#i used your ask as my excuse to write this travesty | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amjustagirl · 3 years

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Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi's heart has always pointed north. He wonders if it's broken when it starts to point inexorably towards her.

Set in the aftermath of The Astrophile, in the same universe as Storm Chaser.

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi / f! reader

Genre: Fluff, angst, romance

Wordcount: 7.8k

Masterlist link here

A/N: Dedicated first and foremost to Ami @softsakusa, one of the first people to convince that my writing isn’t shit and that I should keep creating fics.

This fic is also for all the readers who wanted a happy ending for the reader in The Astrophile (which sets out the backstory of the reader, Iwaizumi and Oikawa), and also follows the events of Storm Chaser (which follows the turbulent relationship of Miya Atsumu and now wife - I named her Kaiyo in this fic to avoid confusion!).

Hope you like it - reblogs and comments are always dearly appreciated <3

It must be the worst meet cute of all time.

That is – if he’s using that phrase correctly. It keeps appearing in the god-awful English movies Bokuto and Miya keep playing during team movie nights that makes him want to tear his hair out.

But yes, he meets her at Miya Shino’s seventh birthday party, the birthday girl the apple of Miya Atsumu’s eye, the princess of his castle, the most perfect angel in the entire heavens - the list of pet names growing longer and longer the more the obnoxious setter prattles on about his daughter.

And apparently Miya Shino is a chip off the old block, and is as obsessed with volleyball as her father. Which means that he, one Sakusa Kiyoomi, is forced to turn up on a Saturday afternoon for a birthday party to teach a group of children roughly about the same height as his kneecaps how to play volleyball.

There are plenty of other MSBY players that Miya Atsumu could have rounded up to fritter away a Saturday afternoon. Hinata, for instance - the sunny, fiery headed opposite hitter a perennial favourite with young fans. Or Inunaki - the liberio has an amiable personality that he certainly wouldn’t mind snot nosed children hanging off his arms like a walking, talking monkey bar. But no, Hinata is apparently busy on a weekend meditation retreat, and Inunaki is at his sister’s wedding party, so both of them managed to escape this travesty of a birthday party.

That leaves him with Bokuto who’s practically a child himself, beaming, bumping balls at screaming children with one hand, the other hand lifting another child above his head. Meian’s here too but his own kid is somewhere in this gaggle of monsters anyway, so he’s here to carry out his parental duties – hopefully his presence might balance the sheer chaos he’s sure he’s about to face.

‘Omi-omi you made it!’ Atsumu greets him with a slap to the back.

Sakusa resists the urge to bare his teeth. Is this what hell is? Screeching gremlins underfoot, the nauseating smell of fried food permeating the air.

And it’s probably because he’s still in a horrified daze at the situation he’s put himself in (which Atsumu is either too dense to pick up on or already immune due to the series of similar expressions he pulls at him on a daily basis), Atsumu manages to snap a party hat on his head, before he prances off in victory.

Sakusa snarls, ripping off the red paper hat off his head.

Why on earth did he agree to this again?

‘Sakusa-san! Thank you so much for coming!’

His glare softens by a fraction.

Miya Kaiyo, Atsumu’s long suffering wife approaches him, careful not to touch him, waving at him instead. He appreciates her thoughtfulness, so he thaws a little, giving her a slight nod in greeting.

Right, she’s the reason why he’s here.

He’s always been fond of her - competent, patient, intelligent, far too good for her idiot of a husband. Approximately a year ago, he sought her professional help with his accounts. He graduated with a business degree from Chuo University, so he can tell there is obviously something fishy that his manager is pulling with his finances, but the accounting courses he took weren’t in depth to pinpoint the problem. Miya Kaiyo, on the other hand, a trained forensic accountant with a nose like a bloodhound for fraudulent accounts, nailed down the problem within a week. So when she asked him after a game whether he’d be free to attend her daughter's birthday party, he hadn’t been able to turn her down.

‘It was no problem’, he says stiffly, already itching to spray the whole place down with disinfectant. ‘I’m glad to be here.’

Kaiyo laughs at his obvious lie, tugging at his sleeve to seat him in a corner. ‘You don’t have to go play with the kids if you didn’t want to! I invited you so we could catch up, and besides, I did want to introduce you to someone.’

‘Hm.’

He doesn’t try to mask his reluctance this time. Kaiyo means well, he knows, but between her and his mother, he’s tired of having to fend off match making attempts. It’s not like he can’t get a date – he can and he has, it’s just difficult to find someone willing to put up with his prickly personality and busy schedule.

‘Well she’s not here yet, so you’ll have to wait. And while we’re waiting, tell me how’ve things been, Sakusa-san?’

Grateful that he’s not going to be forced into shepherding children into playing anything remotely resembling an actual volleyball match (he suspects he might have more luck teaching cats how to do the conga), he settles into his seat, mouth stretching into something resembling a smile. He lets her chatter about work, and they’re deep in a discussion about his plans post-volleyball (because he can feel the countdown on his career in his creaking bones, his aching sinews) when Atsumu swoops in on him again, like a vulture seeking easy prey.

‘What’cha doin’ with my wife, Omi-omi’, he slips a hand around Kaiyo’s waist mock possessively.

She swats at him. He ducks, raising his hands in surrender.

‘I enjoy talking to an actual adult sometimes, ‘Tsumu!’

‘Oh come on, I already have to share you with ‘Samu most of the time, now you’re leaving me for Omi-kun?!’

‘Dramatic ass.’

‘Please, you chose to marry me.’ He crows, flipping his hair. He looks ridiculous, he always does. Kaiyo seems to agree -

‘And I wonder why sometimes.’ She retorts, Atsumu squawking indignantly at her response, hair ruffling like an offended chick. But Kaiyo ruins the effect of her words by laughing, leaning over to affectionately peck her husband on the cheek.

Sakusa should be annoyed by this display of childishness, but for some inexplicable reason, a frisson of longing bubbles in his chest instead. It’s strange. Marriage or even serious relationships have never been something he’s actively sought. After all, it always seemed horrendously illogical to put all your eggs in one basket and hope nothing trips up – but his heart pays his mind no mind, and the strange sensation continues to trickle down his throat into his chest.

He makes up an excuse to slip to the bathroom for a tactical retreat from this madness.

Then he takes a breath.

Rinse. Lather hands with soap. Rinse. Repeat again .

Familiar motions, bred out of a desire to do things right, transformed into an unbreakable habit. Cold water, washing away soap bubbles.

Right. Now he’s ready for another plunge off the deep end .

He’s a foot past the threshold of the community hall where the party is being held when Miya Shino darts towards him. She’s very clearly her father’s daughter with his penchant for mischief because she dives between his legs, making him stumble in confusion. Then Meian Shugo’s eldest son Makoto barrels towards him, intent on reaching the ball held aloft in Shino’s hands.

Athletic reflexes be damned in the face of a pair of hell-spawn.

‘Shino!’. Kaiyo shouts.

‘Makoto!’ Meian thunders.

Sakusa flails, decidedly without grace, and in his attempt at not squashing the two little devils, he manages to do something even worse .

Much, much worse.

He manages to trip over his feet and bump right into the woman Miya Kaiyo wanted to introduce him to (this, he finds out later). It’s a lost cause – he’s six foot two of pure muscle, dwarfing her by a mile, and she’s carrying a huge box in her hand.

He ends up face planting directly into her chest.

His brain short circuits at the feeling of plush softness and vanilla and – ,

‘Woah - Omi-omi, never thought I’d have to defend the honour of my cousin in law’, Atsumu laughs.

The sudden flare of irritation at Atsumu’s words kickstarts his brain back into gear. Rearing back in alarm, he promptly topples over onto his butt.

‘Uncle ‘kusa, I’m sorry’ Shino screeches, distraught. Makoto merely snivels. Kaiyo is evidently the only one with working brain cells, because she rushes over to help them up.

The-woman-with-the-mysterious-box makes Kaiyo take the box first. It holds precious cargo - Shino’s birthday cake, he later finds out, but because she manages to cling on to it with admirable tenacity, it emerges more or less intact. Then she turns to him, still sprawled on the floor. He scoots away, still dazed.

She offers him a steady hand. ‘Hello’, she says. ‘It seems we’ve gotten off to rather a bad start.’

There is a hint of mirth in her voice, but her eyes are kind.

He takes her hand with a rare smile.

Miya Kaiyo grins behind the cake box. It turns out her daughter is a better matchmaker than either her or (heaven forbid) her husband.

It turns out that Miya Kaiyo wanted to introduce him to her cousin, newly moved to Osaka from Tokyo. She’s a sports journalist, used to cover volleyball even, but for some reason their paths never crossed. She too, is tired of her cousin’s well intentioned meddling, but asks him if he’d like to meet her for dinner one day ‘if only to get Kaiyo off her back, because she’s persistent’, and funnily enough, he agrees.

He doesn’t mind making a new friend, he reasons. She seems decent enough.

They go out for dinner on a Tuesday night. She doesn’t complain when he tells her that due to his diet planned by MSBY’s nutritionist, most restaurants are off limits. Instead, she asks intelligent questions about whether the sources of protein and fibre he’s relying on are varied enough, even suggesting alternatives like tempeh, a Southeast Asian soy product.

He appreciates that.

She doesn’t also fawn over the fact that he’s a professional athlete. That makes sense, considering she’s probably interviewed dozens, if not hundreds of individuals who are just like him. It’s nice - he’s tired of groupies who start dates off by staring at him starry eyed, but ending it with disappointment in their eyes when they discover that he’s just a guy who practices hitting balls enough to do it for a living. And best of all, she doesn’t mind that their conversation sometimes wanes into silence. She doesn’t seem to feel the need to fill empty spaces with inane drivel, nor expect him to entertain her like a circus animal.

He likes that.

So when the night ends, he asks her whether she’d like to have dinner with him again. ‘Just as friends’, he’s quick to clarify.

‘Sure’, she nods, and they bid each other goodnight.

They start having dinner every Tuesday night, subject to their erratic schedules.

He enjoys her company. She’s thoughtful, bringing him home made baked goods like zucchini cake (low sugar, of course), sneaking him chocolate scones for his cheat days after she discovers his hidden sweet tooth. She’s considerate too, never blinking an eye at his compulsive need to make sure everything is just in order, even if the waitress stands behind them aghast when he insists on using disinfectant to wipe down their table. She doesn’t even call him paranoid when he passes her a bottle of sanitizer.

Slowly, he finds himself confiding in her about things he’d maybe only tell his cousin, Motoya. Or at least, the things he would tell Motoya if the guy would only pick up his calls.

‘Sorry’, Motoya texts back after a couple of missed calls. ‘ Practice has been brutal recently.

In a remarkable display of restraint, Sakusa does not point out that EJP Raijin is below MSBY in this season’s rankings.

So he tells her instead about how he’s contemplating retirement, how he’s trying to chart out his next steps career wise. She surprises him by listening to him gravely, pointing out that he can lean on his business degree to possibly land an office job in event management or with sports associations, putting him in touch with one overly excited Kuroo Tetsuro. He tucks her suggestions away carefully at the back of his mind.

It’s nice to have a friend, he tells himself, his lips quirking ever so slightly when her hand grazes his as they walk down the street together.

He invites her to the monthly gatherings that the MSBY players take turns to host for their family and friends, making the excuse that he needs a human shield in any event hosted by Miya Atsumu. She agrees easily, perking up at the chance to spend a Sunday afternoon with her cousin and niece - ‘ and Kaiyo’ll need help, especially since she’s pregnant’, bringing far too many cupcakes topped with the lightest, fluffiest cream cheese frosting he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. Even Miya Osamu gives her a nod of respect after stuffing his face full of her cupcakes. He, unlike his twin, has good taste.

Her brow furls into a concerned frown when he quietly sneaks himself a second cupcake. ‘You don’t have to force yourself to eat it just to be polite! I made it, so I know it has so much sugar and butter it would make your nutritionist weep. If you want, I snuck some zucchini cake in my handbag for you instead.’

He stubbornly shovels a large bite into his mouth. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

She bursts into laughter, leaning forward to wipe away the smudge of frosting on the tip of his nose with her thumb.

Miya Kaiyo shoots him a knowing look across the room, waggling her eyebrows in an eerie imitation of her husband. He fights to keep his face blank, refusing to feed her satisfaction, but fails, a hot flush rising in his cheeks.

‘Traitor’ he mouths at her. Her smirk only deepens.

Fortunately, the gathering ends with no further mishaps, either to his physical well-being or his dignity. Makoto is packed off with Meian, the little boy whining for more time to play with Shino. Hinata and Bokuto prance off for some ridiculous buffet on the other side of town.

As for himself, he hangs back with her to help the Miyas put their house back in order, expelling an amused puff of a laugh from his nose when she forces the very pregnant Kaiyo to ‘stay still, for goodness sake!’ on the couch, dancing around the house with a mop, Shino trailing after her waving a feather duster with gusto. He refrains from telling the little girl that she’s more likely to spread the dust than to actually clear it – at least she’s not causing more havoc this way.

‘I can’t believe I could’ve ever taken this for granted, y’know’, Atsumu comments from behind him, mouth wide in a tender smile. ‘It’s the best feeling in the world to have a wife and kid who loves ya to the moon and back, welcoming ya home after a long day at work. They make everything worth it.’

He’s thrown for a loop at this rare display of emotional vulnerability from the usually obnoxious setter and for once, does not resort to hostility, choosing instead to acknowledge the blonde setter’s words with a tacticum nod.

The Miyas’ apartment is far too chaotic for his tastes, with colourful toys scattered on the floor, mismatched picture frames of the little family on the walls, but laughter hangs in the air, and light spills from the windows, illuminating the warmth and love and fondness in every look and word the Miyas gift each other.

His father gave him a compass when he was a child, as a present to celebrate his first match. His mother clucked her tongue because it’s a strange gift for a child - delicate, fiddly, its gold exterior tarnished with age. But his father chuckled and told him that he’s old enough to appreciate that the compass is his father’s, and his father’s father before that, an heirloom to remind their sons to work hard at everything they do, and to keep their hearts on course, pointing north.

And Sakusa thinks he’s done that. He’s worked and worked and worked at perfecting his skills in his chosen sport. He’s accepted his solo course, so laser focused on carving out a career in professional sports leaves little time or space for intimate relationships. Not to mention the fact that watching the disaster of Atsumu’s early years of marriage from the sidelines, made him swear off similar heartbreak for himself.

But there are times when he can’t help but feel a little lonely - when he has to struggle to find a date for MSBY events, when he has no one to celebrate the holidays with, when he goes home every day to his neat, cold apartment with space for only one occupant.

The compass in his heart creaks. It starts to turn a few degrees just off-course.

‘Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to get married?’ he asks her as he’s walking her home that night.

‘I did, once upon a time’, she shrugs carelessly. He misses the sudden strain in her smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

He stays silent for a while, the length of the quiet street giving him time to properly ferment his response. He considers the effects of adding splashes of colour to his dull life, weighs it against his long cultivated instinct to avoid the potential chaos of any emotional entanglements. He finds himself suddenly craving the sweetness of cream cheese frosting, and wonders how it’d be like to come home to light, fluffy cakes baked by her hands.

When they reach her apartment block, she tilts her head at him curiously, obviously awaiting his answer. He tugs his words together, strings his swirling thoughts into a decipherable sentence.

‘Because Atsumu and Kaiyo seem happy together. And I wondered if we’d be happy together too.’

He watches her puzzle over his words, her brow furling into a confused frown. ‘And I wasn’t proposing, by the way’, he feels the need to clarify.

She snorts. ‘I didn’t think so.’ With a directness that he very much appreciates, she looks at him squarely and asks - ‘Are you asking me out, Sakusa Kiyoomi?’

He meets her gaze. ‘Yes, I am. We’ve known each other for a decently long time for me to conclude our personalities are well matched, and we’re both mature adults who respect each other’s work schedules and commitments. And if you don’t mind that I can be overly blunt and quiet sometimes - ‘

‘ - which I don’t’, she interjects, with a chuckle.

‘I think we might be happy together’, he concludes, with a small smile that’s becoming more common in her presence.

He allows her the space to turn his proposition over in her mind.

‘Alright’, she finally says. ‘I guess we can give it a go’.

So much for Atsumu accusing him of having a heart made out of tin. Flesh and muscle works overtime to pump blood into his cheeks as she slots her fingers between his and gives his hand a squeeze.

Being in a relationship isn’t too different from what they had before.

They still keep to their standing date to meet every Tuesday (schedules permitting, of course). But now he doesn’t have to make up excuses to ask her out on outings that aren’t food related. At first he tries his best to adhere to dating norms, arranging for romantic dates at candlelit restaurants, buying her massive bouquets that make her sneeze.

‘It’s fine, Omi’, she tells him gently after they spend another uncomfortable evening in a dimly lit restaurant eating off plates too large for the laughably tiny food portions. ‘I’m happy just hanging out with you. You don’t have to go out of your way to impress me, I’m not holding on to any ridiculous expectations of you’. He stops after that, glad he doesn’t have to suffer another night trying to decipher which utensil to be used at which course, or having to put on starched formal wear to yet another stuffy restaurant.

She’s noticeably happier when they accompany each other on trips to the supermarket, each holding a stack of coupons to take advantage of the latest deals. She shields him from any overly zealous obaa-sans with gusto, throwing elbows and using her grocery basket as a makeshift battering ram before they crowd close enough to him to trigger his anxiety. He helps her reach for things on the top shelf ‘to prevent her from scaling the grocery shelves like an overgrown teenager’ , he snarks. He’s worried his attempt at teasing lands wrong, but she snorts and thanks him good naturedly anyways.

On the weekends, they develop a habit of meal prepping for the rest of the week at her apartment. His kitchen lacks the fancy mixers and blenders that she has, and in all honesty, his dark, spartan apartment lacks the sunlight and warmth that spills into her apartment from the windows, so it’s only logical that they should spend the bulk of their time there. It’s an oasis of calm for him, chopping vegetables and chicken into small cubes, sautéing them for the week ahead, while she bustles around whipping eggs and flour and milk together to form another delectable cake that they always end up sharing at the end of the day.

He starts to dread matches away from home a little more than he used to. While hotel rooms are as spartan as his own apartment, he doesn’t have the option of heading over to her apartment to bask in her quiet warmth. His meals come in styrofoam boxes instead of the glass tupperware she stacks on her kitchen counter, and he turns up his nose at store bought cakes that his teammates offer him, only craving for those baked in her oven. He even starts looking up to the stands for a glimpse of her, only to remember that she can’t be there to cheer the team on.

‘Cheer up, Omi-omi! We’ll have a home match next week’, Atsumu tells him jovially.

‘It doesn’t matter either way to me’, he mutters resentfully, but the setter only grins.

‘Trust me, it matters a great deal to have the girl ya love cheering ya on, y’know?’

He stalks off to the changing room, ignoring the peals of laughter from the blonde annoyance he leaves in his wake.

The tight coil of loneliness only loosens when he sees her waiting for him at the station when he returns. She ignores his protests to snag his suitcase away from him, the case looking comically large against her small frame, but she uses it effectively as a tank to force a path through the crowd, and drag him back to her apartment in no time.

‘You need a home cooked dinner to make up for all those industrially prepared food you must’ve been eating this entire week’, she tells him, bustling around the kitchen, only stilling when he takes her shoulders in his hands.

‘Are you happy?’ he asks, when he cups her face to carefully brush the dusting of flour on her cheek away.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She laughs, the sound fond.

‘Just checking in’, he tells her, closing his eyes as she pulls him down towards her for a kiss.

All in all, it’s a happy, uncomplicated relationship. He likes it that way.

If his heart were a compass, he’d suspect it’s broken because instead of pointing north, it starts to inch inexorably towards her.

But there are strange quirks he notices about her that niggles at his brain.

She refuses point blank to check out the planetarium when she attends an event held at the adjacent Art Museum as his date, professing to have an irrational dislike for stars.

‘They’re just balls of burning gas and light ’ , he points out. ‘What could you possibly have against them?’

There’s a flicker of irritation in her eyes that he does not miss. ‘I know it’s stupid but just humour me, ok?’ Her tone verges on a snarl, before she storms away, ostensibly to the bathroom to freshen herself up.

She returns later with an apology for her behaviour. Though he’s confused, he respects her privacy and does not push for an answer.

He’s at her apartment preparing meals for the week ahead when the doorbell rings and an enormous bouquet of white lilies are deposited into her arms. She stares dumbly at the flowers, their sickly sweet scent permeating the air.

His brow furls. ‘Today isn’t your birthday, is it?’

His words jolt her out of her trance. ‘No’, she answers, before inexplicably storming to the living room and dumping the bouquet with a vengeance on the coffee table. Pollen flutters to the floor, delicate white petals crushed in her hands.

‘It’s nothing’, she tells him as he shoots her a questioning look.

When she disappears to the washroom, he peeks at the card. There��s no name on it, just a simple message - ‘consider it, please?’

He doesn’t question her about it when she returns to the kitchen. She doesn’t offer him any answers either.

He finds himself wondering about them.

It was refreshing at first to have a relationship free of any expectations. She never asks for more than he’s willing to give, seems happy enough to slot herself into the pockets of time he offers, only attends his games when he gives her tickets, doesn’t get upset with him when he inevitably forgets to text.

But therein lies the issue, doesn’t it?

If she truly likes him, wants to pursue a relationship seriously with him, shouldn’t she be demanding more than the crumbs of affection and attention he shows her? They’re both past the age of thirty, shouldn’t she be looking to get married and settle down, maybe spawn a demon child or two?

He’s tried raising it with her once, but she responded with confusion.

‘I don’t have any expectations of you, Omi’, she’d replied. ‘We both have busy lives, so whatever you’re willing to give, I’m happy to take’.

There’s technically nothing wrong about her answer. It’s wholly considerate and kind - very much her.

Still, it makes him wonder - if her heart were a compass, would it point towards him?

He manages to hold his tongue until she gets another delivery of flowers.

This time he opens the door when the doorbell rings, assaulted by the heady scent of lillies, pollen smeared on his sleeves. This time, there’s a name on the card.

Oikawa Tooru .

It takes a couple of seconds for him to realise why the name is so familiar. It’s the same name Hinata and Kageyama used to buzz about every Olympics - the famous Argentinian setter who started his career as a schoolboy from Miyagi, a prodigious setter who never made it to Nationals in high school, refused to give up and forged his way to success in a whole new land, continents away.

‘How do you know Oikawa’? He asks her. ‘And why does he keep sending your flowers?’

‘He’s just an old acquaintance,’ she admits. ‘He’s just sending the flowers to persuade me to attend his wedding.’

His forehead crinkles in confusion, and he tries his best not to leap to conclusions, but since she doesn’t seem to be forthcoming with further clarification, he presses her further.

‘And why won’t you attend his wedding?’

Her shoulders slouch in obvious reluctance as she turns away, focusing her attention on the mixing bowl. But Kiyoomi isn’t easily deterred, so he firmly takes the mixing bowl from her and sets it on the countertop. He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly seeking an answer.

She huffs a sigh through her nose. ‘Because he’s getting married to my ex-boyfriend, ok?’

He blinks. That was unexpected.

‘It happened half a decade ago. Ancient history. I’m over it.’ She mutters to the floor.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘Because it’s none of your business’, she snaps, grabbing the mixing bowl again, beating the batter with a vengeance.

‘You’re going to ruin the texture if you whisk it too hard’, he tugs the bowl away from her again. She refuses to relinquish her grip.

‘Leave me alone!’ she snarls, yanking the bowl back. Confused by her sudden fury, he lets go of the bowl, only for her to stumble back, eyes wide as she loses her balance, knocking her head against the countertop.

He drops down onto his knees, not even noticing the batter soaking into his pants, combing through her hair, scouring the back of her neck for any sign of injury. It’s only when he’s satisfied that her fall has resulted in nothing more than a bruise that should go away by tomorrow that he notices her tears soaking the front of his shirt.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asks, wiping her tears away with a batter splattered thumb.

She hangs her head, body still shaking from her sobs. ‘I’ve already made such a mess of things – don’t want you to have to listen to my nonsense – am just bein’ stupid, that’s all - ’.

He patiently waits until her sobs dissolves into mere sniffles before speaking. ‘I want you to tell me what’s wrong. If you’re up to it.’

So through more broken sobs and hiccups, he listens to the tale of Iwaizumi Hajime, a boy who was her world, who only realised he was always in love with Oikawa Tooru, a fortnight before she and he were to wed. Her voice wavers as she tells him the full story of the white lilies, explains that her irrational dislike for stars stems from the reminder that she chose to give her world up to a boy-king burning brighter than the stars in the night sky combined.

He waits until her words run out, and she’s leaning against him, broken and pliant in a way that makes his heart ache.

‘I wish you told me about it earlier’, he tells her, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear. ‘That you would trust me enough to tell me about the things that hurt you in the past. And I wonder about the state of our relationship if you don’t even trust me enough for that’.

‘That’s unfair. You never asked - ‘

‘How could I ask about something I didn’t even know about?’ He takes hold of her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Hurt and anger and shock simmer in her eyes, each swirl of emotion fighting for dominance.

‘I didn’t want to expect anything more from this relationship than you were willing to give’, she admits after a pause.

She’s scared of being hurt again. He doesn’t miss the subtext.

‘Shall I tell you what I want from you then? I have a list, if you’re willing to hear me out’ he asks, with a smile that’s growing more common the more time he spends around her.

She nods, but keeps her gaze stubbornly on the ground.

He takes his time to choose his words. He’s never been verbose - not like Atsumu or Bokuto or even easygoing Motoya, choosing to only say what is strictly necessary, using the precise amount of words, nothing more, nothing less. But this is a situation that requires more emotion rather than precision, so he inhales a shaky breath, letting it fuel the sentiment in his heart as he exhales.

‘First. I want you to trust that I’ll never hurt you like he did’, he says, and with a self-deprecating smile he adds - ‘I don’t have any childhood friends to be secretly in love with besides Motoya, and I’m hardly going to be pining after my flake of a cousin’.

That triggers the corners of her lips to tilt upwards, and encouraged, he carries on.

‘Second. I want you to be open with me about what you want - your dreams, your expectations of me. I want to hear them all because you’re important to me.’

That makes her flush pink, and she sneaks a glance up towards him.

‘Third. I want to wake up each morning with you by my side and come home to you every night. I want to watch you fight cranky old ladies in the supermarket in my honour, be the first person to taste test all your baking experiments - even the failed ones that are only fit to feed Atsumu. I want us to be happy together. Forever, if possible.’

He lifts her bodily into his lap, brushes his nose against her cheek. ‘Now that I’ve told you what I’m willing to give, is that too much for you to take?’ he murmurs against her lips.

Her blush blossoms into a deep scarlet, but her eyes are iridescent pools of startled delight. She doesn’t speak, sealing her answer instead with her lips.

His heart’s compass is irretrievably broken, the needle melted into place. It doesn’t point north any longer, no – it’s always going to point towards her.

They move in together after that.

He gives up his apartment, professing to prefer the warmth and light of hers. The Miyas help him move in even when he tries to refuse their help, Atsumu helping him to lug cardboard boxes up the stairs, Kaiyo helping him sort out his belongings, sorting them into his allocated cupboards.

When they’re done, they order pizza and she bakes a cake to celebrate. ‘An impromptu housewarming’ she says, toasting Miya Kaiyo with a slice of pepperoni pizza with a laugh.

Kiyoomi shares a slice of chocolate cake with Atsumu in complete defiance of their nutritionist’s advice, jostling forks over the very last bite. She and Kaiyo scold them teasingly, telling them to behave like they’re actually thirty and not teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. Atsumu pulls at Kaiyo’s ponytail in retaliation. He refuses to engage in similar tomfoolery, reddening instead when she reaches over to ruffle his curls.

‘This is nice’, he remarks to Atsumu later, when their significant others are out of earshot, gossiping and giggling about something or other.

‘It is, isn’t it’, Atsumu replies, a dopey smile on his face as he stares at his wife.

It truly is , Kiyoomi thinks, staring at her.

He takes over most of the cleaning, it clears his mind, he tells her. So to split the chores evenly, she insists on doing their laundry and cooking, and he doesn’t even nag her too much when she forgets to split the white and coloured clothes and stains some of his shirts once in a while.

Wedding invites printed on expensive cream paper and bouquets of white lilies start to litter their doorstep every day. He tries his best to dispose of them before they reach her sight, but every so often, he comes home too late, catches her wilt as she brushes white petals from their doorstep.

‘I don’t blame either of them’, she tells him, after he asks if she’d like him to call Iwaizumi and tell him to drown himself in a vat of batter, thank you very much.

‘You’re too kind to both of them’ he says plainly, as they share a pot of tea, his head pillowed in her lap. ‘I would’ve just set them both on fire and left them to rot.’

‘Hajime loved Tooru for almost all his life - I just wanted to see him happy in the end. Argh - I sound so stupid and sentimental like an old grandma, just laugh at me already’ she complains, hiding her burning cheeks in her hands.

‘You aren’t stupid for being kind.’ He hums, quiet and low. ‘It’s why I love you so.’

He relishes the soft light dawning in her eyes, captures her whispered affection with careful fingers, spins them into gold.

He has to turn off the stove to answer the door when some rude lout bangs on their front door far too early on a Sunday morning.

With his coldest sneer and thinking resentfully about his breakfast, Kiyoomi swings the door open, fully intent on looming over the disturbance with his full height, but takes a step back instead when he finds one Iwaizumi Hajime hanging off the door knob.

‘Hello’, Iwaizumi looks up at him confusedly.

‘Hi’, he nods a greeting back at his old Olympic team trainer. They stare at each other.

‘Eh - I think I’ve got the wrong house’, Iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Sorry about that, Sakusa-san.’

He’s about to close the door in Iwaizumi’s face when her voice chimes in, clear as a bell.

‘Who’s at the door, Omi?’

The shorter man shoots him a look of barely contained rage as he uses his bulk to push his way through the doorway towards her. Kiyoomi tries to stop him, protesting that he can’t barge into someone’s private property without an invitation like that, but it’s as futile an endeavour as trying to block the path of a raging storm.

Iwaizumi reaches her first, raising a hand as if to cup her face by instinct, before letting it fall back limply by his side. ‘You weren’t answering any of my messages or calls’, he says. ‘I was worried about you.’

She stares at him blankly for a moment. Then fire sparks in her eyes.

‘Well, as you can see, I’m completely fine’, she replies, jaw and fists clenched. ‘You don’t need to do a welfare check on me, we’re not involved anymore.’

The scorching pain in Iwaizumi’s eyes is evident, even from a distance away. ‘Yeah. Well. I thought we were friends. You didn’t even tell me you were dating again’. He shoves his hands in his pockets, tossing another heated glance in Kiyoomi’s way.

‘I didn’t think I needed to update my ex-fiance about my love life, especially not when he’s trying to drag me to attend his wedding that I already said I’m not going to attend’, she bites back.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, then closes it with a resounding snap. ‘I’m sorry’, he says, with heartbreaking honesty. ‘I told Tooru that you probably didn’t want to hear from us, but he insisted and I got worried when I didn’t hear from you for months’.

Kiyoomi can see her glare soften into molten sympathy. The tension in the air crackles with electricity. He’s neither blind nor stupid – he can sense the years of longing and love not quite lost between them.

He thinks she loves him, Sakusa Kiyoomi – weird habits, cold disposition and all, but the doubt clogging up his arteries and veins is enough to make his heart seize – and if she’s going to break his heart, he’d much rather she not do it in front of Iwaizumi.

‘Hajime - ‘ she begins to say, and at this point he jumps in -

‘I’ll excuse myself so you both have the chance to catch up’, he says, waving aside her protests as he slips on his shoes. Even in his haste to leave the house, he clicks his tongue at the mess Iwaizumi left behind at their genkan , kneeling down to arrange their shoes, only standing up when he’s satisfied they’re neatly arranged back in place.

‘Omi, you don’t have to leave’, she says, holding the door open.

He shrugs his shoulders at her, nose and mouth already obscured by his usual face mask. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to come back’.

If she’d like him to come back. She doesn’t chase after him, after all.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, but the golden sunshine feels more like a taunt rather than a balm to his mood. His stomach growls, making him long for the scrambled eggs he was in the middle of frying before he was so rudely interrupted, but his growing sense of nausea keeps him from seeking out an alternative meal.

Instead, he makes his way to the park, sits on a relatively clean bench. There are couples a-plenty, strolling around hand in hand, families picnicking merrily around him, compounding the growing chasm of loneliness in his chest. He tries to count the seconds by his breaths, tries not to let the minutes expand the insecurities crawling, inch by inch up his throat.

He sits alone. Poised, yet short of breath.

He wonders if Iwaizumi Hajime has finally figured out that stars, for all their brilliance, cannot compensate for their lack of human kindness. And if so, he wonders which direction her heart would point towards if it were a compass - whether it’s as broken as his, and whether it points towards Iwaizumi or him.

He waits.

Then his phone buzzes.

Ah.

She’s asking him to come home. He does not dare to overthink the meaning of that single word. But he does not hide that his steps back home are lighter than when he left, though the key in his hand shakes so hard it takes him three tries to fit it into the keyhole. He does not try to suffocate the seed of hope budding in the soft earth of his heart when he realises Iwaizumi’s shoes have vanished without a trace.

“Omi?”

She’s waiting for him, slipping warm arms around his waist, tangling her fingers in his curls, ignoring his complaints about letting himself wash his hands first.

‘Am I silly for missing you, even though it’s only been an hour?’

He refuses to be distracted by the affection in her voice.

‘But what about Iwaizumi?’ he frowns, hesitation still poisoning the well of thoughts in his mind.

Perhaps it’s a testament to how well they’ve grown to know each other that she doesn’t need to read the silent subtext of his statement. She smiles, bringing his palm flat against her chest, does not answer until his pulse matches the steady beat of her heart.

‘I love you , Omi’, she tells him. Her heartbeat does not quicken, her smile does not waver. ‘You told me not to long ago to always be upfront with you about what I want so I’m going to be honest with you now - Iwaizumi is only ever going to be my past, and I want you from now on’.

If her heart were a compass, the steady beat of her heart tells him, it would point only towards him.

‘That is – if you’ll have me’, she adds, a shadow of doubt suddenly appearing on her face.

‘Don’t be ridiculous’, he scoffs, burying his nose to breathe in the familiar scent of vanilla in her hair. ‘Who else would I rather have than you?’

Who else would he be lucky enough to call his home – a woman with a heart large enough to fit a whole ocean within its depths, with kindness in her eyes and mirth in her smiles.

She laughs in spite of the salt in her throat and water in her eyes, leaning on her toes in a vain attempt to reach his face. He lifts her into her arms, laughs when she squeals indignantly as her feet only find air, toppling them both onto the couch where he can seat her between his legs, press kisses to her cheeks.

She’ll tell him later that Iwaizumi came looking for her because he’s never outgrown his overprotective streak, and he’s truly happy for her - for them, because they’ve both moved on with their separate lives. And she ended up agreeing to attend his and Oikawa’s wedding on one condition – that an invitation is extended to him, Sakusa Kiyoomi, to attend with her as his date.

He’ll tell her later that he’s happy to attend the wedding with her, just not to expect him to smile in any wedding pictures. And more importantly, he’ll tell her in his plain way that the list of expectations he has of their relationship has expanded yet again.

He’ll lay out his dreams of a pair of matching golden rings to bind them to lifelong companionship, of hellspawn of their own and a dog, maybe two.

He’ll ask her if it’s too much for him to ask of her.

She’ll tell him that she’s willing to give him everything he asks for and more.

It’s Miya Shino’s ninth birthday party.

He’s retired from volleyball proper, and is thankful he insisted on getting a business degree from Chuo University before going pro, because it comes in handy working alongside Kuroo Tetsuro at the volleyball association.

Miya Atsumu insists on inviting him to the party, though he supposes he’s invited not by virtue of being a former teammate, but because he’s also Shino’s uncle by marriage now. The thought that he’s related to Miya Atsumu, however distant and most definitely not by blood, still fills him with dread.

The birthday girl is a little less imbued with her father’s chaotic energy this time, though she still squeals when her birthday cake is unveiled – though to be fair it’s less a cake, more a tower of cupcakes with cream cheese frosting spelling out her name.

‘Thank you Auntie!’ Shino cries, flinging her arms around her. Kiyoomi flinches at the sight of anyone, even his nine year old niece, coming in close contact with his extremely pregnant wife, but a sharp glare from her subdues any complaint he dares to make.

He fusses over her the minute he has the chance to corral her away from the clutches of Miya Shino. ‘Are your feet hurting? What about your back? I don’t know why you insist on walking so much when you know the doctor said you should be on bed rest soon’.

‘Stop fussing, Omi! The baby and I will be fine’, she replies, exasperated. ‘This is the last social event scheduled before I pop and I’m determined to enjoy it while I can.’ Then she scuttles off faster than he imagines her frame allows, leaving him floundering in her wake.

‘Just let her be’, Miya Atsumu laughs, slapping his back. Kiyoomi is on the verge of pointing out - pot, meet kettle, reminding Atsumu that the last time Kaiyo was pregnant, Atsumu didn’t stop fretting until she went into labour and delivered a healthy baby boy. But then he remembers the grief etched into Atsumu’s face when Kaiyo miscarried in the stands during a game, so he holds his tongue and rolls his eyes instead.

‘I’m just worried she’s pushing herself too hard’, he admits in a rare bout of vulnerability.

Atsumu smiles, genuine for once. ‘Those crazy women, eh? They’re always gonna drive us up the wall, but they’re worth every minute of it.’

He looks at her, belly swollen with their first child, peach blossoms blooming in her cheeks. His past self would never imagine that he’d find this much joy and contentment in being a husband and a father, but then again his past self was satisfied coming home alone day after day to a cold apartment. He knows better now - life is so better when he has her, sharing stories of their day of over steaming mugs of tea at their kitchen countertop, listening to her hum as she bakes treats for the weekend, warmth and laughter and love abound in their cosy apartment for two, soon to be three.

So feeling vaguely drunk though he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in the months since she whispered during their anniversary dinner that they were expecting, Kiyoomi laughs aloud.

Atsumu lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

‘She really, really is’, Kiyoomi says, breaking into an unguarded smile.

If you wanna know more about the backstory of the reader - check out The Astrophile, and if you wanna know more about Miya Atsumu’s relationship with his wife, check out Storm Chaser.

As always, reblogs and/or comments are so very appreciated <3

Taglist:

@snoozless @softsakusa @moondaius (yeon i’ll be shameless and tag you cos I know you’re an Omi stan!)

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exasperatedtinagoldstein · 2 years

Text

The Burden They Share

“‘Tolliver, I’ll be the one telling Theseus he lost. I’d like to kick my old friend while he’s down.’”

Note: this is a part of the one shot series I’ve been writing. Same as always, I don’t own any characters or the world. I will say this one mentions MACUSA a bit and I decided to make it function a little more like the US Congress/government does rather than the way it is described on Pottermore. I hope you enjoy.

By the time Tina and Achilles had arrived at the Ministry, he had already asked her 20 different questions about her engagement.

“Achilles, it’s new. Literally just happened. We haven’t even talked to his mother about it yet. You need to calm down.” Tina glared at his back as her wand was taken by security for inspection.

“I can’t help it that I’m excited! I’m assuming this means he told you about our plan to get him to the States?” Tolliver was practically buzzing from his excitement.

“Yes, he did. And the fact that you’ve been lying to me about ways to get his travel ban lifted on our end is insubordination at its finest.” Tina said as she took her wand back and followed Achilles towards the elevators. “Or are you going to claim that was for love too?”

“It’s always for love, Boss.” Achilles held his smirk as they stepped onto an elevator with the few waiting Ministry wizards. “Now anyway when are you two thinking of-“

“Not now, Achilles.” Tina gritted as she realized one of the officials on the elevator was Theseus’s boss Travers. Travers who in Tina’s opinion should have been relieved of his duties when he forced Theseus to take a group of aurors into Pere Lachaise in 1927 causing the loss of countless aurors and Leta Lestrange. Tina was in no way ashamed of her relationship with Newt, but if there ever was a man other than Gellert Grindelwald Tina didn’t want to know details of her and Newt’s love life it was Travers

“Ms. Goldstein.” Travers nodded at her with a condescending smile.

“Mr. Travers.”

“I was sorry to hear about Theseus. But this is what he gets for going against Ministry orders.” It took all her strength to not beat his head into the wall. Achilles kept his mouth shut from his spot next to her. Tina herself was counting to ten trying to not respond when Travers continued. “It’s a true shame though. Theseus Scamander was such a good young man, it’s such a travesty that he got pulled into Dumbledore’s little cult.” Tina was seeing red but held her composure. She went to open her mouth when Achilles beat her to it.

“Excuse me, sir, but you’re speaking as of Theseus were dead and not currently recovering in this country’s greatest wizarding hospital.” Achilles had a glare pointed at Travers then.

“That’s true. I apologize. I only meant to say it’s a shame it had to be the elder Scamander. He has so much to offer the world, while his brother is well he’s Newt isn’t, Ms. Goldstein?” Travers had a smirk of satisfaction. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was baiting Tina. Unknowingly baiting Achilles too. Tina turned toward the British wizard, her wand pulled out ready to strike, right as the doors opened on the floor housing the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And at those doors stood Percival Graves.

“Goldstein! Tolliver! Put your wands away.” Tina had missed Achilles pulling his own wand out. Travers held his smirk as he nodded to his American counterpart and walked off towards his office. Graves glared at his two best aurors as they exited the elevator. “Do I want to know what the hell you two were thinking? Pulling your wands on a foreign official in his own Ministry?!” Neither one of them answered and Graves let out a deep sigh. “What did he say?”

“That Theseus deserved what he got.” Achilles answered in a tight voice as he began walking toward their designated office space the Ministry was providing. Graves looked at Tina, who remained outside the elevator, glaring at the floor.

“What else did he say?” Graves asked in soft voice. She looked up at her mentor, extremely grateful they had found him alive in the aftermath of Grindelwald impersonating him. Even more grateful that he was given the opportunity to return to his position within MACUSA.

“He essentially said it should have been Newt since ‘Theseus has so much to offer the world while his brother is well he’s Newt.’” Tina stated matter of factly in a calm voice as she too headed towards the temporary American office space.

“Mercy Lewis, Travers is asking for you all to kill him.” Tina heard Graves mutter under his breath as he followed her. Once the door was closed behind him, Graves gave her a sympathetic look. “I know what he said was out of line-“

“He was way past the line!” Achilles yelled out. “You can’t just say you wish someone’s fiancé is dead to their face!”

“Fiancé?” Graves questioned with an amused smile

“Tolliver, I’m going to kill you.” Tina said in the stillest voice she could muster as she sat in one of the chairs around an ornate table. Achilles had the brains to look both apologetic and terrified.

“Congratulations are in order then?” Graves’s smile had moved into the shit-eating grin category as he pulled out a bottle of champagne from a case by the door.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Tina demanded.

“I’ve been carrying it when we are over here since 1929. I figured one of these times it would be useful.” Graves retorted as he popped the cork and Achilles conjured three glasses. Her boss poured out the glasses much to Tina’s surprise.

“You’re as bad as him and Lally!”

“I would hope I am.” Graves commented as he handed her a champagne flute. “I just won the bet. And Tolliver, I will be the one to tell Theseus he lost. I want to kick my old friend while he’s down.” The grin on Graves’s face was absolutely child-like as he spoke.

Tina glared at him then turned to Achilles “Bet?! You four had a bet?!”

“In fairness, it was just Lally and I then the Big Boss here heard and wanted in. And i don’t know how Theseus found out I just got a note stating he was in and picked October through December for the possible months that one of you would propose.”

“One of us? And October-December?” Tina was confused on the parameters of the bet.

“None of us were sold you wouldn’t ask him yourself. And each of us had a three month window to decide on. I had January through March, Lally had April through June, and biggest loser over there said July through September.” Graves explained. He lifted his glass before Tina could ask another question. “To Tina and Newt! May you two live long, happy lives filled with love!”

“Here-fucking-here.” Achilles let out as the two men clinked their glasses against Tina’s and downed their drinks. Tina chuckled as she too took a sip of her champagne. As much as she hated to admit it, it felt wrong to sit amongst friends and celebrate. The feeling was caused by multiple reasons: 1. Newt couldn’t be here at the moment to celebrate with them, 2. Theseus’s injury prevented him from being here as well, 3. Merlin only knew if anything would happen to Jacob to prevent him from being apart of this special celebration, and 4. and most glaring to Tina, was that Queenie wasn’t here. It had been pushing 7 years since the betrayal. Since the unthinkable happened and not a day goes by that Tina doesn’t blame herself for it. She should have been more supportive and helpful to Queenie rather than judge mental and hostile especially about Jacob. And- no, Tina told herself. Stop that train of thought. As much as she held herself responsible for not helping to her sister as much as she should have, Tina had to remember Queenie had made her choice. She looked between her two friends and saw they had turned serious again.

“As much as I hate to ruin a good time,” Graves began as he sat his champagne down. “I have orders for you, Goldstein. You are wanted back in New York.” Tina expected as much. But she sure as hell wasn’t going down without a fight.

“I can’t leave England right now, Percival.” Graves leveled her with an unamused look at that response.

“Tina, I enjoy this as much as you do. Especially since the Ministry is requesting back up on this, but I can’t go against orders from Congress or the President.”

“What if we point out that my family has been gravely injured?” Tina pushed.

“The fact that Newt proposed and his brother is lying in St. Mungo’s might buy us a few days to get a better reason to keep you here for now, but the fact remains many politicians back home don’t like your ties to Grindelwald’s cult of followers.” Graves grabbed her hand as Tina looked at the floor trying to prevent her from closing herself off.

Tina knew most members of the Magical Congress didn’t trust her because of her connections to Queenie and Credence. It was the major reason she had been stranded in the US as much as she had. Right after Paris, she was under a crazy amount of surveillance. Sure they had let Tina stay short term in London after the attack, but as soon as the British Ministry made it clear her help wasn’t essential she was brought home. She could sneak away for several days at a time when things had calmed down with the help of Graves and Achilles. They would vouch that she was with the Scamanders. Tina was shocked last year when we returned home from Oliver Scamander’s funeral to hear she was being promoted to head Auror. She didn’t think anyone in Congress would let that happen. The new President after Picquery had seemed to trust Tina enough to know she wasn’t a threat to defect, but the long serving officials in MACUSA’s House and Senate disagreed. She was lucky they didn’t have to hold approval hearings and that the President could just appoint the head Auror position at the guidance of the Director of Magical Law Enforcement. Graves told her he was adamant she got the position. That he could think of no one else more deserving of it. It meant the world to hear her mentor say that, but it also meant more of a reason to keep her state side. Keep her from Newt and Europe, where the war was proceeding at a frightening pace. Tina fought Graves and President Boot over her need to interact with aurors in other countries. Both agreed with her, but claimed Congress was a roadblock to her getting clearance to do that. They were worried what would happen if she came across her sister out in the field while abroad. Tina knew the argument was over at that. It was a fair worry as Tina herself didn’t know how she’d react. But now, the war had escalated. Allies had been attacked more than they already had. Grindelwald had made it clear it wasn’t just civil disobedience he was brewing, but full scale attacks that would expose witches and wizards across the world. Exposure that could lead to much more harm than good.

That wasn’t Tina’s biggest concern though. Her biggest concern was Newt. Newt needed her right now. He needed her as a soldier, a partner, a supporter, a confidant. Well he needed her here as his future wife. She knew him better than he knew himself sometimes, and she knew he would need her help through not just Theseus’s recovery but also the fight. And if that meant she had to resign from her job in order to get MACUSA off her back about staying in New York then so be it. Graves seemed to have read her mind though.

“You aren’t resigning.”

“Director Graves, I will-“ Tina started only to be cut off by Achilles.

“Tina, he’s not going to let you resign. I’m pretty sure the man would resign right there with you and join Scamander’s little army. I know that’s my plan.” He shot her a meaningful look that she knew meant he was serious. Achilles meant it that if she left, he was right behind her.

“I already have our escape option in mind you two so please don’t plan any dumb stunts without me.” Graves leaned back in his chair lifted his hands to run through his hair in exasperation. It was in this moment he looked like an exhausted father parenting his two troublesome children. Tina could only think that description might be the most accurate one for his job and friendship with his two highest ranking aurors. “Now my first plan is to assign you two to deep cover work with Newt’s team. My argument with anyone who seems it to be a problem will be that this team of civilians is operating with two Americans and while they have the Head Auror of the British Ministry working with them, my preference is to have my own people in the mix. And since you two have an established relationship with the field commander-“ Tina bristled at this description of Newt’s role in Dumbledore’s army. “It makes you two the best for the job.”

“How long have you had this plan in your back pocket?” Tina sled with a cocked eyebrow.

“Months. Newton Scamander just had to move before I could implement it though.” Graves said with a smirk.

“More like Dumbledore told him it was time to move.” Tina grumbled as she sank back. Achilles had a grin knowing where this conversation was headed. Graves cocked an eyebrow himself at her then. “I can’t stand that man! I can’t tell you why I just-“

“You know Newt doesn’t really like him either, right?” Achilles asked with his grin in place. Tina raised a skeptical brow. “Okay sure he knows that Dumbledore is the one teacher who defended him when the whole Hogwarts situation happened, but Tina he can see that man is manipulative from a mile away. He doesn’t do the things he does because Dumbledore asks him to, Newt does them because he knows that they will help people and creatures. Or because it gives him a chance to see his favorite Auror.”

“I swear if you say your referring to yourself with that last bit I will actually cut your balls off.”

“As much as I would love to say myself, it’s you. He doesn’t even like to talk to me when I’m doing my job, but you? You ask for an official statement in the nude and that man would immediately strip. He’s in love with you that much.” Tina rolled her eyes and Achilles lewd description of Newt’s loyalty to her. But she was relieved to have someone else notice Newt’s slight disdain for Dumbledore. She and Theseus had discussed seeing it before, but they both thought it was wishful thinking on their end.

“Well it’s good to know my fiancé can see through Dumbledore’s tales of grandeur enough to know the man has a hidden agenda.” Both men sitting in the office laughed at her before they settled back into business. For the next two hours, the three of them worked out the logistics of this plan to make it as air tight as possible. By the end of it, Tina was feeling confident. She knew that things could go amiss, but seeing Graves help with the plan of attack made her feel better about this plan working. As she was getting up to leave she turned to her boss to ask, “Did you know about Achilles and Newt looking for ways to get Newt’s ban from the US lifted?”

“Who do you think told them it was possible?” Graves smiled as he hugged her. “You really think I’d let you move to England to raise your family and let you send them to Hogwarts instead of Ilvermorny? What would your old man say to me about that?” It was in these moments when Graves wasn’t her mentor or her boss or even her friend. In these moments, Graves was her father’s young hotshot partner who needed a good smack upside the head. “He would be so proud of you, Tina. They both would.” Tina hugged Percival Graves as tightly as she did the day he came to see her and Queenie after their parents died.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“I’ll always help you, kid. It’s what family does.” He squeezed her one more time. Before shooing her and Achilles out of the office with a, “Go check on the Scamanders! And Lally and that Kowalski guy! Tell Newt I’ll be by this evening for his shovel talk, Tina.” She rolled her eyes at him causing Graves to let out a hearty laugh.

Once they were back on the elevator, Achilles asked, “So boss, you ready for the fight to come?”

“I’m always ready for a fight, Tolliver.” She had a childish grin as she glanced at him.

#newt scamander #fantastic beasts #tina goldstein #newtina #it’s the fantastic beasts hot mess express #theseus scamander #fbawtft #jacob kowalski #lally hicks #fbsod #post fbsod #long post #fbcog #fantastic beasts the secrets of dumbledore #fantastic beasts secrets of dumbledore #percival graves #achilles tolliver

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qvid-pro-qvo · 3 years

Note

fluffy gotchgan for your writing requests?

"oh. oh, this is a travesty."

penelope sounds utterly heartbroken, enough that aaron looks up from from the book on his lap. with one hand slung across the back of the couch, reading glasses perched on his nose. there's a gentle smattering of gray in his dark hair now, a reminder of how far they've come since retirement. "oh, pen," he hums, and she gives a very strong pout.

"what's a travesty?" derek asks from the kitchen, trying to arrange the confections penelope has slowly been accumulating in something resembling order. it's a losing battle, but it means he can snag one or two, crumbs catching in his beard before he brushes them away.

"us!" penelope shouts from the doorway. opening her arms wide to gesture to the whole of the house. her curls are red once more, and they bounce as she shakes her head. it earns her a raised brow from both of her boys, which in turn earns them a scoff. "us! there is no jolly, no joy in this home right now. not a singular hall decked with boughs of holly. it is november fifth already, and here we are lazing around on the couch, like a bunch of -"

"retirees?" aaron offers. he gets a flick on his forehead for his troubles. "ow!"

derek snags one more cookie before walking over to the couch, kissing aaron's hair before expertly flopping so that his legs go in aaron's lap. he smiles up at her, a little teasing. "baby girl, there's no rush. it's not even -"

"derek morgan, if you finish that sentence you are sleeping on that couch. it's not about the time, it's about the light and life. we need a spark, my dearests, and that spark starts now. c'mon. the both of you. up. we're going shopping."

two groans sound off in unison. "can i finish the chapter?" aaron asks her, but he has a little smirk on his face as he gets her hand in his, squeezing it gently, and a kiss on the spot she flicked earlier.

"none of that. mark your place. get up and at 'em, boys, we're going christmas shopping!"

the groans sound off again, this time from lifting from the couch. old joints protest, but soon the three of them loop around each other as they always do, penelope in between aaron and derek where she firmly believes she's always belonged.

"i think this is an excuse to get us to wear those new scarves she made," derek faux whispers to aaron, leaning over to say it with a little kiss to his cheek for good measure. "i think she's wanting some pictures."

"like you've ever said no to a picture or a scarf from penelope," aaron shoots back, and penelope giggles as he squeezes her hand. "i do believe our staircase looks like it does because someone has a fondness for hanging photos."

suddenly she gasps. "speaking of, jack has not gotten his update of the day." her phone is pulled out with a flourish. "let's get jackets and scarves on, boys, he's getting a selfie this time."

#been listening to christmas songs for the past hour can you tell #gotchgan #qvo ships cm #hotchgan #morcia #gotch #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #my writing #my fic #ask the status qvo #thanks anon!!!! <3 #writing prompts #criminal minds

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bailey-reaper · 3 years

Note

Can you write about Iris hanging out with the ghost of her father? It’s sad these two never got to know each other in canon.

Apologetic Apparition

Notes: It's very sad that the story unfolds as it does and that we know so little about Klint or Lady B (it's an utter travesty that Capcom couldn't even be bothered to give her a name or some sketches in the artbooks). Perhaps if we'd gotten to see more of Iris's parents, it would have given us an idea of what they'd have been like as a family...

Content Warnings: angst; GAA spoilers

"Well here we are!" Iris announced proudly as she took off her welding goggles and looked down at her latest creation, "They're finished at long last, now I only need to test them to make sure they work!"

"I say, Iris, you've been busy at that crafting table of yours for some time," Herlock observed as he reclined on the chaise lounge in the centre of the room and propped his legs up on the fortified, locked trunk that acted as their coffee table, "What have you been up to, dear girl?"

She twirled around in her spinning chair so she could regard her roommate, "I've made something quite marvelous this time, Hurley!" in her hands were a pair of goggles.

"Goggles?" they hardly seemed 'marvelous', but he knew better than to assume such things; after all, one cannot judge a book by its cover, for to do so is to ignore the richness that lies within, "And what is special about this particular pair?"

"They should, if I've calibrated them correctly, give me the ability to see the lingering remnants of the deceased!"

"Oh ho! So you've crafted glasses that will enable you to see ghosts, have you? Quite an interesting idea, dear girl! Whatever inspired you to do such a thing?"

Iris fell silent for a few moments, then offered a small smile, "Oh... just a little personal project. I should very much like to test them! Could you possibly do me a favour, Hurley?" she tilted her head and looked at him with pleading eyes.

"...." how could he resist the dear girl's plea? Iris was the only person he truly considered family (of course his partner occupied a place that was quasi-familial, but it was an entirely different beast). With a fond smile, he held open his arms and nodded, "Of course, what can I do for you?"

Her reply was not what he had expected...

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

It was the dead of night, and they were crouched outside the imposing building where agents of the crown worked tirelessly to bring wrongdoers to justice –- or, the Prosecutor's Office by any other name. Hurley had his reservations when Iris told him where she wanted to go, but he also had a pretty good idea of where in the office she wanted to go and why.

He would not question it, this was something the dear girl needed to do.

After he had infiltrated the building and obtained a set of security guard clothes, he set about on a mock patrol of the premises; taking note of the number of other fellows currently present and making a few educated guesses with regards to their routes. It would be easy enough to smuggle the young girl inside if he did so swiftly and via the western exit.

It was as easy as he'd anticipated to bring her inside, "Right," he said softly, "Where are we heading?" despite already knowing, he would play the fool for now.

"Um... Hurley... would you mind if I went inside on my own?" she asked gently as they walked down a long corridor with numerous doors and plaques beside them. They had come to a stop outside one particularly imposing, nigh-medieval door; with a plaque that read: [Lord Barok van Zieks].

Sholmes smiled, "Of course... just knock on the door three times when you are finished, alright? I shall knock similarly if I sense danger. You must come with me without delay if I knock, alright?"

Iris nodded.

Then, she turned to the door and opened it with a key that Herlock had taken from the security guard's office. Stepping inside was a daunting prospect -- Mr. Reaper's Office was as imposing as him, perhaps more so in the dead of night with nothing but the moonlight spilling in through the large arched windows along the far wall. After taking a deep breath, she donned the goggles and activated them.

At first, nothing happened and she started to fret that maybe her calculations had been off and that she ought to have tested them somewhere more accessible before embarking on this particular visit-- then, she caught some faint glowing traces in the air.

She looked around the room and found a glowing figure stood with its back to her, looking up at the large portrait that took pride of place overlooking the office. It was difficult to tell anything about the form, save for that it was humanoid in shape.

"Why do you insist on keeping this portrait here, brother?" the figure said, in a voice that she discerned to be a male one, "Surely you ought to have had one of your own commissioned by now?"

"Um... excuse me? You there, by the portrait."

She'd never seen a ghost jump before, but this one certainly did twirl around with a start. As he turned, the form seemed to take a clearer shape and she realised he was the same as the man in the portrait – Klint van Zieks.

It was her father, just as she'd hoped.

"Goodness! You gave me quite the fright, young lady."

"Oh... I'm sorry," she looked down bashfully, only to be surprised when he laughed heartily.

"No, no, don't be! I'm simply surprised you can see me..." he cocked his head to the side, arms folded, "Might it be that curious apparatus you're wearing that enables you to see and hear me? No one else seems to..." she nodded, "Ah, I see... Pray, do forgive my presumptuousness, but, you remind me a great deal of my darling wife... I cannot think that is a mere coincidence."

It made her heart shiver to hear that, "... Um... yes, well, that would be my mother, sir, and you.. you are..."

"Then I'm... your father," Klint breathed, eyes wide, "Oh... So you are our sweet little starling..." for a moment he looked off to the side, smiling almost wistfully, "... Truly, you are a good man Genshin..." then he returned his focus to the girl, "Would you tell me your name, child?"

"Iris, sir, Iris Wilson..."

"Iris," he said, "A lovely name, very befitting of such a charming young lady. And, well, it seems you already know who I am..."

"Yes... I do," she knew full well, "I... I have so many things I want to ask you about..."

Klint nodded and walked over to the desk that had once been his and was now the place where his brother spent most of his time in stony silence, deeply engrossed in his work. He sat on it, legs dangling over the edge, "I'm sure you must have, I will try to answer to the best of my ability."

"... Thank you," she took a seat at the table that was currently home to the beginnings of a new diorama, presumably Mr. Reaper's latest case. For a few moments, she fell silent: her mind had gone blank. There were so many questions, but how to pick out just one? Where to begin?

"Perhaps I might start?" he offered, having clearly picked up on her overwhelmed state of mind. When she nodded, he started:

"As you know, my name is Klint van Zieks, I was born in North Devon. You've already met my little brother, Barok, your uncle, and much like you... he suffers a certain wistfulness when it comes to matters of family. It seems I've left you both somewhat at a loss. Do forgive me, Iris, I never intended to cause either of you the turmoil I have. I had always thought that keeping the truth from the two of you might spare you the embarrassment and stigma that knowing who I was would bring..."

She listened quietly, studying his face as he spoke. It was clear that his words were earnest, judging by their tone and the look of genuine remorse on his face.

"... I committed several heinous acts in life, and though I thought it was the right thing to do... it was misguided and naive. I sought to solve a problem by fighting fire with fire, but such an approach can only result in a destructive end. It cost me everything – including your mother, my darling wife... I was so thrilled when she told me she was pregnant, but at the same time I was terrified of what impact it might have had on her were I to tell her the truth. I did not want her or our unborn child to suffer... in the end, she died during childbirth. I cannot help but wonder if things would have been different if we'd been together in the family home with the necessary staff on hand to help her... I suppose I'll never know."

At some point as he spoke, tears had begun to bead in her eyes; then they spilled as she thought of the mother she would never know and the father who had tried to protect them – albeit with a limited degree of success.

"My apologies are meaningless, but I would like you to know how sorry I am for my failings as a man and a father, and the impact that has had on you, Iris... Your mother and I... we were delighted by the prospect of having a family, and I couldn't be more proud to see you before me as radiant as she was. You are so very like her..."

"... Thank you... I--"

Suddenly there were three sharp knocks on the door.

Iris covered her mouth, "Oh! I'm so sorry... I have to go!"

"Mmm," he nodded, "I understand, this office isn't the best place for a reunion... would you mind if I came to visit you at some point, so that you can ask me the questions you wished to?"

"... Yes, I would like that... please do come and visit me, I should like to get to know my father better -- not The Professor."

Klint blinked, then stood up from his perch and bowed, "As you wish..."

#klint van zieks #iris wilson #herlock sholmes #angst #request

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cupcakemolotov · 3 years

Text

Match My Heart to Yours

Okay, since the Exchange reveals have been pushed back until Thursday (for very, very good reasons) I have decided to post a tiny thing to hopefully tide people over. I do sort of intend to write more on this, but I have been stalled for a few months which means I need to change things up. So here is the first bit, hopefully you all like it!

You can also read it here on A03.

Synopsis: Enzo has an plan. Caroline has some serious doubts, because first all, werewolf, hot or not. Alpha, even. A political marriage to a man with his dimples seems like a terrible idea.

Caroline paused, chopsticks hovering over her container of fried rice. Across from her, Enzo looked relaxed, no real tension visible as he reached for another eggroll. “Excuse me?”

“Gorgeous…”

She narrowed her eyes at his placating tone. “I should have known your offer to pick up dinner two towns over was a bribe. You don’t even like Chinese food. You cannot be serious.”

Her witchy best friend would walk through fire for her, but perfect egg rolls an hour after they’d been picked up should have dinged as an obvious bribe. Though this was not nearly big enough.

“Would I have made the drive if I wasn’t serious?” Enzo asked, sighing when her expression didn’t budge. “You know what I do. What I really do.”

Her gaze dropped to his wrist were a tattoo wound along the bones and tendons, the ink black and red, starkly visible against the olive of his skin. Usually he used the modern advances in makeup to hide what no magic could, because sometimes people were less understanding about this particular quirk of his magic than others. She’d never had a problem with it, but she was human and had no desire for his services.

Caroline speared a piece of shrimp and narrowed her eyes in warning. “I am very aware of what you do with your magic when you aren’t perfecting fireballs and lightning strikes, Enzo. No need to be rude.”

“Care…”

She chewed carefully, giving herself a moment so she didn’t do something stupid like throw the food at him. The wood floors were brand new. “I’m human. No witchy bloodlines for ten generations or more, and definitely not a werewolf. São Paulo proved that. In spades. So, seriously, there is zero reason for your magic to like me for this.”

A faint grimace. São Paulo had not been a good time. Not for anyone.

“You know it doesn’t always work like that,” he said patiently, dunking his egg roll repeatedly into the sweet and sour sauce, his expression wry. “Sometimes my magic has a mind of its own.”

She rolled her eyes. “Enzo, tell me something I don’t know.”

A small laugh escaped him. “True.”

“Have I ever done anything, absolutely anything, that would make you think I’d want to have a matchmaker stick their nosy magic in my life?” Caroline set her chopsticks down and started closing containers, her appetite gone.

A sigh. “No.”

“Damn straight. Isn’t there some kind of ritual involved? Blood magic? The romance novels I read on this subject insisted consent was a factor and blood had to be given willingly, much to the displeasure of several southern mamas.”

He deliberately finished his eggroll, sauce-soggy rice paper and all, chewing methodically. “Normally. This isn’t a… usual situation.”

“Normally?” Sitting back, Caroline waved her hand. “The food buys you an explanation. So start talking.”

Enzo leaned back, chair creaking, and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Look, you’ve been in Europe the last, what? Six months?”

“Eight, and should I be hurt you weren’t counting?”

He snorted. “You spent the last eight months chasing diamonds. Busy enough you even stopped answering texts in a timely manner, so I imagine you haven’t kept up with what’s been going on.”

“Excuse you? What text did I not respond to?”

“Emoji’s are not words, Caroline.”

Caroline pressed her chin to her palm, gaze narrowed. “Stop being old, Enzo. And let’s be clear. It’s not like I was chasing just any diamonds. These were expensive. The kind of expensive we peons can never actually afford to legally own.”

Enzo rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen your rate sheet. You do just fine.”

She grinned at him. “Thank you, I do very good work. But what does my previous job have to do with the completely ridiculous proposal you brought me?”

“Mason died.”

Caroline arched a brow. “Yeah, I saw. That was impossible to miss. International news, all those TV Pundits talking about who would take over as the US Alpha, blah blah politics. Since he had the bad taste to die outside of a challenge fight, I didn’t have time to worry about it.”

Enzo put the plastic lid back on the sweet and sour sauce, his expression unhappy. “That’s the problem. He did die in a challenge fight.”

“Huh?”

He sighed and pushed his chair back. “This is a bit of a complicated story. As nice as these chairs are, something a little more comfortable might not be adverse.”

“You’re not getting any of the beer in my fridge until I’m sure I’m not kicking you out.” She narrowed her eyes. “The odds are not in your favor.”

“Cruel, but I suppose well deserved.” His chin tipped towards his car, expression amused. “Is now a good time to mention the cheesecake in the trunk of my car?”

“Enzo!”

He laughed and sauntered into her living room, flopping his favorite squishy chair. Caroline picked the couch. She motioned for him to start talking, and he slouched a little further down.

“Look, a lot of this isn’t common knowledge, alright?” Enzo grimaced. “Though it should be and I’m not sure how much longer they are going to manage to keep a lid on how badly the Council screwed this up.”

“Cover up?”

“Among other problems.”

“Mason was their darling.” And, she knew, some factions had whispered, their pawn. She reached up and shoved her bangs back to hide her wince. “Losing a wolf so pro-witch would have been a blow. Losing the top Alpha who was also pro-witch is a political travesty.”

“Political travesty or not, Mason’s dead, and they’re going to have to deal with the new Alpha. He isn’t known for his tolerance.”

“Most werewolves are suspicious of magic,” Caroline pointed out, curling one leg underneath her. “Can’t really blame ‘em, with how they ended up as werewolves. Vengeance, magical curse. That sort of thing tends to sour peoples opinions, and then you know centuries later, they really improved things with their required silver legislation.”

“Yeah, you’re not wrong, but that’s not the kind of tolerance I am talking about.” He leaned back against the chair, and lifted his foot towards the coffee table, pausing, gaze darting towards her narrowed eyes. His foot thumped back against the floor. “The short version is that Mason was challenged, he lost, and the Witch’s Council, for lack of better words, bungled the announcement.”

“How do you bungle an announcement? Challengers have official channels they have to go through and everything.” She pointed at the TV. “They’ve even started wanting to televise the damn things, like it’s some kind of wrestling bout and not a fight to the death.”

Enzo rubbed a hand down his face. “From everything that I’ve been able to tell, Mason just… didn’t expect to lose.”

“That makes no sense. Mason wasn’t young, even by werewolf standards,” Caroline said slowly. “There have been rumors in Europe that he should have been disposed of as much as a century ago. They aren’t really sure why the packs here haven't risen up against him, particularly after the whole issue with his nephew abducting his bride after she’d been paired by the matchmakers to someone else.”

“Tyler Lockwood leads more with his dick than his brains,” Enzo agreed. “And that should have weakened Mason politically, spurring a few challenges. That it didn’t…”

“It’s only been ten years, and that isn’t that long for a werewolf,” Caroline pointed out. “It’s reasonable that the family of the disappointed groom would just now be in a position themselves to pick a fight. Hayley’s family is old blood but not particularly powerful.”

Enzo gave her a dry look. “When do werewolves ever wait to pick fights?”

“When they are going up against the top Alpha in the US and need public opinion behind them. The general public expects a dominance fight or a natural cause of death for all alphas,” she said dryly.

He nodded in approval. “For someone so disparaging of politics earlier, you do have an excellent grasp of the situation.”

Caroline tossed a cushion at him, which he caught with a grin. “Please, my Mom was the Sheriff and Dad, well, you know Dad. Conspiracy theories and hatred of anything that so much whiffed of the unnatural. But none of that explains what actually happened?”

“We think Mason was using magic to win his challenge fights.”

Her lips parted. “But that’s… the packs would riot. Because something like that…”

“It’s something the Witch Council had to be involved in.”

She inhaled sharply. “That would be a disaster.”

“It is a disaster,” Enzo said bitterly. “There have already been two executions, and several investigations are still pending. We’ve managed to convince the new alpha to hold back the public announcement, but he’s losing patience. We need a solid infrastructure of a plan in place, because humans don’t do well with surprises of this kind, and right now we’re barely holding the alliances together.”

“And what?” Caroline asked exasperated. “The remaining Council has decided to hire a matchmaker? They think since the new Alpha is single, they must be in want of a partner? You’re going to announce the change of leadership, the challenge fight, and then announce he agreed to be matchmade?”

“Something like that.”

“Who is going to trust the Council after something like this?” She shoved her hair away from her face. “If I was the Alpha, I wouldn’t touch anything that they touch with a ten foot pole. That includes matchmaking.”

“I wasn’t hired by the Council, though a couple of my… co-workers have taken those contracts.” He seemed to consider his words and then shrugged. “I was hired by Bekah.”

“Rebekah Mikaelson?” She said, brows arching high. “Why is she involved in this? And I thought you two didn't get along. The last time you were in the same room, she lit your precious robes on fire.”

Enzo’s mouth curved into a slow smile full of male satisfaction. “She’s an odd one, but it’s not the worst way I’ve had someone flirt with me.”

“And the time she declared matchmaking the worst magical school in existence and she hoped you did the world a favor and never reproduced?”

“Charming, isn’t she? I don’t think she really likes children in general.” He looked unbothered. “The bit about my magic was just an attempt to be clever. Her insults have gotten better the more she gets to know me. I appreciate her dedication to getting my attention.”

“Yes, and that is what I am going to put on your gravestone. You finally got the attention you always wanted.” Caroline shook her head. “Insults and spells aside, why did she hire you?”

“Because the Witch Council is right, in a way. It’s going to come out that Mason lost a challenge fight and the witches tried to cover it up.” Enzo reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “A werewolf who is newly matched has more appeal than a single one, and it’s not a terrible way to divert the press.”

“Is he worried about appeal? Why are you worried about his appeal?” She threw up her hands. “He killed Mason. He is now unequivocally in charge. Why does appeal matter?”

“We need stability.” Enzo’s face went grave. “We can’t afford a year of dominance fights when we’re already struggling with sorting through Mason’s people for traitors. Announcing a match buys us time.”

Caroline froze. “You want the year truce.”

“We need that year, Gorgeous. I’m not sure we’ll survive without it. Pairing off the new alpha? It’s the only way we’re going to get it.”

“And you want me to marry him? Why?”

“Why not you? You’re smart, resourceful, and not bad on the eyes. That you're from a small town will add to your appeal. Small town girl meets werewolf Alpha, and it’s a match. People will love you.”

“I’m a Finder, Enzo. That’s not exactly the most politically correct of jobs.” Her gaze narrowed. “Am I even going to be able to keep working if I agree to this?”

“Once things stabilize, sure, why not?”

“You’re really selling this.”

Enzo shrugged. “You know that one of the true weaknesses of Mason’s was that he refused to find a mate or even attempt a match.”

There had seemingly been a good reason for that. Werewolves were blessed with supernatural strength, a lifespan that more than tripled a normal human’s, and were highly territorial. Most of the time, those instincts could be driven towards their pack and maintaining the careful balance that the world existed in. A werewolf in love was a dangerous creature. Werewolves fighting over their lovers more so.

It was why Enzo’s magic existed.

“Uh huh,” Caroline drawled, unconvinced. “You're really going to tell an Alpha he can’t claim what’s his unless he agrees to a match, the very thing the last alpha decried as unnecessary. How’s that going? I bet not well.”

“The sooner you say yes, the better, then.”

She glowered at him, but he looked unrepentant.

“Seriously Enzo, matchmaking magic or not, this cannot be your best plan. I cannot be the absolute best idea you have for this.”

“Why not?” He leaned back. “From where I’m sitting, it’s a fantastic plan.”

Caroline’s jaw dropped and she stared at him. He was serious. She knew that set of his jaw, the glint behind his eyes. Matchmaking wasn’t a science, it was magic. A fail safe, a terrible and beautiful promise: that somewhere out there, somewhere, maybe, a soulmate existed. And if you were lucky enough, maybe magic would find them for you.

“Enzo, seriously this time. Why even ask me? You know I’ve never been interested in matchmaking with a werewolf or witch. I like my life.” She spread her arms to include the house. “What you're asking me to do, asking of me, it changes everything. Why?”

He was quiet for several moments, his gaze unfocused. When he spoke, his voice was strangely serious. “My magic likes the match.”

She considered that, shifting to hug her knees to her chest. She’d been friends with Enzo since she was seventeen years old and she’d dragged his half unconscious body out of a car wreck that should have killed him. In turn, he’d been there for her when her mom died and her dad disappeared. He’d helped her get established in her career of choice, even though he’d been disapproving of the reasons why she’d chosen to go into it.

She trusted him.

Enzo liked to hide what he could do because he was so good at what he did, and she’d seen him drunk more than once post-match. His magic was not… unkind, but it wasn’t easy, what it demanded of him. To put two people together, with the intention that they’d make a relationship work for possibly hundreds of years. The weight of success and the pain of failure were both so heavy.

Enzo did not match lightly.

His magic liked the match.

Her stomach flipped as she really considered what that meant. No such thing as soul mates, Enzo always insisted, just the endless probabilities of human lives narrowed to a single red thread between two people. And here, he said, was her chance to see if this probability would work for her.

She couldn’t decide what that made her feel.

“You swear this isn’t about Dad?”

A tip of his head. “While I have no compunction about putting a few hundred werewolves between you and whatever mess he left behind, it’s not about him. You were right. My magic should never have considered you for this. You’ve never wanted to find a match, and honestly, I’ve always liked that about you. And nothing about this is going to be easy. But when Rebekah brought me his blood, all my magic could see was you and the potential you two had together. I could no more deny you the chance to say yes than breathe.”

She groaned under her breath. “This could be a disaster. You know I hate politics, and I’m an only child. I’m terrible at sharing. He’s alpha. Nothing he does is his alone.”

“I know. The circumstances are unusual, so they’ve been willing to negotiate generous terms if things don’t work.” Enzo grinned. “No one wants to trap either of you, not when all parties know that magic isn’t infallible.”

She eyed him. “I don’t like it when you think you’ve got it all figured out.”

A laugh. “Come with me to New York. Give it two years. A year for the truce, a year to fortify whatever weaknesses his enemies attempt to manipulate. At the end, if you want out, no one will stop you. I’ll dissolve the marriage myself. No loopholes.”

Enzo never dissolved marriages. That, more than anything, told her how serious he was about giving her an out. How badly they needed to truce.

“I guess you really do have this all figured out.”

“I wish I did, but we both know that’s impossible with something like this. I can only read the magic, and tell you what I see. But I’ll do everything I can to help you.” He smiled ruefully. “We’ve gotten good at hiding bodies, what’s a few more?”

Caroline wasn’t sure she should have found that comforting, but she did. “And just who am I agreeing to consider marrying?”

Enzo suddenly coughed and stood, a familiar hint of devilment twisting his lips. “Klaus Mikaelson.”

She spluttered. “Klaus Mikaelson? You want me to marry Klaus? He killed Mason?”

His smile widened. “Yes.”

Caroline gawked at him. Before she’d gone to Europe, Klaus Mikaelson had been the third most powerful Alpha. Young, handsome, devastatingly charming, he made people forget just how terrifying he could be with a pair of dimples that raised the blood pressure of every woman past puberty.

He was also Rebekah Mikaelson’s half brother.

Enzo had been entertaining her for years about the Mikaelson sibling dynamic. Klaus had not been spared in those stories, and while she’d never met him, she knew two very important things: he was built on lines that had always, always snagged her attention, and the sharp temper of his wolf, the brutality of his temper, hid a clever, agile mind that made him dangerous to underestimate.

“Enzo!” She protested. “Klaus?”

Sliding his hands in his pockets, he spun towards her door. “Yup.”

“Just where do you think you are going?”

Enzo tossed her a grin over his shoulder. “To get your cheesecake. You didn’t think I lied about that, did you? And you might as well fetch me that beer. We both know I’m not going anywhere until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

Caroline stared at his back as the door clanged behind him, heart hammering in her throat for a hundred reasons she couldn’t explain.

#my fic #klaroline #klaroline fanfic #klaroline drabbles #yeah #this sort of an interesting kind of crack

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shespeaksinsongs · 3 years

Text

You Are My New Fear | Letters To My Mom

TW: MOMMY ISSUES, MENTIONS OF DEPRESSION, SUICIDE, AND ANXIETY.

Me in my game room at about five years old.

I wish somebody would have told me that that smile I used to slather onto my face so effortlessly would soon become something I forced. I'm not sure if it would have made a difference, but it's best to be prepared in any case.

"What's your biggest fear?" My elementary best friend asked, kicking her feet giddily under the table. We were still too little to reach the floor.

"Drowning." I'd say, with a panicked look on my face, growing pale at the mere thought of dying that way.

"What are you most afraid of, hija?" My dad asked on our regular morning car rides to school.

"Drowning." I'd say, without even thinking twice. The answer was almost prepared, seeing as how casually it rolled off my tongue.

"What's your biggest fear?" My friend asked in the comfort of her room, watching as I shifted uncomfortably in my spot on her bed.

"Becoming my mother." I'd say wishing that drowning was the most of my worries.

I don't know when my default answer of drowning to death switched to the terrifying idea that I would, one day, become my mother. Still, somewhere along the lines, those little moments that I would suck up to my mom and gift her pretty pictures I spent hours working on and picking daisies from my backyard for her turned into scheduling my crying for nighttime when everyone was asleep.

Slowly but surely, I became uneasy about the idea of marriage, fearing that I'd only ruin it and become a wife like my mother. The idea of having children scared me to the point where I felt I would rather sacrifice my own happiness so that my children wouldn't have to live to see the day I turn into my mom.

Because in my eyes, my mom is a monster. She's not the kind of monster that has big, sharp teeth and scary yellow eyes, and a menacing growl. She's the kind of monster that you would never suspect. She's the bloody hand, but you were the accomplice. She was the screwdriver, but you were the loose screw. Sure, she hurt you, but you let yourself be hurt by her - so really, whose fault was it?

My mom is the kind of monster that uses your vulnerability against you in the worst way possible.

"I'm just not feeling good right now. I feel like I'm dying, and I feel tired all the time." My sixth-grade self, awkwardly positioned in the passenger's seat, turning my head away from my mom.

"Well, you know we care about you." My mom said, stoic in her demeanor and ultimately still in how she held her body up.

It was a day I'll never forget. She picked at her fingernails and anxiously tapped the gas pedal, waiting for me to be done talking about my emotions so she could drive back "home."

Warm tears stung my eyes, forcing their way down my face in slow streams. "You don't get it, I-" I stopped, knowing it wasn't worth it to try to make my mom understand feelings she'd been adamant didn't exist.

"Ay, don't be so dramatic." My mom said, waving her hand up to dismiss me and my silly ideas. She was right. I wasn't depressed or anxious, and I definitely didn't look for any excuse possible to threaten suicide against myself. My mom said so.

I don't know why I kept running back to her in times of need. Maybe it was my dream version of her that I relied on to justify my ever-growing love for her. Feasibly, it was the person I wanted her to be. And perhaps, just perhaps, my expectations of her drove me to the point where I'd convinced myself my mother was the person I saw when I closed my eyes at night.

I remember telling her things, spreading rumors I'd heard about people in the family, hoping that it would make us closer. The things I did just to make her happy...

"Mom, I'm trying my best!" I cried on the floor, cleaning up the mess my new puppy had made. She'd pooped and peed all over the kitchen. I was exhausted, previously knocked out in my bed, when my mom called me downstairs, screaming for me to get my ass down there.

"No, you're not! You never try! You're useless! I should've never had you!" My mom yelled from the bottom of her heart (or lack thereof).

Tears welled in my eyes for the millionth time because of my mother. This wasn't the first time she'd wished me dead, and it sure wouldn't be the last time. "Mommy, please just leave me alone and let me clean up." I begged, letting broken sobs come out of my mouth. I wanted to hurt her, and I wanted to hurt her as bad as she hurt me.

My mom refused to leave, yelling at me, watching as I piteously scraped my dog's contents off the wall.

It's sad that the only good memories I have of my mom are those I couldn't participate in. Instead, I have stories of her youth and how caring of a mother she used to be when I was a baby - conveniently so far back that I can't remember it. It pains me more knowing how she was before she had me, her firstborn. If she were this way her whole life, would I take it so personally?

Am I dramatic for wishing I had a mother who could hug me back when I hugged her? Am I a selfish and pathetic bitch for feeling envy when I see how my friends' moms act with them? Why can't my mom love me the way she loves her? Why does my mom have more pictures of her first niece than she does of me? What did I do to her?

"Mommy, mommy! Look!" I said, running up to my mother, holding my report card in the air like a shiny new toy - all A's.

"Nice job, Fio. I'm so proud of you. You're doing great. Keep it up." My mom said softly, pulling me into a warm hug. Somehow, that was all I needed - that's all I wanted. It really is a shame that that memory is fake.

I have plenty of other fake memories that I store in my head, letting the (also fake) backstories take over my mind when I go to sleep. For one of them, I was romping around on an old swing set, one that made little squeaky noises whenever I swung too high.

Somehow, I lose control of the swing, and my mom comes rushing up to me, worried and begging for me to tell her how she could help. I don't know when or how she got there (my dad was usually the one to take me to the park), but what I do know is she's exactly who I needed there at that moment.

So many real memories I have of me needing my mother most, waiting for the day she would actually turn up in one of them. She was always the first to pick me up in school lines. She was always at my open houses. She attended every grade promotion I had. But she was never there. It was all a facade. She'd said so herself that she craved being the all-star mom, the one who'd win several gold medals if there were award ceremonies for that sort of thing.

Her perfectionism is what makes her corrupt. She has spent my entire life telling me what to do, how to do it, scolding me for not doing it the way she imagined me doing it in her head.

She refused to seek help when that's all I wanted her to do.

"What do you want for your birthday, hija?" My dad asked, glancing at me while keeping his eyes fixed on the road, humming along to a Christmas carol playing on the radio.

"Honestly, dad?" I asked, only twelve years old, my green eyes twinkling in hope.

"Whatever your heart desires." My dad said in a goofy voice, making me smile.

"I want Mom to get help." I said sadly, hoping my dad would agree and push the idea upon my mom.

My mother went to therapy for four months. My dad had to pay her every session for her to go. In my mom's life, money has never been an obstacle. Her father was a middle-high class socialite in Venezuela who worked in engineering and oil companies. Her mother, who passed away of Leukemia when she was twelve, spoiled her rotten until her very last breath.

Eventually, I became mentally sick to the core. Writing and singing, my two favorite things in the world, became hobbies, and life had lost its zesty twang. Little things like music and the people I passed on the street that waved "hello" at me became nuisances. My mom "gave up" her therapy so I could get help.

I still wonder if she did it for herself or for me.

A few times a year, I get asked what my biggest fear is. Sometimes it comes up in conversation. Other times I create the question, not thinking about the consequences if people answer with "Spiders, yours?"

Each time I get asked, I take a deep breath and lie. "The dark." I say now, the idea of death by sea sounding more of tranquility than a travesty.

I look back at the old pictures I have of myself, a smiley and shy little girl who was afraid of nothing and everything at the same time. To her, I ask, "When you have nothing to lose, why be afraid?"

Me, with my baby doll at age three. I loved taking care of her. I used to take her everywhere with me.

#open letter #dear mom hlbutterfly #hlbutterflyoriginal

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letterstomilen · 3 years

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i discuss the classification of igneous petrology as you fall asleep during my lecture (PART 2) (ASMR)

Childe/Zhongli, Alternate Universe When Childe's younger sister tells him about the volunteer at the library, he does not make the connection between that and his new favorite ASMR YouTuber, Rex Lapis.

Childe’s unfortunate love life starts at the age of eight. He, of course, did not call it “love” when he’s eight. When he was eight, he plucked a couple of weeds and sunflowers from his neighbor’s garden before he went to the park and handed them over to a classmate he doesn’t remember the name of now.

Handed over is an understatement here, seeing that she fell over from him shoving the flowers towards her chest before declaring, “Please marry me!”

In hindsight, storming over with the delicacy of an elephant with two left feet was not the best idea. But as somebody who recently discovered that watermelons could not grow out of your stomach no matter what, he was not the brightest. (Lumine now would argue that this is still the case. Unfortunately.)

She, as all eight-year kids would when faced with a loud boy that shoved you to the ground, started bawling. It didn’t help that Childe wasn’t aware of the fact that some worm wriggled in with the weeds and sunflowers he uprooted, with said worm now wiggling on the glittery, cursive ‘i’ in ‘Magical’ on her t-shirt.

This promptly resulted in her mom heading over and a long talk over dinner that night on why you should not ask girls to just marry you at your age.

“So I can ask boys then, right?”

Pleased with the loophole he discovered at age eight, Childe toothily smiled at his mom, who sighed and shook your head.

“You can’t ask anybody to marry you when you’re eight. And please don’t throw flowers at them too.”

The stolen flowers resulted in him being on his neighbor’s blacklist for the next couple of years; this in itself was fine, seeing that Childe was always a bit of a troublemaker and it was bound to happen at some point. However, the crying girl left a big impression on him even as he got older.

It did help that the older he got, the more silver-tongued he became, but this resulted in short-term relationships and a famous incident that once got dubbed ‘Tartaglia’s Shakespearean Slipup.’ (It involved a drunk retelling of Macbeth, several dumb questions, and a shirt that could never get the stain washed off of it.)

So in short, Childe’s love life is, to put it bluntly, a travesty. It has been downhill ever since he was eight years old, and nearly two decades later, he’s sure that he finally hit rock bottom.

“Tonia,” he begins, wondering how his little sister could be so cute yet so cruel at the same time, “what did you not tell Zhongli?”

“Hmm… Oh, I didn’t tell him about your obsession with his channel!” And cue the self-satisfied smile before she took another sip of his coffee.

Oh lord, she learned it from him.

“Anything else?” he presses, wondering what kind of image he has of him now — definitely not a good one. No amount of smooth talking or knowledge about petrology could save him from his past mistakes. He’s sure that Zhongli would not take kindly to the plethora of times that his insobriety has made him infamous among certain groups of people.

And he’ll admit just to himself, he was wholly unprepared for this. He couldn’t even be lulled to sleep by his voice last night — which is unfortunate because the series where he discussed the inspiration behind Tao Yuanming’s work just came out and if there’s one thing Childe likes, it’s poetry — because he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that he knew who he was.

Except not as Childe. As Tartaglia, his younger sister clarified, ever so proud of herself that she taught somebody how to say his birth name correctly, never mind that it stumped even the most persistent of professors.

“Not really! He said he likes listening to me brag about my older brother! ‘Cause he’s an only child and everything. Actually… he mentioned that you’d like to hear your stories sometime. Sweet, right?”

“My stories,” Childe echoes slowly. “The ones I told you when you were a kid? The fairytale rip-offs?”

“Yup.”

“Including the one where the kids locked the evil queen up and used her Magic Mirror to cheat on their tests?”

Admittedly, he was a bit lazy with that one. But Tonia was just eight and Childe was half-awake, trying to remember the difference between Hudibrastic and hija. So, like any good literature major with a bone to pick with their academic advisor, he decided that he’d very subtly rehash Snow White and make it all about cheating. (On tests of course.)

“Yuup. They got in trouble, right?”

They didn’t, but his mom would have his head if he said otherwise, so he smiles at her, ruffles her hair, and says with the attitude of a picture-perfect older brother, “Of course. The evil queen immediately sent them to the dungeon. So don’t cheat, okay?”

She nods, rewarding her compliance with another sip of his coffee. The library is fairly close to their apartment, as all things in Liyue are. A tightly packed city by the sea where you were sure to know everything about your neighbor and their neighbor. Which meant that the tenants next door still remembered when Childe first moved in and spent a week high on ambien, only to invest his time in writing a paper about how Snowpiercer was the sequel to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. (When they spoke for the first time, they asked politely if he could please turn down the volume, because it was difficult to sleep when your neighbor watched the two movies consecutively with the volume all the way up at three in the morning, don’t you think?)

(The paper ended up being legible to only the most dedicated of readers anyways.)

Deciding that they’re an appropriate distance from the entrance of the library now, Tonia stops walking and drags her brother towards the benches. “Now, before I take you to meet Zhongli, I just want to ask you one thing.”

He looks at her expectantly, wondering if she’s going to ask if he remembers what Lumine said. Don’t embarrass yourself, don’t act shady, and before you do something—think ITWTWW? (A.K.A Is This What Tsaritsa Would Want? A joke that arose after a particularly hellish class last year after the professor’s attention towards Childe was a source of debate—did she hate him? Did she think of him as her son? Did he—a suggestion brought forth by Aether—remind her of annoying neighbors that’d spend all night partying? To this day, he still doesn’t know.)

“What is it?”

“Did you bring your library card?”

“Huh?”

It turns out, Childe learns five minutes later with relief that his long-forgotten library card was collecting dust in his wallet, that Zhongli has a limit on books he can check out because he’s always forgetting them. And his overdue fees are quite an impressive sum—both for a library volunteer and anybody that’s frequented a library for the past decade.

But to the library’s great relief, he’s only checking out books nobody has ever checked out in the past so by default they belong to him now. (No harm no foul—unless you’re the occasional poor individual that has to research an incredibly specific and niche topic only to find out that the book is not in the library at the moment.)

Tonia sounds immensely proud of herself as she informs him of this while they wait for him to finish help somebody find a book. Help is an understatement, Childe realizes, as he watches Zhongli talk, smiling as he ensnares the visitor in an answer to a question where “yes” or “no” would have sufficed.

It’s ridiculously cute. Really. Tonia seems used to this sight as she drags Childe closer to the two. Zhongli must’ve realized that he slipped into a tangent because he apologizes and points to the nonfiction section before opening his book once more.

“Oh… I forgot.” Tonia purses her lips the same way Lumine does as she sighs, lowering the hand that she was enthusiastically waving moments earlier.

“Hm?”

“He won’t notice us. Ah, Zhongli,” she says melodramatically while they watch him flip through pages in a book, her tone every bit the longing princess in books they poured over when she was younger. “Why can’t you see us? Isn’t my wonderful big brother enough to catch your attention?”

He’s very flattered. Really. He knows that compliment was partially influenced by letting her have a lion’s share of his drink and Lumine’s sarcasm, but he takes it in stride, squeezing her cheeks. Tonia rolls her eyes in response, and heads over to Zhongli, chatting him up quicker than Childe can respond.

“And this is my older brother,” she introduces, gesturing her hand towards Childe, who smiles brightly, hoping he looks every bit the composed person he doesn’t feel like right now.

Zhongli is just as charming in person and it doesn’t help that just the realization he’s standing right here makes Childe’s pulse race, contributing to his increasingly forced smile that he reserves for uncomfortable situations. Oblivious to that, Zhongli smiles at him—one that is ingrained in his memory from days of watching it on loop —and says, “You must be Tartaglia, right? Tonia told me a lot about you.”

Oh fuck.

His first thought: of course she told him about him. He knew beforehand, the dread of being characterized through his sister’s dramatizations of Childe’s mistakes. It’s partially why he could only get up this morning through two cups of coffee and dunking his head in the freezer for several minutes.

But also his name—

Childe’s torn between asking why the hell his sister told him his real name or excusing himself to go read a dictionary to cool his nerves. Even though he’s well aware most of his family calls him Tartaglia still—mainly his parents when he’s in trouble (which, to be fair, is most of the time)—most people in Liyue call him Childe for two reasons.

One, Tartaglia is a mouthful and two, after many questions about how his name was pronounced only to get it butchered on several occasions, he’s stopped. (Scaramouche, Tsaritsa, and Signora are the only ones who call him that at this point, really; but he’s convinced Scaramouche does it just to vex him.)

“Yes,” he chokes out. “That’s me. Tartaglia.”

Childe decides that if Zhongli would just say his name and nothing else, he would die happy. Which is a mortifying thought but maybe a little bit of an upgrade from falling asleep to listening him talk about rocks. Isn’t it?

“You can call him Childe,” Tonia offers. “My brother doesn’t like it when people call him Tartgalia.”

His mouth forms an ‘o’ out of realization and sheepishly says, “My deepest apologies, Childe.”

“N-no—” Childe starts, his sister’s expression burning into the back of his head. “It sounds really nice when you say it. Call me Tartaglia—anything you’d like, really.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Tonia smiles mischievously, implying that she never forgot all along as she raises a finger to her chin in mock thought. “You watch his ASMR channel, don’t you?”

“You do?”

They both turn to Childe, who’s sure this is turning into an interrogation; their burning gazes, the expectant silence, and a question he’s reluctant to answer.

“Yeah. I’m a huge fan,” he confesses brightly. “My favorite series of yours is the petrology one. It felt really nostalgic.”

He never thought he’d remember high school clearly ever again, but the videos made his classes a little less lazy. And the heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he slept in class would follow, lulled to sleep by a lecture he couldn’t quite remember. But he recalled his friends’ amusement clearly when they asked how he managed to sleep nearly every class, only to get a cheeky smile as an answer.

“Is that so? May I interest you in some books then? There’s quite the collection here, although I’m not sure which would interest you the most then. Any preferences?”

Ohhh, his expectant look was so cute. But Tonia looks bored at the prospect, so he clears his throat instead.

“Actually, I came here to check out Legend of the Lone Sword so I could follow along with your newest video,” he finally says. “Could you show me where it is?”

“Hmm… We do have two copies but unfortunately both have been checked out. One has just been checked out by Xingqiu and the other… ah, it’s still at my house. We’re having difficulties with the video unfortunately because Venti said… now what did he say?” Zhongli asks himself, humming as he takes out his phone and reads out loud.

“’Find somebody that’s willing to record the video and help you set up b-c’… er, before Christ?”

“Because,” Childe clarifies.

“Thank you. ‘Because I can’t do it without laughing’,” he finishes before sighing. “Also several crying emojis followed by a wine emoji and a suggestion for me to find Diluc…? There are also several other texts that I would not be able to read out loud but that’s the gist of it. As soon as I manage to find somebody, I’ll be able to return the book so you can check it out. My apologies.”

Diluc? All Childe remembers about him is what Lumine once said about him.

‘I was convinced him and Kaeya hated each other until I found out they were siblings.” A pause. Then: ‘I’m still fairly sure they hate each other. They’re at each other’s throats a lot. Diluc more so.’

He had not considered him to be a rival in love. Granted — that’s limited information from several years ago but it’s not as if Childe knows that many people outside of his own department. But still.

Eager to save any chance of a love life, Childe says, “Why don’t I help you record?”

“That’s a great idea! Then my brother can read the book while he stays over. Right?” Tonia presses on, smiling far too brightly for his taste as Zhongli muses, considering the possibility.

“Are you sure that wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

Childe nearly stumbles at the sight of his relief. Really, his smile isn’t good for his heart—neither is the look he gives him, as if he hung over the moon that very moment. “None at all.”

“What a relief… I’ll tell Venti immediately that I can record the ‘ASMR: Boyfriend Reads to You’ video.”

—What?

Zhongli looks up from his phone after he texts his friend and tilts his head slightly in confusion, his earring brushing against his shoulder.

He looks adorably concerned and maybe a little bit aware that he’s responsible for Childe’s reaction. “Is there something wrong?”

“N-no. Nothing. That’s great. Good. I’m excited to be your boyfriend.”

Tonia lets out a little giggle and he’s sure that there’s somebody at the library silently praying for his downfall as he hurriedly corrects himself. “For the video, of course. Should I give you my number so we can set a date?”

Not deterred by Childe’s flustered expression, Zhongli nods as he hands him his phone. Maybe this is what he expected—that’d most likely be the case if most of his prior knowledge about Childe came from Tonia, who delights in both embarrassing and complimenting her brother like there’s no tomorrow. “Of course. Please give me your number.”

So with the shame of a college student that never managed to shake off his competitive streak from high school, Childe types his number in and promises himself that this won’t happen again.

(His younger sister lords it over him anyways on the way home, a skip in her step as she recalls it.)

Childe 2:34 i got his #

Twin 1 2:35 for the video recording*

Twin 1 2:35 u also embarrassed yourself. tonia told me all about it lol

Ugh. Of course she did. Childe peeks his head into his sister’s room, hearing her recount the library incident with a few more exaggerations poking fun at what he did than he’d like. Aether must be having the time of his life, which should make them equal considering that Childe made him think that Scaramouche was the best TA ever and would be even nicer if you made him an apple pie. (He hated apples.)

Well. They’re even now, aren’t they?

Childe 2:38 ya but he didn’t notice so its ok. BTW neither of u told me he was that airheaded

Twin 1 2:38 itd be funnier that way

Childe 2:39 oh yeah it was really cute

Twin 1 2:41 didn’t need to know that. anyways u do know how to work a camera right?

Childe 2:41 yea…? who do you think takes all of tonia’s pictures

Twin 1 2:42 no i mean like actual professional cameras used to record

Hm… That was a bit of an oversight on his part, wasn’t it? He texts a quick ‘yeah’ because it couldn’t be that bad and he’ll watch several videos on how to work a camera later, won’t he? There should be three buttons max. Easy.

Not to mention he took an elective on film and he’s watched Zhongli’s videos more times than he can count at this point. So really, there’s not much to worry about. The only problem is that he needs to build up immunity.

If he looks like a “blushing maiden”—Tonia’s words, not his—every time Zhongli looks at him, wouldn’t that be trouble? It’s bad enough that he embarrassed himself in front of his twelve-year-old sister but to look like a fool in front of the same guy his sleeping schedule depends on would be debilitating in more ways than one.

Deciding that he won’t let himself lose this time around, he sends a quick text to Zhongli saying ‘Saturday at 4:00 PM, right? See you there :)’ to psyche himself up before deciding a plan of action. There must be something that’ll impress him—no, completely sweep him off his feet.

More aware than ever that he’s fitting the image of a lovestruck idiot his sister painted him as, Childe watches his phone as it pings with a single ‘OK’ and ‘I am looking forward to working with you’ trying to convince himself that his erratic heart rate and the heat rushing to his face is just a side effect of working with somebody that he greatly admires. (It is, by all accounts, infatuation — but he’ll try to ignore that for now.)

#Genshin Impact #Childe/Zhongli #Childe & Tonia #Childe & Lumine #asmr fic p2 #asmr fic

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girlofmanyfandoms · 4 years

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We All Have Storms

A/n: So I finally finished it, and I tried to work on my imagery, sorry that it sucks! My Marellinh fic is next, so bully me into finishing that, mkay, enjoy!

Word count: 3794

Trigger Warnings: Brief homophobia scene

Warnings: some of my editing was deleted, so if it says ditto bug in there somewhere, I forgot to delete it

Writing taglist: @everyonehasthoughts @imaramennoodle @bookwyrminspiration @holesinmyfalseconfidence @percabetn @an-absolute-travesty @linhamon-roll @holesinmyfalseconfidence @linhamon2 @a-lonely-tatertot @loverofallthingssmart @vibing-in-the-void @clearlykeefitz

“Thanks again for coming over, Keefe,” Fitz called over his shoulder as he lugged a bin onto the carpet in between them.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Are you kidding, Fitzy?” Keefe started emptying out its contents, seeming particularly interested in the box of Prattles pins. “This is a trip down memory lane. And besides, I could hardly miss the preparation for my best friend’s Winnowing Gala.”

“Ugh, how do you say that so casually? I feel like the weight of the world’s on my shoulders. That name is taboo.”

Keefe sighed. He didn’t really want to talk about the upcoming event - it made him uncomfortable and feel wrong in so many ways. He was in a battle between being proudly there for his friend and yelling for him to call it off. But there was no way around it.

“Tell me something. Do you feel like the weight of the world’s on your shoulders? Or the weight of the Vacker Legacy?”

Fitz pulled out a snow globe that he got as a souvenir from Tokyo and shook it aggressively. “Ok, that’s another phrase on the Not To Be Spoken List.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Fitz sighed loudly and threw his hands in the air in frustration. Keefe caught the snow globe with one hand and shoved the bin the the side, scooting closer to him.

“I-I’m s-sorry, that wasn’t directed towards you, I-“

Keefe pressed a finger to Fitz’s lips, making him turn bright red. Keefe noticed and smirked a bit, but he told his inner voice to shut up. Don’t get your hopes up, Keefe. “Yeah, I know. I get it, dude, way more than you think. You don’t want to live your life being pressured to confine yourself to a perfect preppy boy who marries someone at the top of his match list so that he can gain the approval of family members and make a power baby. You don’t want your name to define you, so you try to let out your pain and your fears however you can.”

Fitz was stunned at how perfectly he had described his situation, and in such few words, yet he felt a pang of sympathy. “It must be difficult being a Sencen.”

“It must be stressful being a Vacker.”

“Now you’re avoiding the question.”

“You didn’t ask one.”

Fitz hesitated. Was he treading on dangerous grounds? Or was this just what a friend would do? “It was insinuated. I was asking what you’re struggling with in the Sencen family. And... if I can help.”

Keefe shook his head, dragging the bin back between them. “That’s not something you want to involve yourself with,” he huffed exhaustedly. “Nice rubix cube. Or at least I think that’s what Sophie called it.”

He solved it within seconds, but scrambled it again and repeated the process as Fitz watched in silence. Solved. Scrambled. Solved. Scrambled. Solved. Stopped.

Keefe raised an eyebrow. Fitz has moved closer and put his hands over Keefe’s. Neither could describe it, but all they knew was that it felt right. They met eyes for a moment, unable to move.

Why do I like this? Keefe thought to himself. I feel like we could stay like this all day. Meanwhile, all Fitz was thinking about was I hope he doesn’t hate me for getting so close, His hair really does good, and I hope my hands aren’t clammy, that would be embarrassing. Fitz pulled back abruptly and combed his hair back with his hands. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“You need to learn to stop apologizing for what isn’t your fault,” Keefe mentioned.

He laughed, relieved that the awkwardness had somewhat left the conversation. “I’ll do it when you do it.”

“No fair!” Keefe launched a pillow at him.

Fitz was quick to grab one in defense, and soon, it was an all out war.

It went on for a few minutes before Della peeked through the door.

“Boys, that’s no way to be on a day like this, you’re going to mess up your hair!”

“Sorry, Ms. Vacker,” Keefe said sweetly.

“Aw, you don’t need to apologize, Keefe. You’re a Vacker, too. Just make sure you two fix yourselves up.”

“But this is my signature hairstyle!”

“Then change into your other outfit and help Fitz. I’m getting Eda so she can help with the last minute preparations. You boys behave.”

When Della walked off, Biana appeared behind her and rolled her eyes. “Boys.” But when Della has turned the corner she winked at them and ran off giggling.

Keefe tackled Fitz, and ended up straddling him. Fitz’s cheeks heated up and butterflies formed in his stomach as an alarm rang in his head, screaming This isn’t just a friends thing. He tried his best to ignore it, but the more he tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth, the more he realized just how perfect and soft Keefe’s lips were. He gulped, hoping to distance himself from these thoughts.

“Remember, Fitzy,” Keefe began, leaning in very close to his face. “Behave.”

He whacked Fitz in the head with a pillow, grabbed his suit, and ran down the hall after Biana for some tips. Fitz was left shaking badly. Slowly, he sat himself up.

“What a flirt,” he breathed, though quite out of breath. But there was no time for contemplation. One of the biggest events of his life was about to take place and he could not disappoint. He gave himself a few moments to steady his heart before taking his tailored outfit and stumbling into the bathroom. ————

Fitz groaned in annoyance for the umpteenth time that day.

“Y’know I can help you with that.”

Fitz squealed in surprise.

“Forgot I was around?”

Fitz seemed incapable of forming words, so he nodded.

“Come here,” Keefe gestured to him. “I learned how to tie a tie from Elwin, the trick is the make a huge, loose opening and swing this part over.”

Keefe finished tying it for him and patted his chest. “Done.”

“Thank you,” Fitz managed to say. He was sure Keefe was doing this on purpose now.

And he was. Because some little part of him had hope.

———— “Want me to walk you down the aisle?” Keefe joked, knowing his friend needed a little less pressure and impending doom around him.

“Well, the crowd won’t allow you to walk out on the same time as me but...” Fitz trailed off. Was he really going to ask this?

“But what?”

“Can you hold my hand? At least until they open the curtains? I need to feel grounded.”

“Aw, I ground you? How sweet!” While his tone was teasing, his heart was jumping for joy.

“You don’t have to-”

“No, I’ll do it,” Keefe blurted out a bit too fast. He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t want you to feel alone on your big day.”

They interlocked fingers and Keefe felt like the floor was swaying beneath his feet. It couldn’t be. He had to be misinterpreting Fitz’s emotions. Was that joy? And happiness? And nervousness? It had to be because of the crowd chanting his name on the other side of the curtain. It had to be.

But maybe it’s not, the voice called. Keefe pushes the thought to the side once more. He didn’t have a chance with Fitz. Boys don’t match with other boys, and there’s no way someone as kind and dorky and fun as Fitz would like a prankster artist with mommy and daddy issues. No way at all.

Keefe squeezed his hand. “You ready to go out there?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Let’s go then.” Keefe nodded to Dex, who was standing by the controls, ready to move. Dex nodded back, and deafening cheers erupted as Fitz, in his royal blue suit, came into view from beyond the real curtains. Keefe patted his back and slipped to the side to let him pass. Fitz flashed his pretty smile, masking the pain and fear. ————

“Evelyn Tanaka, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Vacker.” The girl curtsied in front of him.

He offered a modest and seemingly genuine bow and smile. “You look lovely tonight, Ms. Tanaka.”

She swatted his arm playfully. “I’m sure you’ve told that to all the girls here.”

Fitz put his hand on his chest, playfully mocking taking offense to her comment. “Of course not, Ms. Tanaka. Us Vackers have morals, laws, and tastes. I would never be so rude as to reuse a compliment. I give them out the those who deserve it.”

Evelyn blushed and spun around so Fitz could get a full view of her dress and hair. “I take it that means that I’m to your taste?”

“Very much so. Care for a drink?” He extended his hand and she gladly accepted, earning plenty of jealous glares. Biana came to the rescue, jumping into conversation with the group of girls nearest to them and talking on and on about the latest fashion trends in Atlantis. Fitz sent her a grateful look, glad he would have a little more space to figure out what he was going to do.

Evelyn was a nice girl, and clearly very kind and powerful. Endearing, even. But Fitz had his heart sent on a certain ineligible bachelor.

Keefe was watching from across the room, half heartedly flirting with some of the girls who had lost hope in winning Fitz over, just like him. They locked eyes, trying to communicate all the words they might never get to say. A frown turned to a scowl on Keefe’s face as he excused himself from the conversation and stormed outside into the utopia-like grounds. Fitz didn’t understand why when he realized that Evelyn had closed in, adjusting his tie.

“I’m really sorry, Evelyn, my friend stepped out for a bit and he looked sick, I’m gonna go check on him. Save me a dance?”

“Of course!” Evelyn leaped for joy, and went to find a friend of hers to tell her of her supposed victory.

He rushed outside, fiddling with the ring box that his father had given him just in case he found the “right one.” It was so tempting to give it to Keefe, but with the amount of time it took to recognize his feelings, he wasn’t quite sure either of them were ready for such a big leap.

At last, he found Keefe, legs dangling from a sturdy tree branch. “Oh, you’re here,” he said coldly. His voice was almost apathetic.

Fitz’s eyes welled with tears, his mind a storm of emotions that he was sure Keefe could sense from the few feet that separated them. Fitz got a running start and climbed onto the branch beside his.

Keefe chanced a glance at him, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Fitz was silently crying, shoulders shaking, and gasping for air. Because of him. The angry facade slipped away and he climbed to the next branch to sit beside him and pull him into a side hug. Fitz leaned on his shoulders and took the tissue that Keefe offered. He cleaned his face up, but his eyes were still red and puffy, and he was sobbing without tears.

Fitz reminisced about all the tragedies and battles they had fought in there years on this Earth, and yet nothing beat this. Keefe rocked him gently. “You ready to talk about it?”

He chuckled bitterly, but had take a gulp of air. “What is there to say?”

Keefe tugged slightly on the fairy lights in the tree and looked off into the distance, still rubbing circles onto his back consolingly. “A lot of things. Mainly us and.... where tonight is going?”

The hesitancy in his voice was blatant, and it frightened him. Despite it being a relatively cloudless night, Fitz was shivering. There were so things that could go wrong: his family looking down on him, his family’s image crumbling, the shame of a bad match, and a million other things that crashed and mixed with the other concerns swirling around in his mind, like a tropical storm transforming into a hurricane.

Fitz tried to focus on Keefe’s expression and body language, to read him and see into his brain. No telepathy. That’s crossing the line. Instead, he focused on Keefe’s features, which were much more prominent in the moonlight. His expression was pained, and his eyes held the sorrow of trillions of widows and widowers alike. His hair practically glowed, and seemed more unruly than usual, like waves raging in a storm. There was a war going on in his mind, and he wasn’t strong enough to make it out alive. Not alone, at least. But still, Fitz needed to set the record straight - or rather not straight.

Impulsively, Fitz seized Keefe’s wrist and finds his vein. “Do you want me to call off the Gala? For you?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean.” Keefe tried to pull out of Fitz’s vice grip, but he held strong, still gentle enough not to hurt him. “Why would you it off? This is one of the biggest events of your life.”

Fitz sighed, his heart rate picking up. He was going to have to be blunt about it. “Do you like me? Romantically?”

“What? No!” he squeaked.

And his heart skipped three beats.

One for guilt. One for fear. And one like a held breath.

“You liar,” Fitz accused, but he said it with a breathy laugh, full of relief. Releasing his arm, he wrapped him in a tight hug and murmured into his shoulder. “I like you too, dummy.”

Keefe’s eyes were widened in surprise, and his response was rather delayed, but he hugged him back, resting his chin on top of Fitz’s head. “You couldn’t have given me a few hints?”

“I asked you to hold my hand!”

“Yeah, but you could’ve meant that platonically. Be more clear, Fitzy,” Keefe teased, pulling back a bit to boop his nose.

Fitz blushed furiously. They had reached the eye of the hurricane. It was calm. Safe. Serene. “Well, are you gonna kiss me or not, idi-”

Keefe didn’t wait for the end of the sentence as he tilted Fitz’s chin up and gently pressed their lips together. They grinned, but didn’t break the kiss. It was a picture perfect moment, something taken right from a fairytale. A tidbit from a could-have-been.

But it was over all too soon, and a gasp from just beyond them sent them tumbling into the storm once more. Fitz pulled away and his face went pale. He witnessed it. His father. Alden Vacker. Had witnessed him kissing his male best friend in a tree on the day of his Winnowing Gala.

“What is the meaning of this, Fitzroy?!”

“I can explain-”

“There is no explanation! You disgrace the Vacker name on a daily basis, why must you make it worse by playing these games?”

“Dad, it’s not a game-”

“It’s disgusting!”

“It’s LOVE, dad.”

“You’re fooling yourself! There are hundreds of girls ready to give you their everything and you waste your time with this blasphemy! This wouldn’t be happening if you’d just learn to control yourself.”

“I can’t control the way I feel!”

“You and I both know that’s not true. And you can still control how you act, just enough to save yourself and the rest of the Vackers the embarrassment!”

“Will you listen to me for once in your life?!” Fitz shouted. He was done with his father’s manipulation. “I am romantically attracted to Keefe. I like men. That’s the way I am, that’s the way I was born, that’s how I feel. I’m not in control of it, and I’m not going to accept any disrespect from anyone about this! Much less a lowlife like you!”

“You are not my son,” Alden spat, stomping his foot on the ground.

“And you aren’t welcome here,” Della snarled. Her jaw was clenched and it was clear she was about to go in for the kill. Edaline stood behind her supportively, looking just as deadly with a string of fairy lights coiled in her hands threateningly.

“Radelle, Eda, surely you see-”

“The only place you be seeing yourself is off of my property,” Della countered.

Alden scoffed in disbelief. “I believe you mean OUR property, dear.”

“Then you forget who the Vacker name really belongs to.” Edaline handed Della the coil of fairy lights. “You take care of him, I’ll start sending the girls home.”

“Gladly,” Della said through clenched teeth, before turning to the boys. “You two can have a sleepover tonight, I’ll bake some treats. But remember, behave.” Fitz could’ve sworn he saw his mother wink before she forcefully escorted Alden out of Everglen. HIs mind was incapable of forming full thoughts.

“Sleepover, huh?” Keefe hopped down from the tree. “Sounds like we could cause some chaos.” Keefe opened his arms in expectation.

“First of all, do NOT make a mess in my room,” Fitz started. “Second of all, there’s no way I’m dropping down there. You won’t catch me.”

“Aw, come on, Fitzy. Aren’t relationships about trust?”

“Wait, so you’re comfortable with the label of ‘boyfriend’?”

“Yes, Fitzroy Avery, but that’s besides the point. I wanna carry you upstairs. Drop down and get on my back.”

Fitz cringed at the sound of his name, but dropped down anyway, clinging to Keefe’s back for his dear life.

“Onwards!” He cheered as he gave Fitz a piggy back ride all the way to his room. ——————

Fitz smiled down at the boy relaxing in his lap, lovingly combing his fingers through the boy’s blonde locks. This must be what makes life so divine. This is what euphoria is. The little gems of life where you cherish others with every fiber of your being. This is happiness. He’s what I want. Keefe leaned towards Fitz’s touch, his mind clearing plagued by other thoughts. “What’s wrong?” Fitz asked. “And no beating around the bush. I want to know what’s really bothering you.” When Keefe didn’t talk, he added, “You’re going to have to open up sooner or later, babe. I don’t want to be left out of the circle. I want you to let me in.”

“You don’t want to know the storm growing inside of me,” Keefe rasped, blinking back a few tears. “It’s too dangerous. And I don’t want to risk losing you.”

His eyebrows furrowed and he smiled sadly. “Keefe, you could never lose me over sharing your thoughts and feelings. This relationship is a two-way street - you open up to me and I open up to you. And... we all have storms, they’re just a little different. Some people might have thunderstorms, while others have hurricanes, and some might just have some windy days. But that doesn’t invalidate it. A storm is a storm, and a problem is a problem, regardless of the size and severity.”

“Getting poetic, are we?” Keefe joked, before biting his lip. “Sorry. I guess it wouldn’t kill to tell you some things.”

“Take as long as you need to. You don’t have to tell me everything at once, if you’re not comfortable with it.”

Sighing, he gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts. “I... just hated being around them. I couldn’t stand the way they expected me to fit into this perfect mold, or their version of perfect.”

“I hated how they only talked to me when they thought I was doing something wrong, something shameful. They made me feel like my best wasn’t enough. So... I stopped trying my best. I stopped obeying their stupid rules, I stopped thinking about what others would think of me. I wanted to be imperfect, and I wanted to shove it in their faces. I pranked, I ditched, I did anything I could to defy them. I was tired of being the circus puppet, so I cut my strings and stole the show.”

Fitz remained silent for a moment, Keefe shifting uncomfortably in his lap. He went to get up, but Fitz placed a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the thunderstorm.”

Keefe scoffed. “More like a whirlpool. And I don’t want you to drown with me.” “It won’t get that far,” Fitz insisted, concern emitting from him in waves. “I won’t let it.”

“And what can you do to stop it, Fitzy? The tides are turning, and absolutely no one is strong enough to steer the ship away.”

“You don’t know that. Keefe, I need you to have hope.”

“I knew it was a bad idea saying anything.”

Keefe closed his eyes from the sudden exhaustion, using what little energy he had left to turn to Fitz. “Can you emote a little quieter? I know I’m the light of your life, but you don’t need to worry about me that much.”

Oh, it was a whirlpool alright. But not in the way that Keefe imagined. Fitz’s heart pounded like a marching drum, as he reached into his back pocket.

Keefe opened an eye in mild curiosity. “What’re you doing?”

“Get up, I have something to offer.”

“Oh?” His mischievous smirk returned, the manner in which his eye was dazzling hinting how clever and evasive he thought he had been. “And what would that be?”

The sapphire on the ring, placed firmly in its royal blue velvet box, glimmered from the light of the chandelier, and Keefe practically stumbled back in shock.

Fitz roller his eyes amusedly. “I’m not proposing. Not yet, anyway. I’m making you a promise. A deal. And if you accept this ring, you agree to it.”

“Bribery, Avery dearest? I thought you were above that.”

Fitz’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “Think more negotiation.”

“Alright,” Keefe said, scooting closer in a criss cross position. “I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath before speaking up again. “Keefe, in giving you this ring, I am vowing to always be by your side, through thick and thin. I will respect your boundaries, and let you open up on your own time. I will let you in just as much as you let me in. I will express myself just like you do. I promise to be with you no matter the weather.”

“Then I’ll be your lighthouse in the darkness,” Keefe responded softly.

Fitz slipped the ring onto Keefe’s finger. To no one’s surprise, it was a perfect fit.

“It looks good on you,” Fitz complimented before a realization flashed by his eyes. “But if you don’t like it, we can find another!”

“It’s perfect,” he reassured him. “You’re perfect.”

Fitz hid his face to cover his blush. “So you promise? Through turbulence and tranquility?”

They interlocked their fingers.

“Always.”

#so that was terrible-#kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #fitz vacker #keefe sencen #keefitz #Cade’s writing #imma make a tag system eventually

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lassostark · 4 years

Text

versions of us; ours to keep

AO3 Link: Here Fandom: The Witcher Relationship: Geralt x Jaskier / Geraskier Rating: E

Excerpt:

“So the story is this,” Jaskier slurs, wildly gesticulating in his seat beside Geralt as he starts to recount the story to Eskel and Lambert on how they got together.

Geralt rolls his eyes with a huff, a smile forming on his face despite himself as affection blooms in his chest at the avid way Jaskier tells their story. They’ve been in Kaer Morhen for only two days but his bard is getting along perfectly well with his brothers.

Too well, in fact.

“You see, my dear witchers, it all started when we were staying at a lovely little village in Cidaris and Geralt had left for a contract…”

Geralt’s brow furrows. That is far from what actually happened, if he has any say in it.

Which he doesn’t. But it’s not like he’s complaining.

Geralt just grunts and lets Jaskier carry on with his prattling. He wraps an arm around the bard’s waist and nuzzles his nose against Jaskier’s temple, who — as a professional entertainer and natural storyteller — doesn’t stutter or stumble over this words while describing the nasty fight with a wyvern. Instead, Jaskier leans on Geralt’s side, cornflower blue eyes twinkling a little brighter and his smile a little wider.

Geralt is enamoured by him and he gladly allows his bard to continue spinning a tale that did not even take place.

“… and after the White Wolf took down the kikimora, thus saving me from a perilous death, he came to me and grasped my face between his hands. Then he said, ‘You’re an idiot and I almost lost you’ — which, by the way, would have offended me so. But before I could tell him that I did what I did to save him, I said, ‘Well, all’s fair in love and monster guts, dear Witcher’.”

“And?” one of the women surrounding Jaskier in the tavern implores, her eyes wide in rapt attention.

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and Geralt, who’s seated in his usual corner, can’t help but snort at the theatricality of it all.

It’s late in the evening and the tavern is only half-full of patrons. Geralt had returned an hour ago after dispatching a nest of drowners that’s been bothering the small town for months now. The townsfolk are, surprisingly, friendly and unbiased. Which is probably thanks to his bard’s music, and Geralt is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth for a rare display of tolerance to people of Geralt’s kind.

So perhaps that is why he has also tolerated Jaskier’s weird little game of How I Met My Witcher. Geralt can’t pinpoint the exact period Jaskier started sharing anecdotes about his — their — love life. It’s not like these people give a damn about them.

And yet.

“My dear Witcher grunted and then kissed me,” Jaskier concludes solemnly, and his audience lets out a collective dreamy sigh. “And we have been together ever since.”

“Oh, it’s so romantic,” says the same auburn-haired lady.

“And so brave!” exclaims another.

Jaskier meets Geralt’s heated gaze across the room. Cornflower blue glinting against the warm, orange light of the tavern, the bard had the audacity to wink coquettishly at Geralt, not bothering to be discreet about it. Geralt rolls his eyes at him, ignoring the giggling women as he drains his tankard. What this town made up for in the kindness they extended towards Geralt — free food and a room at the inn, how about that? — it lacked for in the quality of the ale. But that’s alright. It’s not the ale Geralt gives a shit about.

He gets up from his spot and arches a brow at Jaskier, his gaze deliberately going from heated to suggestive. If there’s one thing that would make this evening perfect, it would be to take his bard up to their room and give him a thorough fucking.

Geralt has to hide his snort of laughter behind a cough when he sees Jaskier scramble for his lute, offering a quick but lame excuse to the group of women tittering before following Geralt up the stairs.

That night was the most athletic sex they ever had.

“How did you manage to tame that witcher of yours, bard?”

Geralt is sequestered in a corner of the banquet hall, a mug of ale in his hand as he surveys his surroundings with cautious eyes. He’s in the opposite side of the room when his enhanced hearing picks up the grating voice of one of the nobles present chatting up to Jaskier near the drinks table.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That witcher of yours is tame, a far cry from the description of the Butcher of Blaviken we heard back then. What did you do, bard? Fucked him into submission?” The noble chortles then at his shitty joke.

Geralt rolls his eyes and takes another long sip of his drink. He sees Jaskier, who is on his short break after entertaining the guests for nearly an hour of non-stopping playing and singing, look up from picking a few grapes to smile sharply at the foolish noble.

It’s only thanks to his enhanced senses that Geralt sees it. And when he does, he snorts inelegantly and hides a wolfish grin behind his drink.

“Kind sir, you do not tame a witcher,” Geralt hears Jaskier reply in that tone of voice that is a mix between sardonic and barely tolerant, which really translates poorly to the person the bard is talking to. “It’s like suggesting you can domesticate a wyvern. A mere humble bard like me has no chance of taming a monster hunter, let alone the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen. In fact, you’ll find that it’s quite the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

Geralt can discern the dangerous glint in Jaskier’s eyes, his lips stretched into a broad smile and showing his pearly white teeth.

“I’ve been following my dear Geralt for close to twenty years, kind sir. I’ve seen him maim and defeat creatures your feeble imagination can’t fathom, and he’s saved my life more than I can count. Actually, that’s how we got together.” Jaskier’s tone shifts, sounding almost thoughtful. His mouth curves into a smirk as cornflower blue eyes quickly glance at Geralt. There’s a playful glint there that Geralt doesn’t miss. “We were bested by a succubus, see, and we had no choice but to fuck each other or else we die. Geralt had more control, obviously, while I lay in the grass writhing in pain and begging him to fill me up with his cock and cum. So really,” Jaskier lets out a sigh and drains his mug, ignoring the pale noble who looks like he’s about to hurl his dinner. Bar his performance, this is the most entertainment Geralt’s had all night. “You’ve got it all wrong. How do you think I’m still alive all these years if it was I who tamed him? Hm?”

Jaskier leaves the noble’s side without saying goodbye, a spring in his step as he quickly shoots a saucy wink at Geralt, who follows his bard’s lithe movements with hungry, heated eyes.

Several weeks later, Geralt finally gives in to his curiosity.

“Why do you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?” Jaskier answers, not halting in his playing but his attention is now split between Geralt and his music.

Geralt huffs out a breath.

They’re camped in the middle of the woods, two days away from the next village. Geralt caught a few hares and roasted them in the fire Jaskier made while he went hunting for their dinner. Now, after brushing down Roach and feeding her a few apples and grains, they’re both doing their respective tasks.

Geralt is reclined against a fallen log, sharpening his swords with the whetstone, while Jaskier is strumming his lute on the opposite side of the fire. He hums a few words under his breath before he writes down the lyrics on the notebook next to him.

“Spread these tales about us to those strangers,” he replies after a moment. He inspects the blade of his silver sword and then hums. It needs a bit more sharpening. “Stories that aren’t even true.”

When he hears no reply, Geralt looks up to see Jaskier already looking at him. The warm glow of the fire makes the bard’s features soften, chestnut hair a bit rumpled following the impromptu make-out session that occurred fifteen minutes earlier. Blue eyes Geralt has fallen for a long time ago twinkle like sapphires as those lips he’s kissed and nibbled on countless times before and can never get enough of stretch into a lopsided smile.

Geralt’s heart stutters in his chest and he finds himself falling a little more in love with Jaskier. No amount of training and discipline and decades on The Path prepared Geralt for this loud, bright, and infuriating man.

And he won’t have it any other way.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he’s looking so fondly at him, soft smile and even softer eyes, that Geralt can’t help but abandon his task for the moment. “My dear, darling witcher. Of course they’re true.”

Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting that answer.

Geralt gives him a dubious look. Jaskier sighs and rolls his eyes.

“I may be old but my memory is still sharp, bard,” Geralt answers with a small smirk. “I’m pretty certain that you and I didn’t ‘fall into bed’ after I survived a fatal wound from a fight with a barghest and you ‘stitched me back together’. I would know.” There’s a full smirk on his face now. Geralt chuckles when Jaskier huffs out a breath and juts his chin.

“You did survive a fatal wound from a barghest,” Jaskier says, sounding affronted. “And I did stitch you back after.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Really, Geralt. The devil’s in the details, as they say! Well, I don’t know who’s ‘they’, but… no matter. The fact remains that people love hearing stories. Even better, people love hearing love stories. I am, after all, a hopeless romantic and not only am I talented musician, I am also a connoisseur in the art of storytelling. It just so happened that ours is the most captivating one I’ve told thus far. Who am I to deny my audience, Geralt? It would be a travesty, a mockery, and a negligence of my talents if I do not use them to my, our, advantage.”

After all that impassioned speech, Geralt doesn’t bother to point out that Jaskier still hadn’t answered his question. He knows when to choose his battles, and Geralt is of the belief that he won’t get the truth tonight.

Instead, he grunts and goes back to sharpening his sword. After several moments, Jaskier picks up his playing like he didn’t stop, and Geralt easily welcomes the familiar peace that befalls them. It’s similar to being wrapped in the thickest fur he has in his room in Kaer Morhen.

For some reason Geralt doesn’t want to begin contemplating or acknowledge just yet, he finds himself paying closer attention to Jaskier whenever he gets in his “storytelling mood”.

Which, fortunately, doesn’t happen as often.

But it does continue to beg the question: what is his bard up to?

(Read the rest on AO3)

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fic #witcher fic #complete fic #crack treated seriously #protective!jaskier #soft!geralt #honestly this is just some fluff and smut #little plot but there's smut #aaaaah #toss a comment or kudo to your writer pls!!!#my writing

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