BONUS ROUND 1: THROWBACK PROMPTS

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In this round, we'll be using prompts from last year's bonus rounds! You can either come up with a prompt based on the previous themes, fill a prompt from previous bonus rounds, or fill a prompt that's been posted this year!

Here is the tag with all the previous bonus rounds!

Fills can be in any format, and you can fill your teammates prompts, but you cannot fill your own prompt.

You can post as many fills and as many prompts as you want!

for your prompt post title, please use the following format:

PROMPT: TEAM [TEAM NAME]

for your fill post title, please use the following format:

FILL: TEAM [TEAM NAME]

If you're filling from a 2023/2024 prompt, please link to their prompt in your post!

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FILL: Team RWBY

[hopelessgemini]

went a little less "tender and intimate" and a little more "unhinged murder yuri" with this one but what can you do

ship: winter/cinder

fandom: RWBY

To say Cinder collapsed would be generous — it was more of a controlled faint, really, and Winter caught her anyway, so there’s no point in arguing over semantics. Either way, she wakes up a couple hours after the world was supposed to end in a transport on its way back to Vale, with Winter’s blazer draped over her shoulders and Winter’s hand looped over her hip.

She blinks up at the ceiling, squinting into the light. If Winter is sitting next to her, she genuinely can’t tell — it’s all too bright, and her prosthetic eye must have blown out at some point in the battle. “Hi,” she says, testing her voice out, and someone yelps like they were just shot in the ass.

Cinder can’t help it; she starts smiling. “Hi,” she repeats.

“Cinder,” Winter says thickly from somewhere behind her head, “oh my god, Cinder.”

The transport starts to come into focus around her: Winter’s body keeping her partially upright, the slow rattling of the engines underneath her feet, the seat they’re squashed together on. She must have been unconscious for a while. “Gods, technically,” she says, just to be a pedant, and pushes as close as she can to the slope of Winter’s shoulder. It requires twisting her neck at an awkward angle, but she figures she’s been through worse.

“I thought you were dead, I thought — well, I don’t know what I thought. But you weren’t waking up,” Winter says. Her voice is hoarse; she must have been crying.

“So we did it?”

“Not the point.”

“We did it, though,” Cinder hums.

“Well, Ruby did it. We’re heading back to a settlement to patch up. No casualties, somehow, but most of us are quite injured.” Winter shoves her pointedly. “Including you.”

“How many limbs am I down now?”

“Still just one.” She presses a rough kiss to the top of Cinder’s head, a sign that she’s been forgiven for almost dying.

-

Cinder thought she’d have gotten over the novelty of sharing a bed with Winter by now, but it turns out that it’s still incredibly anxiety-inducing. The inn they’re staying at overnight is a small one, tucked away in a town under the Branwen tribe’s jurisdiction, so while they’re technically not safe they’re not exactly in mortal peril, but the kids insisted they all double up on rooms anyway. And Winter, being objectively the Most Adult, offered to take the one with the single bed.

So here they are, almost a full day after the world was supposed to end, helping each other up a flight of stairs that Winter’s summons could have carried them up anyway.

“We really should do something about this,” Cinder says pointedly, squeezing Winter’s poorly splinted wrist. “And, you know, all of my life-threatening wounds.”

“Shut up,” Winter says, but she tightens her grip on Cinder’s waist anyway. Her aura kicked in a good while ago to keep her from bleeding out, but Cinder refrains from mentioning it. She likes Winter’s protective side.

They barricade the door — well, Winter barricades the door — and drag the bed out into the centre of the room. There’s no real reason for it, not anymore; Cinder just feels better when the space doesn’t look so large. Winter takes one look at her shuffling nervously next to the headboard and says, “I’ll take the floor,” broken wrist and all.

“No you won’t,” Cinder says automatically. “We’re adults. And we’re literally dating. We can share a bed.”

Winter’s face scrunches up; presumably indignance at the word dating, as though that could ever sum up the force of their bond or whatever. And then she acquiesces, sighing. “Fine. Just — I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m a big girl with an activated aura, I can handle getting elbowed in the night.”

Winter’s face scrunches up again. “This would be the first time we’ve slept in a bed together.”

“We are adults.”

“You have the emotional maturity of a Beowolf.”

Cinder groans and flops sideways onto the mattress, wincing a little when the impact jolts the gash in her side. “Well, at least let me fix your wrist. Lest you never hold a sword again.”

Winter’s indignance increases, but only marginally, which is a success in Cinder’s book. “It’ll heal just fine without — okay, you know what, go ahead.”