Since I'm going ridiculously long on some of these, I'm posting three a day (in theory) for a week.
Meme: Step 1: Write down the names of 10 characters. Step 2: Write a fic of [at least] twenty five words for every prompt, using the characters determined by the numbers. DO NOT read the prompts before you do step 1.
2. Sara Tancredi (Prison Break)
3. Sirius Black (Harry Potter... using both canon and RPG-verse)
4. James Potter (Harry Potter... using both canon and RPG-verse)
5. Michael Scofield (Prison Break)
6. Darcy Lewis (Avengers movie-verse)
7. Natasha Romanov aka Black Widow (Avengers movie-verse)
8. Miles Matheson (Revolution)
9. Damon Salvatore (Vampire Diaries)
10. Stella Gardner (Harry Potter RPG-verse)
2: Angst 7
3: AU 1 & 8
4: Threesome 3, 6 & 9
5: Hurt/Comfort 5 & 10
6: Crack 1
7: Horror 10
8: Baby Fic 5 & 9
9: Dark 2 & 8
10: Romance 4 & 7
11: Death Fic 2 & 3
12: AU 8 & 9
13: Dark 4 & 3
14: Threesome 5, 7 & 1
15: Amnesia 2 & 10
16: Hurt/Comfort 8 & 5
17: Crack 9 & 4
18: Genderswap 1 & 6
19: First Time 2 & 7
20: Angst 3 & 8
21: Babyfic 1
FAIR WARNING - Some of these will be NC-17 (at least... they should be). The prompts gave me het, slash, femmeslash and threesomes (knowing me, I'm unlikely to get explicit on the slash or femmeslash). Also, I will be playing fast-and-loose both with canon(s) and with the interpretation of prompts. Additionally, some of my Marvel-universe knowledge is from Wiki and it probably shows. Also, as always, credit to andacus for listening to me talk ad nausem about story concepts and writing. <3
It's not that James Potter doesn't like Muggle things. He does. He totally does. Football is pretty cool and some of those shows on the telly are completely addictive and their music is so much better than the wizarding equivalent that it's not even funny. So, yeah, muggles and muggle things can be totally awesome. And, when he gets the chance, he's keen to try out muggle stuff like escalators and the internet (which is secretly magic. He swears it. Seriously). It's just that here and now seems a particularly bad time for test driving this muggle experience, so to speak.
"I can totally talk you through it," she's saying, looking both two seconds from throwing up and nowhere near as confident as she's trying to sound. "Or you could, like, abracadabra it to go or whatever."
"Magic doesn't really work that way, Darcy," he replies shaking his head as he stares down at her absolutely, most-definitely, totally broken leg.
“And anyhow, I can’t really do much magic when my wand is as broken as your leg,” he laments, holding up the piece of mahogany wood held in one piece solely by a strand of exposed kelpie hair.
It's still weird actually being allowed to discuss magic with Muggles. Well, ones with clearance to know things, anyhow. But then it’s also weird to be dealing with things like mutated scientists and alien Gods. It's funny what happens when there's no other choice.
"I mean, if my wand wasn’t broken I could,” he amends, because he is awesome and brilliant and unwilling to let others think that might not be true.
"Sure you could, big guy,” she says, patting his shoulder and clearly holding back some kind of lewd joke about broken wands. “But it is and we better get a move on because that moment of 'oh God, oh God we're all gonna die' is like one Loki-sized temper-tantrum away.
“Let me tell you, my magical friend, that does not take long and I hate that moment... “ she continues, voice trailing off at the end. “Also I'm pretty sure the shock is starting to wear off because my leg hurts like maybe it's been snapped in two and OH WAIT, it totally has.”
She's bleeding all over the passenger seat pretty steadily and there's ominous rumbling somewhere unsettlingly nearby and he wonders - not for the first time - how exactly this happened. Because Voldemort looking for immortality through ancient religions wasn't that far fetched, but the idea of him seeking out an actual Norse God who, it turned out, actually existed and was an alien was flat out nuts. The Order working with muggle superheroes and their handlers might make sense given that, but James still wasn't sure how exactly he'd ended up doing this in New York.
“The anti-apparation shields are doing more harm than good and your country doesn’t have nearly a good enough floo network,” he tells her, turning the key in the ignition like he’s seen Sirius do on his motorbike a thousand times.
“Take it up with Fury. I dare you,” Darcy snarks.
She’s got a point. The man is one scary-ass dude and, for all his bravado, James doesn’t have a death wish. Even after facing down Voldemort and his Death Eaters for who knew how many years, he still can’t get himself to make the joke aloud about Mad-Eye and Fury walking into a bar that has been rumbling around his brain since approximately fifteen seconds after meeting the S.H.I.E.L.D. director.
He holds the key too long and the engine makes an awful noise that sounds like a niffler in heat. He tells Darcy this and she raises an eyebrow at him with a universal look of disbelief he’s come to believe all women are born innately knowing how to achieve with total perfection.
“Yeah... Gas is the right pedal, brake’s on the left. Shift that thing to ‘D’ to go forward and turn the wheel the way you want to go,” she says, promptly puking all over her shoes as the car lurches sharply.
And that is how James Potter drove a car for the first time in the middle of New York city during an epic battle between Muggle superheroes and a Norse God and a semi-immortal dark wizard. His first time ‘parking’ was less than five minutes later and halfway through a storefront window, but that’s another story entirely.
When she breaks loose of Red Room - not free of it, not exactly, but closer to it than anytime before - she’s no more or less than what they made her. All rough edges and jagged parts that don’t fit together right. They’ve taken her and broken her apart, remade her so many times that bits have crumbled to dust and slipped through her fingers. She’s a mosaic more than a person, pieced back together like they wanted. An assassin first, last and in-between.
When she’s taken into S.H.I.E.L.D., they try to reassemble her, mend the cracks and make her fit. Make her whole. In the end, they only make the picture they want her to be. She’s not that - not yet - but she wants to be and maybe that’s enough.
When the power went out, when scourgify and accio and expecto patronum stopped working, it was like learning to walk again. She felt like an infant, fumbling to figure out the basics of how to live, how to be without magic in her blood and at the tip of her wand. Everything was harder and the skills she’d spent a lifetime accumulating were suddenly meaningless. She didn’t need to know the magical properties of gems or what runes enhanced what charms. She needed to know how to can fruit by hand and start a fire from twigs.
These were not things taught at Hogwarts.
It’s been years since then. She’s coped, like everyone who has survived. She’s laid low, because she’s smart, and made herself useful, because even if this is a new and awful world, she knows people and she knows making herself indispensable is as key to survival as canning fruit and starting fires. Things are always broken these days and, if they’re metal, she can fix them. Sentimental or practical, people bring her things - parents’ wedding rings or broken wire or damaged swords - and she fixes them in trade. It is dirty and it is hard and she longs for the days spent with a loupe in her hand.
A knock on her door pulls her from her work, but the man on her stoop is someone she doesn’t know and he has company, so she doesn’t open the door fully.
“Clio Harper?” the man asks.
“Who are you?” she responds, not acknowledging or denying anything.
“We need a jeweler,” he says, not answering her query.
She’s sure her look is one of disbelief because no one has needed a jeweler since the lights went out. They need swords and they need mended pots and soldered fencing but they don’t need jewelers. Not anymore.
“You used to be pretty good with runes, if I’m not mistaken,” an older blonde woman says, a twitch of a smile flashing across her face.
“Runes are useless,” Clio responds.
“Not... entirely,” the man replies, holding out a necklace in his palm.
It’s shiny and brilliant with etchings she knew once, long ago, symbols of power and energy and durability. But she tells them none of this, instead eyeing the pendant as it starts to glow.
“Lumos,” the man says in a near whisper.
A ball of light like she never thought she’d see again materializes above the pendant and Clio’s heart catches in her throat as her breath hitches.
“How did you...” she starts.
“It’s the necklace. And we need to know how it works so we can stop Monroe’s militia from taking over everything,” says the younger girl, so young and so eager, optimism shining through her pleading eyes.
“Like I said,” the man smirks, drawing Clio’s attention back to him. “We need a jeweler.”
Goal for tomorrow: Threesome (Sirius Black, Darcy Lewis, and Damon Salvatore), Hurt/Comfort (Michael Scofield and Stella Gardner) and Crack (Clio Harper).