Dataset Viewer
prompts
stringlengths 2.12k
312k
|
|---|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
For a man who could, in theory, command lightning, the rain was winning.
It was a fine, persistent drizzle, the kind that felt more like a state of being than a weather pattern. It had been falling for three days, turning the floor of Germany’s Black Forest into a slick, sucking mire. Every leaf on every branch was bowed under the weight of water, and the air itself felt heavy and damp in his lungs. Harry was soaked through. His magically-warmed cloak was fighting a losing battle, and a single, cold trickle of water was currently tracing a path down his spine.
He was also, to his profound and growing irritation, very hungry.
He lay on his stomach, mud seeping into the knees of his trousers, his wand held with the tense stillness of a sniper. Twenty yards away, a fat, brown rabbit was twitching its nose, blissfully unaware of the wizard who had been trying to catch it for the better part of an hour.
This should be simple. In the war, if they’d needed food, a quick Summoning Charm, a Stunning Spell… but here, in the deep, ancient magic of the forest, his spells were acting strangely. The first time he’d tried to summon the rabbit, the charm had veered wildly, ripping a chunk of moss from a nearby tree instead. His second attempt, a silent Stunner, had overshot by a foot and blasted a fist-sized hole in a rotted log.
He was overthinking it. He was Harry Potter. This was one rabbit.
Taking a slow breath, he cleared his mind, focused his intent, and whispered, “Stupefy.”
The bolt of red light was perfectly aimed, silent, and lethally fast. It was also, he realized a fraction of a second too late, far too powerful. He had put six years of Auror training into the spell, the muscle memory of a hundred life-or-death duels. The spell didn’t just stun the rabbit; it hit the creature with the force of a charging rhino. There was a faint *pop* and a puff of fur. When the light faded, there was nothing left but a dark, scorched patch on the forest floor.
Harry stared at the spot for a long moment, then slowly lowered his wand. He pushed himself up, his entire body aching with a frustration so deep it felt like a physical illness.
He could Apparate to Munich and be eating a hot meal in less than a minute. He could summon a House Elf from the Potter accounts. He could check into a magical inn and forget this whole miserable endeavor. But his pride, a stubborn, bitter thing, wouldn't let him. He had chosen this. He had chosen to walk away from the world that had almost killed him, to prove that he could exist outside of it, on his own terms. And here he was, a few months in, defeated by a common woodland creature.
He wasn't arrogant. He knew, intellectually, that there were skills he didn't possess. But the raw, visceral reality of his incompetence was a shock to the system. He could survive a Killing Curse, but he couldn't survive a week of rain.
He abandoned the memory of the rabbit and stumbled towards the small, makeshift shelter he’d constructed—a crude lean-to of branches that was, he now saw, shedding water almost as effectively as the trees themselves. Inside, his pack was damp, his bedroll was damp, and the small fire he’d managed to start earlier had been reduced to a pile of hissing, blackened sticks.
A wave of pure, childish fury washed over him. With a wordless shout, he pointed his wand at the pathetic fire and unleashed a torrent of bluebell flames. The spell, meant for a hearth, erupted with violent force, consuming the damp wood in a roar of magical fire and blasting a wave of heat and steam back into his face. He staggered back, shielding his eyes, his ears ringing.
When he looked again, the fire was gone. The ground where it had been was a circle of blackened, glassy earth, and the rain was already sizzling on its surface.
He stood there, panting. The silence of the forest rushed back in, seeming to mock him. He hadn't just failed to start a fire; he had sterilized the very ground where a fire might one day burn.
He finally let out a long, shuddering breath and sank down onto a wet log, dropping his head into his hands. The anger drained away, leaving behind only the cold, heavy truth. His power, as immense as it is, is the wrong tool for this job. He is a master of the wrong craft. Alone, soaked, and hungry, he finally admitted to himself, "I don’t know what I’m doing."
He didn’t know how long he sat there, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, the cold seeping deep into his bones. The forest had returned to its dripping, indifferent rhythm. It was in this quiet that he heard the new sound.
It was a rhythmic, grinding *thump… scrape… thump… scrape…*
It was not the sound of an animal. It was heavy, unnatural. Harry’s head snapped up, his hand instinctively going to the wand by his side. He pushed himself into a crouch, every Auror instinct screaming. He scanned the dense, dripping woods, his eyes piercing the gloom.
The sound grew closer. *Thump… scrape…* And with it came a faint, rhythmic sweeping. Through the gnarled black trunks of the trees, he saw movement. Something large and pale was navigating the forest with an unnerving agility. It wasn't walking. It was hopping.
A giant, grey stone mortar, big as a bathtub, was bounding through the trees. Inside it, a figure stood. An old woman, propelling the vessel with a huge stone pestle that she used like a punting pole. In her other hand, she held a long, ragged broom, and with each hop of the mortar, she swept the air behind her, magically erasing any track she might have left.
Harry remained frozen, hidden behind a mossy log. He had never seen or read of anything like this. This was not the clean, structured magic of the Ministry, nor the twisted, hateful magic of the Death Eaters. This was something older, wilder.
The mortar came to a halt twenty feet from his position. The woman inside did not seem to have seen him. She was looking with disgust at the glassy, blackened circle of earth where his fire spell had failed. She sniffed the air, her long, hooked nose twitching.
“A lot of noise,” she rasped, her voice like stones grinding together. “A lot of smoke. And for what? A scared rabbit and an empty belly.”
Her head snapped in his direction, her eyes, small and black as polished river stones, locking onto his hiding place with an unnerving precision. There was no hiding from her. Slowly, Harry stood up, his hand still resting on his wand.
She was ancient. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, her skin pulled taut over sharp cheekbones. A few wisps of grey hair escaped a dirty headscarf. When her lips peeled back in a sneer, he saw that her teeth were not teeth at all, but filed, grey nubs of iron.
“You have the stink of other places on you, boy,” she said, her gaze sweeping over him, from his soaked cloak to his muddy boots. It was not a question. It was a verdict. “And you have the clumsy hands of a child playing with his father’s tools.” She gestured with her chin towards the scorched earth. “You wound the forest, and for nothing.”
Harry felt a flush of defensive anger, but it was quickly extinguished by the sheer, undeniable authority radiating from the woman. He was a mess. He had failed. She was merely stating the facts.
“I…” he started, but his voice caught. What could he say?
“You were hunting,” she stated, her eyes glinting with a dark, predatory amusement. “And now, I am hunting. And you, little wizard, have just scared my prey halfway across the forest with your light and your noise.” She leaned forward on her pestle, the stone mortar creaking. “That is an inconvenience. And I do not like to be inconvenienced.”
She looked him up and down again, a long, slow appraisal, like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. Harry stood his ground, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had faced down dragons and dark lords, but this felt different. This was not a battle of power, but an ancient judgment he was already failing.
“You will make it right,” she said finally. It was not a request. It was a command. “My hunt is ruined. So you will do. You will come to my house. You will work off the debt.”
Before Harry could process the demand, she slammed the pestle into the ground. The mortar shot forward, closing the distance between them in a single, terrifying hop. It landed directly in front of him with a heavy, earth-shaking *thud*. The old woman loomed over him, a grim smile on her iron-toothed mouth.
“Get in, boy,” she commanded.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Charles had done some wedding planning consultations in some strange places -- in a hospital, at a chef’s table in the middle of evening service, in an FBI interview room -- so outside the Sackler Wing in the Metropolitan Museum of Art wasn’t completely ludicrous. In fact, he was maybe a little charmed that his latest client wanted to meet him in a public place, instead of throwing all his wealth at Charles in an ostentatious display, like so many of his peers did.
Still, there was no mistaking the elegant figures of Sebastian Shaw and his fiancée, Emma Frost, standing apart from the tourists and the security guards and the people who visited the Met on their lunch hour. Charles was belatedly glad that Raven had refused to let him go out the door in his customary tweed jacket with elbow patches.
“Mr. Shaw, Ms. Frost,” Charles said, stretching out his hand. “Charles Xavier. How do you do?”
“Mr. Xavier, I’ve heard so much about you,” Shaw said, shaking his hand firmly.
Charles smiled politely, and offered his hand to Frost as well, who shook his hand briefly and with some delicacy. “And of course I’ve heard of you. May I congratulate you on the completion of MacTaggert Wing?” The MacTaggert Wing was a terrible Brutalist monstrosity grafted onto the Sinclair Gallery, but it didn’t seem the time to air his architectural opinions.
“All due to my lead architect, I assure you,” Shaw said. His tone was warm, but there was something about him that Charles found unsettling. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? You have quite a reputation for knowing just what a bride wants.”
Charles smiled in Emma’s direction. “We do our best,” he said. She gave him a polite smile, something artificial but pretty enough, but when she looked at Shaw out of the corner of her eye, it transmuted into something a little more real, more graceless and giddy and true.
“Well, perhaps we ought to start with the big picture -- how many guests were you thinking?” Charles asked, following Shaw and Emma into the closed-off Sackler Wing.
“Seven hundred,” Shaw said promptly.
Charles did not raise his eyebrows, but settled for saying, “That’s going to be challenging in terms of event space, but I’m sure we can make something work.”
“Could you do it in this space?” Shaw asked.
Charles looked around the gallery housing the Temple of Dendur, trying to do some mental calculations even with half the room obscured in white plastic and scaffolding. “In a room this size? Certainly. But I must be honest with you, Mr. Shaw, space like this is going to be hard to come by on such relatively short notice, and will almost certainly delay your desired wedding date.”
“You misunderstand,” Shaw said, smiling in his unsettling way again. “We don’t want to get married in a place like this. We actually want to get married here.”
Charles opened his mouth for a moment, and then shut it. “Mr. Shaw, please understand that I want to make this day everything the both of you want, but there are some limits.”
“Oh, if it’s access you’re worried about, it’s not a problem,” Shaw said breezily. “My firm is renovating this wing. I’m certain it can be made available for our use before the re-opening.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Charles said, hoping his smile adequately concealed his anxiety.
***
“Seven hundred guests. In the
Metropolitan Museum of Art
. In a wing that is the process of being renovated, so who knows when it will actually be ready. You may as well just set me on fire now and get it over with,” Charles moaned to Raven.
She put a cup of coffee down in front of him, and he took a sip. It was terrible -- Raven’s coffee was always terrible -- but he couldn’t really face life without more caffeine and so he drank it anyway.
“It’s our big break,” Raven said. “We’ve done pretty well until now, but this is going to open so many doors for us, Charles.”
Charles put his head down in his arms. “I just want to make people happy,” he said.
“If it doesn’t work out, you can always go back to living off your trust fund and sleeping with Tony Stark.”
“Ugh,” Charles said. “I thought you forbade me to sleep with him.”
“I did, and for your own good,” Raven said. “So don’t screw this up.”
“
Ugh
,” Charles said, and drank his coffee in misery.
***
Shaw secured some kind of terrifying pass for him to get into the Sackler Wing whenever Charles wanted, even though it was closed to the public and security made terrible faces at Charles when he first showed the card to them. Inside, the scaffolding had seemingly bred like rabbits -- what were they even
doing
-- and there were people in hard hats who didn’t seem to be working so much as pointing at things vigorously and talking a lot.
“You can’t be in here,” someone said behind Charles, voice authoritative and sharp with German consonants.
Charles clutched his pass in his hand, and turned around to explain himself, and then utterly failed to do so, because the man behind him had stern eyes and sterner cheekbones, and wore his perfectly tailored suit as easily as breathing. “Er,” Charles said.
The man looked completely unimpressed. He had an iPad in one hand, with which he made a short shooing gesture. “This wing is closed for renovations,” he said dismissively. “I don’t know how you got in, but you need to leave.”
“You don’t understand,” Charles said, finally recovering himself enough to drag his pass up into the man’s line of sight. “I’m supposed to be here. I’m Charles Xavier--”
“I don’t care if you’re God Almighty,” the man interrupted. “Out. Or I’ll have you escorted out.”
“Wait,” Charles said. “Please listen to me, I’m a wedding planner--”
The man looked heavenward and then seized Charles by the elbow. “I really don’t care--”
“--and I’m working for Mr. Shaw,” Charles finished, feeling as if he’d run out of breath all at once.
The hand on his elbow tightened, and the man drew him just a little closer, staring at Charles as if he could verify this information if he looked intently enough. Charles was so close he could smell the man’s aftershave and see the suspicious narrowing of his eyes. “There’s one way to solve this,” the man said finally. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and Charles heard the phone ring on speaker.
“Yes?” came the voice of Sebastian Shaw.
“You have a wedding planner?” the man said flatly.
“Oh, yes. Xavier. He should be down there sometime today.”
“What for?” the man demanded crossly. “You’ve been married three times already. Don’t you know how to do it by now?”
“Lehnsherr,” Shaw said, but it wasn’t exactly a chastisement. “Some things are better left to professionals.”
Lehnsherr’s once-over of Charles made his opinion of Charles’ profession abundantly clear. “I won’t have outsiders underfoot in my renovation.”
“I’m sure Mr. Xavier will be perfectly cooperative,” Shaw said, and the way he said it made Charles feel infinitely filthier than any time spent in Tony Stark’s company, which was really saying something. “Play nice.”
Lehnsherr hung up then, which Charles thought was pretty ballsy for a subordinate, but Lehnsherr didn’t look remotely concerned. He did let go of Charles, although he had the gall to straighten Charles’ lapel just so. “You’ll wear a hard hat at all times,” Lehnsherr said. “I’ve no intention of being sued for liability just because you didn’t want to muss your hair.”
Charles looked at him in disbelief, and then took a deep breath. “Look, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Perhaps we could get a cup of coffee and--”
“Mr. Xavier,” Lehnsherr said coolly, using polite social distance like a lance, “I have neither the time nor the inclination. Be here if Shaw says you must, but stay out of my way.” He turned away, the heels of his shoes clicking across the gallery floor.
“Well,” Charles said to himself, “this is going to go very well indeed.”
***
Charles had every intention of staying out of Lehnsherr’s way, except that it quickly became evident that he couldn’t rely on the past layout of the Sackler Wing for the wedding. He only had two months to pull off the most elaborate wedding of his career, and he didn’t have any time to lose.
And because Charles hadn’t gotten to where he was without knowing a thing or two about how to butter someone up, he went back to the Sackler with two coffees in hand from a coffee shop run by an Austrian couple, put on a too-big hard hat and went off in search of Erik Lehnsherr.
Lehnsherr had blueprints in one hand, his iPad tucked under his arm, and had clearly just finished conferencing with a group of men who were departing, presumably to do his will. He spotted Charles and his mouth creased into an unfriendly line, but Charles persevered.
“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles said, offering a smile that Raven had told him had probably saved him from being punched any number of times. “If I could have a few moments?”
Lehnsherr’s eyes narrowed, but he sniffed the air instead, and said, “Is that from Elsa’s?”
Charles handed a cup to him, and Lehnsherr took one long, appreciative sip, and then said, “Five minutes.”
“Right,” Charles said, and looked out over the gallery, obscured by plastic and scaffolding and god knew what else. “I -- do you suppose I could have a copy of those blueprints?”
It was possible that both the coffee and the smile were working, because Lehnsherr only frowned severely and said, “You wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
“I may not have your extensive training, Mr. Lehnsherr, but surely I can divine a layout and electric outlets,” Charles said, fighting to keep a smile on his face.
Lehnsherr took another thoughtful sip of coffee. “And if you make a critical error, what impact will that have on the wedding?”
Charles bristled at the insinuation.
“This is no place for amateurs, Mr. Xavier,” Lehnsherr said. “I’ll give you the blueprints on the condition that you don’t let your arrogance prevent you from asking questions.”
“My
arrogance
?” Charles said, genuinely taken aback.
“Your naiveté, perhaps,” Lehnsherr allowed, and the cool disdain in his voice raised all of Charles’ hackles. “You swan into my renovation and demand the fruits of six months of my labor, confident that you can visualize and understand what I’m doing with no formal training whatsoever?”
Charles licked his lips once, and took a calming breath. "You wouldn't be the first man to find no value in my work, but I assure you that I take both it and my clients' happiness very seriously."
"Happiness," Lehnsherr echoed, as if tasting the word in his mouth and not being entirely certain what to make of it.
"Please, Mr. Lehnsherr," Charles said softly.
Lehnsherr abruptly handed Charles his coffee. "Give me your email address," he said, bringing up his iPad. His long fingers tapped on the screen for a few moments. Without looking up, he said, "And call me Erik."
***
Raven coordinated the wedding dress shopping, thank the good lord. Charles had only once gone to an appointment with one of the exclusive bridal designers in the city, and the experience had been full of so much terribleness and crying and violently ugly couture that Charles had henceforth assigned himself to only bargain basement shopping if the bride so desired. His TJ Maxx skills were pretty astonishing, if he said so himself.
The Shaw-Frost wedding was, happily enough, not the only event on their plate, which boded well for the continued success and growth of Xavier Events. There were three other, smaller weddings coming up, a bar mitzvah in a month, and an imminent retirement party that was already making Raven hyperventilate.
“He’s eighty-six and just
now
retiring from Columbia,” Raven said. “Who does that?”
“A man who clearly enjoys his work,” Charles said, punctuating his words by scribbling down a few more notes on his preliminary catering menu. “In another life, I think I might have done the same.”
“You certainly dress for it,” Raven said, but it was an old, affectionate jibe that Charles paid no mind. She stopped typing on her laptop, then, and looked at Charles pensively. “Do you wish you had?”
There was a note of uncertainty in her voice that he hadn’t heard in quite a while.
“Raven,” Charles said, reaching forward to cover her hand with his, “I’m happy right where I am, with you, working together. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.”
She smiled, and Charles did her the favor of pretending that her eyes weren’t watery, and that he was being entirely truthful.
***
Charles had planned his mother’s second wedding, mostly because there was no one else to do it, and he’d read a few magazines and decided he could handle it.
Also, it had made his mother smile, which she did rarely, even in the company of her fiancé.
It had been a small wedding at the mansion in Westchester, and his mother was so weak from the chemo that she had to sit during the whole ceremony. Charles had picked out her dress, which mostly camouflaged how thin she’d grown, and the wig was a good approximation of her formerly lustrous golden curls.
Charles remembered the mistakes -- the cake had been dry, the food not as good as he’d hoped -- but he remembered most how truly happy his mother had looked when she’d said her vows.
She’d died six months later, and his stepfather had followed two years after that, and left Raven and Charles alone together. Charles had been planning on Oxford, but he couldn’t leave Raven behind. He’d gone to Columbia instead, and their business had been hatched during his first year. A degree in genetics would have been all very well and good, but the first time Charles saw a bride beam at a wedding he had planned, he could only see his mother in her smile. After that, genetics could hardly compare.
***
Hank and Alex were young, but tremendously talented, and just as a few people had done Charles a good turn while Xavier Events was getting off the ground, Charles wanted to nurture their fledgling catering business. Also, they made a salmon appetizer that was like a mouth orgasm every time Charles ate it, so he figured it was a good bet.
“I think you’ll like them,” he assured Emma. “We’ll be doing a tasting menu today so that you can make some decisions. If you don’t care for them, we can use one of the approved caterers, but I think they’re worth persuading the Met to let us use them.”
Emma nodded, and Charles tried not to sigh. She didn’t talk very much, and Charles worried that she either had no opinion or was suffering this exercise mutely. He didn’t like either possibility.
Hank and Alex had come through once again, though, and had even prepared extra salmon.
“No, really, you have to try this one, I insist,” Charles said, pushing it Emma’s way.
She tried it, and her eyes went wide, fingers fluttering in front of her mouth like she would say something if it wouldn’t require her to talk with her mouth full.
“I know,” Charles said, waggling his eyebrows before popping the salmon in his mouth and making a really indecent noise that made Hank go red in the face.
“I don’t know,” Emma said, looking doubtfully at all of the demolished sample plates. “What should I pick?”
Charles looked at his notes. “Well, you liked the salmon, obviously, but I think the mushroom and the liver pate will be good accompanying hors d’oeuvres.” He looked up again, and Emma’s mouth was twisted into an unhappy frown, even as she twisted her engagement ring with its ludicrously large diamonds on her finger.
“I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” she said, voice low.
“Well,” Charles said carefully, “what about what you want?”
She looked even more miserably indecisive, and Charles could tell it was going to be a very long afternoon.
***
Lehnsherr --
Erik
, Charles reminded himself -- looked distinctly displeased to see him.
“You’re not the city inspector,” Erik said shortly.
“I’m afraid not,” Charles said lightly, handing Erik a coffee from Elsa’s. “Late, I take it?”
Erik looked so fantastically grim and murderous that Charles would laugh if he didn’t think that Erik would strangle him for it. “Forty-five minutes late, and everything’s waiting on him. That man is the devil,” Erik said savagely, and sipped his coffee with a scowl.
Charles tried very hard not to watch the line of his throat as he swallowed, and failed miserably.
“I assume you didn’t come here just to bring me coffee,” Erik said.
Privately, Charles thought a little thanks wouldn’t go amiss, but he said mildly, “I had a question about the fountain, actually. Do you think I could put lights in the water?”
“No,” Erik said instantly.
“You didn’t even think about it,” Charles accused.
“I don’t need to think about it, because you’re not doing it.”
Charles straightened to his full height, which was unfortunately still a head shorter than Erik. “Look, I understand that you may be in a bit of a mood--”
“A mood?” Erik said, all silky threat, too close and looming.
Charles lifted up his chin. “You heard me.”
Erik narrowed his eyes. “I thought you promised Shaw you were going to be cooperative.”
“And I thought you promised him you were going to
play nice
,” Charles shot back.
There was a sudden clatter of sound from the gallery entrance, and they both looked over to see a red-faced man in a bland suit -- and judging by all the sour looks from the rest of the workers, he could only be the overdue city inspector.
“I’ll think about it,” Erik said, and started to walk toward the inspector.
Charles had to hustle to catch up to Erik’s long-legged stride. “Does this mean you’re really going to think about it, or are you just going to blow me off?”
“Charles,” Erik said, voice pitched for his ears alone, “When I blow you off, you’ll know it.” He handed Charles his empty cup then. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and then left Charles behind to greet the city inspector with a cool smile that managed to disguise the part where Erik probably still wanted to have the man drawn and quartered.
Charles stood there for a few moments, still holding the two empty coffee cups, before he decided that regrouping was the order of the day.
***
“He is an unmitigated
ass
,” Charles ranted a few weeks later.
“What did the famous Erik Lehnsherr do today? Tell me everything,” Raven said, which might have been sarcasm except that she was pouring them both extremely generous glasses of wine and had never disguised the joy she took in Charles’ social flailings.
“I asked him a perfectly simple question about ventilation and the fire alarm system--”
“Why do you need to know that?” Raven said suspiciously.
Charles lifted his chin with righteous anger. “That’s exactly what he said, and where does he get off criticizing my ideas? Just because a person has some creative passion in his soul doesn’t make him
wrong
.”
“Okay, I might actually have to go with Lehnsherr on this one.”
“Traitor,” Charles said, and took a sip of wine that was really more of a gulp.
Raven put her feet in his lap. “I’m just saying, remember Mrs. Schwartz’s thing with the candles--”
“I thought we agreed never to talk about that again,” Charles huffed.
“Right,” Raven said cheerfully. “So, in conclusion: Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t want you to burn down the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Also, you want him real bad.”
“I most certainly do
not
,” Charles said, completely horrified.
***
So far, that morning, Charles had fielded no less than six phone calls from Emma Frost, all in regard to the wedding cake, and so he was not precisely at his best when he arrived at the Met for his appointment with Shaw’s security expert.
“Oh my god, are you
smoking
in here?” Charles said, horrified by the scruffy man in plaid lingering outside the door to the Sackler Wing. “Put that out
at once
, this is a museum, what are you thinking?”
The man looked completely bemused by Charles’ outrage, but obediently stubbed out the cigar on the back of his shoe.
“Now you’ve made me late,” Charles muttered, and looked around in vain for someone who probably had impossibly broad shoulders and a terrible suit.
“You Charles Xavier?” the man said.
Charles looked at him suspiciously. “Yes?”
He held out his hand. “Logan. Mr. Shaw sent me here to go over things with you.”
Charles shifted the bag in his hands and decoration samples to free himself to shake his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Logan,” he said.
“Just Logan,” he said. He gave Charles a look up and down. “Nice purse,” he said.
“
I beg your pardon
,” Charles said, all of his outrage back.
Logan grinned then, and it was surprisingly charming even though Charles knew that meant Logan had just been fucking with him.
“So, walk me through this shindig,” Logan said, pulling the door open and ushering Charles through -- with a hand on the small of his back, good Christ.
As it turned out, Logan had some admittedly excellent suggestions about crowd control in between horrifying Charles with off-handed comments about snipers.
“Really, Logan, I don’t think anyone’s going to assassinate Mr. Shaw,” Charles said firmly.
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met him, right? Ain’t nobody who’s met him that hasn’t wanted to kill him.”
“He’s getting
married
,” Charles said defensively.
“For the fourth time. Like I said.”
“What are
you
doing here?” Erik said from behind them, sounding very cross indeed.
Charles and Logan turned. “I’m supposed to be here, as you’ll recall,” Charles said, affronted.
“Not you,” Erik said, stepping close. He looked down at Charles and his lips quirked into something that verged on disappointment. “You didn’t bring me coffee today?”
And it was completely stupid -- Charles had only started bringing coffee to sweeten Erik’s disposition a little, to at least associate Charles’ visits with something he liked. It was social bribery, and therefore there was no good reason for Charles to feel guilty at having let Erik down.
“I--I thought I might be able to persuade you to come out for coffee with me. After we’re done here,” Charles said, the invitation out of his mouth before he could think better of it.
Erik’s gaze was considering, and then he looked sharply at Logan. “That doesn’t explain what Shaw’s pit bull is doing here.”
“Just doing my job, Lehnsherr,” Logan said, giving him a smile that was all teeth.
Erik’s lip curled, and Logan’s frankly terrifying grin got wider, and Charles was honestly worried that violence was a real possibility. He touched Erik’s elbow to get his attention. “We’ll be done in about ten minutes. Can you spare me some time then?”
Erik didn’t shake him off, surprisingly enough. “Ten minutes,” he said, and then aimed one last glare at Logan before stalking off in the direction of some of his employees.
Charles and Logan watched him go, and then Logan let out a low whistle. “You some kind of miracle worker?”
“I’m happy to say I’ve been called that on occasion, but I don’t see how it applies here,” Charles said.
Logan let out of a huff of a disbelieving laugh. “Lehnsherr wouldn’t spit on a man if he were on fire.”
“Yes?” Charles said uncertainly. “By which I mean, I agree with that assessment entirely.”
“I’m just saying,” Logan said, tilting his head in Erik’s direction -- Erik, who was still watching them even as he talked to a foreman.
“He’s just worried I’m going to burn the museum down,” Charles said.
Logan snorted. “Sure he is.”
***
Erik came back precisely ten minutes later and chased Logan away, before escorting Charles out of the museum. It was a crisp autumn day outside, and a beautiful morning for a walk.
Erik didn’t say much as they walked, but he was looking at the buildings as they passed with an assessing eye, before coming to a stop outside Elsa’s.
“Oh,” Charles said. “We could go someplace else if you wanted. I only -- it was just clear. That you liked it.”
“And you pay attention to what people like.”
“I wouldn’t be good at my job if I didn’t,” Charles said wryly.
“How does a person even become a wedding planner?” Erik said, claiming a table and ordering them both coffee and something else in low, angular German without looking at the menu.
Charles raised an eyebrow but forbore commenting on Erik’s presumption. “Perhaps you ought to tell me how you become an architect.”
“I earned my Masters of Urban Design from ETH Zurich,” Erik said. “And then I came here.”
Charles smiled encouragingly, but Erik didn’t seem to feel the need to elaborate. Their order came then, coffee cups and some sort of cookies on twin stainless steel servers.
“And do you enjoy it?” Charles asked, before taking a bite of one of the cookies. He made a shocked, indecent noise at the combination of almond paste and raspberry and chocolate.
Erik’s eyes lingered on his face. “It’s satisfying.”
Charles sipped his coffee to wash the crumbs down. “Am I allowed to ask you terribly clichéd questions, like what your favorite building here is?”
“The Citigroup Center,” Erik said blandly.
“Oh dear god
why
,” Charles said, entirely unable to help himself.
But clearly, Erik was having him on, because his mouth twitched into something that suggested a smile. “Not really -- that thing is as ugly as sin.”
Charles kicked him lightly in the foot. “I was about to think terribly of you.”
“Will you think terribly of me if I tell you that my favorite is the Chrysler building?” Erik asked, something a little more intimate, almost confessional in his voice.
“Everybody says that.”
“Doesn’t make it less true,” Erik said, and handed Charles the little plate of cookies off his own tray.
“Oh, I couldn’t, those are yours,” Charles said, still a little astonished that his plateful had disappeared so quickly.
Erik pushed them into his hand anyway. “You may as well. I have to get back to the museum.”
“So soon?” Charles said, and nearly winced at how plaintive he sounded.
Erik put a crisp twenty on the table and stood. “We’re getting down to the wire, as I’m sure you’re aware. Unless you don’t want the Shaw wedding to go as planned.”
“Please don’t say things like that, it does alarming things to my blood pressure,” Charles scolded.
Erik brushed his fingers against Charles’ shoulder. “See you around, Charles.”
“Until then,” Charles said reflexively.
Charles thought for approximately five seconds about taking the rest of the cookies home to Raven, but he was sure they wouldn’t be as good at the end of the day, so really, he had no choice but to eat them.
***
The Pennington wedding was over, as was the retirement party, which was good, because the Shaw-Frost wedding went from minor shitshow to DEFCON HOT FUCKING MESS in the space of ten minutes.
“Emma,” Charles said carefully, refraining from making any stabbing motions on the phone, “What brought this on?”
“Everyone’s going to accuse me of being a gold-digger,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how much I -- it doesn’t matter. That’s what they’re going to say, isn’t it?”
Charles sighed. “They may, but there’s nothing you can do about tongues wagging. People will say what they want. The important question here is, what do you want? If you say you’d rather have a small wedding with family only, I will make that happen.”
“Even after everything you’ve done?” Emma asked doubtfully.
“Even then, if it’s what you really want,” Charles said. Something was niggling at him, though, and so he said, “I don’t think it’s the potential gossip that’s bothering you, is it?”
“What?”
“Emma, it’s normal to be nervous,” Charles says, trying very hard to sound soothing and not patronizing. “Weddings, no matter the size, are a nerve-wracking business. Why don’t you take the weekend to think it over?”
There was silence at the other end, and then a noisy exhale. “You’re right. I’ll just -- I’ll call you on Monday.”
“I look forward to it,” Charles lied neatly, and resigned himself to a weekend of waiting on tenterhooks.
***
“What do you mean, you don’t know what she wants?” Raven demanded. “That’s ridiculous. You know what everyone says about you?”
“That I’m abnormally patient while my sister is haranguing me?” Charles said, rubbing his temples in a slow, circular motion.
“
They say
,” Raven ground out, “that it’s like you’re fucking
psychic
and you always know what the bride really wants, even if she doesn’t. Charles, you’ve got to pull it together.”
“I’m trying!” he snapped. “It’s not that I don’t understand how important this is for us, Raven. I just can’t get a read on her, for some reason.”
“Maybe you’re distracted,” Raven said flatly. “Maybe if you spent a little less time making doe-eyes at Erik Lehnsherr and a little more time listening to Emma, you’d have this figured out.”
Charles took in a sharp breath and counted to ten, and then said evenly, “You really think you’re one to talk about distractions of a personal nature, Raven?”
She went red, not a pink, embarrassed blush but an angry, blotchy red. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare, Charles.”
He could make a case that Raven had nearly cost them a lucrative catering contact when she’d taken up with Hank and then, just as abruptly, broken his heart, but he held his tongue.
“I’m going out,” she said after a tense, terrible moment, and Charles didn’t call after her.
***
He met Emma for breakfast on Monday morning, and over coffee and a passable soufflé, he made small talk until he thought they were ready to tackle more emotional topics.
“Tell me, what non-wedding things have you been up to in the last two weeks?” Charles asked.
Emma dabbed at her lips. “Work, mostly. I handle a lot of contracts for the city -- that’s how I met Sebastian.”
Charles rested his chin on his hand. “Swept you off your feet, did he?”
And there was that smile again, the one that Charles had been waiting to see. “I didn’t -- I didn’t used to think that really happened. That you could just meet someone, and -- you know.”
Charles didn’t know, exactly, but he’d seen enough people in love -- and enough people who were close enough to round up to being in love -- that he recognized the signs. But he also recognized something else. “I hope you’ll forgive me an intrusive question, but how did Sebastian propose?”
Emma twisted the rather overdone ring on her finger. “He -- he came into the office, actually. I thought he was just taking me to lunch, but he proposed.”
“Heavens, in front of all your coworkers?” Charles said, taking care to keep his tone light. But a public workplace proposal said two things to Charles -- one, that Sebastian Shaw had been confident in her reply, and two, that Emma hadn’t really had a chance to think it over in private before accepting.
Emma’s smile faltered. “It was a joke around the office -- that he was just trying to sweeten me up for the contracts to go through. It shut everyone up when he proposed.”
But Charles would lay money that it hadn’t shut up Emma’s doubts. No
wonder
she was dragging her feet now.
“Emma, if you still want to make changes to the size and scope of the wedding, we can do that. But I think you need to do something first.”
“What’s that?”
“I think you need to have a talk with Sebastian. A real talk, about all of thing things you’ve been pushing aside. I know you love him, but you’ll never rest easy until you get everything out in the open.”
Emma opened her mouth, presumably to protest that she hadn’t been suppressing anything, and then shut it. And that didn’t surprise Charles at all, because it was what he’d known from the beginning -- Emma’s edges might have been blunted by emotion, but underneath it, she was sharp and smart and he knew she’d pin Sebastian down the first chance she had. She’d just needed a little nudge.
“Call me after you’ve talked,” Charles said, laying his napkin next to his empty plate. “And good luck.”
***
Charles ended up back at the Met, because either he was totally fucked or this thing was still going forward, and if it was going forward, he needed to go over reception service with Hank.
“You promised me you wouldn’t freak out,” Charles reminded him.
“I’m not freaking out, I’m wondering how we’re going to coordinate that many servers,” Hank said, carefully wiping his glasses off in a bid to demonstrate that he was not freaking out when he so obviously
was
.
Something gently tapped against Charles’ head -- when he looked back to see what it was, Erik was holding a hard hat that he had apparently just thunked against Charles’ skull. “I wasn’t actually joking when I told you to wear one of these,” he said gruffly, settling it on Charles’ head. He tossed the other to Hank.
“My brain is already soft,” Charles muttered. “I don’t see that getting clobbered is going to hurt me, at this juncture.”
Erik’s eyebrows rose. “How’s that?”
"I may have just talked Emma out of going through with the wedding," Charles said.
“She’s going to go through with it,” Hank said, and then to Erik, “Charles is basically the bride whisperer. It’s like he can read their minds.”
“Bride whisperer,” Erik repeated flatly, but he looked very much like he was trying not to laugh.
“Stop talking, Hank,” Charles suggested, scowling. He turned back to Erik, and said, “Can I test the sound equipment this afternoon?”
Erik shook his head. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”
Charles would have tugged at his hair if it weren’t currently covered by a hard hat. If he couldn’t get it done today, he’d have to push back his meeting with the DJ, which was going push another six things back, and rescheduling was going to be almost impossible. Not to mention,
they only had five days until the wedding
.
A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. “Charles?” Erik said, eyes narrowing in something like concern.
“He’s just going to hyperventilate,” Hank said helpfully.
“That happened
once
,” Charles said, but took a few deep breaths anyway. And then his phone vibrated in his pocket. When he took it out, there was a text from Emma.
“Something up?” Hank asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and still looking nervous in general.
“The wedding’s on,” Charles said slowly, not entirely able to believe it.
“Bride whisperer strikes again,” Hank said reverently, and Charles felt totally justified in smacking him upside his hard-hatted head.
***
Charles waited until the workers went home for the evening, and then managed to slip into the Sackler Wing. He didn’t even have to flash his badge -- a security guard who was obviously on his way out for the night recognized Charles and waved him through.
He was in luck, because the door to the newly installed sound booth was open. There were plenty of wires all over the place, but Charles had worked with AV setups more chaotic than this. At least this sound booth was clearly state-of-the-art, and not dodgy wiring held together with duct tape and a prayer.
The door to the booth clicked shut behind him, and Charles jumped, startled.
“How did I know?” Erik said wryly. “I tell you not to do something, and you do it anyway.”
“I’m on a schedule,” Charles said. “And you told me not to do it this afternoon, which is why I am here when normal people might be thinking about a nightcap.”
“I told you not to do it
today
, which actually still includes now,” Erik said, tone disapproving.
Charles turned sharply to look at him, and promptly lost his footing on some of the wiring. He pitched forward and saw what looked like a very important cable being ripped out of the wall, and that was when there was a terrible noise and everything went dark.
There was the click of the door handle, and then a scuffling noise like a push. “We’re locked in,” Erik said, his tone clipped.
Charles dug out his phone, momentarily filling the sound booth with some light. “No signal. You?”
Another flash of light and a disgusted noise. “Not this far into the interior of the museum. Especially not this corridor.”
“
Bugger
,” Charles said feelingly, and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.
***
Surprisingly, Erik didn’t actually castigate him for getting into this mess, but he did tell Charles to shove over so that he could sit down next to him.
Which was fine, because Charles was plenty capable of castigating himself. “Why do I do these things to myself? I could be doing any one of the approximately six billion items on my to-do list, but no.”
“Or you could be sleeping,” Erik said.
Charles scoffed. “Please. There’s no sleeping a week before a wedding like this.”
It was completely dark in sound booth, but Erik’s assurances of proper ventilation and the warm press of Erik’s body all along his left side went a long way toward preventing any panic attacks. All his senses had to focus on was the steady movement of Erik’s breathing and the increasing rasp of his voice.
“Do you even like this wedding?” Erik asked suddenly.
Charles squirmed a bit, his backside starting to go numb. “Like it?”
There was a pause while Erik thought it over, and then he said slowly, “Is it the kind of wedding you would want?”
Charles snorted. “Oh good lord, no. Weddings like these are about public spectacle, about demonstrating power and wealth.”
There was a hum of agreement from Erik. “I’ve been to all three of Shaw’s previous weddings. They were all like this, a gaudy circus.”
Charles’ lips twitched into a smile he knew Erik couldn’t see, but could probably hear in his voice. “Watch whose work you’re calling a ‘gaudy circus,’ Erik.”
“If you’re implying anything about the refurb on this wing, I’ll have you know that I had to design under some very strict parameters not of my own choosing,” Erik said coolly.
Charles reached over to pat Erik’s knee in consolation, but misjudged and ended up sort of feeling up his thigh. It was distressingly well-muscled and suggested Erik probably ran a fair amount. “I knew that. But there are still parts of you in it, aren’t there? The columns on the side and the glasswork, I thought.”
Erik was silent for a long moment. “How did you know?”
“You’re a man who loves the beautiful details and the sleekness of the Chrysler building. There’s nothing of Shaw’s overwrought aesthetic there.”
Erik seemed to relax a little, body settling more comfortably against Charles. Which was just as well, because it was distinctly on the chilly side inside the sound booth, cool air being over-efficiently pumped into the room. He was entirely unable to prevent the shiver that wracked his body -- Raven had often called him a delicate, climate-controlled flower, which was unfortunately pretty accurate.
“Cold?” Erik asked. Charles was uncertain whether he was being patronized, but Erik just said, “Here, let me--” and then wrapped one warm arm firmly around Charles’ shoulders, pulling him closer still.
“Really?” Charles said skeptically. “I’m not a girl, you know.”
Erik’s breath teased at his ear. “I’m quite aware.”
In the rearrangement of their bodies, Charles hadn’t exactly let go of Erik’s thigh -- and in fact, his grip had slid further away from Erik’s knee, to the point where if he moved his hand just a little more, he’d have incontrovertible evidence that Erik was most definitely not a girl, either. Charles swallowed, feeling like his throat had gone dry.
“Charles,” Erik murmured, his lips -- oh god -- brushing Charles’ ear, and Charles couldn’t help the thready sigh he made, the shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Erik froze against him for one terrible moment, and then he deliberately licked the curl of Charles’ ear before taking the lobe in between sharp teeth, and the moan that Charles made at that couldn’t leave anyone in the booth with any doubt that he was ripe for the taking.
The next moments were madness, a blur of sucking kisses against Charles’ too-sensitive neck that left him gasping before Erik relented and pressed their lips together, and that made things more out of control, not less, and all he could do was open his mouth to Erik and suck on his tongue and make more of those terribly unmanly gasps when Erik nibbled at his lips and tried to press their bodies closer still. The angle was awkward, though, and giving him a bit of a crick in his neck, so the only answer -- obviously -- was to raise himself up on his knees and swing one thigh over to straddle Erik’s lap, and,
oh
, there was his proof that Erik wanted him very much, indeed.
He ground his hips down in Erik’s lap, moving his hips in a tight, slow circle that had Erik gasping against Charles’ mouth for a change, and he was hard and hot against Charles, still in that damnably sleek suit that Charles wanted nothing more than to wrinkle up, even if he couldn’t see it. Erik evidently felt likewise, because he made short work of the buttons on Charles’ cardigan before pulling it off and shoving his hands up Charles’ shirt to skate over his ribs and rub against his nipples. “Oh god,” Charles breathed, and he was just at the right height now to learn forward to learn the strong slope of Erik’s neck with his lips, and felt Erik push his hips up when Charles lingered on the tender patch of skin under his ear.
And then Erik was scrambling to open their belts, like he couldn’t
wait
, and Charles obviously couldn’t wait either, because he kept rubbing against Erik even though it was obviously impeding Erik’s progress toward getting their trousers open, and Erik said something low and impatient in German, before succeeding in dragging Charles’ waistband down and getting a good handful of his ass through what Charles belatedly realized were not his everyday underwear.
“It is a crime that I can’t see these on you,” Erik said vehemently before yanking them down.
“Could turn on your phone,” Charles said, popping the button on Erik’s trousers and undoing the zip with triumph, before raising himself up on his knees again so that Erik could lift his hips enough for Charles to shimmy everything out of the way.
Erik growled something in reply, and Charles didn’t care what it was, because Erik curled his large, square palm around the both of them and all Charles could do was clutch at his shoulders and ride his lap while Erik stroked them together. They were both already a little slick, but Charles pulled Erik’s hand up to drag his tongue wetly over Erik’s palm and fingers before pushing it back down, and Erik said, “
Fuck
, Charles,” before stroking them together in earnest.
And since Charles was the precise opposite of subtle when there was something he wanted in bed, he writhed shamelessly to meet the exploring finger that Erik was drawing down from the small of his back, and Erik only pulled it away to press it against Charles’ lips, and Charles sucked his finger in, going down on it like he would go down on Erik’s cock if they only had the room to maneuver, and then Erik drew his hand away and let his spit-slick finger rub against Charles’ hole before gently pushing in. Or at least, he probably meant to go gently, slowly, except that Charles moaned and thrust back greedily, and Erik ground out, “
Liebling
, the things I want to do to you--”
“Oh god,
fuck me
,” Charles begged, and he didn’t know how he’d ever been cold, not with Erik’s hand wrapped around them and his finger tapping out a maddening rhythm against Charles’ prostate, their skin hot and damp with sweat where it touched around their rucked-up shirts.
Charles reached down to touch Erik’s cock, to feel the heft of him, and moaned against Erik’s lips, “I want this, I want all of this,
Erik
--”
“Later,” Erik promised, voice a gritty rasp. “Later,
Schatz
, I’m going to open you up so slow and give it to you--”
“
Yes
, oh, oh
god
,” Charles gasped out, forehead resting on Erik’s shoulder as he came all over Erik’s hand, shuddering when Erik slowly fingered him through the end. “Ah -- no more, let me--”
Erik eased his finger out, and Charles swept his hand through his own come and wrapped it firmly around Erik’s cock, stroking him quickly. He thought Erik was close, so Charles murmured in his ear, “You will, won’t you, you’ll fuck me so well you’ll
ruin
me for anyone else, I’ll only want you--”
Erik gripped his hips hard, then, shaking apart in Charles’ grasp.
Charles slumped forward in Erik’s arms, both of them trying to catch their breath. “Good lord, Erik,” Charles said eventually, still feeling dazed.
Erik just ran his fingers soothingly up and down Charles’ spine, and then after a time, he said, “I bet you can sleep now.”
Charles made a dissatisfied noise. “I’d love to, but there’s hardly any room.” That, and he was loathe to move from the warmth of Erik’s embrace.
Erik shifted a little in the dark, and then said, “Here, between my legs--”
“Erik, darling, I told you, we really don’t have room for
that
.”
“To sit, Charles,” Erik clarified, sounding very much like he was rolling his eyes. “And lean back -- there.”
“Are you comfortable?” Charles said doubtfully.
There was a small flash of light as Erik checked his cell phone. “We have six hours until the first crew comes in,” he said, stealing Charles’ cardigan and shoving it behind his back. “Get some sleep.”
“Mmm, all right,” Charles said, and dropped off before his brain could offer any opinions on the wisdom of the past hour.
***
Erik nudged him awake the next morning, and Charles blearily opened his eyes to the artificial glow of Erik’s cell phone. “Come on, let’s make ourselves presentable,” Erik said, his voice a low rumble.
“I don’t think I’m going to look like anything except shagged rotten in a closet,” Charles muttered, but made an effort to drag himself away from the warm of Erik’s chest and tried to put himself together. He was deeply thankful that Erik had taken off his cardigan early in the proceedings, because it was going to hopefully hide the apocalyptic disaster that was his shirt, which they’d evidently used to mop up the night before. “What time is it?”
“Half-six,” Erik said, squinting at his phone.
“Okay,” Charles said, taking in a deep breath. “This is not terrible. I can make this work. No panic attacks, no hyperventilating.”
“I thought you were joking about that,” Erik said, concerned.
“Mostly,” Charles admitted. “But I make no promises for Saturday morning.” He ran his hands through his hair, aware it was probably a lost cause. “How do I look?”
Erik tilted the phone in his direction. “Like you were shagged rotten in a closet,” he said, and pulled Charles close for a thorough kiss. “When can we do it again?”
“If the closet part is optional, I have--” Charles scrolled through the calendar on his phone. “An hour, starting at 5:30.”
“An hour?”
“It is the
week before the wedding
,” Charles said, trying to be patient but failing completely. “It’s that or nothing today, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I’ll take it. It seems I have a few promises to keep,” Erik said, and the tone in his voice made Charles shiver in anticipation.
“I look forward to it,” Charles said, and banged on the sound booth door, calling for the work crew to let them out.
***
“Okay,” Raven said, juggling her phone and three to-do lists and her handbag. “One bridesmaid crisis down, probably another three to go. How was your last meeting with the DJ?”
“Sean will be fine,” Charles said, carefully carrying the sample centerpiece into their offices. “Where are we with the photographers?”
“Official or unofficial?” Raven said, eyes a little wild. “I can’t believe we’re doing a wedding that actual newspapers want to cover,” she marveled.
“The first of many, let’s hope,” Charles said, trying to be cheerful even though he wanted to sleep for three days straight, preferably in Erik’s bed.
Charles’ phone buzzed then, with a text from Erik:
I’m starting to think you’re an incubus.
He turned away from Raven to answer, because he knew very well that he had an impossibly self-satisfied smile on his face.
Why, Erik, anyone would think you didn’t appreciate my commitment to preparation.
He’d managed to track Erik down for an incendiary quickie in the middle of the afternoon the day before, when he’d had one appointment over early and another delayed, and basically yanked Erik into his office, locked the door, and said, “I’m ready, get in me now,” and watched Erik’s eyes go dark and crazy with lust.
I’m full of admiration for your attention to detail, Mr. Xavier. I suppose I won’t be seeing you again until the wedding?
Charles smiled regretfully at that.
What I wouldn’t give for a spare hour or six today, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’ll see you tomorrow.
“Okay, seriously, if you are sexting that architect right now I am going to kill you,” Raven said, but since she didn’t actually sound angry about it, Charles just stuck his phone in his pocket and went to help her with the newest snag in the hotel reservations.
***
The reception was almost over, and Charles felt, well, triumphant and
destroyed
and so tired that he was actually edging toward giddiness. Probably drinking straight out of a champagne bottle was not going to improve matters, but Charles figured he deserved it.
The wedding party was gone, as were the majority of the guests. At this point, Charles just wanted to kick all the stragglers out, manners and reputation be damned.
“What are you still doing here?” Erik asked, looking as devastatingly delicious in his tuxedo as he had all night.
“Part of the job,” Charles said. “I have to stay until the end.”
“Where’s your sister?”
Charles took another swig of champagne. “Gone to, er, assist the caterer with something I don’t want to know anything about, I think.”
“Ah,” Erik said. And then he held out a hand. “Dance with me?”
Charles looked at him dubiously. “It’s charming that you think I can even stand at this point.”
“I had wondered,” Erik said, all smug innuendo, and Charles snorted in response and accepted the hand up.
He let Erik lead, mostly because Erik was taller and of the two of them, could actually be trusted not to navigate them into a table, which was more than Charles could say of himself at this point. Also, there was something very nice about being able to just to lean into Erik and just
be
, for awhile.
“Come home with me,” Erik murmured in his ear.
“I really might fall over dead,” Charles warned him.
Erik laughed a little at that, and then pressed a terribly tender kiss to Charles’ neck. “If you don’t come home with me, this will make the first of Shaw’s weddings where I didn’t get laid.”
“I’m fairly certain I saw at least three unattached bridesmaids,” Charles said, fighting down a smile. “You’re not telling me a disheveled wedding planner will do, are you?”
“
Schatz
, I’m not settling,” Erik said, and kissed him, slow and deliberate and wonderful.
Charles looked him in the eye, feeling a little shaky but also deeply, irrationally
sure
, remembering Emma saying,
I didn’t used to think that really happened, that you could just meet someone--
“Help me politely kick everyone out, and then take me home,” he said.
“With pleasure,” Erik said, a sharp smile filling his face.
***
“Charles, leave it,” Erik said sternly.
“But--”
“You promised,” Erik said.
“It’s only the
opening of your own firm
,” Charles said sarcastically. “I can’t believe you want me to just sit back and have Raven do everything. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it is actually my job to do these things, and furthermore, I’m really quite good at it.”
“Which I am not arguing, but you promised.”
“Fine,” Charles said, sulking and fiddling with his cufflinks. “I’ll be uselessly decorative on your arm, as promised, and not deal with any one of the twenty things that are bound to blow up in Raven’s face.”
“Which she can handle, and I wouldn’t call your decoration useless,” Erik said, and kissed him. “Call it an anniversary present to me, if you like.”
Charles blinked at him. “A few days late, aren’t you?”
Erik sighed, sounding less exasperated and more fond. “I’m counting from the wedding, which was the first time you actually let me be a gentleman and feed you and put you to bed.”
Charles felt his face flush. “Oh. Well. Anniversary present it is. Just let me--”
“
Charles
.”
“All right, all right. Let’s go win you some new clients, shall we? By which I mean, of course, that I’m going to be charming in their direction and you’ll be terrifying, and they’ll fall all over themselves to give you their business.”
“Is that really how it works?” Erik said, brow furrowing.
“Trust me, darling,” Charles said, beaming. “Haven’t you heard? It’s like I can read people’s minds.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
How you turn my world you precious thing
You starve and near-exhaust me
Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you
I move the stars for no one
You’ve run so long
You’ve run so far
Your eyes can be so cruel
Just as I can be so cruel
Oh, I do believe in you
Yes I do…
Padfoot dragged the boy down the tunnel, jaws holding fast even as he struggled. He dug his teeth in, tasting blood—some part of him registered, absently, that the boy was innocent; that he shouldn’t be involved in any of this. But he had Wormtail in his pocket, and Sirius had waited far too long for this opportunity. There would have to be some collateral damage.
The Weasley boy flailed, hooking his leg around a clump of roots. Padfoot growled, heaving—there was a sickening snap.
The boy screamed.
Padfoot ignored it.
The rat, the rat—kill the rat—
He hauled the boy all the way to the Shack, dragging him up the stairs, to the room with Remus’s old cot. He was very pale now, and moaning, one leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. Padfoot didn’t release him until they’d reached the middle of the room, and the boy scrambled back, going for his wand—in an instant, Padfoot was on him, wrenching the stick from his grasp.
And then he was human, and for the first time in twelve long years, he had a wand again.
“
You!
” The Weasley boy gasped, face contorting in pain as he dragged himself further away. Sirius allowed it, stepping back into a shadowy corner of the room.
“Quiet!” He hissed, sharply, pointing the wand. The boy’s mouth snapped shut. He was shaking.
Sirius waited, head cocked, listening…
After a few moments, the cat darted into the room, hopping up onto the cot. It settled down and curled into a ball, purring loudly and clearly very satisfied with its work. The Weasley boy watched it, brow furrowed in confusion—then his face twisted in horror, as the door to the room burst open and Harry dashed through with his wand raised high. His other friend followed behind him, her wild mane of hair flying around her shoulders as she ran.
They caught sight of their injured friend immediately, rushing towards him.
“Ron—are you okay?”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Not a dog,” the Weasley boy—
Ron—
hissed through gritted teeth, face white with pain. “Harry, it’s a trap—”
“What—”
“He’s the dog—he’s an Animagus—”
Sirius stepped out of the shadows, slamming the door shut, lifting his stolen wand.
“
Expelliarmus!
”
The two teenagers’ wands flew out of their hands, landing neatly in Sirius’s palm. He took a step forward, eyes fixed on Harry, drinking him in. It was the first time he’d seen his godson as a human—his eyes were just as Sirius remembered. The exact same shade of green as Lily’s.
“I thought you’d come and help your friend,” he croaked, throat raw and dry, “Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run for a teacher. I’m grateful…it will make everything much easier…”
There was so much to say—so much to do—but he couldn’t get distracted…
Abruptly, Harry’s features contorted with hatred—a rage so deep and blinding that it erased all traces of Lily and James from his face. Sirius had never seen either of them wear such visceral hate.
Harry took a step forward, hands balled into fists; his friends held him back.
“No, Harry!” Cried the girl, eyes wide with terror. But Ron stood, using Harry’s shoulder to haul himself up, shouting,
“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”
Sirius’s heart twisted in his chest. It was exactly the sort of thing that he would have done for James.
“Lie down,” he said, gently, “You will damage that leg even more.”
The stubborn boy didn’t listen, gripping Harry’s shoulder so tightly that his knuckles went white. “Did you hear me?” He demanded, voice pitching up in desperation, “You’ll have to kill all three of us!”
“No…” Sirius murmured, baring his teeth in a feral grin as he stared at the quivering lump in Ron’s pocket, “Only one will die tonight.”
“Why’s that?” Harry demanded, attempting to shake off his friends, “Didn’t care last time, did you? Didn’t mind slaughtering all those muggles to get at Pettigrew—what’s the matter, gone soft in Azkaban?”
Sirius felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. Of course—of course he
knew
what the world thought of him, what they all believed…but it was different to stand face to face with his best friend’s son, and realise that the child had likely spent his whole life believing that it was Sirius who had deprived him of his parents.
(But he’s not wrong, is he? It was you, wasn’t it—you who convinced them to trust Peter, you who assured them that it would be safe…)
“Harry!” Gasped the girl, “Be quiet!”
But Harry didn’t listen. Instead, he howled with rage, screaming,
“HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!”
The boy lunged forward, suddenly, and before Sirius could raise any of the wands he’d stolen Harry’s hand was around his wrist, forcing them away, fist colliding with the side of Sirius’s head—they fell backwards, into the wall—his friends were shouting, Harry was punching, Sirius was struggling to regain control—but he was so weak, after months of nothing but scraps and stray rabbits, he couldn’t—he had to—
Sirius had a hand around Harry’s throat, frantic and reeling, hissing feverishly,
“No—I’ve waited too long—”
Suddenly, Harry’s friends were on him, kicking and pummelling, wrenching his arms away. The wands slipped from his grasp; Harry dove after them; the cat was hissing; everyone was shouting; Sirius was flailing, trying to fight off the two teenagers that had suddenly decided to attack him.
“Get out of the way!”
Harry’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. His friends both scrambled back, snatching their wands off the ground. Ron dragged himself onto the cot, clutching his broken leg.
Harry walked towards Sirius slowly, wand raised, eyes full of hate. Sirius watched him, panting.
“Going to kill me, Harry?”
The boy stopped, hovering above him, wand pointed straight at his chest. His hand was steady, though his voice shook.
“You killed my parents.”
He looked
so much
like James.
“I know,” Sirius said, voice cracking, “But it’s not what you think—if you knew the whole story—”
“The whole story?” Harry stared at him, green eyes flat with rage, “You sold them to Voldemort. That’s all I need to know.”
“You’ve got to listen to me,” Sirius begged, “You’ll regret it if you don’t—you don’t understand—”
“I understand better than you think,” Harry snarled, voice trembling, “You never heard her, did you? My mum…trying to stop Voldemort killing me…and you did that…you did it….”
Sirius swallowed, thickly, opening his mouth to speak—but before he could utter a word, something had pounced on him, a warm weight settling on his chest.
The cat.
Sirius stared at it, dumbfounded. After a moment, he prodded at the creature, trying to push it away.
“Get off.”
But the cat dug its claws into his shirt, pricking his chest, refusing to budge. It stared up at Harry with its big, yellow eyes, as though daring him to try anything. His friend with the wild hair released a stifled sob, pressing her hand to her mouth.
Harry glared at the cat, murderously, wand still aimed straight at Sirius’s chest. Sirius waited, hardly daring to breathe as the seconds ticked by—wondering if this was it. If this was how he would go.
In a way, it would almost be poetic. He had failed to protect James and Lily; it was fitting then, wasn’t it, that their son should be the cause of Sirius’s own death?
But the rat…the rat…
Nobody moved. Sirius stared up at Harry, and the seconds continued to pass. The rage was still there in his eyes, burning. But beneath it there was something else—something soft and afraid and unaccountably good.
James—Lily—
Sirius began to close his eyes.
And then, abruptly, the sound of footsteps came from downstairs. The girl began to scream at once, shouting,
“WE’RE UP HERE! WE’RE UP HERE – SIRIUS BLACK –
QUICK!
”
The footsteps thundered up the stairs; the door burst open with a flash of red sparks; and—and—
Moony
.
Time slowed around them.
He was older. Much older—no longer the gangly youth of their early twenties. Still just as tall, of course, but his hair was now streaked with grey, and there was a weary slump to his shoulders, as though he had just set down the weight of the world. His face was lined with age, creased around the forehead and the eyes, jaw a bit squarer, dusted with stubble. There was a new scar on his right cheek, just beside his ear.
He was beautiful. Achingly, painfully beautiful.
Oh, love,
Sirius thought, through the haze in his mind,
You’ve grown up without me.
He was aware, vaguely, of Remus scanning the room, assessing the situation, sharp eyes darting just the way Sirius remembered from when he was trying to work out some complicated problem. He heard, distantly, the spell as Remus disarmed Harry, though he hardly processed the word because his voice—his
voice
—
“Where is he, Sirius?”
It took everything in him not to crack, not to throw himself at Remus’s feet.
Say it again,
he wanted to beg,
Say my name again.
He struggled, for a moment, with the torrent of emotion, trapping it behind the thick wall of ice that he had so carefully constructed. Eventually, he managed to lift his hand, pointing wordlessly at the Weasley boy’s pocket.
“But then…” Remus frowned, brow furrowed, lip poking out as he thought, “…why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless—” His eyes widened, stifled emotion swelling behind them, “Unless
he
was the one…unless you switched…without telling me?”
Sirius didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he nodded, gaze never wavering from Moony’s eyes.
Suddenly, Remus’s voice was there—inside Sirius, inside his mind.
Show me.
And Sirius did, wondering if he was going mad—replaying the memories, the night he’d convinced James and Lily to switch their secret-keeper.
“But Padfoot,” James said, brow furrowed in concern, “I thought we were agreed?”
“I know, but this is better, can’t you see?! No one will ever suspect Wormy!”
Lily’s voice—later that night, when they’d told her—“Like a double bluff! It’s brilliant!”
Sirius held Moony’s gaze, begging.
I’m sorry,
he thought, desperately,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
“Professor,” Harry said, stepping forward, and the word sent a shock through Sirius.
Professor?
Had Remus been here, at Hogwarts, all this time? But—no—where had he gone on the moons? The shack was always empty.
Harry was still speaking, asking, “What’s going on—?”
But as he spoke, Remus stepped forward, eyes still locked on Sirius. He reached down, gripping Sirius’s shaking hand in his long, scarred fingers, pulling him to his feet. And then Sirius was in Moony’s arms, crushed against his chest, fingers twisting in his robes.
“
Sirius
,” he breathed, so quietly that no one else could hear. He spoke the name like it was something precious, something powerful, something dangerous. Like it was a spell, or a prayer.
“I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” The girl screamed, shrilly. Remus broke away, turning to face her.
“You—you—”
“Hermione—”
“—you and him!”
“Hermione, calm down—”
“I didn’t tell anyone!” The girl (Hermione?) cried, furiously, “I’ve been covering up for you—”
“Hermione, listen to me, please!” Remus interrupted her, raising his voice, “I can explain—”
But now Harry was shouting, fists clenched, confusion replaced once more by rage.
“I trusted you!” He shouted, voice cracking, “And all this time you’ve been his friend!”
“No,” Remus said, something like guilt twisting in his face, “I haven’t been—I thought—but now…just let me explain—”
“NO!” Hermione cut him off, screaming, “Harry, don’t trust him,
he’s
the one who’s been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too –
he’s a werewolf!
”
At his side, Remus stiffened. The room went deathly silent as all three children turned to stare at him, with looks of open horror across their faces.
“Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione,” Remus said, after a moment—voice steady, though slightly strained. “Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have
not
been helping Sirius get into the castle, and I certainly don’t want Harry dead…” He grimaced, briefly, “But…yes. I’m a werewolf; you’re right about that.”
Over on the cot, Ron moved as if to stand—but he quickly collapsed, a strangled noise of pain escaping from his throat. Remus started towards him, eyeing the broken leg with obvious concern, but Ron shuddered back.
“
Get away from me, werewolf!
”
Remus froze, as though he’d been slapped. After a tense moment of silence, he turned back to Hermione.
“How long have you known?”
“Ages,” Hermione murmured, chin jutting forward defiantly even as she trembled, “Since I did Professor Snape’s essay…”
Professor Snape?
Sirius wondered if he had misheard—surely they weren’t talking about
Severus
Snape?!
“He’ll love that,” Remus replied, coldly, “He only assigned that essay because he wanted someone to work it out…Did you check the lunar chart and realise that I was always ill at the full moon? Or was it the boggart that gave it away?”
“Both,” Hermione breathed.
Remus laughed, humourlessly.
“You’re incredibly clever, Hermione, I’ll grant you that.”
“I’m not,” Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, “If I’d been a bit cleverer, I’d have told everyone what you are!”
“But they already know,” Remus replied, evenly, “At least, the staff do.”
Now Ron spoke up, voice betraying his shock as he asked, “
Dumbledore
knows you’re a werewolf, and he still hired you? Is he mad?!”
Sirius was beginning to rethink his
“only one will die tonight”
plan.
“Some of the staff thought so,” Remus replied, “He had to work very hard to convince certain teachers that I was trustworthy—”
“AND HE WAS WRONG!” Harry began to shout again, “YOU’VE BEEN HELPING HIM ALL THIS TIME!”
Harry pointed at Sirius—he was so
angry;
they all were, and Moony was
right there,
and Peter…
Sirius crossed to the cot and sank down onto it, burying his head in his hands. It was too much—it was all too much. He’d been a fool to leave Azkaban, a fool to allow the gutting claws of emotion back into his heart, a fool to think he could
do
this—
But he had to, he
had to,
he’d come so far—
The cat jumped onto his lap, purring. Sirius tried to breathe, to focus on nothing but the vibrations emanating from the soft bundle of fur.
“I have
not
been helping Sirius,” Remus snapped, losing patience, “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain. Look—”
He lifted the three wands in his hand, tossing them one by one back to their owners.
“There,” Remus huffed, putting his own wand away, “You’re armed, we’re not. Now will you listen?”
Harry scowled, stubbornly. “If you haven’t been helping him, how did you know he was here?”
“The map,” Remus explained, “The Marauder’s Map. I had it in my office—”
“You know how it works?”
Remus waved a hand. “Of course I know how it works; I helped write it. I’m Moony—” Sirius’s heart clenched as he said it, “That was my friends’ nickname for me at school.”
“You
wrote
—?”
“The point is, I was keeping an eye on it this evening, because I suspected that the three of
you
might try and sneak out of the castle to visit Hagrid before his hippogriff was executed. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
He began to pace, tugging anxiously at the sleeves of his robes.
“You might have been wearing your father’s old cloak, Harry—”
“How d’you know about the cloak?”
“The amount of trouble your father got up to under that cloak…” Remus tutted, dismissively, “The point is, invisibility cloaks can’t hide you from the Marauder’s Map. I saw you cross the grounds and enter Hagrid’s hut. Twenty minutes later, you left Hagrid, and set off back toward the castle. But there was somebody else with you—a fourth person.”
“What?” Harry interrupted, again, “No, there wasn’t!”
“I couldn’t believe it,” Remus muttered, half to himself, “I thought the map must be malfunctioning. How could
he
be there?”
“No one was with us!” Harry insisted.
“And then I saw another dot, moving towards you, labelled
Sirius Black
…I saw him collide with you; I watched as he pulled two of you into the whomping willow—”
“One of us!” Ron interrupted, frowning.
“No, Ron,” Remus paused his pacing, turning a steady gaze towards the boy, “Two of you.”
He walked towards the boy on the cot, looming over him.
“Do you think I could have a look at that rat?”
Ron blinked. “What?” He shook his head, “What’s Scabbers got to do with it?”
“Everything,” Remus replied, a note of desperation creeping into his voice, though he was clearly trying to keep it steady, “Could I see him, please?”
The rat squirmed as Ron withdrew it from his robes, trying frantically to escape. But the boy held him fast by the tail; the cat on Sirius’s lap stood, hissing a warning.
“Why?” Ron asked again, holding the rat closer to his chest as Remus stepped forward, “What’s my rat got to do with anything?”
“That’s not a rat,” Sirius heard himself saying. His eyes locked on the terrified rodent—
finally.
“What d’you mean—of course he’s a rat—”
“No, he’s not.” Remus spoke firmly, “He’s a wizard.”
“An animagus,” Sirius croaked, “By the name of Peter Pettigrew.”
For a moment, everyone fell silent. Then,
“You’re both mental—”
“Ridiculous—”
“Peter Pettigrew’s
dead
!” Harry shouted, pointing at Sirius, “
He
killed him twelve years ago!”
“I meant to,” Sirius growled, eyes locked on the rat, “But the slimy little bastard got the better of me…not this time, though!”
He lunged forward, sending the cat flying and Ron reeling backwards, screaming as Sirius’s weight landed on his broken leg.
“Sirius, NO!” Remus shouted, and suddenly the other man’s hands were around his shoulders, dragging him back, “WAIT! You can’t do it just like that – they need to understand – we’ve got to explain—”
“We can explain afterwards!” Sirius roared, fighting to break from Moony’s grip. He was so close—so
close—
he could almost taste the blood—
“They’ve—got—a right—to know—everything!” Remus was panting, using all his strength to hold Sirius back, “Ron’s kept him as a pet! There are parts of it that even I don’t understand! And Harry—you owe Harry the truth, Sirius!”
Abruptly, Sirius sagged back. He couldn’t deny it—Remus was right. He owed it to Harry to explain what had really happened on that horrible night. He owed him much more than that.
“Fine,” Sirius said, through gritted teeth, “Tell them whatever you like. But make it quick, Remus. I want to commit the murder I was imprisoned for…”
“You’re nutters, both of you,” Ron said, white-faced and shaking, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”
He attempted to stand, but Remus whipped out his wand, pointing it straight at the rat that was still clutched in the boy’s fist.
“You’re going to hear me out, Ron,” Remus said, “Just make sure you hold onto Peter while you listen.”
“HE’S NOT PETER, HE’S SCABBERS!” Ron shouted, fighting to shove the squirming rat back into his pocket—it was no use, Wormtail was wriggling desperately as he tried to escape, and Ron nearly toppled off the cot.
Harry rushed to his friend’s side, steadying the other boy and shoving him back down onto the mattress. He turned to Remus, saying flatly,
“There was an entire street of witnesses who saw Pettigrew die.”
“No—that’s just what they
thought
they saw!” Sirius snarled, “What he made them think…” His eyes hadn’t left Peter for a single second.
“Everyone thought that Sirius killed Peter,” Remus said, slowly, “Even—” He broke off, swallowing. Sirius didn’t have to ask what he’d stopped himself from saying.
Even me
.
“But…” Remus took a breath, continuing, “The Marauder’s Map never lies. And I
saw
Peter’s name on the map tonight, Harry—he’s alive. Ron’s holding him right now.”
Harry and Ron exchanged a disbelieving glance; Hermione spoke up.
“But Professor Lupin…Scabbers can’t be Pettigrew…it just can’t be true, you know it can’t…”
“Why not?” Remus asked, in the sort of voice he used to use at his study sessions when he was trying to help a first year work out a problem for themselves.
Professor Lupin
.
“Because…because people would
know
if Peter Pettigrew was an animagus. We did animagi in class with Professor McGonagall. And I looked them up when I did my homework—the Ministry of Magic keeps tabs on witches and wizards who can become animals; there’s a register showing what animal they become, and their markings and things…and I went and looked Professor McGonagall up on the register, and there have been only seven animagi this century, and Pettigrew’s name wasn’t on the list—”
She said all this very quickly, as though she were delivering a report in class. Remus began to laugh, and for a moment Sirius’s eyes darted away from the rat, because—
Oh.
He had nearly forgotten that sound.
How had he nearly forgotten it?
“Right again, Hermione!” Remus said, “But the Ministry didn’t
know
that there were three unregistered animagi, running around Hogwarts right under their noses.”
The rat in Ron’s fist let out a piercing squeak, and Sirius’s eyes snapped back to it immediately. He couldn’t afford to get distracted—not until Peter was dead.
“If you’re going to tell them the story, then hurry up, Remus,” he snapped, “I’ve waited twelve years, I’m not going to wait much longer.”
“All right…but you’ll need to help me, Sirius, I only know how it began…”
Suddenly, a loud creak came from the other side of the room; everyone whipped around to stare. The door had somehow come open on its own.
Remus frowned, striding over and poking his head into the hall.
“No one there…”
“This place is haunted!” Ron yelped, somehow even more pale than he’d been a moment before.
“It’s not,” Remus said calmly, still frowning at the door, “The Shrieking Shack was never haunted…the screams and howls the villagers used to hear were only ever me.”
He pushed a hand through his curls, brow furrowed in thought. Then,
“That’s where it all starts – when I became a werewolf. None of this could have happened if I hadn’t been bitten…and if I hadn’t been so reckless…”
Sirius’s heart twisted, painfully, in his chest.
Same
old
Moony
—always finding a way to take the blame, to make everything his fault.
“I was very young when I was bitten. My parents…didn’t take it well. There was no cure in those days—the potion that Professor Snape has been making for me is a very recent discovery. It makes me safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I transform…I’m able to curl up in my office, a harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane again.”
Ah,
Sirius thought,
That’s why the shack’s been empty.
He tried to imagine the wolf, majestic and regal, with its glowing golden eyes…he tried to picture Remus, trapped inside, curled up alone. Hating himself. Transforming back, with no one there to help him.
“Before the Wolfsbane potion was discovered, though, I turned into a monster once a month. It probably should have been impossible for me to come to Hogwarts—most parents don’t want their children exposed to dangerous creatures.
“But Dumbledore thought differently. He decided that so long as we took certain precautions, there was no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to attend the school…” Remus sighed, heavily, looking over at Harry, “I told you, months ago, that the whomping willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The truth is that it was planted
because
I came to Hogwarts. This house—” he gestured, weakly, to the room they stood in, “—the tunnel that leads to it—they were built for my use. Once a month, I was smuggled out of the castle, into this place, to transform. The tree was placed at the tunnel mouth to stop anyone coming across me while I was dangerous.”
Sirius listened, eyes locked on Peter, feeling as though he were drowning in memory. All those mornings in the hospital wing, staring down at Moony’s bruised and battered frame—nights in the Forbidden Forest, wild and joyful and free…
“My transformations in those days were…terrible. Turning into a werewolf is a very painful process. I was locked up, separated from humans to bite…the wolf took its frustration out on itself. The villagers heard the noise and the screaming and thought they were hearing particularly violent spirits. Dumbledore encouraged the rumour…Even now, when the house has been silent for years, the villagers don’t dare approach it…”
Remus swallowed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “But apart from my transformations, I was the happiest I’d ever been. For the first time in my life, I had friends, three wonderful friends. Sirius Black…Peter Pettigrew…and, of course, your father, Harry—James Potter.”
Sirius had to force himself to breathe, had to remind his heart to keep beating.
“Now, my three friends began to notice my frequent disappearances. I told them that I was sick—when that didn’t work, I tried to avoid them, to brush them off. I was terrified of what would happen if anyone found out—terrified that I would be forced to leave the school, or that these three friends…the first friends I had ever truly had…that they would think I was a monster.”
Remus released an unsteady breath. Sirius dug his fingers into the cot beneath him, to keep his hands from shaking.
“But my friends were stubborn. God—so stubborn. And infuriating, and clever…they figured it out, like you, Hermione. But they didn’t look at me like a monster.”
His voice was thick with emotion now, though he managed to keep the words mostly steady. “Instead, they…they did something for me, something I would have never thought to ask of them. Something to make my transformations more bearable. They became animagi.”
“My dad too?” Harry asked, quietly.
“Yes,” Remus told him, smiling sadly, “It took them the better part of three years to work it out. Your father and Sirius were the cleverest students in the school, which was lucky, because the animagus transformation can go horribly wrong – one reason the Ministry keeps a close watch on those attempting to do it. Peter needed all the help he could get from James and Sirius, but in our fifth year, they finally managed it. They could each turn into a different animal at will.”
“But how did that help you?” Hermione asked, perplexed.
“They couldn’t keep me company as humans, so they kept me company as animals,” Remus explained, “A werewolf is only a danger to people. They snuck out of the castle every month under James’s invisibility cloak, and transformed…Peter was small enough to slip beneath the willow’s attacking branches and touch the knot that freezes it. Then they’d slip down the tunnel and join me. Under their influence, I became less dangerous. My body was still wolfish, but…I had a bit more control, over my mind.”
Sirius couldn’t take much more of this—the memories were choking him, crawling down his throat, stealing his breath. “Hurry up, Remus,” he growled, keeping his eyes fixed on Wormtail.
“I’m getting there, Sirius, just hang on…” Remus took a breath. “There were so many possibilities, now that we could all transform. Pretty soon we were leaving the Shrieking Shack and roaming the Forbidden Forest at night – Sirius and James were big enough animals to keep a werewolf in check. We probably discovered more about the forest than any other students in Hogwarts history…and that’s how we got our nicknames, which we used to sign the Marauder’s Map. Sirius is Padfoot. Peter is Wormtail. James was Prongs.”
“What sort of animal—?” Harry began to ask, but Hermione spoke over him.
“That was still really dangerous! Running around in the dark with a werewolf! What if you’d given the others the slip and bitten somebody?”
Sirius felt a strange, dizzy sense of déjà vu. For a moment, it wasn’t Harry’s bushy-haired friend standing before them, but someone else—a tall, willowy girl, with long blonde hair and a quiet laugh and fiery determination in her eyes.
“A thought that still haunts me,” Remus said, snapping Sirius back into the present. His voice was thick with guilt, “And there were certainly times when I feared the worst…but we were young, thoughtless—carried away with our own cleverness.
“Of course, I sometimes felt guilty about betraying the trust that had been placed in me…Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, even Dumbledore—none of them had any idea that I was breaking the rules which had been set down for my own and others’ safety. They never knew that I’d led three fellow students into becoming animagi illegally.”
Sirius frowned—
that
was a bit of a stretch. He seemed to remember Remus trying to talk them
out
of the idea…that had happened, hadn’t it?
“But I always managed to forget my guilty feelings every time we sat down to plan our next month’s adventure. And I haven’t changed…” Now Remus’s voice had grown bitter, sharp with the self-disgust that Sirius still remembered from some of his darker moods.
“All this year, I’ve been…
battling
with myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an animagus. But I didn’t do it. Why? Because I was too selfish. I didn’t want an investigation, didn’t want my lycanthropy revealed…I had broken so completely from the wizarding world, I couldn’t imagine life with the Ministry breathing down my neck. I told myself that it didn’t make a difference, that I didn’t owe it to anyone—that my freedom was all I had left…” He laughed, a bitter, joyless thing. “I convinced myself that Sirius was using some sort of Dark Arts he had learned from the death eaters to get into the school, that being an animagus had nothing to do with it…so, in a way, Snape’s been right about me all along.”
“Snape?” Sirius asked, abruptly, tearing his gaze away from Peter to frown up at Remus. That was the third time he’d mentioned Snivellus’s name. “What’s Snape got to do with it?”
“He’s here, Sirius,” Remus sighed, “He’s teaching here as well.” He glanced over at Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
“Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought very hard against my appointment to the Defence Against the Dark Arts job. He’s been telling Dumbledore all year that I can’t be trusted. And he has his reasons…you see, Sirius here played a trick on him which nearly killed him, a trick that involved me—”
“It wasn’t—” Sirius shook his head, throat tight, “
Moony
—”
“Don’t—” Remus pressed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head. Sirius fell silent, heart turned to stone in his chest as he watched Remus take a shuddering breath.
“Severus was very interested in where I went every month,” Remus said, in a flat, clipped voice. “We were in the same year, you know, and we…didn’t exactly get along. He—he hated James, in particular, especially once things with Lily…anyway, Snape developed a sort of…obsession…with figuring out my secret. Followed me around for all of our fifth year. And one day, Sirius…told him. How to get past the willow.”
Sirius remembered it. He remembered it all very well—he had spent quite a bit of time reliving this particular memory, in Azkaban.
Still, the pain was just as fresh.
“Snape tried it, of course. Came down the tunnel on a full moon. I—” Remus broke off, sharply, sucking in another breath. “I’d have killed him, if it hadn’t been for James.” He turned to Harry. “Your father saved Professor Snape – dragged him out, risking his own life in the process…but not before Snape saw me transforming. Dumbledore forbid him to tell anyone, but from then on he knew…”
“So that’s why Snape doesn’t like you,” Harry said, frowning, “Because he thought you were in on the…trick?”
“That’s right,” spat a cold, familiar voice, from the wall directly behind Remus. As they all turned, Severus Snape pulled off James’s invisibility cloak, pointing his wand directly at Moony.
Sirius leapt to his feet at once, moving forward. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin; Hermione screamed.
“I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow,” Snape sneered, tossing the cloak aside, “Very useful, Potter, thank you…” His black eyes glittered like beetles, triumphant.
“You’re wondering, perhaps, how I knew where to find you?” A sharp, cruel smile crept across his face, “I’ve just been to your office, Lupin. You forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful along. And very lucky I did…lucky for me, I mean. Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running along this passageway and out of sight.”
“Severus—” Remus began to speak, but Snape didn’t let him finish.
“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re helping your
old
friend
Black into the castle, Lupin, and here’s the proof. Not even
I
dreamed you would have the nerve to use
this
old place as your hideout—”
“Severus, you’re making a mistake,” Remus insisted, desperately. “You haven’t heard everything—I can explain—Sirius isn’t here to kill Harry—”
“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” Snape hissed, as if Remus hadn’t even spoken, “I’m
very
interested to see how Dumbledore takes this…He was quite convinced you were harmless, Lupin…a
tame
werewolf—”
“You fool,” Remus curled his hands into fists, voice low and angry, “Is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?”
BANG!
Without warning, thin cords burst from the end of Snape’s wand, binding Remus completely and sending him toppling to the ground. Sirius shouted, enraged, and lunged forward—only to find Severus’s wand pointed right between his eyes.
“Give me a reason,” Snape hissed, “Give me one reason to do it, and I swear I will.”
Sirius froze, glaring murderously at the man across from him. He had no idea how Snape had wormed his way into Dumbledore’s good graces—but as far as Sirius was concerned, the greasy bastard was still a death eater.
He
was the only one who deserved to be in Azkaban.
“Professor Snape,” Hermione squeaked, stepping forward hesitantly, “It—it wouldn’t hurt to hear what they’ve got to say, w-would it?’
“Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension from this school,” Snape spat, “You, Potter, and Weasley are out-of-bounds, in the company of a convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your life,
hold your tongue.
”
“But if—if there was a mistake—”
“KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!” Snape bellowed, eyes flashing wildly, “DON’T TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”
Hermione fell silent, recoiling. Snape’s eyes returned to Sirius.
“Vengeance is very sweet,” he breathed, with a deranged smile, “How I hoped that I would be the one to catch you…”
“Oh, save the fucking theatrics, Snivellus,” Sirius growled. “As long as this boy brings his rat up to the castle—” he nodded to Ron, “I’ll come quietly…”
“Up to the castle?” Snape’s smile grew, sickeningly, “I don’t think we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the dementors once we get out of the willow. They’ll be very pleased to see you, Black…pleased enough to give you a little
kiss
, I daresay…”
No,
Sirius thought, cold dread bleeding like ice into his veins,
No—not now—not when I’m so close—
“You—you’ve got to hear me out,” his voice had gone ragged, “The rat—look at the rat—”
But the horrible, triumphant glint in Snape’s eye only gleamed brighter.
“Come on, all of you,” he ordered. With a snap of his fingers, the cords binding Remus flew into his open palm, “I’ll drag the werewolf. Perhaps the dementors will have a kiss for him too—”
But before any of them could move, Harry had dashed across the room, blocking the door with his body.
“Get out of the way, Potter, you’re in enough trouble already,” Snape growled, “If I hadn’t been here to save your skin—”
“Professor Lupin could have killed me about a hundred times this year,” Harry said. “I’ve been alone with him loads of times, having defence lessons against the dementors. If he was helping Black, why didn’t he just finish me off then?”
“Don’t ask me to fathom the way a werewolf’s mind words,” Snape hissed, “Get out of the way, Potter.”
“YOU’RE PATHETIC!” Harry shouted, “JUST BECAUSE THEY MADE A FOOL OF YOU AT SCHOOL YOU WON’T EVEN LISTEN—”
“SILENCE!” Snape screamed, “I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!” He glared at Harry, hatred shining in his eyes, “Like father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck; you should be thanking me on bended knee! You would have been well served if he’d killed you! You’d have died like your father, too arrogant to believe that you might be mistaken in Black—now get out of the way, or I will
make you.
GET OUT OF THE WAY, POTTER!”
In the next instant, three voices shouted at the exact same moment,
“
Expelliarmus!
”
The three combined spells hit Snape with such force that he flew backwards, slamming into the wall and sliding down to the floor. He slumped, unconscious; a trickled of blood slid from beneath his greasy hair.
Sirius blinked in shock—then looked around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, all of whom had their wands raised and identical expressions of surprise on their faces.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Sirius said, hoarsely, “You should have left him to me…”
Harry didn’t meet his eye, looking instead at Snape’s wand—which had flown all the way across the room, landing on the bed beside the cat.
“We attacked a teacher…we attacked a teacher…” Hermione was muttering, anxiously, colour drained from her face as she stared at Snape’s limp form. “Oh, we’re going to be in so much trouble—”
On the floor, Remus was struggling madly against the cords. Sirius knelt, untying him, and as he straightened he rubbed his arms where the rope had cut into them.
“Thank you, Harry.” He said.
“I’m still not saying I believe you,” Harry responded, quickly.
“Then it’s time we offered you some proof,” Sirius stood, “You, boy – give me Peter. Now.”
Ron drew back, clutching the rat to his chest.
“Come off it,” he protested, weakly, “Are you trying to say he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on
Scabbers
? I mean…” He turned to his friends, beseechingly, “Okay, say Pettigrew could turn into a rat – there are millions of rats – how’s he supposed to know which one he’s after if he was locked up in Azkaban?”
“You know, Sirius, that’s a fair question,” Remus agreed, brow furrowed as he turned to look at him. “How
did
you find out where he was?”
Sirius stuck his hand into his pocket, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper and smoothing it, carefully. They all craned their necks to look—it was the photo from the
Daily Prophet,
with the entire Weasley family smiling and waving madly.
“How did you get this?” Remus asked, taken aback.
“Fudge,” Sirius replied, shortly, “When he came to inspect Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there was Peter, on the front page…on this boy’s shoulder…I knew him at once…how many times had I seen him transform? And the caption said the boy would be going back to Hogwarts…to where Harry was…”
“My God,” Remus breathed, eyes darting between the rat in the photo and the one clutched in Ron’s fist, “His front paw…”
“What about it?” Ron asked, defiantly.
“He’s got a toe missing.” Sirius said.
“Of course,” Remus shook his head, “So simple…so
brilliant
…he cut it off himself?”
“Just before he transformed,” Sirius said, tightly, “He…
lured
me, made sure there was a crowd—let me disarm him, so that it seemed like
I
was the one attacking. Shouted at me…the whole time, I had no idea that he’d already set the time-delay spell. And then it was too late…”
“Didn’t you ever hear, Ron?” Remus asked, “The biggest bit of Peter they found was his finger.”
“Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat or something! He’s been in my family for ages, right—”
“Twelve years, in fact,” Remus cut in, quietly. “Didn’t you ever wonder why he was living so long?”
“We—we’ve been taking good care of him!”
“Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?” Remus asked. “I’d guess he’s been losing weight ever since he heard Sirius was on the loose again…”
“He’s been scared of that mad cat!” Ron nodded, accusingly, at the creature, which was still curled up and purring on the cot.
“This cat isn’t mad,” Sirius said, reaching out a hand to scratch behind its ears. “He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever met. He recognised Peter for what he was right away. And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. I had no idea why he was helping me…then I realised that he knew what I was after, and we’ve been working together ever since…”
“What do you mean?” Asked Hermione.
“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t,” Sirius explained, “So he stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower…as I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside table…” He shook his head, turning bitterly back to the rat, “But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for it. I understand he left blood on the sheets…probably bit himself…faking his own death had already worked once…”
“And why did he fake his death?” Harry asked, suddenly, “Because he knew you were about to kill him, like you killed my parents!”
“No,” Remus tried to explain, “Harry—”
“And now you’ve come to finish him off!”
“Yes, I have,” Sirius growled, eyes locked on the squirming rodent.
“Then I should’ve let Snape take you!” Harry yelled.
“Harry,” Remus said quickly, “Don’t you see? All this time we’ve thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and Peter tracked him down – but it was the other way around;
Peter
betrayed your mother and father – Sirius tracked
Peter
down—”
“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Harry screamed, “HE WAS THEIR SECRET-KEEPER! HE SAID SO BEFORE YOU TURNED UP, HE SAID HE KILLED THEM!”
He was pointing right at Sirius, that same burning anger returned to his eyes.
“Harry…” Sirius breathed, voice breaking, “I as good as killed them.” He swallowed, forcing the words from his throat, “I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as secret-keeper instead of me…I’m to blame, I know it…the night they died, I didn’t even—I went to the house for a different reason, and when I got there it was…” He paused, trying to remember how to breathe.
“I—I realised what Peter must’ve done…what
I
had done…”
Sirius turned away, unable to look at Harry any longer.
“Enough of this,” Remus cut in, gently, “There’s one certain way to prove what really happened. Ron,
give me that rat.
”
“What are you going to do with him if I give him to you?” Ron asked, tremulously.
“Force him to show himself,” Remus replied, “If he really is a rat, it won’t hurt him.”
Ron swallowed, hesitating—before finally,
finally
stretching out a hand, and passing over the rat. It squeaked and writhed horribly, desperate to escape, but Remus had it in an iron grip.
“Ready, Sirius?”
Yes, yes, yes.
Sirius had plucked Snape’s wand from the cot, and he approached Remus, eyes locked on Wormtail the entire time.
“Together?” He breathed.
‘I think so,” Remus answered, gripping the rat even more tightly. “On the count of three. One—two—THREE!”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Italics = Boscan
Working their booth for the second time was a lot easier than the first. Things went incredibly smoothly, and she had a lot more confidence both in her performance and in her audience. They were received spectacularly well, even better than they had the first night. In fact, several people had rushed straight to her tent, without need for Lyra to try to draw them in to hear her tell the origin story of the festival again.
It was incredibly flattering, and she and her spirits had all had a good time. Crux in particular was thrilled that he had a willing audience to listen to his tales about the Celestial Spirits. Lyra was also pleased, and apparently feeling incredibly inspired. The normally laidback spirit had gone on for a while about her many new song ideas that she intended to compose, inspired by their time.
She wasn’t the only one feeling rather inspired either. Cana had also been moved, though for an entirely different reason. Clearly overjoyed and feeling rather frisky, Cana had told her in no uncertain terms that she fully intended to hunt down her own ‘Boscan Bon-Bon’ both for a little fun and to see if she could find a different room for herself so theirs would be open for Lucy, should she decide to bring Farron back.
According to her friend she even had a back-up plan for seducing one of the guys from Blue Pegasus if that didn’t work out, which Lucy had tried to tell her was highly unnecessary, but Cana had been insistent. Her friend was also insistent on lending her some birth control, which she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or just grateful for seeing as she hadn’t thought to bring any herself.
It was rather silly of her, and something she made a mental note to fix in the future. After all birth control in this life was just as easy as it had been on the magical side of her previous life, and maybe even easier. After all the tablets in this life just needed to be ingested and lasted for forty-eight hours, they didn’t require any concentration or magical energy the way contraceptive spells did, and tasted a heck of a lot better than any of the potions alternatives had too.
Even better, the birth control in this life was a hundred percent effective and also prevented any sort of sexually transmitted diseases. They were honestly a bit of a miracle to her way of thinking, especially since they were also fairly cheap and readily available now that she was away from the upper class who’d always sneered at such things, claiming that birth control encouraged promiscuity.
That was stupidity she didn’t even like to think on frankly, especially since the hypocrisy of it all was galling. The way everyone utterly disregarded and sneered at bastard children while also refusing to take the birth control that would stop that sort of thing was the absolute height of stupidity. It made her even more grateful that she’d managed to escape, both her father and that life, which would’ve more than likely driven her insane.
It was a thought she’d voiced to Cana, who’d grimaced in distaste and explained she’d never understood the prudish sexist customs of the upper class. It wasn’t all that surprising considering Cana was probably the most open woman she’d ever met, but it had been nice to have someone to complain to who agreed with her wholeheartedly, even if she had gotten teased a bit about her own virgin status and encouraged to let Farron take care of that for her.
The absolutely wicked look the other woman had shot her when he showed up at their booth so the two of them could hang out during festival hours had her giggling for several minutes, even after they’d left the vicinity. Luckily Farron didn’t seem to mind and had even chuckled a bit himself, the sound deep, rich and utterly enticing.
“Your friend seems like the supportive type,” he noted as the two of them meandered through the festival. He’d offered her an arm, and she’d gladly taken it, more than willing to hold on to him, but also glad she wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally being separated from him by the crowd.
“She is that,” Lucy acknowledged with a wry smile.
“She’d fit right in, in Bosco,” he told her with an amused grin, “No doubt you’ve heard, but we Boscans tend to be a little more open about that sort of thing.”
“I had heard,” she acknowledged with a smile of her own, “Will you tell me about it?”
Farron looked at her for a long moment, his baby blue eyes surprisingly calculating as he searched her face for something. She tried to project back the true, open curiosity she felt for the subject, figuring it would be interesting to hear about it from the Boscan point of view.
Whatever he was looking for, he apparently found it because he nodded, and slowly began to tell her more about Boscan culture. It was fairly clear that he started with the more vanilla aspects of the culture, things that would be more palatable for someone who’d grown up in Fiore that might be a bit outside the norm, but not too extreme.
It included things like how they greeted one another with kisses, on the cheek or forehead or even on the lips depending on the individual, for friends, family, and lovers alike, as well as how they were a fairly physical culture in general. He also talked about how they sealed things like promises with kisses, and how it was an incredibly large and important part of their culture. They even had several special traditions based around kissing, including the famous Boscan Kissing Chocolate.
It was something she’d always been terribly tempted to try. The secret of how it was made was closely guarded by its producers in Bosco, the recipe apparently considered one of the countries national treasures. According to what she knew it supposedly tasted different depending on if you ate it alone, or shared it with a partner, and would even vary depending on the partner. Sharing though wasn’t quite the right word for it, because just as the name implied, you were supposed to kiss while using it. More specifically you were supposed to let it melt on your tongue and let your partner lick it off.
There was something incredibly intriguing and sensual about the idea, an opinion she was all too happy to share with Farron, especially since she wanted to know if he’d tried it. It turned out he’d tried it several times, and while he did his best to describe the experience for her, he also told her it was something she really had to experience for herself.
After that he seemed to open up a bit more. He still cast her looks every once in a while, that made her feel like he was looking for a reaction of some sort from her, but he did move on to more of what she wanted to know.
It turned out that Boscans had a very free idea of sex and sexuality, even more than she ever would’ve imagined and had what she could only really liken to extensive sexual education classes. She’d been a little shocked to learn that these classes were even hands on, and included losing your virginity to someone.
They were pretty much required classes, ones that started when a person turned sixteen. The classes themselves were one on one with a special instructor called a Sudepah, who helped guide the teen through exploring both sex and sexuality in a controlled environment.
If she was completely honest with herself, her first and most immediate thought had been revulsion. She couldn’t imagine requiring people to have sex, it honestly sounded utterly repulsive to her, a violation of human rights. It was basically condoned rape, letting an authority figure take advantage of someone under their care, something she never, ever would’ve accepted.
Farron must’ve seen it in her face, despite her best efforts to hide her thoughts, because he politely went on to explain some things for her. It turned out it wasn’t as bad as she was originally thinking it was. For one thing, the Sudepah wouldn’t touch the student unless the student explicitly asked to be touched, and the student in question got to choose, not only their Sudepah, but their partner when it came to exploring the more physical aspects of intimacy.
Rape in Bosco was actually considered one of their most severe crimes and punishable by death, no exceptions. Pedophilia was also punishable by death, no one was allowed to touch children who had yet to complete their classes with a Sudepah, and that death was one that was purposefully drawn out and excruciatingly painful.
These classes also tended to last quite a while, so most students didn’t tend to lose their virginity until they were at least seventeen and often times even eighteen or nineteen depending on when they started and how quickly they progressed. The pace of the classes was entirely up to the student in question.
The fact that the classes existed at all meant that there was no such thing as underaged sex in Bosco outside very, very rare occasions. There were less than a handful of cases per year because students knew all they had to do was complete the classes and then they were free to pursue their desires as much as they pleased.
It also meant that safe and consensual sex was practically drilled into the entire population, which was a huge plus. The whole explanation did make her feel quite a bit better about things, though she did still have some questions, questions Farron seemed surprisingly delighted to answer for her.
“How do you ensure the Sudepah don’t take advantage of the children?” she asked him, unable to keep the slight frown off her face, watching him intently, “It’s very easy to manipulate children that age to warp their ideas of what’s acceptable and what isn’t, especially when it comes to sex and intimacy. How do you stop the Sudepah from grooming the children in the ways they desire, rather than in ways that are best for the children?”
It was a question that had been bothering her since the idea of Sudepah had been explained to her. As someone who’d been rather badly screwed over by authority figures herself in her previous life at right around that age, she knew how terrible it could be. Even in this new life with most of her past emotions and traumas washed clean by death she still hadn’t quite fully recovered from it all.
“You speak as if you weren’t close to the same age as those children,” Farron pointed out shrewdly, his eyes intent on her face.
“Because I’m not,” she told him with a shrug, clearly surprising him, before carefully explaining, “A child that is. I haven’t been a child since my mother died when I was twelve. There are certain traumas and experiences that a person can’t live through without no longer considering themselves akin to their peers.”
“I can see that,” Farron murmured clearly thoughtful as he studied her face, though he thankfully didn’t press the issue. She wasn’t a big fan of lying to anyone, and this was the closest she could comfortably come to the truth without divulging everything, something she certainly wasn’t about to do to a near stranger.
“As for the Sudepah, the position is greatly revered throughout Bosco. They are some of the most highly respected people in our country, akin to the priests of Minstrel in some ways,” he explained patiently, “They go through rigorous training, and are put through intense physical and mental examinations by lauded experts. They also have their position reviewed every other year to ensure nothing has changed and they’re still doing their due diligence.”
“We have, admittedly, had trouble with Sudepahs like the kind you’re no doubt imagining in the past,” he admitted, honestly, “But we do our best to crack down extremely harshly on such things. That and the children are also advised in advance what their Sudepah is and isn’t allowed to do. Any allegations made against a Sudepah are always taken extremely seriously and children are encouraged to report even the most minor of infractions.”
“And you don’t get false reports?” she asked curiously, unable to help herself. She was well aware that things could work both ways, and thanks to her experience with Sirius and the death eaters after the war both willing and unwilling, knew how easily it was to see a person’s life completely ruined by false charges.
“We do, but thanks to truth spells and the like such matters are always sorted extremely quickly, and there are severe punishments for purposefully trying to ruin someone in such a way,” he explained easily, watching her with clear interest in his face, “Though misunderstandings and accidents are quickly forgiven on both sides.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” she noted, unable to keep the approval out of her tone, something he clearly noticed as he offered her his own pleased smile.
“We do try, though there are a few things that slip through the cracks, we do our best,” he told her, both humble and extremely proud of his country, that he clearly loved dearly, “Do you have any other questions?”
“I do,” she admitted, a little hesitantly, unsure if she was bothering him. She was doing her best not to be rude, but felt like she might unknowingly be anyway despite her best efforts, “If you don’t mind? I’m afraid some of them are probably rather vulgar.”
“Not at all,” he assured her, clearly delighted, his handsome face lit with a bright, approving smile, “Ask away.”
“What do you do about women who prefer women?” she asked bluntly, seeing no way around it, “Unless they use a toy of some sort, traditional ‘loss of virginity via penetration’ isn’t really possible.”
“All preferences are taken into account,” he assured her seriously, not offended in the least, “By our standard, loss of virginity is defined as sharing mutual orgasm with one another, no penetration needed.”
“All preferences?” she prompted, “Even those who just flat out don’t like sex?”
“Those people never graduate from their classes with the Sudepah, because all classes that require hands on physical interaction are voluntary,” Farron explained casually, “It means that while they can still become an adult in all other ways, sexual contact for them is expressly forbidden unless they go back and graduate.”
“You said sexual contact with those who haven’t completed their classes with the Sudepah is considered pedophilia and illegal,” she pointed out shrewdly, earning a rather fierce grin from Farron.
“That’s absolutely right, anyone who touches someone who hasn’t completed their Sudepah classes is made to regret it,” he told her, utterly remorseless. It was an attitude she appreciated, and wholly approved of.
“Bosco sounds pretty amazing,” she admitted honestly, “I’ve always wanted to visit. Though now I’m curious what happens after you graduate from Sudepah lessons? Are you just free to approach whoever about sex?”
“You’re more than welcome to ask anyone you like, though it’s best to ask if they’re promised first,” he explained patiently.
“Promised? Is that like engaged?” she asked, hoping to clarify.
“For all intents and purposes yes. Basically, it’s an agreement to be exclusive unless the two of you agree to share and approach someone together. Telling a Boscan you’re promised ensures they back off right away,” he told her, with a nod, “No always means no, but it’s especially true with people who are promised because the legal repercussions are even more extreme if you try to push.”
“Then I suppose the legal repercussions for trying to push someone married are even worse?” she hypothesized, thoughtfully.
“That’s right,” he agreed, with a slight smile, “Marriage is considered almost holy in Bosco, and divorce all but impossible, mostly because unlike here the only reason to get married is for love, physical attraction and sex aren’t really factors at all.”
“What about children?” she asked curiously, “You don’t marry for children?”
“Not necessarily,” he told her with a thoughtful frown, “Bastards don’t have quite the stigma attached to them in Bosco that they do here, and so long as the mother can prove who the father is, both parents are responsible for raising the child, though those kind of disputes rarely ever happen considering birth control is widely accepted in Bosco and taken by both parties. Unwanted children are incredibly rare, and those that are born are usually immediately adopted out very quickly.”
“And money?” she prompted, still curious about Boscan marriage, which honestly sounded almost too good to be true, “Do you not have gold diggers in Bosco?”
She’d suffered through numerous proposals after the war ended, people trying to get their hands on her money, or share some of her fame. Unfortunately for them she’d left all her money to Teddy, Hermione, and the Weasleys and had, had absolutely no intention of marrying anyone without extreme testing beforehand to ensure they were with her for the right reasons.
“Unfortunately, that seems to be a universal problem and one we haven’t solved yet,” Farron admitted wryly, “There are power hungry, greedy people in Bosco too, though I like to think we’ve made things easier when it comes to avoiding such things, taking children and sex out of the equation when it comes to things people usually use to manipulate others with.
“I suppose nothing’s perfect,” she acknowledged, with a laugh, “Though it does sound quite a bit better than things here.”
He smiled at her, clearly pleased at the admittance as the two of them continued to walk slowly around the festival, pausing here and there to admire the things that caught their eye. Both of them had found treats to munch on, Farron nibbling at some candied nuts, while she sipped at her freshly squeezed raspberry lemonade.
“So, if I want to have sex with someone from Bosco do I just go up and ask if they’re promised?” she asked unable to help her curiosity as she took a sip of her sweet, fruity drink.
“That’s right,” Farron agreed clearly amused at the question, “And if they say no you ask them
Would you like to share pleasure with me?
”
“Share pleasure?” Lucy interpreted carefully, dusting off her rusty language skills. The language of Bosco was very similar to Spanish from her last life, the same way Minstrellian was similar to French, and Fioran to something like a mix between Japanese and English.”
“That’s right,” Farron told her, his tone impressed as he watched her with curious eyes, “
Do you speak Boscan, my lady?
”
“
Only a little bit,
” she told him in the same language, her attempt clumsy compared to the smooth roll of his words. She’d always found accents rather attractive, and probably the only reason for her crush on Oliver Wood from her last life. Farron’s accent and speaking in his native language was no exception.
“Still rather impressive,” he mused, eyeing her with clear appreciation in his gaze, “Especially, for a Fioran.”
“Thank you, I think,” she told him, amused.
“I meant no offense,” he assured her, quickly, “Only that most Fiorans don’t particularly care to look outside their own country and when they do it’s usually to Minstrel.”
“Fair enough,” she agreed, knowing he was absolutely right. A lot of people from Fiore, especially the wealthy, tended to be rather insular and elitist, the same as the magical community from her last life had been.
“Thank you for answering all of my questions, I know some of them must’ve come across rather impolite,” she told him, figuring she might as well get it off her chest, feeling it was rather important to say. She’d found she really did rather like Farron, and not just because of the way he looked.
He’d been incredibly patient with her, answering all her questions, polite, and seemingly incredibly easy-going. Something about him had just seemed to click for her in the same way she’d clicked with Cana, Mirajane and Bickslow from Fairy Tail.
“No, thank
you
for keeping an open mind, even when some of my answers initially repulsed you,” Farron told her, his eyes intent and the words surprisingly sincere, “You asked questions and heard me out, you didn’t shut me out or assume I was some kind of sex crazed barbarian. I appreciate that.”
“You really shouldn’t have to thank a person for common courtesy Farron,” she told him honestly, “It was my pleasure to learn more about your country, and just because your ways are different from the ones I grew up with doesn’t necessarily make them bad or wrong.”
“If only more people thought that way,” he voiced wistfully, an almost fond look on his face as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the intimate gesture brining a surprising heat to her cheeks, “It would make life so much simpler. No, I think what you did was rather special Lucy.”
She wanted to protest that, but she knew as well as he did that people could be closed minded bigots. After all, between Jude and the Dursleys she’d grown up with them in both lives. It really was unfair sometimes; how awful people could be.
“Thank you,” she told him as sincerely as she could, unsure exactly how to respond but hoping her words were adequate, “That’s sweet of you to say.”
“I think I’d like to visit Bosco someday,” she told him, into the silence that followed her words, as Farron watched her with amusement and gentle understanding on his face as she carefully changed the subject.
“I hope you do,” he answered with a smile, “I think you’d quite enjoy it, and that the people there would quite enjoy you as well.”
“Enjoy me?” she asked, thoroughly amused by the way he’d worded it.
“Blondes are rare in Bosco, and Blondes with eyes like yours are rare period, we like beauty in all forms, but rarity is a beauty all its own,” he told her with a smile, “Everyone will approach wanting to share pleasure with you.”
“But you’re blond,” she pointed out with a laugh, “Does that make you rare and popular too?”
“What do you think?” he asked with a teasing smile, something slightly wicked about it that sent a thrill of desire through her and had her smiling easily back at him.
“I think you probably are rather sought after, though whether that’s for your looks or tongue I don’t know,” she flirted back lightly.
“I do have a very talented tongue,” he admittedly mischievously, eyes dancing with laughter, the innuendo clear in his voice.
She’d honestly meant the way he spoke, not anything more explicit, but the way he said it, had her throwing her head back with delighted laughter. The two of them spent quite a while happily bantering and flirting up a storm. She found the more she spoke to him, the more she liked him, thus she didn’t protest at all when he carefully guided her into a few dark corners to steal kisses.
Each kiss was sweet, and tender, enough to steal her breath away. His hands were careful, and respectful and he never, ever pushed her, letting her take the lead more often than not. He was honestly utterly delightful and she as the night wore one she wondered if she might not end up rather grateful for Cana’s gift of birth control after all.
She honestly hadn’t had that much carefree fun with another human being in a long time, probably not since before her mother died, and she enjoyed it quite a bit. The atmosphere of the festival and the companion at her side, more than she honestly could’ve ever hoped for when Cana had decided to drag her along on this job.
It was close to the end of the night, only about forty-five minutes from the time she was supposed to go back and meet Cana at their tent. She’d been wandering around with Farron for hours, delighting in his company when she spotted it. It was a small booth, tucked a little way back from the others, clearly selling magical items, a few lacrima, some enchanted jewelry, and a handful of weapons. However, what caught her attention was the familiar magic hovering around one of the cases.
She didn’t waste a second dragging her amused but willing companion over to the booth, her heart galloping in her chest at the feel of that magic. It was Celestial magic without a doubt, the feel of it ingrained on her psyche, and decently strong at that, which meant the vendor was selling keys.
She didn’t doubt they were silver keys, probably the kind that had several copies of them floating around here and there, as finding a gold key for sale was like finding a priceless antique at a flea market, not impossible but not likely either. Still they were fairly rare, and she was eager to see what the vendor had.
Normally she wouldn’t be so quick to add more members of her family, especially since she didn’t feel like she’d spent enough time getting to know Libra yet, but she’d also made a promise to Romeo to teach him a bit about Celestial Spirits magic if she could. She hadn’t been able to do it yet, as she didn’t have a Key she could gift him, unwilling to part with any of her beloved family members, so she’d been on the lookout for something new.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been easy, Magnolia, despite being home to the Fairy Tail Guild, only had a couple magic stores, ones that weren’t all the impressive. She’d already scoured both to no avail. While she hadn’t thought to look while she was in Crocus she probably should’ve considering how much bigger the capital was. However, it seemed luck was on her side.
It didn’t take her long to lock on to the keys, which were laid out on the display case, each clearly well taken care of and polished to a shine. None of them were particularly rare, but that didn’t matter considering it was probably better to get Romeo one that would be easy to summon rather than something rare. It was especially important since he wasn’t going to pursue Celestial magic seriously and she didn’t want him something that someone else might try to take from him now that she knew that was also a possibility.
“What do you think Padfoot?” she asked absently as she looked over the keys on display, “Any opinions?”
“They all look decent, for the runt, right?” he asked his head popping out of her shadow to peer over her shoulder, clearly startling both the vendor and a few of the other patrons. Farron also looked a bit startled, though he recovered quickly and unlike some of the others didn’t look frightened at all.
“That’s right,” she affirmed, ignoring the looks she was getting from the people around her, as Padfoot quietly snickered in her ear, extremely amused at having startled the humans around, “Though I would’ve thought you would choose Canis Minor right off the bat.”
“The Nickola line isn’t much of a dog line,” Padfoot told her with a huff, clearly a bit disdainful of the other canine constellation, “He always takes up a really weird form, and is a bit odd in general.”
“So, go for one of the others?” she asked, eying the other two, “Ursa Minor or Pavo?”
“I didn’t say that,” he friend backtracked immediately, “Runt might like the weirdos for all I know.”
“You’re no help,” she grumbled at him, earning an indignant huff from the canine, who promptly disappeared back into her shadow, no doubt going to sulk about it.
She looked over the keys carefully for another minute before finally heaving a sigh, as she remembered getting her own first key. It was a special moment and she wanted it to be special for Romeo too. She just wasn’t sure how to do that. It would’ve been so much easier if Romeo was there to choose, but considering he was all the way back in Magnolia and no doubt asleep at home that wasn’t an option.
Normally she might just wait until the next day, and call him, but then there was a chance someone else would buy the key he wanted before she could pick it up for him, especially since she had to work tomorrow night and wouldn’t be able to come until the day after. She probably could send Cana, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to give the other woman proper directions back to the stall, since she wasn’t entirely sure where they were in the first place. She didn’t want her friend to spend half her night looking for the place. Really there was just one thing to do if she wanted him to have a choice.
“How much for all three?” she asked the vendor with a sigh, quietly resigning herself to getting two new family members.
A part of her was excited for it, but another part was a bit concerned. She wanted time to bond with all her spirits and never wanted them to feel as though she was neglecting them. It meant she probably shouldn’t allow herself to look for or pick up any more keys for at least a few months while she got the new members settled in a bit better.
“Are you sure miss?” the vendor asked, eyeing her, clearly unsure from her casual attire that she might not be able to afford his prices.
“I’m sure,” she informed him flatly, “None of these silver keys are all that rare, the Canis Minor line in particular is incredibly easy to get ahold of, and shouldn’t actually be all that expensive.”
“A hundred fifty thousand jewel for the lot them miss,” he told her dismissively.
“You’re joking,” she countered, her tone flat and bored, glad despite everything that as the heiress to the Heartfilia line she more than knew how to bargain with people, “Canis Major sells for twenty thousand at most. Do you always try to rip off your customers? I’ll pay you seventy-five thousand.”
She made sure to say the last bit in a voice that carried a bit, making those around her murmur. A couple of them even set down the items they’d been looking at, clearly wary, making the vendor grit his teeth in frustration, though there was a new respect in his eyes as he offered, “A hundred and twenty-five thousand, Canis Minor is common true, but the other two are a little rarer.”
“Ninety thousand,” she countered, “They’re rare, but not that rare, and everyone knows Pavo is only good for changing the color of things. You can do the exact same thing with a color changing magic wand and those are only worth thirty thousand jewel at most, plus unlike Pavo they don’t take magic from the user.”
She wasn’t usually the type to put down the magic of her keys, as she truly felt all of them could be useful, but in this situation, it was best to be as disparaging as possible. Plus, what she said about Pavo wasn’t exactly true. Yes, the Peacock could do color changing magic, and that was what that particular constellation was most known for.
In fact, according to her mother, when she was young Pavo had been really popular among women who could use magic, because back then color changing magic was far rarer and more expensive. It was how she’d gotten her hands on her own copy of Pavo, though Layla had given that key away long before Lucy was born, to a famous designer in Minstrel because the peacock spirit she’d had, had wanted to be involved in fashion.
However, the real ability of Pavo lay in their disguise magic, able to make a person look like anyone they pleased, to allow their user to pass unnoticed in crowds at times where being invisible would be a hindrance. After all being invisible didn’t make a person intangible, and sometimes it was better to blend in rather than to disappear entirely.
It wasn’t a well-known ability for the key though, mostly because most summoners were selfish and didn’t bother to ask, assuming the common knowledge was the extent of the Spirit’s abilities. It was their loss honestly, and she could imagine Romeo having a lot of fun with it, if he could get over the association of peacocks being a more girly animal and picked that key.
She hadn’t technically lied to the vendor either, telling him ‘everybody knows’ rather than stating outright that, that was what the spirit’s abilities were. It was a bit of misdirection she was honestly rather proud of, as she could say under truth spell that she hadn’t lied.
“A hundred thousand jewel,” the vendor told her firmly, pulling her from her racing thoughts, the firm look in his eye letting her know he wouldn’t budge on this, “And not a jewel less young lady.”
“Agreed,” she told him immediately, offering up her hand. The two of them shook on it, and she immediately went for her purse. A hundred thousand jewel was nothing to sniff at honestly, and more than a month’s worth of rent, but luckily, she’d done well enough during her work days from her story telling that she had more than enough, quickly handing over the correct amount to the vendor and accepting the keys.
She didn’t bother to stow them away in her purse, but instead allowed everyone who might be watching and thinking about stealing from her get a good view as she very obviously popped them into requip space. They would be completely safe there, as everyone knew no one but the mage who put them there could pull things out of requip space.
“That was rather impressive bartering,” Farron told her, offering his arm to her as they moved away from the stall, reminding her of his presence.
“Thank you,” she offered demurely, “Sometimes it pays to be the daughter of a businessman.”
“I see,” he acknowledged with a nod, “And you used requip magic too? I didn’t think Fioran mages taught that to everyone the way they do in Bosco.”
“They don’t,” she admitted a little startled, “I had to learn it on my own, because I wanted to protect my keys. You say everyone learns in Bosco?”
“Everyone who’s a mage,” he told her with a grin, “It’s one of the first things they teach us, because unlike here a lot of the Guilds in Bosco have formal attire and they want us to keep it on us at all times, and be able to change at a moment’s notice.”
“Sounds like a pain,” Lucy acknowledged with a huff, “I still haven’t figured out how to change my clothes while they’re still on me and I’ve been trying for years. Though I am finally able to store quite a bit in my requip space.”
“I’ve heard it’s harder for people whose magic is heavily aligned to a single thing to learn other magics, though the trade-off is of course that those who are only aligned to that single thing are far better at it than any generalist could ever hope to be,” Farron told her thoughtfully.
“That makes sense,” she acknowledged a little fascinated by the new information, “According to my mother’s stories the women in my family have always been heavily aligned to Celestial Spirit Magic.”
“Speaking of magic, I do have to ask, that being from before, Padfoot you called him? Was he using shadow magic?” Farron asked a light frown on his face.
“And if he was?” Lucy challenged keeping her tone light, though she felt Padfoot bristling in the shadows, her fingers moving automatically to the place where she tended to requip her keys, brushing her fingers along the edge of the dimensional pocket.
She knew that a lot of people thought Shadow Magic was evil, mostly because it was a magic a lot of Dark Guilds had tried to use in the past, both successfully and unsuccessfully. It didn’t help that, much like in her story of the Origin of the Celestial Spirit Realm, people tended to be naturally afraid of the dark. It gave them a prejudice that was hard to argue with.
Shadow mages were right up there with Seith mages as the type of magic users ordinary people feared the most, though at least Shadow mages weren’t illegal anywhere, unlike Seith Mages who were banned in a couple countries including Bosco if she was remembering correctly. It was all rather tragic, and reminded her of the three spells that had been termed Unforgivable in her last life.
All three had actually been intended for good things, but had been twisted by people who sought power for their own gain. The Imperius was meant to stop people who meant to harm themselves or others, to literally pull them back from the edge if necessary. The Cruciatus was a shock that was meant to jolt a patient’s heart back into rhythm if it fell out of it, and could also be used as defibrillation. Avada Kedavra was meant to humanely euthanize farm animals who were meant to be slaughtered and eaten.
However, all three had fallen into the hands of people who had seen what they could do to humans, and who had subsequently used them enough that it became a dark trend of sorts, so much so they had to be outlawed and deemed unforgivable.
“Don’t worry,” Farron assured her, his voice careful and gentle as if speaking to a frightened animal, his eyes calm and careful as he studied her face, “I bear no prejudice against Shadow Mages. I only asked because my brother is a Shadow Mage and fairly young still. There are so few of them around that aren’t from Dark Guilds that it’s been hard to find him a teacher.”
“Padfoot?” she asked gently, unwilling to give up his secrets without permission, even if her gut did say Farron was telling the truth. His secrets were his own after all, and certainly didn’t belong to her just because she happened to hold his key and contract.
“It is Shadow Magic,” Padfoot agreed, his voice coming from over her left shoulder though it was clear he hadn’t bothered to actually emerge from the shadows to speak, probably not wanting to alarm all the citizens around, “If your brother is truly a shadow mage, you must be aware that it is a very dangerous magic to experiment with on ones own. He’ll need an experienced teacher lest he become lost or consumed by those who dwell among the shadow world.”
They didn’t have too much more time to talk, as they had to head back to the tent where Cana would be waiting for them, but the time they did have Farron grilled Padfoot about all he knew about Shadow Magic. It was clear the man was incredibly curious, but from the furrow in his brow and the anxious look in his eyes also rather worried. She couldn’t blame him Shadow Magic truly was some of the most terrifying out there, not just for its abilities, but how it could easily turn on a mage if they didn’t use it correctly.
Once they rejoined Cana at the tent, Farron bid them a hasty goodbye. He was extremely apologetic about it, but explained that he felt it would be best to contact his father as soon as possible to let him know what he’d learned about Shadow Magic. They’d known before that it was dangerous, but hadn’t realized it was quite that bad, and so felt the need to warn his father right away.
She’d of course immediately assured him it was fine, and waved him away. He went, though not before dropping a sweet kiss on her lips and asking if she’d be willing to meet up again on her next day off. She’d been more than happy to agree, and they’d gone their separate ways back to their hotels.
Despite the rather abrupt ending she’d still been feeling rather giddy about the night she’d had, and the time she’d spent with the handsome Boscan. It had been enough that she hadn’t even been bothered about Cana’s teasing, the other woman having witnessed the whole thing.
The next day she’d drawn in an even bigger crowd than the days before. Apparently, word had gotten around and everyone wanted to hear the origin story. It was more than a bit flattering, and also incredibly gratifying that she could share a bit of the legacy her mother had left her with other people.
Cana had been ecstatic, crowing about how she’d been a hundred percent correct bringing Lucy with her on this job, because both of them were raking in the cash. It had all been extremely profitable for both of them so far, and had more than made up for the job she hadn’t even gotten paid for with Natsu.
Despite their success however, she’d actually found herself more than a bit impatient for the night to be over, so she could meet up with Farron again. The more she thought about it, the more she was very sure that she’d like to explore some things with the handsome Boscan, or share pleasure, as he apparently called it.
The whole thing had honestly made her a bit distracted, though thankfully none of her audience members seemed to notice. Cana certainly did though, and had made sure to tease her, not that the other woman really had room to talk. She’d apparently found a nice Boscan of her own, one with pretty green hair and heterochromatic eyes that she was having the time of her life with.
She was also more than happy to share all the details, the two of them giggling over him and Farron for several hours together, trading information back and forth and Cana trying to give her all sorts of tips and tricks about sex.
It was honestly kind of amusing, but also fairly helpful in its own way. She hadn’t actually had a whole lot of experience when she died, since she’d only been eighteen. She’d had a grand total of two lovers at that point, Neville, who had been the person she’d lost her virginity too in a ‘thank god we’re alive’ thing after the battle at Hogwarts when she was seventeen, and Blaise Zabini.
The former Slytherin had just happened to be who she coincidentally hooked up with after she got drunk off her ass the day she realized she wasn’t going to live much longer. Zabini had turned out to be a generous lover, and they’d hooked up several times after that, both aware there would never be any sort of romantic relationship between them. She’d learned a lot from the experience, especially since he’d been more than willing to try anything she wanted, but that still paled in comparison to the amount of sex Cana had apparently had already in just this one lifetime.
When she’d asked why the other woman was so free with her body, both with sex and with alcohol, Cana had gotten surprisingly serious, and told her that you only live once. The card mage was a full-on believer in living every day like it was your last, a sentiment she could certainly understand given she had died at the same age she was now in her previous life.
It was honestly rather odd to think that if she managed to keep herself alive, and she didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t be able to, for six more months she’d make it to her nineteenth birthday and would have officially lived longer in this new world than she had in her old one. Thinking back, it was honestly a bit of a miracle she had even managed to live that long in her previous life, this one, despite some of the adventures she’d had, was almost tame in comparison.
It was a gift she didn’t ever intend to overlook, and she fully intended to take Cana’s advice about living in the moment. If Farron didn’t ask her tonight, then she fully intended to pull up all her Gryffindor courage and ask him herself. She was a modern woman after all, and there was no reason for her not to do the asking.
She even made careful preparations with a happy Cana’s help, putting on some nice gold and royal blue lingerie that helped her feel sexy, powerful, and confident, and dressing up in her nice, tight leather pants, that she knew showed off her curves nicely, along with some sexy strappy heels and a white and green halter top. Cancer even helped her with her hair and make-up again, the crab spirit looking partially amused and partially appalled at helping her get ready to go seduce a man.
Honestly, the preparations might not have even been all that necessary. Farron had made his interest pretty clear with the kisses he’d shared with her the evening before, but dressing up gave her an extra boost of confidence. Enough so that she was able to smile coyly at the handsome Boscan when she saw his eyes rake over her form when they met up at the tent, clearly giving her a thorough and appreciative once over.
“You look good,” he told her admiringly, his blue eyes warm with desire.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she told him with a laugh, though she truly meant the words. He was wearing another one of the open shirts that showed off his tattoos and the rippling muscle of his chest, this one in a dark blue that brought out his eyes. He’d paired it with dark brown leather pants that clung nicely to his thighs and hips, along with a single sapphire drop earring in one of his ears. His golden-brown hair was half up, half down, pulled back to show off that sharp planes of his face, though a few strands from his bangs still hung rather appealingly over his forehead.
“I brought you a gift,” he told her, holding out a small neatly wrapped parcel, “To make up for running off on you yesterday.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” she told him, hesitantly accepting the small package as he pressed it into her hands.
“It’s also a thank you for the warning about shadow magic. You may have saved us a good deal of trouble. My little brother is a bit of a miscreant, but he’s also very precious to us, and we wouldn’t have wanted something to happen to him due to our ignorance over the matter,” he responded seriously.
“That was all Padfoot, not me,” she answered, a little uncomfortable with his sincere gratitude, the same way she always had been, both in this life and the last. She simply wasn’t used to being thanked for anything, and it was always a bit disconcerting when it happened, even if it was also strangely gratifying when she felt she’d done something that truly deserved such thanks.
“Unfortunately, I have no clue what to get for a Celestial Spirit,” Farron admitted, completely unphased with the idea of thanking her oldest friend, which made her already high estimation of his character rise a few more notches. Most people would’ve discarded her words, because of the view of Celestial Spirits as tools or lesser beings, but apparently Farron was different.
“Just thanks is more than enough,” Padfoot chimed in from where he was watching in her shadow, voice a little gruff, clearly a little touched by the gratitude directed his way.
“Then thank you very much Padfoot of the Celestial Realms,” Farron told him with a polite, sincere dip of the head.
“You’re welcome Farron of Bosco,” Padfoot answered, the words surprisingly formal for her usually mischievous spirit.
“Lucy, I’m going to explore the fair on my own today, enjoy your time together,” her canine friend told her quietly, the revelation startling her quite a bit. Yes, if she did get the chance to have sex with Farron tonight she’d fully expected Padfoot would make himself scarce to give her some privacy and probably to enjoy the festival. She never would’ve dreamed he would leave her alone with Farron far beforehand.
It was an immense gesture of trust for the Boscan mage, as Padfoot didn’t trust anyone really to properly look after her. Hell, he didn’t even trust
her
to properly look out for herself, and only rarely left her side to give her privacy, and he never went far. Farron had clearly made a good impression, not just on her, but on her canine companion as well.
“Have a good time,” she told him, a little faintly, still trying to process the idea that Padfoot was leaving her alone with someone, “Try not to make too much trouble.”
Her only answer to that was a mischievous doggy grin that flashed white against the shadows cast my the tent, before his presence disappeared entirely. A little baffled she turned to Farron, who had waited patiently through the whole exchange.
“Are you going to open it?” he asked her teasingly, gesturing to the package still in her hands.
“Oh, sure,” she responded startled, hands automatically moving to do as he’d asked before even fully processing the request or remembering that she’d originally not intended to accept the gift he’d given her.
Once the ribbon was untied the wrapping came away neatly to reveal a slender bar. The writing was in Boscan, which took her a second to decipher, and she almost would’ve thought she’d interpreted wrong if not for the nice picture on the front of the wrapped bar depicting a delicious looking slab of chocolate and some cocoa beans.
“Is this what I think it is?” she asked, excited despite herself.
“You said you wanted to try it right?” he teased lightly, a pleased grin on his face, obviously delighted with her reaction.
“Where did you get this?!” she demanded, turning the bar over in her hands and admiring the packaging, which was far fancier than she’d ever seen on a bar of chocolate before, with gold leaf and embossing on thick high-quality paper.
“I’m actually staying at the Boscan Embassy here, and they had some,” he admitted, a little hesitantly, searching her face for some kind of reaction.
“The Embassy?” she repeated slowly, her thoughts running a mile a minute as she processed what that meant. Only nobles and high ranked diplomats from other countries were allowed to stay in their respective Embassies. Studying him he certainly had the poise to be a noble, articulate and charming as he was, but something about him told her that wasn’t all he was.
“You look awfully young to be a diplomat,” she told him calmly, “Did you graduate early?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Farron told her clearly amused, “Though how old exactly do you think I am Lucy?”
“Twenty something,” she told him with a shrug, unbothered, “Early to mid-twenties would be my best guess. I suppose I’ve just always thought of ambassadors as old and wrinkly.”
“I’ll have to tell me father you said so,” Farron told her with a delighted laugh, “He’s an ambassador too actually, and you’re very close I’m twenty-six.”
“I’m eighteen if it matters,” she answered, figuring she might as well be honest with him, suddenly aware that by his standards she might not actually technically qualify as an adult, since she’d never been to a Sudepah,
“You’re very mature,” he told her, clearly a bit surprised though he didn’t look too put off thankfully.
“I’ve been on my own since I was twelve and my mother died,” she told him honestly, “I raised myself after that, so it’s not really that surprising. You said your father was an ambassador too?”
“That’s right,” he agreed accepting the subject change with grace, clearly well aware that he shouldn’t press or offer sympathies, which really wasn’t all that surprising now that she knew he was a diplomat, “His name is Arman Pradesh, and I’m Farron Pradesh.”
She eyed him with surprise for a few seconds, taken aback by the sudden trust he was showing her, and the information he’d given her. Arman Pradesh was a famous name even in Fiore. The man was supposedly an incredibly talented diplomat and on top of that he also had a rather tragic story. His wife and baby son had been killed in an explosion during a diplomatic trip to Pegrande, and left him and his eldest son alone. In the memory of his wife, the generous ambassador had gone on to adopt several children, because she’d always wanted a large family.
It was a story she was rather familiar with thanks to her studies as the Heartfilia heiress, and she realized belatedly that she actually had heard Farron’s name before in conjunction with being an ambassador. He was actually rather famous himself, having graduated university at the age of seventeen and become a decorated and valued ambassador to the Boscan Royal family less than a year later.
He was apparently someone incredibly impressive, but more importantly he’d clearly decided she could be trusted with the information. She debated for a long moment, because she hadn’t even told Cana, who was probably her closest human friend, what her last name was just yet. However, she was a firm believer in quid pro quo, and her name wouldn’t mean nearly as much to a Boscan Ambassador as it would to Cana or anyone else from Fairy Tail who were bound to have heard of her considering the Konzern owned the rail lines.
“It’s nice to meet you Farron Pradesh,” she told him, going through the motions of a curtsey, despite not wearing the skirt necessary for it, rather grateful that the gesture had been drilled into her from a very young age and didn’t feel at all awkward despite her lack, “My name is Lucy Heartfilia, of the Heartfilia Konzern.”
“Heartfilia?” Farron repeated, clearly taken aback, “You’re the runaway Heartfilia heiress?”
“I would hardly call myself a runaway, considering I am of legal age and have been for months now,” she told him, a little warily, “Though I am a little surprised you’ve heard of me.”
“You ran away when you were younger though correct?” Farron told her with a slight frown, “We ambassadors were warned to not harbor you if you happened to try crossing the border.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t try to visit other countries,” Lucy mused aloud with a sigh, “Though I never would’ve suspected Jude would put up such a fuss over it.”
“Jude?” Farron repeated looking thoroughly confused.
“Ah, my sperm donor, though I suppose you could call him my father if you really wanted to,” she told him, unable to keep the sneer off her face.
“I take it you’re not on very good terms then,” Farron mused looking a cross between concerned and amused.
“You could say that,” she answered with a shrug, “Though now that I know a little more about Boscan culture I wonder if you would’ve offered me political asylum if I’d pleaded my case to you.”
Unsurprisingly, considering he was the youngest ambassador to ever grace the halls of an Embassy Farron was very quick witted, and it didn’t take him long to put the pieces together. His face immediately darkened as he turned concerned eyes on her and demanded, “Did Jude Heartfilia rape you Lucy?”
“No,” she assured him immediately, “No, what he wanted to do was sell me off to the highest bidder in an arranged marriage so
they
could rape me, that and he didn’t protest in the least when they harassed me in front of him, despite being underage at the time.”
Farron looked both appalled and sickened at the thought of it, plainly furious on her behalf. It was rather touching, that he looked so incredibly angry for her sake. She couldn’t ever remember anyone getting so worked up for her before, not outside Ron, Hermione, and Sirius, and Farron was nearly a stranger to her.
“We in Bosco are aware that arranged marriages are allowed in other countries,” he told her though he looked extremely revolted by the mere thought of it, “But they are illegal in Bosco, and certainly illegal to put on a minor. I would hope that we would’ve done the best we could to save you from that fate. At the very least I promise you I would’ve tried.”
“Thank you,” she told him, sincerely touched by the heartfelt declaration, gently resting her palm on his forearm, “It means a lot to me that someone, anyone would’ve tried to help me, though in the end I did manage just fine on my own with the help of my Spirits.”
“What did you do?” Farron asked, clearly trying to calm himself down and change the subject a bit.
She indulged him, telling him all about the travelling she’d done as she gently tugged him with her, guiding him around the festival. The only thing she really left out was her brief stay on the deserted island, not wanting to hint at her possession of one of the legendary crystal keys.
Farron listened intently, asking questions, and making all the right noises as she told him about her experiences. He was a fantastic audience and more than once she nearly found herself telling him something she probably should keep to herself. It was really no wonder he was considered such a fine diplomat if he was able to coax information like that out of whoever was speaking seemingly without effort.
Her talk about her time on the run kept them occupied for several hours, enough so that she nearly forgot all about the Kissing Chocolate he’d gifted her, right up until after they’d eaten dinner together and he asked if she wanted any dessert. Luckily, she’d stored it in her requip space and was able to pull it out, offering the bar back to him.
“Would you care to show me the proper way to eat this?” she asked teasingly waving it at him.
“I’d be delighted,” he told her with a clearly amused grin on his face, gently plucking the chocolate bar from her fingers, and carefully unwrapping it. Watching him she noted he had, rather elegant hands, long fingered and dexterous and her mind briefly wondered what it would feel like to have them on her skin, as he gently broke off a piece of the chocolate and offered it to her.
She attempted to take it from him, only to have him pull it back, a teasing smile on his lips as he lightly scolded, “Ah-ah Lucy, open wide for me.”
Surprised, but more than willing she did as asked opening her mouth, and letting him feed it to her. Just as instructed she allowed the sweet confection to melt on her tongue. It was wonderful chocolate, sweet and rich in flavor, but nothing particularly special, or it wasn’t right up until Farron pressed his lips to hers.
Gently he coaxed her lips open with his skilled tongue, and swiped it across her own, sending a burst of flavor across her tongue. It was sweet, minty and cool, along with a hint of something else she couldn’t begin to describe but tasted utterly exquisite. Her hands came up automatically, one reaching for his shirt lapel and the other tangling in his soft golden-brown hair, holding him to her as she pressed her mouth eagerly to his, chasing the flavor and the sensation both.
She felt his lips curl upwards under her own, and felt her own smile forming in response, utterly delighted that the chocolate had lived up to its promised splendor. Heat curled in her belly at the sensation of his lips, the taste of the chocolate, and the sizzling attraction she’d felt for him the moment she clapped eyes on him during her first day exploring the festival.
“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured against her lips, his voice husky and soft, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine.
“And do you like strawberries?” she teased a little breathless, her heart racing in her chest as she peered into his gorgeous blue eyes.
“I love them,” he told her honestly, desire written plainly on his face.
“Then, would you care for another taste?” she asked, peering down at the chocolate he was still holding in his hands pointedly.
“I would gladly taste you Lucy, over and over and over again,” he answered, his voice low and sultry, as he broke off another piece of chocolate. She immediately opened her mouth, ready for him to feed her again, but this time he popped it into his own mouth, keeping his lips parted teasingly as he stared her in the eye, clearly daring her to come take it from him.
Lucy however, was a former Gryffindor and never one to back away from something she wanted, learning forward eagerly to recapture his lips with her own, savoring the taste of him and the chocolate as it passed between them, as she explored his mouth slow and leisurely, allowing their tongues to dance and twine together sensually, in a way that made her whole-body flush with heat.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt desire quite like this before, not even with Blaise, who had been an immensely skilled lover himself. It was more than enough to make up her mind about what she wanted from the incredibly gorgeous man, who seemed able to set her ablaze without even touching her apart from a few sensual kisses.
“If you like the way I taste Farron,” she murmured between kisses, “Then
will you share pleasure with me?
”
The Boscan phrase fell easily from her lips, thanks to her practice with Cana, both of them giggling up a storm over the words, though she was grateful now for being able to say them without stumbling, especially as she could see Farron’s eyes as the pupil blew wide, desire written all over his face.
“I would be delighted to share pleasure with you,” he told her the words filled with sincerity and desire, “simply show me where you’d like me Lucy, and I’m yours.”
“Mine hmm?” she asked pleased and more aroused than she’d ever remembered being before, “I look forward to seeing what a man from Bosco can do Farron. Please educate me.”
The grin he gave her in response was enough to make her entire body come alive, clearly aching for his touch, and she knew then and there she was in for a long night, and she couldn’t be more delighted by it.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The money she gets from the last bounty goes towards more hospital bills. Jet splits the difference. They both live off of the expired food in the freezer for two days, and they both get sick, and they both suffer through it all without complaining because neither of them really have anything to say.
Spike wakes up on Tuesday.
-
He opens his eyes slowly, readjusts. Then he looks at her, sitting curled in on her herself on the hospital seat, and he looks pale and strange and still kind of dead and he says in a throaty voice, “Jesus, Faye, I never took you for a cryer.”
His blood has dried underneath her nails. She will never unlearn the fear he taught her by leaving.
She scrubs her eyes. “I'm just so disappointed. I thought you were really dead.”
Spike laughs - then he doubles over, pained, and starts wheezing.
Serves you right
, she thinks, and then Jet is standing in the doorway, looking at Spike with shadows under his eyes and a stunned, earnest smile he makes sure to get rid of before he walks in.
-
They’d found him before morning broke and hefted him back onto the ship together. Jet could have done it alone and they’d both known it, but he’d let Faye take some of the weight. He’d probably known that she needed it, then.
Her legs hadn’t shook like she’d worried they would, and Jet hadn’t said anything about whether he was dead or alive like she’d wanted him to. Spike had hung between them heavily as they walked, hung there and bled.
“Go fish,” he says. He stifles an obnoxiously big yawn into his shoulder.
Faye curses and picks up another card. Still no luck. “Can’t we play something interesting?”
“Faye, nobody wants to play poker with a cheat.”
“A notorious cheat,” Jet adds, frowning down at his own hand.
She scoffs. “You guys are just afraid of getting your asses beat.”
Spike eyes her over his cards and says, mouth twitching, “Twos.”
“God
damnit
!” she hisses, and throws the card at his face.
-
The nurses keep nagging at Faye for smoking and giving cigarettes to the sick patients. Normally she and Spike have a strict no sharing policy when it comes to - well, anything, but he looks like shit and Faye is nothing if not a philanthropist, and none of this is
normal
, anyway.
“Geez, when do you get out of here already?” she asks, slouching in her seat to kick her feet up on the bedside table. “If I get one more lecture I’m gonna start bringing my gun in here.”
Spike lights up a cigarette and inhales, and Faye sees it, every tiny motion of it from the flick of his thumb to the slow part of his mouth, and turns sharply to face the window.
“Maybe I’ll stay here,” he says. He taps the ash into the bedside vase with the ugly fake flowers in it and tucks his other hand under his head. “Three meals a day, a decent bed, a nurse to walk me three feet to the toilet. Not so bad, is it?”
“You’re not the one paying for this sad little holiday,” Faye says, looking at her nails.
The hospital bed creaks when he sits up. “Guess you’re right. I’d pay you back some day if I didn’t know it’d all end up going to waste.”
He smiles at her, a bit tired looking, but not the kind of tired he used to be. Faye would know; she’s been expecting that old look in his eyes to come back any day now, been looking for it hard enough.
He passes her the cigarette and she closes her eyes and takes a long, long drag.
“You owe me,” she says. “You don’t even know how much you owe me, Spike.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“You know, most friends don’t act like debt collectors.”
She gives the cigarette back to him and looks out the window again. She hates Mars, intimately, more than anywhere else she’s ever been.
“I’m not sure we are friends,” she says.
All of Faye’s friends are dead. Jet and Spike are just some drifters she drifted with and Ed was like the pet she never wanted - and even
she
didn’t bother to stick around for a goodbye.
“We should change that, then,” Spike says, quietly.
She turns to him, surprised.
There’s something different about him since he came back, something she can’t put her finger on, and it’s more apparent now than ever. It’s like he’s here -
really
here.
He passes the cigarette back again, watching her with a teasing quirk to his mouth, and in a cloud of smoke asks, “So?”
So
, Faye thinks.
She clucks her tongue. “I’ll think about it.”
-
She and Jet hit a few small bounties over the next few days. They get enough cash for some food and a decent bit of fuel, but not enough for one of the Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppies up for adoption she knows he’s been keeping an eye on online.
They’re on their way from the police station to the hospital when Jet says, abruptly, “He’s different, isn’t he.”
There’s no tone to it. It’s just a statement of fact -
hot on Mars, isn’t it
.
“Yeah,” she says, shrugging. It's true, but she still isn't quite sure how.
Jet rubs the back of his neck with his good hand and sighs.
“Looks stupid as hell in that hospital gown, too,” he says, shaking his head. “Man, when are we gonna get off this rock?”
“
Yesterday
would have been too late,” Faye says, and kicks at a stone.
-
Two more days ‘til they can get the hell out of dodge. Jet is off catching up with some old cop buddy and Faye blows all her money from the last bounty at the races and then visits the hospital alone, because there is nothing else for her to do, not in this entire damn galaxy.
She catches Spike in the process of climbing out of the hospital room window.
“This place is worse than prison,” he explains, straddling the windowsill.
She rolls her eyes, arms crossed, and mentally calculates their distance from the Bebop. Five minutes if they hurry, and then maybe she’ll never have to smell the old-soup stink of hospital corridors again in her
life.
“I thought you wanted to
stay
,” she reminds him.
He climbs the rest of the way out the window and disappears. She follows him, dropping herself from the ledge onto a bed of red Martian dirt.
“You know, a two story drop is a really good way to reopen your stitches, genius,” she tells him when she lands.
He doesn’t look any worse for wear - looks better now than he has since it happened. Looks like himself, only moreso. He offers a hand out to her.
“I’ve come back from worse,” he says with a shrug, and pulls her up to standing.
-
They get back to the ship. Spike showers and Faye sits alone at the table with a bottle of beer and calls Jet a total of 13 times before it becomes clear that he’s not going to answer and that they’re not going to take off any time in the immediate future. Go figure.
Spike wanders in a little while later, finally out of that stupid looking hospital gown. He’s wearing his yellow shirt and what Faye knows are the only pair of pants he owns that aren’t caked in blood, and watching him walk to the refrigerator and start rifling through it like everything is okay again makes her feel grateful in a way she hasn’t been since she was someone else entirely.
“Hey,” he says, pulling out a bottle, “you guys bought booze.”
He knocks the cap off by hitting it against the countertop that way Jet hates, and then he climbs onto the couch from behind to sit beside her.
She offers her bottle out. He clinks it against his and they sit like that for a while in silence, drinking.
“Does it still hurt,” she says, picking at the label.
He turns to her, his expression between a smile and a grimace. “Like hell.”
She looks back at him for a moment, then she takes a bigger drink than she knows she ought to and puts the bottle down on the table.
“Spike -” she starts, and then doesn’t know how to say what she wants to, doesn’t even know where to start.
She turns to him, grabbing at his shirt with impatient hands, yanking at the buttons in the middle until it hangs open and she can see the clean white newly-applied bandages over his stomach.
Her heart is racing. Her hands are sweaty and cold.
“Faye,” Spike says, and he doesn’t even look surprised about her doing this. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m alright.”
This is not the time for it, but there will never be a time for it and Faye is tired of waiting for something to jump-start her life. She grabs Spike by the neck and kisses him hard, painfully hard, and after a moment his hand creeps into her hair and she makes a sound, soft and surprised.
As much as it scares her, she’s never been equipped to deal with this whole new life alone. Neither is he.
They part. Faye puts her face in Spike’s shoulder, and he spreads a hand, light and then firm, across the small of her back.
“I know,” he says, lowly, reassuringly.
They sit that way for a while, close and quiet. Spike rubs circles onto her back and warms the back of her neck with his breath, and - why shouldn’t she get to have this for a little longer? She's got nothing but time.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Kyo stood still, trying to collect himself in the moment as the near Greek god like man before him gave him an offer he'd be stupid to refuse but his words found their way out before he could stop them, "Well considering I just arrived, I'd like to atleast get my stuff situated first," he gave a soft laugh, trying to not make things more awkward then what he already had.
He thought I was deaf, I stared so hard at this man he thought I was deaf,
the words jumbled up in his brain as the muscled man offered a hand out to take his bag from him, "let me help you get settled, then we can have some fun. Nothing beats a nice walk by the lake before sunset to make sure none of the campers decided to drown one another. Or even worse, the counselors."
The red tint of his ear lingered, kyo couldn't understand what had gotten into himself. Hes usually the most composed person he knew of his friend group and is now a bumbling mess infront of a man he'd known for five minutes. It was embarrassing, yes the man was attractive to say the least but to be in such a chokehold after a few short moments was worse then a puppydog.
Pull it together Kyo
, he scolded himself before shooting the other an appreciative smile, "While I do appreciate the offer, I think I can handle this on my own. You can go on a head and I'll catch up before tonight's puppy dog. I'm sure they could uses all that extra man power you got there to keep the fire going," a finger followed up and down the males body in emphasis of his muscles that made Tengen smirk.
While Kyo tried to give the man an out the other just stared at him an awed and curious expression, "Nah I'm better off in here with you instead of Grumpy one and Grumpy two, for a summer camp full of kids they sure picked two very non-peoplely counselors between Obani and Tomioka to be the coordinators of fun. Though it's better than Shenazagawa, the kids would be literally beating each other to a pulp if that we're the case," Tengen laid to his side on sad exuse for a bed across from Kyos own as his voice continued to fill the room, "Soooo...Why did you decide to become a counselor this year? I haven't ever seen you around before."
Mitsuri
, that was the one true answer and everything he had owed to her. He wouldnt nearly be as far in his cooking career if it hadn't been for her encouragement, even when he felt like giving up.
"Mitsuri has a way with words, though all it took was a please and her batting her eyelashes at me to turn me into the mushy sucker I am and she knows it," he tailed with a half laugh but the white haired male looked slightly puzzled at his answer. The look on his face change once more to something that resembled jealousy if Kyo didn't know any better , "So you came because you're in love with a taken woman? Odd but commendable. I hate to burst your bubble but I would try someone a little more avalible like Shinobu or literally anyone else if you value your life."
Thats when a real laugh left the blondes lips which made the others eyebrows furrow even farther forward, "what's so funny? Do you have a death wish?"
"The fact that you think I'm in love with Mits, God Obani would have buried me in the bottom of a revine years ago if that was the case, if not worse." He sat edge if his bed, open duffle now splayed at his feet with clothes and toiletries spilling over as he continued, "I grew up with Obi in our small countryside town. Mits came into our lives as teens and made the biggest impact known to man; making Iguro Obani smile. I would never get in the way of that, though she is my best client," he finished off and the look of -well- something akeen to jealousy washed from the others features.
"You know, speaking of Uzui, how did you come about being a counselor now that you've got my backstory," Kyo encouraged as he began unpacking his things and placing them on the creaky bed.
"We're Neighbors," Tengen said plainly but with a smile, "Mits has always been sweet and Obani...as creepy as he can be has real heart for that girl and I envy it sometimes. But to answer your question she also asked me nicely and I couldn't say no to puppy dog eyes and the menacing glare from over her shoulder even if I wanted to."
"Glad to know Obi has that effect on everyone still but I'm glad to know they're safe with having a neighbor like you around,"
since you're built like a Greek God
threatened to spill from his lips but luckily his mind had enough self preservation to not let it.
Though those ruby red eyes played curious, egging him to continue, "Oh yeah, what makes you think they're so safe with me Kyo? Who knows, maybe im the big bad wolf and you just don'tknow it yet," he put his hands up to imitate claws and a growl that just made them both laugh and Kyo shook his head, "Hardly. I don't know, you just seem like the type of person who would protect the people he cares about. While trust is earned, I try to give the benefit of the dount that Mits and Obi know good people."
Kyo shrugged his shoulders before sliding the duffle under the bed. Tengens voice filled the room once more, "Bold assumption for someone you've known for five minutes but I like it, shows you got heart."
Kyo couldn't help but to let his gaze meet crimson as he gave a soft smile, "I belive in the goodness of people till they show me otherwise which I guess means, don't prove me wrong Uzui Tengen and we won't have any problems."
Before he knew it a large hand was stuck out infront of him as Tengen reached out, "You have a deal then, Kyoujurou Rengoku."
And thats when the faint knock turned into a giant thud hit their door back to back.
Looking to each other, puzzled, a tuft of black blue hair followed by red and yellow stacked three high in a dog pile of body parts were laying in the door way of Cabin 7. The red head in the middle spoke in an slight anguished tones as he tried his best, "Rengoku and Tengen Sir...We we're tasked to tell you..."
A manic laugh and snort from below bellowed out as a surprisingly deep voice interjected, "Foods done you old farts, last one to the the fire is a rotten bores head."
The black haired boy struggled from the bottom to escape the pile as both the red and yellow haired boys looked beat and groned at his movements, "I don't care what we are...as long as it means you stop trampling us every ten minutes like a fleash covered bowling ball," the yellow hair boy grumbled as he rolled off the top and laid flat out, joined with the red head beside him, "I'll second that."
"Suit yourself wimps, I'm getting smores from the pretty lady losers," and the black haired kid was gone before they knew it. The other two let out a sigh of relief.
"You kids okay?" Tengen was the first to ask getting the response of, "Yeah," and "My spleen hurts" in tandem that made him laugh.
Knocking his shouldersto a very concerned looking Kyoujurou, Tengen shook his head, "Told you things around here were going to be interesting."
Boy was he right.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
"You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter cou(...TRUNCATED) |
"You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter cou(...TRUNCATED) |
"You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter cou(...TRUNCATED) |
"You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter cou(...TRUNCATED) |
End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
No dataset card yet
- Downloads last month
- 12