#not my usual content but i just read the curtain call event (a bit late yes i know) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

julek · 3 years

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my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.”

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. “I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I’ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

#mywriting #geraskier fanfic #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfic #geraskier fluff #jeff buckley lyrics my beloved

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the-witty-pen-name · 3 years

Text

Fell in Love in Scotland Pt. 1

Sam Wilson x F!Reader

Warnings: angst; cursing; pining; 18+ in later parts (maybe? not sure yet)

Summary: After finding about the new Captain America, the reader goes to Louisiana to visit Sam.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: So I know this isn’t on my list of things I *should* be working on, but I had this idea today and I had to get it down! This is only going to be 2-3 parts. This is my first time writing for Sam!

I’m taking a small break from working on my other works in progress to focus on getting out as much Sam content as a can before Sam’s (and my) bday on the 14th! Not sure how much I’ll be able to write but that is my hope!

My biggest flex at the moment is sharing a bday with Sam.

This references Civil War, Endgame and Infinity War events in flashbacks but you know, canon is a thing I like to just maneuver around so I’m sorry if there are many major inaccuracies!

This is unedited and please let me know if I missed anything that should be included as a warning.

Taglist is in my bio

You were furious. Without even thinking, you picked up your phone and found him in your contact list. You were fuming, needing to find out what happened so you could help him. You hadn’t talked to him since Tony Stark’s funeral, and you had found out through Banner that Steve had gifted him the shield. You psych yourself out every time you want to reach out and talk to him, but your rage blinded you and took the lead over your usual nervousness.

“What happened?” you ask as soon as the ringing on the other end stops and you know he’s answered. You have the phone balanced on your shoulder as your slipping on your shoes, ready to head out as soon as you can.

“(Y/N)?” he asks, sounding confused. Also, incredibly hurt and rightfully so. You imagined he was watching the same thing as you on television and you thought he’d be as equally mad.

“Sam,” you say, letting out a shaky breath. “The shield.”

There’s nothing but dead air for what feel like forever.

“I gave it up,” he finally answers. You can hear in his voice that there is much more to this than that.

“Are you in D.C.?” you ask, not wanting to push him to talk.

“Delacroix. You don’t have to come-.”

“Can’t come visit a friend?” you ask hopefully. You hear him sigh.

“It’s not a great time,” he says hesitantly.

“Isn’t that when you need friends the most?” you counter, trying to force a happier, more uplifting tone. You try, but you know you still sound miserable. “Please,” you ask again, almost a whisper.

“You’re coming no matter what I say, aren’t you?” he chuckles.

“Pretty much,” you admit, “but I would love it if you actually wanted to see me.”

“You know I would…”

“So that settles it,” you smile, blinking to hold back a couple tears. Your voice breaks just a little. “I’m getting on the first plane I can.”

Before he has a chance to change his mind, you end the call and immediately pack some necessities. You never got out of the habit of always being called off, so many of the things you needed were already packed away in a bag in your closet. It was a comforting thing for you. Like you always had the option to just leave wherever you were. You said it was because of all the times you got pulled away from life because of missions for SHIELD, but it ran a little deeper than that.

God, he’s handsome. That’s the only thing you can think of when you’re finally in front of him again. Your mind is at a complete blank. You should be able to muster up the ability to say something. He’s waiting for you at the airport. You didn’t expect this, but it is Sam. Of course, he was going to meet you when your plane landed. You try your best to clear up the haze in your brain as you walk towards him, and he pulls you into a tight hug.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he mumbles, resting his head on top of your head as you bury your face in his chest. All hopes you had at a cool, collected front when you saw him disappeared. You missed him too much and had gone too long without admitting it to yourself. Tell him you missed him, tell him you’re happy to see him, say anything…

“I want to help,” you say when you both break away. You inwardly cringe. You can’t vocalize anything except turning this into some mission.

“Please can we not talk about the shield?” he asks, and you realize you’ve clearly hit a sore spot. You nod in agreement, feeling terrible for having brought it up so soon. You didn’t want him to think you were prioritizing the shield over him. That wasn’t the case at all. You came here for him, to see him, why the hell couldn’t you act like it.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, earnestly. You had to pull yourself together.

“I appreciate that you are worried about me,” he says slinging an arm over your shoulder as you walk. It feels nice, effortless. “But I donated the shield and after that, it was out of my hands.”

You know he is leaving out a lot, and you know him well enough to know there’s a deeper issue. But, for now, you decide to table it. He tells you about his nephews, and he fills you in on how he’s been able to spend time with them, and it feels so beautifully normal. The world feels like it’s falling apart around you but there’s Sam, pulling you back in like he was always able to do.

“I missed you,” he admits, after there’s a lull in the conversation driving to the house. “I thought maybe I would’ve seen you at the compound, or something before you left after the funeral.”

“I didn’t really have the chance,” you try to gloss over. “I just- After Steve came and said goodbye, I couldn’t stay. It just hurt too much.”

“Steve told you?”

“Not exactly, just a very vague goodbye, but I was able to read between the lines. I knew he wasn’t coming back.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he wanted to go back and fix things. If he couldn’t have done it here, he wanted a second chance. To get back the time lost. Save Bucky, find Nat, maybe visit Peggy… He just wasn’t ready to stop yet. There was no fight here left, so he went back chasing the ones he felt like he lost?”

He nods, just taking in the information. He tells you about seeing Steve when he came back, about how he got married. He tells you about how Steve gave him the shield, but he thought the right decision was to donate the shield to the Smithsonian. You don’t try to do anything else but listen, and try your best to understand. But hearing Sam not think he could take on the title was heartbreaking. You want to ask him if he regrets it, if he wants to get the shield back, but for now, you know it isn’t the right time. Just tell him you missed him too, please. You can’t do it. The words get stuck in the back of your throat. Why is this so hard?

“Remember when we met?” you ask, looking aimlessly out the window.

“You mean when you drop kicked me at an airport?” he asks with a laugh.

“No- I mean, yes that happened first technically,” you smile. “I was more so thinking about the first time we spoke after that.”

“You mean when you came with Steve to get us out of prison?” he asks, skeptically.

“The very time,” you grin.

“I’m pretty sure the only thing you said was stay low and keep out of my way, if I remember correctly,” he raised an eyebrow.

“No, no in the jet,” you clarify, “Before we went into hiding.”

You sat on the floor across from Sam, you had pulled your torso out of your tactical suit, and had the arms of it tied around your waist. The SHIELD t-shirt you wore underneath was covered in sweat and grime. You rested your head against the cold metal of the plane’s ship and your eyes wandered to Sam.

“Pararescue?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he responds, looking over his equipment that Steve brought with you.

“SR,” you reply. “Well, was.”

“You were Special Reconnaissance?” he asks, and you nod.

“Three tours.”

“Is that why you changed sides?” He continues and you can’t help but smile.

“I guess you can look at it that way.”

“I’m Sam.”

“I know.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” he chuckles, crossing his arms, relaxing a bit more. You smirk.

“(Y/N).”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sam. Sorry about beating your ass.”

“You got lucky, SR,” he scoffs, and you laugh.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Wilson,” you laugh.

“You’re lucky we’re on the same side now,” he jokes.

“Oh, I know,” you smile. You get up and head to the cockpit to join Steve.

“I told you that the two of you would hit it off,” he chuckles as you slide into the copilot seat.

“You bring me along just to set me up, Rogers?” you scoff. His cheeks redden a little.

“You know that’s not true…”

“Ugh, you’re just as bad as Natasha, Steve,” you roll your eyes.

“You have shared life experience.”

“He is gorgeous.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Don’t even think about it Rogers,” you gasp.

Before you know it, Sam is pulling up to your Airbnb.

“Come by the house tomorrow,” he says, and you nod. “I want to bring you somewhere.”

“Yeah,” you agree, as you get out of the car. It was already late, and you denied Sam’s offer to get dinner. You were exhausted, and you were still in the clothes you were wearing when you left your apartment suddenly. You needed to shower, sleep, and then your visit with him would start. You also were nervous. You could tell he was a little disappointed when you declined his offer but he understood.

“We’ll get some beers and talk about the good old days tomorrow. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, rubbing the top of your hand reassuringly.

“Good old days?” you tease.

“We’ll talk about Scotland,” he grins, “The good parts.”

“The good parts,” you affirm. You try to think about what he means but you let yourself put it out of your brain for now. “I’ll be by first thing.”

“I am really glad you’re here,” he reiterates once more before you disappear into the small house. You don’t have the courage to admit you feel the same.

When you close the door behind you, you look out the curtain and watch as Sam drives away. Your mind runs rampant with just all the things on your mind. The shield. Sam. Being here with Sam. Having to talk about feelings and memories with Sam. Scotland. How you fell in love with Sam Wilson in Scotland.

You worry coming here was a mistake.

Part Two

Taglist:

@greeneyedblondie44 @witchybarb @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan @sassy-kassaay

#sam wilson #sam wilson x y/n #sam wilson x reader #friends to lovers #sam wilson x you #tfaws #anthony mackie characters #sam wilson fanfiction #sam wilson fic #sam wilson imagine #sam wilson one shot #justsamwilson

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florencecastlewritings · 4 years

Text

Writing Dialogue

Below the read more is a lesson on writing effective dialogue in fiction. As with everything in art, rules are there to be broken, so please do treat the below lesson as a guideline rather than a legal document, and remember that it is based on what works for me as well as advice I have received from other writers. It might not match your style, and that’s all right. It’s also a very lengthy blog post, but I have used headings to try and break it up and there’s a little contents of sorts at the start, so feel free to skim/skip where needed.

If you do find it useful, however, please consider helping me through a tricky time by sending a few pennies my way via ko-fi.

Dialogue is the written speech of your characters in your story. For some people, writing effective dialogue comes naturally, for others it feels almost impossible to master. It is worth considering, as well, the differences in dialogue for different kinds of media - in screenwriting, for example, a writer will be able to rely more heavily on actors’ expression, comic timing, body language and other effects such as music. However they will also be constrained by shorter time, more need for unnatural exposition, and lack of internal thoughts. The following lesson will focus on dialogue in fiction - for short stories or novels - although some rules will be applicable to dialogue in other mediums too, so they’re worth keeping in mind.

The Purpose of Dialogue

Dialogue should:

Progress the story

Deepen character and relationship

Have realism

Be embellished/supported with suitable dialogue tags and appropriate narration.

Easier said than done. Let’s take them one at a time.

Progress the story

As with most writing, the writer needs to be constantly asking herself ‘what is the point?’ Why am I having my characters say/do/notice this? It may be to deepen character and relationship (and we’ll get onto that), but for longer stories we must acknowledge that the dialogue needs to move the plot along as well, as much as we might want to indulge in a bit of pointless fluff now and then.

Dialogue can drive the plot in a more engaging and exciting way than plain narration. Narration on its own can be effective at building tension, but usually only in small doses, and having many pages of narration without dialogue or internal thought will feel more like a summary of events or a witness statement than the author would perhaps like. Consider the below:

Breakfast was tense that morning. They ate silently as they pondered what to do. Michael buttering his toast so aggressively that it was surprising that the knife didn’t go through it. Susan asked him to stop, but that only started the arguing again. He accused her of expecting him to get over the affair so quickly. She threw back that there was nothing left to say if he refused to get therapy, and she had warned him for years that things had to change, and that it had been one foolish night in twenty years of unhappy marriage. She, Susan insisted, had excused plenty of foolish mistakes on his part.

Compared to:

‘Will you stop that?’ she said sharply. Michael did not pause in the furious buttering of his toast. ‘I said I was sorry.’

‘What, you say the magic word and I’m meant to shrug it off?’ he replied. ‘Pretend it never happened? Pretend you didn’t-’

‘You’ve made your anger perfectly clear, and I understand, but you don’t need to be so aggressive with everything, I get it.’

‘Oh, here we go. Buttering toast is aggressive now.’

‘Well, yes, like that - I’ve tried to talk to you like a grown up, but-’

‘It really bloody winds me up when you just say insane stuff patiently and without emotion and think that makes it acceptable, d’you know that? I’m allowed to be angry, you cheated.’

I could continue. The first example can pack a lot more information in, but using dialogue to drive the plot makes for more interesting and deeper meaning. It turns it into a story, rather than an account of events that occurred. It allows the writer to layer the plot with character work and unlock the story a little at a time.

In this regard, it is good to have your characters talking. To each other, to themselves, to the reader - whatever your particular style demands. Having that personable voice is engaging.

There are a few “rules” to keep in mind in order to ensure you remain plot-focused with your dialogue:

Avoid small talk. Enter late, leave early. Naturally there are exceptions (if you want to emphasise the awkwardness of a relationship between two characters you might want to include some failed attempts at small talk), but the usual chit-chat and extended greetings that we are used to saying in every day life can normally be skipped or avoided. You don’t need to have lots of ‘hi, how are you?’ ‘I’m fine thanks, you?’ ‘Fine, cheers. Have you seen the rain?’ Your characters are allowed to just get to the point and your reader will thank you for it.

Have characters on their own thought trajectories. This is a great way of driving the plot, and though it can be tricky to master it can really help in making your characters believable individuals as well as creating some conflict. If characters know each other, or both know the topic, they will likely jump ahead, make assumptions, fail to answer each other directly - this can be a great way of showing that they’re on the same wavelength, but can also be a vehicle for miscommunications and misunderstandings, or deliberately misleading one another. In that vein, don’t have the characters telling each other things they already know, unless made to sound believable.

Similarly, don’t have characters say things solely for the benefit of the reader. This is called exposition, and while exposition is necessary, it can be clumsily handled in dialogue. It’s made fun of frequently in films where they have such limited time to get background information across. You definitely don’t want dialogue like ‘So, Michael, it’s been three years since your divorce, have you thought about dating again?’ Michael knows this, his insensitive friend knows this, the reader is not stupid and knows that it’s not natural sounding. If it must be said in dialogue, weave it into a more natural conversation - ‘I haven’t been to Ibiza in three years, and I don’t plan on going back any time soon. Don’t want to run the risk of bumping into Susan and Jorge.’

We’ll get onto weaving it in with narration and dialogue tags later, which makes that a lot easier, but, in short, use dialogue to drive your story.

Deepen character and relationship

This is my favourite thing to do, and why I often prefer to write shorter stories than longer ones. A writer can find great joy in bringing a character to life through dialogue, dragging them away from plot vehicles and making them people of their own.

Firstly, it’s important to remember that your character’s background and personality will affect the way that they speak. If all your characters sound the same, they probably sound like you! A well educated character will obviously have a different way of talking than a common street urchin, but everyone has quirks and patterns to their speech that you can use to say a lot. You might use long meandering sentences with lots of rhetorical questions for a character known to be boring, for example. You might use short, sharp sentences for a character that’s grumpy or distracted with some deeper internal struggle. You can use the way two characters talk to each other to say a lot about their relationship and power dynamic, especially if you remember that good dialogue should have subtext (what isn’t being said being important).

A good example of this is from the short story Hills Like White Elephants, by Ernest Hemmingway (CW; indirect discussion of abortion). Consider the short passage below.

‘It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,’ the man said. ‘It’s not really an operation at all.

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

‘I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s not really anything. It’s just to let the air in.’

The girl did not say anything.

‘I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.’

‘Then what will we do afterward?’

‘We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.’

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads. ‘And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.’

It’s a really interesting story that is almost entirely dialogue, so it’s well worth reading to get a good sense of using subtext. I wasn’t aware of the abortion connotations when I first read it because I hadn’t heard of the very dated term ‘letting the air in’, but really the story is great at demonstrating the uneven power dynamic between the two even without knowledge of what the operation is. Without much description (though ‘man’ and ‘girl’ says it all really, doesn’t it?), you get a sense that a much older man is persuading this reluctant girl into this act by leveraging how hopelessly in love she is with him, though he does not seem to feel the same way. He speaks most when he is trying to persuade her - the rest of the time he is snappish and short with her childish and ignorant questions about the world around them. The above passage is the only time in the story where he refers to her by a name, and we can gather that it’s a pet one. The girl’s silence says as much as her dialogue, and when she does speak it is questioning - looking to him for authority.

Understanding character motivations and background is what makes this masterful use of dialogue. It would be tempting, for a novice writer, to have the girl argue. For her to say something like ‘what if we could be happy without it?’ But where that should be, there is silence, or repeating his thoughts back to him - because Hemmingway is not only driving the story but emphasising the imbalance of their relationship and her own naive nature. She would not argue with him, she can only wish that he will change his mind. This is all through dialogue and a tiny bit of narration, barely any dialogue tags, and really says so much without saying it at all. Show vs tell is about more than description after all.

That kind of depth when it comes to writing dialogue is... really hard. I haven’t picked Hemmingway to suggest that this is the quality all writing should be at, and I certainly don’t mean to intimidate anyone. But it really is a golden example of thinking about your dialogue within the context of the character, and how their background, situation, and goals will affect how they respond and react to those around them. Your character may not always be able to say what is convenient for you, the author, to tell the reader, because it may not be in their nature or sound authentic. But there are clever ways around that and it can make for more powerful writing, between the lines of what is said.

Have realism

If you skipped down to this bit, I understand. It’s the area that people most often struggle with. I find that people tend to fall into two traps here - either their characters sound like robots because they are over formal and have too much emphasis on being grammatically correct or over eloquent at the expense of natural dialogue, OR they swing in the other direction and try to replicate perfectly how people speak in day to day life.

If you do have a problem with stilted dialogue, it is a good idea to listen to how people naturally speak and try typing it out to get yourself out of the habit. But on the whole, the way people normally speak actually doesn’t sound that great in written format. In real life, we use lots of filler words, we get muddled, we go off on tangents, we trail off, we stutter and stammer and phrase things badly, we um and ah and say far more with our body language and expression than we realise. If you ever read transcripts, from interviews or courts, you’ll see how much of it actually doesn’t make a lot of sense. Our brains make sense of it when we listen to others, based on other parts of communication. Yes, sometimes adding in a ‘er...’ is beneficial and good, and you might have a really nice character moment of someone anxious trailing off when they realise no one is listening to them. Sprinkling those moments in can absolutely make your dialogue sound more authentic, especially when carefully used with character knowledge, but be careful not to over use it. In written dialogue, our characters can and should be more articulate and quicker to formulate their thoughts than in real life for the sake of the story. Striking that balance between overly structured and too real and easy can be really hard, but it only comes with practice - reading dialogue out loud can be a big help, as can writing the dialogue first with no narration or speech tags (more on that later).

Some common mistakes when it comes to dialogue:

Having one character speak too long without a break. Monologues are tough to get through as a reader and don’t come up often in real life in any meaningful way. They can end up cheesy or exposition heavy. Occasionally you can get away with it with very particular characters, but in general, avoid.

Over use of names. It’s really distracting as a reader if dialogue is constantly like, ‘what do you think, Harry?’ ‘Charlie, I just don’t know.’ ‘Really, Harry, you need to decide if you’re going to marry her or not.’ ‘I know, you’re right, Charlie.’ Use names to get someone’s attention and then don’t use them again unless you need to make it clear to the reader who the character is talking to.

Not using contractions. Even very formal people use contractions such as don’t and won’t, it is part of natural rapid speech. Save the ‘do not’ and ‘will not’s for when the emphasis is really needed.

Having characters speak in unison. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes this can be used to hilarious effect and can always be used for a bit of comedy. But on the whole people don’t do this, including twins.

Misuse of slang or dialects. If you’re going to use it, make sure you do your research. It’s also worth bearing in mind that if you over use it, it will be hard for the reader to understand and may break immersion.

Over explain for the reader. I mentioned this before but it’s worth repeating. If you went outside right now and saw a UFO, you would probably shout something along the lines of ‘wtf is that?’, and you would perhaps point or scramble for your potato to take a shaky video. You would probably not shout, ‘look at flying saucer! I’ve never seen anything like it!’ Think carefully about realistic reactions, even if they are not particularly convenient to you as a writer.

Over use of exclamation marks/caps lock. People aren’t that vibrant and it’s tiring to read. The less you use it, the more punch it packs.

Using narration and dialogue tags

First, a quick grammar lesson. Sorry.

‘This is some speech.’

‘This is also some speech,’ said the character.

‘Is this also speech?’ asked another.

‘Well,’ said the first, ‘yes.’

‘Brilliant,’ said the other. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

I use single quotation marks because I’m British and annoying, the conventional double quote marks the Americans use (”like this!”) is also correct. The only important thing is that you pick one and stick to it. Quotation marks always surround the words that are being spoken aloud, and must be opened and closed. Where the sentence ends, you must use a full stop (period), or another piece of punctuation like a question or exclamation mark before closing the speech with the marks.

Where there is a dialogue tag (he said/said/replied, etc), the sentence is continuing, so a comma is more appropriate (but you can also use a question/exclamation mark and the sentence still continues), and again this must go before the speech marks close the dialogue. If you want to continue the sentence with the dialogue tag in the middle, you can continue by using another comma, or you can end the sentence with a full stop and continue the dialogue as a new sentence.

Use a new line for a new character speaking.

Phew, that’s over so you can pay attention again. But unfortunately I still have more to say.

Here is a fun little exercise. Take the below dialogue between two characters, A and B.

‘Do you love me?’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Why won’t you answer the question?’

‘Sit down. I’ll make you a tea.’

‘I don’t want tea, I want an answer! Tell me!’

The dialogue alone already tells us a bit of a story - a picture is probably already forming in your head, perhaps of the characters, perhaps of the setting. As it stands it’s ok, and if you struggle with dialogue it can be effective to write only the dialogue out in this way (this tip from my writing teacher also helped me cut down on purple prose!). But now look at the scene:

It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that Alex was woken at 3am by repeated bangs on the floor and shouts through the letterbox. Nothing else would have made her rise from bed. If she had suspected even for a moment that it was anyone else, she would have called the police.

But as usual, it was Sam. Blonde, tousled hair a mess, eye make up smudged, pouting lips trembling as she swayed.

‘Do you love me?’

‘You’re drunk,’ said Alex, wincing as Sam’s grey eyes shone with tears. ‘You’d better come in.’

‘Why won’t you answer the question?’

Alex ignored her, pulled her in by her slender arm. ‘Sit down. I’ll make you a tea.’

‘I don’t want tea. I want an answer. Tell me!’ Sam’s voice was loud and high, and it pierced her.

So, we haven’t actually added that much narration or dialogue tags (t’s best, if you can, to avoid using them too much), but we’re able to give a clearer picture of these two characters. You may even now be reading the dialogue in a different tone to the one you originally did - picturing the scene with a different feel. Not convinced? How about now?

Yet again, as had happened dozens of bloody times before, Alex was woken at 3am by incoherent, slurred shouting through the letterbox.

‘Do you love me?’ was Sam’s immediate demand as Alex wearily opened the door.

Alex rubbed her hand over her bleary eyes and sighed. ‘You’re drunk. You’d better come in.’

Sam turned on the tears at once, mascara running in thick, spidery lines down her blotchy cheeks. ‘Why won’t you answer the question?’

‘Sit down,’ Alex muttered. ‘I’ll make you a tea.’ She stood aside and jerked her head towards the living room.

‘I don’t want tea, I want an answer! Tell me!’

Wincing once more at her piercing shriek, Alex closed her eyes.

The very same dialogue can be shaped by carefully worded narration and dialogue tags. It’s a fun exercise to do with writing buddies - all use the same dialogue and see how different the stories come out. It can also be a pretty nifty way to challenge writers block or shake up a scene you’re struggling with.

Some extra tips from my writing teacher - I fully confess that I am not always the best at following these ones, because my writing has been heavily influenced by JK Rowling who also doesn’t seem to set much store by them. But they are good, and since I’ve kept them in mind my writing has improved.

Avoid overuse of adverbs (’she said nervously’). Use action or dialogue alone to convey this information instead.

Avoid overuse of verbs besides ‘said’. The reader will skim over said and barely notice it, if every character is whispering and muttering and shouting all the time it stilts the flow of the scene - use sparingly.

Use tags when necessary to ensure clarity as to who is speaking, otherwise let the dialogue stand for itself.

Use internal thoughts in place of speech tags sometimes.

Use action beats (’he turned to stare coldly out of the window’) in place of speech tags sometimes to help set the pace of the scene.

I hope this very lengthy post has helped! Please do get in touch if you have any further questions or would like any elaborations on anything I’ve mentioned here, or if you have suggestions for future lessons!

Lastly, I hate to do this but times must - if you have even just a couple of quid to send my way it would be a massive help to me. If you did find this useful, please consider donating to my kofi.

#Writing advice #writing lessons #writing dialogue

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

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Walk Me Home

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension.

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 3229

Author’s Note: Here we go, fam! New story, new adventures, new thrills and chills and feels! Who’s excited?!? This story was inspired by P!nk’s song “Walk Me Home”, which you should totes listen to (and watch the video, it’s so COOL) if you haven’t. This was a birthday present for @thoughtslikeaminefield , though I will admit it was a few...well, either days or years late, depending on how you look at it. I hope y’all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! SHE ALSO MADE THE IMAGE!! HOW GORGEOUS?!?!

Mega thanks to @mskathywriteswords , @fangirlxwritesx67, and @cracksinthewalls for editing, revision, flailing, and generally knocking sense into me when I’m being stubborn. You all made this story way better than it started it, and I love you.

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY.

ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 1

A firm tap on the door of her office makes Kimberly’s head snap up. She blinks, her eyes unable to focus quickly after looking up from her computer screen. She remembers she’s wearing her reading glasses, and slips them off her nose, letting them dangle from the chain around her neck.

“Dr. Harper? Could I take a few minutes of your time?”

“Yes, I…” Her eyes finally focus on her visitor, and the room is suddenly devoid of oxygen. “Dean? Is it...really?”

“Kimber?”

The astonished man framed in the doorway is a far cry from the brash, charming boy she met in a different life, but she’d know him anywhere. Time has been more than kind to Dean Winchester, and Kimberly has to admit some things really do get better with age.

Which is saying a lot, considering.

“God, no one’s called me that since high school.” She stands and takes a couple of measured steps around her desk. Seeing him unexpectedly like this after so much time leaves her physically and emotionally off-balance, but the smile she offers him is genuine. “You’re a helluva sight for sore eyes. It’s been a while.”

Dean recovers from his shock quickly, crossing the small room in a few quick strides, and sweeps her into a hug. She’s engulfed in his presence, not just his physical stature (she does not remember him being this tall or broad or...solid) but also the scent and feel that is absolutely Dean. She feels a shock of vertigo as memories and emotions she’d long laid to rest all vie for immediate attention.

It hits them simultaneously that they’ve embraced for a few moments longer than necessary, and they disentangle with sheepish smiles.

“What are...no, I’m sorry, I’m being rude. Have a seat!” A lop-sided smile pulls at Dean’s lips, and suddenly she’s seventeen again, trying desperately to keep her cool as she finally gets to talk to the handsome, mysterious new kid. Warmth floods every cell of her body, and she comes dangerously close to giggling.

“Coffee?” she offers, forgetting most of her hard-earned vocabulary in the face of her teenage dream.

“Always.”

...

The last time she’d seen Dean Winchester, his father was burning holes in his elder son’s back from the driver’s seat of his precious Impala. He glowered at Dean and Kimber, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as the teenagers stumbled through their good-byes. Dean’s younger brother sat, slump-shouldered and defeated in the back seat, resigned to yet another relocation.

“Don’t forget my number,” Kimberly murmured, her palms sliding over his jaw, fingers threading into his close-cropped hair, and they both knew she meant, “Don’t forget me.”

“I couldn’t if I tried, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word. He cleared his throat, trying to turn away before she could see any weakness.

“Don’t,” she said, holding his face firmly. “If this is all I get of you, don’t even take that much from me.”

Five blissful weeks they’d had before Dean’s father concluded his mysterious business in the area. Five weeks since she’d begun tutoring Dean in AP American History; an absolute sham, she had realized exactly five minutes into their first session. Dean may not have been caught up on the exact dates and details of what they were covering in class, but once he set eyes on the material, even she had a hard time keeping pace with his reasoning.

“Just wanted to talk to you alone,” he’d admitted that afternoon, his olive eyes sparkling. He flashed her what had to be an award-winning half-grin, showing a glimpse of perfect, dazzling white teeth and the merest touch of uncertain vulnerability.

“Does that usually work on girls?” she asked, genuinely curious. He had to practice that expression in the mirror; it was too perfect to be natural. His face lit up as his smile spread, his cheeks gaining the faintest hint of pink. In that one moment, Kimber realized she’d lived her entire life under an overcast sky, and now the clouds had parted. His smile was the sun on her face for the first time, dazzling and vital, and she soaked it in with dizzy abandon.

“Why, is it working on you?”

“Yeah, it, um, it really is.”

They spent the next month or so getting to know each other as only kids can, when everything is new, the absolute pinnacle of priority and passion. They studied each other as fervently as they should have studied for midterms. Explaining how the Age of Enlightenment influenced the American Revolution was a complete waste of time next to finding out that the beautiful, smooth-talking, tough-as-nails Dean Winchester was actually ticklish.

Dean told her the most amazing stories, which she only learned were true after he and his family disappeared. She caught him up in history enough for the teacher to get off his back, and in return he showed her how to get rid of unwanted physical attention with minimal risk on her part.

Dean wasn’t her first kiss, but he wiped the memory of every other fumbling embrace from her mind with a searing permanence. Some nights they snuck out to the treehouse in her backyard, and some nights she snuck him into her room. He would never take her out to any of the famous local make-out spots, though; he said they were too dangerous and just begging for trouble.

She knew better than to argue with him when he got “that look” on his face, spoke to her in “that tone.” It took many years and some hard experiences of her own, but she did eventually learn that he’d been protecting her from so much more than she ever could have understood at that point in her life.

She found herself in awe of the sheer amount of wisdom contained in such a carefree, often goofy package. That they were chronologically the same age, almost to the month, was irrelevant; Dean Winchester had lived far beyond his years, and it showed.

And then one night, he’d arrived on her doorstep in the middle of dinner, asked if she could come outside for a minute. When he told her he was leaving, she knew he wasn’t joking. He’d warned her it would happen this way, that he had no idea how long they’d be in town, but she’d always imagined that future as some vague, misty destination, like “graduation” or “college.” Definitely going to happen, but not anytime soon, so might as well relax and enjoy things while you could.

“I…” But she couldn’t say it, not yet. She wanted to, had read so many novels and seen all the movies. It was the thing to say, and half her friends had already proclaimed their hearts belonging to various celebrities and hot guys around school. But staring into Dean’s eyes, so much older than they should be, she knew better than to throw that word out so lightly, carelessly.

“Yeah,” he sighed. His eyelids dropped, shoulders heaved once, and when he met her gaze again, that smooth front of cool confidence had slid back in place. “I know, sweetheart. Me, too.”

He kissed her then, despite his father’s glowering, despite her parents’ astonished looks from between the living room curtains. His hands were tight on her waist, and she raised up on her toes, pulling his face just a little closer.

They pulled apart after a long moment, eyes locked, and she kissed him one last time, chastely, savoring the plush of his velvet-soft lips against hers.

Then she let him go, and he went. There was nothing else they could do.

She hugged herself against the chill autumn night, ignoring the first dashes of icy rain that stung her bare arms as she watched the black Impala turn a corner and disappear.

She didn’t see him again for nearly two and a half decades. When he knocked on her office door, asking for Dr. Harper, the years melted away. She felt the sting of the rain, the chill of the night he’d left, and for a long moment, all she could do was stare.

…

“How did you find me?” he asks. His fingers slip around the coffee mug she offers him, and she has to make a physical effort to keep her thoughts focused on the task at hand. Everything about Dean has aged so gracefully. She would be envious if she weren’t also granted the absolute gift of drinking in the sight of him.

“I didn’t,” she says, “not exactly. I’ve been teaching mythology, folklore, and urban legends at the university for a long time now. You got me started on that, back in the day.” She offers him a small smile, hoping he understands she remembers all the stories he told her.

The grin he offers in return melts something in her chest that’s been rigid and frozen, deliberately separated from the rest of her emotions for most of her adult life, and she can’t breathe for a second.

“After you left town, I started digging a little. I looked into some of those stories you told me, some of the places you’d mentioned, and then some of the weird stuff that had been happening in the towns where you said your dad was working. I’m sure you know what I found,” she says, eyebrows raised.

Dean’s lips purse as he considers her words. He opens his mouth, brows creased, but then he seems to change his mind. He takes a long drink of coffee, and when he lowers the mug his expression is once again neutral.

“Well, I stayed interested. Made a career out of it, somehow. And then people started coming to me, asking for help finding bits of information here, some lore or ancient knowledge there. Some were hunters, some scholars, but it kind of became my thing. I’d hear stories about you and your brother occasionally, Mr. FBI’s Most Wanted,” she adds, and he chokes a little on his swallow of coffee.

“Why didn’t you ever reach out?” He brushes stray droplets of coffee from his chin absently, and her eyes laser in on a particularly enticing drop on the corner of his mouth. His tongue flicks out, catching it before it falls, and her breath hitches.

“To be honest, I was too nervous,” she admits as he sets his mug on the coaster in front of him. For the first time in many years, old feelings of abandonment, inadequacy, rear their nasty little heads. She has to work to keep her tone even.

“It’s been how long? I figured you’d forgotten all about me; I thought maybe I was just another conquest to you-”

“You were never a conquest to me, Kimber. You know that.” His jaw works in agitation as he frowns. Hurt and something else - guilt, maybe? - cross his face before his expression smooths out, replaced by a blank mask. “You should have known that.”

Doubt cartwheels through Kimber's mind, sending her thoughts reeling. Twenty-four years of thinking Dean Winchester had forgotten her are suddenly put into a new, alien perspective. She scrambles internally to regain her bearings, stunned in a way that only comes from a solid blow to one’s core beliefs.

Despite her parting plea, he’d never called her, not once in all the years after, and she’d convinced herself she was just the girl of the month. She’d been angry for a long time, well into college, but bit by bit, she forced herself to shut away her feelings, ball them up into a tiny hollow in her chest where she could at least ignore them, and moved on.

Apparently, somehow, she’d been mistaken.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

He nods stiffly, sitting back in his chair a little, putting a touch more distance between them. He raises his hand for her to continue, his gesture abrupt, and she shrivels inside. She sees she’s offended him, but if she’s in the wrong, then why did he never call?

“Dean, look, I shouldn’t have said conquest. That was insensitive of me, but from my perspective, what was I supposed to think? You say you won’t forget me, then you vanish into the night? What happened? Not even a single call to let me know you made it to your next stop alive?”

There’s another flash of pain, chased quickly from his eyes by what she’s pretty sure now is guilt. Exhaustion finally settles in, and he suddenly shows every one of the twenty-four years since he last saw her.

“Look, we’ve got a more immediate problem here, if the little bit Garth told me is true. Let’s…” he sighs, scrubbing his face tiredly with his hands. He steeples his fingers in front of his lips, coming to some sort of decision.

“We can sit down and talk Memory Lane over some pie and coffee, but let’s get through this first. Now tell me what’s going on.”

As much as she wants to argue, force him to tell her exactly why he never reached out, she can tell he isn’t going to budge.

“I...so...I wasn’t looking for you specifically,” she stumbles, “but I reached out to a former student of mine, Garth Fitzgerald, who I knew had been a hunter at one point and still had contacts. He said he would send someone my way, and then…”

“And then I showed up,” he finishes. His tone is efficient, economical, and all business. “Garth didn’t tell me much except his old professor was having some supernatural stalking issues. Gotta say,” he adds, and she is relieved to her bones to see the tiniest of crinkles by his eyes, “Sure didn’t picture you when Garth said ‘old professor.’ Figured I’d get Indiana Jones or his dad, maybe, but not...yeah.”

His attempt to add a little humor makes the wash of guilt and confusion in Kimber’s stomach even more uncomfortable.

She fills him in on the details, odd accidents happening to the people she’s closest with at work, strange noises around her house at night, the ever increasing sense she’s being watched.

“You talk to the police?” he asks.

She nods, letting her sour expression do most of the talking for her. “Went as well as it usually does. They didn’t even talk to my neighbors to see if anyone had seen anything. I had to do that.”

“Still, though. Doesn’t sound too supernatural to me,” he finally says, eyebrows furrowed. He isn’t dismissive, though; he stares hard at his coffee mug as he considers her story.

“Well, I guess you could explain away Helen’s fall down the stairs as a horrible but mundane accident. She could have tripped, but the people near her said she looked like she was pushed. Except no one was near enough to have done it.”

Now that she's getting over the shock of finding him on her doorstep, she remembers why he's there in the first place, and reality rushes back in. Kimber’s composure falters, but she does her level best to keep her voice steady.

“But Professor Lawrence was by himself in his office when his skin just started...boiling, not burning. I don’t care what the police report says. And Allen Simpson didn’t actually want to staple his hand to his dissertation, I promise you. He had just talked with me about one of his sources over coffee an hour before...before…”

Her throat closes as the whole nasty scene flashes before her eyes. She’d found him in the grad student workroom after following the sounds of his anguished howls, and there was just so much blood. She’d heard stories from the hunters she’d worked with, read her own share of horrific incidents, but to see it first hand…

“And sometimes, when I walk home at night, there’s...I’ve never seen anything, but I hear footsteps. Always behind me, and there’s no one there, but I know there isn’t anywhere for them to hide, whoever they are. I can feel them just...watching me. Even at home, a couple of times, when I should be absolutely alone, all my blinds and drapes closed. Once when I was making dinner, and once when I was...showering, and...Dean, it’s...I don’t understand.”

She takes in a stuttering breath and dashes at her eyes with the back of her wrist. Her hand drops limply to the desk as she stares at the glossy surface, finally allowing herself to feel the full depth of her fears.

“I’ve researched, tried to figure it out on my own. It shows all the classic signs of witches, but there’s been no evidence of a coven in town before now. I suppose a new one could have moved in, but I haven’t found any evidence so far. No one suspicious hanging around that I’ve noticed.”

Breathe, she reminds herself sharply.

“I checked back through as much of my notes as I could find on the hunters I’ve helped with witch cases. I checked in with anyone who had an open case or hadn’t called me back to let me know how their hunts went. Nobody had anything helpful to tell me.”

Silence stretches between them, both waiting for the other to say something, anything. Kimber cracks first.

“Dean, I’m no hunter. I’ve worked it as much as I can from the research end, and I just...I need help. Please.”

Dean’s hand settles atop hers, its warm weight an echo of familiarity, and she swallows hard against the rising bile in her throat. She meets his eyes, and his gaze is malachite.

“We’re gonna figure this out. I know you. You say this sucker’s a witch, I say bring me that bucket of water, Dorothy. We’ll get this fucker, I promise.”

That secret spot in her chest brightens, warms by another degree or two, and she nods her gratitude. “Thank you. So much. Now...it’s been a long day, and I’m kind of beat. Could I invite you over for dinner without it being too weird?”

He squeezes her hand before releasing it with a roll of his eyes. “I can behave myself, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m not feral, Kimber.”

“You’re not exactly tame, either,” she says, softening the words with a half-smile as she stands. She swings her jacket on, and he mirrors her actions. She shuts down her computer while he waits in the hall, looking up and down the corridor.

“I’ll need to do a full sweep of your office and check the scenes of the accidents,” he says as she pulls the door shut behind them and locks it. “Who all has keys to the professors’ offices?”

“Just the cleaning staff and the department secretary, and the professors themselves,” she says. “I can’t think of anyone else who would.”

He nods, pursing his lips. Suddenly, a smile lights his entire face and he sweeps into a ridiculous bow before popping up and offering her his arm. The years dissolve in an instant, and he’s that seventeen-year-old boy again, still too old for his age but trying so desperately to hang on to that carefree spirit, holding his elbow in her direction after slinging her backpack over his shoulder.

“Walk you home, milady?”

“I would be honored, good sir.” ...

Chapter 2

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juliandev0rak · 3 years

Text

The Past And Pending

This is a super self indulgent fic about the events of the rest of the night and following day after Beatrice (and friends) defeat the Devil. It’s really got it all, fluff with Julian, exploring her (somewhat awkward) past with Asra, and reuniting with her sister Freya.

Again this is super self indulgent, but if you’re interested in nearly 4k words of Beatrice lore then read on 💗

There are brief allusions to spicy content, but nothing descriptive and mostly just vague humorous comments lol

Characters: My MC Beatrice x Julian, her sister Freya Viano, and the rest of the Arcana main characters

Warnings: brief mentions of past mature/spicy content, brief mentions of a parent pulling a child’s hair in a rough manner and raising their voice

Words: 3958

The first night of the Masquerade felt like it was weeks long. So much had happened, and most of it in a realm where time ran differently.

After everyone arrived back to Vesuvia in one piece there wasn’t much to do but revel in the success. Beatrice can’t even remember how many hugs she was pulled into and how many times she’d been congratulated. She refused the praise every time, always directing attention back to Julian and to everyone really, she hadn’t defeated the Devil on her own.

Eventually people had wandered off until finally it was just Beatrice, Julian, and Asra left. None of them felt like returning to the raucous party happening inside the palace so the three of them sat by the fountain in relative silence. Beatrice is exhausted at this point, head resting on Julian’s shoulder as he runs a soothing hand through her quite tangled hair.

“I think I’d better go back to the shop.” Asra says, standing up with a smile. “I’m so tired I think I might nap for the next week. It looks like you’re in good hands, Beatrice.”

“Don’t think I’m done questioning you about all of your secrets, Asra.” She threatens sleepily. There’s no malice behind her words, but she’s curious. He just laughs in response and ruffles her hair as he passes, stopping to give a meaningful glance to Julian. Beatrice is too tired to notice the non verbal conversation they’re having as Asra and Julian seem to come to some sort of agreement. It seems the two of them are finally on good terms again, all apologies accepted, and both Asra and Julian visibly relax a bit more at this realization.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Beatrice.” Asra says in goodbye. “Goodnight Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Asra.” Julian grins, his tone not portraying how tired he is.

“Uhhuh goodnight..” She mutters back, her face now fully pressed into Julian’s jacketed shoulder.

“Come on sleepy girl, up we go.” Julian says gently, trying not to disturb her too much as he picks her up. She protests weakly at being picked up but then seems to settle into his arms. He chuckles under his breath and looks down at her tired form. Her eyes are open, barely, and she’s smiling vaguely up at him. “Let’s get you some rest.”

“Do you need help finding the room?” She asks, blinking up at him. Julian laughs again, he isn’t so sure she’d be able to help right now.

“I’ve got you, darling. I know how to find it.” He responds, navigating up the steps of the veranda to enter the palace. Luckily there don’t seem to be too many people in the halls but he still carefully weaves around any obstacles and turns, he’s carrying precious cargo after all. He soon arrives at the door to her guest room and walks in. As he surveys the room hesitation sets in. Should he have brought her back to the shop? Or to Mazelinka’s? Should he stay, would she want him to? His overthinking is interrupted by a sleepy sigh.

“Oh good, we’re here. Put me down so we can sleep.” Beatrice whines. He can’t help but smile at her tired behavior, she doesn’t seem aware that she’s being more brusque than usual. And the use of “we” soothes his unfounded fears that even now, after everything, she might still push him away. Confident in her affections, Julian complies with her wishes, setting her down on the bed. He takes a seat next to her and reaches for her boots to untie them.

“You’ve taken care of me so much over the last few days, let me return the favor.” He murmurs as she looks at him in confusion. She nods simply and watches as he unties and removes her boots. His hands move next to her cloak, still pinned firmly around her neck. He pulls it off and gently lays it on the chair near the bed before returning to her side. She’s been pulling off clothes while his back was turned, throwing her fancy masquerade dress to the ground. She’s left in her thin shift and Julian can’t help the flush that fills his cheeks though he’s seen her more bared than this before. He keeps his distance as he pulls his own boots off, shedding his mask and feathered jacket.

“Come here.” Beatrice says, noticing his blushing indecision. He joins her on the bed with a smile and leans in to kiss her forehead gently. He moves to sit with his back against the headboard and pulls her into his lap between his legs, hands reaching for her hair.

“I learned how to braid when I was little.” He explains in a near whisper, his hands digging lightly into her scalp. “The grandmas taught me, and Pasha always insisted I braid her hair.”

She melts into his touch as he twists her unruly hair back from her face into a much more manageable braid. As his hands stop their movement she twists around to kiss him, catching him off guard. He smiles into the kiss and mumbles “I love you.” against her lips.

“I love you too, always.” She says back, pulling away to get beneath the blessedly comfortable bed covers. He follows after, pulling her close against him.

“Oof, we forgot the lights, I’ll get them.” He makes as if to move but Beatrice beats him to it, snuffing all the candles in a single lazy hand movement.

“I’m a magician, remember?” She says. “I’ll teach you that someday, if you want.”

“Someday maybe,” He thinks of the magic she showed him in the Tower and the nearly intoxicating feeling of magic in his hands. “But for now, magician or not, you need to sleep.”

“Oh is that your medical opinion, Dr. Devorak?” She moves her face forward so their noses are pressed together.

“I think that’s an objective opinion, dear heart, we’re both exhausted.” He closes the distance between them to kiss her. She grumbles in response and gets comfy against the pillows and the half of Julian’s body she’s pressed against. For the first time since Nadia arrived at the shop she and Julian both sleep blissfully through the night without interruption.

The next morning, or rather afternoon, they’re awoken by a knock on the door.

“It’s me, Portia! Are you decent?” Portia calls, her head peeking in through the cracked door. Beatrice sits up groggily and greets her as she steps in and goes to open the curtains to let the light in.

“We’re decent.” Julian grins. “Good morning, Pasha.”

“It seems you both slept well, it’s nearly lunchtime! I brought you some breakfast to tide you over, Nadia has a big lunch planned for all of us.” Portia bustles around the room, leaving a basket on the table in the middle of the room. When neither of them move to get out of bed she sighs in an exaggerated way and smiles. “I’ll leave you to it, I guess. I’ll come get you when lunch is ready.”

She moves to leave but turns around, her hand on the door handle.

“Oh, and Nadia says that the baths are open for your use again if you’d like.”

“Thanks, Portia.” Beatrice says sunnily, her voice full of contentment.

“Shall we get up? I think I smell pastries.” She grins after Portia’s left. Julian’s eyes are full of affection as he regards her, hair half out of the braid, shift hanging off her shoulders. Her eyes are sleepy and her lips are chapped, but Julian thinks she’s never looked better. He presses a kiss to the tip of her nose and she gives a happy sigh.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over waking up next to you, my dear.” Julian smiles. She shakes her head incredulously and kisses him. They remain like that for a while, limbs tangled in the sheets, mouths pressed together. Finally Beatrice’s sense of responsibility takes over and she pulls away.

“We’d better get up if we want to eat and take a bath before lunch.” She sighs.

“Oh you, always so practical.” Julian pouts, face still flushed to the ears.

“Hey, it’s gotten us this far hasn’t it?” She laughs. He agrees and they slowly get out of bed and go about a morning routine. Beatrice gleefully digs into a flaky almond pastry and shoves the basket towards Julian, signalling that he needs to eat. After breakfast they head down the hall to the bath.

This time their bath is more utilitarian, though the two of them do get a bit distracted at times. After the bath they walk hand in hand to the dining room where Nadia, Asra, and Portia are already seated at a very full looking table heaped with food.

“Ah, there you are. I was wondering if I’d have to send a search party after the two of you.” Nadia says with a raised eyebrow, her smile gives away the humor behind her words.

“I’m sorry we’re late Nadia.” Beatrice says chagrined, taking the open seat across from Asra. Julian sits down on her right.

“It’s entirely my fault, I must apologize.” Julian smirks.

“Well, not entirely your fault..” She smiles at him causing a tell-tale flush to rise to his face.

“Ok! That’s enough of that, you’re here now that’s what matters.” Portia says, clapping her hands together to signal that she really wants to change the subject.

“Yes, thank you Portia. Now that we’re all here we can begin.” Nadia nods to one of the servants in the corner of the room who begins to serve food onto everyone's plates. Portia looks like she wants to get up to help but Nadia trains a look at her and she rests into her seat, taking a sip of her wine in resignation.

“I wanted to call all of us together this afternoon to check in, and to thank Beatrice once again for her valiant actions.” Nadia smiles at her and she retreats a bit into her chair, still quite uncomfortable with the attention.

“Uh, thank you Nadia that’s very kind of you but as I said last night, there’s no need to do this! All of you helped, you know I didn’t do this on my own.” She’s blushing, staring intently at her plate.

“Well, yes, but you’re the one who dealt the final blow, the rest of us merely lent you power.” Nadia explains, hands laced together.

“There was nothing “mere” about it.” Beatrice finally lifts her head, looking around at everyone at the table. There are a few friend’s missing, but presumably they had simply declined the invitation.

“Well, I think this calls for a toast, to all of us.” Julian swoops in to save the day, noting her discomfort. She smiles gratefully at him and everyone raises their glasses in a cheer. The lunch moves on, everyone conversing freely and happily. After a few sips of wine Beatrice switches to water, she’s a lightweight and if she wants to get some answers from Asra this afternoon, and be ready for the Masquerade again tonight, she’ll need her wits about her.

After lunch, Nadia dismisses everyone to start preparations for that night’s festivities. Portia follows behind, the two of them already deep in discussion about some of the party rooms which need repairs. Asra stands up and Beatrice follows suit.

“Asra, can we talk?” She says, not really asking a question.

“Of course, do you want to take a walk?” He smiles good naturedly, like he’d expected her to ask. He probably had, considering her determination last night. She nods and heads towards Asra and the door.

“I’ll just, uh, I think I’ll finally go tidy up my desk in the library.” Julian says, squeezing her hand as he walks out of the dining room.

She and Asra go out to the gardens and talk for a long time. It’s the most honest he’s ever been with her and for once, talking about the past doesn’t hurt. They talk about what just happened, they talk about the last three years and where Asra went on his travels, how he had to lie or hide the truth to protect her. They talk about before, before she died, before the plague. She isn’t shocked when he reveals that, at one point, the two of them were very much in love.

“I still love you, of course, just not in the same way.” He says after he finishes giving a brief timeline of their lives before the plague. It doesn’t feel like he’s letting her down easy, or like the conversation is awkward or strained. Asra is her best friend, and it seems that’s all they were meant to be in the end.

“Well, I love you too of course!” Beatrice responds, pulling Asra into a hug. “I’m so glad I know the truth about everything now, I know who I am.”

“WelI, I feel like I owe you one more truth.” He frowns, looking a bit embarrassed. “We uh, in the past we’ve uh… slept together, many times.”

“Oh.” She says simply, not quite knowing what to do with the knowledge. After a few seconds the silence stretches and she asks “Well… was I at least good?” Asra barks in laughter.

“Is that what you’re worried about? Yes, Beatrice you were good.” He smiles, shaking his head incredulously. “I just thought you should know.... in case you and Julian..” He tapers off, now looking only slightly uncomfortable.

“Oh.. we uh already have.” Beatrice says, folding her arms a bit defensively, braced for comment.

“I guess I should’ve known, knowing Julian, and you I suppose.” Asra grins, eyes full of mischief.

“That reminds me…” She starts, taking in Asra’s raised eyebrow. “I know you and Julian have a history… did you ever…?”

“Oh uh, yes a few times.” He blushes, not meeting her eyes. She laughs, making him look up in confusion.

“I knew it!” She’s still laughing. “I just had a feeling.” Asra can't help but laugh with her, neither of them noticing the tall figure approaching them through the hedge maze. Asra and Beatrice have always been comfortable discussing everything, and it seems their shared romantic history isn’t off limits either.

“Does he still do that thing with his-” Asra starts, Beatrice listening eagerly, still half laughing.

“Do I still do what?” Julian says, looking somewhat flustered as he approaches the two of them, clearly having heard or understood some of their recent conversation.

‘Uh.. nothing darling!” Beatrice stands up to greet him with a kiss to the cheek. Asra stands up with a smirk, laughing at Julian’s expression.

“Don’t worry it was going to be a nice comment.” Asra claps Julian on the shoulder.

“Well uh- in that case I’d like to hear it then.” He flushes. “But first, I came to tell you Beatrice, there’s a visitor here to see you.”

“A visitor?” Her eyebrows furrow.

“I didn’t get her name, Nadia sent me to find you.” Julian explains, leading them back towards the palace. “Now tell me, what is it that I do?”

“I think maybe I’ll ask Beatrice and she can decide whether to tell you or not.” Asra says, smile still wide. He leans in to whisper in her ear and she stifles a bark of laughter.

“Oh yes, he definitely still does that.” She says with a grin to match Asra’s. Julian looks between the two of them in confusion, looking frustrated. “I’ll tell you later, don’t worry about it.”

“Ugh... why must the both of you be so stubborn.” He shakes his head, offering Beatrice his arm as they walk up the slightly steep stairs to the veranda. Sitting at the table overlooking the gardens is Nadia, Portia standing slightly behind, and a woman with blonde hair wrapped elegantly in a silk scarf. Nadia smiles as she sees the trio arriving.

“Ah, here she is.” Nadia gestures and the blonde woman turns around. Her eyes are wide as she takes in Beatrice, who looks at her without recognition.

“Beatrice?” The woman says, standing up to take a step towards her. Beatrice still looks confused and nobody has said anything or made an effort to explain so far.

“Freya?” Asra says, stepping towards the woman before she reaches Beatrice.

“Oh, Asra! I remember you! You’re still in Vesuvia after all this time?” The woman, presumably named Freya asks.

“Uh Freya, I’m sorry but Beatrice has been through quite a lot in the last few years and she’s lost a lot of her memories. She probably doesn’t know who you are.” He explains with a frown, Freya nods slowly as if that makes sense but she frowns too. Julian’s got a slightly defensive arm around Beatrice but she looks at him gently and steps out of his arms towards the woman.

“I’m so sorry, but like Asra said I don’t have that much knowledge of my past. Who are you?” She asks, keeping her tone polite despite her burning curiosity.

“Oh Beatrice! I thought I’d never see you again!” The woman says dramatically, flinging her arms around Beatrice who, to her credit, manages not to sway under the sudden embrace.

“Uh, I’m so sorry but that doesn’t really answer my question?” Beatrice mutters, still trapped in the hug.

“She’s your older sister, Freya.” Asra says gently, meeting hers over Freya’s shoulder.

“My… who?” Beatrice stares incredulously as she is finally released. Julian reaches out to steady her with a hand.

“It’s like the magician said, Beatrice! I’m your older sister, I’ve finally come back home.” She grins at Beatrice expectantly. “Don’t you remember me at all?”

She thinks really hard, straining to remember and suddenly gets thrown back into a memory.

A young girl, no more than 10 years old with blonde hair in tight ringlet curls is singing at the top of her lungs, a younger girl sits next to her on a decrepit looking piano bench pounding onto the keys of a piano with a lot of gusto but no talent, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid. An older woman comes into frame grabbing the older girl by the wrist.

“You girls have chores to do! I can’t believe you’re playing around right now.” Her voice is brusque but at once familiar and the older Beatrice visibly winces as she watches the woman grab the younger girl by the braid, pulling her up and away from the piano.

The scene changes and the two girls are giggling in a small bed, a blanket pulled over their heads as the younger girl, around 8 now, conjures a ball of light into her hand then vanishes it, repeating it a few times as the older girl, around 12, laughs.

“How do you do that Beatrice?” The girl whispers.

“It’s magic Frey! I can teach you, here.” The younger girl smiles, passing the light into her older sister’s hands. The light fizzles out immediately as it leaves her hands.

“It’s no use, I’m not magic.” The blonde girl frowns, looking almost close to tears.

“Of course you are! We’re sisters and if I can do it, so can you! I’ll help.” Young Beatrice reaches out to grab young Freya’s hands.

“If I can do it because we’re related, does that mean Mother can do it?” Young Freya asks with a teasing smirk.

“Nooo she could never do magic, she’s too mean.” Young Beatrice’s face scrunches up and Young Freya laughs, a little too loudly. The girls stiffen as footsteps approach their small room and the two lay down immediately, pretending to sleep.

The scene fades once again and Young Beatrice, now around 12, is staring out a window splattered with rain as a figure walks away, blonde hair just visible as the figure turns to wave one last time before disappearing from view. Younger Beatrice is crying.

“Why’d you have to leave me Freya… alone with her.” She says bitterly, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. “How could you… you PROMISED.”

The mist at the corners of Beatrice’s mind fades as she’s wrenched back to reality. She stumbles a bit before Julian reaches for her again, arms wrapping tightly around her.

“Woah.” Portia says after a long moment of everyone looking around in confusion. “Did everyone see that?”

“Yes, Portia, I think everyone watched those glimpses of the past.” Nadia says gently, pulling out a chair at the table and gesturing for Beatrice to sit. Julian helps her to sit and she seems to suddenly snap back to reality.

“I- think I remember you.” Beatrice smiles up at the blonde girl who looks down at her with an open mouth.

“Did you- do that?’ Freya says, mouth pulling into a matching smile. “You’ve always been so good at that magic stuff.”

“I’m not sure, I think so.” Beatrice says, shaking her head to dispel the remnants of fog that still crowd the corners of her head.

“Darling, are you ok?” Julian leans in towards her with concern lacing his voice. “You look a little pale.”

“Oh puh-lease. She’s always been pale.” Freya laughs, taking in her sister. The girls are near opposites in looks, Freya blonde and blue eyed, taller and tanned, Beatrice pale and dark haired, dark eyed. But there are similarities, the exact same smattering of freckles, the face shape, identical noses, identical smiles.

“Well, this is quite a surprise.” Nadia says, lacing her fingers together like she usually does when she’s thinking. “May I ask where you’ve been for the last few years, and why you’ve decided to come back?”

“Oh, of course milady, I’d be happy to clear things up” Freya takes her seat across from Nadia again and takes a delicate sip of tea from the cup sitting there.

“Please, call me Nadia.” She smiles, taking in Freya who is now unwinding her hair from the scarf, letting it fall in loose curls down her back. She shakes her head gently to toss her hair back and smiles at everyone around the table in turn, seeming fully at ease despite the curious faces watching her. Julian stays standing behind Beatrice, arms wrapped around her as she sits while Asra takes the open chair on her other side.

“Nadia.” Freya nods in affirmation. “Well, let’s see…. where shall I start.”

“How about the beginning?” Beatrice suggests. Julian rubs her shoulders, still looking at her with concern as if she might faint at any moment. She twists around to meet his eyes. “I’m ok Julian, really.”

“You should drink some tea, at least.” He reaches for the teapot, pouring her a cup. Everyone around the table watches the two of them and Freya’s eyes narrow a bit as she takes them in before her face spreads into a smile.

“Is he your boyfriend, Beatrice?” She grins, taking a sip of her own tea.

“I suppose you could call him that.” Beatrice looks up at Julian with a smile and he meets it, finally deciding she’s got her color back enough that he can pull up a chair and sit too. “But let’s get back on topic.” Freya nods, lacing her fingers together in a motion similar to Nadia.

“Beatrice,” Asra says, placing a hand on hers to get her attention. “How’s your head?

“I feel fine, really. You and Julian worry too much.” She brushes him off and he settles back into his chair with an affectionate smile.

“I suppose I’ll start at the very beginning then, if you don’t mind a story.” Freya says thoughtfully. “And seeing as Beatrice doesn’t remember anything, maybe this will help you remember.”

Beatrice nods in agreement, and Freya begins.

#wow i really waffled on didn't i #the song title comes from a song by The Shins #perhaps i'll write a part 2 to explore what Freya tells Beatrice when this cuts off lol #asra and beatrice have... a lot of history #ok i'll stop talking in the tags now #apprentice beatrice #freya viano #the arcana fanfiction #the arcana

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writersmacchiato · 5 years

Text

Remnants | Harry Potter x Reader | Teacher!AU | Part Two

Summary: Harry is the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who might possibly have a crush on the Astronomy professor, but he’s still healing after his breakup with Ginny and you know - being martyred as a child.

word count: 2.5k+

There was something to be said about solitude on a Saturday night. It was brimming with potential energy, all the unknowns and possibilities waiting to be cast. Perhaps, years ago, you would have been out there. A night on the town, with your closest friends, laughing until it hurt and there was never an end to sight. Sometimes you missed those moments of being so utterly carefree, but the chaotic hurricane of it could only be contained for so long.

It wasn’t like you were alone.

Your cat was a handsome boy, such a proud thing, and a faithful companion. His purrs often the only noise in your apartment, chest rumbling, as you read a book with little regard to anything else. He had been abandoned on the street as a kitten, pitifully mewling, you only hearing the cries after stumbling into the alleyway to throw up the contents of what had been your days digressions. Those were the days you drank more than you should have. His eyes regarded your reproachfully and in your drunken state, you had wrapped your jacket around his skinny frame. He was dubbed 'Sir Henry' thereafter and your days together intertwined.

Saturday was your day to do absolutely nothing. It was rare you went home on the weekends during the school year, too many things to do with so little time. Stress was ingrained in every fiber at this point.

The morning was spent sleeping in for how long you could bare it, never staying in later than nine. Sunshine and Sir Henry tickling at your face always woke you up, but there were worse ways to be woken. Sitting on your small balcony, sipping ice coffee and reading both the muggle and wizarding paper, Sir Henry perched on the patio table eating his breakfast. The rest of the day was unmarked by nothing, it was full of maybe's, perhaps, should I? A day could be spent caught up reading a novel, engrossed completely in the world that was being conjured. Or, even simpler, sitting in pajamas all day and watching movies. It really depended on your mood.

Despite insistence from your friends that you needed to get out, there was no need to. You were content to be in your own company - you, yourself, and Sir Henry. You lived an easy life, but that was bound to end after you met Harry fucking Potter - the boy who lived.

It was inevitable that you wouldn’t learn about him, coming to be quite knowledgeable on the man. His confidence in you rose and so did your feelings, creating a whirl of guilt and confusion. The words he spoke to you were told in the mindset that you were a friend, someone that he could rely on. It felt like a sham to you, listening as he bared his heart to you, knowing that you could not share the same vulnerability that he did. Your feelings would come to light and that was not an option.

He told you one evening that he was looking forward to the weekend, because he was going over to visit Ron and Hermione.

“I spend most of my free time with them,” he laughs to himself, "they must be sick of me."

"Anyone growing tired of you?" You gasp, holding a hand to your chest. "Unbelievable!"

"They're all I have," he admits, the traces of laughter gone. "Besides you and them, I don't really...have any close friends."

"We all care about you, Harry."

A smile finally crosses his face and you return it, trying to navigate the sudden sea of emotion that swept through you. He saw you as a close friend and it warms your heart, yet it also shot down any hope you had of him returning your more than friendly feelings.

You thought about inviting him over, on occasion, but decided against it. The sight of him in your home would be too much to bare. It was a line between friendly coworkers and more that you were afraid to cross. Of course, there was the oddities that were bound to happen. Neville coming over to your apartment, Harry in tow, with the pretense of spending a day with friends outside of work. Nights spent laughing long into the hours, a feeling of warmth and content - something so rare to feel - a constant companion to the events.

---

"Harry?"

He smiled at you, eyes squinting a bit. "Hello."

"Uh, hi?" You scan his attire; sweater tucked into jeans, the gel he put in his hair in an attempt to tame his curls, eyes sliding down his nose, and the beginning shadow of facial hair. He looked like every day, normal, Harry (outside of work, his robes did him justice).

"Can I come in?"

It wasn't as if he hadn't been to your apartment before; him and Neville had visited multiple times. Not at ten pm on a saturday night, unannounced, possibly drunk, and staring at you as if you hung the stars in the sky.

"Yes, of course."

He smiles, shuffling in and letting out a soft 'hello' as Sir Henry pads down the hallway. It warms your heart the teeniest bit to see him crouch down and stroke behind the feline's ears, but that doesn't lessen your confusion.

"Harry," you start, crossing your arms. "I mean this in the nicest possible way, but what the fuck are you doing here so late?"

His eyes blearily meet yours and he at least has the grace to look sheepish. There is a tension in the room, but what exactly couldn't be placed. It felt like waking up to clear skies, but feeling the electricity in the air that signaled a storm coming.

"I was at Ron and Hermione's..." he starts, "and we were talking about you."

Out of everything you expected, that was not it.

"What, why?"

His cheeks, while already flushed, seemed to turn a shade darker. "They think I should tell you."

"Tell me what?" You asked the question, hope flaring in your heart.

"That you're really pretty. Like, really, stupidly pretty. I forget what I want to say around you, because you're just so damned gorgeous." He rambles on, words slurring together but his expression soft.

Your heart thumped steadily in your chest. Those were the words you had fantasized about him saying, but not in these...circumstances.

"Come on, buddy." You pull him to his feet, leading him to the couch in the living room. He plops down with an 'oomph', head sinking into the cushion.

"This is soft," he rubs a pillow.

You smile slightly, despite the situation. Seeing Harry in this state, eased and unbothered, was refreshing from the usual stress he seemed to be plagued by. His green eyes watched you intently as you wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, the depth of them swirled with a mesmerizing emerald speckled with gold specks that resembled stars in the night.

“This is soft, too.” He murmurs, eyes dropping shut.

“Get some rest, Harry.” You push the hair from his forehead, slipping his glasses off and setting them aside. “Goodnight.”

You whisper the words, but Harry is already asleep.

---

The next morning you awake with the odd feeling that something was wrong. Of course, it was Sunday, and nothing ever occurred on a Sunday. Sunlight trickled through the white curtains into your room, casting rising shadows along the floor. But, where was--

Sir Henry.

He was absent, his usual meowing in your face missing from the usual wakeup call.

You shuffled into some slippers, throwing a light sweater over your pajamas, venturing out into the hall with trepidation. Sir Henry was rather taken with Harry and it was likely the former had decided to curl up on the sofa. The thought warmed your heart, despite the nerves that were bundled in your stomach.

Harry was still asleep when you crept into the living room, arm tossed over his eyes. Sir Henry, as predicted, was laying on his stomach on the back of the sofa. His green eyes stared at you with interest, perking up when you headed into the kitchen. Setting out his breakfast, Sir Henry brushed your legs as he passed by.

Should you wake him up? Make breakfast, then wake him up? Casually asking if he meant what he said the previous night? Maybe it would be best to pretend like nothing happened - just a drunk friend staying the night. Totally normal.

“Good morning…”

Had your nerves not been so frayed as they were, you might have cooly responded. Instead, a shriek - however short lived - escaped from your mouth and you were spinning, wide-eyed as you turned to look at Harry. He winced at the noise, mimicking your own (albeit for different reasons) cringe.

He squinted at you, or rather the general shape that resembled you, then started to feel around for his glasses. “Uh, not good morning?”

“No!” You burst, “I mean, yes, good morning. Not, not good morning.”

Oh Merlin’s Beard, you are hopeless, you grovel inwardly.

Harry, if he hadn’t been so hungover, might have further inquired about the weird state of being that you were currently inhabiting. Instead, the headache that stabbed behind his eyes took more of a priority.

“I’m sorry - do you have any advil or ibuprofen?”

Anything to be taken from this awkward moment, “oh yes. Yes, right.”

The normally collect and cool professor that you were at the school was entirely missing as you fumbled through the drawer in search of the medicine.

Unknown to you, the brave and diligent DADA professor was willing his red cheeks and racing heart to go away.

You were both the worst.

---

Harry stood on the stoop of your doorway with a bouquet of sunflowers and roses, enchanted by Hermione to not wilt.

The previous week had been a disaster.

It all started after the fiasco in the kitchen, the morning after his drunken confession and passing out on your sofa. The tension in the kitchen had been stifling; Sir Henry had even fled the room, unable to bear it. Words that wanted to be said was stuck in his throat, ironic after the word-vomit from the previous night.

There was the smidge of hope that once he left that everything would be back to normal with you. On Monday, barely 24 hours after the encounter, Harry stood outside his classroom sipping his coffee. His eyes were trained on the corner of the corridor, waiting to see your smiling face as you drop by for a few moments of conversation. It never occurs and he starts his lessons with a sinking heart.

Amidst all the awkward, sad, pitiful pining - there was a student who watched both of her professors miserably go about life. Curiosity piqued, Rose Weasley had asked him about her observations. Harry merely brushed it off, but it was obvious to anyone in the school that he was not okay and something was bothering him.

He didn’t dare to step foot in your office, wondering if that was worse than if he decided to show up. The only time he saw you was during meals and the contact was limited; you chose to sit on the far end away from him.

This entirely could have been avoided if he approached you and properly told you his feelings. Hermione and Ron had boosted his morale the night he had dinner with them, to the point where he felt he could do anything. He could do anything but confess his feelings to you, it seemed. Truthfully, he was afraid.

Very afraid that once he laid out his cards on the table that you would walk away. Afraid that things would continue on as they did now, you ignoring him. Afraid that he’ll have to once again fix the hole in his heart that seemed so utterly hopeless until he first saw a flash of your smile.

So, now he stood outside your door. Flowers in hand and his heart on his sleeve, ready to confess all of the things that he thought about you - how amazing you were, how utterly brilliant you are, how stars twinkle in your eyes.

He swore that nothing felt louder than when he knocked on the door, the echo bouncing down the hall. His hands felt particularly clammy in that moment, squeezing the flowers in his hand a bit too tightly. Hearing the door open made his heart stop.

“Harry?” An array of emotion flash across your face, too much for him to pick out how you feel seeing him there.

“I need to explain myself.”

It’s then that you notice the flowers in his hands, lips curling up in a small smile despite yourself. When seconds slip by and you haven’t slammed the door in his face, Harry feels the tiniest shred of hope. There is a soft ‘meow’ from behind you and you break at the sound, fully opening the door to let him inside.

Harry spots Sir Henry watching him with curious eyes, as if he knew what was about to transpire. And, Harry, well...he just wished he had the same insight.

---

Harry fucking Potter was really stood outside your apartment complex with a bouquet of magically enhanced flowers looking like a kicked puppy.

Or maybe you were dreaming and the tacos you ate earlier were definitely bad, you had food poisoning. That made more plausible sense than Harry being here. And, despite how much you wanted to close the door and pretend like this wasn’t happening, he was there - with flowers. Your favorite flowers.

Sir Henry coming up behind you to see who was at the door only cracked the last of your resolve.

There was never a situation where you didn’t know what to say. But, what does one say when the man they’ve secretly harbored feelings for comes over to their apartment drunk and says you’re pretty, then pretend like nothing happened? Certainly not…

“Tea?”

___

Everything taglist: @venusstarlight108 @knivestheresnothingtoit @yajairayellow @awesomefaith14 @ardentmuse @salladwinston @maddieb97222 @anchy-bananchy @staygoldponebone @unique05sstuff

Harry Potter taglist: @p-adfoot

Series taglist: @clockworkherondale @notperfected @bluemadcnna @anxious-trashpanda @nat-arlett @daddyloonglegss @quinn-n-quill @mikariell95 @my-awakened-ghost @unique05sstuff @xphantomphanphanaticx @souhmhey @wicked-witchxx @cookies186

#harry potter imagine #harry potter x reader #harry potter #hp x reader #hp imagine #teacher au tag #i love this ship

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burnsopale · 6 years

Text

Before I sleep, Olivier/Giancarlo and Ralf/Johnny

Title: Before I sleep Pairing: Johnny/Ralf and Olivier/Giancarlo Rating: PG-13 Summary: Olivier knows them well by now, his friends.

Author’s notes: I delight in making Olivier a little manipulative and morally uncentered. It’s partly because of the English dub where he is a bit of a bully, but also because of the Japanese version where he fails to see the potential harm of his actions. He uses his powers for good, though, and that makes him facinating.

This one was started already, but I finished it at 1AM today. I don’t know how much sense it makes, but eh, it’s something. It’s being posted at 9AM because I lost my internet connection as I was about to post last night and was too tired to fix it. So ironically it was not posted “before I slept”.

It wasn’t often they shared hotel rooms, but a mistake had been made somewhere and so Olivier, Giancarlo, Ralf and Johnny found themselves in a midnight-dark hotel room with two luckily sizeable queens and neither the energy nor opportunity to do anything about it until morning. Olivier and Johnny grumbled about it all the way to bed, Johnny mostly because how dare they treat us this way and Olivier because he slept lightly and was probably going to wake every time someone turned over.

Ralf took it stoically, and Giancarlo had won against Ivan today and was in indefatigable good spirits.

“It’s like a slumber party!”

“Oh, fuck off.” Johnny had lost against Yuriy, and was handling it about as well as he usually did.

They stood around awkwardly and brushed their teeth in the cramped bathroom, silently judging each other’s pyjamas.

Olivier studied the four boys in the mirror, and pondered. In addition to their own match today, they had watched the Americans battle the Chinese team, and sat next to the BBA for the duration of it. Everyone had been so open and easy with each other, joking around, feelings on their sleeves, completely unguarded. Well, not Kai, but Kai was more like the Majestics anyway. Down on the floor, the two opposing teams had cheered for each other as much as for their own players. Even the Blitzkrieg Boys were obviously deeply comfortable in each other’s company.

It had made Olivier think of his own team.

He loved his three friends. They were family to him, with all the ups and down that entailed. They were eccentric and high strung and private, but now that they were under each other’s skin they were bound together for life. Olivier knew them well.

He hadn’t really been aware of them until that first European Beyblade championship, when all four of them had burst onto the international scene like debutants at their first ball, but once they had stood on the victors' podium together, he had become insatiably interested in them.

It hadn’t taken him long to make Giancarlo open up to him. After a few months of bumping into each other at parties and Beyblade events, and then a long weekend in Paris, Giancarlo had told Olivier pretty much every secret he owned. He was Olivier’s now, his loyal, contrite pup, so eager to be better. And then sometimes he’d turn around and say something downright insightful and Olivier would be surprised to find himself known in turn. Sometimes he would spend the night in Giancarlo’s arms, and feel comforted and protected in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

In general, Ralf and Olivier were more reserved, Johnny and Giancarlo more emotional. Ralf and Olivier got along well for this reason, but it meant it had taken longer before Ralf had let Olivier get close. Olivier was a patient hunter, though, and after a number of mellow evenings reading in companionable silence, invigorating discussions of art and philosophy, fencing matches and blustery car rides through the French countryside, Ralf had slowly begun to share little bits and pieces of his inner life. His complicated feelings towards his late parents, his sense of not being quite like normal people, and how much he resented the world that demanded he conform. And his confusion at his own growing attachment to Johnny. Olivier could still vividly recall one particular late night confession, hidden behind dark curtains and whispered into a deep glass of wine.

“I want to make him kneel.”

It had suited Olivier just fine that Ralf wanted to take charge of Johnny. Someone had to.

He had tried, of course, to become Johnny’s confidant too. He had invited the boy to France, and it had been a pleasant enough weekend, at the end of which Johnny had walked into the airport with a knowing, jaunty wave and left Olivier feeling like he’d run into a brick wall. Somehow, the click of the lock opening, the moment of thawing, had just never come. At first, he couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. He tried again, and again, coaxing, pulling gently at threads, making himself agreeable and hospitable and friendly. He had even given up some secrets of his own, and been shaken when it yielded nothing in return. Johnny remained an unassailable fortress, deflecting most of Olivier’s attempts with glee, but growing moody and snappish if pushed too far. He could happily talk Beyblading or sports or music for hours, but it never got personal.

Giancarlo didn’t understand Olivier’s frustrations. “He talks to me about all kinds of things. I don’t know what you’re so upset about, cara. Just give him time.” Olivier had grilled Giancarlo vigorously to discover if Johnny had simply chosen someone else to unburden himself to, but no, they were just a little friendlier with each other than Johnny was with Olivier.

Give him time? No, Johnny was doing it on purpose. It could not stand!

The click, when it came, was not of a lock opening, but of the puzzle pieces falling into place. They had all been gathering at Ralf’s for the weekend, an unusual thing at the time, and since Giancarlo had yet to arrive and Ralf didn’t give rematches, a bored Olivier had suggested to Johnny that they blade.

Johnny had gone pale, then red, said something incoherent about how Olivier wasn’t good enough and anyway Johnny didn’t have his blade with him, neither of which was true. Olivier had shared a look with Ralf, and pretended to let it go.

The next time he was asked to attend a local Beyblade event, he had called Johnny and asked if he wanted to join in.

“It’s a bit of publicity mostly, but it might be fun, and if we end with a match between you and me, we could really inspire the next generation … or, you know, show them they’ll never live up to us.”

He had expected the refusal before it came.

“I’ve … got a thing that day. Can’t make it.”

So there it had been again, but it takes three to make a pattern, so Olivier had tried one more time, when they were all gathered again.

“Hey, Johnny, I keep thinking about how we’ve never bladed.”

Johnny’s back had stiffened. “Hmm? So?”

“So, I want a challenge. Come blade with me. Let’s see who is better. Who knows, maybe I should have been in the finals.”

“In your dreams.”

There was the pattern.

“Do you have a stomach ache or something?” Giancarlo had wondered. “You always want to blade with me.”

Johnny had gone red again. “Fine! I’ll show you your place since you’re so eager.”

Ralf had said nothing, but he had watched every shift in Johnny’s expression.

Olivier would of course have liked to say that he won their match. He didn’t, though he gave Johnny plenty of trouble, at least. Johnny came at him with everything he had from the very beginning and stood his ground even when the entire stadium was shaking under Unicolyon’s hooves. Salamalyon darted in and out between Unicolyon’s legs, clawing at him, spewing fire, and slowly, Olivier felt how he and his sacred beast were being pushed back. In the midst of his frustration, Olivier had been distracted by curiosity. Johnny was doing just fine; he was incredibly strong, had extraordinary control over blade and beast, and Salamalyon was agile, quick and ferocious. So why had he been reluctant to battle Olivier?

Defeat came with a sudden impact that sent his pink Beyblade spinning out of the dish. Olivier felt disappointed, but he was not left empty-handed; Johnny laughed with delight and relief at his victory, and it told Olivier all he needed to know.

On the side-lines, Giancarlo smiled along and said “Try not to let it go to your head, eh, Johnny?”

But Ralf looked like his once-whispered desire was burning in him.

Much had changed since that moment, and some things had not. Johnny was still closed off against Olivier, except now it didn’t matter because Olivier had figured out how to read him; Johnny had taken his loss against Ralf much harder than anyone had known, and he had been frightened of what would happen if he battled Olivier and lost. What if he wasn’t even second, but third best? So he hid his insecurities, refused to battle Olivier, and hovered around Ralf in the hopes that he would change his mind about rematches.

Now Olivier knew all his friends well. He didn’t need more than a glance from Ralf before the lights were turned off to understand his intention. To help out, Olivier grabbed Giancarlo and fell into the nearest bed with him. This effectively left the other bed to Ralf and Johnny.

Johnny came out of the bathroom as the last one, and halted briefly when he realised the situation, but quickly pushed forward, going around to his bed and climbing in next to a seemingly indifferent Ralf.

“You’d better not plan to stay up and read; I want to sleep,” Johnny grumbled as he made himself comfortable, his back to Ralf.

“No, no. No reading,” Ralf promised, turning off the bedside lamp.

Olivier imagined he could hear Johnny’s heart pounding in the half-dark. "Good night," he said, turning off the final bedside lamp and plunging the room into blackness. Only at the edges of the curtains at the window did white city light still peek inside, but it didn't reach the beds.

Beside him, Giancarlo sighed in contentment. Olivier touched his shoulder and urged him to turn around, into Olivier's arms and away from the other two. Giancarlo made a small sound of inquiry, but Olivier put a finger to his lips and shushed him softly, before leaning in and kissing the place his finger had just been. Giancarlo acquiesced, adjusting them so they were lying deep in each other's arms and kissing quietly, but nuzzling up to Olivier's ear to whisper "What are you up to?" on a breath.

Olivier didn't reply, but let Giancarlo feel his smile in their next kiss. Then they settled down. Olivier closed his eyes and waited.

After a few minutes of silence and breathing, he heard the unmistakable sound of a body being pulled across the sheets, and imagined Ralf gathering Johnny into his arms. He heard Johnny’s whispered protest, muffled suddenly, and then the wet sounds of a deep kiss.

Some shuffling and another protest. “The others will hear-mh.”

More kisses, quick inhales between long silences and small moans.

Giancarlo ducked his head against Olivier's shoulder, a little embarrassed maybe, or maybe he had figured out Olivier's simple scheme.

Then the deep, smooth timbre of Ralf’s voice, impressive even as a whisper. “You did well today.”

A brief struggle. Outrage in Johnny’s hissed reply. “Don't patronise me-ah!”

Olivier couldn’t help himself; he peeked over Giancarlo's head and looked with adjusted eyes through the dark.

Ralf had pulled Johnny half on top of him, wrapped him in his arms, and was kissing his neck, hand stroking circles on his back under the covers, probably under his t-shirt.

Johnny's breath had gone shallow.

"Ralf ..." Johnny whispered.

But Johnny could protest all he liked; he belonged to Ralf and he knew it.

"You did well today," Ralf repeated with emphasis, and Johnny took a deep breath and rested his head on Ralf's chest and let the words sink in.

Olivier smiled, satisfied that his friends were happy again, kissed Giancarlo's forehead apologetically and settled in to sleep.

#Beyblade #BeyArMaMo #BeyArMaMo2018 #Judin writes #OlivierGiancarlo #RalfJohnny

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leviathanpotato · 6 years

Text

She’s not your type - Young!Remus Lupin x oc

Part four

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Tag for @imalostredheadinablondeworld

I’m sorry @tooinlovewithfictionalpeople but this is the final part.

Remus Lupin x oc. Based off ‘You belong with me’ By Taylor Swift because I am unimaginative.

First attempt at proper romance stuff. Please don’t shoot me.

Remus dragged a chair to her bedside and took out his wand. Gently, he started tending to a scar on her arm. He glanced down at her. She was a mess – bleeding from the head and makeup smeared down her cheeks – and yet she was still beautiful. Remus thought about her bushy brown locks that he wanted to stroke so badly and the green in her hazel eyes that hypnotized him every day. He reminisced about how they snuggled up together – perfectly contempt in each other’s arms. Then there was the way she didn’t care about using half a pot of jam on one slice of toast, and how her eyes lit up when talking about her family, and – most importantly – the way she was the most gentle and caring girl he’d ever met.

She’d figured out Remus was a werewolf the last week of their first year – another thing about her, she was ridiculously smart. Instead of freaking out and running away, she only became closer. She started hanging out with him more, being there for him – even when she was going through her own difficulties. He’d start looking forward to seeing her skip into the great hall, feeling warmth spread inside of him.

He’d been in love with her for just over a year. It had started as a small crush, but developed into something uncontrollable. Panic had surged through him. He knew that she’d never want him, he was a freaking werewolf. When Harriet started approaching him and showing interest, he knew Sadie was just a fantasy – she’d had years to act but didn’t.

She didn’t want him.

It burnt like hellfire and he used Harriet to fill the black hole she left behind. Then Sadie stopped hanging around with them and that pretty much confirmed his nightmares.

Remus mentioned his worries to Harriet; his best friend was slipping away through his fingers. She told him to let her, for the sake of his feelings, she even said she’d try and help keep them apart, to help him feel better – and he believed her.

He couldn’t really remember the events of breakfast. Those five words destroyed him and he couldn’t really focus. He was just watching her storm off with ‘Remus is just a friend’ ringing in his ears.

Then there was the argument. She brought up Harriet and he snapped. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said. All he remembered was feeling his soul being sucked into the ground as he watched her run away.

Snapping back to reality, he noticed that he was done wiping the smeared makeup off her face, he moved the chair back to the foot of the bed, watching the covers rise and fall as Sadie breathed.

Slowly, his mind ran off elsewhere, thinking about how many times he and Sadie had been alone – all those opportunities that he was too scared to take. He thought for hours, staring into space. He didn’t notice the orange glow of the sun peeking through the curtains. He didn’t notice the hushed shuffles of sleepy Gryffindors getting ready for the day ahead. He didn’t notice Sadie sat up, staring wide-eyed at him. He didn’t – wait WHAT?

Remus nearly toppled out of his seat. Sadie continued to stare with a panicked expression. There were heavy bags under her eyes and her hair was in danger of becoming a separate life form. She groaned and scratched her head, whimpering in pain. After wiping her eyes, she froze. She glanced back at Remus.

“I’m in your bed.” She said.

“Yes you are.” He replied.

Awkward silence.

“Did we…?” She asked.

“No. God no. No no no nono.” Remus answered. His face was becoming increasingly hot. His hands were suddenly becoming very sweaty and he wiped them hurriedly on his robes.

“Good.” She responded. He noticed that she looked relieved, but sounded disappointed. She took in her surroundings, smiling at the mess the boys had made, before noticing that Remus was still staring. “Um…” She began. “What happened?”

“Where did it end?” Remus asked. He fumbled with his robes, hoping that maybe, just maybe…

“I was trying to drag Lily off the stage before she did an encore of Bohemian Rhapsody.” She giggled at the memory, Remus felt his heart implode. Sadie grinned until she noticed Remus’ glum expression.

“What?” She snapped.

Remus flinched, clearly she remembered the argument. “Me and Harriet broke up.”

“Oh.” Sadie responded blankly, devoid of her usual burning compassion.

“That’s not why I’m sad.” Remus hurriedly added. “You were right, she didn’t care for me at all.”

“Oh?” Sadie perked up slightly, Remus couldn’t help but notice an ecstatic glimmer in her eyes. “How did you end it?”

“She made out with Theo Macmillan.” Remus was really was unsure of how to phrase his next sentence. Before he could say anything else, Sadie’s large dark eyes had saddened with pity. She shuffled over on the bed, patting the space created next to her.

Blushing, Remus slipped of the chair and climbed on next to her. Their backs were leant on the headboard and their legs were outstretched in front of them. Remus felt her lean her head on this shoulder. She tapped his feet with hers.

“Comfort cuddle?” She suggested.

Remus nodded and he relaxed into her arms. They laid there, content, until Remus finally pushed himself to bring up the previous night. Just tell her, he thought, how bad can it go?

He calmed the butterflies in his stomach. Go on, tell her, he urged himself.

“Some first years are calling you sass queen Sadie.” He blurted. In his mind, Remus had carefully chosen a very different sentence, however he got flustered at the last minute and the completely meaningless words tumbled from his mouth.

Sadie cringed. “How so?”

“You and Harriet had a fight.” He stated, his eyes wide and timid as he waited for her to react. She merely raised an eyebrow. Truth be told, Sadie was only half listening, her mind was racing – Remus is single and he’s sitting with me on his bed and we’re cuddling I don’t think my heart can take this oh my god.

“Go on.” She pressed, curiosity distracting her from her aching head.

“You said something along the lines of her having the IQ of a maggot and that she was nothing without this school. Then you tackled her.”

“Mm-hm.” She bit her lip to try not to laugh at the scene she was picturing. Remus smiled down at her, screaming internally at how cute she was when she did that. He resisted the urge to tackle her into a bear hug.

“Then you…” Remus stopped, reaching up to scratch his neck. He’d never felt more flustered to being alone room with a girl before. Sadie was leant right next to him, he could feel her move as she breathed. His own heart was pounding in his ears, he felt his hands growing clammy. “Thenyouclaimedmeasyourownandsaidyou’dalwayslovedme” He stammered.

Sadie pulled back, growing pale. She had already figured out what she’d done but she needed to be sure. “I’m gonna need that again.”

“You claimed me as your own and said you’d always loved me.” Remus repeated, his throat tightening.

Sadie nodded slowly, feeling the blood draining from her face. She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry, that must have been awkward. I didn’t try to..?” Sadie was beginning to freak out, her secret was exposed.

Remus nodded hesitantly and Sadie sighed, covering her face with her hands, wishing that she could just go back to sleep and wake up in her own dormitory - the previous day could just be some crazy dream. “Remus I am so sorry.” She groaned.

“I’m not” He mumbled, unsure if she would hear him.

She did. She glanced up sharply. Lupin smiled shyly as she gazed at his face. Her eyes were searching his; desperate for confirmation he did just say that. Sadie felt her pulse raise, her whole arm was shaking as she placed a palm on his cheek.

“You mean it?” She asked, her voice trembling. “Remus the whole reason I was isolating myself from you because seeing you with Harriet hurt so much I felt sick. I couldn’t watch you hold her the way I wanted you to hold me and kiss her on the cheek and tell her everything I dreamed about you saying to me. Seeing her make you sad made me devastated but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you because I thought that you didn’t want me.

I had all the time in the world to tell you my feelings but I never noticed them because just having you close kept me happy. I didn’t know I needed more until she came down those stairs in those heels and took your hand in hers. I started doubting myself because why would you want me when you can have the most beautiful girl in the school”

Sadie could feel her eyes burning. “Please, I don’t want to be some desperate rebound after Harriet. Prove to me you mean it.”

“Sadie Carla Jackson.” Remus began. “I love that you are the most compassionate and considerate person I have ever met. You found out I was a werewolf - a monster - and that only made you more desperate to help me. I love the way you play with your hair when you read a book you like. I love the way you borrow my jumpers and then act like the holes you chewed have always been there. Your smile is brighter that the sun and your eyes sparkle when you’re happy and it’s so adorable.

I got with Harriet because I thought that you didn’t want me. I was so stupid to think that you would approach me first but I was too nervous to ask you myself. I was so scared that I would end up alone that I took the first chance I got at a relationship, even when it was someone so hideous on the inside. Then when you started avoiding us I realised that I had never been alone, I’d always had you, but I was too late. I’d trapped myself with her - the most beautiful girl in the school and i’d thrown her away for the bitch with the ugliest soul imaginable.

So when you told Harriet that I was yours, I never felt happier in my life. I want to be yours, Sadie. You make me happy, I need your smile and your hugs and your jumpers. I need you, even if you do fold the pages over instead of using a bookmark.” He finished with a gentle smile.

Sadie had frozen in shock. Slowly, her arm wrapped around Remus’ neck and pulled him nearer. They were so close they were practically merged into one being. Sadie could smell the sweet chocolate on his breath and see every detail in his scars. She traced over the deepest white slash with her thumb.

“I believe you.” She whispered and then she kissed him. Her eyes slid closed as he reciprocated, deepening the kiss. Butterflies exploded in her stomach. At that moment, she finally realised what it truly meant to feel alive. Warmth spread through her heart as their lips danced. She wrapped around him tighter, clinging onto him – he was her life source.

Remus did the same, pulling her into his arms and never wanting to let go. In that moment, he felt free – free of Harriet, free of his worries, free of his lycanthropy. In that moment, Sadie was all that mattered to him. He could taste chocolate, honey and her sweet strawberry lip balm. He could smell her coconut shampoo and the jumpers she ‘borrowed’ off her mum. He clung on tighter, he didn’t just want her, he needed her, he loved her.

Eventually, they broke off panting. They still clung on desperately to each other, the other was their own personal heaven, and if they let go they would fall back down to earth.

Sadie buried her face in Remus’ neck, kissing him softly. She felt all the months of yearning being unleashed, she couldn’t let him go, she couldn’t lose him again.

“I love you.” She mumbled into his shirt.

Remus smiled. “I love you too”

Le fin. Thank you guys so much for reading. It means a lot to me as it took a while to convince myself to post my work. Now to go back to the dark ages of procrastination and forgetting to post anything for w e e k s.

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cielpurrple · 6 years

Text

Make Me 19.7

Pairing/s: Jimin x Reader x Got7 Jaebum

Word count: :4090

Warnings: cursing, tissues.

Songs: 1| 2 | 3

You were woken up by one of the worst headaches you’ve experienced. Slowly, you sat down and walked towards your own private toilet to wash the sleep in your face. Then you remembered your dream—that Jimin was there, it felt so real you even smelled his perfume, and he said something but you don’t really remember what.

You just smiled thinking about it, because you knew it’ll never happen again.

When you exited your room, nobody’s up yet from your roommates so you texted Yoongi who replied in a span of seconds. You decided to accept his offer to eat breakfast together and you both agreed to meet up with him on the hallway.

The dining area’s not that big and it’s kinda humid which irritates him so he opted for room service instead.

You are welcomed to the other room where Jin and Namjoon stayed as well. It’s spacious compared to your room but you’re not complaining.

“Instant coffee for the meantime,” he handed you a warm cup and you smiled at his gesture. You peeked at the windows and you pushed the curtains away, making the room looked brighter.

You sat across Yoongi, who’s busy trying to send a message.

“You were dead drunk last night,” he teased.

You slowly nod while you pouted, guilty of what you’ve done.

“Don’t worry, you’re still dignified even though your drunk compared to your roommates,” he assured.

“They started dancing as soon as they got tipsy, then Jungkook decided to sing a song in high notes, even the instrumental parts while Taehyung made an instant fan chant for it,” he chuckled as he recall the past events which made you laugh.

“How did I get to my room?” you asked,

“Jin helped you, he’s not drunk because he only finished a bottle of wine,” he replied.

“Oh, I see, I have to thank him later,” you said when a knock from made you two look towards the direction of the door.

Yoongi stood up to answer it, and he returned with several boxes of fast food.

You chose the one with sausages, eggs, bacon, and pancakes while he devours the one with spaghetti and chicken. The only sound that can be heard are Yoongi’s chews and complaints.

When you’re both done, you decided to stay there for a while when Yoongi asked.

“Are you feeling comfy around me again?”

You looked at him with a confused look on your face.

“I’m not—It’s just—well, fine. I actually feel awkward being with all of you guys right now, it seems that you had to choose who to invite between me and Jimin,” you confessed.

“Ah, that? You’re worrying about nothing, Y/N. Trust me, if he has the time to go, he’ll go. But now, he’s so busy with his schedules, we’re glad he’s still eating four to five times a day,” he confessed back.

“Well, with that being said, I felt quite relieved. And I’m glad to know he’s eating well,” you smiled.

“So what are your plans now?” he asked.

“Well, I’ll be working at Namjoon’s maybe after this week, so I have to prepare myself to face the ‘real world’,” you quoted the last two words.

“You’re smart, so you can face it head on,” Yoongi tried to encourage you.

“Thanks Yoongs,” you replied

“What did you just call me?!” his voice suddenly raised an octave higher which made you laugh because it cracked.

You repeatedly teased him and when he stood up, approaching you, you squealed making Jin came out of his room in an instant.

You apologized for waking him up but he just smiled at you and ruffled your hair.

He went to the other room to wake up the other two and he returned with a half asleep Jungkook and Taehyung, who both collapsed on each end of the couch while you’re in the middle being sandwiched by them.

“Wake up, Tae, we got some cheeseburgers,” you tried enticing him.

He just replied with a hum so you turned to Jungkook who’s now lightly snoring.

Jin approached you and started sprinkling water on Taehyung’s face who suddenly jolted up, making you chuckle.

He looked at you and you greeted him a good morning.

Jin did the same to Jungkook and successfully wake him up as well.

Namjoon looked neat and very presentable when he appeared.

“In case you’re wondering why I look like this, I had an urgent online meeting so...” he said and grabbed some food.

Taehyung leaned his head on your shoulder and you pat his head. Then your other side became heavy when Jungkook did the same. Now you’re literally being sandwiched by them.

“Tae, Kookie, wake up or I’ll eat your food!” you dared.

“Go ahead, I don’t care, I want to sleep more,” Jungkook said as he moved, trying to find a comfortable position while making you a pillow.

You frowned and to your annoyance, you stood up.

“I’m not a pillow! Go and eat now, you’ll be hungry later.” You said which made them open their eyes.

You went back to your room and lied down for a bit, you tried recalling your dream and you wished that the details were vivid.

You closed your eyes and it seems that your head’s playing with you again because it’s an image of Jimin smiling at you that popped into your head.

“I must’ve drank too much last night,” you murmured.

You sat back down, and eventually stood up to pack your things.

***

Little did you know, that this vacation was planned by none other than Jimin. This vacation serves as a graduation gift to you and to Jungkook. How he wished he could personally congratulate you but he doesn’t have the courage to even show himself to you while you’re sober so he just tries his best to be contented at a safe distance.

His phone chimed and a text from Hoseok came in.

[From: Hoseok

Where are you? You have to get back, your father’s looking for you.]

He read the message with a frown. He’s about to call Hoseok when a phone call interrupted him.

“Father.” He answered.

[Jimin, our partner’s asking what happened to your date with his daughter?]

He sighed upon hearing his father’s question.

“It went well dad, but to be honest I’m not interested to date right now,” he explained.

[Why? Is it still because of your ex-girlfriend? The reason why you’re on medication and that fucking counselling?]

This time, anger boils into him.

“I have something to do, I’ll end this call.”

He pressed the end button in a quick manner, and throwing the phone hitting the wall.

Involving you in their argument is a low blow for him, and this will always be the end result, him either breaking things or breaking himself because he can’t properly defend you.

He again heard his phone ring, this time, it’s Yoongi who’s calling.

“Yeah?”

[Open up] he said and Jimin went to the door and opened it, Yoongi entered.

“You don’t look so good, something happened?” he looked at the younger man.

“As usual,” he replied.

“Your father or Y/N?” he asked straight.

“Both, add Jungkook.” He plopped in the couch, he rested his head on the cushioned part while Yoongi watched him as he took a seat as well.

“Is Jungkook making a move towards Y/N?” he couldn’t help but to ask.

Yoongi shrugged, he doesn’t know but he’s aware that Jungkook did something along those lines in the past.

“How about you?” Jimin looked Yoongi dead in the eyes.

“Are you serious right now? I’m like Taehyung’s fucking proxy Jimin. Oh, yeah, you didn’t know this but Y/N cried an ocean when she saw you with someone.”

Jimin couldn’t hide the shock mixed with guilt that he felt right now.

“Look, if you’re gonna paint the damn town fucking red, pink, or gray, please do it somewhere where she can’t see, where she can’t follow, and where she can’t watch,” Yoongi exhaled.

“What are you talking about?” Jimin questioned.

“She saw you, she asked me to follow you, she watched you. She cried, we took care of her, well Jungkook’s mostly doing the dirty work but yeah,”

“I saw her crying last night, she’s with Jungkook,” he said in a tone bitter with sadness and regret.

“We can always ask him,” Yoongi suggested.

With Jimin’s short temper right now, he dared not to, knowing Jungkook’s a bit of a dick sometimes, the younger man might tease him and a misunderstanding might start.

“No, not now,” Jimin said.

“I came here to tell you what happened when you suddenly appeared last night, she thought she’s dreaming, damn all that I can say is, she still have something for you that’s for sure. But on the other hand, she wants to move on. Because she thinks..” Yoongi stopped there, trying to be careful of his words.

“She thinks what, hyung?” Jimin’s anticipating the answer.

“She thinks, it’s the end for the both of you,” Yoongi looked down.

Jimin gulped, trying to conceal the pain that he just felt.

“Well, what are you gonna do about it?” Yoongi looked at him.

Jimin looked down, he’s lost. He needed more time, he has plans but he needs more time so he can get back to you.

“I don’t want to give you any sort of advice on this because I’m not a love expert. But I’ll give it to you anyway,” Yoongi said, as he get closer to Jimin.

“If you can’t get yourself to talk to her, might as well give her the freedom and happiness she deserves,” he pat the younger man’s back, and Jimin just looked at him with a sad expression on his face.

“I’ll get going, still have to pack, see you back in the city,” Yoongi left while Jimin hugged his legs and rested his head on his knees.

***

You just relaxed as you watch your friends run around while they pack. You shook your head and laugh as they start grabbing things just like before.

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you? Don’t just laugh there, help us!” Jungkook groaned at you.

You stopped laughing and stuck your tongue out which made Jungkook annoyed so he ran towards you and you run towards the other room, bumping into Namjoon in the process.

“Sorry, Namjoon, Sir!” you stopped but you hide behind him when you saw Jungkook approaching from your peripheral vision.

“Stop playing, we’re running late,” he said directly at Jungkook.

“Y/N why don’t we take a walk?” Namjoon invited you and you agreed.

He took you to the garden where there’s a lot of flowers.

“What are your plans after this, Y/N?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, well, I’ll go to work next week, sir.” You replied.

“That’s good, I’ll be expecting you then.” He replied.

“Okay, I’ll send you an email as soon as I get back home,”

“No need to rush, oh by the way, when you came in next week, be sure to drop by on my office first okay?” he smiled at you.

“Okay,” you smiled back.

A call from Yoongi made you two return but instead of going upstairs, they’re already in the lobby to check out. You saw Jungkook carrying your stuff.

“Thanks Kook, I’ll take it,” you asked for your bag but he’s not giving it to you.

“I need my phone,” you tried to get it to him.

“No,” he playfully raised his arms so you tried to jump to reach it but you remembered you’re wearing a dress so you stood still after the your first jump.

“Fine, it’s yours.” You stopped reaching for it.

You stood close to Jin who seemed happy to see you close to him.

Two cars stopped in front of you and you quickly sat on the passenger’s seat of Taehyung’s car and you saw Jungkook pushed Taehyung so he’ll be the driver.

When you saw this, you waited for Jungkook to sit down on the driver’s seat and you quickly get out and sat at the back.

“I suddenly don’t feel like driving,” Jungkook announced and you just looked at Taehyung who just gave a straight face and exchanged seats with Jungkook.

You pulled your bag so there’s a space between you and Jungkook. When you’re all ready, Taehyung started driving.

You pulled your phone from the side pocket of your bag and you sent a message to your parents that you’re heading back.

“You know we’re supposed to have another destination which is overseas but we have to postpone it for the meantime,” Taehyung said.

You hummed in response and you stared at outside, enjoying the view. You saw the pier and your car entered the ship again.

“The weather’s in excellent condition so our travel time’s a bit shorter, ETA’s and hour and a half,” Taehyung announced as soon as you meet up with the rest of the boys.

“Let’s grab some food,” Namjoon said and you all agreed in eating pasta and pizza.

You noticed Jungkook slowly pushing his ordered fries towards you but you just ignored him.

You and Taehyung started talking and you’re in your own world, he whispered jokes at you and the two of you giggled as the others check their phones.

After that, you decided to spend the rest of the journey on your own, so you wander around, checking some of the stores around but you don’t find anything interesting so you decided to go back to the car and watch something.

You’re in the first ten minutes of the movie when you dozed off.

***

You felt something or someone’s weight on your side, you squirm and you groggily stared at the person next to you.

It’s Jungkook who’s sleeping soundly.

You looked at the view outside and you’re already in the city, and it seems that the destination’s Taehyung’s house.

When you’re almost there, you started waking Jungkook up but he just replies with groans so you let Taehyung do it while you help him carry their bags upstairs.

He managed to wake him up but he went to you and made your lap his pillow.

“Y/N forgive me please?” he whispered.

You looked at him and smiled.

“It’s cool, so wake up,” you smiled back.

“Stay for the night, I know you’re tired.” Taehyung said while he looked at a pamphlet of a restaurant.

“Okay,” you replied.

The three of you spent the night goofing around and when it’s time to bed, you went inside of the guest room, you changed into your extra clothes but knowing that some of Jimin’s clothes are there doesn’t help.

You opened the closet door and pulled his gray hoodie which is his favoirte and you put it on.

You returned to bed and fell asleep in an instant.

***

Jimin went straight to his room right after he greeted his grandmother. He stared at the dark ceiling, reflecting on what Yoongi had just said. Sure, it’s an unsolicited advice but he has a point.

He sighed when a faint knock interrupted him with his thoughts.

“Mr. Hoseok is here,” the servant said.

“Let him in,” he replied.

Hoseok, who’ s default face seemed to be smiling entered with an envelope with him.

“From your father,” he simply said and Jimin pulled what he thinks are documents but when he looked at it, it’s a list of ‘eligible women’ that your father picked.

“Bullshit,” Jimin crumpled the paper and threw it.

Hoseok raised his hands as if he’s surrendering.

“Today’s not a good day for a drink so I’ll get going,” he said.

“Oh, before I completely forgot, she lives on the other side of the city, I saw her buying at a grocery store near a piece of property Jaebum owns so...” he paused.

“Oh, and don’t ask for your umbrella, it’s with her,” he winked and left.

He suddenly calmed down upon thinking of you, being protected by his umbrella, somehow it’s as if he’s protecting you.

A message came from Taehyung and he opened it.

[photo]

Your sleeping form, under the dim lights of the guest room was shown, you’re covered in comforter but what melted his heart is the fact that you’re comfortably wearing his hoodie.

Because of this, he get out of the office, grabbed his keys and went somewhere.

Taehyung’s about to enter his room when he heard the soft beep of his security system. He hid himself on the wall just before the living room when he’s about to tackle the ‘intruder’, he was almost blinded when that person turned on the lights.

“What the—what are you doing here?” he controls the loudness of his voice so you wouldn’t wake up.

“I want to talk to her,” he replied.

“Really? This late? Are you sure?” he tried stopping Jimin.

“Taehyung, move or I’ll break your nose,” Jimin said and Taehyung moved to the side, giving way to him to enter the guest room.

He slowly closed the door, and sat on the cushioned bench by the window.

He watched your sleeping form, he’s willing to wait for you until you wake up.

***

You slowly gained consciousness when your body tells you that you need to go to the toilet, your eyes suddenly darted towards a dark mass by the window and to you almost screamed upon seeing the figure.

Quickly, you turned on the lamp beside you and you wished you just seen an actual ghost.

You’re staring at Jimin and he stares back at you, he’s expressionless.

What the hell, I must be dreaming.

This dream’s so vivid, you just continued staring at the form of Jimin, still handsome as ever, though he looks tired.

“You’re here,” you broke the silence.

“Yeah,” he replied, still not leaving your gaze.

You gave him a smile, the sincerest smile that you can give him, but as soon as you showed it to him, tears fell from your eyes like there’s a storm being caged inside of you.

Then you felt him close, you felt him embracing you.

It felt so real, so you dared to touch him.

His, hair, his shoulders, his arms, his back.

It’s him, it’s really him in the flesh.

“Is this the effect of missing someone too much? This is so real,” you whispered to him.

“This is real, Y/N, I am here,” he responded. Hearing him say your name made you smile.

“How can this be real when the ‘real’ you acted as if he doesn’t know me,” you said.

Everything happened so quickly, you just find yourself being trapped in his kiss.

Still believing it’s a dream, you kissed him back, you poured everything on that kiss, wishing that he feels what you’ve been feeling for the past year and a half of not being able to talk to him. The kiss is mixed with tears and sweet words coming from him.

“I’m happy you’re seeing a doctor, I hope you feel better soon,” you said.

“I heard from the boys you’re already a CEO, I’m so proud of you,” you continue, seeing him give you the sweetest smile made you tear up again.

“The way you delivered your talk a year ago was so good, I’m so proud.” You said in between your sniffs.

He again pulled you in an embrace.

You stayed like that for quite some time, taking in all what you can in your memory.

Everything that he is right now, you’re trying to memorize it.

How his fingers perfectly fit the spaces of your own,

How soft his hair to your touch.

How he melts your entire being whenever he whisper to your ear.

“I miss you, I miss you every day, Y/N.” He said.

You slowly pushed him away so you can see his face.

Your hand reached for it, and you slowly trace his face with your forefinger, not missing any detail and you smiled whenever he closed his eyes to your touch.

“If you missed me, why did it took so long for you to come back to me?” you said.

He opened his eyes, he looked apologetic.

“I understand you needed time, I really do.” You said.

Silence.

“I waited and waited for you, Jimin. Hoping you’ll show up sooner,” you continued and again, silence.

You wiped the last tear from your cheeks and you slowly exhaled. You hold both of his hands.

“Let’s end this here.” You smiled after saying your final piece. You reached for his forehead and kissed it, leaving the room completely.

With blurred vision, you entered a random room, not sure if it’s Taehyung or Jungkook’s, making sure you locked the door after. You just sink on the floor and continued crying.

“What the—Y/N what’s wrong?” You heard Jungkook’s voice, he immediately sat down beside you and you accepted his embrace.

“I dreamt of him again, and it’s so real, I don’t know, I left him on the other room,” you said in between your sobs.

“Shh, shh, calm down, come, let’s get you to bed.” He slowly guided you to his bed and you followed.

You heard him hum, he’s singing you a song.

You just listened to his voice which you find calming and in a span of minutes, your breaths became slower, and you fell asleep.

Jungkook made sure that you’re asleep when he came out of the room and he immediately checked the guest room.

There’s nobody there so he searched the entire house and he found nothing.

He woke Taehyung up, and he did confirmed Jimin coming there.

“I think we need to talk to him about this,” he said to Taehyung.

“Yeah, I think so too,” he agreed.

“But first, Y/N.” Taehyung said with concern.

***

You just woke up yet you felt really tired. You looked at your surroundings and you’re not in the guest room, a confirmation that what happened last night is not a dream.

Your chest tightens once more, but this time, you will not give in to the loneliness, the longing that you have for Jimin.

You will not cry.

You slowly opened the door and you peeked, it seemed like the usual, but the two of them are busy with their phones.

You exited Jungkook’s room slowly and you greeted them good morning. You’re scared to enter the guest room so you went to the other toilet.

When you returned to the living room, the looks on their faces made you smile.

“What’s that look? Guys, I’m fine.” You said truthfully.

“Y/N!” Taehyung shouted which made you surprised.

“What?” you replied.

“No cutting of ties, alright? No blocking, always reply?” he pouted.

You laughed at his cute demeanor which made you ruffle his hair.

“Yes, I promise,” you assured him.

“Now, let us treat you to something good,” Jungkook said and you nod.

Since you’re too afraid to enter the guest room, they proved to you that nobody’s there so you quickly changed into something more presentable, leaving the hoodie neatly folded on top of the bed.

They took you to breakfast and on the arboretum. But this time, you didn’t shout your feelings. You hugged a tree and whispered all of the things you’re thankful for, especially the things that you wanted to say to Jimin that you will never have a chance to say to him anymore.

The three of you playfully chased each other, ate yummy snacks, and you took a lot of pictures.

You inhaled as much air as you can and slowly breathed it out with a smile before you leave the place that you’re not sure if you’ll visit again.

This time, you let them drop you to the entrance where your house is. You waved goodbye to them and you promised to keep in touch.

As you reached your house, you smiled as your parents welcome you back.

That same day, you decided to place all of the items that you don’t need on different boxes. Most of it are your things from school. It looked nicer and the room looked spacious after removing it.

You stared at your reflection for a bit and you noticed the ring on your finger.

You kissed it, and slowly removed it from your finger, keeping it on your jewelry box.

This is it, this time it’s really moving on.

This time it’s really a fresh start.

***

A/N

THIS CHAPTER REALLY BROKE MY HEART. SERIOUSLY.

Y/N REMOVED THE RING Y’ALL I’M BAWLING!

ANYWAYS, PLEASE ENJOY~

#BTS jimin #BTS jin #BTS jungkook #BTS rap monster #BTS suga #bts v #bts jhope #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts fanfction #jimin x you #jimin x reader

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jetbootcollection · 7 years

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Rebel Propaganda

Summary: Pidge finally gets a solid lead on her family, but they are set to perform for the Galra’s entertainment at a gladiator arena. What she finds when she gets there is not what she expected.

Back home, Lance had taken to walking the streets of his hometown or the corridors of the Garrison to clear his head. Sore feet and ignoring people to be alone with his thoughts made his problems seem more manageable somehow. This made the Castle of Lions the perfect place to calm down after a shouting match with Keith or a lecture from Shrio. He could walk for what felt like miles without running into another soul, and the ship’s gentle hum was better than the bustle of traffic any day.

On one such walk, he finds Pidge in the lounge going through yet another Galra database on her laptop. The corner of her screen is red with angry looking symbols flying by at blinding speed, the rest of the screen taken up by much slower English in blue. Pidge usually finds some hiding place to curl up in when she searched for her family, saying she didn’t want to bum out her teammates.

“You want to talk through it? I used to help my siblings with their homework and half the time they solved it themselves while explaining it to me.” Lance wanted to help because, as Pidge had correctly guessed, seeing her search fruitlessly was bumming him out.

“Like Rubber Duck Debugging?” Pidge responded as if Lance knew what she meant. He, of course, did not. Pidge sees his confused look and explains RDD while she goes back to looking at her screen. “You place a rubber duck or something in front of your screen and explain your code line by line in terms so simple that even a bath toy could understand. When you find a part that doesn’t make sense enough to explain, you found the problem.”

Lance doesn’t like being compared to a duck, but takes a seat on the couch next to her so she can walk him through it. He listens for 15 minutes when he gets an idea.

“So you have only been searching for them by their names and prison IDs?”

“How else would I.” Pidge says dejectedly while leaning back to sink into the couch. This was why she kept her search to herself, if only to save herself from having to admit she was out of ideas.

“I don’t know. There are only two humans in the Galra’s system so you could try searching by species.”

Pidge starts to roll her eyes at the idea for being too simple, then stops mid-roll when she realizes it’s brilliant. Snapping upright to type on her laptop, she makes an angry noise in the back of her throat that startles Lance enough to fall off the couch.

“What the quiznak was that for?”

“It’s the Galra word for ‘human.’ Just need to figure out how to spell it.”

Lance had left the lounge maybe half an hour ago when Allura calls everyone to the bridge. He meets Shiro at an intersection and the two continue to make their way up together.

“Any idea what this is about? She didn’t sound as urgent as usual.” He asks while moving at his usual Ready For Action jogging pace.

“I suggested Pidge search for her family by species instead of by prison ID. Must have found something.” Lance answers. Shiro breaks into a full run, which Lance can barely keep up with. Fortunately, the bridge is not far off and Lance is not too winded by the time they arrive. They still have to wait for Hunk and Coran to come up from the Yellow Lion’s hangar.

Once everyone has gathered, Pidge begins.

“I found this as part of a galaxy wide Galra broadcast, along with the news and stock market stuff.” She says, putting up an image on the main view screen.

“Looks like a concert poster.” Says Keith. The other boys nod and grunt in agreement. The poster has a picture of Earth over a purple nebula background with words curved around it. The only word that translates is “Human.”

“Can you translate the rest?” asks Hunk.

“It looks like it might be Lower Galrian, the language that civilians use. It looks like the language has evolved over the last 10,000 years. There’s no telling what it says unless we find a way to translate it to War Galrian first, which is unlikely. They always made a point of keeping the two languages separate.” Coran explains apologetically.

“Those numbers at the bottom still look like coordinates and a date.” Says Shiro, putting his time as a Galra prisoner to good use. He had received a crash course in Galra numbers from another prisoner so that he could read the schedule for his next fight.

Allura searches her memory of the time before the war when she had known Lower Galrian to some extent. The shape of the numerals had changed a bit, but the loops and intersections of each pen stroke were similar enough to read. She runs a search on the string of numbers and doesn’t like what she finds.

“The coordinates are for a known gladiatorial arena. We have to put a stop to this.”

Knowing that Pidge’s family very well could be on the chopping block, the team puts together a plan to sneak in. Whatever this event was, a one-on-one or a battle royal, it was starting in only a few hours. There was little time to gather intel, and the Galra were being surprisingly tight lipped about it.

Pidge scans every coms channel she can find for more information but the few transmissions she can associate with the event at the arena are little more than excited ramblings. Behind her, Shiro goes over what he knows about the Galra arenas from his time as Champion. The backstage areas where usually lightly guarded unless it was a title match or the fight involved the leaders of recently conquered planets. Pidge looks over her shoulder and immediately sees how dead his eyes look. The other Paladins can’t help but notice how rehearsed his speech was, as if he was clueing in new prisoners. While thankful for the knowledge, they felt bad for Shrio needing to push through sour memories for their sake.

Allura opens a wormhole and hides the Castle inside the bright white rings of a gas giant, with the arena on one of the giant’s larger moons. Through the dense ice and rock they can see their destination. Dozens of civilian ships are in orbit, with most of the moon’s surface covered in lights. Lance whistles as he notices how festive the arena looks.

“Looks like quite the party down there.”

“Only the Galra would find blood sport worth celebrating.” Allura says bitterly, disgusted by the notion. The Paladins share glances and come to a wordless agreement to not share the contents of certain history textbooks from Earth. The Galra and Roman Empires shared the same taste in entertainment, but the princess didn’t need to know that.

With the main event fast approaching, the Paladins pile into the Green Lion and slip through the orbital parking lot of ships under the safety of the cloak. Behind the cockpit, they had already set up a makeshift medbay to triage whoever they end up rescuing.

Getting in was surprisingly easy. The team was used to sneaking around drones with all kinds of sensors, actively looking for intruders. But by the time Green had landed it was clear that the guards posted around the perimeter were no more threatening than the security guard that had chased them out of the space mall. The arena side entrance was even unlocked.

Shiro sensed a trap, but knew that Pidge’s family was too important to waste time being overly cautious. The team made their way down narrow concrete hallways until they came to a security terminal in the middle of the corridor. On the main screen was the arena floor.

“You sure there is going to be a fight? Looks more like a stage to me.” Hunk notices. The arena floor has a raised platform in the middle, complete with a fancy red curtain and powerful lighting. The audience was seated on only half of the circular arena, setting the focus for a directional performance rather than the normal fights.

“Sometimes the fights are themed after the cultures the fighters come from. I remember a fight once where two Eddgonians sang each other to death like it was an opera.” Shiro remembered while instinctively reaching to rest his hand on the elbow of his robotic arm. He had seen some messed-up acts in his time. Realizing where his hand was, he blends the motion into a hand signal to keep moving.

Dodging the first patrol they had run into, they made their way to the backstage area. Behind the stage was a storage area with semitransparent black curtains blocking the view of the audience. The Paladins snuck their way through what looked like backdrops for a stage production and a multitude of props.

“Man, the Galra never do anything halfway. This makes me feels like we are on Broadway.” Lance says, thinking back to the many school plays he had been a part of.

“Probably going all out for this themed fight because the fighter is the same species as the Empire’s greatest enemies. They want to rub it in.” Keith says, trying hard to not sound menacing. Pidge grimaces at the thought of her father and brother being put through extra cruel treatment because of her.

The roar of the crowd tells the team that they are too late to stop the fight before it starts. Pidge sprints to the opening on the side of the stage. Everyone assumes the worst when she freezes in place, her face contorted in shock and surprise.

“HEY! What are you doing back here?!” A guard yells hidden behind a backdrop, grabbing her arm and throwing her back the way she came.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BROTHER?” Pidge yells, barely audible over the music that started to play.

Hunk is silently thankful that he had not been the first to look, imagining what Matt must look like to elicit that kind of response from Pidge. He sees a glint of a door opening behind him and pulls out his bayard. Battle instincts kick in as the Paladins are swarmed by dozens of guards. Some are stronger than others, but nothing compared to the soldiers they fight on a regular basis.

All through the fight the loud music shakes the floor, ruining their balance. The guards seem accustomed to it, leveraging the music to their advantage. Try as they might, the acoustics are not in the Paladin’s favor. They can’t even make out the content of the music beyond the thumping beat. Something in the back of Shiro’s mind seems to think the beat feels Japanese in origin, but there is a fight to be won and a friend to save so he ignores it.

The lights dim as a new song begins, and Keith could see thousands of small purple lights appear in the stands through the thin black curtain. Are those…glowsticks? No time to worry about that now. Not when Pidge is mowing through mooks so fast she could be a danger to the team if he lets his guard down. She had already thrown someone so hard they knocked over the guard Keith had been fighting, who would have fallen on him if he not for fast reflexes.

Despite not being the caliber of fighters they are used to, the guards were doing their job well as they managed to herd the Paladins farther and farther from the stage. By the time the last wave of guards were taken down, the crowd had cheered through half a dozen songs or so. Shiro prayed that Matt had built up the stamina and skill to survive that long in one piece.

Pidge is yet again the first to the side of the stage, tossing aside an unconscious guard blocking the stairs. But this time someone steps out as she approaches. Whoever it was wearing a fabulous purple dress and was holding a microphone.

Shiro squints to focus on this new face only for his eye to go wide as he makes a sudden realization and can’t seem to find the words. Keith, Hunk, and Lance take a few more seconds to recognize the other person in the photo Pidge carries around and are equally dumbfounded.

It was Matt. Covered in makeup and big fluffy bows. He squeaks in fear as he suddenly finds himself faced with five armored strangers with weapons drawn. Taking a step back, he can see by the look in their eyes that they are just as surprised to see him as he is to see them. Speaking of eyes, the eyes of the short green one look kind familiar. Before he knows it, they have ripped off their helmet and Matt suddenly finds himself looking into a mirror. They share a look for a moment, not believing what they are seeing.

Matt doesn’t respond until he is certain who this person is. They changed a lot in their time apart, but so had he.

“You became a DUDE!?”

“You became a GIRL?!” Pidge blurted out half a second later. Pidge knew her brother would not give answers until she gave an answer first. He had asked first, and that was the rule Mom had put down after one too many arguments across the dinner table. “I broke into the Garrison to get info on the Kerberos mission. Iverson banned me when I got caught so I enrolled as a guy. You?”

“Some rebels broke me out of jail and I joined up. They needed a propaganda tool so I suggested an Idol Singer as a joke. It kinda snowballed from there.” He saw his sister break eye contact to take in his appearance.

“It looks good on you.” Pidge compliments with a hint of jealousy. Why did he look better in a dress than she ever had?

“I know, right?” he says while bending his knees slightly and flaring out his hands. The slight turn of the motion makes the dress twirl a bit.

A new voice screams at the sight of what could be hundreds of guards piled on the floor and his star performer cornered by the probable assailants. Hunk was glad he had the presence of mind to stow away his bayard when the fight ended, otherwise he would have dropped his gun on his foot.

“Matt! Who are these people? What do they want?” He pleads, reaching out with one of his arms while the other three point to the Paladins.

“Jyato, hey. These are my guests,” Matt gestures to the still shocked Paladins, “And they forgot their passes. Security gave them a hard time but they kicked butt! They’re soooo strong!” He ends with a swoon as he clasped his hand together. Pidge can’t decide whether to punch or laugh at her brother.

Jyato the manager is clearly annoyed with Matt’s antics. This seems to have happened before.

“Fine. Clean yourself up and get changed. Phase 2 is already in orbit and they sound impatient.” He concedes before stocking off in a huff.

“Phase 2?” Pidge asks.

“Of my show. You guys want to help blow up some Galra Battleships?” Matt asks brightly as if inviting them to a pool party.

“…What...” Lance and Keith say in perfect unison as Matt walks past them, slyly sliding a white gloved hand along both their jaws and coaxing their heads to turn so their eyes stayed glued to him.

“Come with me you handsome devils.” Matt said seductively, yet with no intent in his voice. Pidge could tell he was laying it on thick. And by the way the Blue and Red Paladins were blushing, they were eating it up.

Matt explains a bit about his situation as he leads the Paladins to a temporary looking hangar outside the arena. Everything he was doing he was doing was part of the show, and that included flirting with the crowd until he was out of sight. He apologized to Lance and Keith for being so forward, saying that fans always peak backstage. And who is he to disappoint his fans?

The hangar bustles with activity. Fighter craft are being fueled and pilots hastily suiting up, with a muffled speaker relaying directions somewhere overhead.

“Okay, this is not how I thought today would turn out.” Lance starts. “Seriously, is this even happening? First we found Pidge’s brother in a dress and now we’re stepping into Star Wars.”

Matt chuckles. “Yeah, now that you mention it, it does kinda…” Matt pauses and turns to his sister. “Pidge? Like Dad used to call you?”

She winces as she is reminded of where the name came from. “I needed a name to enroll with.” She said shyly, hoping her brother would not embarrass her by telling everyone how she had earned the nickname. Fortunately, he had either grown some tact or was saving that story for later.

“I like it.” Matt turns back to the other Paladins. “You guys can take a pod back to your ship to get those Lions I’ve heard so much about. Kati…Pidge? Pidge. Pidge and I will start the show.” They could discuss which name to use later. As far as her friends were concerned her name was Pidge, and that was good enough for now.

The boys cram into pod Matt had pointed to and hurry back to Castle, and Pidge reaches out with her mind to summon Green from her hiding place. Matt whistles approvingly as Green touches down.

“Okay, now I believe you.”

“Believe what?”

“That you would fly a ship way cooler than I ever would.” Pidge can’t help but smile as she remembers the dinner she had made that bold statement.

Matt walk behind a curtain to change into a flight suit that matches the dress he had been wearing. Following him to his ship, Pidge’s eyes nearly pop when she sees it.

“Oh my god. Matt, that ship is so extra!” she said, barely holding back the laughter. Matt’s ship looked like a retrofitted Galra fighter, the kind the Lions smashed by the dozen. It had oversized engines, showy laser guns that really didn’t need to stick out that far, and glowing purple armor plates. An artistic rendition of Matt’s face was painted on the wings, sticking his tongue out and throwing a peace sign with a disembodied hand. Pidge could have sworn she had seen something like it in an anime one time.

Still fighting back the giggles, she boards the Green Lion.

“All right boys, it’s show time!” Matt calls over the coms. Fighter craft explode out of the hangar in a well-practiced formation, led by Matt and Pidge.

Back at the Castle, Allura is not sure what to make of all this. The Paladins had not reported in at their scheduled time, and when they did they had informed her that Matt was going to lead the charge against the fleet amassing in orbit. Coran picked up a broadcast that was flooding the coms network.

The broadcast was blaring music and showing prerecorded videos of battles against the Galra featuring a garishly designed ship performing unnecessarily complex maneuvers. At the end of the song, Pidge -no, that must be Matt- began broadcasting from a plush looking cockpit.

“Hey everybody! Sorry to keep you waiting. But look who I found backstage! My little sister!” He said in a sickeningly cute voice. Was this person really related to Pidge? The broadcast smoothly introduced a second camera angle, this time with Pidge in the Green Lion.

“HI!!!” Pidge squealed happily, waving into the camera. Allura’s immediate thought was that they had been infected with some kind of virus to make them act strangely, but she would give Pidge the benefit of the doubt.

“My sister happens to a Paladin of Voltron. Let’s hear who wants to see us kick some Empire butt!”

The cheer that came as a response did not come over the coms but Allura felt them no less as the Castle was rocked by the sheer force of it.

“But sound doesn’t travel through space!” Coran said in a panic, clinging to his control panel to steady himself. Never underestimate the power of a crowd, Allura thought.

The remaining Paladins had made it to their Lions and were launching just as the battle started. They too had picked up Matt’s broadcast.

“This is ridiculous. How does he expect anyone to take him seriously?” Keith questioned.

“It all about moral, man.”

“Lance is right. People can do anything if you give them the right encouragement.” Hunk replied. “These rebels must get all kinds of support from their fans.”

Matt opens a private channel, speaking normally but still with a feminine flare.

“Alright guys, here’s the thing. These are not real Galra ships.” The Paladins raise eyebrows and give confused grunts. “These are captured vessels that are remote controlled. We modified the laser cannons on them to only give a real hard shove without burning a hole in anything. Feel free to tank a few shots for the sake of the show. If any more ships show up, those ones are real.”

Keith groaned. This wasn’t even a real fight. Shiro could almost taste the disappointment.

“Come on Keith, it’ll be fun. All in the name of moral. Now, let’s FORM VOLTRON!”

And what a show it had been.

Or so Lance thought. As he woke up and uncoiled himself from the bedsheets, he couldn’t help but regret waking up from such a fantastic dream. Keith had managed to enjoy himself, and the face Pidge had made once Matt was safely aboard had him thinking her checks would break from the smile.

“Man that dream was awesome. I bet Pidge would get a kick out of it.”

Lance yawns heavily, stretching his arms as he does. Food first, then story time.

Lance feels his tiredness grow as he approaches the kitchen. It would seem he did not sleep well despite having such a vivid dream, and hadn’t bothered doing his bedtime beauty ritual. He is the last one to breakfast this morning. As per usual he greets everyone clockwise around the table.

“Pidge, Keith, Shiro, Hunk, Coran, Pidge, Allura. Goood morning.” Usually it flowed a little better with fewer people seated, but he was late.

Lance makes it all the way to the goo dispenser before he notices the growing sounds of muffled snickering. All he had said was ‘good morning’ to everyone. What was so funny?

“…Wait. WHAT?! Two Pidges?” He said spinning around to point at the two.

Varying amounts of laughter erupt from around the table, none more so than the siblings sitting across from each other.

“Come on, Lance. Do we really look that similar?”

Notes:

This was entirely inspired by an art post on Tumblr. I can’t tell for certain if the owner of the blog is the artist, what with part of it being in Chinese(?), but Google Image Search gives me no reason to doubt it.

Sam Holt doesn’t get so much as a mention because everyone was pretty well distracted when Matt showed up in a dress. Hopefully Sam comes up in the conversation over breakfast once they stop laughing at Lance.

…What do you mean, I can just write him in? That’s not how this works. I find a universal parallel of Voltron I like, search the timeline for eutectic events that bookend something interesting, and record what I see. Sure, I spice things up a bit, but the story begins and ends when it decides to.

I’m not super jazzed with the title. The original title gave away that Matt was an Idol Singer, and the second “sounded like a ‘Toddlers in Tiaras’ episode title,” as a friend put it.

If you can figure out which of the Holt siblings said that last line, let me know. ‘Cause I have no idea which one said it.

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