None of them know what to expect of the new civilian heir
Maybe she would be soft and kind like Tsuna? A calm female sky how prefers words and diplomacy like Donna Aria? Surely someone that needed protectipn and guidance from her Famiglia. Daniela di Vongola had been a force of nature, but she was raised a Mafia Princess for all she wasnt the heir, that was a exception. The girl is a normal civilian after all
They are nothing alike
Its like comparing a candle to a wildfire
Sawada Yuka was like a tempest and a whirpool all into one, furious like a Storm, eerie and clever and sharp like Mist, bright and burning like a vast Sky. A perfect mix of all her flames.
No matter how much Timoteo attempted to pacify his new heir, it only made her angrier, more hateful of them all, her Guardians tried to spend time with their new boss and bond, just to be threatened begin cut open with a sword and constantly insulted as 'a butch of useless fake bastards'.
The girl have plently of cousins and a father, who were in equal standing about their hatred of the Vongola. They didn't make Timoteo's life easier, backing her actions and words without hesitation and refusing to let her out of their sight, even within the safety of the Iron Fort.
The beautiful dark-haired girl only stared at them with pure distrust and anger even after they tried to reasure her they only desire to aid her in her journey to be a great and powerful Vongola Decima, turning up her nose at the countless offers of family.
That particular conversation led to a yelling match where Yuka casually called them "a bunch of manipulative, false snakes" and "mindless sheep who can’t even think for themselves," before threatening to burn them all if they didn’t leave her the hell alone.
No, Sawada Yuka was not what they were prepared for
Vongola Nono had thought, perhaps naively, that bringing her into the fold would be as simple as offering guidance and family in form of Reborn, give her the right motivation and loyality to become the next boss of the Vongola Famiglia, as it had been with Tsunayoshi and even young Dino Cavallone. But where he had been a reluctant but ultimately kind child who warmed to the new family he never knew, Yuka was something else entirely. She was fire and fury, biting cold and sly cunningness. Always sneering and hissing and smiling like she is barring teeth like a wild animal.
Furious as a Fox-Devil
She refused their friendship, spat on their assurances of loyalty, and mocked their attempts to bridge the gap between them and cooperate. They could not understand why she would not soften, why she would not simply accept the hand extended to her.
The Vongola Guardians, too, were lost. They had expected to meet a new boss who would be the heart of their family, someone they could follow and protect. Instead, they found a ruthless girl who made it clear she didn’t want them, who regarded them as little more than strangers with titles they hadn’t earned. She insulted them at every turn, calling them useless, false, and incapable. She dismissed their attempts at camaraderie with scorn and, when they tried to prove themselves, pushed them away harder.
Young Sawada Yuka reminded Timoteo of his rebellious son, Xanxus - who still stubborn in his refusal of a attempt reconciliation - in ways that unsettled the old Don. His youngest had always been blinded by his own anger—a wrathful Sky who lashed out rather than understand and be grateful to the family he had been given. None of them had never truly grasped why he carried such hatred, why he choose such violent Elements to stand at his side to enable the ranging inferno he became.
If the Varia Boss was a Inferno, the equally dark-haired, red-blooded-eyed (and from where had those Triad members even got this blastled name? Her eyes were a shade of raven-black often. Maybe a effect of a strong secondary Storm?) fair young lady was like a willdfire, taking over everything in her way and making it hers, a ember fire dancing both playful and wicked over their skins, hungry and unforgiving.
The young Vongola started to carefully cultivate her own power and reputation much like Xanxus when younger, but it was pointless as she grew even more distant of the perfectly loyal chosen Guardians she refused to even pay attention to. Timoteo couldn't help but feel a growing concern over her paternal family's influence. His own adopted son's wildness, his unrefined passion, matched with his undisciplined Guardians, only seemed to fuel his bitterness, creating more chaos than unity. What the Vongola Decima needed were guardians who could guide her with steadiness, ones who could mold her potential without provoking such volatility.
They didn’t understand her hatred, not fully. They thought it unreasonable, excessive. Much in likeness to Xanxus and his wrath for the father who raised and sheltered him. They were trying to help her, after all. Nono asured them she was just upset at the changes in her life and would warm up to her new family soon.
But as the days turned into weeks, a gnawing unease began to settle among them. Yuka wasn’t like Tsuna. She wasn’t a reluctant boy thrust into a role he couldn’t refuse. She was something far more dangerous. She wasn’t their lamb to shepherd and send the slaughter. She was a wild feral fox, and she had no intention of letting them dictate her path.
The batfam is looking for Danny. Cause they heard Damian's twin had been resurrected as a ghost. There are looking for him, and eventually through magic bullshit that they found out Danny is phantom. And they start heading rumours around Danny.
They had been searching for days and they finally found some kind of a lead. That lead being a new name Damian's twin had started using , "phantom" as a new name..
So they started asking around but. . .
"Oh, phantom? Sorry I don't want to spread rumours. . . " The ghost being questioned disappeared
"Oh that phantom fellow? That little-" not much was found out from here. The only thing they learned was Danny had many enemiesm
"Oh, you want to hear about phantom?"
They finally found some gossiping ghosts
"Do you mean that phantom? The one who fought against the pariah dark ?" A bright pink haired girl practically yelled.
"Yeah I think they are talking about him. He has many titles its Frankly ridiculous, 'the great one', 'the child of Hope', 'the bane of pariah dark", and so on"
"I wouldn't like to spread rumours, but I heard he has some very powerful connections to the ancients."
"I heard that too! My friend works in the law side of things and she had to suffer through writing all of his fraidmates and titles. She saw some pretty bigshot names in there. Seriously 'the chief of farfrozen' how the fuck did he managed to befriend the chief of a notoriously elusive clan! And don't get me started on the master of time!"
"Let's not get you started on that. You raved on for half an hour previously."
"I heard he is a warrior and fought .any battles!"
"Yeah in the return of pariah dark, he fought him directly and won! I was there!"
Sometimes I resent my father for not teaching me about the inequity of love from his kind. See, no one seems to understand the heart of a Black Woman. Expected to pick up my feelings as if they were never dropped to begin with. Selfishly, hopeful for a different outcome with a familiar kindred spirit. I thought this year would be absent of my familiar companion disappointment. Here I am, blinded again by the disguise of what could've been.
Thank you to Stacey for the last request I‘m doing for now! Tiny bit of angst with protective Zoro and a cute ending~ :D
Requests are stil closed, but I might reopen them eventually once I rest up a bit and write the things I’ve been wanting to do and have been putting off; I’d annnounce here on tumblr! Let me just take this moment to say THANK YOU to everyone who sent in a request, and everyone who read and enjoyed my writing <3 It’s been a lot fun and I still cannot believe the response I got!! I love you guys so much ㅠ_ㅠ
Now, please enjoy this one, too :)
----------
Vulnerable
It happened so fast. So damn fast that Zoro could do nothing but watch as Sanji got a bullet to his calf, making him lose his balance and focus, giving the marine he was fighting the perfect opportunity to cut deep into the cook’s stomach with his cutlass. Before the first drop of blood hit the ground, Zoro cut down all of his own opponents and, without losing any time, sent a 1008 pound phoenix at the asshole who shot Sanji. He nearly hit Luffy who was aiming for the same target but Zoro barely cared, barely even took notice of Nami’s shocked cry or the destruction that his attack caused all across the area.
He could only see his lover dropping to the ground as if in slow motion and the marine standing above him who was getting ready to deliver the finishing blow. Zoro had never moved so fast, shooting forward to Sanji’s side to stop the blade and kill the man who wielded it.
Zoro couldn’t even enjoy the thrill of battle anymore; his mind went black and he only cared about the man who was bleeding at his feet. Nothing else mattered. Only protecting Sanji and not letting anything or anyone near him.
He didn’t know how long he stood there after that, guarding Sanji. He didn’t know how many marines he had fought. It was a lot for sure. But he didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t even see them; acting on blind instinct and cutting down anyone who was foolish enough to get too close. He just wanted everyone to disappear so that he could tend to Sanji’s wounds. If the man died on him, Zoro would never forgive the shitty ero-cook. Would never forgive himself.
“Zoro! Zoro, it’s over!” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it was too far away, too unclear to place. “Please stop,” the person spoke softer now, but it seemed louder at the same time, and Zoro paused. Maybe it wasn’t the voice that was far away. Maybe it was because Zoro was the one who was far away; too lost in the darkness and deafened by the loud buzzing in his ears.
He shook his head to clear it, making the fog raise a little bit as his vision focused on Nami’s form. She was standing a little ways away from him, as if scared to get any closer, her face twisted in worry.
Slowly, Zoro came back to reality. The area was quiet now, except for the sounds of the crew calling to each other and running towards the three of them. Zoro finally lowered his swords, resheathing both Enma and Kitetsu. Wado Ichimonji, however, stayed in his hand even as he finally dropped to his knees to check on Sanji, the presence of the familiar blade comforting.
He gripped the hilt tightly as he took in the sight in front of him. Sanji’s stomach was bleeding heavily where it was slashed, the blood staining the ground black. It was making him feel sick—which was ridiculous; he was used to blood, used to injuries. But this was shitty cook's blood and Zoro couldn't stand the sight of it. He let go of his katana, letting it rest against his thigh as he quickly riped off the sleeve off of some marine jacket, pressing the cloth to the wound to slow down the bleeding at least a little. Then, he scanned the rest of Sanji’s body in search of further injuries. The wound on his calf thankfully didn’t look too bad, it seemed like the bullet only grazed him, but his ankle was twisted at an awkward angle and Zoro really hoped it wasn’t broken.
But that wouldn’t be what would matter to the man as that was why, after he made sure his leg wasn’t an immediate danger to Sanji’s life, Zoro’s eyes went to search for the cook’s hands instead. They weren’t hurt, still looking smooth, as clean as could be after a battle, and as beautiful as ever. Zoro sighed in relief. Sanji would have been absolutely devastated if his hands got hurt in any way; they were his tools, his life, the most important thing to him and Zoro would be damned if he didn’t make sure those were safe.
“How is he?” Nami asked, her voice quiet and full of worry as she kneeled next to Zoro. “He’s so pale.” She reached out, her fingers gently brushing Sanji’s hair from his eyes.
Before Zoro could stop himself, one of his hands which were by now well covered in Sanji’s blood shot forward and grabbed Nami’s wrist. “Don’t touch him,” he said, nearly snarling at her. Immediately, he mentally berated himself for his overreaction. He knew it didn’t mean anything. He knew she only wanted to take a better look at Sanji’s face, to check his temperature, to wipe the sweat off of his brow, to help. But still, Zoro couldn’t get himself to loosen his grip.
Because Nami was a woman. She was petite, beautiful, elegant, and Sanji was crazy for her since day one. Because Sanji was his, yet Zoro couldn’t help but doubt that fact from time to time. Sanji always said Zoro was the one he loved but it was sometimes hard to believe when Zoro was faced with Robin and Nami and the way Sanji fretted over them.
And with the shitty cook so vulnerable, Zoro was vulnerable as well.
He hated it. He hated feeling like this, hated acting like this, hated thinking like this. He hated this. He didn’t understand what was going on with him but with the blood, the smell, the way his head was spinning… Zoro felt like he was going crazy. It wasn’t like he doubted the cook’s feelings or didn’t trust him or Nami, it wasn’t like he himself could save the idiot’s life, but he still couldn’t let her hand go.
It only took Nami a second to get over her surprise at Zoro’s sudden harshness. Slowly, she turned to the side to look Zoro in the eye, a slight frown that looked more concerned than shocked or upset on her face. It felt like she understood all the things that Zoro didn’t say when smiled gently and moved, her hand that Zoro didn’t have a vice grip on coming to rest on Zoro’s shoulder instead.
He startled at the contact, his one eye widening as he stared blanky at her until she opened her mouth to speak, “It’s gonna be okay. He’ll be okay. I’ll go tell Chopper to get here as soon as he can, okay?”
At her words, Zoro’s grip momentarily tightened even more, but if he was hurting her, she didn’t let it show. Then suddenly, it was like all the energy drained from his body. He finally let go of her wrist, leaving only a bloody handprint behind on her pale skin, before he turned his attention back to Sanji without a word.
He felt Nami’s presence retreat only to be replaced by Chopper’s a split second later. Zoro could only silently thank Nami for being understanding, and for making sure he wouldn’t cut Chopper in two before she let their doctor rush in. Once he would be sure the cook was going to be okay, he owed her thanks.
He only hoped words would be enough for the woman who was never above blackmail.
—————
“So, I hear someone nearly had a heart attack when I passed out from the injury.”
Zoro groaned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried, taking a swig of his beer; of course, of course someone told.
The shitty cook laughed, then hissed at the pain the movement caused to his still healing injury. “Shit…”
“You okay?” Zoro asked, sitting on the bed next to him and placing a comforting hand on his knee.
Despite the painful grimace, the cook smirked at him. “Still fretting? You’re not very convincing.”
“Shut up, shitty cook,” Zoro mumbled, rolling his eyes at him. He didn’t remove his hand, however. “It’s not my fault you went and almost got yourself killed. Of course I’ll get a little worried.” Zoro froze, only belatedly realizing what he had just admitted.
Sanji, too, looked taken aback by the admission but soon, his expression melted into something so soft that Zoro couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t fight the urge to lean forward and kiss this frustrating, absolutely maddening, beautiful man in front of him.
“Don’t do that to me ever again,” Zoro whispered when they separated, pressing his forehead against Sanji’s who only chuckled.
“Done denying you didn’t freak out?” he teased.
Zoro clicked his tongue at him, closing his eye to try and stay calm. He had to repeat to himself that the cook wasn’t well enough for their usual fights yet, so Zoro shouldn’t get angry either. “What’s the point when someone told you already anyway?”
“True,” Sanji laughed before connecting their lips once more.
It was a long while later—only once Zoro had settled on the bed next to Sanji, leaning against the headboard as he absent-mindedly played with Sanji’s hair and beginning to doze off—that Sanji spoke up again, “Hey, Marimo?”
Zoro only hummed to let him know he was listening, not even bothering to open his eye to look at him. He was too comfortable, too sleepy to do anything more.
“No one except you just now told me you panicked over my injury.”
And suddenly, as if by magic, Zoro was wide awake.
|| on ao3
Jaskier likes to think going back to Oxenfurt was his idea, but they wouldn't be there if it wasn't for the wyvern. That doesn't stop him from telling people he's been meaning to come back for ages (not technically a lie) and that he's glad he finally has (the truth).
He and Geralt blew into town - very nearly literally - early this morning and already their arrival has stirred up excitement. It's definitely the most welcoming place they've been; Geralt has barely paid for their room before people are crowding around to see the Witcher. Jaskier can't help feel a smidge of jealousy that Geralt is getting so much attention in a city he once called home, but he sees the look of confusion on the Witcher's face and smiles to himself. He'd be dead in an instant if he told him, but he finds Geralt's confusion at being appreciated quite adorable.
"Come on then," he says, pressing a hand to Geralt's shoulder. "Let's get you out of sight." It's supposed to be a joke, but Geralt takes it much too literally, grunting as he pulls out of Jaskier's touch and starts upstairs to their room. Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly at his companion and turns to the crowd gathered with a smile before following Geralt up to their room.
By the time he gets there, Geralt has rid himself of his armour and tunic and he's lounging on the bed, eyes closed and arms folded over his stomach. Jaskier can hardly blame him for wanting some rest after they travelled most of the night, but he was rather hoping to show him off to his friends. No matter, they can always drink later.
"Shove over," he says, kneeling on the edge of the bed. Geralt grunts at him, but shifts to the far side of the bed to make space for him.
Jaskier settles against the soft bed, sighing in relief. Geralt makes a sound of agreement next to him and Jaskier smiles to himself. He wishes this was the Geralt that the public saw, they would have a much kinder opinion of a man who prefers sleep to parties. Though there's a part of him that revels in being the only one to see him this way.
When Geralt wakes from his nap, contrary to Jaskier's plans, he sets out to fight the Wyvern. Jaskier follows along behind, chatting away happily until they reach the city gates. At that point, Geralt turns and frowns at him.
"You're not coming, Jaskier."
"You can't go alone."
"I can and I will."
"But who will record your feat? The Great White Wolf versus the Wyvern of Oxenfurt."
"If that's intended to be a title, it's too long. And no one will record it because it's not safe."
"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier starts. "When will you learn that a little danger isn't going to keep me away?"
"And when will you learn the difference between a little danger and the risk of losing your life?"
"No time soon, likely." He winks but Geralt doesn't share his amusement.
"Go back to the inn, Jaskier. I'll be back tonight."
Jaskier's heart sinks at the word tonight. Geralt is usually more specific than that and if he isn't willing to give an estimate of time, he must be worried. Jaskier relents, adjusting the strap of his lute case on his shoulder.
"But you will come back?"
"I always do."
Jaskier wants to remind him of the vampire incident a few months back when he almost didn't, but he thinks better of it.
"Be careful," he says and Geralt hums in response before turning back to the gate. Jaskier watches him go, but his chest is tight.
Jaskier waits until Geralt is fully out of sight before turning back toward the inn. He intends to return to their room, but there's no point sitting and sulking when there's an abundance of people here who would revel in hearing him perform.
By midday he's gathered a group around him, some he recognizes, some he doesn't and a few even sing along with his songs. It helps to keep his mind off Geralt and whatever he's doing right now with the wyvern. They break for lunch and Jaskier's drinks and meal are paid for by one of his companions. The group disperses and Jaskier finds himself at a table with three others; two he knows from the university and one a stranger.
"You've certainly changed," one of them says, Sofia, a former classmate.
"How so?" Jaskier asks, taking a drink.
"You've grown up," she says and Jaskier makes a face. "I don't even remember the last time I heard of someone threatening your life."
"Is it true that you've stopped sleeping with married people?" the other asks and Jaskier pulls up a look of offense and suddenly realizes he can't remember the last time he slept with, well, anyone. They've been on the road for a long time, he tells himself.
"No," is all he says.
"And what about that Witcher you came in with?" the stranger asks.
"What of him?" Jaskier asks. He'd really rather not think too much about Geralt until he's back at the inn and in a nice hot bath where Jaskier knows he's safe.
"You were here for five minutes before you two disappeared into your room and no one saw you again for hours." All three faces turn to him, expecting an explanation.
Oh. They think he's with Geralt. Jaskier could laugh if it wasn't such bitter irony. Instead, he sighs and tries to explain.
"We travelled all through the night because Geralt wanted to get here quickly to deal with the wyvern. He's very focused," he adds proudly. His companions look like they don't believe him, but that's fine, they can believe what they wish. It doesn't make it any more true.
It happens again at supper though, when Jaskier is really starting to worry. He's sitting alone in the corner Geralt would have occupied had he returned, and a handsome young man slides in across from him, smiling.
"Tell me," he says, looking around to confirm they're alone, "what's it like to bed a Witcher?"
And he's not the only one. It seems every five minutes someone is commenting on his relationship with Geralt or making a joke about him finally settling down. The worst part is that most of them think he's in love with him. Which, yes, is technically true, but Jaskier doesn't want people talking about it even jokingly because if Geralt found out-
He sighs and finishes the last of his ale before pushing himself up out of his seat. Another bard is playing now and the attention seems to be on her. If Jaskier slips away now, no one will notice. He's spent the last hour alternating between worrying about Geralt and sulking about his ruined reputation to keep his mind off Geralt. What good is everyone thinking you're in love with someone if he never comes back?
But just as he's about to head up to their room, there's a loud crash from outside and the frantic cry of a horse. Jaskier nearly throws himself out the door because he knows that sound and he knows Roach doesn’t cry out like that for nothing. When he gets outside, Geralt is there, propped up against the stables and breathing harshly.
Jaskier hurries over, taking the reins from him and handing them off to a very confused and nervous-looking stable boy before returning to Geralt. There are new punctures in his armour, which Jaskier doesn't like at all, but what's more concerning is the blood. He can't tell where it's coming from, but there's a lot of it and Geralt is paler than usual and too quiet for Jaskier to assume it's the wyvern’s blood.
Geralt just groans and drops his head back as Jaskier fumbles with the buckles, concern numbing his fingers.
"Fuck, Geralt, how do you even get out of this?" his voice cracks and he hopes Geralt doesn't notice. This was supposed to be a simple contract, Geralt had seemed very blase about it. Jaskier realizes now, it was probably because he was so excited to come back to Oxenfurt and Geralt didn't want to tell him no.
"Fuck," he mutters again.
It takes far too long to get Geralt out of his armour, but he manages it somehow, bundling it under one arm and wrapping the other arm around Geralt's back. Geralt still hasn't said anything and Jaskier keeps telling himself it's the elixirs. They take Geralt away from himself and if they don't fully wear off, he's off for a little while until they do. That's all it is.
They've drawn a crowd, but Jaskier is oblivious to what the people around them are saying. Geralt stumbles along next to him and he's too focused on getting him inside and upstairs to worry about what anyone else is thinking. Geralt is walking, but the stairs are a challenge and he winces as he lifts his left leg. Jaskier makes a mental note to look at it once he's out of his clothes.
He gets Geralt upstairs with some difficulty and sits him down on the bed just as there's a knock on the door. Casting a quick look at the Witcher to make sure he's alright, Jaskier goes to the door. There's a chambermaid, smiling weakly in the hall, holding a bucket of hot water.
"The innkeeper thought you might want a bath," she offers and Jaskier sighs. He hadn't even considered that.
"We don't need a bath," he says kindly, "this will do. Thank you." She nods and turns as Jaskier takes the bucket from her hands. He crosses back to the bed where Geralt has slumped over and arranged himself around the pillows.
"I'm sorry," Jaskier says, "you have to get up." He gets a grunt in response, which is more than he's gotten all night, and he takes it as an understanding.
He pulls Geralt back into a sitting position and lifts his shirt up over his head. Geralt isn't very cooperative, but he manages and then hauls him to his feet again. This is trickier because Jaskier has to try and get his pants off with one hand because Geralt wavers even with assistance and he doesn't think he'll stay upright for long on his own.
It takes him much longer than he'd like, but Jaskier gets him seated in a chair in the middle of the room and pulls Geralt's boots off before ridding him of the rest of his clothes. He wishes he hadn't, because now the gash in his thigh and the matching one across his side are fully visible. He's a bard for Melitele's sake, not a doctor, what is he supposed to do with this?
But he's determined and he doesn't remember ever seeing Geralt as bad as he is now, so he can't just leave him like this. Jaskier grabs the bucket and finds a loose bit of cloth, setting himself to cleaning the wounds as best he knows how. He winces at every noise from Geralt, clearly unimpressed with his skill, but he hasn't been pushed away yet and he doesn't know if that's a good sign or not.
By the time he finishes cleaning him and treating his wounds as well as he can, Jaskier's hands are trembling. He finds an old shirt at the bottom of his bag and tears it into makeshift bandages, fumbling to get it tied against Geralt's skin. When he gets him into bed, Jaskier just wants to collapse next to him, to curl up close and listen to his heartbeat, but he can't. Geralt carries potions with him and Jaskier is sure he can find one of those to help him.
So he digs through his pack to find anything and he comes across a small vial that he recognizes. He takes it back to bed with him and coaxes Geralt into swallowing the liquid. When it's gone, Jaskier drops the empty bottle on the floor and stands up. Strong fingers wrap around his wrist and he turns to find Geralt staring up at him, one arm outstretched.
"I'm not going anywhere," Jaskier promises, "just let me get out of these clothes." Geralt's fingers loosen and his arm drops back against the bed. If he doesn't want to be left alone, it must be really bad.
Jaskier turns to hide his expression from the Witcher. He's still covered in his blood and he thinks maybe this is why Geralt always wears black. He chucks his ruined clothing into the corner and adds another log to the fire before returning to bed.
"They're talking about you downstairs," Geralt mumbles.
"I'm sure they are," Jaskier breathes, his voice heavy with the relief that floods through him.
"Do you know what they're saying?"
"It doesn't matter." He knows. He doesn't want to hear that Geralt knows. One problem at a time.
In the morning, Jaskier is too hot. He's barely slept and his head aches from it, but he tries to remove himself from what he thinks are the blankets covering him. A firm grunt when he rolls over tells him the heat he's feeling isn't his own and it's not blankets wrapped around him. He smiles, sighing softly into the pillows. If Geralt is lying on his side, he's obviously not too badly injured. Thank the gods for Witchers and their healing abilities.
He's just glad none of his friends can see him now or he'd never convince them he wasn't in love with Geralt. But it's not them he's worried about, not really. Geralt shifts behind him, groans and rolls onto his back.
"Stay put," Jaskier says, rolling over to face him. Geralt's face twists into a frown but Jaskier ignores it. He's just grumpy; if he was really hurt, he would know by now. "I'll go get us breakfast. Stay in bed."
He climbs out of bed and he can feel Geralt's eyes following him which would be perfectly fine if he wasn't stark naked. He's not usually so self-conscious, but as he digs clothes out of his pack, Jaskier's aware of every move he makes.
He doesn't relax until he's out of the room and headed downstairs to get something to eat. When he gets down, the inn is quite busy and there's a large group to one side that quiets significantly when Jaskier comes down. He ignores them; it's just his friends, most of whom were probably privy to his panic last night. They'll be thinking all sorts of things after that, and Jaskier's still reeling from finding Geralt like that, he doesn't want to try and deal with whatever everyone is thinking.
And somehow he gets drawn into it anyway. Before he knows what's happening, Sofia has come over and the stranger is with her again.
"How is he?" she asks quietly.
"Fine. Now."
"Jaskier," she says and he knows what's coming after that, but it still hits him hard when she says it out loud. "You really are in love with him, aren't you?"
"He's my best friend in the world," he says. "He protects me and I do my best to give him a better name for himself. He looks grumpy, but he's actually soft and kind and thoughtful..." he trails off wistfully, doing exactly nothing to prove his point.
Sofia is looking at something over his shoulder, smiling, but when Jaskier turns there's nothing there. If he'd turned a moment earlier he'd have seen Geralt come down the stairs behind him.
Jaskier finds an excuse to get away, but it's closer now to midday than breakfast time. He orders a pint with their food and downs it before heading back to find Geralt. And he does find him, without much trouble actually, sitting at the back of the inn. Jaskier frowns to himself because he shouldn't be up already, but he crosses over to sit with him anyway, carrying their food precariously through the crowds.
"What are you doing up?" he asks as plainly as he can.
"I'm alright, Jaskier, I don't need to be laid up in bed."
Jaskier wants to argue, to say that he saw the wound in Geralt's side last night and it scared the shit out of him. But he doesn't know how much concern will be welcome. Instead, he stays quiet and when the innkeeper comes close, he orders a pair of drinks. This earns him a questioning look from Geralt, but it's not like it's the first time they're started the day with alcohol.
Everything about this visit is turning into exactly the opposite of what he was hoping. He's enjoyed being able to see his old friends again, though he wasn't expecting quite so many of them to have such strong opinions on his relationship with Geralt. The contract he doesn't even want to think about. Normally he would press Geralt for details, but after what he saw last night, he's had quite enough talk of wyverns thank you very much.
It's not until that evening that things really go downhill, though. Geralt has been upstairs resting most of the day, much to Jaskier's approval, but he's getting restless so they head down to join the rest of the party downstairs. It's a celebration of sorts, now that the Wyvern is dead and they can return to their normal lives.
Jaskier can't figure out why he wants to, but he doesn't argue and when Geralt plops himself down in the corner, Jaskier joins him. They start with a pair of drinks, but Jaskier has another and another.
He's tipsy when it's suggested that he get up and play something. At first, he's not even aware of the request because he's so focused on Geralt, watching the way his fingers slip up the side of his tankard. He turns it thoughtfully, not pausing to share those thoughts, so Jaskier watches. Watches until a light hand presses down on his shoulder. He turns to see a tall, thin man standing behind him. Jaskier doesn't recognize him.
"They're asking for you," he says.
"Are they?"
"Did you not hear them?" he asks and Jaskier doesn't comment. He gives Geralt a quick smile and picks his lute up from the table.
The first few songs come easily; Toss a Coin and other favourites that Geralt never wants to hear. Tonight, though, he doesn't seem to mind and Jaskier is at a loss. Maybe his injuries are worse than he thought and Geralt isn't telling him how bad it is. Maybe he’s thinking this is the last time he’ll hear them. The thought sits heavy and uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach and Jaskier shuts his eyes. He pushes those thoughts aside, for now, focusing entirely on the instrument in his hands and the sounds of the crowd before him.
It's going well until someone near the front calls out for him to play Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier doesn’t even know how anyone this far south could know it. He played it for an audience only once, in a moment of weakness, only days after he’d finished it. He’d been alone and miserable and incredibly bitter and now he’s regretting letting his emotions sway him.
Instinctively, Jaskier's gaze snaps back to Geralt, still sitting in the corner, still seemingly unaffected. The same woman gestures for Jaskier to come closer and he kneels on the floor in front of her.
"A friend of mine heard you play it at an inn near Barefield. Said it's the most beautiful love song he's ever heard."
He wants to say no, but who is he to say no to praise like that. And it’s already out there in the world, apparently. So he gives her a wide smile and steps back, rising to his feet again. He casts a looks to Geralt again, who's looking at him now because of course he is. This could very well be the last time Geralt wants to speak with him, so Jaskier gives him a soft smile and lowers his eyes.
He starts the song, keeping his eyes clear of the corner and directed only at the first few rows in front of him. Jaskier can't even bear to look at him lest he see the outright repulsion on Geralt's face as he realizes the song is about him. The audience cheers at the first few notes and Jaskier realizes Geralt won’t be his only problem when he’s finished here.
There will be no dealing with any of them after this.
As he finishes, his hands tremble just slightly and he can't bring himself to look up. His friends congratulate him and he's vaguely aware of the other blanket praise aimed at him. The only thing that comes through clearly is "you can't really tell me you don't love him after that" and Jaskier does his best to roll his eyes and pass it off. But Geralt certainly heard that, if he could hear them last night.
And it's true; he all but admitted to being in love with him to the entire room. Or, at least, anyone who knew Geralt was the subject of the song. He's just thankful he changed the lyrics after the incident on the mountain, or this could be much worse.
Suddenly, it goes quiet around him and when Jaskier looks up, Geralt is in front of him. Fuck, he thinks, this is it.
"Jaskier, we need to-" he doesn't finish his sentence before wrapping a hand around Jaskier's arm and tugging him away through the crowd. There are whispers behind them as they go and Jaskier tries not to focus on that because he needs his head clear.
Geralt's hand slides to his back, but he doesn't let him go, leading him out of the main hall and into the hallway. They're alone now, just the two of them and Geralt is still touching him.
"What are you doing?" Jaskier asks, shakier than he'd like. Geralt presses up against him, tipping Jaskier's chin up with two fingers.
“They say you’re… in love,” he says cautiously. Jaskier doesn’t quite know what to say with Geralt mere inches from his face so he nods.
“They do.”
“And?”
“Well,” Jaskier starts, his hands fidgeting at his sides, “you heard the song just as well as anyone. Better, I suspect - Witcher senses and whatnot.”
Jaskier could swear he sees him smile for a moment and then Geralt's mouth is pressed against his own, soft and wanting.
All the breath goes from his lungs in an instant and when Geralt doesn't pull back, Jaskier shuts his eyes and sinks into him. Geralt's lips are soft against his, his arms warm and strong where they wind around his waist. And Jaskier is lost.
His mind is foggy, his body hot and Geralt just keeps kissing him. He presses him tighter against the wall and Jaskier whimpers. When Geralt finally pulls back, he's breathing hard and he looks even more damn beautiful than he ever has before.
"I take it you like the song, then?" Jaskier pants.
"Hmm." Geralt kisses him then, crouching low enough to get his arms around the backs of Jaskier's thighs and he lifts him. Jaskier hasn't been with a lot of people strong enough to lift him, but Geralt does it with ease, pressing Jaskier into his chest.
Jaskier goes with him easily, wrapping his legs around his waist and knotting his fingers in the back of Geralt's shirt. He holds him close and kisses him until he can't breathe because it's been years. Years of longing and pretending not to care and now- Geralt moves, turning them and Jaskier only draws away when he needs to breathe again.
"Where are we going?" he breathes.
"Upstairs, to our room."
"They'll know exactly what you’ve done with me," Jaskier grins, sliding his fingers up into Geralt's hair.
*Please someone suggest a better title after you read this. Also, this was by far the hardest of these that I’ve done. I don’t know what it is about this situation. Anyway, I hope you still enjoy.*
“Evening, Queenie.”
“Teenie. You’re still up?”
Tina slips a finger between the pages of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them to mark her place. She doesn’t require legilimency or her auror training to see that the sister she half-raised had meant to sneak into their apartment unnoticed. She raises an eyebrow, not bothering to verbalize the question Queenie’s already heard, the continuation of a fight that’s been building for weeks.
“So what if I was at the bakery? He remembers me, Teen. We’re in love.”
“Queenie.”
“Don’t look at me like that.’
“Like what?”
“Like you’re the—the wise one who has everythin’ figured out.”
“I never said that. But the law is—“
“And what about it? What if there was a law that said aurors couldn’t—couldn’t marry anyone who’d ever been arrested! What would you do then?”
Tina’s fingers clench around the book, her stomach flipping with an unsettling combination of excitement and hurt. For a moment, she’s stepping into MACUSA with her hand around Newt’s arm, and then his hand is on her cheek, featherlight and delicate and burning, and then she’s staring at that damned photograph in the magazine and bundling up the well-worn pages of his letters and tucking them far away in the back of her wardrobe, out of sight but hardly out of mind. She softens just a little, and realizes that Queenie has been studying her intently. “That isn’t the point.”
“Teenie—“
“It’s fine. I told you. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wanna be with Jacob.”
“You can’t.”
“I am.”
“Queenie,” she snaps.
“Why can’t you just be happy for us?”
“I promised Momma and Poppa I’d protect you.”
“Well, I’m all grown up now. I think you can stop.”
A stab of panic shoots through Tina’s throat. “What if you—“ she lets Queenie into the fog of worries, arrest, a baby with Queenie’s blond hair taken from its mother’s arms, Jacob’s memory wiped of the family he once knew. Their parents, sick and dying, and the sisters crying into each others’ shoulders.
“That won’t happen to us,” Queenie finally says, her voice softer.
“You don’t know that.”
“You have to take risks sometimes.” Tina’s mind flashes to her work, and Queenie shakes her head impatiently. “Not like that. You’ve never had a problem with that. With your heart.”
Tina blinks. She’d though she had. Just this once, just a little. And then he’d gone and—She cuts herself off from that line of thought, frustrated with herself for being distracted. It’s so infuriating sometimes, arguing with a legilimens.
“It’s okay to be hurtin’.”
“I’m not.”
“Tina.”
“I’m not.”
Queenie stiffens at her sister’s tone, and in a breath she looks angry again, taller and stiffer and ready to fight. “Well, I think you are. I think you’re jealous.”
Tina’s stomach lurches. “That isn’t fair,” she protests, knowing her unsteady voice has betrayed her, and knowing that with Queenie, it doesn’t matter anyway. It isn’t related. Her and Newt. It’s not.
Queenie scoffs.
This thing with Jacob is dangerous she thinks to her sister, throwing force behind the words. You’ll just get hurt.
“Or maybe we’ll just be happy. That’s what happens when people are right for each other. They say so.”
How would you feel if I brought you your copy in person? Tina shoves Newt’s voice away. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Either of you.”
“And you’re hurtin’ us in the process. Can’t you see that?” Queenie tugs her shoes back onto her feet, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “You know I love you, but you’re wrong about this.”
Tina stares. “Don’t—“
“Don’t what?”
“You’re being reckless. Just like when we were little girls. You aren’t thinkin’ straight.”
“You gonna turn us in, Auror Goldstein?”
“No, never! Queenie—“ she pleads. Tears fill her eyes as she watches Queenie’s spill over. “I love you, too. I want you to be safe.”
“It ain’t fair, y’know? You and Newt coulda been happy. You coulda written him a letter, explained how you feel. But me ’n Jacob—“
Tina flinches. “That’s not—you can’t—“
“I can. And I will. I’m goin’ back. At least one of us should do this, not eatin’ pastries and memorizin’ books instead.“ She nods to the copy of Fantastic Beasts still clutched in her sister’s hands, and a fresh rush of hurt and doubt and frustration floods Tina’s stomach.
Queenie’s rushing to the door, Tina following after. “Wait, wait—” She wipes her tears hurriedly, and more replace them. She reaches for Queenie’s arm just as her sister’s hand closes around the doorknob.
“I’ll see ya later.”
“No—“
Queenie shoots an angry look at her sister and throws open the door, rushing into the hallway.
Tina takes a breath and hurries after, halfway to the stairs when she hears a muffled oof, the clatter of Queenie’s shoes and something else hitting the wood floors. “Oh, well isn’t this just perfect,” she hears Queenie say sharply. She hurries around the corner to see Queenie’s heels disappear at the bottom of the stairs.
“Queenie, Queenie,” she tries again, sharp but quiet to avoid waking everyone on the floor, but the steps grow distant, and a moment later she hears the whoosh as her sister disapparates.
“Tina.”
Someone else reaches the first landing. Newt. Queenie must’ve stumbled into him.
For a breath, all she can think is how very beautiful he is. That always seems to be the right word for Newt. Beautiful, from his scarred hands fumbling with the handle of his case to his curled shoulders. The confusion pulling at his lips, and the messy flop of hair across his forehead and his eyes. Morrigan, his beautiful eyes searching all over her face. Why is it that whenever she looks into Newt’s eyes, her hands ache to touch him? “Tina,” he says in a low rumble, and his voice is beautiful, too, “are you all right?”
She realizes suddenly that there are tears on her cheeks, and that her hand is stiff and cramping from holding onto a book. His book. She dashes the tears away, allowing the book to fall completely shut and wrapping her other hand around the beautifully embossed leather.
Newt’s eyes follow her movements. “Is that—?”
A shrill voice suddenly fills the hallway.“Miss Goldstein, is that you?”
Tina blinks as their gazes tear away from each other to the stairs. She hesitates a moment. “Yes, Mrs. Esposito.”
“Was it one of you girls rushing down the stairs a few minutes ago and making all that racket?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Esposito.”
“And you’re quite alone?”
Tina glances back at Newt, who is already looking at her, eyes wide open and kind. The thrill of his gaze and the hurt follow in quick succession. “Always,” she calls back, hating the way her voice breaks around the word. Her heart pounds, and she waits a few breaths before looking into Newt’s eyes again. “Well, come in then, Mr. Scamander,” she says softly. She tries to school her voice and expression into something more neutral and friendly. From the confusion filling Newt’s face as he follows her into the apartment and she presses the door closed, she’s not sure she succeeded. She sets the book on a nearby table, the spine facing away.
“What’s happened with Queenie? Is everything all right?”
“She’n Jacob...”
“Jacob?” he repeats in surprise. “But he was obliviated.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Didn’t work. He and Queenie were seein’ each other in secret for weeks before I found out. We argued. We have been a lot, Newt. And then tonight, she saw him again and came back and I—“ she swallows hard.
“You said in your last letter that she’d been disappearing in the evenings.”
“Yes. I didn’t know—Newt she’ll be arrested. You saw what MACUSA’s like when they think the Statute of Secrecy is violated. They’ll wipe his memories. But I never meant for her to just…leave.” She wraps her arms around her stomach, looking down.
“Queenie will be back. She loves you. And, she knows how much you love her.”
Tina bites her lip. “I hurt her.”
“Tina—“
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
And before she’s noticed that he has moved, Newt’s hand has landed on hers, warm and rough and grounding. She gasps and looks up to find his eyes trained on their joined hands. His thumb sweeps over the back of her hand like a whisper of a breeze, and she tries not to want, but he’s here and touching her and lifting his head to look at her and Mercy Lewis she does.
His breath is close enough for her to feel as he stands before her. “You hurt each other. Creatures who care about each other do it all the time, especially the ones who are close. And they always come back. You should see the baby nifflers when they play.”
Her resolve momentarily spent, she allows him to tangle his hands with hers. “You have baby nifflers?” she whispers.
He grins. “Many of them. They get into all sorts of mischief.”
“I’d love to meet them, I—“ Reality sinks back in.
“Tina?” he prompts gently.
She wonders, briefly, if her sister had been right about her. “Queenie won’t listen to me. She thinks I’m—“
“What?”
Jealous. Afraid. She’s holding his hand, she realizes, and he’s engaged to someone else—else, she thinks, shoving angrily at her own words. He’s kind to everyone. It doesn’t mean that—but she’d thought it had on the docks all those months ago, and in his letters, with his stories about his brother and parents and creatures and his gentle questions. But he hadn’t told her about Leta, had he? Just that paragraph about aurors, and then a week of silence, followed by the publication of international bestseller Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. And she hadn’t received even a brief note to excuse his absence. Queenie had always thought there was more to it, but how can there be when—“Nothin’, Mr. Scamander.” She drops his hand and backs away, brushing at her eyes until they’re clear. “Sorry, what a welcome to New York, huh?”
“Please don’t be sorry.”
Their gazes catch again, and she wishes her chest wouldn’t lurch each time. Except that she doesn’t, because as much as it hurts, it is a living, breathing, wonderful thing.
“I forgot to congratulate you.” Her chin tries to move as she fights to be still. Friendship, she reminds herself. He must not have thought of her like—like she did. But then why had he kept writing like…
“On the—on the book?”
“No, on...” She trails off as he lifts a small parcel from his coat.
“I did bring—if you’d still like—it seems that perhaps you don’t need it anymore, if you bought it.”
Tina glances to the copy on the table. “ ‘Course we did, Mr. Scamander.”
His eyes fill with confusion and hurt and just a tinge of regret that she cannot fathom. If he’d wanted to bring her his book, why hadn’t he before? “I did try to—but the ministry…” he looks at his shoes, scuffing a mark on the floor.
She aches for his confusion. “It was wonderful.”
“Really?” He brightens, and her heart soars.
When he looks at her like that, she cannot bear to— “I read it.” She clears her throat. “I loved it.”
“I’d still like you to have this. If you want it.“ He holds out the parcel wrapped with simple brown paper and twine.
She closes a hand around it gently, almost reverently, and pulls at the knot, easing the brown paper off of the cover. The American edition must be different, though, because while her copy is the standard dark blue of many wizarding books, this one is a vibrant blue-green. She smoothes her fingers over the glittering words of the title. And then, moved by some impulse she does not understand, she lifts the cover to peer at the frontispiece. For Tina, it says. Thank you.
“It was your copy. I set it aside for you. My publisher decided we should use the standard blue leather, but the first few were like this.”
Tina thumbs the smooth, glossy leather. “This is one of the first copies?”
“The very first.”
“Oh, Newt, I couldn’t—“
“—I want you to.”
Tina blinks and searches his eyes. His gaze flits from her to her shoulder, the ground. “For what?” she asks.
“Mm?”
“Thank you for what?”
“Oh, for—“ he glances down, then boldly back into her eyes, “—for everything, Tina.”
As if she could ever walk away from the way he sees the world. Her heart pounds, and she wonders if he knows how much that sounds like both a benediction an a goodbye. “I didn’t do anythin’.”
“That’s not true.”
“Nothin’ you have to thank me for, Mr. Scamander.” The words are sharper than she’d meant them. “Besides, aren’t all aurors careerist hypocrites?”
“I didn’t—“ he takes a rushed step forward and then gasps, his case clattering to the floor.
“Newt!” She’s cupping a hand around his elbow before she’s thought to move, dropping the book and reaching down to fix the clasp that had fallen loose with his stumble. She rights the case. There is no mistaking the wincing pull of his face. He’s in pain. Why hadn’t he told her? Because you didn’t give him a chance, she tells herself. Because you were too busy with yours.
“It’s nothing.” He sounds a little breathless, but his face has relaxed as though the worst of it is over. “My shoulder. I was just finishing with the nundus when I got the owl from the Ministry. I didn’t have a chance to handle this before I left.”
“You took an international portkey with an open wound?” Of course he did.
“I thought they might change their minds.”
“Why would they?” Newt stares at her with a depth that makes her stomach flip.
“I’ve been denied for months.”
For months. But then, why had he been trying to come, even if—Tina shakes her head.
“I’ll see to it in a bit.”
That gets her attention. “Newt.” She gestures toward the kitchen in a way that she hopes leaves no space for argument.
He sits in the chair that she pulls up next to the table. “It’s quite all right, Tina.”
She gathers up a porcelain bowl and clean towels, pointing her wand to fill the bowl with steaming water while she retrieves essence of dittany from the potions cabinet. “You’re in pain.”
“I’ve had much worse.”
Tina glimpses him as he hunches forward in the chair, avoiding contact with the left side of it. This throb of want is worse than before, because it is not his hand on hers or his voice close to her ear that she misses. She wants to smoothe his furrowed brow. She wants to gently touch the straining muscles in his neck and throat. She wants to take his hand between hers, and ease his careworn face into her neck, to be the one who comes down into the case when he’s hurt to bat his fumbling hands away and heal the wound. He’s the kindest person she’s ever met. Someone should take care of him for a change, and she had so very much wanted—wants—Tina shakes her head. “Now, where was it?”
Newt looks up at her, momentarily lost. “Oh. My shoulder. The left one.”
She nods, dipping one of the cloths in the water. He flinches trying to lift his coat and jacket out of the way, and so she takes over, calm in the minimal healer training that aurors receive, right up until the point that she realizes her hands are tugging at Newt Scamander’s shirt. Thank Paracelsus that the wound, though deep, is only just beneath his clothes to the side of his neck, and with his heavy overcoat drawn from his arms and his already-open bowtie tugged free with Newt’s good arm, she can move his jacket and waistcoat and shirt far enough out of the way without removing them. And bent as he is, he cannot see her cheeks flush at the glimpse of scars and muscles running down toward his chest. He had placed a small patch of cloth over the wound before, which she removes, replacing it with one dipped in steaming water and working out the dirt so that it will heal properly. “Sorry,” she breathes when he flinches.
His eyes slide shut as the muscles of his jaw and neck work against the pain. “ ’s all right.”
She dips the cloth back into the bowl, wringing out the warm water.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to New York sooner.”
She stills with the cloth hovering over his shoulder, then continues with her task. “You were busy,” she says, her voice a mix of hurt and hope.
“Not—not really.” He shifts under the touch, her hand brushing the side of his neck. “This was my fourth attempt at a travel permit.”
“Fourth?”
“The Ministry weren’t keen on my travel, you see. ‘Personal reasons’ was a little vague for them after last time.”
Tina bites her lip, trying to calm the treacherous, hopeful pounding of her heart. She rinses out the cloth once more. “Did you need something for the wedding, then?”
“The what?”
“The wedding.”
“Why would I come to New York for that?”
“I just thought—why come to New York, then?”
He sounds even more confused, now. Hurt, almost. “I came to see you.”
“But—I—“ The right words will not come. With a wave of her wand, Spellbound magazine sails into the room, falling open on Newt’s lap.
“Beast Tamer Newt to Wed,” he reads. “What? But, Tina, I’m not—” His eyes skim further down the page. “To Leta? But she’s marrying Theseus, not me. You thought I was engaged?”
“You’re not?” She almost does not recognize her high, soft, broken, hopeful voice.
“No.” His voice is warm and dark and makes her shiver. “I had the book like I’d promised, and the Ministry wouldn’t let me come, and then you stopped writing and I thought...“
“Newt,” she whispers.
He fumbles to his feet. “I just wanted to see you.”
“You—“
He raises a hand to her face, the backs of his fingers skimming across her cheekbone, his eyes watching the movement with utmost care. She gasps a hopeful, stumbling gasp as he thumbs away a tear.
“But you and Leta—“
“We’ve changed, Tina,” and now she suspects he’s saying her name merely for the pleasure of its repetition, and she couldn’t argue. “For the better, I think. I hope. And we were never—she wasn’t—“
Tina cups his jaw. He leans into the touch.
And then gasps and turns the other way.
“Oh, Newt, your shoulder. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
She reaches for the dittany. A few drops stitch the wound tighter, another murmured spell clearing the stains from his shirt.
“Thank you,” he says softly, his eyes finding hers. He must’ve been in some pain before, no matter what he’d said, because they are suddenly clearer than they had been. She could fall into them for hours. “You read my letters.”
She laughs. “Queenie teased me that I’d read them so much I’d have them memorized. I’m sorry I stopped writing.”
Newt reaches for and squeezes her hand, his other thumb sweeping across her cheekbone. “I thought perhaps what I’d said about aurors—“
“That wasn’t why I--Newt, I stopped because you’re wonderful. And I thought that you were—that I couldn’t—“ They stare at each other, only a breath apart, and then Newt bends to drop his forehead to hers. “—do this,” she concludes. Her eyes flutter shut, and on the other side of that pounding heart and those empty hands is a hushed and pleasant calm.
Their hands wander slowly, his from her cheek, to her neck, tracing the shape of her ear and burrowing into her hair, and hers against his pulse and down to his shoulder just at the edge of his shirt to soothe his new scar. Their joined hands tangle as well, fingers tracing and bumping as though to learn each other.
“I came to New York because I’m falling for you,” he whispers between them.
She smiles and wets her lips, feeling not so much like she’s soaring, but rather like she had when he first pulled her into the shining sun of his case. “That’s good.”
“It is?” Her thumb sweeps across his neck, feeling him swallow.
“Mm.” She takes a breath, wishing she could tell Queenie that she’d been right, at least a little. “Because I’m falling for you, too.”
“That’s—that’s very, very good.”
She laughs lightly, and then he does, and their breath and the sound mixes between them.
“We’ll find Queenie tomorrow, hm? And you can talk to her.”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like to meet the nifflers? Although I warn you, they can be quite the little rascals.” He fingers the chain of her locket. “And you might leave this up here.”
Tina moves her forehead against his. It feels at once thrilling to be closer than they ever have been before, and as easy as though they have stood like this a hundred times. “In a little while.”
“Yes,” he agrees, fingers brushing the side of her mouth until it becomes a delicate smile, “then.”
The most compliant pawns are often the most valuable
Words: 565
Warnings: Manga spoilers (Overhaul quirk/ideology/organization)
“Take off your mask”
As always, you obey. His command contradicted everything you’d been taught, but you don’t waver. Why should you? He was the chess master, you the game piece–the perfect pawn. Unquestioning, you were content to merely complete one order then await the next. Even as he fiddles with the clasp on his own mask, his beak–the ever-present barrier between him and the world’s filth–falling away, you remain silent.
Chisaki breathes, expecting the air to sit stagnant in his lungs–putrid, weighed down by germs and human stink. It doesn’t. It’s cool. Fresh. Not sterile, but not rancid. Tinged with the sharp odor of alcohol disinfectant. Bearable.
His amber eyes trace your frame, noting the ease with which you fade into the background. Unmoving, more a statue than a person. Expressionless, even when your face was bared for his evaluation. Were it not for the deep-set scars marring your cheeks, he might’ve marked you “forgettable” as well. But the scars were there. They were the lasting reminder of society’s hatred for your kind–the pure few. The quirkless.
He steps forward, coming closer, although the thought of inhaling recycled air makes his skin crawl.
“What can you offer me?”
“Unconditional loyalty.”
He expected that much from even the lowest of his thugs. You were disease-free, but that didn’t make you an asset. There had to be something else.
“And?”
“Willingness.”
He scoffs. You don’t flinch as he tugs off his glove, nor when he curls his bare fingers around your neck. Your composure convinces him to give you another chance–to let you plead your case before he disassembles you.
“I’m dead as far as the world is concerned.” You elaborate. Calmly, as though whatever happens next is of little consequence. “I have nothing–no possessions, no family, no quirk–so there’s nothing to lose. I’ll give my life for the Eight Precepts if that’s what’s being asked of me.”
It was a terrible answer. Once again, you only offered what was already expected of you. Then again, what could you possibly give, as untainted as you were?
He finds the answer in your demeanor. Your eyes tell him “composure.” Your speech, “charisma.” Other words rush to his mind, and he begins to think that, perhaps, your true worth wasn’t in what you could to give now. Rather, you could become something incredibly useful, under the correct circumstances. Like Eri and the quirk-bullets, all you needed was molding.
He lets his arm fall away from your neck, turning and returning to his desk. He coats his hand in several pumps of sanitizer before fetching a new latex glove from a drawer. Then, he lifts his beak back into place. He isn’t sure why he took it off in the first place.
“You can put your mask back on now.”
Can. The implications of the word aren’t lost on you. It suggests that there’s a choice. You wonder if it’s intentional as you hook the straps of the mask over your ears and secure it onto your face. Meanwhile, Chisaki watches over you with a narrowed gaze. Appraising you.
Pawns are always an asset, although they’re numerous and expendable. Still, a skilled player doesn’t sacrifice every single piece in the pursuit of victory. No, the best players bide their time, sneaking their most inconsequential pieces into enemy territory. With the right guidance, that measly pawn becomes a queen.
