caecilius nearly doubled over in laughter. "You two should take this act on the road."
"We
are
on the road," Vilkas said dryly.
***
Their packs heavier (and slightly more fragrant with cinnamon and spice), Kirsli and Vilkas made their way toward Ivarstead. The sun was dipping low, casting golden light across the reeds and willows by the Darkwater River.
"Think Danica will appreciate us getting drunk before gathering divine sap?" Vilkas asked.
"She should be thankful we didn't show up hungover."
He laughed. "You're lucky the gods have a sense of humor."
"Oh, they'd better," she grinned. "Because I'm bringing Firestrand to Eldergleam. Hope Kynareth likes cinnamon."
The sound of rushing water greeted them long before the stone bridge came into view. Ivarstead was quiet this time of year – its usual complaints about barrows and ghosts seemingly forgotten in the haze of a late-spring morning.
As they rode through town, Temba Wide-Arm gave them a long look from the mill and muttered something about bears. Kirsli offered a casual salute with the Firestrand bottle raised high in the air, and the woman scowled, unimpressed. Classic Temba.
"Still mad about those bears," Kirsli muttered to Vilkas.
"She must still want someone to bring her bear skins."
"I'd rather use them to cover our bedroom floor."
"That is a good use for them," he agreed.
They didn't stop at the inn, not this time. Vilkas led her past it, up the narrow trail that snaked along the cliffs. A few goats bleated disinterestedly from behind a split-rail fence. Just outside town, they passed the road marker
: Darkwater Crossing, Eastmarch Border, Hot Springs Region.
Kirsli settled the bottle of whisky in her pack. "I'm looking forward to the hot springs. We need the time alone."
"At least Kieran won't complain about how loud you are," Vilkas grinned. "Maybe he and Farkas need a trip to the hot springs… just to unwind."
"Maybe. Kieran definitely needs to work that stick out of his ass." Kirsli chuckled conspiratorially.
Vilkas laughed, "Just don't let Farkas hear you say that."
***
The mining village of Darkwater Crossing was still and peaceful, the smell of distant sulfur curling through the air. Kirsli caught sight of Annekke Crag-Jumper waving to them from across the shallow stream. Her husband, Verner, merely raised a hand in silent acknowledgment as he worked his pick in the rock wall.
"Still no walls around this place," Kirsli murmured. "No wonder bandits and dragons keep attacking."
"Walls don’t deter dragons from attacking. Ask Kieran about Helgen," Vilkas grunted.
"You know what I mean."
"I do. We'll pass the word to Kieran on the way back. Maybe send someone with a few axes and a warning sign."
"Warning: Here There Be Trolls?"
"Warning:
Do Not Lick the Sulfur Pools
would be more accurate."
***
By the time they reached the sanctuary's outer cave mouth, the sun was slipping behind the mountains. The warm, sulfurous air from the volcanic vents gave the land a golden shimmer, bathing the moss and stone in an otherworldly light.
The cave itself opened like the mouth of a giant beast, dark and yawning, but welcoming, somehow. Ancient stone pillars and glowing fungal growths lit the path as they stepped inside. The sound of dripping water echoed like whispered prayers.
Pilgrims were gathered along the central path, quietly murmuring praises to Kynareth. A young Imperial woman offered them a shy smile and pressed a hand to her chest in greeting.
Kirsli returned it. "Blessings of the wind upon you."
They climbed the slope toward the Eldergleam itself – an enormous, sprawling tree that stretched into the cavern's ceiling, its magenta leaves faintly luminescent. Its roots twisted like the bones of the earth, blocking the higher trail.
"Nettlebane?" Vilkas asked gently.
Kirsli nodded and unsheathed the cruel-looking blade. Even before she lifted it, the roots trembled.
It was a visceral thing.
As she drew closer, the roots recoiled, slithering upward to clear a path. The murmurs of the pilgrims fell silent. The Eldergleam
feared
the blade.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the tree. "I'll be quick."
She touched the bark near the base and made a shallow incision. A thick, golden sap oozed from the wound into the vial she held beneath it. When she corked it, the wound had already begun to close.
But the peace was short-lived. A low growl rose from the roots. Two Spriggans erupted from the underbrush like vengeful spirits, shimmering with green energy. One charged at Vilkas, claws slashing, while the other sent a pulse of light screaming toward Kirsli.
Vilkas took the first blow on his shield and countered with a savage sword strike, severing one of the Spriggan's vine-like arms. Kirsli dove behind a stone, nocked an arrow, and fired—pinning the second Spriggan through the neck before it could conjure another attack.
A third Spriggan, massive and ancient, began to rise from the tree's far side… but paused.
Kirsli held up the vial of sap. "We're not here to harm the Eldergleam," she said, voice firm. "We're here to save its child."
The ancient Spriggan stared at her… then slowly, silently, disappeared into mist.
"…That was new," Vilkas rubbed the back of his neck, thankful there wasn't another fight on this holy ground.
***
They made camp in the valley, steam curling into the sky. Nestled in the steaming mists of the Eastmarch hot springs, they lay in one of the shallow pools, tucked between rock outcroppings where the water bubbled warm and sulfur-scented. The world had quieted to crickets and wind. A few wisps of steam clung to the moonlight, dancing like ghosts over the surface. Kirsli sipped Firestrand from a carved horn, her hair damp and curling around her shoulders. Kirsli leaned back against him, her bare shoulders slipping easily beneath his arms. Vilkas had taken off everything, equally relaxed, watched the stars above them, and pressed a kiss just below her ear.
"Think Danica's going to be mad we didn't check in before doing this?"
"She's a priestess. Not a bureaucrat."
"I'll take that as no."
Kirsli snuggled closer and rested her head on his shoulder.
"I love it here," she murmured.
"I know."
He paused.
"But I love you more."
She grinned against his skin. "Good answer."
"We've come far, you and I," he murmured. "I remember seeing you in the Bannered Mare with Illia. Your laughter was refreshing. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again after that. None of the regulars had ever seen you before. Uthgerd said you were heading to Markarth."
"That was the first time I'd ever been in Whiterun. I'm glad it wasn't my last."
"As am I," he kissed her temple. "I was taken aback when I saw you at the siege. The only reason I participated was to watch my brother's back. He tends to get wrapped up in whatever Kieran is doing and doesn't always consider his own safety."
"I noticed. Illia and I ran into him and Kieran on the road from Markarth. They were battling a small horde of Forsworn, and we joined in. Then came the dragon. The dragon hit Farkas with a tail slap that sent him flying. He wasn't hurt, though."
"He told me," Vilkas replied. "But you… showed the kind of passion I'd barely seen outside of the ranks of the Inner Circle. You were rough around the edges, raw, and I could tell you'd never had any formal combat training. But you had heart. It impressed me more than I wanted to admit. It was refreshing."
"I learned by watching others… mostly the guards at Mistveil Keep. It was all trial and error. I learned because I had to. It kept me alive. I remember being chased by a bear and how terrified I was when I dove into Lake Honrich to escape the damn thing. I remember feeling lucky it didn't follow me."
Vilkas chuckled low. "And now you survived Treva's Watch without me."
"I
thrived
without you," she teased. "Though Ralof and Idunna did most of the work. I was busy being diplomatic."
"Mmhm. And diplomatic involved an ice spike, skewering a man to the wall with arrows, and kicking a man off the ramparts?"
She turned in his arms, mock-innocent. "He deserved it. He said I had the face of a horker."
Vilkas tilted his head, studying her, then kissed her – slow and deep, hands warm on her hips beneath the water. Her fingers curled into his damp hair, tugging lightly, and the world around them fell away. She climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs.
"You have the face of an angel," he whispered between tender kisses. "You are a temptress. You're everything to me, Kirsli. I don't ever want to be without you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
Kirsli's hands cupped his face, her eyes probing his. What she saw in their depths brought forth lightness and removed any doubt from her soul. "You aren't getting rid of me ever," she whispered against his lips. "I love you."
Vilkas picked Kirsli up, carrying her like the most precious thing ever to the bedroll, laying her on the furs they'd spread out before they entered the hot spring. His hands swept down her body, as if memorizing every inch of her for the hundredth time.
His hands skimmed over her shoulders, feather light. Their eyes met, and soon they were lost in what was between them, a love that defied time and reason. The back of his hand touched her cheek and slid back until his fingers were buried in her hair.
"I love you, Kirsli. You are mine." The words were lost against her lips as he pressed his against hers. The kiss deepened as tongues danced together. The heat between them quickly turned to a blaze.
Kirsli's hands caressed his brawny chest, over his back, holding him closely to her. She slid her fingers into the wet strands of his hair, her hands gentle and rough at the same time. Then she moaned as he cupped her bare breast and let out a hiss of pleasure as his mouth captured her nipple and began to suckle. At that moment, she lost what little breath she had left as feelings of such heat and aching need settled between her thighs.
Her hands delved further into his hair, holding him to her as her legs slid up around his hips. Her back arched, pushing her body tighter against him, demanding more from him.
She twisted beneath him, pushing him back and over until she straddled him. His eyes burned intensely as the silver depths ignited a spark blazing hot as they roamed over her body. Kirsli smiled down at her lover as the fiery strands of her hair slid around them, screening the two of them in.
Her mouth quickly found his, a short, teasing kiss that moved before Vilkas could deepen it. She kissed his jaw, nipping gently with her teeth, and nibbled a trail to his ear. A very male mmmm escaped from his throat as she lapped his earlobe with her tongue. That simple act provoked her to do more, to tease him even though Kirsli knew Vilkas wanted her, wanted to lose himself inside of her.
She grinned down at him, a wild, wicked grin that let him know that he was in trouble… the kind of trouble that only she can give him. His hands caressed her thighs, slipping up to cup her bottom even as she moved over him.
Her lips moved to his shoulders, his chest. She lapped at his flat nipples until they were rigid, and his hands were wrapped in her hair. He moaned softly, moving under her. Her stomach pressed against his hips, and she could feel the long, hard length of him nudging against her. She quickly located his belly button, letting her tongue slide inside, and nibbled on the skin around it, all the while her hands skimmed his powerful thighs. His hips moved against her, bucking rhythmically against her. He gave her a delirious power over his flesh that was almost as erotic as he was. The mere thought that she could make him mindless with pleasure drove her further into oblivion.
Her hand slipped over his hardened length. Vilkas pushed against her hand, and Kirsli looked up into his eyes. His face glowed with intense pleasure, his eyes hot as they peered into hers. The mere thought sent another flash of need barreling through her, to love him, to stand beside him as equals, to know he loved her just as fiercely. She fought back a shiver at that thought. Vilkas caressed her shivering flesh, his hands hot as he tried to warm her.
She traced one finger down his stiff cock and watched it buck before taking it in her hand.
Two words escaped from between his lips as she moved her hand up and down his length. "Please, Kirsli."
Her tongue slipped over her lips, harvesting a groan from him. Then she slowly parted them and engulfed his cock inside her mouth. The taste of him caused her to squirm against his legs. Teasing her in return, Vilkas pushed his knee between her thighs. With a groan around his meaty member, she pressed down until he could feel her wetness seeping from her pussy.
Vilkas ran his hands through her hair, guiding the pace of her mouth over his cock. Kirsli sucked slowly, letting her tongue swirl around his bulbous tip, as she slowly took him deeper and deeper down her throat. She loved the way he felt, the smell of him, the taste of his cock in her mouth. She could hear his breathing getting heavier, his movements becoming more erratic against her body.
Kirsli wanted him to lose himself to her drawing mouth, to give her all of him like he'd done before, but he pulled me away, dragging her back up to him with hands that were rough with the pleasure she'd caused.
Kirsli loved it when he became like this, fierce but tender, and almost bursting with need. He became masterful, his hands sweeping and strong. No longer did she feel like a child, too young to know her heart. Kirsli felt like a woman, his woman. He cursed before finding her lips with his in a kiss that raged in fire and heat. His hands pulled at her, making her moan lustily. His hand slipped between her thighs, his fingers slowly delving into the wetness he found there. He glided into her, amazed as always by how tight she was, how hot she felt around his finger. He knew that when he finally pushed himself inside her, she'd surround him with her glorious heat that would milk him dry.
Kirsli dragged her mouth from his, trying to catch her breath at the way he was making her feel. His finger skimmed over her clit, tortured it until she was all but begging him to take her. Vilkas's name escaped her lips as he pushed her over the edge into maddening bliss.
And soon after, Kirsli could feel him stretching her, his hard cock slowly pushing inside of her body as she drifted back down from her overwhelming orgasm. His movements were slow yet amazingly fluid as her pussy engulfed him an inch at a time. Her hips bucked as pleasure pierced her core, sharp and needful. Kirsli arched her back and pushed up against him, desperate for everything he had to give her, wanting to feel his hips grind against hers. The feelings and the magic of his embrace became overwhelming… instantaneous, the fulfillment, and the need, unstoppable.
Vilkas's hands gripped her thighs, pulling them up and pushing her legs up to slip over his shoulders so that she could take even more of him. Kirsli's breath caught in her throat as liquid heat pulsed inside of her in waves so intense, she let out a scream. He thundered against her, the hard slap of flesh against flesh sharp and beautiful in her ears. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the wild floral scent of her. "Kirsli, my love, you consume me," he whispered and gently nipped her lobe. "You are everything to me."
Vilkas's final thrusts ground against her, and Kirsli exploded from the sheer pleasure as he hammered against her sweet spot, mashing her clit against his pubic bone. She shuddered and writhed beneath him even as he pulsated inside her dripping sheath, long, hot, wet spurts fueling her heady orgasm even more. Then he wrapped her up entirely in his arms, cradling her body against his.
Kirsli's heart swelled as a flush settled over her skin. This was where she belonged. She knew just how lucky she was. That intense feeling filled her. He had given her the most precious gift ever.
His love.
She coaxed him back into the water. Breathless and flushed, she rested her forehead against his. "You know," she whispered, "this would make a perfect honeymoon."
"We're not married."
"Not yet."
He blinked, surprised, but her smile was soft, not teasing this time. Honest.
He touched her cheek. "Someday?"
"Yeah," she said, voice small but certain. "Someday."
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn't need to be filled. The water lapped gently around them, stars glittered above, and the embers of her spirit seemed to match the quiet fire in his eyes.
Eventually, she shifted, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "We
could
make this our trial run. Honeymoon practice."
Vilkas raised a brow. "That means I have to feed you jazbay grapes and carry you around?"
"Yes. And rub my shoulders. And keep making me scream passionately."
His grin turned wolfish. "I can manage that."
And beneath the stars, wrapped in warmth and each other, they forgot about Jorrvaskr, burnt trees, looming performances, and everything else. For just one night, it was just Kirsli and Vilkas. Fire and stone. Lover and shield.
***
The sun crept over the steaming ridges of Eastmarch, casting a golden light over the rocky landscape. Mist hung heavy over the pools, lazily swirling in the breeze. Somewhere distant, a sabre cat roared. Closer, a pair of Nords stirred beside a dying campfire.
Kirsli blinked blearily, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her long hair looked like a skeever's nest, and she was snuggled down beneath a bearskin blanket.
"You drool in your sleep," came a voice beside her, gravelly and smug.
She turned her head slowly. Vilkas, naked and unapologetic, leaned on one elbow with a chunk of dried meat in one hand and a sweetroll in the other. His hair was wild, his beard rough, and he looked like a man who'd slept under the stars and still somehow managed to be infuriatingly handsome.
Kirsli squinted at him. "I don't drool."
"You absolutely do. My arm was soaked."
"Good. That's what you get for being the pillow."
Vilkas bit into the sweetroll with zero remorse. "This was your idea, you know. Dragging me out here for hot springs and romance."
"You didn't complain last night," she shot back, snatching the sweetroll from his hand.
"I'm not complaining now. Except for the part where you just stole my breakfast."
She tore a piece from it with her teeth and spoke around the mouthful. "Shoulda guarded it better, Companion."
He gave her a dry look. "Are you always like this in the morning?"
"Only when I wake up next to you, which is to say always."
Vilkas reached toward her as if to take back the roll, but she dodged him, tucking it behind her back with a victorious grin. He lunged, she rolled, and suddenly the sweetroll was forgotten in the ensuing scuffle. They ended up tangled together in the blankets, Kirsli laughing uncontrollably as Vilkas tried (and failed) to look stern.
"D'you know what Kodlak would say if he saw us like this?" he grunted, pinning her under one arm.
"He'd say you've finally found someone who can keep up with you."
Vilkas paused… then smiled softly. "Yeah. He probably would."
The teasing faded, just for a moment, as they looked at each other in the golden light. No dragons, no spriggans, no performances or trials – just two souls, tangled in warmth, making room for peace in the aftermath of chaos.
Kirsli's voice was quieter now. "I'm glad I dragged you out here."
"I'm glad you did, too," he replied, kissing her temple. "Even if you drool."
She shoved him with a snort and tossed the last bite of sweetroll at his face.
They packed up slowly, savoring every lingering touch and sidelong glance, and by the time they mounted up to ride back toward Whiterun, the sun was high, the mists had lifted…
…and Kirsli's fingers were twined with Vilkas' reins, as if she had no intention of ever letting him go.
***
Whiterun bustled like always. Anoriath and Fralia hawked their wares at their stalls. Kirsli noticed Carlotta had a good selection of apples. Mikael played a lively tune on the lute near the Gildergreen, and the kids chased each other in the shadow of Jorrvaskr's great hall.
Kirsli and Vilkas headed to the Temple of Kynareth. The tree still stood silent and bare, branches like gnarled fingers reaching for something unseen. Danica Pure-Spring was kneeling in prayer beneath it. When she heard footsteps, she turned, brushing her palms clean on her robes.
"You've returned."
Kirsli opened her satchel and carefully withdrew the vial. "The sap of the Eldergleam. Tapped with Nettlebane, just like you said."
Danica's eyes widened as she took the vial in her hands. "By Kynareth… this is truly it." She gazed up at the tree, awe softening her face. "We may yet see her bloom again. You've done something miraculous, child."
"I didn't do it alone," Kirsli said, throwing Vilkas a sideways smile.
He shrugged, trying not to look pleased. "I just carried things and got attacked by plants."
Danica chuckled. "That's a tale as old as Skyrim. Thank you both. The restoration will take time… but the winds are shifting." She turned to Kirsli. "And I hear you'll be singing at Dragonsreach soon."
"Word travels fast."
"Whiterun has its ways. I'll be listening. We all will."
***
After washing the road dust from her face and changing into something less travel-worn, Kirsli sat on the steps outside the great hall, nibbling on a warm honey-nut treat from the market. The city seemed softer today, like even the stone buildings had sighed in relief.
Vilkas leaned against the arch nearby, polishing his gauntlets.
"You going to rehearse?"
"I might."
"With or without the whiskey?"
Kirsli grinned. "Depends. Do I sound better after two shots or three?"
Vilkas gave her a look. "I'm not answering that."
She popped the last bite into her mouth, stood, and stretched. "I'm heading to Halted Stream. I need Malyki."
"Ah, the lute-boy."
"The
ranger
," she corrected. "With a surprisingly good ear."
"You're just bringing him so Frostbite can give me hungry stares again."
"That's just a bonus."
***
The air smelled of pine, firewood, and roasting leeks. Kirsli guided her horse down the familiar slope to the repurposed camp. The campfire burned bright, and someone had hung wind chimes made from old Dwemer scrap near the entrance.
She dismounted just as a soft lute melody drifted through the trees.
Malyki sat on a log near the firepit, fingers deftly plucking the strings. Frostbite was curled nearby, yawning lazily.
Kirsli waited until the song faded. "That was lovely."
Malyki looked up, smile crooked. "I have a very patient audience."
Frostbite chuffed.
Kirsli stepped closer. "I need you for a performance."
He raised a brow. "Who's the crowd?"
"Jarl Balgruuf. College mages. All of Dragonsreach, basically."
"And you're trusting me to accompany you?" he asked, teasing.
"You've got steady rhythm, a good ear, and most importantly, you won't try to upstage me."
"I'd
never
. Frostbite might, but not me," he teased.
Kirsli winked. "Come on, we've got a day to rehearse and just enough Firestrand to make it fun."
***
As twilight gilded the sky above Whiterun, the great wooden doors of Dragonsreach swung open with ceremonial grandeur. A cool breeze swept through the entryway as Kirsli entered at Vilkas' side, her gold and bejeweled dress catching the torchlight and glimmering like starlight on water. Malyki walked just behind them, carrying his lute with practiced ease, dressed in modest but elegant finery that suited the evening's occasion.
They had spent the better part of the day preparing, their rehearsal echoing through the living quarters of Jorrvaskr like birdsong. Their voices and instruments had blended beautifully, and Malyki had even taught Kirsli a new song – something elven, ancient, with haunting notes and syllables that seemed spun from moonlight and memory.
Now, Dragonsreach hummed with the low murmur of courtly conversation and the clinking of goblets. Golden light poured from chandeliers above and the long hearth in the center of the hall. The Jarl's throne sat elevated, flanked by guards, Proventus Avenicci standing nearby with his usual look of mild stress.
Jarl Balgruuf rose to greet them personally.
"Kirsli," he said with a warm smile, his voice cutting through the murmur of the feast. "Welcome. And welcome to your companions. I'm glad you made time for this tonight."
Kirsli dipped her head in greeting, Vilkas stepping forward with a respectful nod. "Jarl Balgruuf."
Balgruuf's gaze shifted toward the table where a group of mages sat in discussion over goblets of mead and small platters of honeyed goat cheese and roasted leeks. "This is Kirsli Ember-Walker. She calls herself a warrior poet, a skald. I understand you are familiar with the Dragonborn and Harbinger of Jorrvaskr, Thane Kieran Stormwhisper. Also we have a few more Companions of Jorrvaskr as well, Vilkas, Farkas, and Mariah."
"Thank you, my Jarl, for this gracious invitation," Kieran spoke up. "We will endeavor not to be too rowdy."
A few chuckles came from the delegation of mages. Even up in Winterhold, tales of Jorrvaskr’s mead hall were legendary.
Balgruuf's eyes crinkled with amusement at Kieran's remark. "Your reputation for brawling and merriment precedes you, Thane Kieran. But rest assured, tonight is meant for celebration, not politics." He gestured for the group to join the high table, where servants had already begun pouring mulled wine and setting out platters heaped with roast venison, spiced apples, and crusty bread.
The mingling scents of rich food and fresh herbs filled the hall, mingling with the crackle of the fire. Vilkas exchanged a quick glance with Malyki, who flashed a reassuring smile and adjusted the tuning pegs on his lute. Farkas and Mariah slipped into seats nearby, quietly surveying the gathering with the alertness of seasoned warriors.
Kirsli felt a thrill of anticipation, a hum in her chest that matched the gentle strum of Malyki’s strings as he tested his instrument. Tonight would not just be a performance, but a weaving of stories, voices, and the magic of old.
Balgruuf cleared his throat and addressed the assembled guests. "Before the music begins, let me introduce our honored guests from the College of Winterhold, whose wisdom and artistry enrich Skyrim. And, of course, our Companions of Jorrvaskr, whose bravery inspires us all."
The adventurers and mages alike inclined their heads, some with formality, others with a spark of curiosity. Kirsli took a slow breath, letting the warmth of the hall and the company around her steady any nerves. The evening’s tapestry was nearly ready; all that remained was to meet those whose reputations had already begun to shape the night’s expectations.
He gestured first to a stern-faced woman with dark hair and an air of controlled authority. "Mirabelle Ervine, Archmage of the College."
"A pleasure," Mirabelle said, standing and offering Kirsli a handshake. Her voice was even, but her eyes scanned the bard appraisingly.
"Colette Marence, our resident expert in Restoration magic," Balgruuf continued.
Colette beamed and leaned in eagerly. "You have
such
a lovely voice. I've heard rumors, of course. I'm so looking forward to the performance."
Kirsli smiled graciously. "I'll do my best not to disappoint."
"Drevis Neloren," Balgruuf said, indicating a Dunmer in finely embroidered robes, his pale red eyes glittering with interest.
"Ah, the bard who favors Elven compositions," Drevis said, clasping his hands. "This should be delightful."
Next was Nirya, an Altmer, whose expression was already slightly cool. "A pleasure," she said without elaboration.
And finally, Tolfdir, the kindly old Nord with twinkling eyes, and hair as gray as the mountains. "Always a joy to be back in Whiterun. I've heard such good things about your songs, young lady. And your lute player looks quite capable."
Malyki gave a slight bow. "I shall try not to shame the strings tonight, Master Tolfdir."
With pleasantries exchanged, Balgruuf gestured toward the main table, already adorned with roast venison, grilled salmon and leeks, platters of baked snowberry crostata, and enough Honningbrew to drown a sabre cat. "Come, eat. Let us enjoy the feast before the music begins."
Kirsli and her companions took their seats. Vilkas settled in beside her, ever protective, while Kieran and Farkas exchanged quiet banter with Ralof and Mariah. Malyki sat close to Kirsli, already tuning his lute between bites of roasted pheasant.
The food was rich, the conversation lively. Every now and then, Balgruuf would glance toward the raised dais prepared for the performance, anticipation visible in his expression. Kirsli felt a warm flush in her chest, a mixture of nerves and excitement. The room was waiting.
And when the last goblet was drained and the final dish cleared, Balgruuf rose once more.
"People of Dragonsreach, honored guests from the College of Winterhold, tonight we are fortunate to host a performance not just from Whiterun's own bard, but from one of Skyrim's rising stars. Kirsli Ember-Walker, the voice of Jorrvaskr, joined by Malyki of Halted Stream."
Applause filled the hall as Kirsli and Malyki stepped forward in the middle of the great hall near the hearth. He strummed the opening chords.
She took a breath.
Then she began to sing. The song:
I am the One
"Heruamin lotirien/Alai uethri maeria
Halurocon yalei nam bahna/Dolin nereba maome
Ame amin/Halai lothi amin/Aloamin Heruamin
Heruamin oh lonai/Imwe naine beriole/Ame amin
Halai lothi amin/Aloamin Heruamin
Ame amin/Halai lothi amin/Noamin
Ame amin/Halai lothi amin/Noamin Heruamin..."
As the last notes of "I Am the One" faded into the rafters of Dragonsreach, a stillness held the hall like a breath caught in reverence. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the clapping came, first from the seated elves among the Winterhold delegation, their gloved hands striking together with crisp delight. Drevis nodded with a quiet, appreciative smile, while Nirya, elegant and aloof no longer, leaned forward in earnest. Even Tolfdir, usually the picture of academic distraction, blinked his eyes wide and murmured something about tonal harmonics and ancient tonal magics.
Kirsli caught the glint of pride in Balgruuf's eyes – subtle, but warm.
But it was Vilkas' expression that stole her breath. Arms folded across his chest, he leaned slightly forward in his seat, gazing at her as if she'd lassoed one of the stars down from the sky and taught it to sing. She gave him the barest wink before Malyki plucked the first strings of their next piece.
Another elven song – "In Uthenera."
"Hahren na melana sahlin/Emma ir abelas
Souver’inan isala hamin/Vhenan him dor’felas
In Uthenera na revas
Vir sulan’nehn/Vir dirthera
Vir samahl la numin/Vir lath sav’unin
Vir sulan’nehn/Vir dirthera
Vir samahl la numin/Vir lath sav’unin…"
The mournful strains of "Once We Were" floated through the great hall like ghost-light, tender and haunting. Malyki's lute sang with a solemn patience, and Kirsli's voice followed – clear, aching, intimate.
"
Once we were/In our peace/With our lives assured.
Once we were/Not afraid of the dark.
Once we sat in our kingdom/With hope and pride.
Once we ran through/The fields with great strides.
We held the void/And the dragon's flight
So far from our children/And from our lives.
We held together/The fragile sky/To keep our way of life.
Once we raised/Up our chalice/In victory.
Once we sat/In the light of our dreams.
Once we were/In our homeland/With strength and might.
Once we were/Not afraid of the night.
We held the void/And the dragon's flight
So far from our children/And from our lives.
We held together/The fragile sky/To keep our way of life
."
The notes seemed to shimmer in the hall's ancient stone, drawing forth memories none had spoken of aloud. Kieran bowed his head slightly, and even Farkas' boisterous demeanor seemed softened at the edges. Mariah clutched her goblet without drinking, the flickering firelight catching tears she didn't let fall.
When the song ended, the silence didn't rush to be filled. It lingered like fog, sacred and still. Then came a slow, resounding clap – Balgruuf's – followed by thunderous applause. But for Vilkas, it was a quieter thing: he brought his hand over his heart and gave Kirsli a slight nod, reverent and sure.
And when she turned to Malyki, he gave her a grin. "We are three for three,
la'ana
," he whispered. "Shall we make it four?"
Kirsli smiled, stepped forward once more, and they began their fourth song. Malyki slowed his strumming, adjusting the tuning with a practiced flick of his fingers. Kirsli stepped back into place, drawing in a breath like it was her last before plunging into memory.
"This next one," she said, "is an old one from my childhood before my father died and I ended up at Honorhall. My mother used to sing it to me before sleep. And when the world felt like too much." She glanced toward Vilkas, then to Balgruuf, her gaze softer now. "It's called 'Elegy.'"
The hall quieted.
"
Dewdrops on a single rosebud/This purity of rain
Reminds me of the moment I left her/Kisses filled with pain
And if I should leave her waiting/For another year
Will she ever know the answer?/Will she follow me?
Silent tears of a woman/Make her warrior cry
Heaven, I beg you/Please release hopes from fears
This is my elegy/Do you know what I feel?
This is my elegy/Do you believe it's real?
Will I hold you in my arms…/Hold you in my arms again
?"
It was a lullaby, and yet it felt like an open wound – tender and raw. The entire court seemed to exhale as one when it ended. Even Colette Marence dabbed at her eyes, murmuring something about the song's spiritual purity and restorative vibration.
Kirsli gave Malyki a look, and he nodded. He adjusted again, just slightly, and together they launched into the next piece. This one was different. Older still. A traditional melody, passed down through memory and blood. Her voice slipped easily into the old tongue, haunting and reverent:
"
Fhir a' bhàta,/'S tric mi sealltainn on chnoc as àirde/(Gach àit' an téid thu...)
Dh'fheuch am faic mi fear a' bhàta./(Gach àit' an téid thu...)
Fhir a' bhàta,/'S tric mi sealltainn on chnoc as àirde/(Gach àit' an téid thu...)
"
The notes danced with longing, with salt wind and mountain mist, with every hearth left cold and every eye cast toward the sea. It was not just a song – it was a call. The elven mages murmured appreciatively in their own languages. Balgruuf looked moved. Tolfdir closed his eyes, his lips moving faintly, as if remembering a mother's voice from long ago.
Then – applause, loud and sustained. Kirsli and Malyki bowed, hand in hand.
But before they could withdraw, Balgruuf stood from his seat.
"One more," he said, voice commanding but kind. "The court is not ready to let go just yet. One more – for Skyrim."
Kirsli looked at Malyki, who gave her a grin and said under his breath, "Something bold, then?"
She nodded once, her gold dress catching the light as she stepped forward again.
"This one's for all of us," she said. "All for my family. And what we keep fighting for."
Malyki struck the first chord. Kirsli swayed to the music.
"
War is not freedom/Over my shoulder/I see a clearer view
All for my family/Reason I'm breathing/Everything to lose
Should I ask myself in the water/What a warrior would do?
Tell me, underneath my armor/Am I loyal, brave and true?
Am I loyal, brave and true?
Cold is the morning/Warm is the dream/Chasing the answers
'Til I can't sleep/Will I be stronger/Or will I be weak/When you're not with me?
Who am I without my armor?/Standing in my brother's shoes/All I know is that it's harder
To be loyal, brave and true…
"
The hall shook with applause when it ended.
Balgruuf stepped forward, clapping with genuine admiration. "My court has never heard a voice like that. Well done, Kirsli Ember-Walker. And Malyki, you have a rare gift. I'll see to it you are both well-compensated for tonight's performance."
"Thank you, my Jarl," Kirsli replied with a graceful bow. Her cheeks flushed – not with embarrassment, but triumph.
Vilkas rushed over to her, eyes bright. "You were... incredible."
She grinned, breathless. "Think we impressed the delegation?"
Farkas laughed. "You just gave them a reason to start worshiping Talos
and
Kynareth."
Mariah elbowed him. "Don't give them any ideas."
Kieran, with tears streaming freely down his cheeks, only smiled and gave a proud nod. "You showed them our Skyrim."
***
The court slowly thinned, the clatter of goblets and the rustle of robes fading into the corridors beyond Dragonsreach's stone walls. The delegation had retired to their guest chambers, and the Companions had gathered near the hearth, retelling stories between yawns and laughter.
But Kirsli had slipped away.
She wandered out onto the great porch – one of the few places in the keep where solitude still lingered. The night air was crisp, and the plains of Whiterun beyond shimmered like scattered jewels. Masser and Secunda hung low, casting their silver glow on the mountain's edge.
Footsteps echoed softly behind her.
"I thought I'd find you here," Vilkas said, his voice lower, quieter now that the songs were done and the eyes of the court no longer lingered.
She didn't turn just yet. "Needed a moment. The songs... took more out of me than I expected."
"I could tell," he said, stepping beside her. "You weren't just singing tonight. You were sharing – your heart, your past... your soul."
She glanced sideways at him. "That obvious, huh?"
"You've always had a fire in you," he replied. "But tonight you lit something in everyone else. Even the elves looked like they were going to tear up. And Balgruuf? If he had a lute, he'd have joined in."
She laughed. "Now there's a sight. 'Jarl Balgruuf and the Bannered Bards.'"
Vilkas chuckled, but then fell quiet. The silence stretched, not awkward, just... thoughtful. Then, he reached into his coat and pulled something out.
A single honeycomb-shaped trinket. It gleamed gold in the moonlight, small and straightforward.
"I saw this in the market a few days ago. The woman selling it said it was good luck. Claimed it was made with the first beeswax from the spring hives."
She tilted her head, curious. "You bought me a good luck charm?"
"I bought it because it reminded me of you," he said, slipping it into her palm. "Sweet. Tough. And absolutely capable of leaving someone with a sting if they cross you."
Kirsli laughed again, but her eyes softened. "You're such a romantic when no one's looking."
"Only for you."
They stood together in the moonlight, her hand finding his as naturally as breath. No more words needed. The world could wait – for now, she had her mountain, her songs, and the man who loved her without condition.
And beneath the twin moons of Nirn, Kirsli Ember-Walker simply breathed.
***
Journal of Kirsli Ember-Walker
12th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 204
Life has been a whirlwind lately. I’m a Companion now – truly a Companion. No longer a whelp, no longer proving myself. Just... part of the pack. That alone is a blessing I never imagined I’d earn so soon. I’ve come so far in less than a year. Sometimes I hardly recognize the girl I used to be.
Constance is with child – due in Hearthfire – and I’m overjoyed for her. She was glowing when she told me, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Watching her journey into motherhood feels like watching the seasons change – natural, beautiful, inevitable.
As for Vilkas and me… gods, I fall more in love with him every day. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone so deeply and still find new depths every sunrise. His love steadies me. It fuels the fire inside me. It feels like a wellspring that never runs dry, like some divine gift I’m not sure I deserve – but one I’ll cherish for as long as I live.
Not long ago, Vilkas and I made a pilgrimage to the Eldergleam. We needed sap to revive the Gildergreen. I approached the tree with reverence, and when I spoke of its sleeping child, a great spriggan bowed before me. I touched the bark and felt Kynareth’s breath like a breeze against my cheek. When I returned the sap to Danica, something stirred in my heart – hope, maybe. I can’t wait to see the Gildergreen in full bloom again. Kynareth willing.
And then there was the performance at Dragonsreach.
I stood in Balgruuf’s court and sang with Malyki accompanying me on the lute. The mage delegation from Winterhold was there – Tolfdir, Mirabelle, Nirya, and more. I’d never felt nerves like that before. Butterflies the size of snow bears in my stomach. But I sang my heart out.
Kieran cried. Vilkas looked at me like I was the only soul in the room. That look – the love in his eyes – held me together.
The elven lullabies went over especially well. Even Balgruuf was impressed. The whole court applauded, and the College mages were kind in their praise. Then came the surprise – payment beyond my wildest dreams. Two lutes, both crafted in High Rock, more beautiful than anything I’ve ever played. One for me, one for Malyki. And a thousand septims each… along with an open invitation to perform again.
I never thought I’d find a place where every part of me could belong. The sword-swinger. The skald. The sister, the Companion… the woman in love.
But I have.
I found my place.
I’m 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
Berlin. 2010.
NERV Training Facility.
The only sound was the dull, wet sound of impact.
Asuka Langley Soryu punches the dummy's padding again, then again, then again. Three consecutive punches in less than a second. She's tired, and her knuckles have been bleeding for perhaps four hours now; she doesn't know, as she easily loses track of time in the pristine Casablanca that serves as her training ground. She looks back at her instructor, Matthias Vogel: he barely glanced up from his touchpad before speaking.
"Your reaction time is getting slower, Asuka. You're falling behind the curve."
Asuka's breath hitched: she swallowed, then forced out:
"I can get better. I can do it faster. I can try again."
"There is no again, young lady. Humanity is living on borrowed time. If you can't learn to control your gift soon, there won't be anyone to save by the time you master it."
She goes for it again. Three consecutive punches. Vogel locked back at his readings: no improvement in reaction time.
"Pathetic. Truly nerve-wracking. You know, you're a survivor. The very fact that you're alive after your incident, the very fact you have this gift... it means something. Yet, to you, it must mean nothing."
She glanced back at her split knuckles: dried, bright red blood surrounding her open wounds; then back at him, then back at the touchpad, then at her surroundings. The white lights were too bright, too much. A terribly high-pitched buzzing sound goes through Asuka's brain: suddenly, she sees nothing. Her breath hitches as she inhales the cold, antiseptic air of the room.
By the time she can see again, Vogel is no longer standing, but on the floor, visibly pained and gasping for air.
A team of uniformed men rushes in and surrounds Vogel, while a woman with dark hair and a red jacket calmly places a hand on her left shoulder and starts escorting her out of the room. Before going through the metal doors, she glanced back at the room: a dark, crimson stream tracing a path across the pristine, white floor, flowing from the spot where she hit him in his stomach.
Then the doors closed behind her.
Okinawa. Present day.
Sato Residence.
The repetitive beep of the digital alarm clock jolted Shinji Ikari awake as the first sunrays started leaking through his blinds. He yawned before sitting up and sliding into his slippers, then walked to the kitchen. By now, his uncle must have already left for his morning jog, and he wouldn't be back until he left for school. He turned on the television for noise—a habit he had picked up from his tutor—before turning on the stove and placing a pan to cook himself some eggs.
The news went on about the latest craze amongst the gullible: a series of paranormal happenings in a corporate building south of Tokyo. The too-cheery news anchor interrupted the calm silence of the morning:
"—for the sixth consecutive day, workers of the Lang-Nakano Corporation report experiencing paranormal events, such as ‘shadow people’ and hearing voices when nobody should be present at deep hours of the night. Despite a full investigation and the unorthodox intervention of an undisclosed paranormal investigation group, the causes of said events are still unknown. Management urges workers to remain calm at all times and report if said events happen once again, but honestly, Sanji, if I were in their place, I'd long ago have presented my resignation."
Shinji simply cracked an egg into the pan. He shook his head. Shadow people. Sure. He could have cared a bit if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't finish cooking and eating his breakfast quickly; he'd run late for school, which had become a habit for him due to his messed-up sleep schedule, which reminded him...
He reached into the top shelf and patted the wooden surface for a second until he found the container: Escitalopram. 10mg each morning to counter the effects of his usually inverted sleep-wake cycle.
Shinji downed the pills with a glass of orange juice before taking the eggs out of the pan.
Tokyo.
Central Dogma, NERV Headquarters.
ENERGY SIGNATURE MATCH: 99.7%
BIOSIGNATURE CONFIRMED
METAPHYSICAL HOSTILE CONFIRMED
Makoto Hyuga almost spat out his coffee before setting down his mug in his workstation. He picked up his phone with shaking hands and dialed. It took a few moments for the woman to pick up, but when she did, he could barely muster the words to describe the situation.
"Captain Katsuragi... It's happening. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I'm staring right at it. Okay, I'll handle the logistics. Thank you." He put down the phone before turning to the rest of the bridge and his subordinates.
"Okay, everyone, listen up. We're entering Phase 1 of Protocol I-333, so we have about..." he glanced back to his screen for a brief moment, "7 hours before contact. Maya, on my signal, put me on the line with the director of NERV Germany. We need their unit on Japanese soil as soon as possible."
"Roger!" Maya shouted, before typing on her keyboard and turning back to Hyuga, "On your signal now."
"Now," Hyuga instructed before picking up a phone with shaking hands for the second time that afternoon, "Yes, Mr. Schreiber? Yes, I'm Makoto Hyuga, from NERV Japan... I'm consulting on behalf of my branch to determine if Unit-02 is ready for deployment. Yes, on Japanese soil... Yes, as soon as possible."
He listened, his grip tightening on the receiver. "...I see. And how long would that take?"
A long, tense pause stretched out on the line. Hyuga's jaw tightened. "Well, can't the Air Force facilitate transportation?"
He slumped slightly, the fight going out of him. "...Okay. Understood. Thank you." He placed the handset back in the switch hook. Aoba instantly noticed his defeated expression.
"Well, what did he tell you?" Aoba queried.
"Unit-02... won't be here for another 12 hours. We're on our own."
"Then we'd better get going," a voice surged from the Command Island overlooking the bridge. All heads snapped up. Major Katsuragi stood at the railing, one hand resting on the polished metal.
"The clock's ticking, people. I want a full tactical breakdown of the target's projected path to Tokyo. Aoba, lock down the GeoFront and initiate city-wide evacuation protocol. Maya, get me in line with the JSDF liaison. I want the National Guard and Air Force to follow the target until it reaches the city. Hyuga, since we won't be counting on foreign aid yet, go down to Sector 7 and make sure Unit-00 is ready for deployment."
"Yes, ma'am," Hyuga acknowledged before walking out of the bridge.
Misato's jaw tightened as she whispered to herself: "We'll see what they're all about.”
Sato Residence. Late afternoon.
Shinji sighed as he opened the door to his home. Another tiring day of goofing around with Toji and Kensuke, avoiding homework responsibilities, and making teachers mad. Shinji really didn't know why he had become a problematic student. Maybe his tutor was right. Maybe Toji and Kensuke were bad influences, but that didn't make their tomfoolery, as his tutor would call it, any less funny.
Shinji slipped off his school shoes and began walking down the entrance hall to the living room.
But he didn't resent the old man. Matter of fact, he was growing on him lately. He was more permissive and talkative each day. Last night, he even offered Shinji a can of beer. He courteously declined, of course, not his style. But who knows? Maybe they could get along if—
Huh.
There are many things Shinji Ikari didn't understand in this world. And one of them right now was why there was a person identical to him standing in his kitchen, right beside his tutor's inanimate body, muttering things he didn't quite catch.
But there were other things Shinji Ikari did understand. And one of them right now was that he had to run.
THUNK!
Just as he was turning on his heel and heading for the apartment door, a kitchen knife flew just inches from his face and embedded itself in the drywall, leaving its handle vibrating with a dull hum. Stepping on his tutor's body, the being made its way towards Shinji, who almost slipped as he rushed to his bedroom down the hallway.
Shinji barely made it inside before whirling around and throwing the door shut, his hands fumbling to slide the bolt home. Heart hammering, he pressed his entire weight against the door, a desperate human barricade against the thing on the other side.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three consecutive blows impacted his wooden door, making Shinij stumble forward and onto his matted floor in shock. The creature outside croaked out.
"Co—Co—Come on, Shinji, open the—the door. Don't you think it's kinda r—r—rude? Let me in—let me in—let me in."
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Co—Co—Come on, Shinji. We were getting along so well la—la—lately, don't you think—think? Why throw it all away ju—just from a scare?" The beast outside stuttered.
Shinji's breath hitched as he heard those words. They stung. He wished they were real, but now he didn't know what was real.
Tokyo. Evening.
"Captain Katsuragi, we're on station over the target. T minus 10 minutes before it reaches downtown Tokyo." The pilot of the Heavy Fighter VTOL Jet spoke through the aerial communications system. "On your signal, we release Unit-00."
"Roger, pilot," she acknowledged from the Command Island on NERV's Headquarters, her knuckles turning white from how hard her hands were gripping the railing, before changing the channel on her earpiece to speak to said unit. Her voice turned to something softer, "Hey, Rei, talk to me. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine, Captain. Thanks for asking." Rei calmly acknowledged before standing up above the aircraft's loading ramp, "I'm ready for deployment now."
"Roger," Misato replied before switching back the channel on her earpiece to speak to the pilot, "Pilot, you are clear for drop. Descend to 120 meters AGL and hold."
"Copy that—", the pilot's voice over the comms suddenly cut off, which alerted Misato. Immediately, a stream of whispers and what seemed like distant screams began flowing through Central Dogma's speakers. The quick sequence of demonic noise left everyone in the control room shaken.
"The communications system has been corrupted due to the target's interference! Hyuga, shut off all communication with the aircraft until further notice!"
"Will do, ma'am!" Hyuga quickly acknowledged as he turned to his workstation.
Within the aircraft, Rei stood still. On one hand, she had been preparing for this exact situation for the past 8 years. On the other hand, she knew that nothing had really prepared her for what she was about to face. Everything could be completely different from what she had prepared for. She could die. But did she care about that? What was living and dying in a world where your own identity wasn't completely yours? Where everything about you—
The loading ramp lowered to reveal the cold, dark outside. As Rei approximated the edge, she saw her target exactly 120 meters below. The Archangel Raguel: the Judge.
The being was approximately 3 meters in height, covered with a silky, deep-dark cloth, adorned with bright, gold lines that traveled from the top of its head to the bottom of the cloth that covered its body. Atop its head rested a golden balance scale, unmoving. The being was levitating a few meters above the deserted city street, making its way through the landscape with a low, constant hum that could be heard from her high vantage point.
Rei decided it was time. She leaped off the ramp and into the cold air. Or rather, she aimed.
The wind roared against her, but she remained steady, diving face-first into her target. Just when impact seemed imminent, she extended her right arm, and a force field manifested from thin air in front of her — her A.T. Field —, and it quickly shaped into a sharp form, resembling a drill.
The impact against the being was anything but ceremonious.
The overpass road leading to downtown quickly ceded under the weight of the impact, and they both landed on top of the roof of a semi-trailer. Rei positioned herself above the entity, and quickly glanced at its ‘face’: it was a black, marble-like ovoid with no features except a single, unblinking, vertical white humanoid eye, seemingly carved into the marble-like surface.
She quickly raised her right arm to resume her attack, but the being soon reacted: two dark extremities, closely resembling human arms, but with hands that had fingers that appeared to be sewn together, quickly took her from the neck.
The pressure applied left Rei breathless, and her vision began to blur promptly. Just as she drifted into unconsciousness, she observed the creature’s eye glow a cold, stark white. She quickly raised her arm, but her A.T. Field didn’t manifest quickly enough, only managing to contain the blunt of the creature’s attack: the part of the white energy beam that did sneak past her A.T. Field sent Rei flying towards the ceiling, crashing with a loud thud before falling once again to the pavement.
Shaken, Rei quickly stood up and saw the being rising from the carbonized vehicle roof. Some of the blast had deflected from her A.T. Field and back at it, and it was noticeably injured: the cloth-like black cloth that covered its humanoid body had been torn in several places, and the white glow of its inner seams showed underneath it.
The golden balance scale atop its head sat still, then the eye seemed to briefly focus on her, not intending to attack. She tried to read its intentions, to get inside its head, but when she heard it, they were nothing but a series of whispers.
The being stood still for a moment, then the balance dipped slightly to one side: she was judged. She was guilty. The balance started shining a bright gold glow.
The opening once again shone a bright white, and another energy beam directed at her shot out from it: Rei barely managed to avoid it, the beam instead blowing up a nearby parked van, mere meters away from her.
PWOOOSH!
The shockwave sent Rei flying against one of the columns of the overpass, and soon enough, Rei’s vision blurred again, until it all faded to black.
“We need that vessel.”
“Let me take care of it.”
“Are you sure about this, Yui?”
“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be right back.”
Rei awoke in the same place she had many times before: a hibernation pod. The viscous, cold, transparent fluid surrounded her naked body as she gasped for air. It always took a moment for her to regain orientation after long resting periods, but this time was different: she wasn’t in the hibernation bay, no, she was standing right in front of a white, crucified giant.
Rei took a while to take in the sight. The dome enclosure was gigantic: if she had to guess, it was probably 300 meters in height. Beneath the giant, a red, blood-like pool of liquid extended as far as the room reached, and it lay completely still, unmoving, unwavering.
“That’s what we need you to be, Rei,” a voice spoke behind her and echoed through the enclosure, causing her to turn around. Gendo Ikari descended from the flight of stairs at one of the openings of the dome. “And when the time comes, you and I will give humanity the greatest gift there ever was: a kinder world.”
As he stepped closer, he kindly reached for her hand and placed a small metal cross on her palm. He then closed it and placed his left hand on top of hers.
“Don’t worry. I know you’ll be ready when the time comes, and I’ll let you know. For now, you have a battle to win. And you know what to do, Rei…”
Yui.
Yui.
Yui!
Rei suddenly opened her eyes, just in time to witness the beast’s eye expanding and glowing a bright white. She jumped out of the beam’s way just in time, and it instead penetrated the overpass’s column.
PWOOOSH!
However, Rei noticed something: the fine lining of the being’s cloak-like covering and its eye glowed bright white every time the balance scales atop its head did too.
The balance scales. They’re its power source. Doctor Akagi spoke about this in detail.
Rei knew she had to get close to the being to reach its power source, but she had to be careful and use the environment in her favor, since its ranged attack made close combat impossible. Within seconds, she had a countermeasure.
Rei raced beneath the underpass, mere meters away from the being, and positioned herself in front of the column she had previously crashed against, barely managing to escape the being’s energy beam that time. However, this time, she precisely waited for the being’s globe to aim at her, glow a bright, stark white, and right when the energy beam surged from it, she threw herself out of the way.
PWOOOSH!
The column collapsed. The overpass’s structural integrity faltered, but she still needed the opposite column destroyed. She swiftly moved, jumping over a crashed car, never taking her eye off the target, which seemed to never move unnecessarily, just rotating on its own axis to aim at Rei.
Rei positioned herself once again in front of one of the columns and waited for the being to once again focus its attention on her. Then, the same sequence: the bright light, the scales turning a clear yellow glow, and the beam being emitted from the eye.
PWOOOSH!
Rei managed to avoid the attack by rolling into her side, moving out of the way of the overpass’s destruction, and its subsequent collapse. The entity barely managed to glance up, uselessly attempting to ignite its energy beam, before being crushed by one of the larger pieces of rubble.
Rei acted quickly, not waiting until the dust settled to spring into action. She quickly began to move the pieces of rubble until she found it: the balance scales, almost buried among the concrete, but still shining and, most importantly, about to cast another energy beam that would surely destroy the surrounding debris and set the creature free once again.
Rei manifested her A.T. Field to cover the palms of her hands and used both to grab the scale at both ends, while she placed her foot in the surrounding remains to make the pulling easier.
The creature writhed in pain, muffled under the debris, as Rei began to pull on the scale, which was now shining brighter than ever. Its black arms partially emerged from the rubble, its marble-like surface now visibly damaged and scratched, aimlessly trying to hold onto whatever could help the being escape from under the concrete or hold onto her.
Rei’s pull grew stronger, and the balance began to bend with a terrible shriek that pierced through her eardrums. The creature’s wails and screams, muffled by rubble, grew louder as the scales began separating from its head, ripping black flesh and spurting a viscous, navy-blue liquid from the creature’s injuries.
Finally, the balance was yanked out, and the creature’s wails and screams came to an end at once as Rei tumbled back from the sudden absence of resistance. The balance turned a deep dark in Rei’s hands, who looked back at the rubble to witness the creature’s protruding arms from the debris turn to dust.
Rei took a deep breath, inhaling for what seemed the first time in hours — despite the battle itself lasting mere minutes — the cold air of the night. However, something quickly caught her attention once again: the balance cradled in her arms began glowing a bright gold, and the warmth it irradiated quickly enveloped Rei.
“Ah."
Rei threw the balance as far away as she could, and immediately extended her right arm to manifest her A.T. Field, but the last thing she saw as she drifted into unconsciousness was a blinding white flash enveloping her entire field of view, and a translucent hand extending from the white void towards her.
Rei awoke with the beeping sound of the vital signs monitor next to her bed. As she sat up on the bed, she noticed both of her arms were covered in bandages, IV tubes slipping through the openings. The room was fully white, with a singular blue armchair no more than a meter away from her bed. The curtains were drawn, the sky was completely clear, and the sun projected its warm light at the center of the room, a few meters away from her.
The door clicked open, and Misato Katsuragi walked into the room. She looked at her for a few seconds before speaking.
“Hey, Rei. How are you holding up?”
Rei glanced back at the window for a short moment, then back at the dark-haired woman.
“How long was I asleep?” she inquired. Misato checked her watch shortly before answering.
“Thirty— no, forty-two hours. The explosion, it… severely burned you. But, given your capacities, we think it won’t take long until you’re fully recovered. A couple of days, perhaps.” She walked to the window and stared out at the landscape before continuing, “You should really rest. Times are about to get hard.”
“The German agent… is she already here?” Rei queried meekly. Misato walked towards the armchair and sat down before answering.
“Yeah. She arrived a couple of hours after you successfully neutralized the threat. She’ll be your partner in the following assignments. I’d really like for you two to get along, but knowing her… that may be difficult.” Misato answered, sinking into the armchair, her fingertips tapping at the ends of the armrest.
“That’s not a complication,” Rei said, turning to face Misato, “human connections are not of interest in a professional situation such as this.”
Okinawa. Evening.
Shinji didn’t know exactly how much time had passed; it had at most been a couple of days, but one thing was for sure: he was a dead man. Whether the creature outside killed him or waited for him to die from starvation or thirst, his fate was practically sealed.
On the other hand, his time cornered in his bedroom had given him plenty to think about. About what his life had been, what he would’ve liked to do, what he should have done, but mostly, it gravitated towards his past.
Shinji thought he knew why his father had abandoned him: he was a busy man, and he didn’t have time for distractions like him, especially not in his line of work, which, according to his tutor, was somehow essential to humanity. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps his father loved only his mother; perhaps his love didn’t extend to him. Perhaps that’s why he left. Perhaps.
Speaking of his father, Shinji suddenly remembered something. Actually, a big something. The only thing his father had left to him before leaving him at the train station at the age of 5: his SDAT Walkman. He should still have it lying around somewhere, so, out of pure boredom and with nothing else to do, he decided to look for it.
The creature outside banged at his door again. Shinji barely listened anymore. He didn’t want to hear anything it said. He didn’t want to listen to its lies. It had mimicked practically every person Shinji had ever cared about: his tutor first, then his father, and last night, in the depths of the dark, his late mother, Yui. Shinji went to sleep in tears.
After a short while of barging through his closet, he found it.
The cassette player was intact, if not with a single scratch in its plastic casing, considering he had lost sight of it like a year ago, when he last sorted things in his room and put it in a box among other things that he wanted to keep. Why did he have that box? He wasn’t sure. He literally hadn’t glanced at it once since he stuffed it with old toys and photos, and a rosary necklace a year ago, but it felt weirdly appropriate to have something that, in a sense, demonstrated he had a past. Now that he seemingly had no future, it felt appropriate to open it up.
He took the earbuds and placed them on his ears, then clicked play. The tape had been left on track number 25. It was a soothing, laid-back jazz piece. The sound degradation made it have a grainy effect to it, as if it were a really old recording. However, mere seconds into the track, the cassette stopped rolling. And began rolling backwards. It was then that Shinji heard it.
They lasted mere seconds, but the whispers had told him something. He didn’t know what exactly; he didn’t even know if there were words in what he heard, but he knew it was the worst thing he had ever heard. The creature outside had never stopped banging the door, but now, it had completely ceased. The only thing he heard from outside his bedroom was a crazed laughter that echoed through the apartment.
That night, Shinji doesn’t want to sleep, for something in his head tells him not to.
Young Shinji listened attentively to his tutor, Mr. Takeuchi, as he flipped through the pages of the Holy Bible in the warm afternoon sunlight. The old man rocked himself back and forth in his wooden rocking chair and cleared his throat before speaking the next passage.
“And the Lord told him: ‘I know of your works, and what you are doing; you are neither hot nor cold. How I wish you were hot or cold! So, because you are lukewarm and neither hot nor cold, I am about to spit you out of my mouth!’”,
The old man read with measure and care, before setting down the book on his coffee table, then continued, “You cannot doubt the Lord, Shinji. In this life, it’s okay to be afraid, to be confused, to be trialed, but you cannot under any circumstances doubt your faith. It is the most important thing a man has, and the only thing you’ll have at all times.”
Shinji woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, and quickly sat up in his bed. He noticed, judging by the darkness seeping through the undercut of his door, that it was still nighttime: he must have been asleep for less than a few hours. He had tried to stay awake, but he couldn’t, not for three consecutive nights.
Shinji didn’t know if the being out there was still, effectively, there, but what was true was that he couldn’t wait a second longer. Something in his mind told him it was better to face what was outside than to wait for his demise inside. Shinji contemplated for a few moments, breathing in the cold air of the night, before making up his mind.
He lifted his bed’s mattress and tossed it aside. He yanked out one of his bed’s wooden slats in a bout of strength he had no idea he had, and with that, decided he was ready to face his reality.
He bolted the door open carefully and slowly but surely began opening it. The hallway outside his room was shrouded in darkness, as was the rest of the apartment, with only the faint glow of the moonlight partially illuminating the living room as seen from the end of the hallway.
Once he stepped into the hallway, he closed his bedroom door: a conscious decision to keep himself from having the option to open it once again. Shinji wasn’t, for anything in the world, going back in. Soon enough, it appeared again.
The creature descended from the living room’s ceiling into Shinji’s field of view. It seemed to float a meter above the ground, its hands raised as if tied with invisible strings to a higher force. The pale moonlight barely illuminated its silhouette, but it was all Shinji needed to tell its shape: an impossibly lithe, almost anorexic, humanoid.
Its head slowly rose from its hunched position with a sickly snapping sound, and the hallway became filled with what Shinji could only describe as radio interference and distant voices. He tightened his grip on the bed slat as the creature slowly began levitating towards him, and shut his eyes before swinging it at the figure. The slat impacted the creature’s jaw with another sickly snap, and once Shinji opened his eyes, he saw the creature, kneeling in front of him, unmoving, almost as if it was shocked at his attack. Shinji pulled back the slat, and the creature’s jaw seemingly unhinged from its skull, left wide agape. For the first time, Shinji had a clear view of the creature’s face: a pale, featureless humanoid skull, with what seemed to be only a mouth, the same Shinji had effectively broken with his swing.
Shinji lifted the slat over his head, ready to impact the creature once again, but it reacted first, landing an incredibly powerful punch to the mouth of his stomach. Shinji was left breathless as he dropped to the floor beside the being, which used his slouched body as leverage to stand up after Shinji’s initial attack.
“You managed to overcome the wave. If you had paired it with a useful body, you could have been a worthy opponent. But now, you just have to die,” the being spoke in a husky, almost whispering voice before lifting his pale, skeletal right leg and stomping Shinji right above his ribcage, then repeating said movement several times.
Shinji was left completely breathless and battered. His right side felt like it had been stabbed; he couldn’t raise his right arm even for a moment without feeling like he was getting pricked by a needle, so he couldn’t rise from the floor: he actually had to endure this creature’s battering.
After a few kicks, the creature grabbed Shinji by the hair, pulling him up from the floor and slouching to face him face-to-face. The creature seemed to smile, an ugly, alien, slim thing that extended too long in its pale face, before speaking.
“Pathetic.”
It grabbed Shinji by the neck before swinging his head against the hallway’s cold, pale wall. It proceeded to scrape the boy’s face against the surface, leading him slowly but surely to the end of it, and to the living room, where his tutor’s body lay just meters away in the kitchen entrance.
Once they reached the living room, the being threw Shinji against the table, and he hit his head straight on the corner of the wooden surface. Shinji’s head began spinning, and as he tried to stand up, he could only manage to uselessly slide a couple of chairs out of his way, not managing to straighten up.
The being grabbed him by the nape once again, and once it turned Shinji to face him, it grabbed him by the neck and lifted him from the floor. The being seemed to study Shinji for a short moment, despite not having any visible eyes, then spoke.
“Impressive. You’re really not afraid. You have my respect, child. But it’s time you meet your end, now,” the raspy, ghouly voice spoke, before the being lifted him almost to the ceiling height and sent him flying towards the wall. Shinji’s back hit a frame, and the glass shattered into pieces as the boy fell unceremoniously to the wooden floor.
Shinji couldn’t move anymore. His entire body was in pain, and tears began blurring his vision. He was completely out of breath and could only help but watch as the tall, slim figure made his way to him. Shinji lowered his gaze in resignation, and it was then that he saw it: his tutor’s ceremonial guntō, the one he received when he became General. The blade, slightly covered in the shattered glass pieces, was palely illuminated by the moonlight.
The being stood in front of him. Shinji grabbed the sword’s handle firmly. The being raised its clenched right fist into the air, before speaking for the final time.
“Goodbye, Ikari Shinji.”
Then, the being’s fist drove down, impacting Shinji clean in the chest, precisely his left pectoral, with a sicklish, wet, and creaking sound.
THUD!
SHINK!
The being lowered its head slowly, its incredulous expression evident. Shinji had driven the sword clean through its chest, piercing him thoroughly. Slowly, the being lifted its right fist from Shinji’s chest, where there was now a gaping hole, blood overflowing in a dark, relentless torrent.
The last thing Shinji saw before drifting into the darkness was the being collapsing to the ground in front of him, and the last thing he heard was a soft, gurgled ‘ah’.
When Shinji woke up, the sun was already timidly rising, and the first rays of the red morning sunshine were entering and illuminating the dark, battered living room through the balcony’s sliding window. Before him lay the being’s unmoving body, his tutor’s sword penetrating at the base of its ribcage, its arms and legs sprawled as if it had collapsed violently to the floor before dying.
Shinji lowered his gaze and inspected himself. His high school shirt was torn in many places and had a big hole on the left side of his chest, surrounded by a torrent of dark, dried blood. However, upon closer inspection, Shinji found no injuries. No traces of the hits he had endured from the beast, nor the final blow that had punched a hole through his chest. Nothing. It was as if nothing had ever happened.
Shinji got on his feet, but found it hard to steady; he was dazed, disoriented, as if he had been spinning for a long while and just now decided to stop. With effort, he walked towards the couch and landed atop the dark leather cushion.
His breathing was heavy and troubled, as if something was sitting atop his chest, and his vision was blurry. Shortly after, the cramps began: a terrible sensation of pain and burn began echoing through his every muscle, as if someone had flayed him of his skin and was pulling on the flesh beneath it, looking to rip it off the bone.
Shinji screamed for what seemed like hours, until all the pain stopped. By then, the sun had well set in the sky; it was a bright, clear, and beautiful day. He noticed that in his agonic screaming, he had drooled over the couch’s leather covering, leaving a trail of saliva that traveled down between the gaps of the cushions. He realized it must be around noon by now, judging by the sky and the sun outside.
He sat up on the cushion, exhausted and relieved, and after a few moments of contemplation, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV in front of him.
“—Currently receiving countless reports of an unidentified hostile organism, which we’ll refer to, until further notice, as Alternates,” the broadcast began, and continued to explain this never-before-seen threat. It detailed the same thing that Shinji had encountered, detailing these beasts as capable of mimicry, mental manipulation, and even suicide inducement. It urged viewers to remain at home at all times and contact authorities in the event of sighting these creatures.
“Above all, may God be with you all.” The broadcast ended and faded to a dark screen. Slowly, a dark red fig leaf graphic faded into the screen. Next to the logo, a text in bold, elegant letters was cut diagonally with the fig leaf’s dividing line, reading “
NERV
”. Curved along the bottom edge was a short phrase stylized in dark red capital letters:
“GOD’S IN HIS HEAVEN, ALL’S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.”
Suddenly, a feeling of nausea invaded Shinji’s throat. He hurdled through the living room as fast as he could, knees weak, legs like jelly, to the hallway leading to the bathroom. He busted the wooden door open without even trying to pivot the door hinge, just threw his body against the hard surface, which immediately ceded under Shinji’s weight, and the metal clinking of the destroyed bolt echoed through the bathroom as Shinji dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.
Shinji let go of it all.
For almost a minute, he disgorged everything in his stomach, the sound echoing through the bathroom. The acid burned Shinji’s throat as it left his body, and tears welled in his eyes from the sheer pain. Once it ended, Shinji collapsed to the cold, ceramic floor, breathless but relieved. All pains in his body had somehow ceased at once.
Slowly, he recomposed himself and looked for the nearest tub of toothpaste and his toothbrush. After almost another minute of intense brushing and exactly fifteen seconds of swishing mouthwash around, Shinji was done. Exhausted, but done. He stared intently at the sink, contemplating every detail. He didn’t know why, but he did it. All the water stains, the water drops from the recent use, and the scratches on the white marble. Once he decided it was enough, he looked up to see his reflection.
It wasn’t him.
His face was almost perfectly split in half. The right half was seemingly entirely consumed in darkness: he couldn’t tell if it was a hollow space that had overtaken and destroyed part of his skull or if it was just some kind of pigment. However, in that hollow, dark void, was a single, bright-white iris, glowing within the darkness that had overtaken his features. The left half of his face was seemingly normal, the other half of his mouth slightly agape, and his left eye was entirely blank, as if it had rolled backwards into his head. It was expressionless.
It was then that Shinji heard that ghoulish, whispered voice.
“Shinji.”
He screamed, and everything faded to black.
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 can do that.”
Zelda – presently in a meditative state, fingers looping rhythmically through her hair, twin hair clips between her teeth – blinks up at Draga. The sun is high in the boughs of the trees, thin beams of yellow laying down mottled light on the grass by the road. They’d stopped briefly along the road east from Tabantha Stable to eat and re-organize their things a bit – Link having gotten distracted during the morning and made a haphazard job of a few saddle bags. Draga, who is responsible for most of the distracting, kneels beside her, slinging his rucksack to the ground. He nods to her hands halfway through the beginnings of a single golden braid.
“Oh, no I’ve got it,” she says, smiling. “It’s just a braid.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“
Excuse
me?”
“Hylian isn’t my first language, but I think you understood me.”
Link, tacking the horses by the road, snorts audibly. Zelda glares at him but try as she might – his smile lopsided and newly familiar – she can’t maintain her glare. So, she glares at Draga. He looks impatient, like she should just smack him or let do it already. So, she hands him her clips and hair band and turns so she’s facing away from him. He immediately draws a finger through the braid she’s managed thus far and unravels the lot.
“Not up to your standard?” she chimes.
“No.”
For that, she does smack him.
“If I had a mirror…” Zelda mutters.
“It would still look like a Hylian did the job,” Draga says calmly, around the clips between his teeth.
“You are trying to pick a fight? Or are you just missing having enough hair to do anything with?”
Draga, already parting her front-right region of hair into workable sections, says, “Rude.”
“You’re rude. Don’t make fun of my hair.”
Draga ignores her. Focused on the task at hand. He moves carefully along the side of her head, starting with three parts and twining them deftly down, adding consecutive segments of hair as he goes (very quickly she must admit) around the back of her head. She fiddles with a wrinkle in her pant leg.
“So you’re sure about this? You don’t mind? I mean, I know we discussed this at length over the last few days and… and I know we all agreed it’s the most logical course of action and I know you said that you don’t mind, but I feel like you should know that at any time you may change your mind and we can find some other method. I could refocus my efforts on lost Sheikah knowledge. There may be vast magi-tech archives yet untapped in the shrines. Or the Beasts even. You saw Medoh at the Rito Village. We could go back there if you –”
“Hold this,” he says, taking her hand and pinching her fingers around the middle of a finished braid. Then he starts on the other half of her hair and… Zelda’s isn’t quite sure what he’s doing exactly. She can feel that he’s leaving some sections loose, then gathering them up again later with a sequential foresight that she does not really apply to hair styles.
“So?”
“I said that I’m fine with it.”
“But it’s forbidden for you… right?”
“No, I said only elders were permitted on the mountain.” Draga removes a clip from between his teeth and applies it to a part of her hair. “For generations, my family has guarded the Statue of the Eighth Heroine and preserved it from everyone. Foreigners and Gerudo alike. This mandate was passed down to my tribe, supposedly, by Nabooru herself. It is the oldest undisturbed archive of written Gerudo history dating back to the Naboorian Age. It will pre-date the Twilit Calamity and the Bandit Age.” She can feel him shake his head. “I don’t believe we will find a better place to begin our search.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with it?”
“Zelda, there are no elders left in my tribe, so it would fall to me anyway.” He finishes off another braid. “Besides, you’re the maiden-form Goddess. Who else could be worthier to tread sacred ground?” A beat. “Also, Link already paraglided down the mountain and took pictures of the exterior. So, it’s hardly
that
unbroachable.”
From the road, Link calls, “I said I’m
sorry
!”
“You’re a godless heathen.”
“I’m the Goddess’s chosen Hero?”
“A regular sort of heathen then.”
“I didn’t know!”
Draga coils the finished ropes of Zelda’s hair in a neat whorl at the top right-hand side of head, giving the mirrored spiraled braids an asymmetric weight. Draga pins the coils in place with practiced engineering and Zelda touches the finished work, admiring the complicated craftsmanship, fingers picking out the soft track and curve of her braids like a road coiling inward. She turns.
“Thank you, Draga.”
He’s still kneeling there, one arm braced against his knee. Even though she’s seated on a stump, he’s taller than her while kneeling, looking down into her face with an expression just short of worried.
“It could have nothing about the Goddess Mark. It may be a waste of time.”
“That would be fine. I like history for the sake of it.”
“You’re certain Hyrule Castle is of no use?”
Zelda nods. “Yes. Even before the Calamity, most records were lost in the fall of the Magi-Technical Golden Age.” Zelda gestures helplessly. “Our oldest texts only
barely
describe the events of the Twilit Calamity and before that, there are anecdotal accounts of an ancient hero who moved through Time itself. No record of his actions exist because, it’s said, he existed in a non-linear state. Stopping Ganon before his rise and after.”
Link says nothing. Reacts not at all to the descriptions of his previous lives.
“Prior to that, there’s only… myth and fairytale. So there is nothing in those catacombs worth returning for. Not if our aim is to know more about why the Goddess Mark has appeared now. Why it’s expanded its touch to you.”
“What
do
you know of it?”
“Theology and historical theory. We know the Goddess Mark is tied to Hylia and the creation myth of Hyrule – the Golden Goddesses who left the world in the hands of Hylia. But that’s it. Scholars of the age have only said that the Mark symbolizes the godhead, three in one – Din, Farore, and Nayru. The heart of the world. The balance that maintains existence. It appears in most Hyrulian symbolism. Hardly compelling factual account. Not like Naboorian hieroglyphs.” She sighs, almost romantically. “Such a record would be so…
unromantic
in its chronicle of the past.
Vital
. I have to admit, I’m selfishly curious to know what’s on that mountain for my own sake.”
Draga gives her a crooked smile. “Well, thank the hero Nabooru. It was she who mandated a record of Gerudo history be made written.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Hard to say. Nabooru was an ancient figure to my people, I have a theory. When the Great Chieftains brought the Gerudo out from the Sea of Sand and laid us at the shores of Hyrule… that was the moment our oral traditions began to die. Such things do not survive when you must change to survive a new world. She knew it then and committed great efforts to laying down physical records of our history. This is how we know we were different before we found Hyrule.”
Zelda smiles. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad your people did find Hyrule. We would be poorer for it had they not come.”
“Yes, I guess history would look very different.”
Link catches the tail end of the conversation then, walking up to tap her shoulder.
He signs,
‘We should go. I want to be past the Scab Lands before nightfall.’
“Okay,” she says.
And she kisses him on the cheek. She does it carefully, catches his chin with two fingers so he doesn’t move and fits her lips against the warm plane oh his cheekbone. There. Proud of herself – and feeling very giddy – she stands up and heads toward the road. She isn’t aware that anything extraordinary has transpired until Draga says, “For fuck’s sake,” and kicks her knight escort in the ankle to break him out of the trance. She smiles all the way back to the road.
When they reach the Scab Lands, there are three Gerudo on the road
Two of them, carrying twin travel packs and matching jackets, are dressed for the road heading north into Tabantha, bundled prolifically in an excess of scarves. One of them is capped in an adorable wool-knit hat, a grandmotherly kind with a pom-pom stuck to the top. This would seem a bit much, if Zelda hadn’t seen Draga stuff himself into excessive layers back in the Rito Village and his subsequent almost primal hate for the snow. He is, in fact, still wearing a scarf presently.
The two girls are talking to a third Gerudo woman on horseback. Her violently red hair is pulled back in a heavy tail – from it, hundreds of sparkling beads catch the light when she turns her head. She’s wearing a veil. Blue fabric pinned at her temples by elaborate gold clasps. The scimitar at her hip is sheathed in a mother of pearl scabbard. Zelda notes that, upon seeing them, Draga sits up a little straighter and nudges Arbiter into a faster trot.
“Greetings!” says the girl in the cap as they draw near. Her accent is very strong. She waves while her companion – a little older, sharing enough of her bone structure and contempt to be a sister – rolls her eyes and gently pushes her arm down.
“Good evening,” says the older girl in carefully done Hylian. Then in Gerudo, to Draga,
“That’s quite a horse. I’ve never seen one more beautiful.”
Draga also in Gerudo, says,
“Now you’ve done it. It’ll all go to his head now.”
Arbiter, as if on cue, tosses his massive head and nickers, stomping a hoof in the dirt and blowing air at the nearest girl who startles, almost losing her cap. The older girl laughs loudly. Draga smiles a little – just a suggestion of it but so specifically gentle Zelda finds herself studying the shape of it. Cataloging it. Hoping to commit it to memory so she can identify it again in the future – like the flight patterns of birds or the phenotypes of a rare plant species.
“Are you two headed north?”
he asks.
“Yeah. Meeting a family friend. He says he has work for us,”
says pom-pom girl.
“That’s good,”
Draga says.
“Lots of young Gerudo leave town without a single part of a plan. You’re doing better than I did.”
“Didn’t plan well for the cold though,”
says the older girl.
“I’m not looking forward to freezing my tits off on some gods forsaken snowfield.”
“I am!”
enthuses pom-pom.
“There will be snow. I’ve never seen snow.”
“Say that again when you run into a snow rhino,”
says Draga, amused.
The older girl stares in horror.
“What the fuck is a snow rhino? Don’t say there are snow rhinos.”
“There are snow rhinos. They’re ornery. I’ve seen them.”
Zelda notes that Draga leans harder on the male-conjugation than he does when speaking Gerudo with her. The older girl gives no sign she notices – possibly because she is distracted by the snow rhino and the fact earmuffs will not protect her from getting gored by one. The younger Gerudo girl though… as the conversation goes on, visibly frowns and Zelda can tell she’s trying to figure out Draga’s understandable but slightly canted take on her own language. It occurs to Zelda that the occasion for personal male modifiers in Gerudo might be uncommon enough that not everyone might have bothered to learn them.
About sixty seconds into the conversation, the younger girl confirms Zelda’s suspicions by blurting, “Oh! You’re a voe!”
Delighted. Like she just figured out a difficult riddle. Draga and her sister, bent over a map and reviewing their likely path north for safety and friendly rest stops, stare blankly at her. Draga, still in his saddle, glances at the older girl who balls a hand over her face in humiliation. This signals to the younger girl that she’s made an error and she wilts.
“Oh, uh, I mean…” She switches to her mother tongue. “
Sorry. That’s rude right?”
“Yes, Rima. That’s rude,”
says her sister, exasperated.
“Goddess, you’re embarrassing.”
“But both the blonde ones are women, right, Taz?”
“No, you idiot. The short one is a man.”
“Really?”
She stares openly at Link who tilts his head.
“Are you sure?”
“You need to get better at this, I can’t tell you who is man and woman every time.”
She looks directly at Draga. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Draga says, visibly trying not to laugh.
“Are you two on Pilgrimage?”
Zelda says in Gerudo.
“Oh! Your accent is so pretty!”
Rima exclaims, clutching her hands to her chin
. “You know Gerudo? That’s so amazing. No one knows our language! I’m so bad in Hylian. I say the wrong things.”
“You say the wrong things in every language,”
Taz snaps.
Zelda makes introductions and accepts compliments on her hair and, through the corner of her eye, watches Draga dismount and start going through his saddle bag. He pulls out a small wood box she’s never seen and what looks like a snowquill doublet and overcoat with a couple ridiculous hats. The hats are also snowquill, but twice as thick as normal with ear flaps that make her immediately regret not seeing him wear it. Draga inspects these items with a calm appraisal, then turns and holds them out to the older girl.
“You two should take these,” he says.
Rima bounces a little at her sister’s shoulder, peering as she takes the coats and opens the little wood box. “Oh. Pretty. What are they?”
“Are these warming stones?” says Taz, her eyes big.
Draga nods.
She looks up. “We can’t take these.”
“Sure, you can.”
“These are too valuable!”
“They aren’t worth a thing.”
“You’re lying!”
Draga looks mock hurt. “I’m sorry. We just met and you’re calling me a liar?”
Taz loses some of her cool worldliness to alarmed sputtering but Rima is already pulling on the snowquill doublet, and then the overcoat, patting it with warm brown hands and smoothing the thick material down. She admires its fit (a bit too large honestly, even with the doublet beneath) and spins around so the longer part flaps out around her. She can’t quite lower her arms to her sides on account of the layers.
“So warm!” she says, beaming from the gap in her scarf and hat.
“It’s standard gear, but high quality,” Draga says. “Don’t let anyone try to trade you for it. The doublet and warming stone should be enough to keep even Tabantha cold out. Don’t go without full gear once you hit the snowfield. The temperatures there are deadly if you’re not ready. Besides, I’ll hardly have use for it back in the desert.”
Link signs, onehanded to Zelda,
‘That gear is worth near its weight in gold.’
Zelda blinks, then signs,
‘What?’
‘Rito can only make so many snowquill pieces a year since they use molting feathers. And warming stones are usually ruby. That equipment is no joke.’
The girl with earmuffs is already pulling the warming stone from the box – an adjustable leather wrist-cuff into which a single small red stone is filigreed in with silver wire. The stone has to be flush to skin to transfer its effect, Zelda knows. Draga tells her so and shows her how to tie the bracer to ensure it can’t come off. Then he says earmuffs are inadequate against Tabantha cold and places the ridiculous hat on her head. Rima squeals in delight. Taz
tolerates
this new development like she knew it was coming.
Draga pulls the flaps of the hat down around her ears and frowns down at it with a kind of judicious pragmatism and vague fraternal concern that makes Zelda aware, suddenly, of herself and the fact she’s sitting on her horse watching her giant friend vaguely mother people on the road. Makes her aware of Link kind of grinning besides her and as Draga finishes tying the stupid hat on his fellow Gerudo, Zelda acknowledges her desire (familiar and strange simultaneously) to put her hand on one of them. Not in any way specifically, just to be in contact.
The woman on horseback, who up until now has said nothing, waits until the sisters have departed with elaborate promises of returning the favor one day that Draga clearly appreciates, but expects nothing of. The woman’s horse is shockingly beautiful, golden in color, perfectly groomed, and stands at disciplined attention until she, gently, taps her heels into the beast’s flanks. The sun catches on the painted kohl and red that lines her eyes. She smells faintly of jasmine and when she smiles, Zelda can see it in the way her eyes crinkle and she says…
“You can’t buy the love of the People, you know.”
Zelda, stunned, just stares.
Draga, however, seems unmoved, He sneers, actually, his lips curling back like a dog bares its teeth. “I wouldn’t pay shit for your affection.”
She smiles. Her voice is almost gentle, musical, even in Hylian. “Come now, isn’t it a difficult life to choose?”
“You don’t choose,” he says.
“Of course, you do,” she says, almost gently, almost affectionately. “I’ll show you if you like. It’s easy. Here tell me: What is your
real
name?”
Draga’s expression changes then – a scorching burn of rage like a flash-fire on clay, baking in a color. He gets darker, if possible, with the intensity, the totality, of his anger in that single moment but even through that heat, Zelda catches it – an undercurrent. A brief but violent glow of hurt. Then he speaks through his teeth.
“You should ride on.”
She’s still smiling behind the veil.
The woman kicks her horse forward a little, so the beautiful gold animal circles to his left.
“But don’t you want wisdom from a sister?”
she asks, continuing to circle when Draga holds his ground.
“I gave it to those girls, I’ll give it you. As if you were like them. The courtesy due your mothers at the least. Here’s my wisdom: Stay out here. Don’t go back. You’ll do much better where they don’t know shit about the People.”
Here, she looks directly at Zelda.
“Riju isn’t a little girl on the road with no jacket. She knows a shorthair heretic when she sees one.”
“Excuse me?” Zelda says in Hylian.
And the beautiful woman switches to Hylian just to clarify, “If you want to fuck a Gerudo, you should fuck a real one, girl.”
Link puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles.
He splits the air with that whistle, cracks it open with that sound. A piercing almost painful zipline of air, high and aggravating – cut with an impossible vibrato and quite without warning the beautiful woman’s horse throws its head, issues an equine scream, and
bolts
. The woman, clearly not expecting that, shrieks and flails forward, snatching the reins and hanging on as the mare gallops full speed, breakneck fast down the road. By the time she recovers she and her horse are a quarter mile away.
Link drops his hand. Zelda stares. Draga glares. Link just shrugs.
“How’d you do that?” Draga says, patting Arbiter on the nose. The massive stallion acts rather like it didn’t hear a thing.
Link nudges Epona off the road. “We’re behind schedule. We should go.”
Zelda looks at Draga. “Are you alright?”
He mounts up. “Of course.”
“Why would she say something like that?”
Draga looks at her. His expression so neutral it makes a momentary statue of him. “Link’s right. We should try to gain ground before it gets much darker. This area isn’t safe at night.”
Zelda thinks about the flight pattern of birds, the mating habits of poisonous frogs, the sexual dimorphism between the male and female of a certain species of lizard, and the precise balance of the smile that touched Draga’s mouth when he tied that stupid hat on Taz’s head. She nods and follows her companions off the beaten path and they head into the wilds at the foot of the mountain range beyond, toward the uneven ridges that mark Draga’s homeland.
“That’s too much salt.”
“You said add more salt.”
“Not that much.”
“I can’t un-salt something, Link.”
There’s a silence.
“No. I’m not taking cooking critique where you spell things for me in Sign.”
“Add a little more of everything.”
“How about you give better instructions and we won’t have this problem?”
“How about you don’t dump too much salt in my salmon risotto and we won’t have this problem?”
“Never mind. Go back to not speaking.”
Zelda looks up from the bow in her lap – recurve composite, Gerudo make, one of Link’s spares dug from the vast and confusing depths of his enchanted travel pack. It feels warm and familiar in her hands. The wood curved like the dip of a hipbone. She watches her compatriots. Link is hovering and peering over his shoulder with a kind of bland anxiety that’s specific to food. Draga is glaring at him for it. She goes back to what she was doing because she explicitly warned Draga not to try and help Link cook. He gets weird about it. So, this his bed to lie in.
She smooths her fingers up and down the shape of the bow, fitting her fingers to the leather grip at the center, feeling again and again a vague sensation of reflex. Of want. It’s one of the lightest in Link’s arsenal at a thirty-five-pound draw – just enough pull to down an opponent if she puts some intention to it. The bowstring lays coiled in her lap, tacky, wrapped in wax paper.
“Could you back up?” Draga says.
Link does not do that.
“I need you to back up.”
Link kind of makes a face and Draga picks up the entire plate of spare ingredients from the grass and shoves it into his arms. “That’s it. I’m done You are like…” He says something in Gerudo that Zelda thinks is slang, but translates like ‘a jackal in heat’ or something to that effect. “I hate fish anyway.”
Link looks offended.
Draga leaves him there looking offended and comes to join Zelda. “You going to string that?”
“I’m trying to remember how.”
“I can show you.”
“No. I’m trying to
remember
.”
He frowns, then realizes. “Oh.” He crouches down in front of her, inspecting the weapon in her hands with a thoughtful reconsideration. “What is that like? Trying to remember something that didn’t happen in this life?”
“Like I’m remembering something I did in a dream,” Zelda says, carefully unspooling the bowstring from the wax paper. “I can ignore it if I want. What I remember in a dream does not confuse me. I am never uncertain about what I have done and what has been done by my predecessors.” She hooks the top of the string into the notch at the bottom of the bow. “Often, it’s not memory at all. Just a feeling. Indistinct.” She stops here to stand up, bracing the bottom of the bow against the ground just outside her right boot with the curve hooked up hugging the back of her left thigh, set diagonally between her legs. “It’s nothing specific. Just…”
Draga waits. “Want a hint?”
“No… I know this. I…” She grips the top curve of the bow and pushes it down like a lever forward, the body of bow bending against her leg. This gives her just enough time to hook the string into the top notch. She releases the tension and the line goes taut. “Ha!” She steps her leg out of the freshly strung bow and presents it to Draga. “It’s like muscle memory!”
Draga tilts his head. “Well, if it’s muscle memory, Princess, maybe we should try some target practice.”
She falters a moment. “Oh… well I could try.”
Draga fetches his own quiver from their equipment, taking long enough that she begins to regret her decision. She fully regrets it by the time he hands her the first arrow. He waits. Clearly not intending to help her figure it out whatsoever.
Nervous now, Zelda readjusts her grip on the bow in her left hand, awkwardly sliding her hand down the arrow from the middle of its length to the feather-fletched end. The feel of it sends a vague blush of familiarity through her. She closes her eyes. She imagines… fitting the bolt to the string, drawing it back. A compound movement, pushing the bow away and drawing the line back, high at first, then lining up. Mathematical. Precise. Her line of sight focuses and – she opens her eyes.
Draga is peering down at her, waiting and curious.
She shoves the arrow back at him, a sick well suddenly in the back of her throat.
“Never mind. I don’t want to practice this.”
Draga blinks a little owlishly. “Why not?”
“I just don’t want to. The draw weight is too heavy for me anyway.”
“How would you know unless you tried?” Draga says, his brow rising slightly.
“I… I just would rather not.”
He takes the arrow.
“Is this because you said you thought about killing me?” And when Zelda goes ramrod stiff, petrified, he scratches his chin and says, “Your dream-mind notwithstanding, if you think you can kill me, it’s going to take more than an arrow, Princess.”
She sputters, horrified. “I would never –!”
“Then there’s no reason not to learn this,” Draga interrupts.
He offers her the arrow again. When she does not immediately take it back and, instead, stands there frozen, he says, quietly, “It would be useful if you learned this.” A beat. “Relearn it.” Another beat. “Whichever it is. I barely follow you two when you talk about these things.”
“Draga…”
He steps forward and with an old archer’s ease, he fits three fingers beneath her left elbow and lifts her bow arm to a proper height. He nocks the arrow to the string for her, his fingers momentarily fitting hers to the line.
“Just draw,” he says.
Eventually, after a long moment, she draws.
It’s like taking a breath.
“Hm,” he says.
“What’s ‘hm’?”
“You have a long pull.” He moves out of her line of sight, behind her. “You draw all the way past your ear.”
“This feels right. Is that bad?” she asks, maintaining her stance, aiming indistinctly at the trees.
“Not necessarily,” he says. She can feel the shrug. “Your footwork is good. How does it feel?”
“Familiar.”
“It should.” His mouth is suddenly very close to her ear. “I saw you shoot at that dragon.”
A shiver runs down her spine and coils in Zelda’s stomach. A murmur enters her heart, but before she can react, he loops his quiver belt around her hips, drawing it tight. He’s kneeling behind her to do this, his hands occasionally bracing against her hip as he fits it. He’s not gentle exactly, tugging at the strap with a utilitarian strength she might expect if he were tacking Arbiter for the road. It forces her to brace. She looks over her shoulder to glare at him, but when she turns her head, he looks calmly up at her from where he’s kneeling. The fire light illuminates one side of his face, painting a gold heat into the high plane of his cheekbone and –
She immediately faces forward again, suddenly very aware of his hands against her hip.
He finishes adjusting the quiver and stands up.
“There’s a knot in that oak. Think you can hit it?”
She squints down the shaft, the bowstring digging into her fingers as she holds the tension and… she relaxes. She lowers the bow with the arrow still nocked to the string and turns at the hips to look up at Draga.
“Why did that woman speak to you like that on the road today?”
Draga blinks. “This is an obvious delaying tactic.”
“It’s an honest question.”
Draga thinks about it. “When you were learning Gerudo, you were taught the importance of gendered conjugation in our language, yes? That our pronouns delineate Gerudo as its own gender category. Then non-Gerudo women and men.” When he gets a small nod from her, he goes on. “Naboorian dialects are the only Gerudo dialects that allow for Gerudo-specific male modifiers at all and that dialect is not widely spoken. So, in effect, my own language does not properly allow for my existence.”
Zelda’s brows lift in surprise. “The dialect you speak… it’s an offshoot?”
“A slight variant. But yes. My family spoke it, but not many outside the Highlands do.”
She hesitates, then admits, “I honestly thought that Gerudo-specific conjugation was gender indifferent until I met you.”
He shrugs. “Our most common conjugation structures evolved without distinction. Hardly unnatural, but it’s also why that woman said what she said. If I have used any modifiers other than Naboorian – then she wouldn’t, perhaps, have spoken up.” He pauses a moment, thinking. “I have had more fights with Gerudo over my dialect than any other moral disagreement.”
“Why?”
“It’s very hard for the narrow-minded to ignore me when I speak Naboorian Gerudo.” He smiles a little, but it’s a brittle baring of teeth. “It’s subtle. Outside of my own dialect, if I wanted to specifically delineate myself as a man… I would have to linguistically separate myself from being a Gerudo.”
Zelda shakes her head. “Why don’t I know this?”
“You’re Hylian,” he says, shrugging. “Also, you were fighting Calamity Ganon so I hardly fault you for not being finely aware of the societal riffs among my people. Now, are you going to shoot that bow or do you want a grammar lesson?”
“Well…”
Draga waits.
“Oh, very well. I will
try
.”
Draga smiles.
Zelda turns back to her target. After a moment’s consideration, she draws a second arrow, hooking the feathered end into the loop of her pinkie finger while she sets the first arrow to the line – both shots held ready now in her right hand. She breathes. She thinks – not of the desert. No. Not the desert. Something else. Like… like standing in a long yard. She imagines her hair shorn short for battle, her fingers callused and scarred. Zelda draws. Aims. Releases the shot. Flips the next bolt over her knuckles and sets it to the line. Pulls. Fires.
When she lowers the bow, two arrows stand quivering from the mouth of the hollow, clustered at the head.
“Huh,” says Draga.
“That’s a Sheikah’s draw,” says Link.
Zelda blinks, her heart-pounding elation -- alien and effervescent, like she’s stealing it from another world entirely – subverted by the frank certainty the statement. Link is no longer cooking by the fire. He’s standing with Draga, watching, arms folded. The campsite smells of salmon risotto. Link’s hair catches bits of gold in the fire light, Draga beside him lit in copper. She blinks again at the peculiar mirror they make of one another, both peering at her with identical looks of intrigue.
Link points. “The way you bring it up, pull past your ear, and sight. The reload method. It’s Sheikah.” He shrugs, then signs,
‘I don’t know how to shoot like that. It’s one of the most challenging styles I know of.’
“Oh…” Zelda looks uncertainly to Draga, who just shrugs, then back to Link. “Really?”
He nods and she feels a strange dissociation, staring at her own fingers.
She shakes it off. “Okay, so I use a Sheikah draw? Is that bad? What style do you use, Link?”
Draga interrupts immediately, at volume, “Link shoots with his wrist out and some bizarre pinch and draw I’ve never seen and it’s appalling. Do not do what he does or ask for his advice.”
Link shrugs. “It a Zora draw.”
“It’s
what
?”
“I trained with Zora when I was younger,” he says blandly. “They shoot that way to keep their fins out of the line. I didn’t know that when I was a child.”
Draga stares. “So you shoot weird because you’re too lazy to retrain yourself?”
Link shrugs again.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Link says, “Dinner’s ready,” and walks back to the fire. Rather like nothing of great surprise occurred, leaving Zelda and Draga to stare after him.
Zelda shoulders the bow for a moment. “Draga… thank you for telling me all that.”
“You both deserve to know before I take you into it.”
“Can I ask one more thing?”
“Of course.”
“Why did she ask for your ‘real name’?”
He looks at her, a little surprised, then says, “Only demons have many names.”
Zelda blinks. “What?”
“Do you not say that in Hylian?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh.” He ponders this, rubbing his neck like there’s a knot there, his other arm folded across his stomach. “I’m not sure how to say it in Hylian, Names have power in the desert. Saying I have the wrong name...”
Zelda lays a hand on his arm, drawing his hand down. He looks at her.
“You know that we prefer you as you are, right?”
He stares at her. A strange expression. Like he hadn’t seen her properly or the dark made odd shadows in her face. “Thank you, Zelda.”
“Always.”
Zelda wakes to Link’s hand on her arm.
It’s still dark. She can hear crickets in the forest. Even the embers of their fire are dark.
Link’s face is just barely discernable in the moonlight, the blanket having fallen off his shoulder when he rolled over to wake her. He says nothing, but she knows what’s wrong. She crawls carefully over her knight, bare feet sinking into gap between their sleeping pads, fingers bracing against the mess of bedding. She can feel dew on the fur Link pulls over the top, strictly to keep the dampness off the wool.
Draga, lying next to Link, is breathing too fast. Keeps jerking involuntarily. Half-formed words escaping him in quiet suppressed bursts, like someone has a hand on his throat. He’s on his side, spine curled slightly forward, arms drawn close to his chest, like he’s cold… or like he’s trying to clutch his throat in his sleep and can’t. Zelda lays a hand over his brow and a faint gold light wells gently in her fingers. Link’s eyes – suddenly visible, blue, holding the glow in a way that defies what she knows about illumination – meet hers.
Eventually, the tension leaves Draga’s limbs. His hands unclench and the faint, pained tension in his features smooths away to unconscious neutrality. For another minute she sits there, her hand against his head and Link’s chin against her shoulder. She listens to them breathing until, vaguely, she realizes they’re breathing together and Link’s fallen asleep against her. They won’t mention it in the morning.
A reminder: Link doesn’t look dangerous until he is.
Lake Alumeni lies shining at the foot of the Gerudo Highlands. An icy wellspring of water wreathed by a copse of apple and evergreen trees, knotted with heather and long grass. The grass gives way to a sandy slope of shore before the lake’s edge and it’s there, under the dying sunlight, Link does as Draga asked of him. Namely: be very dangerous for a while.
He’s crouched, waiting, sword in hand.
He says, calmly, ““You won’t beat me without magic.”
Draga, knotting anther bandage around his forearm, snarls, “I know, you tiny
bastard
.”
Link doesn’t smile.
The lackadaisical courtesy of previous sparring sessions has gone, replaced with mercenary indifference – the blank, blue-eyed battle stare that is precursor, Zelda knows, to terrible violence. That’s the face he wears now. Apathetic as physics when he puts an impossible bend in the universe and uses it to smash his friend to the ground. Repeatedly. Viciously. Trying to draw out an response. Even the blunt edge of the sparring sword does the job – laying a ragged road of bruises and shallow cuts down Draga’s arms. Leaving him panting, laved in sweat and sticky with blood. IT’s been hours.
The air stinks with like live current. Link’s breath like the air before a lightning strike. There’s a storm in his eyes when he’s like this. Zelda almost forgot.
“Ready?” he says.
Draga thinks about it. Then nods.
Link hits him instantly. The blade sings with the blow and Draga lunges back. He swings a massive blow at Link’s flank, but he just pivots, ducks the side slash, and smashes his elbow into Draga’s back as he goes past. Draga hits the ground rolling and comes up instantly. Draga attacks. Fast. He’s still so
fast
, even now, but Link is always that much faster. He deflects the blow, pivots, and comes up slashing, sword ringing when it slams into Draga’s. It puts a terrible vibrato into the metal, driving the bigger man back but Link does not stop. Doesn’t slow an iota.
He presses the exchange with a merciless speed, the entire time saying, “No,” and “C’mon!” and “I’m going to
kill
you, if you don’t get this!”
(Zelda tells herself he doesn’t mean that. It’s a tactic. It’s just talk.) But he doesn’t stop.
Draga’s breathing hard. He tries to catch his balance. Link keeps coming. Link gets past his guard, strikes a glancing blow to his head. Draga keeps his feet, but only just and Link lays open another bleeding line against wrist, his thigh, his hip – Draga flinches and that’s when the lake shore shivers. Draga is already swinging when it happens. He brings the blade down and the impact is Lynel-like, buckling Links arm and spinning him around.
This time, the metal does not howl. It eats the impact and the air around him becomes heat-smeared, mirage-like. When he steps forward, small pebbles on the ground begin to shiver and jump as if caught in the gravity of a localized star. The surfaces of the lake ripples, a barometric shiver in the air displacing the mirror shine.
But Draga’s thrown his sword down.
He stands there, stock still, his hands clenched in front of him. Eyes closed. Breathing too fast.
Link, seeing this, steps back and lowers his blade.
“Control it,” Link says loudly. “Focus!”
“What the hell… do you think… I’m doing?”
His eyes take on a shine – glowing internally, red – usually a controlled burn, steady as the embers in a blacksmith’s forge. Now, she can see the erratic pulse of it, like someone is inexpertly pumping bellows into the forge, throwing sparks and heating the interior too fast, too much. He shakes his head. He breathes too fast.
Zelda steps in.
She’s got her hands around Draga’s wrists, then around the back of his neck. It’s like grabbing a burning skillet from a flame. She can feel the heat hissing against the thin golden shell that paints her skin, like heat crackling in water. She pulls his forehead down to hers and pushes that golden light through her palms into the muscles in the back of his neck where it travels like water down a wall, dousing his skin where it touches.
He's gasping. “I can’t breathe…”
“You can breathe. Breathe when I breathe.”
Draga’s breath is hot against her face, but it’s cooling. She feels the resistance start to give, like trying to dam water with your hands then letting it go. He lets her pour out light, running over his skin, into his skin and evaporating on contact. And in the same breath she can feel the… depth he was talking about, like a house that’s bigger on the inside, the vast space into which she is pouring herself with no hope of filling. The void that dragons opened inside him. But even so, Draga’s skin feels human again. When he breathes, there’s gold in it.
She pushes, carefully, another dose of sunlight against his skin and he twitches, shivering.
“It’s like a ocean moving around you,” she murmurs. “Like a river. You can direct part of the flow, but you can’t control it. Do you feel it?” She breathes slowly, speaks calmly. “You have to let go or you’ll drown. Every time.”
“It’s like you have your hand in my chest,” he says, surprising her.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“It’s okay. You’re not losing control.”
“That’s not what I meant, either.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
Zelda doesn’t recognize the way he’s looking at her. But at the same time, she knows it exactly. There’s gold on her tongue when she kisses him. There it is again – that dirty copper taste, like swallowing a coin. Like warming a spoon with her mouth. Her fingers close in his hair, her nails dragging on his scalp and when she finally pulls away, the air is calm around them. No longer boiling where they touch. Nevertheless, she feels hot. Her fingers against his neck pulsing, her heartbeat in her hands and in her stomach and she feels dizzy, like her head is filled with vapor.
She pulls away.
Draga shivers. “Thank you.” He looks at Link. “Both of you.”
Link joins them. The alien battle blank edge resolved into a kind of wry concern. He wipes sweat from his face with his sleeve, managing a small smile and a shrug that says, without sign or sound, ‘
Whatever it takes.’
“Honestly,” Draga says again. “This would be much harder on my own. I’m glad I’m not this time.”
“Of course,” Zelda says emphatically. “I said you could rely on us and I mean it. I do. We’re going to figure this out together. We’re going to figure out the nature of this new magic. We’re going to go with you back to the Gerudo. We’re going to move forward.” She smiles. She doesn’t’ know why – overwhelmed suddenly by an excess of happiness. Or hope. She hadn’t been aware she lacked that before. “I have every confidence. I really do.”
Link taps her shoulder.
“Hmm?”
He cups her jaw and draws her into a kiss, tilting her head and his tongue is salt and milk in her mouth. Her heart races. A dizzy delight rising in her throat and she giggles a little. For some reason, Link seems to like that, and the way he’s kissing her becomes a little feral, his fingers knotting in her hair, his teeth just barely catching against her lip and rather without meaning too, a small moan rises in her throat. High and broken and Link immediately pulls back. Red in the face.
“Sorry,” he says, stepping back.
“What for?” says Draga, arms folded, looking a little disappointed.
Link blushes harder. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Why not?” Zelda says, a little punch drunk.
Draga laughs. “You’re allowed, you know.”
Link hesitates. Then, rather like he’s repeating a question, he moves toward them again. He looks between them. She can tell he’s trying to figure out the best tactical execution here. Draga just rolls his eyes, bends down, and lays a hand against Link’s jaw.
“For someone who clearly knows what they’re doing,” he says, “you embarrass easy.”
Link gets redder. “Got to hell,” he says, but in the wrong tone of voice.
Draga smiles.
Zelda notices the back of his left hand is brushing her bare wrist.
“Maybe later,” he 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
What died didn't stay dead
What died didn't stay dead
You're alive, you're alive in my head
What died didn't stay dead
What died didn't stay dead
You're alive, so alive
--Marjorie,
Taylor Swift
Peter’s shrink is Captain America.
He can’t quite decide if that’s amazing or awkward. Most of the time it fits somewhere squarely between the two, which is a lot like healing, he learns.
Tony had mentioned therapy a couple of times, but he insists after Peter wakes up the whole house screaming bloody murder from the ceiling. Tony has to poke him with a broom handle to wake him up from the nightmare. “I’m not equipped to deal with this,” he mutters under his breath, but Peter hears, and the last thing he wants is for Tony to give up on him. So he agrees to talk to someone.
Trouble is just
thinking
of telling anyone else that Peter Parker and Spider-Man are one and the same sends him into a panic attack. It doesn’t matter how ironclad Tony swears the NDA will be. Peter thinks of his face plastered across every screen in Times Square and he breaks down. He just can’t.
And then Sam Wilson waltzes through the lake house door.
“This is the squirt that stole Steve’s shield?” the newly minted Captain America says, arms crossed and head tilted, looking thoroughly un-impressed.
(Peter has seen the youtube video of Mr. Wilson’s speech about believing everyone can be better, and he’s more than a little impressed.)
“That’s me,” Peter squeaks, feeling a little betrayed, but Tony is nowhere to be seen.
“You’ve got some moves, kid. And a big mouth.”
The Falcon had never known who Spider-Man was, so nothing’s missing. Peter warms at the praise, but it’s the shared experience that really buoys him.
“Congrats on the promotion, sir. I think it’s really cool that Captain American can fly now.”
Sam stares at him for a second, as if he’s trying to figure out if that’s a joke or an insult, when really Peter was just trying to be sincere. “I’m not actually a therapist. I want to make that clear. But I know a thing or two about PTSD, and this superhero life, and Stark sounded really desperate on the phone so I said I’d help him out.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Drop the sir, kid. The name’s Sam.”
Peter holds out his hand. “Peter.”
Sam’s grip is firm. His eyes are weary. But his smile, when Peter can drag it out of him, is kind.
Sam is easy to talk to. He asks all the right questions, and even though some of his responses sting, they are always fair. It’s easier to tell Sam about the panic attacks. About the nightmares he had long before the spell, of everyone leaving, everyone dying, half the universe turning to dust and it is all his fault.
Tony takes everything personally. That makes him overreact. He paces and swears and sometimes he tears up, which is the absolute worst. Peter hates to see Tony upset, so he keeps things to himself, except in his bi-weekly sessions with Sam, who is always calm and impartial and full of good advice about what things he should tell Tony anyway, and which are okay not to mention.
In their third session Peter tells Sam about the dark thoughts. All the times he plummeted a bit too far and contemplated not releasing a web to catch himself. The time he held a whole bottle of aspirin and wondered if it would kill him if he took them all. How he was going to let himself die impaled on a rusty pole if Rhino hadn’t been such an asshole. How he’d been bleeding out, moments before Tony found him, and all he’d felt was relief.
How sometimes even at the lake house, when everything is so extraordinarily better than it once was, he wakes up and the thoughts are still there. When all he can think is that he doesn’t deserve to be here, ruining Tony’s life, when he killed May and almost killed his friends and broke reality and he shouldn’t steal Morgan’s father and put her whole family at risk. It would be so much better for the Starks if he just filled his pockets with rocks and walked out into the lake.
Peter thinks telling Tony about those thoughts would be worse than actually acting on them. But Sam stays neutral as he listens. He says these thoughts are understandable, given everything Peter’s been through. That overcoming depression is a process. It’s not like flipping a switch, where one day he’s sad and the next day he’s happy. It’s like climbing out of a pit, and sometimes he might slide down a few rungs, but that’s okay as long as he just keeps climbing.
Peter’s not going to let go of that rope. Because his days are more good than bad now, and every day he does feel a bit more like his old self. Sam’s helping him see that it’s okay to want that. That it’s healthy to be a little selfish sometimes.
Like admitting how much he enjoys the time he gets to spend with Tony, just the two of them. He adores Morgan, and Pepper’s great and very tolerant of the fact her husband has just emotionally adopted a teenager she cannot remember—and legally wants to adopt one that does not legally exist. But Peter loves the hours he and Tony spend in the lab, when Morgan’s at school and Pepper’s at work and it’s like the old days, after the internship became real, except with more casual pats on the back, and more … feelings. More validation and fond looks and less worry that Mister Stark is going to get tired of him. They make him a new suit, one that incorporates his brothers’ designs but also will, you know, stop bullets cause Mister Stark thinks that’s important. But they also work on a new coating for Tony’s bionic arm – one that looks and feels and acts more like skin. Tony admits he’s been putting it off but Peter has so many ideas and even though they haven’t quite figured it out yet they are getting close.
Peter likes the idea of giving Tony back a piece of himself. Not that he’s any less-than with the metal arm. It feels different, yes, a little cold and strange, but it’s so much better than no arm at all and he can do everything he used to before and also he’s alive, so those are clearly more important. But if Peter can help him, even in this little way. Well, that feels like payback for everything the man has done for him. Which Tony insists isn’t necessary. But he has spent several million dollars on Peter with all the Spider-Manning, and that total is about to go way up with four years at MIT.
Peter also likes those rare nights when Morgan goes to bed at a reasonable hour and Pepper excuses herself to do CEO things and Tony asks Peter what he wants to watch. The second time it happens he can’t make up his mind but then Tony suggests Star Wars and stretches his arm along the back of the couch. And Peter nods, and before long he’s tucked into Tony’s side, a soft, bright red blanket draped around them both. Peter knows Tony tolerates Star Wars, but doesn’t love it, because they’d worked their way through all the movies together before the Blip. But he still discusses the physics of light sabers and the politics of the Empire without even once making Peter feel silly or stupid. Just like he hadn’t, all those years ago, when Peter had been so self-conscious and desperate to please. Peter thinks that might have been when things started to shift between them, all those popcorn and movie filled Friday nights.
Though they’d never been this close, literally curled up together. Tony had always made it clear that he preferred his space. Now he’s constantly inviting Peter into it. And Peter is drawn like a magnet, despite Sam’s warnings of things like co-dependence. Despite the knowledge that in five months he may be in Boston, hundreds of miles away from a man who has far better things to do than to coddle him.
But for now, when he offers, Peter can’t help but take him up on it. Because when he’s this close to Tony, all the frantic voices in his head just … quiet. He stops worrying about what came before or what comes next or how much of a burden he is or how he’s not supposed to feel that way anymore. He listens to Tony’s heartbeat and just breathes.
And he’s okay. For at least a little while, he’s absolutely, 100% okay.
“You’re a really good dad, Tony,” Peter says as the credits roll. He doesn’t let himself add, “To Morgan” even though something inside him wants to, because that’s true but it isn’t what he means.
He’s working on calling him Tony, because the man is insistent. It’s still a little awkward, but Peter is trying. He’s pretty sure by the time he gets the hang of it he’ll be ready to call him something else. He’s already on the precipice, just waiting for the nerve to jump.
“I try,” Tony answers, a little bit flippant, like it’s a joke, because humor is his default response to vulnerability. But then he pauses, and he looks down at Peter, and there is something raw and open in his gaze. “Thanks.”
There are a million things Peter wants to say, and Tony deserves to hear them all. But tonight he just presses himself a little closer, their breathing and hearts in sync. “Anytime.”
“How was your session today?” Tony asks a few days later.
He used to ask, “Are you okay?” each and every time, until Sam made Peter explain that question itself set unhelpful expectations. Because okay is a spectrum, and not being okay didn’t mean failure. Peter had stammered through the entire explanation, absolutely mortified, but Tony’s been much more careful since.
“Sam thinks it would be good for me to have a funeral for May.”
Tony drops the pot of water he’d been filling into the sink, where it clangs and splatters. “There wasn’t a funeral for May?” he asks, his voice a whole octave too high.
“There was a funeral.” Peter thinks of that day, the church half full of all the people May had helped, and no one giving a second glance to the boy silently losing it in the back row.
It had been the day he’d considered taking the whole bottle of aspirin.
“Happy was there. He gave a nice speech. But no one knew who I was. So I couldn’t say anything.”
“Christ, Pete. I’m so sorry.”
“It sucked. A lot,” he acknowledges, cause Sam says it’s important to own his pain. To name it so he can move on.
Tony lays a wet, metal hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Do you want to have another funeral?”
Sam is always full of ideas, but Tony likes to hear what Peter thinks, and he appreciates that.
Peter’s been mulling it over for a few hours now. He’s worried about the dark thoughts and the lake and those moments when his body betrays him and all he can do is cry for hours. But it feels necessary. Feels … right. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“We can do it by the lake,” Tony suggests.
But Peter’s nose wrinkles.
“Or … not.”
The lake would be … fine. But the lake still reminds him of Tony’s superfluous funeral, and he doesn’t think staging another wake there will help him with those lingering thoughts of sinking to the bottom.
It’s more than that, though. Tony hadn’t been dead. It’s like if Anna and Elsa had found their parents camped out somewhere by that boat, just waiting for their daughters to find them. Tony’s current aliveness is a miracle. But it’s not something that will be repeated. He can’t have May’s funeral at the lake because then there will always be a part of him wondering when the universe will take back her death. And it won’t—it can’t—so that’s no way for him to live.
This funeral needs to be closure, not a way to hold on.
Because that’s what she’d want.
According to Sam. And Tony.
Peter still thinks that she’d rather just be alive, but that ship has sailed.
“I was thinking we could have it—at her grave. In the city.”
Peter’s been putting it off for a long time, but he thinks that it’s time to go back.
Tony nods once. “New York City it is.” His hand tightens on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, kid.”
Peter, Tony, and Happy gather at the cemetery on a Sunday afternoon. It’s the kind of glorious spring day which means Central Park is probably full, but the graveyard is mostly empty. It’s simply too beautiful a day to be sad.
Peter feels it though, itching at his neck like the brand new suit Tony insisted on buying him, which probably cost more than a year of rent for his crappy apartment.
But every other time he’d visited May it had felt like trying to hold that ferry together. Like the grief might literally tear him apart.
He can handle a little itch.
It certainly helps to have Tony and Happy by his side, each with a bracing hand on his shoulder. He’s used to visiting May on his own. The time he’d run into Happy had been the worst—to witness the man’s shared grief and yet be asked how he had known May.
He had tried to comfort Happy. When Peter had told him that what May stood for would live on he’d been talking about all the good Spider-Man could do. But that night he’d gotten shot up in a drug bust and he’d considered not digging the bullets out, laying collapsed in the alley for hours before he finally dragged himself home.
But today Morgan and Pepper are waiting for him back home, and Tony and Happy are here, and there is nothing in Peter that does not want to see tomorrow.
He pulls the notecard out of his pocket. This one is not as worn, though just as tear-stained as the one on which he’s scrawled the speech he’d never been brave enough to give to Ned and MJ.
“May Parker was an extraordinary woman,” he starts. Happy does a fine job trying to hide his sniffle, but Peter hears it anyway, just like he hears the way his heart goes out of rhythm. But Tony is steady, and Peter clears his throat. “She cared about everyone. Whether it was the homeless guy walking into a shelter for the first time or a new mother with a screaming baby in the emergency room or her six-year-old nephew that got dropped on her doorstep. She even cared about people who made mistakes, who society labeled as bad guys. She thought everyone deserved a second chance. That anyone could be saved.”
He pauses, and he can’t help but remember her in the lobby of Happy’s apartment. He doesn’t want to remember her that way, all dusty and bruised and dying.
Except –
She’d been so strong. Pulling herself to her feet. Joking about getting knocked on her ass. Making sure Peter was okay.
Telling him he’d done the right thing.
“We all have gifts. Powers, so to speak. May thought it was our responsibility to use them to help others. The more we had, the more we should give. She lived that way and she died that way. And if everyone who knew her remembers to live that way, then she won’t really be gone. She’ll just keep on helping people.” He feels the tears then, burning his eyes, but he lets them fall. “That’s what she wanted.”
He clears his throat, feeling the emotion swell, but he has to keep going because he isn’t finished yet. It isn’t enough. “May had a beautiful singing voice and she burned everything she tried to cook. Her whole life got upended when the world found out I was Spider-Man and she never once got annoyed with me for it. She stood up to federal agents and she went on my coffee runs so I didn’t have to listen to people insult me when I stood in line. And she was such a good Mom even though I never called her that and she didn’t let me fall apart when Ben died and I know they’re together now so—” He sobs once, and then he blows as much of the pain out on the exhale as he can manage. He’s never been religious but he believes in an afterlife. Maybe that’s just because everyone leaves him. Because he can’t function without telling himself that one day he will see all the people he loves again. But he knows May and Ben are together now, and it helps. It had been hard for her when Ben was gone, but she’d carried on the best she could.
Now Peter has to carry on.
“I loved her so much and I will never forget what she taught me. It isn’t fair that she’s gone. But she always used to say that life wasn’t fair, life was what you made of it. So it’s up to us now to make it a good life.”
Then there’s nothing left on the card. As it flutters to the ground Tony is there, wrapping him in a bear hug. “You did good, Pete. You did so good.”
And Peter cries, because the grief has taken hold and he owes it to May to let it out. But he knows it too.
And then Happy is talking, and Peter misses half of it but he pulls out of Tony’s embrace so he can grab Happy’s shoulder and hang on. Tony gets the hint and grabs the other one, and they support Happy until he’s said his piece.
Then Peter retrieves the flowers he’d picked out—sunflowers and tiger lilies—just as vibrant as May had always been. He sets them carefully in front of the grave and then drops down beside them—and maybe his knees give out or maybe he meant to do it, he isn’t sure.
“I miss you so much and I’m sorry,” he chokes. And it hurts and it hurts and it hurts but it’s not killing him any longer. For a moment he can see them, May and Ben, hand and hand, looking down at him, and it’s like pushing a parking garage off his chest. The lack of pressure is so foreign it almost hurts. He reaches out and traces the indentation on her headstone. She could get a little worked up at times, but she had always steadied him when it had really mattered. “I lost my way for a little while there, May. But I’m back on track now. I’m gonna take care of myself and I’m gonna let other people help me and I won’t forget that helping other people isn’t weakness, it’s strength.” His fingers drift down to the dates cut into the stone. “We saved them all, May. Even … even the Green Goblin. I didn’t want to but I did and MJ and Ned helped and also … I met a couple of other Peters, from different universes. And they both lost people too but they kept on going and we cured everyone and sent them all home. You would have liked to meet them. They would have liked to meet you.” He breathes deeply, trying to clear the gunk from this throat, and wipes the back of his hand across his face. “It was a crazy night. And I broke some promises but I’m going to fix that too.”
He knows it’s almost time. He is going to have to stand on his own two feet again, and keep on standing, no matter what. “Thank you, May. Thank you for teaching me right from wrong. Thanks for always being there. Thanks for loving me.”
He takes it all in for one last time. He wishes he hadn’t had to flee from the police. Wishes he could have held her just a little longer. They should have had so much time. But the only thing in his control, Sam says, is how you react to the cards you’ve been given.
“You don’t have to worry about me, May. I’m going to be all right.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them he has a better answer. “Better than all right. Amazing even. I’m gonna soar.” He shifts the flowers, pushing them just a little bit closer. “I’ll come see you before I leave for Boston. Bye for now.”
He goes to push himself up and sees movement in his peripheral vision. Tony is there, hand outstretched, and Peter grabs it and finds himself swept into Tony’s arms. “You’re incredible, kid,” he whispers, and the kiss he drops on Peter’s temple is almost fierce. “I am so damn proud of you, and I know May is too. She couldn’t have asked for a more amazing son.”
Then Tony pivots, Peter still clutched to his side.
“I’m going to take good care of our kid, May. I promise you that. Thank you for trusting me with him before I even trusted myself. I won’t let you down.”
They stand there for a while, until the tears dry, and Happy hands out handkerchiefs, and Peter hugs him tightly and whispers, “You really were a handsome couple.”
Once they’re all less of a mess Tony suggests they clean out Peter’s apartment.
But Peter looks out towards the city, and then he looks back at May’s grave. He knows what she’d want him to do.
“Actually, I could really use a cup of coffee.”
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 have gorged themselves on the carcass, brains grown fat on God’s juices, the scholars get back to work.
They are steadfast in ignoring the prospectors who, at the fringe of what one might have called a beach, welcome their peers and the horse-drawn cart just arrived. They light pipes or chew tobacco, they trade jokes and punch at each other’s shoulders. Manly greetings, sulks the thinker-boy, the sort to remind him of army men, all muddy coats for uniforms. It’s easier staring at them than at the corpse not far laying, gouged open by hungry hands. He’d not too much balked when seeing Gehrman and his crew come back a-bloodied the day before. Nor does he when his knife makes to slice at some wretch bound for the charnel lane. Yet something about the mass of gelatinous flesh, out of shape and desecrated, disturbs him. Perhaps because he has seen its face, looked for its eyes and not found them. This thing less-than-living and more-than-immense, he takes it in, he drinks it as saltwater. It makes him sick.
He throws a peek over his shoulder, hoping for Laurence, and finds him livid, in debate with his master— instead has to clutch at the sight of Rom’s red hair, second best of his bearings, even though the idea of her God-bloodied mouth has bothered him not an hour past. Others share that same disquiet he feels plastered on their faces, people he knows or doesn’t: a girl-student about to be ill, a fresh-faced prospector’s apprentice, even the mapmaker who’d laughed round the fire. Little to laugh at now but their own expectations. Micolash thinks he would have been relieved to find an ordinary whale beached there, after all. Sometimes the world as you know it can surprise you. But that twist of curiosity making knots of his guts, he does not altogether dislike it.
Eating God is one thing, studying it another.
And so he rejoins the circle of scholars, his boots soft-silent on that spread of wet sand. It is not unlike standing round the operating table in the university’s theatre, where the anatomist and her knives reign supreme. She kneels before the dead whale that is not a whale, now, caring not for the dirt that clings to her sleeves, her pinstriped knees. He blinks at the pinpoint of sun catching a long, slender blade in her grip, which she does not yet raise to cut. If anything she seems placated— not every savant knows to take their own ignorance in stride. She clutches at that shiny omen, like a slash of steel across her blue brocade waistcoat, and says nothing.
Next to her the sailor-loving biologist thumbs at his gold-rimmed monocle, sort of thin glass eye drinking in the light. He wears an expensive shirt and whalebone cufflinks: he will not touch the corpse.
“I notice a swelling”, he mutters, “in a pocket beside the stomach.”
Micolash can see it, yes, if he cranes his neck right: a gibbose mound of silver-white, wet from saltwater and littered with algae scraps, drooping about as if strands of greendark hair. A strong, tinned-fish smell wafts all round (is it not too late to put what remains of God in a can?). Though the pouch’s surface is mostly smooth, he makes out a few uneven lumps and dreads to think it might be hints pointing to another, smaller God who had missed its chance at existence. He has long looked for God and not found it, and left the space where it should have fit comfortably vacant in recent years. He has not thought to ask himself,
could God be an animal,
even less to question its means of entry into the world. Perhaps the universe is not without its sense of humour. God is a whale, God is a fish; God is dead.
He realises that he alone is still on his feet, every other close-enough scholar now down on their knees, hands either caught twitching or keeping warm in their pockets. He is afraid of standing out, and so kneels with them who have partaken— is it a speck of silver blood, halfway dried on a surgeon’s lip? He forbids himself to shudder.
Too self-absorbed to notice, fingering his eye-glass, the biology professor pushes on.
“Whichever manner of creature it turns out to be, we can at least conclude the specimen is of the female persuasion. And in a very advanced stage of pregnancy. Of course, we will need to perform a thorough examination—”
“Better get on with it”, says another doctor, rummaging in his monogrammed gladstone bag as would some overeager slaughterman. “I hear fish can be quick to spoil.”
His knives shimmer there, in drab morning light, long flat lines of polished steel. Micolash’s hands shift in his coat pockets, clutching at blades also, not daring to draw them out for fear of having to make use of them in front of his betters; for fear of finding himself wanting. Instead his fingers curl tighter round their worn, well-cared-for handles, and he stares at the bubble of pregnant flesh as if itching to see it burst open. Never mind surgery: some things ought to happen on their own. But it is a known fact that birth cannot be given without life.
God has died with child, hence they will play at obstetrics. They will hold their knives to this capsized sea-mother whose hair is tentacles, whose skin pallid jelly, whose eyes are nowhere to be seen. He finds that he is looking for his mentor’s, and clings to them when they meet. She gives him a steady nod; a bead of sweat pearls there at her upper lip.
A moment the circle of scholars closes in on itself: who will do the honours? Some are rightfully subdued, such as flame-haired Rom whose grip on her knife has faltered. For all of her stony countenance she must still digest God, and perhaps finds it hard to swallow. Likewise the biologist licks at his cracked lips with a flat, colourless tongue, as if the idea had not quite occurred to him that he might have to sully his hands with more than eager sailors’ spend. In the midst of his seniors, the anatomist’s assistant knows he cannot assert himself, so lets those who hold the privilege squabble over the cosmos’s corpse, intent on giving the species their name. It lasts long enough for the eldest, a fifty-some surgeon who doubles as the recent heir to an obscure barony, to wave a slim, multiple-ringed hand and claim his idea of a birthright.
This is what it is coming to,
his father used to say,
Lords short of gambling money, playing at work.
Only no one protests, because it is said his Lordship has funded the whole undertaking by half, and so the youth does his best to hope he will prove worthy of the task.
There are murmurs rippling about as everyone takes their rightful place— qualified anatomists and naturalists at the forefront, of course, and their students looming at their shoulders— then those who trade other expertise for dilettante curiosity, such as archaeologist, cartographer, geologist— and, strangely, a handful of prospectors loitering a few steps back, hand-to-pistol, as if waiting for the corpse to pounce. Most of them are elsewhere occupied, discharging supplies and pitching tents, and no doubt only too happy to forgo butcher-work for a day.
When it does start, it is without preamble, dispensing with the customary pomp doctors enjoy in the theatre. Silence drapes over the assembly, heavy mantle, almost reverent. The surgeon’s knife draws a careful line at the centre point of the distended belly, his blade going slow and deep enough to split the flesh. A weak trickle becomes a steady drip, fluid clear and smelly oozing down the walls of bluish skin.
God’s waters,
thinks Micolash, rehearsing his glossary. Many wrinkle their noses, for they are not used to the stench of guts, and there is naught the sea breeze does to help. Even he who has witnessed dissections from a young age has to force himself still, lest he recoils away from the strong mingle.
His Lordship, despite his many rings, displays admirable fingerwork. Micolash knows his father would have approved of it, and it brings a new pang to his chest. There is little else he can admire besides technique, and wishes he could busy himself taking notes; he has left his pens and blank journals in a shack with the rest of his equipment. Thus he devours, hungry-like, each and every gesture as the doctor slowly spreads the two sides further apart.
“Dr. Stoker”, he mouths, not looking at Rom across the gaping maw, “retractors, if you would.”
Quickly she pulls them out of his bag, and with the assistance of another scholar sets to keep the wound open. Her assistant peers with world-wide eyes. He should not be surprised that the chasm is filled with an amalgam of pale offal, instead of the cruel copper-coin red he has learned to find warm, but still it takes him aback. This is the flesh of the dead, there is scant room for life— this is the flesh of God.
Do away with your assumptions,
father would have said,
in science they will not serve but hinder you.
Even the professors seem somewhat startled by what they are witnessing; more than one mouth hangs agape, suspended at the doctor’s hands. Only the baron Horn remains unmoved by his task, gathering at his fingertips all of his focus, a sheen of sweat wetting his high brow. The operation is a delicate one, Micolash notes, transfixed by the glistening silver of the creature’s blood. It lasts as long as any surgery he’s come to witness at school, if more subdued, silence only punctured by instructions and whispers hard to catch. Never has he seen such a rapt audience; never has he belonged to one.
God’s child, when it is pulled out of its mother’s womb, turns out to be nothing but a ball of wasted grey flesh, halfway formed into what might pass for the offspring of a woman and a fish. It has a head and the suggestion of uneven limbs, the sketch of a ribcage protruding from its middle, and not much else to identify. It has no eyes either, which unsettles the youth, and prompts him to ask himself:
if God cannot see us, then has it no means of judging us?
The question will come to haunt him for a while. Then it will be forgotten, for to reach the stars one has to stop worrying about where his feet will land.
Someone calls for the prospectors to bring a large jar in lieu of a bassinet. He bites his lip, knowing that this wrinkled, shapeless excuse of a fetus will drown in a bed of chemicals and gather dust in some private collector’s cabinet. Old Willem’s own, perhaps, which is said to house many an exotic curiosity. He wonders, idly, what name they will give it, and its mother, what name will be penned on a little label, when his attention is caught by an appendage sticking out of the thing’s belly, long and thin and by a thread hanging at the stillborn babe’s front.
It, too, is sticky with silver blood.
“What might this be?” asks an onlooker, fellow scholar but for the lacking medical expertise.
Rom weighs the thick, pungent strand with her metal stare. Even she, marble-hard as she may be, cannot help but wrinkle her nose in distaste.
“Its umbilical cord, I should think. Although it looks peculiar.” She runs her white thumb across its bumpy surface. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Are those
eyes
all over the wretched thing— do let me see—” pipes the biologist, adjusting his monocle, expensive shirt be damned.
“Surely not—”
“Gentlemen!” The lord-surgeon who has cut God open raises the jewelled hand which is still holding his long, silver-blooded knife. “A little decency. We are not a pack of beasts scrabbling for leftovers. Let us not forget protocol.” He snaps his fingers at his aide, a boy younger even than Micolash, and more skittish if possible. “Please, do fetch me a jar.”
“Right away, m’lord.”
Swiftly the container is brought over. Then Rom hands him a pair of tweezers from his bag, and with them the doctor man plucks the string, daintily so, as if it were the most precious piece of lacework he’d ever laid eyes on. Probably he does not so much fancy the idea of touching it with naked hands— it is an ugly thing, without a doubt, this veiny strip of flesh littered with bulging eyes, dangling over its origin’s open belly. For a few seconds everyone holds their breath, fearing that the surgeon will fumble his grip and send the cord dropping down the cavity, that someone will have to roll up their sleeves and fish it back out, nevermind God’s silver-stink blood. But his Lordship keeps his hold firm and, not without a sigh of relief, lets it fall down the jar before screwing it tight shut. It twitches still, like a lizard’s severed tail, and those blackpearl eyes go on spasming.
There it is, at last,
God’s foreboding stare.
Π
[God IV]
God is a convoluted operation,
(the sum of its parts multiplied by way of all things living; then nestled in a bone case, like a shellfish; it will extend a shy tentacle and shake one’s hand; and rip one’s arm off; it will suckle the blood and the marrow; the law of supply and demand asks that it reaches out for the brain; as a plump merchant it drinks it up through a straw)
the cold calcified boy will spend a lifetime trying to solve it.
Π
On the third day they start fishing for eyes.
It is Rom’s idea that the washing-up of God on their coast is what has turned the locals to animalistic folly, and thus they ought to examine what remains. It is fortunate, he will think over a cup of bad coffee, that the anatomists have rounded up enough corpses and laid them down as neat as they dared after the prospectors’ rampage. He watches, standing very still with his drink, as two leathercoats haul one up on a stretcher and march it off towards the shack they have claimed for their dirty work. A coarse sheet covers most of it from the head down, so that he only sees the soles of a fisherman’s boots, clustered with thick deposits of mud at the heel. He thinks, idly, of scraping it off with his pocket-knife. He follows at a snail’s pace, dragging his long legs, marvelling at the depth of his footprints in the wet sand-muck; wincing at the squelch produced by every step. The same sound those thin, jewelled fingers made when they rummaged at the creature’s insides.
He pushes the door of the little cabin and leaves his coffee to cool on the nearest surface, joining Rom at the large table in the centre of the room. It is a gloomy house, dim-lit and humid, but clean. He is not yet sure what it is she seeks to accomplish here. She has declined Lord Horn’s offer to assist him with God’s autopsy on the beach, instead looking for her own field to harvest. A field, her apprentice ponders, or a pirate’s treasure cove to plunder at their leisure.
Despite the prestige of her position as Byrgenwerth’s resident anatomist, it is clear to him that she nourishes ambitions far greater than her uncle’s; that nobody’s praise means to her as much as her name on the spine of a tome, or the sign of her clever hand on a particularly adroit catgut stitch. In that regard she reminds him of an artist whose brilliance only rivals their egotism.
She is not demure about it.
He, by contrast, is all nerves and stiff prudence: because she overbears him, and seems to see right through him to the marrow. He rolls up his shirtsleeves and pulls garters tight above his elbows, flinching at the chill in the air rather than the morbid tableau. They have claimed a fair amount of the locals’ skulls, flesh and hair still attached but eyes gouged out and gathered in a jar. Their mouths flex in displeased arcs, as if they had foreseen the manner of their death and further down the line, and not liked what they saw. That he cannot fault them for.
“How are we to go about this? Do you want me to fetch the skull saw?”
“Not quite yet. No. This seems to me a touch heavy-handed for a start.” Rom considers, eyeing the eyeless head on the table. “Trepanation, I should think. You are familiar?”
“Of course.” He adds, a touch feeble, “I have never performed it.”
“Well”, she drawls, “you are here to learn.” She gestures, without looking, to the other skulls propped in a corner, flashing their teeth and empty eye sockets. “Besides, you have room to make mistakes. I’ll not begrudge you.”
She is callous, and it suits him fine. It dawns on him his father would dislike her for it. Where in Yahar’gul physicians were quick to turn to cynicism, he had always been quick to advocate for a corpse’s dignity, be it merchant’s or pauper’s. When faced with no other choice, he had purchased from Hemwick’s resurrection men with a slack moue to his mouth, as if spending coin on gravediggers equaled handling the shovel himself. His eyes were soft and watery when he died, and he had asked his son to make sure his body would stay down his burial spot.
You are still here,
thinks the son when he comes with a bunch of tired, handpicked flowers.
You are still here.
He does not ask Rom how much she would have paid for such a cadaver, free of bottle, needle and lesser evils. No doubt a hefty sum, pilfered from Old Willem’s own coffers.
As is his assistant’s prerogative, he gathers the operation’s implements. There had been a trephine in his father’s study, very like this one he fishes out of Rom’s case: vaguely hammer-shaped, with those mean little teeth at the end of the drill. It had not seen much use— only once, does he recall, when he’d asked what the strange tool was for and his father had shown him. The empty skull had been a wolf’s, brought back by some poacher camping in the woods, and the drill had left a neat round hole in it, to which he’d stuck his wide fourteen year-old eye.
Be careful,
smiled the surgeon,
it might look back at you.
From where he sits now, it seems altogether less amusing.
She is willing to play the mentor insofar as she guides his hand with curt instructions and scarcely more. She tells him which part of the skull is best for their purpose, and why. She lets him know when his grip is too slack, or too strong, or the angle needs adjusting. He takes patiently to her counsel and finds that in all things she is correct, and wonders if he might be, too, the day his turn comes to hire his own apprentice.
He does not stick his twenty-two year-old eye to the neat round hole.
In truth he is afraid his father could be right:
it might look back at you.
Then there is the matter of the brain, still there nestled, grey nothing-much huddled against the walls of the skull yet to rot. It’s the colour of God’s child when they pry it from the womb, the colour of that revolting string peppered with eyes, twitching between tweezers, then in its glass jar. With a lancet, he pokes at it, gingerly, trying to part the folds of wet tissue bundled over itself as a crumpled handkerchief, seeing nothing there but that which ought to be. A layman could have told them there are no eyes inside the skull. But Rom has her ideas, and part of him wishes to agree with them; to contribute to her designs, to know the world as she wants to know it.
“Is there anything, then?” she asks over his shoulder. Not impatient: she masters her tone, crafty as a diplomat, an undulating green.
“No— well, no eyes, but I think something’s not quite right.” He peers through the neat circle, takes inventory. Something shines there on the surface, a second skin of sorts, not altogether different from that thin layer of jelly between the crust of a pie and the fruit laid all careful atop it. When he risks there the tip of his blade, it seems to burst and drip down, the way of candlewax. A drop catches on his finger. “It’s bloody cold.”
“Do let me see.”
She doesn’t wait for him to move aside, instead leans over his shoulder, cheek-to-cheek. Her ginger curls carry the smoke-scent of her cigarettes, and the proximity of her skin burns his own to shameful yearnings.
“An odd sort of fluid”, he mumbles. “Not lymph, I shouldn’t think. It is somewhat clear but reflects strange colours—”
“Oil?” she suggests.
“I say.” He looks again, deciphering that familiar rainbow glint he’s often wondered at on days when sunlight would ripple across a puddle of spilled petroleum. “Yes, I think you might be onto something. Some manner of thick oily residue, at the least, or an attempt at imitation. Like spermaceti— is that why they called the creature a sort of whale?” He risks his nose a fraction closer, and wrinkles it. Rotten-egg yellow. “It does smell as pungent.”
He makes to scoop some of it in a spoon, and gently deposits the substance in a small phial. Held closer to daylight, it yellows a touch, sending motes of urine-gold in their eyes. A flash of childish recklessness tempts him to test its liquid limits and use it for fuel in a whale-oil lamp, but she is watching, and would no doubt strip him of his flimsy scholar’s privilege. He is not yet one to push his luck.
“Well. Nevermind that.” She gestures for him to abandon the tools and take notes, enumerating a number of reagents they will need to carry out tests. “I wonder what these people were thinking, raving about eyes on the inside. Perhaps it’s altogether less literal. I should have known. It seems quite silly, in hindsight.”
“Or we should simply be wary of second-hand accounts. Whalers and prospectors have their merits but are no scholars— they might have remembered wrong.”
“Granted. It’s difficult to think straight, when you are prepared for the mundane and faced with something that exceeds all expectations. I would not lay the blame at the prospectors’ feet. Many of them have seen worse, down the Tombs. Many of them have not come back.”
He nods in assent. He remembers the day he went down a tomb after dark to humour dear Laurence, and found besides the first stirs of his fascination the taste of danger, and earned a scar for his trouble. He might not have come back either, and it had not even been one of those infamous, bottomless dungeons that made headlines and tall tales alike. Shaking off the memory, he looks up from his scribbling, fever-dream in his eyes, his lips pursing like a boy denied his sweets.
“I will need a photography camera. So that we may keep accurate records.”
“Why not. You may ask Dr. Moncrieff.”
“Moncrieff.”
“That cartographer fellow. He’s had the foresight to bring one. A pastime of his, I understand.” She ups an eyebrow. “Though what he hopes to photograph is beyond me. What with the prospectors’ carnage, the coast is rather more unsightly than ever, and the weather is not helping in the least. There is little I wouldn’t sell for a day of sun. Pity that Lord Horn and my uncle could not afford it.”
He will do as she says, ask Dr. Moncrieff with his golden ring, who looks a little like his father who used to take photographs before he died. Dr. Moncrieff will set up his camera and take pictures of the dead, and then the sullen boy-doctor will walk in his tracks and take pictures inside the dead. He will wonder what they’d think before remembering he has spooned at their thinking matter; he will choke on a laugh high-nervous and bite back his tongue.
Rom leans back and plucks her engraved cigarette case out of a pocket. The neat roll of tobacco slots between her lips, a gesture seductive almost in its carelessness.
“We’ll reconvene in an hour”, she says, lighting it with a match. “I’ll gather the chemicals. You can go and watch the autopsy, if you like.”
The very thought twists his stomach into knots. The stench of God’s fishguts still nests up his nose, foxlike burrowing deep and deeper, and the sight of its wet wedding gown of a body keeps the back of his eyelids company.
“I’d rather not.” His throat bobs sharply.
I’m nothing squeamish,
he told her before. “Unless you wish me to take notes. I can—”
“No. That’s quite alright. I’d rather not watch a party of pompous men play at scavengers, either.”
When she opens the door and makes to leave, he tries not to lunge and wrap his hand around her wrist. Cold breeze comes in, the thin dark hairs on his forearms stand to attention. Still that sticky-chilled drop of brain matter on his finger, he will scrub it off in a moment, but first needs to ask, to ask, it sickens him— her God-silver mouth, now dried to normalcy— he can but stare at it, and calculate the ideal angle of his own against it.
He does not wrap his hand around her wrist, only calls her brisk piece of a name.
“That thing that you ate.” (that morsel of God that you ate) “What did it taste like?”
She watches him through the grey slit of an eye, pinprick-light catching raw flesh at the corners. Two moles hang full-moon below it. She does not smile.
“Do you know, I have no idea. From childhood I have always loathed seafood.” She works the cigarette around in her mouth, a hint of tonguepink past the seam of her lips. “Like smoke, I suppose. Now everything tends to.”
Π
Later they stare at each other the way of panting dogs.
His shirt hangs open, chalk white skin striped with clawmarks where his heart keeps a-thumping. He does not know what has possessed him, if not God’s stink up his nose (if not the shadowbird nesting in his chest). His hands, his long strong surgeon’s fingers, have bruised her flanks under the dirty white of her shirt, adding red welt to starry freckled flesh. They have kept at it like skittish animals: if anyone heard them he should not wonder. Her nails pulling at his scalp, her teeth at his neck, writhing wrestling bent-over worktable, the shift and shudder, clink of metal, scrape of trousers round his thighs— the rest comes all a-blur, picture out of focus.
For a good photograph you ought to stand still,
his father says (Dr. Moncrieff says).
Her hand is still on his arm, holding tight to that lean slab of meat between shoulder and elbow. When he will change his shirt and look, it too will be red and streaked with leftover fingers. He leaves it there, because he is afraid of the colour of his voice when his breath does that looping thing, when his lungs become too big for his thin body. Her thumb digs into a vein he knows but can’t summon the name of. He welcomes this idea of mellow discomfort, soon to grow into numbness.
Please, it hurts.
God might have thought the same as the lord-surgeon picked at its entrails, magpie fingers eager for gems.
In the sort of demi-haze he’s learned in the backroom of an opium den, he has kissed her mouth. He has let her snare his fretful hunger, and thanked her for it. He knows all about the laws of cause and effect but rarely dares to apply them.
For all its futile mundanity the thought comes— that it does not become a student of the physical to take such a hands-on approach. He will white-wipe his shame down the hem of his shirt for lack of cleaner cloth, and for a second too long stand there pallid and terrified. Then fire will creep into his cheeks, that same way it had the first time at school when the fair-golden hunting boy had (nevermind)— he’ll adjust his trousers, hook his braces tight over his shoulders, tuck his soiled shirt in, button up his vest. She will watch him do it, she will do it the same.
He will watch her, too. Her foreign woman-form in men’s clothes that he knows now is littered with stars. It curls up his lip in something of a sneer, this, for the arrogance of skin to think it might mimic the universe! Yet it has proved to make the same music, or very near, that length of breath getting shorter and shorter and higher. It might have been her teeth prodding at his ear. He thumbs at it, not quite sure he will find it whole, and flinches to recognise the indent of her incisors along the lobe.
He does not know what has possessed her, either. It brings scant comfort.
He tries not to look at the mole beneath the arc of her mouth, although it beckons again for a scrap of touch. A spot of blood paints her lower lip. His blood drunk at the source, much as God’s blood on the beach (things have happened, happen, will happen). He points a mute finger. His own mouth opens to nothing, that peculiar silence after a rifle shot. She lets her spidertongue dart, quick-like, and has a taste. Smiles her gentle-green smile.
“For that I am sorry”, she offers. “I did not mean to hurt you.”
He says it doesn’t matter, hardly hearing his own answer. A rash blooms somewhere down her throat, closer to collarbone, to breast. He’s left there some manner of stubble burn, it doubles his shame to bursting. His nails find his chin a repository for cuts yet to happen.
“You are a curious man.” She says it without malice. “Nervous, and very cold.”
“Yes.”
He has tried his hand at sexlessness before, it had not worked out. Something of earlier desire rekindles in his gut, but he knows better than to listen. Instead he will ask for the mapmaker’s camera and photograph tendons in her neck. He will give them stars for names and whisper them in the dark. This is what he thinks the moment it happens— when she licks at the corner of his mouth, when he presses hands to ribcage and searches there for a trace of God—
stop moving, you need to drink the light.
It catches up with him: they have been watched, both by the skulls’ empty sockets and the eyes soaking in their jar.
With penitent's guilt, he chews at his bloody hangdog mouth.
Rom looks at him, weighing his heavy heart on her scales. There on the table some dregs of light catch their surgeons’ tools by surprise, the trephine that’s pierced a severed head, the lancet he’s used to tickle a fisherman’s brain; the harmless teaspoon, accusatory in its make-believe sheen of oil.
She says,
“It dawns on me you have not eaten. Were you afraid?”
It takes none of his cunning to figure what she means. For he has seen the feast laid out and he has seen all the teeth digging in, cutting like knives at some yuletide roast. It nags at him. What does the fruit of apotheosis taste like? He might have hoped to know it on her tongue in his mouth. At night he dreams of fish melting under his jawbone, remembers how his father used to cook it when mother was gone, how soft it was on his palate.
God is an excuse,
his father said. And so the taste of fish he gives God in his sleep for lack of proof.
Theory ought always to precede experiment,
Rom said. There he finds that some things are better left unknown, and chides himself for it. In refusing to eat he has defied his very own purpose. In eating at her banquet instead, he has defi(l)ed himself. On both counts he will learn to live with the shame.
“I don’t know. Probably I was, but I had little time to sort out my feelings. I thought I heard something, a voice, or— well, a question.” His tongue worries at his gums, where she has left her aftertaste. “It’s the strangest thing. I don’t remember what it was.”
She tugs at his stiff collar, so that it sits flat around his neck. Then picks at the dull hang-ribbon of his necktie to knot it, slow and slower, making him recall the way she secures a length of catgut once she’s done with a wound.
“I think I know what you mean.”
“Do you?” It surprises him that she would confide; more so that he is ready to believe her.
“I did feel compelled to… partake, as it were. I heard no voice, and no question, but felt a hand tugging at my strings. I know it sounds like a flimsy excuse.” Her thumbnail scratches at a dried point of blood on his chin, makes him shiver. “But I assure you, I would not have done it of my own volition, without any sort of a push. Some told me they have, although I am hesitant to believe them.”
Gentle, as if attempting to tame a tiny bird, he holds her freckled wrist aloft, so that her fingertip hangs a hair’s breadth from his lips. She is not spooked, nor visibly aroused, only perhaps amused by his boyish idea of romanticism. She who calls him cold is older, and colder still.
“Should we not put a stop to it?” It is naive, he knows. Her thumb rests atop his lower lip, letting him care for the taste of his own blood and more besides, should he want to try out hers. It has never appealed to him. “Give it back to the sea, pack up our things, and observe what little we can send to college for study?”
“We should”, she readily agrees.
Earlier, he thinks she has left a bruise on his collarbone with her teeth. It flares now, that spot of wine-love, it itches. He is afraid God will see it and laugh.
“But we won’t.”
“We won’t.”
She lets her hand drop. Immediately the curve of his lip misses the weight of her finger, fitting to it as had her mouth (as had Laurence’s mouth). Lamplight casts their nervous shadows on the wall, halfway to melded below the waist, so close do they stand.
“If man had known better, would he have bothered to learn how to make fire out of a pair of stones? This is what we are. Man, woman, scholar all the same. We are curious creatures, we can’t only live in our heads.” She shifts slightly, plump hip flexed against the tabletop. Looks him in the eye. “We might be well out of our depth. But we are curious, and so we’ll carry on.”
He knows that she must be right, because if he was not curious he would not have touched her, nor kissed her mouth that has eaten God, much less allowed her to bite at his flesh as only one other had before in a dormitory bed. He lets her do so again, pull at the supple, if slight crackled arc of his lip with her pearlsmoke teeth.
If he was not curious, he would stop wondering at the taste of God.
Π
[God V]
When night comes God is a dream.
In the dream there is a narrow door without a knob. In the door there is a round keyhole, he slots his eye in it. It falls down the other side with a copper-coin clink. When he steps through the door, a many-ringed hand holds it open for him— and a freckled one, and another with a single golden ring— and yet another he has touched many times, which might as well be God’s for the softness of its skin. On the other side of the door there is a ship: a great wooden hull like the belly of a beast, masts thrust up to empty skies, sails billowing in a wind that is not blowing. On the ship there are sailors’ silhouettes moving about, a shadow play for his benefit.
In front of the gangplank between ship and dock there is a single no-face ferryman, with a hand outstretched (a hand with many jewels, or freckled, or wearing a golden ring, or smooth-white as a promise). He gives the ferryman his other eye and follows him aboard.
When he lies down blind below decks, God finds him in slender cracks between the layers of his sleep, and mother-sweet lay a damp finger on his cheek.
Π
At night he goes out to watch the full moon, bright as a hangman’s eye.
What thin sleep he grasps on this coast makes him feel strangely distended, limbs out of order and mind all but thrown to the depths, and so he finds he would rather walk, and catch cold. He has neglected to bring a scarf, can only count on his father’s best coat to keep him warm. If the wind that ruffles his hair bothers him, it is also a relief; a reminder that things are still living, even here at the end of the world as he knows it.
He passes the other scholars’ tents, pitched in a neat row, oil lamps suspended at regular intervals. Most of them dark and silent, all lights out, a few betraying restless minds as shadows pace back and forth. He catches thoughts spoken aloud, further down a debate that reminds him of Byrgenwerth, and then something altogether more heated, voice-mingle punctuated with mellow sighs, the undulating flap of thick canvas. Flushed, he decides to hasten his steps and go beyond, to where the shore meets the sea, making sure to avoid the spot where they have covered God’s body with tarpaulin.
There is scarcely anyone to nod at, only prospectors whose turn it is to freeze their arses off guarding the place. He and every other student has been warned not to wander out of camp, and though he would like to tread as far as the sheltered cove to the east, he stops long before. Here, when faced with nobody but himself, he finally has time to pick at his fears— numerous but formless, those are nasty, paralysing feelings he would gladly do without. Where before they’d been easy to identify, now they melt into each other, into a coalescence of things that might happen, or might not; that might hurt him, or might not. He finds the difference harder to parse by the day.
The voice that plucks him out of his reverie a moment later is so soft he doesn’t have the presence of mind to startle.
“You should stay in during the night.”
He recognises Gehrman’s girl-shadow by the slant of her tricorn, perched low enough on her head it obscures her eyes. Her sword hangs at her hip, an engraved pistol holstered at the other, but despite all that weight added to the bulk of her coat, she does not make a sound. Moonlight turns the jewel at her throat a sick, cat’s eye yellowgreen.
Up close she looms an inch taller than him, taller than any girl he’s met before, taller than many a man for that matter. Perhaps it is a trick of her parentage, of the high-up Cainhurst blood coursing through her veins— as a child he has heard tales of knights in magnificent armour, breastplates and greaves adorned in gold, crystal-studded swords at their hips, helmets pointed as sinister bird-beaks. At school he has seen, hanging in the provost’s office, a depiction of some diplomatic event binding Yharnam’s aldermen of yore to the queens of the castle, and those same knights melded to the background had shined considerably less than in his boyish dreams. Yet they had stood very tall and very strong, and even the ladies’ shoulders had been painted as though the artist had confused them for huntresses. One of them, he recalls, had worn a rapier with her wine-red dress.
He clears his throat and remembers himself.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You should stay in your tent. You know we haven’t killed all the townsfolk.” He recalls, dimly, someone mentioning that most of them had in fact been forewarned of the scholars’ arrival and decided to leave ‘til the intruders be gone. “Some are still prowling around. Watching, for now, but all the same it would be prudent not to tempt fate. I am told a fisherman’s harpoon is quite a formidable weapon.”
He smiles sourly at that, because isn’t that the truth— a whaler’s harpoon has pierced God’s flank and spilled its guts.
“I daresay you’re right”, he concedes. “I don’t much fancy meeting the business end of a rusty blade.”
It does not make her smile, nor move a muscle. She gives him the impression that she is staring, only he cannot see for certain.
“I’m sorry. I can’t sleep, and walking is easier on my nerves.” His hands flex in the pockets of his coat, void now of his father’s knives. “Allow me to stay a few moments. I’ll not bother you.”
“You may. I am to stand guard for a while, and will watch out for you as long as I can see you.” She perches her left gloved hand on the hilt of her sword. “Do not go too far.”
A strip of moonlight catches her face fully, now, so he can better grasp the nobility of her features.
It is without mirth that he realises her dewy eyes are green, of a washed-out hue, and combined with her white-blonde hair it makes her look a colourless mirror of Laurence, taller, sturdier, as if stretched to completion. He knows by the width of her shoulders, the lean length of her legs, the strength of her arms that she too prowls deep in the woods for prey. Only the rifle comes natural extension of her hand and she does not need hounds, nor a pack of noble horsemen in red to lead the chase, nor a father to coax her closer to the kill. She hunts alone, like a cold-blood animal.
“You are with the anatomist”, she says minutes later, breaking a silence almost gone comfortable.
He dislikes the silkwhite quality of her voice, which makes him think of a bride’s veil, although by countenance she seems more suited to mourning. Words crawl under his collar with the thin idea that she must know the anatomist’s expertise to be more than hands-on; that she can see the scrawl of the anatomist’s fingernails, red wounds not quite open, on his bony chest. Later that night, it will keep him awake for an hour during which he will scratch at those stripes and multiply them.
“Her apprentice”, his colourless tone.
“Yes.” The girl’s frown deepens the groove between her platinum brows. They are of an age, yet she appears far older, war-weary before the battlefield has had a chance to knock at her door. “But you have not eaten.”
So she has taken notice of him, and kept watch, for some reason he cannot fathom.
“I have tried talking to some who ate, and they will not acknowledge it”, she pursues. “By design or not, I cannot say.”
“What they do or do not eat is their business, isn’t it? I would rather not acknowledge it, either.”
“You do not approve”, she adds in that tone that brooks no argument. Her accent is slight, like a petal on her tongue.
He does not, but then again it should be none of his concern. Early in his scholarship he has come to understand that no one, least of all a senior, takes kindly to a certain kind of curiosity from their students. The words Rom has uttered before, too, circle vulturine at the back of his mind:
I felt a hand tugging at my strings.
“It is not my place to approve or to disapprove. I am only here to assist, and to learn.” He frowns, quite irritated now by her tranquil meddling. “But what about you— why come here at all, why come here and put fishermen to the sword, if you disagree with the whole endeavour? Forgive me if I fail to follow.” He hesitates to add
my lady,
venom pinpoint at the tip of his tongue, and decides it would only serve to antagonise her further.
She does not seem to mind his harsher edge. Her hand, he is relieved to note, hasn’t moved from the pommel of her sword, and her stance is as relaxed as a watchwoman can afford. The pink arc of her mouth, however, draws a very tight line across her face, betraying how displeased she is, either with him or the expedition as a whole. It is a known fact that scholars rarely show their bodyguards proper gratitude for their service beyond a hefty coin purse.
“Like you, I am here to learn.” Then she looks away and adds, quite simply, “But I do not have to agree with all I am taught.”
Π
[God VI]
At sea God is a whale,
it never stops swimming. It is a flagship-animal, a peace offering. As often as it can it goes slowly, and the world slowly with it, until the vessel of industry catches up at the flank. God is not used to outracing which has ever gone at its own pace, never mind any faster. God learns the notch-point of the harpoon to be a metaphor for man’s arrogance. A metaphor can hurt, it can open wounds. A well-aimed metaphor draws a lot of blood.
It teaches God that it can die from a papercut.
Π
A successful banquet rarely does have leftovers to spare. God’s table is an exception.
On the dawn of the fourth day, the scholars gather once more on the beach to take it all in.
Someone has tampered with it,
will be the thought itching to burst out of everyone’s mouth. They stare one and the same at the crumpled tarpaulin, only last night laid out carefully over the carcass to shield it from wind and brine. Now it prolongs the creature’s dead body, mimic of a wedding gown’s train stained with silver blood. They approach, then, warily, intent on unmasking whoever would see their work turn to waste. Boots squelch in the muck. Tired legs drag themselves along. Sleepless mouths await their fill of coffee, of tea, of smoke. Clouds hanging overhead are heavy with the promise of rain, and the sky rose-orange shifting fast to grey.
Micolash hangs at the rear, the same way he had on the first day, almost unconsciously looking for Laurence, and Rom, but everyone’s hair is damp and darkened and his eyes crusty with lack of rest. He could try and go back to his tent— he cannot, for curiosity holds him on a leash and yanks him forward, halfway to scrambling on his hands, balance lost and regained with every step. Ahead everyone else has stopped to peer down at the corpse, in semi-circle and mute horror again.
When he is close enough to see, he understands. Crawling all over the tarpaulin and the length of God’s body he counts a hundred, two hundred, a never-ending swarm of slug-like parasites feeding on it, or emerging from it as if birthed to replace what the scholars took from its divine womb, their damp skin reflecting what feeble sunlight dares come down. He covers his nose, the stink so unbearable it brings tears to his eyes and a fearsome urge to retch. In this he is not alone— already a few livid faces contort, feet make to back away, catching on themselves— one student trips on his robes and falls arse-down in the muck, and wriggles to shake off a few of the things latching on to his shoes—
“For heavens’ sake, behave! Someone call the prospectors!”
Because he is suddenly cold and paralysed he does not recognise the voice, nor the leather-men’s faces who come to knife at God’s last supper, nor his own body stuck to itself by that blind, limitless fear he has contemplated only the previous night in the moon’s mirror. He does not feel the hand that clasps his shoulder until it hurts, and pulls him back, and speaks with Gehrman’s warm tobacco-rasp.
He barely realises that he is sitting and bundled in someone else’s coat until a sympathetic student thrusts a hot cup in his hands. With closed eyes he keeps staring at the open wound, wishing he could question it.
Be careful,
father had said when he’d peered through the hole,
it might look back at you.
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 a pop culture Twitter account: 2 photos of Caitlyn and Vi in character costumes, standing in the bright daylight and pale rocks of the stone quarry as they wait for cues. One shows Caitlyn shielding her eyes from the sun while Vi stands beside her, looking like she’s saying something. The other has Caitlyn leaning down slightly, listening to Vi speak a bit closer to Caitlyn’s ear.
Text: actors Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi Lane on set filming for the second season of their hit show. Source: Netflix
> Asdfaskjdskjdfkadf it’s filming, it’s actually filming, season 2 is real, my soul is renewed
> Is this??? Look at the way they’re standing, they’re so much in love, they’re trying so hard not to be physical with each other on set. I see battle damage, Caitlyn looks rough.
> They’re so cute I’m so excited
> This ain’t a bedroom scene? Show us the bedroom scene, we know you’re filming it.
> Oh my god, drink something.
Photo on Vi.O.Lane Instagram account, a selfie taken of her with her arm thrown around Ekko, both of them grinning at the camera with the grey stone of the quarry behind them.
Text: shooting something big! No spoilers!
>Caitlyn???
>Now with Caitlyn?
>Girl post your gf post the gf pics
>GIRL POST YOUR HIDDEN FOLDER
The crunch of boots alerted the film crew to her presence, heavy with each step as she plodded through the unloaded area. Heat still rose from the hood of her parked Volvo as Vi tugged on her oversized hoodie tighter around her, chilly in the morning air. Sunglasses taking up the majority of her face, a large coffee in one hand, the actress offered a wry grin as she made her way to the filming area.
Mylo, a tall gangly man with bushy hair pulled up into a bun on his head, tapped the digital pencil on the edge his tablet impatiently, looking unimpressed as she approached. “Good morning rockstar. Have fun last night?”
“This is my third cup of coffee,” Vi said as a reply, dropping it on one of the large rocks that dotted the set. She grinned blearily at the fight choreographer and Mylo let out an unamused laugh.
“You picked a hell of a day to have a harder time concentrating,” he tapped on his tablet while he spoke, shaking his head slightly. “We have a pretty good dance set up for you and the goons today, a lot of steps.”
Vi set her sunglasses down beside the coffee, rolling a shoulder. “My trainer’s been taking me out dancing, we should be good.”
Mylo just snorted. “Right. Okay, we got a few minutes until the director shows up, grab your gloves and let’s do a rundown as fast as we can.”
Vi walked over to the prop box that held her character’s weapon gloves, an intern jogging over to help her put them on. As the straps tightened, she flexed the extremely awkward oversized fingers with their reflective tape, ready for effects in post. Tapping the hands together lightly, she walked back up to where Mylo and the stunt extras stood.
“All set.”
“Great,” Mylo said without a hint of excitement. He clicked his tongue, pointing to a couple of chalk ‘x’s drawn on the ground. “Vi, you’re red marker. Steiner, you take the yellow. Marks and, sorry,”
“Lucien.”
“Lucien, thanks, you guys will stand just behind Steiner. Arm’s reach, we can step you back if the shot needs it.”
Rolling her neck and shoulders, Vi got herself into position as the extras did the same. Mylo came up to her side and showed her the roughly sketched storyboards of how this section was supposed to look. “So Steiner is going to come from the right and you’ll do this uppercut. This part,” he kept scrolling through the sequence of images, “with be Hailey with the stunt team, so don’t worry, and then this part we’re going to have you do this sequence of punches and kicks. You good?”
“Good.” Vi nodded and Mylo shut the case over his tablet, pointing with his arm the direction they were going to practice. Vi raised her arms, took a deep breath, and waited for the starting cue.
About half an hour into the practice she had the sequence mostly blocked out. It was short, thankfully, but the motions were still tiring.
As she and Steiner practiced pushing each other back with a blocked strike, the stunt actor glanced to the right and nodded with a smirk over to Vi.
“Girlfriend’s watching.”
Vi was about to blink in confusion and ask what he was talking about, that she didn’t have— but she glanced over before speaking to see Caitlyn sitting in one of the chairs, chatting with Heimerdinger and Sky as all three watched the stunt practice. Vi wasn’t sure if she noticed her looking over or not, but Caitlyn smiled over in their direction anyway.
Unable to help herself, Vi shot back a cocky wink and pushed Steiner back like practiced. They landed in the chosen poses, catching their breath as Heimdinger clapped rapidly.
“Excellent, excellent!” He called out, exactly as cheerful as he always sounded. “Oh, I do always enjoy seeing how the sausage is made. Vi, m’dear, could I borrow you for a moment?”
He glanced over at Mylo who nodded and shrugged. “We’ll block for the stunts, but we have to get this filmed by lunch.”
Heimerdinger nodded, looking up at Vi as she approached, still breathing a bit heavily from the heavy cardio of the fight training. She noticed that Caitlyn looked a bit flushed too, dressed in her character costume and holding the shirt and jacket for Vi. Vi raised an eyebrow in silent question and Caitlyn shrugged in return.
“Now, like I was saying to Ms Kiramman, this isn’t an issue with your
acting
,” Heimerdinger was saying, “but I was left unsatisfied by the angles we shot and the
emotion
of the kiss. It’s going to be a big moment! A huge moment! A trash the internet with the little moving pictures my niece gets so invested in. Ms Kiramman agrees that it needs to be absolutely. Perfect.” He nodded vigorously, looking over at Caitlyn who smiled tightly.
“So, she graciously did some jogging while you were,” he waved a hand over to where Vi had been working, “so you could both get that tired look to you. We’ll only be filming the close up from a few different angles, but I want you to really
feel
it.”
“Yeah, okay.” Vi nodded, holding back a laugh. She held her hands out for the silent intern to help unhook and pull off the prop gauntlet gloves, shaking her hands as they were freed of the weighty props. Caitlyn gently tossed her costume top to her.
They walked over to the tent set up for the filming scene, Vi shuffling off her sweatshirt and pulling the costume top on, sliding the stiff jacket onto her arms. The set crew was milling out in the tent, setting up the smoke machine and spot lighting for the sequence. The lead makeup artist was standing to the side, a foot tapping, and perked up when she saw them approach. She jogged over to Vi, her palette in hand. “Vi, we have to touch you up a second.”
“Sure,” Vi nodded, crouching down slightly so the shorter woman could reach her face. Tongue in her teeth, the artist began brushing on Vi’s dark eye makeup, Vi’s jaw lightly pinched in her other hand.
Caitlyn watched the sight with interest, before scoffing slightly and turning to follow Heimerdinger further into the tent, leaving Vi behind.
“Now this,” the short director was saying, “is going to be a tighter shot I think. We really want the parallel from that scene we had in the first season. I want that fear, relief, that hesitation before you kiss her. We’re going to have you standing here under these lights and filming you from this side, ah welcome back to us Vi.”
Makeup done, Vi walked up to join Caitlyn in the area Heimerdinger had set out, hands in her jacket pockets. She shot a glance over at Caitlyn, who either ignored her or didn’t noticed while she was listening to the director’s words.
“Well then,” the director clapped twice, turning to sit in his chair as the camera crew got prepared. “Let’s make some romance, shall we?”
The two women turned to each other, rolling shoulders and rubbing hands as they worked into character. They walked up together, trying to adjust their poses to what they could remember of the previous day, Vi’s arms around Caitlyn’s waist and Caitlyn’s hand on her shoulders. They stood there, bodies flush, warm in the cool air of the tent and it’s fans, both avoiding each other’s gazes by staring past behind the other actor.
“Oh!” Heimerdinger called out, drawing their attention. “If we could start, Caitlyn, with your hands on her shoulders and then grab her face right before you kiss her? And remember, you’re exhausted, you’re worried, you’re relieved, you’re in love!” He clapped, sitting back and jabbing a finger into the air. “From the top!”
Caitlyn and Vi turned their attention to one another, and Caitlyn squeezed Vi’s shoulders while Vi lifted her slightly with her arms. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Caitlyn leaned into the hug, lifting her hands up to press against Vi’s cheeks as she stared into her face for a second.
“You idiot.” Caitlyn stage-whispered as loudly as she could for the sound to be picked up by the boom mic just inches away from their position, holding for another second as she called on sad emotions to show on her expression, before pressing a kiss onto Vi. She let her eyes close, felt Vi tighten her arms and lift Caitlyn even slightly more, one hand sliding up her back to press against the back of her neck slightly.
Unbidden, the image of Vi the previous night pressing that girl against the back of the bar building came to Caitlyn’s mind and she pushed into the kiss a bit harder, suddenly incredibly aware of how firm Vi’s body was against hers. Vi made a very quiet, surprised noise at the increased pressure and Caitlyn pulled back, smoothly pressing her forehead against Vi’s as Vi blinked up to her with wide eyes surprised that seemed almost genuine. Then, dragging out the breaths, Caitlyn let out a light laugh and Vi chuckled along, grinning that wide, familiar grin of her character.
“Cut! Girls, that was excellent, but Caitlyn if you don’t mind when we do this next take could we try to get a bit more anger and exasperation into that ‘You idiot’ line?”
Caitlyn nodded over to the director and cleared her throat, pushing back from Vi just slightly as they readjusted for the shoot. Vi was giving Caitlyn a curious look, and Caitlyn just smiled politely in turn.
“I promise not to take up your whole morning with this, we have a busy day. And, action!”
“For three days?”
Caitlyn said nothing, sipping at her water as Mel tittered from the other side of the table. The other actress brought her face up into that diplomatic smile as she cut another piece of her chicken at the restaurant table, the noise of conversation and cutlery almost drowning out the ambient music of the evening dinner atmosphere.
“I do believe you deserve a medal for such an achievement, darling.” Mel said cooly before taking her bite. “The first woman to successfully be in Vi Lane’s arms for longer than twenty four hours.”
Caitlyn scoffed teasingly. “Shush. It’s for work, and it was only supposed to be the one take but Heimerdinger was increasingly insistent on getting it just perfect.”
“So, is she any good?” Elora asked, and Mel let out an almost undignified snort. Caitlyn rolled her eyes
“She’s fine.” She insisted, stabbing a large portion of her salad onto her fork. “And
professional
.” She added before taking a bite.
“Mmhmm, she is fine, but how good is the kissing?” Elora asked, leaning forward on one hand, a coy smile and eyebrow raised.
“Professional.” Caitlyn repeated firmly. Elora pouted in disappointment.
“Oh, come on, let us live vicariously through you. Vi won’t go for anyone on staff, the girls are dying to know what it’s like.”
“Aren’t you straight?” Mel snorted with amusement. Elora smiled brightly and shrugged.
“I can appreciate an attractive woman with nice set of arms.” She said, reaching for her glass. “Tell us Caitlyn, what’s it like in Vi’s arms.”
“You’re starting to sound as bad as the internet.” Caitlyn muttered, taking another bite of her salad and her two companions smiled and snickered. “You wanted to know what the quarry shoot was like and I’ve told you: I had to do a number of action sequences, I had to kiss Vi to the point of tedium and now that it’s over I desperately need a day at the spa for my muscles.”
“Vi tired you out that much?” Mel quirked an eyebrow and Elora giggled.
“Oh, shut up.” Caitlyn laughed delicately.
“Are you going to kiss in public for this publicity charade? Now that you’re comfortable doing it as an acting bit together?”
Caitlyn shook her head, pushing the cherry tomatoes around her plate a bit. “My mother was very insistent that we focus only on the implication. Background images, clothing props, being seeing standing close but not too physical. I got an absolute earful just for that cheek kiss that I wasn’t even aware anyone was photographing.”
Mel and Elora exchanged glances before Mel leaned forward a bit more. “Have you heard the rumour about the scene between you and Sevika?”
“Am I fighting Sevika?” Caitlyn perked up, grateful for the subject change. “Is it hinted in the script? I’d been distracted by the 206 jump I haven’t had a chance to look over 202 yet.”
“Yes, apparently you’re rumoured to get injured, I heard the stunt team talking about it when they were on set yesterday morning.”
“Saving Vi’s ass again, I imagine.”
“Oh you know Heimerdinger and the writers,” Mel sliced another piece off of her chicken, running it through the herbal sauce that coated the dish and adding a bit of rice to her fork as she spoke. “They love their parallels. I assume this time she’ll be saving you.”
Vi wrinkled her nose at the heavy perfume scent in the air, holding her wine glass closer to her face to try and keep the sting of alcohol override the smell in her nostrils.
Dressed in basic dark red slacks with a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she stood in the obnoxiously lit white room of the art gallery, in front of the concrete grey wall where Jinx’s artwork canvases hung, the artistic graffiti style huge and bold. Vi was proud of her sister for this art venture outside of the acting gig, but this was absolutely not a scene where she was comfortable.
She stood there, swirling the tasteless white wine in her glass while she watched the gallery event crowd milling about, chatting to each other in all the inane little ways art patrons did.
“The things we do for family.”
Jayce’s voice came up from behind, snapping her out of her thoughts. He stepped up beside her, holding out a crab cake in offering. She chuckled and took it, popping the tiny food into her mouth. “Jinx drag you here?” He asked, amused.
Vi nodded, mouth still full, jerking her head in question to him and he sighed slightly. “Victor. He had to leave because of a headache, but he was here for Jinx, bribed me into coming, and then Mel got wind of it and you know how she is with things like this,” he waved the little wine glass he held around the room, “so she’s here too and somehow managed to drag Caitlyn. Somehow.” He looked over at Vi, smirking. “Like we don’t all spend enough time together.”
“The work family,” Vi elbowed him in the side, chuckling.
“To work family.” Jayce chucked back and took a drink from his glass, looking around a bit. “So where is the little artist anyway?”
“Ekko just showed up, so I’m not thinking about it.”
“Ah. Fair.” He shifted back and forth on his feet for a minute, looking around the room. Vi busied herself with her own drink when Jayce straightened up a little and leaned in her direction. “Speaking of partnerships we’re not supposed to talk about…”
Vi blinked at him and then followed his gaze over to where she could see Caitlyn entering the room, Mel at her side. It was easy to spot the woman, wearing heels despite her already impressive height, dressed in a crisp blouse, pencil skirt and long, precisely tailored knee-length jacket framing the ensemble. She and Mel seemed to be lost in an entertaining conversation, which by Mel’s expression could only be some sort of juicy gossip.
Absently taking a drink of her wine, Vi couldn’t help her eyes travelling up and down Caitlyn’s legs. She’d seen the woman in plenty of dresses and shorts and fancy award and premiere outfits, especially now that she was spending more time paying attention to what the online community was saying about her and them, but something about having to pay attention to her more now for this pretend dating game made seeing her… feel different.
Jayce nudged her hard in the side, muttering “you’re drooling.”
Vi snapped her mouth shut, clearing her throat and rolling a shoulder. “I’m only human. She’s got nice legs.”
“Again,” Jayce sighed, “she’s like a sister to me.”
Vi chuckled, exhaling through her nose as she watched Caitlyn and Mel pause in front of Jinx’s exhibit, Mel saying something with her usual flourish of her hands. Caitlyn nodded politely as she listened, eyes wandering slightly when she seemed to catch sight of another woman.
The woman, a shorter curvy blonde with expensive looking jewelry, stepped up to Caitlyn to ask her something Vi couldn’t hear.
Trying to keep her eyes on Jinx’s art and failing, Vi kept turning her attention to Caitlyn and the other woman. Mel, shooting Vi and Jayce a knowing smile, gave a simple wave and Jayce excused himself to go and talk to her, leaving Vi standing there unable to stop glancing over to Caitlyn and the woman who was lightly touching her finger across Caitlyn’s arm.
Vi drained her drink, tried to busy herself with finding a place to put the empty glass. She finally found a table in the back, that probably wasn’t meant for empty glasses but a few other patrons had already left theirs there, so she shrugged and added hers to the little selection. Turning back around she saw the woman walking away from Caitlyn, back turned so that Vi couldn’t see an expression. Caitlyn stood still in the same spot, arms lightly crossed as she looked over the paintings.
“Get a number?” Vi asked, stepping up beside Caitlyn. The taller woman blinked at her appearance and relaxed with a deflating exhale, shaking her head.
“I wasn’t trying to ask her out. We just chatted for a minute, and she had a wedding ring.”
“Did she know she had a wedding ring?” Vi snorted and when Caitlyn shot her a look she ducked her head down and shrugged it off. Vi shifted her weight on her legs slightly, bending her arms back to adjust her shirt as it hung on her shoulders before looking back up. “Next time, maybe. Or are you not dating?” She looked up at Caitlyn, curious and non-judgemental. Caitlyn gave a small shrug.
“I actually haven’t dated since the show started. And even then, the two girls I managed to find were… fans, in an uncomfortable sense. I don’t think it was
me
they were interested in dating.”
“Really? I would think there’d be a line out the door.”
Caitlyn made noise through her nose. “It may come to surprise you, Vi, but tall half-Asian women aren’t as in demand as you might believe, no matter how strangers online act. And on my end I tend to be a little bit choosier than… some,” she sucked her bottom lip under her teeth before releasing it as she kept speaking, “since I’m hoping to find a long term partner. Not…”
“A fun time?”
“If that’s how you’d like to put it.”
It was quiet between them as they both occupied themselves with staring at the painting instead, standing close enough that Vi could reach and brush her fingers over to touch Caitlyn’s without too much effort. She shoved her hand in her pocket to quell the impulse.
“Mel says I’m intimidating,” Caitlyn said quietly after a moment, staring down at her glass and watching the liquid swirl as she fidgeted her fingers. Vi snorted.
“Mel knows your mom. Anything that comes out of that women intimidates her.”
Caitlyn laughed, covering her mouth as a snort escaped her.
“Also, I don’t think you’re that intimidating,” Vi continued, staring straight ahead at the stylized artwork she’d seen Jinx work on a hundred times. “Just… confident. Maybe a little bitchy. But in a good way.”
“A little bitchy in a good way?”
Vi shrugged, still staring ahead even as a grin pushed up her cheeks. “I read the lines, I don’t write them.”
Caitlyn chuckled, taking a sip of her wine and made as if to say something else when the loud snapping of fingers cut through the air followed by a ‘Vi! Sis!”
Jinx appeared through the crowd, almost tackling into Vi with a joyful grin on her face, hanging off her sister excitedly. “Look at this turn out! I’m stupid excited.” She pulled the older girl in for a tight hug, humming. “Thanks for coming.”
“It’s certainly expressive.” Caitlyn offered, and Jinx frowned up at her as if just noticing for the first time. Then she shrugged and nodded her head casually.
“Yeah, thanks. I know it’s not the rich abstract art you’re probably used to, but it’s mine. Vi, c’mere, I wanna show you the back room.”
“Why were you in the back room?” Vi asked as she was pulled away. She turned to look at Caitlyn as she left, nodding and mouthing ‘in a good way’ back before vanishing into the crowd. Caitlyn chuckled.
She began to wander her way through the crowd, looking idly at the other exhibits with curious interest, letting the background music occupy most of her distracted thoughts as she lingered around another artist’s landscape work.
“There you are,” Jayce’s voice broke through her thoughts as he appeared beside her. “There’s a bar we’re thinking of heading to, if you want to join? Quiet, just for some drinks.” He looked at her expectantly and Caitlyn considered saying no, but decided a bit of distraction after all the work would be good for her. She could rest tomorrow.
“One drink.” She said firmly, and Jayce grinned. He held out his arm and she lightly took it in her hand, following him out of the gallery and to the chilly air and yellow spotlights of the street. Mel and Elora stood to the side on the sidewalk, chatting lightly, and Mel smiled and waved as they approached.
“We’re just waiting,” she held her phone up to show the rideshare request on the screen. “Is Vi joining us?”
“Why would Vi be joining?” Caitlyn asked. The other two women exchanged a glance and a smile.
“I invited her.” Mel said simply.
“Oh.” Caitlyn took in a deep breath and frowned at her friend, who smiled back with warm innocence. “I haven’t spoken to her, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Jinx is coming too, so they’re probably taking their own car.” Jayce cut in, jabbing a thumb behind him. The three women nodded as the car pulled up.
The trip to the bar was short, the three women cramped in the back of the rideshare sedan while Jayce sat up front, only marginally annoying the driver with a conversation on contract taxes. When they arrived the bar was already fairly packed, but not so busy to feel claustrophobic, which Caitlyn was grateful for. Most of the booths were full, so she let her companions know she’d hold a spot (and Mel’s purse) up at the bar and made a direct line while they headed to the crowded dance floor.
“Gin and tonic,” Caitlyn leaned against the bar top as she gave her order. The bartender nodded while he finished off the order for the girl sitting in front of him, a tray of six glasses of different cocktails.
“Wow, you must be thirsty.” Caitlyn and the girl both glanced over to see see Vi walk up to the bar on the other side of the girl, grinning at the tray full of drinks. “Hey, could I get a neat whiskey?” She asked to the bartender, who had just finished his work on the tray and was now working on Caitlyn’s. Vi glanced over at Caitlyn just briefly before looking back at the girl with a smile. “You guys having a party?”
“Just drinks with friends.” The girl said cooly. Vi nodded.
“Well looks like you guys are planning a fun night. Gonna be dancing later? Oh, I’m Vi by the way.” She held out a hand to shake, smiling warmly.
“Um,” the girl said with a careful look and overly polite tone, “I have a boyfriend?”
Vi smiled and pulled her hand back with a shrug, moving back so the girl could push past her when walking away from the bar with her drinktray in hand. Watching her leave for a second, Vi slid across the bar to take her spot, leaning against the bar beside Caitlyn. The bartender silently handed both of their drinks to them.
“Not dancing?” Vi asked as she took her drink without looking Caitlyn’s way. Caitlyn shook her head.
“I don’t dance.”
Vi hummed in acknowledgment.
They were both quiet in the noisy din of the bar for a minute, Caitlyn running her thumb over her glass until the friction started to squeak out little noises. Tapping her thumbnail instead for a couple of seconds she turned to Vi.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Flirt so openly,” Caitlyn motioned to the girl who’d just left the bar, now sitting with her friends as they all ducked heads together, giggling. “It doesn’t look like it worked out in your favour at all this go around.”
Vi snorted into her drink. “Because I don’t care what strangers think about me.”
Caitlyn glanced over, puzzled. Vi nodded to the girls and looked back to her coworker.
“Rejection when I flirt doesn’t bother me, because all it means is whatever
they
think when they see me. It’s nothing to do with me, it’s all them. It’s what I like about strangers.”
“Their assumptions?”
“The honesty.”
Caitlyn turned slightly to Vi, tilting her head. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Vi swallowed the drink she’d just taken, raising her glass in the air slightly to gesture around the busy bar. “Putting yourself out there for a stranger means getting to choose who you want to be, and that makes it easy. You can be as honest and vulnerable as you need to be because tomorrow? It doesn’t matter. They’re gone.” She took a drink, smacking her lips slightly at the taste. “Way I see it, more you know someone the harder it is to be open with them, to be vulnerable. Because they’re there the next day, they remember other parts of yourself you might have shown before. Makes things harder, makes you have to remember the parts to guard.”
She took another sip of her drink as Caitlyn watched with a thoughtful frown. Tilting her shoulder, adjusting to lean more towards Vi, Caitlyn shook her head.
“I don’t think that’s true,” she argued. “I don’t think you can be vulnerable without that sense of history and future. Otherwise it’s just a very small piece, and you’re still working off of their perceptions, instead of their knowledge. You need that time and closeness to learn about a person, instead of assume.”
“Hmm.” Vi shrugged, looking impassive as she ran a hand across her collarbone, adjusting the collar of her shirt.
A round of loud laughter came from the table of girls, drawing their attention for a second. The girls were still all huddled together, one typing something on a phone.
“Aren’t you concerned about hitting on straight girls?” Caitlyn nodded again to the table. “Potential consequences for being too forward?”
“You mean outing myself by hitting on a girl?”
“Maybe a simplistic way of putting it, but yes.”
Vi scrunched her nose, brow furrowed and frowning sightly before she answered. “If someone’s going to start shit over that, they’re gonna do it long before I get to talk to a girl. I mean,” she gestured towards herself, hair and outfit. “I’m not subtle. And yeah, I get the luck of being white and having arms as thick as my neck so I don’t get nearly as much shit as there is out there, but if I am gonna get it, it’s gonna be inevitable no matter how I act.” She smirked, framing her face with an open hand. “Because this mug’s so hot they get jealous.”
Caitlyn let out a surprised laugh, Vi grinning in response as they both chuckled.
“But seriously,” Vi said, smile still on her face but expression more solemn as she looked aimlessly in the crowd. “I used to be worried about it. About being too loud, too out. Got this when I was seventeen just for flirting with the sister of some asshole,” she gestured to the cut on her lip. “But hiding isn’t my style, being quiet isn’t who I am. I
like
it. I like sex, I like women, and I’m not going to shy away from that like it’s a bad thing. You know how many girls I get with are still in the closet?” She snorted, not giving Caitlyn space to answer. “We live in the fucking city of progress and they still need closets. Never would have approached me if I hadn’t approached them. And I get it, and I’m fine with it, because I can be confident enough for the both of us.”
“That’s how I see it; I’m gonna get shit for existing no matter what, I might as well as exist on my own terms, and make a few girls happy while I do.” She tilted her head back, draining her glass and settled back in the silence that followed.
“Thank you.”
Vi glanced over to Caitlyn, watching Vi with a quiet, soft expression. Vi snorted, shrugging.
“You’re welcome.” She said with a smirk and Caitlyn’s expression didn’t falter.
“No, really,” the taller women insisted softly, bringing both hands up to hold onto her glass as she spoke. “Thank you. For sharing all that, things I hadn’t known about you.” Her gaze dropped to Vi’s lip, the scar on it, and back up again.
They both hovered there a moment, silence tense between them as if waiting for something.
“You know, it’s funny.” Vi said, turning slightly to slide her empty glass closer to the bartender’s side of the bar top. “We’ve been working together for two years, spent a ton of time on set, filmed some pretty emotionally intimate stuff together…” she scratched at her jaw, smiling with a thoughtful expression as she lowered her hand, “and I really feel like we don’t know each other at all.”
“Vi! Vi!”
Jinx’s insistent voice cut through just then, before Caitlyn could fully register the words, before she could work out a reply to this conversation. Both she and Vi looked up at the long arm of Jinx waving through the crowd, beckoning Vi to come over. Vi waved in acknowledgement, pushing herself to a stand.
“Quick selfie?” She asked, raising her phone. “Fans on my page have been asking and I think Jinx is going to keep me busy for the rest of the night.”
Caitlyn nodded and Vi effortlessly slid in beside her, swinging an arm around her shoulder, phone raised in the air. Vi’s arm was warm through the shoulder of Caitlyn’s jacket, squeezing just slightly to keep them pulled together.
She snapped a couple of pictures and nodded, pulling away. Pocketing her phone, Vi smoothed out the wrinkles of her shirt and began to walk toward where Jinx was waiting for her. She gave one last small wave to Caitlyn as she left.
“See ya, Cait.”
And then she shuffled into the crowd, leaving Caitlyn at the bar with a glass still half full of drink, and a heavy amount of thoughts. She didn’t remain alone for long, before Jayce and Mel found her and kept her company for the rest of the night with a welcome distraction of inane chatter, though she glanced out over the crowd on occasion, as if hoping to see a mess of short pink hair.
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 takes Shallan approximately two months after the wedding to realize that she is an idiot.
In her defense, there is a minor apocalypse going on, and Adolin is very good at distracting her.
Her realization comes in the form of watching Bridge Four train. This was suggested by Szeth as a way for her and the other Radiants to learn about Windrunners and their abilities, and she was very resistant indeed because she had turned over a new page that involved not ogling Kaladin, but about ten minutes into pointedly watching any of the other bridgemen who are not Kaladin, she realizes that Adolin has had no such compunctions and is very much ogling Kaladin.
She almost laughs out loud.
Later, in the evening, when Adolin comes back from Jasnah’s mandatory daily strategy meetings (Shallan knew suggesting Jasnah as queen would come back to haunt her), she quirks a brow at him from her comfortable position by the window, sketching Shadesmar from memory.
“I understand,” she says, very earnestly. “I know I could never compete with Kaladin. I mean, he can
fly
. I’ll be fine if you leave me for him.”
She regrets it instantly as a niggling doubt she had been totally unaware of rears its ugly head, asking what if it’s just the opportunity he’d been waiting for? What if he secretly preferred men? What if she was just there to ensure the line of succession?
Adolin blushes red to the tips of his ears. “I,” he says. “Er. Shallan, I’m so sorry.”
Shallan is about to interrupt this clearly ludicrous line of thinking, but Adolin continues, rushed, hectic. “I know I’m a terrible husband, we’ve only been married two months and I’m already looking at, well, I mean…I hope you can forgive me.”
She stares at him blankly for a moment. “You are aware that we had a whole discussion about me watching him in much the same way?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you are aware that being married doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to
look
.”
“You weren’t looking at him,” Adolin says, a touch sadly.
“It was a conscious effort,” Shallan admits. “Don’t you think that if we both want him, perhaps there is a better solution than…well, this?”
Adolin draws nearer to sit down beside her. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m not suggesting that, I’m suggesting…adding him.”
For a battle-seasoned Highprince, Adolin’s expressions can be as shocked and disapproving as any ardent’s.
“Why not?” Shallan asks, setting her sketchbook aside. “It’s the
desolation
. And
we’re
the Voidbringers. Surely everything is so confused that no one will care, or even notice, if we choose to involve someone else in our marriage. Surely we’re not even the first to do so.”
Adolin considers. “A good point well made,” he says at length. Shallan takes a moment to consider his (lovely) shoulders, and then remembers that Kaladin had taken his shirt off in the heat of the Shattered Plains today. She imagines both, side by side. She imagines both, together.
“I think this will be a good thing,” she says.
-
As it turns out, convincing Adolin is significantly easier than convincing Kaladin. For one, Adolin is a pushover. For another, Shallan has a way with words. For a third, Adolin actually
listened to what she had to say.
In the following weeks, Adolin suffers a heretofore unknown level of frustration trying to get the bridgeboy to sit still and listen to him for long enough to convincingly convey the concept of the threesome.
Shallan had tried first, of course, being clearly far braver than Adolin ever has been, but she reported back with a similar lack of success. While she and Kaladin are friendly, every time she tried to draw nearer to him, or mention Adolin, or her marriage, or even her feelings towards Kaladin, he withdrew and all-but ran.
So here Adolin is, out on the Shattered Plains again, trying to act nonchalant about joining Bridge Four for their training exercises despite his utter lack of Radiance.
“It will be good to know how you fight,” he had claimed. “Especially if all the Skybreakers but one are working for the enemy.” As if Adolin had a rockbud’s chance in a highstorm of facing a Skybreaker, let alone a dozen of them, with nothing but a Shardblade that may or may not have started answering him when he talked.
Kaladin accepts this ludicrously flimsy excuse for Adolin to continue staring at his bare chest with equanimity – but strangely, whenever Shallan appears to watch, he's clothed again.
“I can’t even explain what you’re missing,” he tells her mournfully after the last such misadventure. “He’s just so pretty.”
Shallan sighs in agreement. “And so tortured.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“That’s why we need you,” she says. “You’ll balance us out.”
Privately, Adolin fully intends on spoiling both of them rotten – if only they would let him. But so far, following Kaladin around like a lost puppy and even refraining from calling him “bridgeboy” has yielded no returns. Even Renarin has caught on to what his brother is doing, and starts openly laughing at him with the other bridgemen. It’s a sorry state of affairs.
“Listen, goncho,” one particularly obnoxious bridgeman tells him. He was introduced to Adolin as Lopen’s cousin, and that was such an unhelpful descriptor that the name instantly vanished from Adolin’s memory. “Kaladin’s as thick as the walls to Urithiru. You want something from him, you’re going to have to spell it out.”
“This is true,” Rock agrees sagely.
So Adolin stalks off after Kaladin to wherever he’s gone, feeling his dignity mightily wounded, although he is a little pleased the bridgemen at least like him enough to help.
He finds Kaladin staring out over a chasm, wind blowing his hair.
“And here,” Adolin says, unable to help himself, “we find the majestic bridgeboy in his natural state: brooding.”
Kaladin turns to face him. “What is it you want?” he asks.
“A lot of things.”
“Look, I don’t know what exactly happened with you and Shallan,” Kaladin continues, turning a little red, “but I don’t really know why you’re both…”
“Interested?” Adolin offers.
“Always here!” Kaladin shouts. “You should be with your wife, and leave me out of it. You should hate me.”
“Funny story,” Adolin says. “I was all ready to be the bigger man and release Shallan from our engagement. She said she chose me.”
Bitterness wells up in Kaladin’s expression, and Adolin rushes on, “But as it turns out, we kind of both want you and we just wanted to see if you’d be interested in that.”
Kaladin says nothing.
“Um.” Adolin says. “Look, I’m absolute rubbish at this. But we wanted to…to…” well, he could hardly say
rip your clothes off and ravish you
, Kaladin may have a heart attack. “Invite you over for dinner.” There, that seemed like a suitably acceptable way to phrase it.
Kaladin’s eyes narrow. “Is that a euphemism?”
“Uh.” Adolin shrugs. “I don’t really know. Whatever you want. I promise to actually feed you dinner.”
Kaladin turns away again. “It’s only been a few months. How can the marriage bed possibly already be that boring?”
“It’s not about that,” Adolin says, indignation burning in his throat. “As improbable as it may seem, we both
like
you and want to spend time with you, you blistering idiot.”
“Oh,” Kaladin says.
“Yeah, oh,” Adolin says, still furious. “We’re not going to besmirch your reputation and leave you a broken woman. We want you to be a part of our marriage. And if that’s not something you want, or if, if you don’t want both of us, can you please just tell me now, because it’s been
weeks
and it’s getting embarrassing to chase after you.”
Kaladin says nothing, and Adolin, who is starting to feel more than a little embarrassed and hurt, takes it as his cue to stalk off back towards the Oathgate.
“Wait, Adolin,” Kaladin yells, chasing after him. “Uh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that.”
He really is dense. Adolin waits, cautious, but doesn’t turn around.
“I,” Kalodin says, drawing even with him. “I’d love to come to dinner. If. If you really. If that’s.”
Adolin beams, his entire face lighting up. “Excellent!” He says. “Tonight. I promise there will not be stew.”
-
Kaladin doesn’t really know what to do with himself. He hasn’t exactly courted much before, one failed courtship in wartime does not experience make. But Shallan and Adolin seem determined to press on through his awkwardness and his insecurity, and determined to treat him like…well, like a lighteyed lady. They take him to restaurants in Urithiru he would never conceive of entering alone, apparently heedless of the stares they draw in their odd threesome. Adolin
feeds him fried dough balls off his own fork
one time. They take him stargazing. They invite him to their quarters for card games or just to drink tea and talk. It’s bizarre.
What’s more bizarre is that Kaladin…just lets them. He endures endless teasing from his men about it, and blushes bright red whenever they arrive at the barracks to pick him up for an evening together.
Lopen has convinced everyone he can it’s some sort of carnal arrangement and persists in giving Kaladin the most lewd winks.
Rock has stated that he expects to cook at the wedding, and wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation that three-way weddings don’t really happen in Alethkar. “We are not in Alethkar,” he pointed out, and Kaladin had no easy response to that.
Sigzil designed a special form for Kaladin to fill out, should he feel the desire to.
It’s not that Kaladin doesn’t appreciate his men’s support. It’s more that he’s baffled by it.
“You do deserve to be happy,” Syl tells him, fluttering around him as he puts on his one non-uniform shirt in preparation for yet another dinner date. “I like seeing you happy.”
“Happiness comes before death and destruction,” Kaladin says gloomily. “Or me ruining everything.”
Syl shakes her head at him. “Your attitude needs improvement. Here they are, bending over backwards to make you feel happy, and you won’t even kiss them. I’ve been telling you, you should be making love, it makes everyone happy.”
Kaladin points a threatening finger at her. “I hope you’re not watching.”
She sniffs primly. “I have more interesting things to do with my time.”
Tonight, they’re eating dinner on the balcony in Shallan and Adolin’s quarters, by starlight. The night is almost unnervingly quiet, no storms on the horizon.
“You could almost imagine there’s no war,” Shallan says dreamily, popping a piece of stewed fruit in her mouth not-quite-daintily.
“Mm,” Kaladin agrees, leaning back in his seat to look at the constellations.
“Are the stars the same in Hearthstone?” Adolin asks.
As always, Kaladin is taken by surprise when they ask him about his past. He shouldn’t be – they are both quite open with their own histories, even the unpleasant parts. He feels almost touched that they care enough to ask about his insignificant hometown.
“Not the same as Urithiru, no,” Kaladin says. “I think it’s seasonal. They’re probably the same in Hearthstone and Kholinar.”
“That makes sense,” Adolin says.
There’s a rustle of cloth, and then, suddenly, Shallan is seated on Kaladin’s lap. “Hello,” she says.
“Um,” Kaladin says.
“I don’t know if I’m being too forward,” she says, “but this seems like a fairly romantic setting.”
She leans down and kisses him, and Kaladin has perhaps never been more shocked in his life, despite knowing for weeks that this is where courtship is usually headed.
She pulls back, just a little, asks, “Is this alright?”
“Yes,” he croaks. “Yes, definitely.”
“Good,” she smiles, like a windspren caught in a highstorm, and Kaladin has been slow to understand Veil and Radiant, but he’s almost certain there’s a hint of Veil peeking through right now.
They kiss again, slowly, hesitantly on his part, and her hand tangles in his hair. When they pull apart moments later, he’s just a tad out of breath, and she’s blushing.
“Can I,” Adolin says, sounding strangled, and somehow he’s pulled them both to their feet in an instant. He holds Shallan close in his right arm, and with his left, he reels Kaladin in and absolutely destroys him.
In the hazy moments of being kissed within an inch of his life, with Adolin’s tongue pressed against his and his arm a strong band around Kaladin’s waist, Shallan tracing patterns up and down Kaladin’s side, Kaladin understands them a little better.
Shallan is always in action, always in her mind, always secreting a part of herself away, the same way Kaladin holds himself, and Adolin is…Adolin is the opposite. Adolin is genuine to a fault, earnest and kind and holding Kaladin and Shallan both close like they’re something to be protected.
“Stay,” Shallan whispers, “stay with us.”
Kaladin thinks of being alone with her in the chasms, of Adolin being imprisoned beside him out of loyalty, of being trapped in Shadesmar with them both, of finding their way out together each time, of being
so alone
ever since he’d left Hearthstone.
“Yes,” he says.
-
Shallan is almost nonchalant as she unbuttons the sleeve of her safehand, pulls off her dress.
Kaladin is blushing bright red.
Adolin desperately wants to be touching them both, but he holds himself back. “Kaladin,” he says, hesitant but needing to know, “have you done this before?”
Kaladin shakes his head wordlessly. From what he’s gathered about Kaladin’s life, Adolin had suspected as much.
What surprises him is the fierce pleasure he feels at hearing it. “Good,” he says. Kaladin laughs.
“Well,” Shallan says, naked and reclined on the bed, “are you going to join me?”
She’s playing at bravery, still, and they all know she is not as confident as she pretends to be, but the way Kaladin’s breath catches in his throat, the way his flush spreads down his neck – that will help her confidence become real.
Adolin pulls his shirt over his head, toes off his boots, and makes a decision.
He settles behind Shallan on the bed, holds her close, and beckons Kaladin to join them
Kaladin does, pulling off his shirt as well. He settles above Shallan, just so that they aren’t touching anywhere, and kisses her.
They kiss for long minutes, exploring each other, slow and careful. Adolin rumbles in pleasure behind Shallan, enjoying the view and in no rush whatsoever.
“Can I-“ Kaladin starts to ask.
“Please,” Shallan says, and Kaladin scoots back to his knees to look at her. Her ears go a little red, but she keeps her composure remarkably. Then again, she and Adolin have been having quite a lot of fun, the past few months.
Kaladin’s fingers trace her collarbone, her shoulders, the slight curve of her breast. His head dips to mouth along her neck, and she tilts her head back against Adolin’s chest, sighing. Kaladin is slow to move further down, to follow his fingers with his mouth, but when he does, Shallan lets him hear her appreciation.
Unable to resist, Adolin cards through Kaladin’s hair. It’s so soft. Kaladin moans in appreciation.
He pulls away from caressing Shallan’s breast to look Adolin straight in the eye and say, “Tell me what to do.”
“Storms,” Adolin gasps, as Shallan shudders.
Kaladin is still looking at him. Smoldering, really.
Adolin says. “Spread her legs for you.”
Shallan does it for him, really, eager.
“Kiss her,” Adolin says.
“Here?” Kaladin asks, kissing her mouth slowly, gently.
“Lower,” Adolin says roughly.
Kaladin kisses her neck, just below the ear.
“Lower.”
Her collarbone, slow and gentle. Shallan shivers.
“Lower.”
Kaladin is soft, gentle, licking and massaging the tops of her breasts.
“Lower.”
Her nipples. She arches into the suction, and Adolin is beginning to doubt Kaladin’s inexperience.
“Lower,” he almost growls.
Kaladin’s tongue stabs into her bellybutton, and she shrieks with laughter. But he has stopped waiting for commands, has pressed his mouth to that most intimate place, that most intimate kiss.
Shallan’s hands migrate to his hair almost immediately, and she is most certainly the one telling Kaladin what to do now. He reaches up, catches her safehand in his. She shivers. Kaladin pulls away to press a kiss to her palm, and for a moment, it’s just Kaladin and Shallan. She traces his jaw gently with her safehand, then pushes him back down to his job.
Adolin has never in his life been more erect, or less inclined to do anything about it.
Except run his mouth, that is.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he sighs. “Both of you. I have no idea how I got so lucky. Storms, Kaladin, can you feel how she’s shivering for you? I don’t know how you’re so good, but you’re so good, so perfect for us.”
Shallan makes noises of agreement, and Kaladin seems to struggle for a moment with arguing, but can’t quite pull himself away from where his tongue is tracing patterns on Shallan’s clit.
“Fingers,” Adolin says. “You could put a finger or two in her. She likes that.”
“
Yes
,” Shallan agrees vehemently.
With Kaladin’s fingers in her and his mouth on her, she’s not going to be much longer, Adolin can tell. She’s tensing up in his arms, drawing tighter and moaning, holding Kaladin firm where he is, and he’s not sure if either of them are aware of the light stormlight glow coming off them both, but it’s amazing.
Shallan comes down in twitches and starts, pulls Kaladin up to kiss him thoroughly. Kaladin is thoroughly flushed, his cock tenting his pants, and Adolin’s mouth waters.
“I think it’s your turn,” Shallan says to Adolin cheekily. “I’ll just…” She settles herself beside the bed, entirely nude, watching.
Adolin grabs for Kaladin, presses him into the sheets, and kisses him with what feels like his whole body, pressing them tight together. Kaladin moans against his mouth.
He treats Kaladin to the same experience he gave Shallan, pressing kisses to his neck, sucking on his nipples, running fingers up and down his sides, really just reveling in how storming lovely Kaladin is. How responsive, gasping and shifting and saying Adolin’s name.
When Adolin strokes him slowly, through his pants, his hips thrust upward apparently of their own volition, and he
whimpers
.
“I think we’ve made him wait long enough,” Shallan says conversationally. “You should probably fuck him now.”
“Is that what you want, bridgeboy?” Adolin asks.
Kaladin looks at him, his eyes wide, expressive, beautiful. “Please,” he says.
Adolin feels stunned, run through, by how open, how trusting Kaladin is after weeks of tentative overtures, months of stilted silences and misunderstandings. How so little affection has melted him so completely into this gorgeous creature. He resolves to absolutely shower Kaladin with affection.
Adolin fumbles for the oil, and finds Shallan has already pressed it into his hand. He has no doubt she’s recording all this for a sketch later. She’d been very curious about the mechanics of sex between men, perhaps too curious.
“I’m going to take such good care of you,” Adolin whispers into Kaladins skin as he slicks up his fingers, settles between Kaladin’s thighs. “I’m going to make this so good for you.”
He begins to press his index finger slowly, inexorably, into Kaladin. Kaladin’s jaw clenches, and Adolin pets his stomach. “Shh,” he says, “I know it’s weird at first, but it’s worth it.”
“I do know something about anatomy,” Kaladin grits out, taking deep breaths and slowly loosening to the intrusion.
Shallan catches Adolin’s eye with a knowing grin. It is not at all lost on her that her wedding night, just a few months prior, was much the same.
Adolin ducks down to suckle the head of Kaladin’s cock, tracing patterns with his tongue. Kaladin’s eyes go wide and he moans. The distraction allows Adolin to add another finger, slowly pushing them forward to the knuckle. He’s trying very hard to ignore his own body’s murmurs of how good, how tight, how welcoming Kaladin will feel.
Adolin curls his fingers, just a bit, and Kaladin groans. His hips loosen; his shoulders drop; his jaw unclenches. “There we go,” Adolin crows, adding another finger. In what seems like moments, Kaladin is ready, is spreading his legs wider, gripping Adolin’s wrist and telling him no uncertain terms to get on with it.
A pleasant fantasy of making Kaladin wait for it, of making him come on fingers alone, of making him
beg
, splays itself out across Adolin’s mind, and he resolves to follow through on it when things are a bit less new. When Kaladin is a bit less fragile.
Then, he slicks himself up and presses slowly into Kaladin, and loses every train of thought he ever had.
“Oh,” Shallan whispers. Adolin opens eyes he hadn’t realized were closed to see her safehand straying down to her clit, rubbing and teasing. He groans.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“I’m going to kill you
both
,” Kaladin huffs, “If you don’t
move
.”
So Adolin does. Slowly, and in increments taking all his composure, he slides in and out. Gently, calmly.
“More,” Kaladin says.
“Pushy,” Adolin teases, and relinquishes some of his control. He slides in deeper, and Kaladin sobs.
On an impulse, Adolin grasps Kaladin’s wrists in his hand, pins them to the bed above Kaladin’s head. He licks a stripe up Kaladin’s neck.
Kaladin is crying out on almost every thrust, clenching in the most distracting way, his eyes clouded with pleasure, and Adolin is feeling, to be honest, incredibly smug.
Then Kaladin’s legs tighten around his waist, and Adolin finds himself rolled onto his back.
“Not fast enough,” Kaladin tells him, and proceeds to impale himself on Adolin’s prick again and then ride him like a…well, certainly not like Kaladin’s ever ridden a horse.
Adolin finds himself reduced to moans, bucking his hips up to meet Kaladin’s frantic pace. When they find the right angle, Kaladin just about screams.
Shallan moans from beside the bed, fingers slowing on herself. “You’re beautiful,” she says quietly, and Adolin is positive she means them both.
He’s sliding fast into oblivion. Kaladin is too tight, too strong, to wild for him to hold out. He grasps for Kaladin’s cock, desperate for them to come together, and Kaladin moans for him again. Adolin is aware he is beyond finesse, beyond technique, but Kaladin doesn’t seem to mind, coming wet and messy all over his fist in a matter of seconds with a sound that pushes Adolin straight over the edge.
It takes him a few minutes to pull himself together, after. He’s a mess, Kaladin’s a mess, the bed is a mess, even Shallan’s a mess with her hair all tangled and her body still flushed.
Kaladin has his eyes shut, lying beside Adolin, and Adolin is suddenly completely sure he’s preparing something monumentally stupid in his silly brain.
“I guess I should go now,” Kaladin says.
Shallan looks shocked speechless. She’s used up her bravery for the night, and with the power of arousal fading, they are left only with honesty and emotion.
Luckily, Adolin is not scared of either.
“Nonsense,” he says firmly. “You’re staying right here.”
“But-“ Kaladin says, clearly about to reiterate that they are lighteyes and he’s not, that they are married and he’s not.
“I want you to stay,” Adolin says. “Please?”
Kaladin sighs. “Surely there will be consequences.”
“Yes,” Adolin says, pulling Kaladin in for a snuggle (sue him, he’s a cuddler, and Shallan is already sneaking in on his other side). “We might actually end up happy for a change. Imagine that.”
“Sounds difficult,” Kaladin says, but he’s starting to relax, starting to settle, and as Adolin pulls him close to his chest, spooning him from behind, Shallan a warm weight at his back, Kaladin drifts to sleep.
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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