#hold your ground and your stance gets stronger with each step-back not taken
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photobooth kisses
Pairing: Soccer Player!Jungkook x Sprinter!OC
Summary: You find yourself getting into a fight, but Jungkook is there to get you out of it and bandage up all your wounds for you. You also don’t want to admit it but the boy in front of you has made you feel certain feelings for him, but you’re far from even admitting to them, but somehow in one night, thanks to a photobooth, Jungkook earns himself a well-deserved title of being your boyfriend.
Word count: 2.4k+
“No I don’t think-” Jimin cuts off mid-sentence as he gasps, shooting up from his seat. Everyone else at the table whipped their heads in the direction of where the commotion was coming from, and Jungkook mutters under his breath before speed walking over, “Shit,”
You were currently pulling at Minchae’s hair as she did the same to yours, “Let go of me,” You grit at her through your teeth, eyes narrowing at the girl before you, but she only snarkily replies, “You let go first you bitch,” Minchae tightens her grip on you as you snarl at her. Obviously neither of you want to give in, both are too stubborn to let go, yet you don’t want to lose this battle, so you resort to kicking at her legs in an attempt to get her to stumble. But yet she manages to retaliate.
How did you end up in this situation? The answer was, you and Minchae had been training with each other for the upcoming seasonal competitions for sprints, but you were so convinced that while you were running with her, Minchae had purposefully knocked down a cone sitting at the corner of the track, to cause you to trip and fall at the last stretch of the run, and you definitely weren’t going to let it slide.
“Let go, ___” You suddenly hear Jungkook’s deep voice beside your ear as his arms attempt to pry yours off Minchae. You spot Jimin doing the same to her. Even with you trying your best to hold your grip on Minchae’s arm, leaving a few scratches here and there, the much stronger boy behind you manages to get you off the poor girl.
“Jungkook, let go, I need to-” You grit as you try to wiggle out of his hold, to no avail, Jungkook does not budge one bit at your ministrations. “No, you need to calm down,” He strains as he drags you far away from Minchae and Jimin, you struggle against his hold but he manages to drag you to sit on the side benches with little effort.
You can only sigh in defeat when he pushes you gently on your shoulders to get you to sit on the wooden bench.
“What did you think you were doing?” Jungkook sighs as he cards his fingers through his hair. This wasn’t the first time he had broken you off from a fight, and only after you had calmed down, you began to feel a little bit ashamed of your actions, but was far too stubborn to admit to it.
“It wasn’t my fault! She literally made me trip and fall! Look at my knee!” You complain as you lift your knee to let Jungkook see, blood dripping down from the open wound caused by the track’s hard ground. Jungkook looks down from his towering stance over you, eyes softening as he looks at the bleeding wound.
“Let’s go and get you cleaned up first,” He says, and you push yourself off from the bench and begin to limp for a few steps towards the nurse’s office, before Jungkook grabs your wrist, preventing you from going any further.
“Get on”, you turn around confused, only to see Jungkook kneeling down as his head signals for you to get on his back. “I can walk you know,” You say but you comply with his instructions, hopping around him to climb on his muscular back as you wrap your hands around his neck.
“You were limping on the first few steps you took, and you expected yourself to walk all the way here?” Jungkook grumbles as he adjusts his grip on your legs, before letting you down when you reach the bed in the nurse’s office.
“I would have been able to anyways, just would’ve taken a longer time, I’m strong you know?” You taunted, as Jungkook tsks at your comment, searching through the drawers for a bandage before he clicks his tongue when he finds it.
Jungkook kneels down in front of you as he dabs the cotton ball with alcohol, “You and Minchae need to sort things out, you can’t always be fighting with her all the time, what if I’m not here to stop you, huh?” You only sigh at his comment, not wanting to admit he was right.
You stare at the boy before you as his eyes are focused on cleaning the wound with the alcohol swab. You’ve always known Jungkook was good-looking, he often had girls from all over the campus chasing after him, but he was never one to pay attention to them. You observe as his brown eyes squint ever so slightly, focused on perfectly cleaning up the wound, how his hair slightly fell over his eyes, and his arms tensed, showing his muscles.
“Ow,” you wince, jumping slightly as the pain breaks your train of thought.
Jungkook glances up at you for the first time since he had started cleaning the wound, his gaze softening slightly as he watches you wince in pain.
“Almost there, bear a bit more, yeah?” He whispers as you feel his warm calloused hand brush over yours, tightening his grip on your hand for reassurance.
Soon, Jungkook has perfectly bandaged your wound, he cleans up and keeps the materials back where he had found them as you can only stare at him, and when he meets your gaze you feel this tingling sensation in your stomach.
“Come on, go and apologise to her and you’ll ask her to apologise back too,” Jungkook leads you to stand from the bed as he guides you back to the field.
Although it takes a bit of your ego and pride, you end up apologising to the girl, and she reluctantly does the same.
—————————————————————————————————————
Fast forward two weeks later, it’s the competition season and your school has come to watch the track team run. Luckily, this round you and Minchae are competing in separate events, so you won’t have to worry about her for the time being.
However, that’s not what's on your mind at the moment as you hear the whistle blow, your legs taking off as fast as you can as you sprint, eyes trained to focus on the finish line. You hear the cheers of your school as you push yourself to go faster, you breeze past three other contestants next to you who’s eyes widen slightly at your sudden burst of speed.
When you’re the first to cross the finish line, for the third time that day of all events you were in, the crowd goes wild and you spot your friends screaming, jumping up and down at your win.
You shake hands with the third and second placers as you climb onto the podium, eyes locking with Jungkook, smiling proudly as he mouths an “Atta girl” at you, you feel your chest swell with this indescribable feeling. Shit, you cannot fall for your friend right now. No, don’t think about it.
Luckily the presenter hands you the three gold medals as he slots them over your neck, and you stay at the podium for another good five minutes as the photo taking session takes place.
You approach your friends, Yeji and Chaeyoung running up to hug you as you stumble a bit from the impact, laughing as you hug them back.
“Geez! ___ today you were on fire! What was that! You placed first for all your events!” Yeji squealed as she hugged you tighter, “We should go grab dinner, everyone in?” Taehyung suggested as the rest of them approached you, to which everyone agreed.
—————————————————————————————————————
You all part your ways to go home and get ready for dinner, and Jungkook decides to fetch you back home to your apartment, or perhaps he also used it as an excuse to crash at your place for the time being.
You and Jungkook almost did everything together, after Jimin had introduced you to his other friends, you and the boy clicked immediately, from watching movies, to playing games, to doing the most random activities together, somehow doing even the most mundane things with Jungkook made it seem like the most fun thing in the world. But even if you’ve been having a teeny tiny crush on the boy, there was no way he would reciprocate your feelings, or so you thought, so you never once brought it up, afraid to ruin the friendship between the two of you.
“It’s nice to be back here,” Jungkook sighs as he plops himself on your couch, you roll your eyes at his statement, “It’s been three days since you last came here, don’t be so dramatic,” You take off your shoes as you announce to him that you were going to take a shower, and Jungkook only hums at your announcement as he lays back on your couch, browsing through your Netflix account.
After you’re done with your shower, you change into a hoodie and shorts first, or maybe Jungkook’s hoodie, but that didn’t matter, the boy stayed over so often he had his clothes, toothbrush, towels and other random belongings in your apartment.
You settle yourself down in front of your vanity, ready to do some skincare since you still had two hours before you have to leave the house, when you hear a knock on your bedroom door.
It was obviously Jungkook, you could tell not only because he was the only other person in your apartment, but he always knocked with this rhythm.
“Come in,” you said as you watched through your mirror, Jungkook coming inside and closing the door behind him.
“What-cha doing?” he questioned as he plops himself on your bed, looking at you through the vanity mirror.
“Skincare, gonna do a face mask,” you mumble as you dig through your drawer, finding the packet before pausing, “Can you let me do skin care on you too?”
You smile playfully at the boy who is now frowning at you, “Please, I promise it’ll be nice!” you wave the packet in front of his face before he sighs in defeat, “Okay fine,”
Soon you're giggling as both you and Jungkook have matching sheet masks donning your faces, you whip out your phone to take a selfie before posting it on your Instagram, tagging him in the story.
—————————————————————————————————————
Jungkook drives the both of you to the dinner place after getting ready, and you are soon reunited with your friends as everyone settles down, finding a seat around the table.
Jungkook sits on the right side of you as you squeal with Yeji over her new boyfriend, telling you all the details of the past dates she went on with him. The food arrives but you and Yeji are far too caught up in her love stories that the both of you totally ignore the fact that the food has arrived.
Obviously Jungkook then fills your plate up with food before pushing it in front of you, you give him a sweet smile at his thoughtful actions but you only hold your fork, not picking up any food because you get distracted by more of Yeji’s love tales.
After a few minutes, everyone’s eating and is talking amongst themselves, everyone participating and switching to different conversations here and then.
Suddenly the fork in your grip is being taken away as you whip your head towards Jungkook, frowning, “Why did you take-”
“Open,” He brings the fork, now loaded with food, to your mouth, you frown further but comply, now chewing as you grumble, “I can feed myself thank you very much,”
“___ the food has been sitting on your plate for like ten minutes, and don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jungkook reaches for your chin and shuts your mouth.
Yeji, who has now taken full observation of the situation unfolding before her very eyes, raises an eyebrow at you before you wave her off and ask her to continue your conversations.
—————————————————————————————————————
It’s now 10pm and you and Jungkook are walking to the car park where he had parked his car.
You gasp when you see a lighted photo booth at the side of pavement, tugging on Jungkook’s sleeve to get his attention.
“Oh my gosh, Gguk you have to do this with me!” You squeal as you bring him towards the booth, “It’s gonna be so cuteee”
Jungkook smiles at your excited figure as he lets himself get dragged into the cramped photobooth, half sitting on the bench inside to let you have most of the seat.
The timer starts and there's three poses you both need to do to get the shot.
The first pose you both decide on a simple peace sign, you cheekily put your bunny ears behind Jungkook’s head right before the shot.
The second pose you squish your heads together, it’s a cute pose, maybe a little couple-y but you couldn’t care less.
The third pose, you’re out of ideas, but the timer is ticking, damn it, three seconds left, you turn to Jungkook to see if he has any idea, he very well does.
Just as the timer goes off, Jungkook’s lips are pressed against yours.
He just kissed you.
Jeon Jungkook just kissed you in a photobooth and you caught it on camera.
What
The
Heck.
Your eyes widen in shock as he pulls back, face now full on smirking at your flustered state.
Before you can say anything Jungkook pulls the curtain of the booth and heads out to retrieve the now printed photos, tearing along the perforated to give you one copy.
Your cheeks turn into a darker shade of red when your eyes trail to the last photo on the photostrip.
You slap Jungkook’s arm, still extremely flustered as he laughs at your state, mumbles a “cute” under his breath but you don’t catch it.
“You-you can’t just-” you stutter as you find yourself shying away from his smirking gaze, Jungkook takes a step closer to you as you step backwards, now finding yourself trapped between the wall of the photobooth and the boy’s muscular figure.
He leans down right in front of you, face inches away from yours as he whispers, “I can’t what? Did you not like it?” He taunts as he stares at your expression, smiling when your mouth opens but nothing comes out.
Then something comes over you, something possesses you to do what you do next.
You wrap your hands around Jungkook’s neck and kiss him back.
—————————————————————————————————————
All you can say is that what came out of that night was now you had kissed Jungkook, he had stayed over at your house, and he had earned the title of “boyfriend”. All in one night. Lucky man, you thought.
The next day at college, all of your friends gathered around Jungkook’s phone, spotting his phone case now displaying the photo strip the both of you had taken last night, everyone gasping and squealing while you smile as Yeji and Chaeyoung bombard you with endless questions.
#jungkook fluff#jungkook#jungkook au#jungkook ff#jungkook smut#jungkook x oc#jungkook x reader#bts#bts ff#bts fic#bts jungkook#jungkook comfort#boyfriend jungkook#jungkook imagine#jungkook scenario#jungkook angst
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hey if you got some time wanna try writing a fight scene with jaune vs one of the rwby girls (or all four) where they're faster and stronger and more skilled than him but our boy's wearing a literal ton in armor and gear and has a great timing to negate their speed.
on rwby's end we got ruby who's high mobility means that it's damn near impossible to hit her with a timed strike because she gets to set the tempo,
yang who's needs to be taken down in a single blow to ensure her semblance doesn't heal and empower her
blake who can use her clones to take a hit even when jaune does manage to time his hits right,
and weiss who can control the battlefield with her dust usage and can summon fighters to do all the dirty work for her.
the main issue is that all four of them have huge egos and can be tricked into not fighting the right way pretty easily if they even think to fight properly against jaune.
if you do, do the fight scene, would ya mind showing us whichever girl(s) he fought swallowing their pride to ask jaune for pointers afterward?
Ruby: Uh, are you sure about this, Jaune?
Jaune: I have to know where I'm at, Ruby.
Ruby: Yeah, but I don't want you to get hurt. Like, the last time we fought-
Jaune: Was at Beacon, and that was with food. This time, we have our weapons.
Ruby: Not making a strong case for this.
Jaune: Please, Ruby? For old time's sake?
Ruby: (Sigh) Fine, but if it gets to be too much-
Jaune: I'll stop you.
The ground crunched under Ruby's boots as she widened her stance, slightly crouching. 'Like a spring' she thought to herself. Her grip on Crescent Rose tightened as she stared down her friend from across the arena. In a blink, the fight began.
Jaune charged forward, his sword and shield in hand. Ruby lept towards him, her scythe swinging wide from her side. He spun on his heel, catching her blade on his shield and using his momentum to carry his blade into her.
Ruby split into a flurry of petals and reformed behind Jaune. Her scythe shifted to it's rifle form and fired a shot into Jaune, nailing him in the back. He stumbled, but caught himself without falling on his knee. He turned and ran after Ruby as she land. Shifting again, Ruby ran at Jaune, swinging her scythe, keeping Jaune on the defensive back foot as she spun, the blade's size and momentum knocking Jaune's shield off by a few inches. He rolled backwards, shaking his arm.
Ruby: Need a break?
Jaune: I was about to ask you the same thing.
Ruby and Jaune ran towards each other again, but Jaune changed his tactics. He swung at Ruby, keeping shield out further than usual. Ruby stepped back, pointing Crescent Rose's muzzle at Jaune. He followed through, thrusting his sword forward while bring his shield closer.
Ruby fired, hitting Jaune square in his shoulder. He grunted, but continued his charge forward. Ruby petal burst to his side, swinging her scythe down onto him. Jaune caught the scythe's blade on his, then twirled himself along the shaft. Once he was in front of Ruby, he smashed his shield against her, knocking her to the ground.
She rolled backwards, but carefully climbed to her feet. Holding Crescent Rose tight to her chest, she panted from the surprisingly heavy strike from Jaune. Well, not too surprising, since he outsized her twice over. Worst yet, she could feel herself low on aura, while Jaune walked closer, taking a deep breath, and restored his.
Jaune: Can you keep going?
Ruby: Just... a sec...
Jaune: (Amps her aura) How about now?
Ruby: (Rubs her head) I still have a headache.
Jaune: (Chuckles) How about we break for lunch? My treat.
Ruby: It's always your treat.
Jaune: I'm trying a low sodium diet. I can't live on salt, Ruby.
Ruby: My food isn't that bad.
---------------------------------------------------
Weiss: I hope you're ready, Jaune, because I won't be going easy on you.
Jaune: I'd prefer you didn't, actually.
Weiss: If you insist, but just remember that you asked for this.
Jaune: How could I ever forget?
Jaune and Weiss took positions across from each other, swords in hand. Jaune gripped his firmly, heart pounding with anticipation. This is a woman who's been honing her craft since who knows when. He only picked up the sword a few years ago.
Neither moved from their positions, save for Weiss dragging her toe behind her, shifting her body to a fencing position. Jaune brought his shield close as he stepped forward. Rushing in would only get themselves hurt.
Jaune lightly jabbed his sword forward. Weiss easily knocked his blade aside and thrusted into his shoulder. He reeled back in pain, but never lost his grip. Blinking through the pain, he watched Weiss shift forward.
Weiss: That was your only warning.
Jaune: Noted.
He rushed forward, shield moving to cover his shoulder. With a wide swing, he opened himself to catch Weiss' rapier and knock it away. However, Weiss saw this coming and stepped back, lunging law and forward into his open guard. Jaune retreated, slapping his sword down against her blade, then swung an elbow for her face.
Weiss fell backwards, but quickly lept to her feet. He gave her an apologetic chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. She gave her own wry smile, lunging again. She aimed low and struck his thighs, stepped back and shot a round of fire dust at him.
Jaune stood firm, holding his shield up to block the attack. He lowered his defense and found Weiss charging him. He was about strike when he saw the glyph at her feet. In response, he held guard and watched as she soared through the air above him, her body turned to face him as she spun mid-air, her legs over her head.
He turned as she landed behind him and struck the ground, spying a glyph spiraling beneath. He turned and saw a massive construct of ice, summoned to life by his opponent.
Weiss: Do you yield?
Jaune exhaled, his skin glowing as his semblance restored his aura. He gave a chuckled as he gripped Crocea Mors tighter.
Jaune: Do you?
---------------------------------------------------
Blake: Are you ready?
Jaune: Uh, that depends. Does this count as us hanging out?
Blake: Why wouldn't it?
Jaune: Well, when was the last time we hung out together?
Blake: Last week. Remember?
Jaune: Huh. Really? Just the two of us?
Blake: I'm sure it'll come to you, eventually.
Blake ran forward, keeping herself low, arms close to her side. Jaune swiped with his shield, but his momentum carried him through the shadow, forcing him off balance. He turned to see her charge again, weapon in hand. She lept into him, kicking herself off his shield into the air.
She threw her blade at Jaune, who stepped away and stood ready for her to come down. Her descent was preluded by gunshots as her weapon shifted to it's submachinegun form, peppering Jaune where he stood. He held up his shield, covering his face. She tugged on the ribbon, pulling herself to the ground.
Jaune approached her, earning him another dose of gunfire as Blake unloaded the rest of her magazine on him. He held up his shield as he stalked forward, his sword at his side and ready to swing. Blake stood, switching her weapon to it's ninjato form. He swung, missing her entirely, earning him a strike in the shoulder from the girl.
He swung out to the side, missing her again, black smoke rising from the fading shadow. Jaune stepped away, keeping his guard up as he locked eyes on her. She stalked towards him, and on her face was a smile.
Jaune: I remember now. We were watching that ninja show together.
Blake: Ninjas of Love, yes.
Jaune: Yeah, then I said I liked it, and you started smiling. Just like you are now.
Blake: I'm not smiling.
Jaune: Not now, but you were a second ago.
Blake: No, I wasn't.
Jaune: Yeah, you were. You're having fun, aren't?
Blake: Shouldn't we be fighting?
Jaune nodded and breathed out, his aura refilling. He stepped forward to Blake and put a hand on her shoulder. She visibly relaxed as her aura was restored significantly. She had used her clones too frivolously. She needed to rely on them less. As he stepped away, Blake put her next plan into action.
Rushing forward, she jumped into Jaune. He swatted at her with his shield, but had to spin on his heel when Blake swapped herself with a clone, this time made of stone. She capitalized on his off balance and struck him from behind. She ducked away from another sword strike, and thrusted into his thigh.
Jaune stepped away, giving Blake room to jump again. This time, however, Jaune ducked aside as she swung at him. Using her ice clone, she trapped Jaune's sword as he thrusted at her. As she ran into his guard, he swung the clone into her, knocking her to the ground. She jumped to her feet, panting.
Blake: This is fun.
Jaune: Right? I haven't had a workout like this in, well, ever!
Blake: Well, I'm glad you're enjoying this, and not playing unfair.
Jaune: How would I play unfair?
Blake: You could amp your aura without amping mine.
Jaune: Oh... Yeah, I could! Totally! Do. That.
Blake: You didn't of it, did you?
Jaune: (Sighs) No, I didn't.
---------------------------------------------------
Yang: You ready to rock, Vomit Boy?
Jaune: Uh, not really. I mean, you are the best fighter on your team.
Yang: Aw! You're so sweet! Too bad it's not gonna save you from this savage beating.
Jaune: Oh boy.
Yang wasted no time, charging head on into Jaune. She swung a fist into Jaune's guard, knocking his shield away. In response, he swung down with his sword, but blocked it with a backhand and used her free fist to fire a shot into his ribs. He coughed as he rolled backwards.
Jaune groggily stood to his feet, shaking off the pain. Yang giggled across the arena, cooing taunts at him. With a sharp exhale, he reset his stance. He walked towards her, guard up and sword ready.
Yang tittered again before ducking low and launching herself to his flank, coming in like a bullet. He swung around and blocked, then followed with another sword swing at her. She bobbed away, entering his guard. He stepped back, forcing her to a shot he was grateful was empty.
Yang pressed in again, but this time, Jaune pushed her strike inward with a shield. On her flank, Jaune swung down. Yang took the hit and rolled forward, grunting. She stretched her shoulder with a grin.
Yang: That's one for you and... fifteen for me?
Jaune: Ah- Fifteen?!
Yang: Well, I did hit you with a buckshot round.
Jaune: Has anyone ever told you you're the worst?
Yang: Do you mean today, or just my team, or something else entirely?
Jaune: Ugh... You're the wo-
Yang: What? Am I so awesome you can't finish a sente-
Yang and Jaune both looked down in horror at the ground between them. Jaune's horror intensified as he gulped and looked at Yang. Yang's horror shifted to righteous fury as her eyes became red with a blink and her hair shone like the sun. Between them, lie thin, yellow strands of Yang's hair.
Jaune stepped back, holding his guard especially high and close as Yang stepped closer. With a single punch, Jaune was sent rolling backwards. He didn't want to imagine what would have happened if he didn't have his shield to block that.
Yang launched herself at him, firing her buckshot rounds each time. What Jaune couldn't block, he dodged, and what couldn't be dodged was blocked. He lept away and Yang fired another round. When it clicked, she fired another, only for it to click as well.
Upon hearing the clicks, Jaune rushed forward, striking Yang with his shield. Stunned, Yang stumbled a bit, and Jaune wasted no time striking her his his sword. When she swung back, he stepped away before stepping in and striking again.
Yang held up a hand, forcing Jaune to pause.
Jaune: You doin' alright, Yang?
Yang: Yeah. Yeah, just, uh... tired.
Jaune: Your aura did get kind low. And you are coming down from your super mode.
Yang: Ha ha... Super mode? What, like some kind of video game?
Jaune: Kind of. You need a break?
Yang: Yeah. Then, I'm gonna kick your butt twice as hard.
Jaune: Heh heh. I'm looking forward to it.
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meet me at the borderline
☆ jaehyun x reader | dance au | enemies to lovers | smut | 4k
→ summary: although you and jaehyun are rival dance team captains, you two end up talking with your bodies in the dance studio one evening.
→ warnings: smut, fingering, oral sex (male receiving), table sex, mirror sex, some praise kink, swearing, some angst
→ rating: explicit
→ notes: part of a longer fic that i yearn to write one day, but until then… this is what y’all will receive
→ gif created by me, please don’t repost or share without credit!
It’s 8pm on a Friday night at the university’s main dance studio. Everyone on campus is either attending frat parties, at the clubs downtown, or at home, so you’re taken aback when you walk in and are greeted by the one and only Jung Jaehyun.
He immediately stops dancing and hurries over to his phone on the floor to turn off the music playing. The panting dancer holds your gaze through the wall-sized mirror and takes off his cap for a moment to wipe his sweat away before putting it back on.
“I was here first,” he states firmly with a squint of his eyes, anticipating for you to leave, but Jaehyun knows to expect less of you. With your backpack slung over your shoulder, you stride into the room, hearing the door click behind you, and cross your arms with a shrug.
“Did you book the studio for tonight?”
He tenses, “No, I didn’t, but—”
“If you don’t have another excuse for me to go, don’t be such a baby and I’ll make sure to stay out of your way.”
The dance captain eyes you sauntering towards the back corner of the room, setting your backpack down. As you sit on the floor and begin to change shoes, he appears in front of you.
“Look, I’m trying to practice the set for the competition. I hate to be a dick—”
“No, you don’t; you love being a dick.” With a bitter, wide smile, you look up at him, still putting on your sneakers.
Jaehyun glances up for a second, as if in deep thoughts, with pressed lips. He then raises an eyebrow and nods his head side to side.
“Perhaps, but anyway, I didn’t bring my headphones today and we shouldn’t even be seeing each other’s choreo before the show—”
“Well, good news,” you stand up and begin to tie up your hair. “Unlike you, I brought headphones, so you can practice in peace. Oh, and I hate the sight of you and your flat ass, so I won’t even look at you dancing. We good?”
You fold your arms once more. From one captain to another, you hold his stare, not wanting to back down from this mere fight. All you want is to get in some practice before the weekend with a proper mirror, is that too much to ask for?
It takes some time, but the opposition yields to you, tilting his head to the floor and grumbles under his breath. As he walks back to his side of the room, you’re surprised he backed down so easily without a snarky response. Maybe Friday nights were his off days too.
“At least I have an ass,” Jaehyun’s holler echoes against the walls.
Ah, you spoke too soon. Placing your headphones over your ears to drown out your surroundings, you start your usual warm-up. Shortly, both of you dive into your separate worlds of melodies and movement.
About half an hour later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor for a water break and set your headphones aside. You take a sip from your bottle and go against your word from before, indulging in a glance at the other dancer in the room.
Even though Jaehyun is an ass (and lacks one),—and you’d never tell the following to his face—he’s still a pretty sight to see, especially when his shirt occasionally rides up to flash his abs.
When he catches on that you’re taking a longer break than usual, he pauses his music.
“Were you practicing your set too or were you freestyling?”
Caught off-guard by his conversational piece, you squint at him coming closer to you. You could answer honestly, but opt to hold your ground against his seemingly innocent question.
“Why do you care?”
He scoffs, “Cause your footwork’s a mess, like always, and if you, as a captain, dance like that for your piece, I can’t imagine what your whole team looks like.”
Your nose twitches prior to the clenching of your jaw. You’re fully aware of your weak points when dancing, as most dancers are, but to have the audacity to bring it up unprovoked? You slam your water bottle against the floor, the echo reaching all ends of the room, then stand to match his stance.
“Well, you’re one to talk.” You stomp your way over, closing the empty space in between, and are now only a few steps away from him. “You’re tense with all your upper body movements. You’re like a hard stick from the hip up. It’s like you have no control over your core—”
“Whoa, hold on,” he holds a palm up and rushes to lift his shirt up. “Look at my abs and tell me I don’t have a good core.”
You’re definitely looking, a little longer than you should because you’re finally getting a close-up glimpse of his abs, and they’re the type that you could wash clothes off of. But it’s not like you haven’t seen abs in your life nor do you want to stroke his ego, so you maintain your demeanor and roll your eyes.
“I didn’t say that. I said you have no control over your core.”
Jaehyun lets out a huff. You can’t detect it, but it’s laced with a tinge of disappointment over how unfazed you are. He frees his shirt and jogs over to his phone. A few scrolls later, he finally blasts music that you’re fairly certain isn’t part of his dance team’s set for the competition (you may have also gone against your other word and listened to what he was practicing to, but only for a little bit).
“Fine, I’ll show you.”
At this point, you’re amused because never in a million years you’d expect Jaehyun freestyling in a room alone with you. He starts off by feeling the sharp beats and flowing rhythm of the music and when he has a handle on it, he makes a deliberate effort to add body rolls, chest pops, and more in his freestyling to lay out his case.
While taking mental notes, out of habit, you’re grooving along with him too with modest rolls, head nodding, and taps of your feet. He can tell you’re holding back, but Jaehyun smiles, basking in how you seem to be enjoying this from the smile reflected on your face as well.
When he stops, he cocks an eyebrow at you, awaiting for your new verdict.
“Maybe you’re not as bad as you were before.”
He grins, hard enough that his dimples show, and you dig a hole to hide away the underlying flutters of your heart.
Still an asshole, but a cute asshole.
“Now, show me what you got, Captain,” Jaehyun crosses his arms with a nod.
You’re shaking your head, not wanting to be judged by Jaehyun any further.
“Unless... you’re scared that I’m right about how shitty your footwork is?”
If there’s anything stronger than the fear of judgement, it’s the power of spite.
The song’s already onto the next, but the melody flows easily through you. Similar to Jaehyun, you place emphasis on your footwork, being conscious of switching your weight between the balls and heels of your feet and slowing your moves in order to be more sharp, more clean, but all the while purposefully hitting the beats and giving meaning to the moves.
Your body’s out of control, owning all the floor space around you. When your body leads you to end up in front of Jaehyun, you snag the hat off his head and put it on. While you stick your tongue out in response, he’s laughing, thinking how you look better with it on than him, and he realizes how he’s never seen you in this element.
“My footwork still shitty?” you ask, still dancing.
“There’s room for improvement,” Jaehyun breaks his fixed stance, now beginning to dance along with you. “But you’re not that bad either.”
Soon enough, you two are entangled in an unspoken dance battle, trying to one up the other with harder, stronger, better movements than the opponent. The moment Jaehyun drops his breakdancing skills, you bite back with your own strengths—fierce, sensual motions and dare to invade his personal space, in hopes he becomes flustered.
And he does, because he freezes at the sight of your bent ass, which is practically against his hips, and how your fingertips ghost the floor, then you shoot straight up and roll into his body. You lean your head back onto his shoulder, glancing up at him with shallow breaths, restless from the ongoing battle.
“Care to beat that?” you whisper, suddenly aware of your hands tugging the fabric of his track pants over his thighs. Your chest heaves, and Jaehyun’s drawn to the view in his proximity.
Despite his crude ogles, he’s super conscious of ensuring that his hands are not touching you, fearing he’s reading the situation wrong, that perhaps this was only due to the adrenaline and anger you’ve both pented up over time. It’s not as if you’d ever want him, even if he was the last man on Earth.
Although you can’t read his mind, Jaehyun’s absolutely right.
So why do you inch closer to his face?
Time slows as he begins to meet you halfway. Both of you are breathing in sync, hearts beating almost as one. You turn to grasp the crook of his neck, while he steadies you by your waist.
However, when your lips crash into his, time speeds up and it feels like it’s slipping away. All your movements are rushed as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. The kissing—open-mouthed, hungry, and needy—doesn’t falter anytime soon.
When you drop your touch from his neck, he runs his hands through your hair before caressing your cheek, deepening the kiss with more pressure. You’re sighing, humming into each kiss, and as Jaehyun pulls away to kiss your neck, you’re melting, knees feeling weak amidst your soft moans and eye rolls.
Not wanting to actually melt in front of him, you tug at his shirt in between kisses, prompting him to follow you towards a small table on one side of the room. Once you’re there, you sit atop the table and continue kissing Jaehyun, who’s standing in between your spread legs. The handsome figure reverts back to kissing your neck, but this time feels adventurous, letting his hand snake under your t-shirt and grasp the side of your stomach. He embraces the smoothness of your bare skin, adores how you feel with every contact.
There’s not much thinking happening, just lust coursing through each of your bodies. The lust distorts you so much, you don’t hesitate to take off your shirt and toss it to the floor. Jaehyun takes in your beauty for a brief second, before he follows suit and takes his shirt off too. His mouth captures yours again, while his hand kneads your ass and tugs you closer to his hips.
Throughout his kisses that span all over your body, your hands roam and grip the entirety of his toned upper body. Almost instantly, you feel what you can only assume is his growing hard-on pressed against your core, causing you to moan.
“Can I finger you?” Jaehyun asks the filthy question with a certain air of courtesy, leaning his perspired forehead against yours. You nod fervently and squeak a simple, “Yes.”
As you stand to get rid of your shoes and to wiggle your panties and leggings off, you notice Jaehyun laying the t-shirt he was wearing on the spot where you sat. He answers the confusion plastered on your face.
“These tables are used for everything in this building; you never know what could be on them.”
Today truly marks a day where you’ve never seen this many sides of Jaehyun before, but you don’t let yourself dissect the moment for too long. Since you still have your sports bra on, you opt to strip it off too, and jump back onto the table.
Because you’re completely naked in front of him, Jaehyun takes more of his sweet time to bask in the sight in front of him, unsure if he’ll ever see you like this again.
“Are you gonna keep staring,” you cusp his chin, forcing him to look into your eyes. “Or are you going to finger me?”
“I’ll do what I want when I want to,” he seethes along with your name. Without warning, his fingers hover under your exposed warmth, making you gasp.
Jaehyun chuckles deeply, “You’re dripping wet for me and I haven’t even put my fingers in yet.”
His fingers continue to painfully tease you, rubbing long, horizontal lines back and forth across your folds.
You bite your lip, fuming, “Jaehyun, stop teasing and put them in already,”
“Tell me I’m a good dancer.”
You sigh a half-chuckle and roll your eyes prior to muttering, “Fuck you.”
The tease dips his fingers just slightly into your sex, then pulls out right away. And again, and again. You’re getting more frustrated by the second, pouting with piercing eyes. Jaehyun always liked it when he had an upper hand on you during arguments, but he likes it even more like this.
“Tell me I’m a good dancer, and I’ll put them in.”
“Fine,” you scowl. “You’re a good dancer, but you know that alre—fuck.”
He plunges two digits deep into you, and your walls clench in gratification.
“You’re right. I know I am, I just wanted to hear you say it.”
You want to kiss the smirk off his face, but instead, you’re leaning your head back and gripping the edge of the table, reveling in the sensation of his fingers filling you. The music from his phone may be still playing, but all Jaehyun can focus on are your heaven sent moans and the way your body writhes, all due to him.
With his free hand, he trails his nails lightly down the spine of your back, making your sex pulse around his fingers even more. He palms the middle of your back as he begins to plant kisses on your clavicle, down your chest, then on one of your nipples. The label of a tease sticks with him. He dabs his tongue lightly here and there, barely traces a circle around your tip.
When he decides you’ve had enough, he puckers his lips tight and his cheeks become sunken. And when he’s not sucking, his tongue flicks as hard as the suctions, like strobing lights. You react in a frenzy, hands reaching towards his hair, to stuff and tug them between your fingers.
“Oh, God, Jaehyun...”
When Jaehyun takes your other breast into his mouth, your moans tether further as he also increases his fingering pace, causing you to grip onto his hair harder. You fear that it might be too rough, but then again, he deserves a little pain for all the fights you’ve had.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls, still with your nub surrounded by his teeth. He maintains his rhythm, enthralled with the obscene sounds of your pussy taking his fingers.
Feeling a little conscious, reasoning that his hand must be drenched with your juices, you stutter, “S-sorry.”
“No,” he pulls away from your mound, shakes his head, and pulls his hand from your back to caress your neck tenderly. “It’s fucking hot.”
Jaehyun kisses you with intensity, the speed of his wrist never relenting. You can’t even properly kiss him back because the pleasure is overwhelming, so much that if moans were a shade of paint, yours would be splattered all over the studio’s walls. You reach your peak with cries of his name, your honey glistening over his fingers.
After he pulls them out and you’re coming down from your high, he runs over to his backpack and rummages through it. Your eyes flicker, noticing the little silver package in hand. Jaehyun wastes no time in coming back to your side. He places the condom next to you on the table and strips off his clothes in record time.
Before he has a chance to open the condom, you jump off the table to grasp onto his wrist, gesturing for him to lean his backside against the table. He’s in awe as you drop to your knees in front of him.
You stroke his hardened length, admiring his size, but waste no time in tasting him to avoid Jaehyun’s potential banter about how big he is. However, he’s not even in the right mindset to do so; he’s in a trance, stuck on everything you’re doing.
Subconsciously or not, everything’s a competition with you two, so you showcase what you’re capable of doing with your tongue. Like him, you begin to be a painful tease, only giving small kitten licks on his cock. Then the next laps of your tongue are broad, but gradual.
Wanting to see everything you’re doing, he holds your messy hair in a makeshift ponytail since the hair tie you had on must have flown off during the former scenes. Jaehyun grunts sharply as you ease him into your mouth, the warmth welcoming and encircling him wholly. After you bob and swirl your tongue concurrently, giving him a sneak peek of what you’re able to do, you stroke him lackadaisically and meet his eyes.
“Now, you tell me I’m a good dancer,” you command.
A brief chuckle escapes from above, “I don’t think you’re in the same position to ask me of that.”
You challenge his words by taking his possession within your mouth once more. Holding him by the base to cover the area your mouth can’t, you jerk your head fast. With each bob and each swipe, more and more of your saliva covers Jaehyun’s desire. The slurps are so loud, so lewd. His face trembles and his grip tightens on your hair, the pleasure rising within him sooner than expected.
“Okay, okay. You’re a great dancer—fuck, fuck. Slow down. I don’t want to come just yet.”
You pull away, an extended line of your spit mixed with his precome draws out from your lips. Perking an eyebrow with a smolder, you light up your wrist rapidly. “Do you mean it?”
He’s breaking apart from your actions, baring his teeth and grimacing. “Yes, yes. I fucking mean it.”
With a smirk, you immediately drop him from your hand. He drags you upward into a mad kiss, in retaliation for the edging. Breaking apart from one another, you hurry to your original spot on the table. Jaehyun eases the rubber onto his cock and tugs you by your hips, having your ass laid on the very end of the table.
He raises your legs up, to be partially extended in the air and engulfed around his body. You have one elbow perched on the table and one hand on Jaehyun’s shoulder. Jaehyun stabilizes you by having a grip on the fold behind your knee and hustles to line his possession up with your sex. The moment it is, his hand meets your waist and he inserts himself fully into you.
Your back arches from his girth hitting you. Both of your moans expel, mingling with each other. He thrusts experimentally, testing the waters to see how you like it. Determined, deep thrusts. Shallow, swift thrusts. A mix of both.
It didn’t matter, because you cry in ecstasy either way.
Being aware of the music still playing from his phone, he wonders if he can plunge into you to match the beat. The current song was electronic and bass-heavy, making it difficult for him to truly match it, but your broken whimpers and name-calling don’t object to the fast thrill.
God, he can feel the way your pussy contracts against his inches.
“You know,” he pants heavily. “If I didn’t have good core control, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
It takes a bit of effort to come up with a response. All you muster up is, “N-not necessarily,” before you lapse into your elation.
As you emit your endless moans, you spot your reflection in the wall-sized mirror. The sides of your bodies are parallel to it, and your eyes can’t tear away from the spectacle of you getting fucked by Jaehyun from another angle. It’s unbelievable how fit he is, but you see every flexed muscle and tendon in the mirror—from his neck to his ankles.
“Do you like watching me fuck you?”
His gaze confronts yours in the mirror, and you whimper with barely a bounce of your head.
Jaehyun’s thinking about how beautiful you are, but he holds his tongue back. Rather, he grasps the nape of your neck, pulling you in for another kiss, except the kisses are hardly materialized because your lips are constantly parted. Your hot breath fans against his face and he’s attentive to how close you are to him. Not just physically, but beyond that too. He can’t explain it, but it’s as if you’re under his skin.
He knows this will inevitably end, it has to, but he also knows he’ll want you again.
Jaehyun’s officially hooked—to your taste, to your scent, to your air, to your everything.
And he’s not the only one who feels that way too.
You inform Jaehyun that you’re nearing again, and he readies himself for his own little death too. Once you disintegrate, he kisses you for the last time, followed by spurts of his seed, releasing himself into the condom.
The two of you are heaving, sticky messes. Regardless, both of you hold onto each other for a little bit longer. Eventually, you must withdraw and you do.
The tension in the room seems to shift as you both begin to catch your breath, like everything that just happened was a dream. You don’t regret it, neither of you do, but reality blankets over. You’re the first to reach for your clothes and begin to put them back on. Jaehyun peels off the condom and follows your footsteps.
“This stays between us,” you express from afar, averting his eyes.
“And it’s only a one-time thing,” Jaehyun adds, but is immediately unsure if he should’ve said that.
“Exactly, it’s like you read my mind.”
Your chest clenches for a beat as the words come out of your mouth. You shake your head, trying not to think about it.
“Are you going to stay in the studio a bit longer?”
Reading his question as a simple inquiry, you don’t pick up the hopefulness in his tone nor do you see the look in his eyes.
“No, no. You can finally get the studio to yourself. I’ve had enough practice for the night.”
Already dressed, you hurry to grab all your gear and stuff it into your backpack, prepared to leave. You’re practically out the door in an instant as you mumble your good-bye.
“I’ll see you around, Jaehyun.”
While you’re walking home, Jaehyun’s still sitting on the floor of the dance studio with his hat in his hand, remembering the way you looked with it on.
At the same moment, you’re both trying your best to stop thinking about the other.
Keeping this a secret between the two of you, you could do. If your team knew what went down, the best case scenario would be that you lose captaincy. The worst case was that you wouldn’t be a part of your team anymore. However, in either case, your best friends, who were also on the team, would likely question your loyalty and dedication, wondering why you’d ever do such a thing in the first place. The same applied to Jaehyun.
Seeing Jaehyun again was inevitable. Your teams often collided during practice hours and sometimes fought for the studio. Although it’d be awkward, it’d be manageable. At least, you hope it would be.
But the only thing neither of you could truly promise, nor did you two desire, was keeping this as a one-time thing, especially now, when you’ve had a taste of each other and yearned for more.
One more month until the competition.
What more could possibly happen between you and Jaehyun until then?
#jaehyun#jung jaehyun#jung jaehyun x reader#nctcreations#nct#jaehyun smut#jaehyun scenarios#jaehyun imagines#nct fanfic#nct smut#nct imagines#nct scenarios#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 smut#nct 127 imagines#mywritings#myfanfics#jaehyun x reader
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AO3 LINK! | tickletober 2021 day 1: CHASE.
voltron: legendary defender | klance | words : 2572
“Oh, don’t let me stop you. Keep singing.” With a tone much too amused and muscular figure leaned against the door frame, Keith’s eyes have locked on his boyfriend who’s settled at the countertop, chopping up onions for their lunch. His ears were previously graced with the melodic & upbeat notes of Lance’s singing before he halted as soon as he noticed Keith’s presence, cheeks dusting over in a soft shade of cherry at having been caught.
"You snuck up on me! Y'know, all that Blade of Marmora training has made you seriously light on your feet, you're too quiet when you walk up on people--" Lance complains, obviously trying to shift the attention off of his virtuoso vocals, but Keith isn't falling for the trick. He merely grants the other a shrug, stepping further into the kitchen to peer down at the meal he was preparing before the interruption. It was a newer dish, something that Lance had talked about trying to cook before and though Keith rarely indulged in foreign grounds when it came to what he ate, Lance was a decent cook and he's willing to try anything for him. After a once-over of the food, he twists to match his gaze with Lance with Lance again, a small smirk now presented half-cocked upon his lips.
"Being quiet has its advantages," is his rebuttal, arms crossing along the width of his chest as he gently knocks a shoulder against his love's. "You can keep complaining about it if you do it in song."
A silent curse leaks out with the sensation of heat that strengthens on the surface of Lance's cheeks, half-tempted to run into the next room and half-tempted to actually take Keith up on his offer. Complaining while singing truthfully sounds sort of hilarious and maybe Lance might've considered it had he not been ambushed by the other, but the abashment that's welled up in the center of his stomach has stolen the reigns from his usual confidence and is keeping his vocal chords locked and twisted. At this point, he's temporarily canceled prepping lunch and his new focus lies on a getaway. Sapphire sight slowly inches from where Keith stands to the archway that connects into the living room, calculating the distance to it from his own feet and weighing the risks. Keith, however, is a warrior, and a highly trained one at that, so as soon as he notices Lance's fixed stare towards the living room, his smirk widens and his own stance alters.
"C'mon loverboy, don't make me chase you down. You know I'm faster than you." There it is. A challenge. A challenge to his Leo boyfriend, who's neatly sculpted eyebrows perk and furrow and his lips twitch at the corners.
"You're funny, Keith. The only one way you'd be faster than me, is if you tap into that cat-like Galran side of you and get on all fours. Stronger than me? Sure, maybe -- but not faster." Lance knows he just spit some fighting words, and judging by the slightly surprised, oh no he did not just say what I think he said look, Keith was about to square up. It was silent for a moment that dragged on like an hour, until Keith cements a stare at Lance and for a split second, Lance could swear he saw his pupils slit just like a feline.
"You get five seconds."
"Wha--"
"Run."
Lance did not need to be told twice. As soon as he heard that single word practically growled from his boyfriend, he sprang into a nearly full sprint into the living room. Keith kept his words and after 5 seconds, rocketed off after Lance. By the time he had an open view of the room, Lance was nowhere to be seen. He paused, rummaging through his thoughts to figure out where Lance might have escaped to next. He figures their bedroom would be a good place to start, plenty of the places to try and hide in there; try, being the operative word there. He enters the shared sleeping space and, just to tease Lance thoroughly in case he was hiding in there, starts to tap his nails on the walls and other hard surfaces, knowing damn well the clicks and clacks will echo.
"Oh, Laaance.." the swordsman practically coos, feigning an innocent tonality all the while checking under the bed and in their closet for his prey. "You know I'm not gonna hurt you. I wouldn't ever hurt you. But you do need to be punished for what you said."
Lance can hear him. He can hear him and Keith knows that he can. Their apartment isn't very generous with running room and hiding spaces, so he's taken refuge in their master bathroom. He nearly scoffs at Keith's statements; he knows Keith wouldn't hurt him, not intentionally, but that's not what he's worried about. He knows what those clickity clacks mean. The surface of his skin is already tingling and he's biting back a grin, hands smoothing over the goosebumps popping up along his arms. He could speak lies and say he hates when Keith does this, but they both know the truth: Lance thrives on it. Every tap of his nails drives Lance insane and he can feel his body trying to gravitate towards the sound, but he refuses to give in and admit defeat. Keith challenged him, so it's on.
He's dragging his nails now, goddammit, and he's getting closer. Those silent steps aren't so silent anymore and Keith's doing that on purpose. He wants Lance to hear him coming; it's all part of the chase. Thankfully though, their bathroom contains a door that opens up to the hallway, so if he times it right, he can get past without him hopefully noticing. Slowly, nearly holding his breath, Lance scoots to the second door and ever so gently turns the handle to minimize any sound and opens the door. A quick peek tells him that it's safe, but as soon as he fully exits the bathroom and begins his quiet tread through the hall, Keith appears behind him from their bathroom, running towards him. Lance yelps and his reaction is immediate, making a break for the living room once again. He jumps onto the couch and grabs a pillow, deciding to fend off his hunter with a weapon instead of continuing to run.
"En guard!" Comes his battle cry as Keith reaches him and narrowly misses the swing of a cushion at his head.
"That's a dirty play, McClain!" He manages to say before he gets uppercut with a cushion and it's as if the world goes into absolute silence. Lance hadn't really meant to smack him like that, but the damage has already transpired, so all he can do is gently place the couch cushions back to their proper home, all the while observing with fright behind his eyes as Keith's visage lowers back down to look at him. He says nothing, amethyst sight blank, but he does start to move towards Lance, which has the taller scooting backwards on the couch, palm outstretched as if that were to quell Keith's wrath any.
"Keith -- Keith, babe, baby, look at me -- you know I didn't mean to do that, I swear--!" But Keith still doesn't utter a single syllable, even as he climbs atop and straddles Lance's hips. He then moves to grab some of the mini pillow cushions nearest Lance's head, one in each hand, and Lance's eyes widen, remembering a time when Pidge pulled this on him herself, except she used vinyl, elbow - length gloves. Keith's method is unorthodox, but Lance is sure it's gonna tire him out all the same.
"Keith! No! No, no, no, no--!" But his pleas are no use. Raising the small pillows into the air, it isn't a second later that Keith starts to rapidly smack Lance's upper body with them. It's a furious barrage, one arm raining down a strike right after it's counterpart. If this was an action movie, and pillows were bullets shot out of a gun, this would be absolutely brutal. Fortunately for Lance, these soft, fluffy pillows don't hurt anywhere near a bullet wound. In fact, he's grinning all the while, limbs held askew above his head as a shield.
"Now this is a dirty play, Kogane! Fight me like a real man!" And Lance is about to regret those words, because as soon as Keith hears him, he halts his assault and tosses the pillows to the side, eyes glinting dangerously.
"Oh, I'm just getting started." Now unoccupied hands shift to settle on Lance's sides and instantaneously, Lance knew he was fucked.
"Woahwoahwoah, no! No, now this is really foul--!"
"Sucks to suck."
"FIRST of all, I'm the one who taught you that saAAhahah--!" Keith's heard enough prattling out of Lance, it's time to hear some of that sweet, hilarious laughter now. Fingers scribble over the clothed flesh of his sides and waist and that already gets him into giggling hysterics. Keith will always be pleasantly surprised at just how ticklish Lance is. Nearly every inch of him is sensitive to something and it never fails to gift him with serotonin when he's got Lance beneath him, rosy cheeked, squirming around, and laughing his heart out - much like he is now.
"Nohohohoho! Keh--Keheheheith! Stahahahahap!" His pleas are broken apart by giggles that are only raising in volume the more his sides are attacked and he's only growing further sensitive by the second. Lance knows his religiously vigorous skin care routine is partly to blame for how ticklish he is, but can you blame him for wanting soft, youthful skin? And it isn't like Keith's complaining about it either.
"Nah, I don't think I can. My fingers are under some sort of spell." Such a blatant lie from the older pilot and the grin he dons is unmistakably teasing.
"Yo--you're suhuhuch a lihahahahahar!"
"What? I'm offended. I'm not lying at all. In fact, I'll tell you an easy way to break the spell and get me to the stop."
"Gohohohohohod! Fiiiiihihihine, OKAY, okahahahy!" Lance is really beginning to struggle, squeals forcing themselves free as Keith migrates from waist, to stomach, and then to his ribs, poking & scritching between each one in an agonizing manner. "Aaahahahahaha! Tell---tell mehehehehe alreadyyyy!"
"You really wanna know?"
Lance's strength is sapping quicker than he'd like it to, but he still possesses enough of it to gently smack at Keith's arm, his giggles evolving into full blown laughter once those dastardly fingers begin reaching towards his armpits in retaliation.
"All you gotta do is sing. Like, that one red-headed princess, to break a spell that was on her, or whatever." The fact that Keith really provided a Disney comparison to Lance's current predicament is hilarious all on its own, but Lance wasn't about to give into this torture, and deliver what Keith desired so easily.
"Hohohohow is -- i-is ticklihihihing me suhuhpposed to make me wahahahant to SING?? B-Besides, a kihihihihiss broke Ahahariel's spell, not -- not singihihihihihing!" Poor Lance, with his cracking voice and breathy, hollow words that could scarcely be understood through all of his laughter. Keith understood the gist of it though and contemplated his conditions. He still wanted Lance to sing to him, but a kiss sounded pretty nice too. However, he isn’t quite finished with his boyfriend’s torture; there’s still one last area he very much wants to explore before he allows Lance free. Spidering digits cease their actions, smoothing up and then down the expanse of Lance’s toned torso, granting him a desperately needed, albeit quick rest. Lance doesn’t speak, merely taking this opportunity in stride to gulp down as much air as he can, because a minute part of him knows Keith isn’t done and that something wicked this way comes.
Something wicked indeed. After some very short-lived moments of repose, without skipping a beat, Keith breaks into full force tickling all over the surface of Lance’s soft thighs. The first and last thing to run through Lance’s mind is a sharp curse to himself for deciding that today was a good day to wear shorts. Keith has an all access pass to one of his death spots and he is allowing no mercy. They’re certainly going to get a noise complaint from their neighbors ( not that Keith cares ), because the inhumane screech that burst from the tunnel of Lance’s throat could probably be heard blocks away.
“K---KEEEHEHEHEHEHITH!! NO! NOHOHO, NOT RIGHT THEHEHEHEHRE! PLEHEHEHEASE, AHAAAHAHAHAHNYTHING BUT THERRRRE--!” the couch has been shaved of all of its cushions by flailing, lengthy limbs and even Keith is having trouble keeping atop of Lance, what with all of his wriggling and buckling.
“Geez, Lance, you almost sound like I’m killin’ you.” Keith’s grin is now from ear to ear, more than enjoying himself, the view, and his love’s ridiculously adorable laughter.
“YOU AHAHAHAHARRRRE!! PLEEEEHEHEHEHASE!” But it’s only when Lance deflates into silent laughter, arms going limp against the couch underneath him, that Keith finally concludes his torture. Calloused hands remove themselves from the slender frame and he completely slides off of Lance, disappearing into the kitchen. Unbothered by Keith’s abrupt departure, Lance soaks up every single second of relaxation he can, until he glances up once he hears footsteps, and sees the water bottle Keith’s offering. Smiling a little weakly, Lance sits up, releasing a few lingering giggles as the movement of his still hyper - sensitive upper body brings forth some ghost touches.
“Alright, time to break your spell.” Keith’s statement is oh so cheeky and as he leans forward, waiting for Lance to close the distance, he half expects Lance to do anything but kiss him. A pleasant surprise is given to him when he feels those familiar, supple lips intertwining with his own, and he smiles into it. The kiss lasts for a couple of seconds before Lance pulls away and eyes Keith, brow rising along his temple.
“Guess whose job it is to prepare lunch now?”
A roll of lavender eyes, but he holds out his hand nonetheless. “Yeah, yeah. I tired you out, so I guess it’s mine. I don’t know how to make what you were making though.”
Lance takes the hand that’s offered and ascends from the couch, bending to start picking up the collapsed couch cushions. “Go on into the kitchen, I’ll be right behind you to boss you around.” Keith snorts a quickle chuckle, but does as instructed, making his way back into the kitchen. He nearly stops as something catches his ears, a heavy warmth blooming in his chest. Lance sings more than loud enough for Keith to hear him, even as he’s waiting in the kitchen. He continues singing, once all of the cushions are placed back in their proper place, and as he finally enters the kitchen. He saunters up to Keith, sight locked with sight, a hand on his chest, happiness brimming in the way he sings.
“♪ Maybe this love is mad, you're filling every thought I have. Now I've stayed too long, and there's no turning back. Might as well dance.~ ♪” As if on cue, Keith takes his hand and spins him, earning an even more brilliant smile from Lance, and he lands softly against Keith, arms coiling around his neck to bring him back in for another kiss. Suddenly, lunch doesn’t matter so much anymore.
#tickletober2021#tickletober 2021#voltron#vld#klance#tickle fic#tickling#lee!lance#ler!keith#ticklish!lance
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Metal and Sky
https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true
https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing.\
The ground shook, rumbling gently up through his feet and into his hands through the metal of f his weapon. He stood, nervously at the head of fifty warriors, all that remained of the Kalaltach (metal clan). In the early morning light, their bodies shone with that signature sheen that was the reason for their clan’s name.
The clan histories detailed the story of their emergence, standing that, once upon a time, the spirits had smithed the first Drev from a lump of silvered steel. Since then, it was not uncommon for a member of their clan to be born with metallic carapace.
Though it seemed the stories of their clan might not be long for this world.
He tightened his fist around the shaft of his weapon nervously glancing down at the double ended weapon, a six-foot shaft with two-foot blades on either end. It was an unusual weapon, one that he had been given by his mother, and her father before her. It was passed down through their family line through the greatest warriors, and during his mother’s last breaths she had given it to him.
She had died in honorable combat one week ago leaving him as their family’s protector. Not that there was really anyone to protect anymore. He was the last of what remained of his family and their tribe was dwindling quickly. The fifty warriors standing behind him were what remained of their once proud clan. It was not the death of his family or even the death of his clan that gave him such sadness. He was happy for what might happen. Either they would triumph, and stories would be written about their victory, or a stronger clan would take what remained.
No he was simply disappointed that he might not live to see the future.
Tanatach. The clan from the north. The clan of the sky.
The clan that was going to beat them. It didn’t surprise him, they had some of the best warriors on the fertile belt, and the most land and the most Drev.
As he stood staring out over the moss, he felt the volcano rumble again, felt it roll up through his feet. Glancing to his side he could see a gentle stream of ash and smoke pouring from the open mountain top painting the sky with thin ribbons of smoke. Turning his head towards the horizon he looked out over land he hand known since his childhood. He saw the coiltrees and the colorful moss, and the bulb fruit that was just ripe enough to bloom.
And he saw the approaching line of Drev, their armor glinting in the morning sun light rolling over their spearheads.
“Warriors!” Lanus called, and the Drev behind him took up his call.
“We meet them in the middle, and if we die today, we go to the spirits!”
There was a cheer behind him, one of both nerves and excitement.
Lanus bowed his head, thinking of his mother, and his father, and his sisters and his brothers. Hopefully, their spirits were with him.
Slowly, he lifted his head and looked up rising his weapon and beginning a slow jog down the small incline and towards the waiting army. The slow jog turned into a run, and that run turned into a sprint. His cape billowed behind him, and his weapon was raised as he let out a cry for battle.
In response to their movement, the other Dreb broke into a run as well, battle partners sprinting alongside each other as they came to clash under a pristine blue sky. Weapons clattered, carapace split, and cries of pain rent the air. Lanus spun, his blades cutting with precision through the air just like his mother had taught him.
He was going to make her proud.
White moss spores were kicked up into the air. Metal flashed and capes billowed past. He spun on the spot taking out two of their warriors with a single sweep of his weapon. They fell to the ground cradling severed tendons, and he turned again spearing a flanking Drev through the throat. Inside, his heart sang with the battle, and the roar of the steel. Metal clashed against metal as a blow glanced off his helm, but he turned and speared that Drev through the chest
His nerves were fading away, and as he fought he found himself in a bubble of complete calm where lived nothing but his own focus. He spun and whirled like the ash during the dark season spreading destruction everywhere he went. All around him bodies fell blood spilling in orange rivulets over the moss, pooling in the rocks and divots where they made slipping hazards for the remaining warriors, but he kept his focus.
Looking around he could see the others of his clan holding their own, pushing back a tide of enemies.
Perhaps there was a chance they would win.
At least that was what he thought until she appeared.
She was a force of nature, as tall as he was, and with gleaming purple carapace like the night sky infused with Amethyst, and when she fought she brought the storm with her, lighting and ashfall as she roared up over the rise, taking on three opponents at once, and winning. Her head was held high, and the battle cry she gave was a pure note of bloodlust that turned his blood hot.
If he was to allow her to continue, they would not win.
Backlit against the sky she turned to face him, and they locked eyes across the battlefield, gold to orange. They both knew what was coming, and so did everyone else. Groups of combatants parted as they walked towards each other, their weapons held at the ready, and it was only upon approach did he realize how young she was.
No older than him, and without battle partner.
His hands tingled numbly.
She was no older than he was.
They paused a few paces from each other and she lifted her chin to him. He did the same back, unable to avid noting her body, her carapace, her face, and her eyes.
She was beautiful.
Perhaps the most beautiful Drev he had ever seen, made all the more so as she dropped into a ready stance, which he mirrored quickly. They circled for a moment sizing each other up. The steadiness of each other’s step, the way they held their weapons, everything.
He knew her, and she knew him.
They came together with one mighty clash of weapons trying to force each other back by sheer force instead finding themselves locked tightly together unable to move. She snarled, and he responded trying to sweep her sideways, but she caught him and threw him back. He came in again weapon whirling and snapping like the flowing of water. She countered him similarly, but with even more ferocity, like the licking of fire.
Capes billowed and whipped back and forth, tore and shredded. Their feet danced over the ground as the sun grew high, and ever moment it seemed as if one of them would gain the upper hand, they were thwarted, and the fight began again. All around them lay the dead and dying. His clan slowly dwindling, whittled down to the last remining warriors. Many of the combatants had stopped to watch the last remaining fights, and Lanus, only half aware of what was going on realized something.
This was a test.
To weed out the week, separate the ripe from the rotten.
She tried taking momentary hold f his distraction, but he caught her and threw her back. Both of their sides heaved with exertion, the breathing holes at her neck expanded and contracted with great heaving gasps, frothing slightly with effort.
He backed away up a small hillock, and she followed him, their weapons shedding sparks onto the stone. He threw her back but she came again, she swept his feet out from under him, but he recovered to quickly. The battle went on and on, ferocity slowly draining to exhaustion, until neither of them could lift their weapons anymore.
They both knelt weapons locked, staring into each other’s eyes, heaving great gasping breaths, unable to move.
She was the first to speak.
“Join us, you do not need to die today. Join us and the rest of your clan will live. Your warriors will be our warriors.”
He paused looking into her face, turned to see others still doggedly fighting away, only ten or s remaining from the original fifty. He shivered, feeling pressure on his chest, and looked down to find one of her lower hands placed against his skin. Where her fingers met, he felt fire.
He turned his head back to look up into her eyes.
“Stay, with me.”
He was taken aback for a moment by her forwardness, the brashness of…. A battlefield brawl turn…. What was this? But still, despite how unorthodox, he felt his entire body go warm.
“I don’t even know your name.” He said, though his voice was more teasing than it was offended.
Her golden eyes burned, “Kazna, and you are?”
“Lanus.”
“Lanus.” She rolled the name around inside her mouth, like she was eating a coil tree berry, “ that is a name I could get used to saying.”
She disengaged their weapons then, standing and taking his arm in one of her hands turning her head to the sky and letting off the battle cry that shook him down to his bones and stoked the heat inside his body into an inferno. Across the battlefield her people stopped, pulling away from the remaining fighters who collapsed in exhaustion.
“The fight ends here! Join us, you have proven yourselves worthy.”
There was a pause, while the clan looked to him for an answer. He didn’t even have to speak, their linked arms saying more than words needed to.
Leading him forward, she brought him down through the ranks of her warriors, speaking with each of them by name, and personally, pulling aside to learn the names of his own clan, to welcome them. She was no sentinel, but he learned a great general, and as he watched her, he grew to admire her more and more.
She was a great leader, hard and harsh at times, but protective of what was hers. She was probably the most tactically minded Drev he had ever met, and it became clear that even with half of her forces, he would never have been able to win.
Kazna never did anything halfway, and when he finally took her to the circle without weapons they fought until the sun was down and neither of them could move. He had never felt such deep and abiding admiration for anyone in his life, feeling like he was the luckiest Drev in the world, when she let him hold her in his arms, or she did the same for him.
He fought by her side as her second in command for what must have been years, growing with her as her confidence only grew, and her skill increased. She was proud, and now without flaw, but neither was he.
Sitting in their small moss roofed hut, he sat holding a tiny shape in his arms. A small hand flailed up at his face, and he took it watching as the tiny fingers gently curled around his. His carapace was red like an cinderswind moon. The door across the room opened and Kazna stepped in, her chin high her golden eyes bright as she turned to look at them. The expression on her face was one of tender pride as she stepped forward.
“My two favorite Drev in the same room.” She said, walking over to kneel next to him, resting her forehead against his. Below them the tiny creature chirped softly. She turned her head down, reaching out with a finger to stroke his cheek, “So strong, and beautiful.”
“You know what day it is?” Lanus said
Kasna turned to look up at him, “How could I forget.”
Warm bubbles fizzed through his blood, “The first lunar maker…. And you know what that means?”
“We have to choose a name.” She reached out and plucked the kit from his hands lifting him into the air to examine him. The Kit opened its mouth and chirped softly before trying to nip at her hand. She laughed, “How about Dinar or Ladinar for the color of his carapace.”
Lanus tapped his foot on the ground, “No…. something more grand I think/”
“Something more grand?” She paused, “Hmm Kan…. No… Kanan.”
Noble.
Lanus stood and looked the kit over, “Kanan, yes, yes I think that is grand enough.”
She turned to beam at him holding the kit in her arm as she hurried forward wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. Her voice was soft when she said, “This is just the beginning lanus, you and me until the sun sets and our blood paints the stones.” She pulled back eyes burning, “We will have dozens.” She spun Kanan around, and he chirped happily head lifted. “As many as we can, a Dozen tiny warriors.”
He laughed, “A dozen?”
“Or more!”
He shook his head in astonishment.
She turned to look at him, “This is all I have ever wanted Lanus. The perfect life, a strong battle partner,” She looked down, “And stronger children.”
He walked over and took her hand, “And you will have both.” He smiled
“Until the sun sets and our blood paints the rocks.”
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To The Stars...
Past Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi!Reader
Present Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Jedi!Reader
The One-Shot absolutely nobody asked for.
Italics for the past. Print for the present.
You were lost.
A fire had burned through every inch of your body, lighting each nerve burrowed beneath the red-hot agony engulfing your skin.
Pain.
It was all you knew, the entirety of what your fractured, scattered mind could piece together from the material it was given.
You cradled your body in the darkness, the brush of your hand against your arms hellish, blistering heat searing down your spine at the sensation.
Then it stopped.
Like the flame had been doused in a bucket of water, thoughts drowned in the sudden torrent of cool air. The burning was gone, replaced with the wispy smoke of unpleasant memories.
You opened your eyes, trying to ascertain your location to request for some sort of backup, or a possible extraction. Your head was pounding as light slowly filtered in, visions dancing like ghosts in the barren landscape around you. The cord that connected you to the life that breathed air into the atmosphere, that linked each soul to the ground they walked, was severed, like a knife to your very being. The constant, vibrant string in your mind, that tethered you to the creatures of the universe through the Force was quiet, muted as if the whole of existence was silenced.
“Zifri,” you choked out, your voice, raspy from the confines of pain, seeking out the presence of your Padawan.
As requested by the Jedi Council, you had entered the Temple of Aion, only to be locked within the confines. Your connection to the Force had pulsed through your veins, the rush of power mixing with the heat of destiny. The ground shook with possibilities, strings of fate illuminating the world around you. For a brief moment in time, you felt everything.
And then...
Nothing.
You had used the Force for many things throughout your life. Under the guidance of your master, you had learned to harness the abilities for both defense and offense, something typically advised against. Master Yoda understood the precariousness of your situation, and in an effort to gain mastery over the vastness of your abilities, had trained you in both Light and Dark.
When you were in the Temple of Aion though, you knew you had accessed a piece of the Force you’d never touched before.
The world you knew was gone.
“Zifri,” you repeated, louder, with more gusto as you grasped at any bit of the Force you could feel.
It was there, quiet, like a drum long forgotten. The lifeforms that dazzled the connection was gone, dimmed to a few scattered, unrealized potentials.
Something was wrong.
Upon realizing the startling truth that it wasn’t you who was disconnected with the Force, but rather the rest of the universe, you left in search of the truth.
“Master Kenobi.”
His lips tugged upwards in acknowledgment of your presence, a dangerous sign, to be sure. He hadn’t met you until a couple of years prior, but from that moment on, he knew he was in trouble.
You brought with you a sense of peace he could never hope to find in your absence. The Light seemed to radiate from your presence, and his connection to the Force flared to life with each accidental touch of your hand. He had never been so allured by another, and the enchantment seemed to grow with every passing hour.
“Starling.”
Your lips twitched down at the nickname. He’d taken to calling you it since your first meeting, and you still weren’t entirely sure why.
“That,” you crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at the man, “is not my name.”
The look on his face was far too mischievous for the esteemed Jedi Master. You felt the beginnings of a smile threaten to overcome your pout, and fought hard against it.
“And Master Kenobi isn’t mine,” he reminded you, mirroring your stance.
Your eyes narrowed, before you crossed the distance to give his shoulder a gentle shove. It hardly affected him, but the press of your hand against him, even muted by layers of clothing, sparked a fire down his spine.
“Obi,” you laughed. There was a brief pause, where your gazes met, affection exchanged, even through the desperate denials. “I got a Padawan!”
His smile widened. He’d known that you were to be assigned a Padawan. You had finished your Jedi training in record time, and there was no doubt that you could guide a fresh face on their journey, even if they were more than half your age.
“Hopefully your Padawan listens more than Anakin,” Obi-Wan joked.
He was caught off guard when you threw yourself into his arms. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting, but he was quick to return the sentiment.
“I know you advocated for me,” you whispered, your breath hot against his ear.
A piece of his training chipped away that day. How could he believe that holding you in his arms, giving into the affection he had for you, was so wrong when nothing in the world had ever felt more right?
“Always,” he replied, voice not above a murmur.
The other words he wished to speak, the feelings he wished to reveal, died in his throat. Today, he would not break the Jedi Code.
He could not speak for tomorrow, though.
Slowly, through frightened whispers or reverent murmurs, you pieced together the chronicle of the reality you awoke to.
30 years.
A full 30 years had passed.
When you were in the Temple of Aion though, you knew you had accessed a piece of the Force you’d never touched before.
With the power that resonated at your core, and the energy that hummed in the quiet halls of the Temple of Aion, you had been able to step through time.
Master Yoda had always claimed you had a destiny, one you could never fully comprehend, but you hadn’t expected it to include time travel.
Anakin.
Anakin Skywalker.
The very same man you had grown close to, had both learned from and mentored, was responsible for the desolation of your people. It seared your heart to learn the truth.
And Obi-Wan.
Your Obi-Wan, a soul so full of Light, forced to shoulder the burden of guiding, and loving, the man accountable for the atrocities committed against the Jedi. It pained you to think of how alone he must’ve felt in a galaxy he’d spent his life protecting. He was suddenly without his Order, without his closest friend, and without you, his lover.
How would things have changed if you were there?
Would you have perished with the other Jedi, or would you have survived, forced to live a life without the structure you’d become accustomed to?
What happened to your Master? To your Padawan? To Ahsoka?
You sighed, holding the bowl of steaming broth you were sipping on a little closer.
Your hunt for others was not going well. You weren’t even sure if there were anymore Jedi. The silence in your mind through the Force had become deafening, and you couldn’t take it anymore. It was driving you to the brink of insanity, living so long with a string connecting you to the other lifeforms that the sudden disappearance of them was startling.
So, you cut your connection to the Force.
It was painful, and every day a piece of you desperately called out to it, to reconnect your soul, but you held firm.
“Jedi.”
It was a mutter, spoken in a quiet conversation a few seats down, but you still heard it. Curiosity got the best of you, and the small spark of hope stirred deep in your gut.
Against better judgement, you followed the Mandalorian who had inquired about Jedi out of the establishment, and towards, what you presumed to be, his ship. The Mandalorian in question was cautious, looking over his shoulder with every step he took. Had you not been as well trained as you were, you more than likely would have slipped up and ousted yourself.
Alas, you managed to navigate your way through the bustling streets of some backwater planet while keeping your identity concealed from the vigilant Mandalorian.
“Starling!”
Obi-Wan had taken to calling you his ever-affectionate nickname more so than your given name. Typically, though, the endearment was saved for teasing mutters, or mirthful mumbles.
The two syllables had never been filled with such worry before, and the instincts you’d adopted in your years of training flared to life. Ahsoka was beside you, having been volunteered to stay with the unit by her esteemed Master Skywalker.
Zifri, your Padawan, had gone with Obi-Wan and Anakin. Having as many Jedis (Padawans included) had seemed a bit overkill, especially with Master Windu already stationed at a nearby base, but as an assault began to rain down around you and young Ahsoka, you quickly realized why.
The enemy was fierce, unrelenting, and incalculable in size. Rex’s unit was with you and Ahsoka, but following Obi-Wan’s warning, he and the rest of the backup were effectively cut off.
The twin sabers in your hand sprang to life, purple light reflecting in the harshness of your gaze.
“Get her to safety,” you ordered, holding the frontline as the enemy poured the brunt of their resources into your position. “Now!”
Rex jumped at the suddenness of your command. He offered a brief nod, before he signalled his troops to fall back, and tried to get Ahsoka to do the same.
She stood firm, refusing to leave you.
“We’re stronger together,” Ahsoka argued, unsheathing her lightsabers in a valiant attempt to provide assistance.
Time froze, just for a fraction of a second, as you smiled at the young Padawan. She was a fast learner, and fiercely loyal. If you asked, she would stay, and she would fall. Your heart squeezed in your chest as you eyed the facility the enemy were housed in. If you could get inside, you could buy enough time for Ahsoka, Rex, and the entire unit.
Your decision was made before you ever made a move to enact it.
You thought of Obi-Wan then, as you forced the young Padawan backwards, and charged forward into the enemy.
He would be proud.
“What do you know of the Jedi?”
The words had barely left your mouth before a blaster was being pointed directly at you.
You eyed it cautiously, blinking.
“What are you doing on my ship?” The helmet made the Mandalorian’s voice a bit mechanical, but there was no denying the hostility in it.
“I asked first,” you held your hands up in surrender, a bit too much cheek.
“This is my ship,” the man before you felt the need to remind you.
“Well, yes,” you answered lamely, spying the little guy that peeked out from behind the man’s cape.
Your eyes widened, recognition flashing across your features as a face similar to your beloved master revealed itself. You took a step back inadvertently, your heart fracturing in your chest as a gentle gaze tore open old wounds.
The child cooed, carefully stepping around the Mandalorian to approach you. A part of him recognized the Force inside you, you were sure, as his tiny hand reached out for you.
In a daze, you bent down to meet him.
A stillness grew in the air, like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see the interaction.
The Child was attempting to make contact with you- not just physically, but through the Force too- and panic rose in you at the thought. Alerts blared red throughout your systems as you physically recoiled. The little guy wasn’t deterred though, and despite your absolute withdrawal from him through the Force, his small hand wrapped around your fingers.
He made a noise, one that could be interpreted as friendly, and looked back to the Mandalorian. The Mandalorian, for his part, had been patient during the exchange, but his finger hadn’t been removed from the trigger, an obvious sign of his mistrust.
“Who are you?”
His voice echoed in the small space of the ship. You cleared your throat.
“I heard you talking about Jedi,” you mentioned, holding onto the creature that looked so similar to your Master. “I’m looking for them.”
A pause.
“Why?”
You considered the question. Your identity had been a closely guarded secret. After all, you still weren’t entirely sure why you’d been propelled 30 years into the future, so you made the decision to keep quiet on the subject. This was no exception.
“I want to know what happened to my family,” you gave a half-truth.
If he wondered why the Jedi would know, he didn’t question it.
“The kid seems to like you.”
It was an observation, though you could tell it was one he took to heart. The Mandalorian may have thought the kid had good intuition, but you knew it was his connection to the Force.
“I can help you.”
The twin lightsabers that were concealed in your robes burned, the handles icy to the touch from disuse, yet flaming with the sudden desire to be the person you had trained to be. They, too, had been untouched in the year that had passed since your sudden upheaval.
“...Okay.”
He was reluctant, and you were sure if it wasn’t for the pleading eyes of the youngling, he would’ve outright refused. He didn’t seem like the kind of man to embrace company, and you weren’t the type that liked to impose, but if there was a possibility of you finding a Jedi, you needed to take it.
“Perfect.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Snips.”
“If I had just-”
“My Master is as stubborn as she is strong, you wouldn’t have gotten through.”
“Rest, we must allow her. Watch over her, Master Kenobi will.”
The voices you’d been listening to had faded, and you were barely able to open your eyes to register why that was.
“Easy,” the familiar articulation above you was fraught with apprehension.
“Obi?” You inquired softly, his face a blur as you tried to adjust your vision more properly.
“Starling,” he breathed, relief palpable in the drawl he spoke with. The air grew lighter at the nickname, and you felt the tension melt from your body.
“Is everyone okay?”
Obi-Wan visibly flinched at the question. Hesitantly, after a moment of contemplation, he nodded. A smile began to tug at your lips and- despite your body heavily protesting the action, muscles groaning at the strain- you sat up.
“I’m sorry, I know-”
“It was reckless,” Obi-Wan reprimanded, staring down at where his fingers tapped against the edge of the bed. He had an air of agitation, but there was something else deep beneath his facade that you couldn’t quite read.
“It was necessary to save the people I…”
His eyes snapped to you, imploring- no, begging- you to continue. Your voice went quiet, the atmosphere weighed down with the words you struggled to utter. You ran your tongue along your teeth.
“The people I love.”
Obi-Wan let the words simmer between the two of you. He was digesting them, critiquing them, and then embracing them. The beating of his heart matched the erratic thumping of yours.
“I was terrified,” he admitted on a whisper, as if divulging a secret. “But proud.”
The Child was still reaching out to you.
You had been vigilant in your effort to remain disconnected to the Force. With him so nearby, and more days passing without the connection so integral to your person, your defenses were struggling, but you refused to relent.
The kid knew it too.
A deep sadness reflected in his glossy gaze, chipping away at the armor you had locked around your heart. You stared at yourself through his eyes, at how battle hardened you looked. Throughout the Clone Wars, you had been an esteemed general, but you had a family- if not by blood, by choice- that kept you grounded. Since your stint with time travel, you had been alone, and as unfair as it was to leave the kid on his own, you couldn’t open yourself back up yet.
There was pain without the Force, but dammit, you didn’t know if you could handle the fresh hell your connection to it brought.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” you apologized, holding your hand out for him.
He took it, waddling closer to better inspect you. He was desperate for the attachment you were denying. It likely had to do with the tidbit of information Mando had given you. He said the kid was 50, which meant, technically speaking, you were only five years his senior. Though, you didn’t really consider yourself to be the 55 the timeline suggested, considering you skipped 30 of those years, which left you with the appearance and memories of a 25 year old.
“Why the sorcerers?” The low, mechanical baritone of the Mandalorian asked from the doorway, his body sturdy and intimidating.
He had grown a fair bit on you, especially considering the long and bloody past between Jedi and Mandalorians. The look you pulled following his description of Jedi was one of indignation, however.
“Sorcerers?” You echoed, the words distasteful on your tongue. “Jedi are not magic. The Force isn’t some- some-”
Your argument was crashing, as you realized just how much you were implying about your past with each word used in defense of the Jedi. The Mandalorian had been suspicious, and you replying as spirited as you did, did nothing to convince him otherwise.
You cleared your throat.
“The Jedi are an ancient and respectable order tasked with maintaining balance across the universe,” you explained calmly, refusing to stare at the blank, chrome exterior of the beskar helmet the Mandalorian wore.
Instead, you looked at the youngling.
“I’m not entirely sure there are any left, but their memory still deserves admiration.”
The Child cocked his head to the side, like he was digesting the bit of information you’d given. Mando, however, let the silence breathe for a moment.
“Did you know any?”
You pressed your fingers to the baby’s cheek, a ghost of a smile curving on your lips at the reminder of the people you had surrounded yourself with.
“Many,” you admitted softly.
Mando had taken a step towards you, bending down to level himself with you. He reached out towards the Child, offering him a bit of warmth, as he assessed you beneath the armor he wore.
You wondered then- certainly not for the first time- what he looked like. You hadn’t had a whole lot of interactions with Mandalorians in the past. Between training, both your own training and your Padawan’s training, and your individual role within the Clone Wars, it hadn’t ever really occurred. Most of what you knew was what Obi-Wan had told you, and the occasional excited recount Ahsoka had regaled you with.
“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,” the words were purposeful as they left the Mandalorian’s mouth, and though you weren’t quite sure of their meaning, you knew they were said with the intention of honoring the unmentioned Jedi you’d lost.
Your heart skipped a beat, and the coo the kid had released was softer than normal, like he was mourning your loss too.
You rested your hand on Mando’s, holding it against the small chest of the kid.
“There is no death, there is the Force.”
The Child perked up in recognition of the final words of the Jedi Code. He, like Mando, did not interrupt the moment. The culmination of two cultures, so starkly different from one another, were weaving together in the small child. While this might suggest some amount of concern, you could only see a chance to transcend the mistakes of history.
“Thank you,” you mumbled to the bounty hunter.
None of you moved, and for a quiet moment in time, all was right with the world.
“Focused, you must remain.”
Master Yoda was being cautious, trying to keep you on task, but worry was beginning to seep into your actions. You’d finished the Trials, and you were a fully fledged Master- with a Padawan currently under your care- but your training was still ongoing.
The Jedi Council wasn’t taking any chances with the sheer power you displayed in regards to the Force. If it weren’t for Master Yoda and Obi-Wan, the Council may not have even allowed your training to progress. They were concerned about the training, especially when Yoda revealed that he had been training you with Force abilities tied to the Dark side.
“I think-,” you sighed in frustration, “Maybe I need the day off.”
Master Yoda considered the request, and then conceded when he realized how deep your fear ran. Power bred fear, and he never wanted you to fear your own gifts.
“Time, you should take. Return, we will, after some rest.”
You bowed, then scampered away as quickly as you could. Tears began to blur your vision, as you ran to safety. Your feet were moving on their own accord, pulling you towards security- which, incidentally, brought you to Obi-Wan’s quarters.
You paused briefly, wondering if it was a good idea. The two of you had been growing close, toeing the line of what was allowed, and what was forbidden. Before you could turn away and retreat into less dangerous territory, Obi-Wan opened the door.
Concern was etched into the furrow of his brow, and the downturn of his lips looked unnatural in comparison to the joy he typically radiated around you. Without thinking, or even considering possible consequences, you shut the door and fell into his embrace.
It wasn’t the first time the two of you had been so close before, but every time you were, it drew you one step closer to engaging in feelings deemed off limits by the Jedi Council.
“Is there anything I can do?” Obi-Wan’s voice was soft, but fierce.
You pulled back just a fraction to meet his eyes.
It was the way he looked at you, like there wasn’t anything more sacred in the world than you. Your heart stuttered against your chest, and you surged forward, your lips meeting his in a long overdue kiss.
He responded like he’d been waiting his entire life for it. There was no hesitation, no worry, and no doubt about his feelings.
You knew that would come after, but for the moment, you had each other.
“Do you have a name?”
The Mandalorian leveled you with a stare. Even without seeing his face, you knew the expression he bore was something close to absolute bewilderment.
It’d been nearly seven weeks since you boarded the Razor Crest. The Mandalorian and you had grown somewhat closer, but he was guarded and you were secretive. The Child had taken to you immediately, drawn by the Force, and charmed with your sweet voice.
“Do you?”
You pursed your lips.
“Touché.”
Silence reigned supreme once more, save for the occasional coos of the Child. He was secure in your lap, alternating his hands between holding yours or reaching for something on the console.
“(Y/N),” you finally broke the silence, steadfastly ignoring his gaze as you focused on the little guy. The Child looked up to you curiously, tilting his head as he mumbled a vague string of syllables that sounded somewhat like your name mixed with babble.
“(Y/N),” the Mandalorian echoed. It felt nice to hear him say it, the way he pronounced it carefully, taking care to taste the name on his tongue.
“I think I should be more cautious with my identity,” you admitted, gesturing to his helmet. “We don’t really know what we’re walking into.”
Mando thought on the idea for a brief moment, before he huffed his assent.
“You can call me Starling,” you interrupted on a whim, almost regretting it the second the word left your mouth. “It’s an old nickname,” you explained, curling in on yourself at the way the Mandalorian watched you.
“Starling it is,” he said finally.
If he found your behavior odd, he didn’t comment. In fact, he wasn’t the least bit phased when you donned a mask to show him. It was a darker shade of silver than the chrome armor he wore, and there were intricate designs carved into the metal, the same carvings the hilt of your lightsabers bore. It would render you completely unseen, and thus a bit safer until you could discern whether the Jedi in question could be trusted with the truth or not.
Mando routed the ship for a new destination, flipping levers and pressing buttons like it was second nature. He didn’t pause, and his voice was so quiet you almost missed the soft utterance, but you heard it nonetheless.
“Din.”
“We’ll see them again.”
Every ounce of strength and faith was released into that short sentence, a gentle reminder to the man you loved of your capabilities.
He studied you, tracing every inch of your face like it was the last time he’d see you, and he needed to memorize the curve of your cheeks, or the slope of your nose.
“I know we will.”
He tried to echo the sentiment of your voice, but it fell short. He was beginning to believe that your recent endeavor had taken a turn for the worst, and that the two of you might not find your way off the godforsaken planet you crashed into as easily as you believed you would. With the woods crawling with enemy droids, and not a single friend in sight, it wasn’t a horrible assumption.
“Obi,” you pressed, resting your hand against his cheek to get his attention. It worked. “We’re going to get out of this.”
It wasn’t often the man before you lacked the strength to carry hope, but in the times that he did, you were the only person that could spark conviction in him.
“What would I do without you?”
It wasn’t a question meant to be answered. He had found himself wondering what a life outside of the Order might be like since the day you kissed him- perhaps even longer, if he were honest with himself. A part of him longed to be selfish, to keep you from the world.
He knew then, though, or maybe he’d always known, your destiny was larger than him. You were born to soar above the fears and expectations of the Jedi Order. You were born to live a life of your own, not one defined by him, and he felt himself fighting a losing battle, trying to hold onto you for as long as he could.
It had come out as a rhetorical question- but, deep down, he knew the truth: one day you would be without him, and he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to carry on.
You, though, were resilient.
You could carry on.
He needed you to.
Faded, silvery lines painted a picture on your back.
Each was a scar, a tragedy of a life long forgotten. There was a large print in the form of a gash from where you’d narrowly escaped a crashed ship, or a thin line that spanned the length of your shoulders from being thrown across a battlefield. The memories that came from the stories they told weren’t always pleasant. They were reminders of who you were and where you’d been, even if you were trying to run from the past, and deny the existence of the person you’d once been intimately familiar with.
There was a new scar too.
This one was where your shoulder met your collarbone. It was an angry, red wound that hadn’t quite scarred yet, but was just beginning to show the puckering of a lasting injury. You’d jumped in the line of fire to protect the youngling. Before that, you’d been effortlessly weaving through enemies, cutting them down with a staff you’d wrestled from the first to jump at you.
Would this scar prompt the same feelings the others did in the future?
You sighed, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. You looked different. Not in the sense that you’d drastically changed on the outside, but the way you carried yourself was different.
You had never been one to strictly follow the Jedi Code, but there wasn’t a trace of Jedi left in you anymore. The hope that used to light your eyes, the wonder that settled on your brow, the joy that tugged at your lips- it was all gone, replaced with a heaviness you couldn't quite carry.
A curse sounded from beside you, and the sudden appearance of Mando startled you. Despite what his exterior, and copious amount of armor, might suggest, the man moved surprisingly quiet when he wanted to.
You didn’t bother to shield your body at the sudden intrusion. You were decent enough where you weren’t exposed, but more skin was on display than normal. Mando awkwardly shuffled in place, torn between leaving and checking on you.
“I’m fine, if that’s why you’re here,” you decided for him, ghosting your fingers along the new wound.
“Good,” he muttered. Though his helmet shielded the direction of his eyes, you could feel his stare run the length of the skin on your back.
He had questions. They filled the silence, pressing the void with the desire to voice them, but not the strength required to.
“They’re from another life,” you explained, gazing at him through the mirror.
A breath.
“I was a-” you paused, changing the direction of the conversation last minute. “A general. War isn’t easy.”
Din inclined his head, the barest gesture of acknowledgement. Even though he wasn’t speaking, and not offering physical comfort, his presence made you feel at ease, like he could understand some amount of the pain you felt.
You turned to him then, cautious steps bringing you closer until you were nearly chest to chest- or chest to abdomen, if you were being honest with your height. Din hadn’t moved an inch, though his helmet was tilted down, and you knew beneath it, the eyes of a hunter were watching every movement you made.
Carefully, you lifted a hand to the side of his helmet, pressing it against the cool beskar, in direct opposition to the heat of your skin. It reminded you of your Order, and his, and the conflicting views of the two, how different it had formed you both. Though, you hadn’t really felt the opposite of him, but rather complimentary, like your opinions and actions lifted him up, and vice versa.
“Thank you, Din.”
By the time he’d really processed what you said, you were out of sight, leaving him alone in the dark, with nothing but the heat rising to his cheeks at your actions.
The Jedi Code was in place for a reason.
You knew that.
Obi-Wan knew that.
Yet it hadn’t stopped the affection from blossoming.
The early lights of a rising sun crept in through the window, shining down on the two of you, still entwined and bare from the previous night’s events. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, heated skin meeting his lips in an action that spoke more than he ever could.
‘I love you’- not spoken in so many words, but conveyed through the soft brush of his hand, or the gentle press of his mouth.
Time was your enemy, so long as you continued down this path, and you knew it wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, the Jedi Council would become aware of the blooming relationship. They would punish you. You would probably lose your Padawan, and maybe even your status. Obi-Wan would be in a similar situation, and as much as you wanted to care, it was difficult to.
He meant everything to you, and you meant everything to him. Nothing in the world made more sense than being together.
“We have to get up soon,” Obi-Wan reminded you, not quite ready to give up on the charade.
You understood. There was Anakin, Ahsoka, and Zifri to worry about.
“I know,” you agreed on a hum, running your fingers through his hair. His eyes slipped shut at the sensation, as they often did.
“Master Windu spoke of a mission you’re going on?” Obi-Wan inquired, his tone quiet as he reveled in your attention.
“Mmm,” you murmured, holding a kiss to his forehead, “The Temple of Aion, just a quick trip.”
“Be careful,” he warned, holding your hand in his.
The words he should’ve said stayed silent, waiting for a different opportunity that would never come. That would be the last time you saw Obi-Wan, though you didn’t know it at the time.
Or maybe you had known, deep down, as you ran your fingers along his lips, committing his face to memory- so expressive and filled with love.
That was goodbye.
Bo-Katan had mentioned Ahsoka, and you had barely been able to breathe from that moment forward.
Din had picked up on the change in attitude. He wanted to ask about it, but he wasn’t one to pry. Instead, he’d been silently lending you strength.
The flight had gone off without a hitch, and typically you’d be thankful for the lack of interruptions, but the quiet had been slowly descending you towards a maddening cycle of imagining how Ahsoka would react to the revelation of your fate. Your imagination wasn’t being kind, and you were nearly convinced that she would blame you for everything that had happened with Anakin and the Jedi Order.
Your sweet, stubborn Ahsoka, who had meant so much to you, that you would willingly lay down your life for her. Would she think you a traitor? Would she understand what you’d gone through?
The tiny, gentle hands of the kid interrupted your thinking. His wide eyes were directed at you, and you could feel the Force inside you thump against the confines of your chest to get to him.
Ahsoka would know.
Even with your self-induced severance to the Force, she would know it was you, with or without the mask.
What would be the point then?
Should you tell Mando and the kid?
After all, they were searching for a Jedi to train the kid, and you were a fully-fledged Jedi, who, through a series of unfortunate events, had lost their Padawan. One of the kid’s own kind, Master Yoda, had been your teacher. For all intents and purposes, you were the perfect teacher for the kid. Mando wouldn’t need to be separated, and you could rekindle the fire of hope that the loss of the Jedi Order doused.
You would tell them, then. You would restore your connection to the Force, and you would aid Din, but only after you reunited with Ahsoka.
The kid, as if sensing your resolution, gave you a toothy smile. It pulled at your heart, reminding you of your own Master.
Tears welled in your eyes, and the gentleness of the creature before you, the worry, caused them to fall.
You mourned your people- Master Yoda, who taught you, Anakin, who joked with you, Zifri, who looked to you for guidance, and Obi-Wan, who loved you unconditionally.
You mourned the ever-progressing change that had transformed the galaxy from the one you knew, to the one you now learned.
And you mourned yourself- the girl full of hope, who found faith in the people around her, and spent her whole life trying to make the world a better place.
Din found you like that, holding tight to the Child while you let yourself mourn what you’d lost one last time before facing the future.
He didn’t know the full extent of your past, just as you didn’t know his, but the secrets kept in the dark of the night hadn’t distanced either of you.
“Ready?” He inquired.
You nodded, propping the kid on your hip as you stood to your full height, forgoing the mask you’d been wearing entirely.
You wouldn’t hide your identity any longer. The world wouldn’t scare you into submission. You were a Jedi, and it was high time you started to act like one.
There was a brief hesitation before Din’s gloved hand slipped into yours, igniting a strength you’d long since thought was gone.
You smiled down at the kid, and then where your hand met Din’s.
You’d been lost for so long, but now-
Now you were found.
#obi wan x reader#din djarin x reader#obi wan kenobi x reader#the mandalorian x reader#obi wan imagine#din djarin imagine#the mandalorian imagine#star wars x reader#star wars imagine
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Who Are You Really?
Chapter 3: To Mold; To Raise One
Summary:
They should know, he thinks, that things like them aren’t picked.
The warrior was forgotten by the hero.
By everyone.
And Macaque?
He is going to make them into a tool for a warrior, a warrior themself even, whether they like it or not.
Spirit Masterpost
If he had to say anything on the matter, he would have said they’re useful.
It hadn’t taken much, not really. He finds them in the woods, alone with nothing to their name but whispers of favors to powerful people and three eyes that stare through you. He finds them, appraises them, and despite the way their tail curls around their leg and despite the way they hunch down on themself, something is there. A little broken, but there.
Like a memory of a debt owed, Macaque knows he can fix them and is willing to try.
Convincing them isn’t difficult. They perk up at the word favor, ears pressed up against the sides of their head and their eyes wide and earnest. Desperate for a use, excited to have purpose—he dangles it in front of them and pulls them in.
There were more than a few roadblocks.
There is the anxiety, of course. Kid barely can stand the sight of their own shadow, much less the ones he can summon at the drop of a hat. He gets them used to the clones soon enough. Exposure works wonders, and if they don’t like it at first? Tough. The clones are a part of him, he says It wasn’t as if he could just get rid of them because they don’t like them.
A well placed guilt trip, and Kid stumbles over themselves to fix their error. Good.
They’re soft. Gentle. Caring for all the other living creatures almost to the point of those being above their own needs and wants. Careful of pretty flowers they don’t want to step on, kind to the trees and grass as much as one can be.
Wide eyed, but not doe eyed. Their eyes are something, though.
It’s interesting to watch the large pupil move, the smaller two following. They bounce around like ping pong balls, always taking in every detail. When they wink, they either close the large one, or the two smaller ones. Sometimes, when they’re trying to focus on something, they’ll close one of the smaller eyes.
“My vision’s a little lopsided,” they admit, when he questions. “It, uh, can make things blurry.”
Not doe eyed, he knows, when he looks at them. The furtive way they glance around. They look at dead animals far too long to be normal. Stare wistfully out at human settlements. And when they’re not looking at anything, their eyes look...tired. Empty.
Haunted, even.
Guess they call themselves Spirit for a reason.
It takes a while to teach them to stop caring about the petals you ruin in your walk, to crush bugs underfoot without thought. It would go faster if he taught them the hard way, with broken bones and bloodied fists, but breaking more than they already are serves no purpose. Beyond it all, Macaque wants a tool to use, and a tool shattered beyond repair isn’t useful. So he has to be patient about it.
Of course, his patience runs out sometimes, but they never complain. Maybe he gets used to yelling. It shuts them up real quick, so it works.
Training them is another matter. As much as he wants to beat all of the lessons he’d learned into them, he has to be patient. A warrior isn’t made on the first day, there’s a process. And they’re flighty, too. One wrong move and they might run away. Sure, he knew they’d come back, like a dog on a leash whenever the word favor was involved, but waiting would add more time to the process.
So he takes things slow. Somehow.
They have stamina. Running and jumping through forests day by day leaves them lithe and lean when it comes to muscles. They tower over him even when they bend over; they are always bent over. He forces them to stand up straight, just to get a measure of their height, and they loom like a tree in the forests surrounding them.
A good foundation, but their stance is so easily toppable that he barely has to push them and they stumble back, falling to the ground.
So he starts there.
“You need to be unmovable,” he says, using a stick found in the woods to prod at their limbs until they’re in the right position. “Rooted to the ground.”
“Like a flower?” they reply, turning their head around to look at him.
He smacks them on the side of the head with the stick for that.
“Like a tree,” he corrects. “Do you have any idea how easy it is to pick a flower?”
He hears them mutter about how they think it wouldn’t be too bad to be picked, but they correct their stance and go silent before he can bark at them to be quiet.
They should know, he thinks, that things like them aren’t picked.
The warrior was forgotten by the hero.
By everyone.
And Macaque?
He is going to make them into a tool for a warrior, a warrior themself even, whether they like it or not.
Once their stance is steady, he teaches them self defense. How to punch without breaking your fingers. How to kick without losing your balance. How to dodge, duck, strike.
Kid takes to it like a duck to water, with a few hiccups. The largest of which is a lack of want to land a hit.
Oh, they’re plenty strong. They can lift up half a tree’s worth of firewood with a bit of strain. They could likely kick harder than they punch, with how much they run, but to get them to do either is an uphill battle.
“C’mon kid, hit me,” he says, gesturing to his chest.
They pale, shoulders hunched, fingers rubbing against each other awkwardly as they keep them from becoming a fist.
“But-why? I don’t want to, uh, hurt you.” They frown at the thought.
Macaque laughs.
“You can’t hurt me, trust me. I’ve been hit by bigger and stronger people than you, kid,” he gives them a half grin and snorts at the thought of them being able to hit that hard.
“I don’t…” They draw circles in the dirt with their toe, glancing between him and their feet. “I don’t like hurting people.”
He sighs, long suffering. “You have someone you want to protect?” he asks.
They blink a few times. He watches their pupils dilate, shifting as they think. They don’t have the best poker face, but when they want to hide something, their face becomes carefully blank, a slate wiped clean.
It’s kind of creepy, in a way.
“Not anymore,” they finally mutter, forlorn. Ears downturned.
There’s something deeper there, but Macaque doesn’t have time to hear their life’s story. Especially when they’re training.
“Yeah, you do have someone.” He walks over and sticks his finger into their chest, poking them hard enough that they wince. “You. You want to stay alive? You fight.”
They stare at him, hard, and he raises a brow.
“Look,” he says. “You hate anyone?”
Kid glances down at him—he hates that they’re taller than him, even when they’re hunched down—and their gaze flashes to something dark.
He stares back.
“Yes,” they whisper. “Some. One.”
Macaque does not stiffen. There’s nothing haunting about how quietly, how gently, how angrily Kid says that.
“Alright then,” he takes a step back, arms splayed out to make himself a target. “Hit me like I’m that person.”
He watches them stare at him. They tilt their head to the side. Their pupils shift.
A minute passes, and Macaque is about to say something else, when they blink once, and then strike.
His clothes are ripped, a slash across his chest. Kid holds their hand out like it’s a weapon, claws bared. They took off some fur, too, but they didn’t go deep enough to break skin, though Macaque thinks it’s not for lack of trying.
Another blink, and they come to, yanking their hand back and cradling it against their chest.
“Oh-sorry-I-I was just doing what you told me, and, uh, I didn’t,” they mutter out more apologies, looking away.
Macaque laughs.
“No, no, that was great! We’ll have to get you used to punching and kicking, but using claws ain’t half bad.” He looks them up and down, seeing them in a new light. “If you like something sharp, then, well, we might as well get you a weapon, right?”
“A...weapon?” They look surprised that he’s not upset.
Macaque only yells when they make a mistake, though. And when they’re being annoying, but regardless. Why punish them for a job well done? He told them to hit him, and they did. Not exactly how he wanted, but as long as they’re more willing to fight, he wants to encourage the behavior. An inch of negativity towards them and they’ll jump a mile back from where he wants them to be.
“Something sharp,” he repeats. “Claws will only get you so far.”
He pulls out his staff, twirling it around a few times before holding it out, sideways, for the kid to look at. They peer down at it, tilting their head to the side. They close one of their eyes, to focus. Their eyes trace the spikes on the ends of the staff. They swallow, fidgeting, as their gaze ends at the sharp points.
“It’s...nice,” they say, a little nervous.
“We should go to a market. I’ve got a bunch of weapons we can test out, but your weapon has to be for you.” He pats the kid on the back, smiling.
“Shopping?”
He watches them perk up, eyes wide, a smile on their lips. There’s a certain charm to it. As tall as they are, they have quite the young face.
“Yup,” he says. “But first, I’m teaching you how to sew. If you’re going to tear my clothes, you’re going to know how to fix it.”
They duck their head sheepishly, embarrassed, guilty, but happy that he’s going to teach them something new.
Hook, line, sinker.
He takes them, first, to one of his caves, his hideouts. He has his stash of weapons there, so they can start training with them to get the kid used to weaponry before he buys them anything.
The trip takes a week, and during it he has to stop himself from strangling the kid every evening. They light up every two seconds, prattling on about every little thing they spot, skipping along with both their pack of things and his own. He thought making them carry his things as well as their own would get them tired enough that he wouldn’t have to listen to them chatter well into the night, but they manage to ask so many questions it makes his head spin.
“Do you think that anyone is going to like you if you never shut up?” he growls out, one night. “I can barely hear my own thoughts, you keep spouting out all of yours.”
They blink. Hunch their shoulders. Shift their gaze off to the side.
“I don’t know a lot,” they mutter. “I thought asking questions was how, uh, I learn? My mom always had me tell her what was on my mind, so she could let me know if I was thinking of something wrong.”
They shrug their shoulders, gaze off somewhere, or sometime else.
“Well I’m not your mom,” he snaps. “And neither is anyone else. Trust me, no one wants to hear your thoughts.”
The kid looks up at him, hunched over and sitting down. Their pupils shift, again. Their expression goes carefully blank.
“Oh,” tThey reply. “Sorry.”
Macaque lets out a huff. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy here. Not only is it a bad look, it also makes the kid less likely to trust him. It’s a balancing act, where he toes the line. Sure, the kid can take a bit more attitude than most, but you kick a dog enough and it bites back.
If you kick a dog, and then feed it nice food for a month before kicking it again, well...it takes it a lot longer to think of biting.
“Look,” he sighs. “I’m saying this for your sake, kid. I’m patient, but most people aren’t. You think a regular demon will just tell you to shut up?”
He pauses, levies them an incredulous look. “You’d lose a tooth or something, or an eye.”
They flinch, when he says eye. He files that away for later.
“How about this,” He continues. “You get 3 random questions per day while we walk, and 2 random comments. Sound fair?”
Kid looks up at him, a little less despondent, and then they smile.
“Okay.” They turn to the fire, grabbing a piece of firewood from the pile and adding it to the fire.
They glance up at Macaque, after a bit. “Thanks.”
Macaque reaches over and ruffles their hair, and it doesn’t feel like there’s a fake smile on his face when Kid giggles and leans into the touch.
When it comes to weapons, the kid is clumsy.
Most long weapons are surprisingly difficult for them to wield. Their height should be an advantage in that regard, giving them more of a reach, but instead all their long limbs are good for are getting hit whenever they slip with a staff or spear in hand. They nick themselves a few times, and Macaque thinks he’s going to have to make a fuss with cleaning them up, but every time they get cut they pull out well worn gauze and some mixture, and carefully clean and wrap the wound themselves.
“My mom taught me,” they explain when he stares for too long.
Anything long is difficult for them to handle, so he throws those out the window. Now, short blades they do well with, but they don’t like to stab.
“Curved blades,” he suggests, handing them a pair. “They’re more for slashing. Like a couple of extra claws, but longer.”
They hold them awkwardly, but with some careful correction they do a few practice swings, glancing over at Macaque for approval.
“Looks good,” he says, because they seem most steady with the twin blades, and that’s something to hone in on.
The kid beams. Macaque finds himself smiling back.
They train for a couple months, not just with the curved blades. A jack of all trades is far more useful than a master of one, after all, and letting them have at least a rudimentary understanding of how to use most weapons will make it so even if they’re without their typical arsenal, they’ll be able to make do.
That, and between the hand to hand combat lessons, will make them a force to be reckoned with, though they still refuse to strike with a killer’s intent.
All in due time, though. Macaque would hate to waste all this effort to create something of use by scaring them off with his impatience.
They know of the Monkey King.
“I hear about him all the time,” they say, over dinner. “He’s a very famous monkey!”
“Sure,” Macaque grumbles, ignoring the urge to punch their teeth in.
It’s not their fault, he knows. Anyone who knows anyone would know of the Great Sun Wukong enough to—
“Have you met him?”
Now, there’s a question. Something dark and pleased rises up when he hears it, because he can’t ruin the reputation of Sun Wukong to the world, but starting small never hurts, and why not score some trust with Kid along the way?
“We were actually pretty close,” he explains.
The look on their face when he shows them his scar and tells them how he got it is just priceless.
Shopping with them is...something else.
He takes them to the market closeby, a few miles out from where they met in the woods. They’re like a kid in a candy store, bouncing between market fronts and looking over every random object with interest.
“Some of the people here owe me favors,” they whisper conspiratorially to him, waving at a few of the shop owners. “I helped them out! It was nice.”
“Mhmm,” he nods along.
Kid is very, very insistent on favors. The wording is important, and Macaque pockets it, pulling out the phrase whenever Kid starts to get too hesitant about doing what Macaque needs them to.
“What’s the whole favor business for, anyway?” he asks, because he genuinely is curious.
As much as Kid’s ramblings can get annoying, they do provide insight. Information on insecurities makes for a fun leverage.
“They owe me,” Kid replies. “I do what they want, and then they can’t hurt me.”
Short, simple, to the point. But oh so interesting, an insight Macaque files away. He can’t go around hurting Kid after the favor is done, then. That’s fine. He has plenty of time to get them to heel without yanking on the leash.
A few tugs will do well enough, anyway.
They reach the weapon shop, and Kid is enamored with a purple pair of their preferred weapon, fluttering over to them and tracing the shapes with their fingers. They’re practically bouncing on their feet, grabbing fistfuls of their pant legs to stop themself from snatching up their prize immediately.
They glance back to Macaque for approval.
“Not a bad color.” Macaque has always liked purple. Maybe that’s why Kid doesn’t annoy him as much as most people. They’re bright in personality, but wear the colors of shadows, and hide in the shade rather than stand out in the spotlight.
Kid preens at the compliment.
“Can-uh-is this what-can I have them? Please?” They’re vibrating with excitement, eyes wide and earnest as they hope for a yes.
“Maybe,” Macaque replies, smooth as silk. “It all depends on if you’re going to use them properly.”
That gives them pause. Their excitement diminishes into confusion as they try and parse out just what Macaque means, ears twitching.
It is almost charming in a way, how they always seem to be moving a little bit. Whether their tail is swaying back and forth, or they’re curling and uncurling their toes, or fluttering their fingers at their sides, they move.
“I...know how to use them,” they finally say. “You taught me.”
“Practically,” Macaque replies. “But you still won’t fight with them.”
Kid blinks again, tilting their head to the side. Genuinely confused, befuddled, uncertain of his words. He watches their eyes slide to the side, glancing around and trying to figure out what exactly he means.
“I…,” they start, haltingly. “I thought I was?”
Macaque sighs, more out of exhaustion than annoyance, but they take it as such, ears drooping low. Their tail brushes the floor.
“Intent, kid,” he says. “You can use the weapons, but you don’t fight with them. Not with intent.”
“Intent to what?” Kid asks, hesitant but insistent.
“Kill,” Macaque says, simply. “These weapons are for killing. If you aren’t going to use them like that, there’s no point in you getting them. No point in continuing the favor.”
He can tell the second part hits them hard. They stiffen, hands clasping in front of their stomach, tight. Their feet overlap each other, toes curled, shoulders hunched, tail coiled around their leg.
Fidgeting, tense like a coiled spring, Macaque waits, because he’s seen this before. Every time he pushes, they duck their head in quiet defiance for only a moment, before
They buckle, going limp.
“No,” they mutter. “You’re right. I’ll get intent, sir.”
Sir is new.
Macaque likes it.
“Good. Then they’re yours—” He gestures to the twin blades, with purple glossy handles and white grips. “Take them.”
Their smile is smaller than it was before, when they pull the pair from the rack. Their hands tremble when they hold them; they grip the blades tight to keep them steady.
Macaque pays for the blades, and ignores how still they’ve become.
With Kid’s preferred blades acquired, Macaque ramps up training. He pushes them farther, because he’s laid the groundwork, and now the only way to get them to bend is to force them into the position.
Starting small is important. Kid is still fit to scatter if he scares them. It’s like placing a frog in a pot of boiling water. It doesn’t work. You set them in the room temperature water first, and then turn up the heat. Slowly, still. If he cranked it up now, well, they’d still jump out.
So, they start with a shadow clone. Looks like a real person, but is detached enough from it that Kid won’t get too freaked when they attack it. No blood, no screams, just smoke and mirrors to get them in action.
Maybe he should be concerned that he’s teaching them to fight a visage of him, but Macaque knows Kid isn’t stupid enough to think they can beat him.
That would be ridiculous.
He guides them through the motions, hands on their wrists as he tugs their arms into the correct positions, jerking their hand forward in a slashing motion and letting go just as they make contact with the clone, dissipating it with a single strike.
Typically his clones are more powerful, but an easy win to start will embolden them to strike harder next time.
“Nice job!” he pats them on the back, hard enough that they stumble a little from the force of it.
They’re smiling though, small and secretly pleased. They love praise, he finds, desperate for approval. A few kind words can feed them for a week, if he plans it out right. Not that he’s always planning. Some do just...slip out.
“Now,” he summons another clone, placing it a few feet away. “Try this one on your own.”
Kid nods, turns, and settles into a stance. They charge forward and strike.
Macaque smiles.
From clones, comes animals.
After all, he explains, they have to eat. Sure, a true warrior eats less than most, but they still need to have food. Starving themselves when they’re in the middle of training, in the middle of gaining muscle and strength, is stupid. They need to bulk up.
“I don’t, um, usually eat much,” Kid says.
Macaque scoffs.
“That’s why you’re a stick.” He gestures to their general size, how their clothes hang off of them.
They fidget, shrugging a little.
“I guess,” they reply, which is their typical response when they don’t exactly agree but don’t have the courage to actually disagree.
“Well, I know,” he bites back, finding some sort of pleasure in how they shrink away from him. “We need to make sure you know how to make food anyway. You’re no use to me half-starved.”
He drums up options, glancing off into the forest they’re surrounded by.
“There’s plenty of food out here,” he says. “We can fish in streams, shoot for birds, and there’s a human settlement just out west a couple miles, so—”
“We are not,” Kid interrupts, interrupts, voice harder than he’s ever heard, “Eating humans.”
Their eyes are sharp. Angry, even. So rarely does he find anger in them, find fire where there is cool terror and anxiety. This is something noticeable. Kid likes humans, enough to fight for them.
They’re trembling, waiting for his reaction. Clearly, they’re terrified that he’ll snap at them, that he’ll shut them down. But they don’t apologize.
Interesting. How rare is it that Macaque sees them be brave?
“Fine,” he shrugs. “They scream too much to be worth it, anyway.”
That much is true. While he might not be showing off the six ears that beget his title, they’re still there, and shouting is nothing that he wants to deal with.
Kid relaxes, relief evident on their face that he’s not yelling at them. It’s good that they’re smart enough to fear his reproach.
“But, that means you’re gonna have to learn to gut fish,” he jerks a thumb towards the stream behind them.
Kid smiles, with all their sharp teeth on display.
“Sir yes sir!” They salute.
Macaque has to wonder who taught them such a motion as they jump up and rush to the water.
He stands and prepares the next lesson.
In the weeks following, they learn to fish with both a line and with their hands. He teaches them to use a bow for the birds, as well as the bears. They only kill one bear, because the amount of meat will last them ages and it’s foolish to waste such meat.
They trade some of it for spices in the human markets, once Macaque makes sure they know how to look human. Apparently, it’s the only form they can shift into. Not surprising, but disappointing nonetheless.
Kid takes to cooking with a gusto he doesn’t expect.
“I would help my mom with dinner,” they explain, setting up the fire one night. “I didn’t know how she was making what she was, but I loved all of it. I—”
They cut themself off, suddenly shy.
Macaque doesn’t pry. Half because he doesn’t care, and half because he knows it’s a fruitless endeavor. For most things, Kid can be cajoled into explanation, but if they truly don’t want to say anything, he’ll get nothing. Which, considering his secrets, is fair enough.
“I...like that I can make something nice,” Kid finally admits, turning away from him to grab some spices. “For you.”
Oh.
Somewhere along the line, Macaque stops finding them as annoying as they should be.
They smile at him like he’s a star, the sun, and years of being a moon, of being second best, makes that look something to covet. If that means he lets them drag him into the forest to look at some rare plants, if that means listening to them ramble about the medicinal properties of said plants, well.
It’s only because it ingratiates them to him. That’s it.
Physical affection, too, is something they desire. It’s a reward. That is it. A reward for a job well done, a pick-me-up when they’re too morose to be useful, a new tool in his set to fix them into something worthwhile.
Say nothing to the times they shivered in the cold, slowly shifting towards him, pressed against his back to conserve warmth. Macaque didn’t push them off because he was asleep. Say nothing to the days they would shiver in the day, lack of proper fur like he had to keep them warm, and he’d lend them his scarf. He didn’t need it anyway. He’s stronger than they are, he can deal with the cold. He’s setting an example.
He refuses to groom them. Grooming is something private, something reserved for people who are no longer around, who left, who left and took the whole of him with them. And Kid is not that someone.
Sometimes, though, he wonders.
Bright, like a star, they can shine in the darkest corners. Hands bloodied from a carcass, they’re always gentle with the animals they kill. Always certain to make the cuts clean and precise, so the animal dies quickly.
It’s a small mercy, but to choose to find that mercy and lean into it…
They’re not naive. Neither was he. Enough knowledge of a cruel world to understand hate, but enough kindness in a soul to push back against it. But that type of soul is flighty, off to the next weeping child to console, the next problem to solve, the next world to save.
That type of soul leaves, and doesn't come back.
Better to crush that type of soul, then.
“Mac!” Kid calls, holding a full net. “Look at how much fish I caught!”
Macaque fights a smile.
“Don’t call me that,” he barks out and wishes it hurt less when he sees them flinch.
“Sorry, sir,” they reply. “I got excited. We’ll have food for weeks! I’ll dry some of the fish out for snacks, and I have some spices that would go really well with—”
They pause, flushing, ears pointed up and pink with embarrassment. They bite their lip.
“Sorry,” They say, again. “I know you don’t like me rambling…,”
Not typically, no.
But now…
“Well, if it’s about our food stores, it’s important,” he says, a justification that rings hollow. “So go on, kid.”
They brighten, eyes wide and happy as Macaque becomes their sun, again.
Macaque basks in it, just a little, and thinks he can wait a little longer.
They get very good at using the blades. Between traveling, getting food, making food, and training, they can hold their own pretty well.
Of course, they only really fight animals and clones. Whenever Macaque suggests they spar with him, they lock up, terrified by the idea. That’s fine, though, because Macaque wants them to be in top shape when they actually fight him, anyway.
They can manage against eight clones at once, dodging punches and slashing through them. Of course, the clones aren’t at their top durability or strength, because Kid isn’t Monkey King levels of powerful like he is.
But, they seem to be doing fine, so he raises the intensity level a little bit. Has a couple of the clones level up, so to speak, to keep Kid on their toes. They can’t expect every enemy to be the same skill level every time. They have to be used to surprises.
Maybe he does it too quickly, because Kid ducks, slashes, and is unable to dodge the kick to their side that sends them flying.
Their head cracks against a tree trunk just outside the clearing.
When they drop, they don’t move.
Macaque is up on his feet in an instant. The clones vanish as he sprints across the clearing, at Kid’s side so fast his vision blurs with the motion.
“Shit,” he breathes.
Macaque lifts Kid up in his arms. They’re limp in his grasp, eyes closed, and they look dead but he knows they’re not, he checks their pulse and they’re fine, it’s fine. He wouldn’t kill them. Not like this.
He feels where their head hit the tree, and his hand comes back wet.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He reaches into Kid’s pockets, and finds that roll of gauze they always have on them. They buy a new roll every time they go to the market, just in case.
He hasn’t needed to wrap wounds in a while, considering his healing...style, but he remembers how it goes.
Blood drips onto the ground, even as he wraps the wound as best and as tight as he can. He folds Kid’s gangly long limbs so he can lift them up, and their forehead rests in the crook of his neck. He can feel their breath on his fur.
Good. They’re still breathing.
He squats down and presses hard against the dirt, lifting off the ground and speeding through the forest. There’s a demon market a few miles out, there’s got to be a healer there, they can fix this. They will, whether they like to or not. No one says no to the Six-Eared Macaque, regardless of circumstance.
He hears a shuddering whine crawl out of Kid’s mouth. A hand grasps at his shirt, as pained gasps reach his ears.
He can hear them so clearly. Curse of six ears. But, he can still hear their heartbeat, and even the gasps are a good sign. They can still breathe. It’s fine.
“Give me a minute, kid.” He whispers, forgiving the hand because they’re injured, that’s the only reason. “We’ll get you fixed up, just sit tight.”
They whimper and curl up tighter, as their wrappings on their head stain quick.
It takes Macaque twenty minutes to get to the market. Twenty minutes for eleven miles, as he rushed between trees, over boulders and hills, through towns. It would have been quicker, but whenever he picked up too much speed, Kid would whimper as the wind whipped at their face and head wrappings. So Macaque took it a touch slower, if only to keep him from hearing that noise.
They’d passed out a few minutes before he’d arrived at the market, though, so he’d managed to speed things up a little.
He slips between the shadows of market stalls, eyes searching for a healer. They’re typically at one end of the market or the other, to keep the stench of blood and pus and rot from infected wounds away from the rest of the market.
He finds the tent and dashes inside.
The healer is some sort of fox demon, tail twitching as Macaque enters. Sharp eyes fall on him and then Kid in his arms, and when Macaque speaks up his tone leaves little room for argument or reproach.
“They hit their head.” He doesn’t explain how. It’s none of their business what he does with his tools. “Fix it.”
The healer raises a brow, glancing at the two monkeys, one with sharp eyes and the other curled and trembling in the other’s arms.
“There is a fee,” comes a silk voice, near a hiss. They point to their price.
Macaque summons a clone and sets Kid in its arms, growling under his breath. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his coin pouch, digging into it and grabbing out the correct amount. He slams it onto the counter with a force that would have caused the coins to scatter all over the room if not for how tightly he grips them in his fist.
They trickle down onto the desk with a clatter. Macaque places his trembling fists at his sides, enraged enough that his eyes glow. If not for the fact that this healer is needed, their blood would paint the tent and everything inside of it.
The wary look the healer sends him is proof that they understand that.
“Fix,” he growls. “It.”
The healer gestures to the table off to the side, and Macaque has his clone set Kid down before dispelling it.
The healer moves Kid onto their side, lifting their head and glancing at the covered wound. With a careful claw, they cut away the bandage, a swirl of magic creating a small bubble over the wound, keeping the blood from spilling.
The lack of pressure, the new sensation of magic, gets Kid to stir.
They twitch, fingers and toes curling as their eyes blink open. Confusion paints their posture and expression, and they take in a hitching breath, ears swiveling to try and figure what is happening.
“M-Mo-Mac-h-hhhhhh,” they gasp out, trying to move.
The healer presses them gently back down onto the table, placing a careful finger to their forehead.
“Shhhh,” they whisper. “Rest, child.”
Kid’s eyes slide shut. They relax.
The healer first gets a rag and some water, carefully dabbing at the wound, cleaning away any dirt that may have gotten into the crack. They use their claws to align the tiny pieces of the skull that have dislodged both from the wound and from the journey. Then, they grab a jar off of the shelf, pulling off the lid and dipping their fingers in to scoop out an orange-yellow cream substance. Gently, they rub it across the wound, and then wrap it again.
They use a spoon to put more of that cream into a smaller jar, and hand it to Macaque, along with a roll of gauze.
“The wound will heal in a few days. Change the bandages twice a day and reapply the cream. It speeds up the process and prevents infection,” the healer explains. “The child may have a foggy memory of the incident, and may hallucinate. Be aware.”
Macaque sticks the jar and gauze in his pocket and nods, picking Kid up. He’s gentle about it, supporting their head on his shoulder. They shift a little in their sleep, pressing their forehead against his neck. Their fur brushes against his chin.
Their tail curls around his arm, a comforting squeeze. The end wisps against his palm.
Macaque pointedly ignores how any of this makes him feel and heads off.
Back at camp, he sets Kid up with blankets and enough soft material for a pillow, making sure their head is elevated and kept away from the hard ground. He sends a few clones out to grab firewood, setting up a flame and throwing some stuff together for a soup.
Macaque, on a whole, doesn’t cook much. He’s content to chomp on apples and whatever fruits he finds. Occasionally, he’ll cook some meat. Otherwise, he just won’t eat often. Kid’s the one who makes all the different concoctions.
He hopes the mix of spices is good here.
Kid wakes up a few hours later, when stars dot the sky and Macaque shivers a little at the night chill. Bleary eyes stare up at the sky, pupils shifting to try and focus, though Macaque doesn’t see them settle.
He scoops a bowl of soup, still warm though the fire has died down, and shuffles to Kid’s side.
“Hey, kid,” he whispers.
Macaque is not a delicate man. But no one is here to see, no one who could matter, so he hooks an arm beneath Kid’s shoulders and lifts them up so they’re sitting up against his chest, though not fully considering the height difference. God knows they won’t be able to sit up on their own, and he refuses to waste good soup.
Bleary eyes blink, staring up at him. Recognition flickers in their gaze.
“Mom?” they croak.
Macaque. Freezes.
He carefully lifts the bowl of soup to Kid’s mouth.
“Drink,” he says, pointedly ignoring their comment.
Hallucinations, the healer told him. That’s all this is. Kid isn’t seeing him, after all.
Kid takes a few steady gulps of the soup, turning away to breathe. Macaque exercises patients by glancing up at the sky and ignoring how idiotic this is. He’s not a babysitter. He doesn’t do this. He isn’t their parent. He isn’t...
“Did Dad hurt you?” Kid turns back, looking up with eyes that stare through him rather than at him. “Your eye…”
They reach up, fingers close enough to brush the line where his scar is, hidden beneath glamour. Macaque pulls away, lifting the bowl up to Kid’s lips again in lieu of responding to that.
“Drink,” he snarls.
They flinch, nodding and getting the rest of the soup down. He helps them back to their bed, and their eyes stare back up at the sky with that same faraway look.
“I’ll be better next time,” they whisper, quiet but strong. “So you won’t get hurt.”
Macaque turns away, and doesn’t look back until he knows they’re asleep. Hallucinations, he knows. Hallucinations. That’s the only reason they’re saying anything like that at all. They don’t know him, he’s kept his heart under his cloak, never on his sleeve. That's why he’s their teacher, so they will learn to do the same.
He watches the fire sway in the night, until he can find it in himself to sleep.
The next day goes mostly smoothly, with incoherent ramblings occasionally from Kid that Macaque tunes out. He changes their bandages in the morning and then goes out, leaving a shadow clone to watch the camp while collecting food and other supplies.
They sleep through most of the day, but at night when he goes to change their bandages again, they start to squirm.
“Kid,” he starts, trying to hold them steady. The wrappings are already off, and he’s trying to keep dirt from getting in.
They kick and writhe, whispering and growling and making an assortment of whimpering noises he can’t make heads nor tails of. He grips them tight enough to bruise, to keep them steady.
“Kid, I’m not going to hurt you!” he shouts.
“YOU HURT ME!” they scream, and it sounds so much as if the words had been torn from their throat that Macaque is surprised he doesn’t see blood splatter out of their mouth. “YOU HURT ME!”
Their hand claws at his, and he drops them with a shout of pain as they tear off the skin of his knuckles. They drop to the dirt with their own short cry of discomfort, curling in on themself as Macaque backs away.
“You—” They cough. Their breaths are short and uneven. “You-it-it’s like an earthquake,” their voice is quiet and strained and quick. “Cracks beneath the surface. Snow, melting from inside. Inside out. Cracking. Melting. I’m-I’m-I can’t see it.”
They gasp it out, trembling.
The water is boiling. Why is Macaque the one burning?
They still.
“You don’t look,” they finally say, a hoarse whisper. “You don’t want to. You don’t want to see.”
Macaque swallows. Stares at the-the—
The child may have a foggy memory of the incident, and may hallucinate.
Child.
He shuffles forward, so, so gentle as he reaches toward them. They don’t move when his hand brushes against their back. They’re boneless when he pulls them toward him. As if every last drop of them was poured into their words, they’re empty.
He patches their wound. Sets them down. They’re silent, asleep on the bed.
He sits, watches the blood from his knuckles drip to the ground. It’ll heal on its own. He can heal on his own.
He doesn’t sleep.
The next couple of days are easy. Kid doesn’t say or do much, moving when prompted and sleeping when not. Macaque ignores the buzz in the back of his head that feels like guilt. He leaves Kid with a shadow clone and tears down a forest. Anger is easy to deal with. This is not.
A little under a week after the incident, Kid wakes up with a groan.
“Mac?” They rub at their eyes sitting up with a bit of effort.
Macaque fights the urge to tell them not to call him that. He’ll save it for later.
“About time you woke up,” he says, with an easy grin on his face.
Kid blinks up at him, confused.
“You hit your head,” he explains with a wave of his hand. “One of my clones caught you off guard. You were out for a few days.”
Kid blinks a few more times, tail and ears twitching. They tilt their head to the side in thought. They reach up and feel the back of their head, poking at the freshly healed wound. They wince.
“Oh,” they say. They smile up at him. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
They stand up on shaky legs, shuffling a little before they steady.
“I’m gonna see about some food. I’ll make you your favorite tonight!” They grin, all teeth, and vanish into the forest before Macaque can stop them.
He stares at their retreating form. He sends a shadow clone to keep an eye on them, in case their wound acts up.
He sits and ponders their smile.
YOU HURT ME!
Thank you for taking care of me.
The strange thing is, he doesn’t think they were lying either time.
He eases them back into training, and they fall back into it with ease, the injury fading from view as their fur covers it up. He’s still ever so careful the next couple of weeks. The last thing he needs is for them to get hurt again.
They’re too much like him. Too much like the sun, the hero, but the difference is that the hero could be like that because he was powerful. The hero could strike down any foe, the hero had power. It allowed him to be soft.
Kid does not have power. They can get hurt. They can die.
Their heart is on their sleeve. They smile. They curl up, sometimes, hiding their chest, but more often than not they’re splayed out, an open target. Wide eyed, not completely naive, but just hopeful enough to get them killed.
And he...he doesn’t want them killed.
It’s sad, he thinks. If they were stronger, maybe they could stay as they are. But they aren’t, so he will rip their heart from their sleeve and teach them to keep it hidden.
Whether they like it or not.
“You’re too...you. To be intimidating like I am,” he tells them, pacing. “But there are different types of scary. We’ll have to find the one that fits you.”
Kid is sitting on a rock, watching him pace. Their eyes follow his movements like a pendulum, swinging back and forth. They tap their palms on their knees, nodding along as they listen.
“Um, Mac?” They start.
He glares in their direction. They shrink down, shoulders hunched.
“Sir,” they amend, quickly. “Um, why do I have to be scary?”
It’s a valid question. Annoying, but fair, and an explanation will get them to further listen. Still, the fact that they don’t know, when they’re as old as they are (not that Macaque knows how old they are), is annoying.
“Because,” he stresses, rolling his eyes. “When you intimidate, people won’t fight you. Intimidation is making sure everyone in the room knows you’re the strongest one there. Even if you’re not.”
And they won’t be, more often than not. They’re crafty, and fast, but not strong. In a standstill fight, they’ll lose a lot. But that’s why the intimidation look has to be perfect.
“Oh,” they reply. “Cool!”
“Of course it is,” he shoots back, puffing out his chest. “Now, angry intimidation won’t work. You don’t have a good angry face.”
“I don’t get angry often,” Kid shrugs.
“Exactly. You don’t have it in you,” he rubs his chin in thought. “We could go for the ‘danger behind a smile’ angle.”
He takes a few steps toward them. With how they’re sitting, a rock as a prop up, he’s at eye level with them standing.
“We want a small smile, kid.” He reaches a hand towards their face, to help shape their grin.
They flinch back, and have their blades out in a flash. Their eyes are wide, locked onto Macaque’s outstretched hand.
Macaque blinks, startled by their sharp shift in mood, and Kid comes back to themself, lowering their hunched shoulders.
“O-oh,” They breathe, letting their hands drop. “Right. Y-you’re right. I think.”
They set the blades on the ground, shuffling their feet.
“...Alright,” Macaque continues. He knows they were hit by a clone of his, and, well, the clones are made looking like him. They might be more shaky than they say, over that. He certainly has taught them to be quiet. “Now, you want the smile to be small. Your eyes are wide, and your pupils are small. You want to look like you’re a second from ripping their heart out and eating it in front of them.”
Kid makes a face. “That’s gross,” they say.
“It’s an analogy,” Macaque groans, throwing his head back and slapping a hand over his eyes. “Just do it.”
They try it, and Macaque has to give them a few pointers. No, your smile is too wide. Don’t fidget. Keep your tail still. Don’t look away. Keep eye contact.
Finally, they have a good look.
“There,” he says, stepping back. “That will make sure nobody messes with or hurts you, kid.”
Their expression drops away into something blank, and Macaque stills. He wouldn’t tell them, but when their expression is empty it’s far scarier than their smile. Better they not know that lest they use it to an excessive degree.
“Um,” they start, a little shy. “But, you do this. And you got hurt?”
Their eyes trace the scar hidden beneath glamour. Macaque turns so that eye is out of view.
“It doesn’t always work,” he mutters, casting a glare in their direction. “Because some people know that they’re stronger than anyone, so intimidation doesn’t work.”
“What do I do then?” they ask, with all the wide eyes of a student expecting their teacher to have the perfect answer.
“You claw at any part of them you can reach,” Macaque replies. “And you run.”
He ramps up their training. Any time they aren’t traveling is spent sparring, practicing, cooking, hunting, no free time. No time to play or joke around.
They’re confused, at first, by the change of pace. They try the same tricks, the same comments. Macaque does not budge.
“Quit it.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Stop acting like a child.”
They quiet, eventually. Learn to be smaller and less bright, keep their light within themself so it doesn’t attract too much attention. They learn to keep their thoughts inside, following orders with a blank face and the occasional grin.
They still get overexcited, and sometimes Macaque bites his tongue. If it’s just around him then it’s fine in small doses.
It’s not because he’s scared of their light going out. It’s not because he likes it when they ramble and drag him along until they get him to grin. It’s not.
He gets them a new outfit. Their old one is worn, the fabric thin and worn and ripping. They sew up the patches and clean it as best they can, but considering the age it’s soon to be a lost cause.
They do love shopping, so he strings them along.
They sprint through different styles. Everything is new and interesting to them, as if they spend time outside of the present and are then shocked by the new future. He trails them along different stalls, pulls them away from items they shouldn’t touch, and critiques outfit after outfit.
They find the right one, though he’s quick to tell them how rare that is, so they don’t get a big head. Besides, with how tall and gangly they are, finding something that fits them is pretty difficult. It takes them two hours to find something right, two hours better spent training, moving around.
He goes up to pay for it while they spin around and jump excitedly in their new look, and his eyes widen at the price.
“Enchanted pockets,” the tailor explains. “They hold up to a full pack’s worth of items without showing it.”
And, well, Macaque didn’t expect to spend this much. He turns around, because they don’t need those pants, they can carry a pack just fine, and—
Kid sees him looking and waves, gesturing to their new outfit and striking a valiant pose.
Macaque sighs, softens, and pays.
They tell him the flaps on the side are just like his, something excited and happy in their tone, and he grins. If they’re just like him, then they’ll be smart. If they’re just like him, they won’t make silly mistakes like trusting people, like getting attached, like getting hurt.
The issue with that is when you stare at a person who is functionally a mirror, you start to see all your flaws.
His final challenge isn’t supposed to work.
Kid has barely been able to spar with him, when he gives them his challenge. They spar and they don’t fight hard, and Macaque always wins.
But then they say they have to go, and Macaque knows they’re not ready (secretly, they’ll never be ready because they’ll never be powerful enough, but if he keeps them within arms reach he can make sure they stay away from him) so he picks something he knows they can’t do.
Kill.
He expects them to get to where that demon is and balk. He expects that they’ll try but their fears will halt them in their tracks, and they’ll come back with their tail tucked between their legs and apologies spilling from their lips. He expects that he’ll smile, and say that they’ll just have to stay with him, then, now won’t they? And then they will, and everything will be fine and good and right.
He doesn’t need or want anyone, but...he doesn’t mind if they’d stay.
He doesn’t know them. He doesn’t know what they’ve lived through, what they’ve done before. He doesn’t know how deep their ties to favors run. He’s never asked, he doesn’t know.
Two days after he tells them to kill, they come back with a severed head.
They’re smiling, when they do. Their tail curls around their leg and they’re trembling, but they’re smiling like they always do. Macaque is supposed to be able to tell when someone is lying, and he’s supposed to know them and read them like an open book, but Kid smiles and it looks real.
They’re trembling. He barely hears what they’re saying, over the sound of their thudding heartbeat.
The eyes on the head are sewn shut. He asks, and they give him an excuse, and he doesn’t press because he never has. He’s never cared enough to ask about their past, their feelings, never dug deep enough. He thought they were surface-level, because they’re quiet, and they don’t talk about themself too much beyond comments about their mother. He’s staring at a stranger he’s known for over half a year.
He’s not supposed to be caught off guard. So self-assured, he plans his schemes with the knowledge that he understands all the moves the player will make. Now he’s in the dark, lost with the simple sight in front of him.
Macaque doesn’t understand, but if Kid’s a stranger he’ll keep them as one.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two gifts. He’d gotten them months ago, finding a jeweler who could enchant the token, and a book binder at the market that could create a tome practically infinite in space but small enough to be a notebook.
He holds it out, and then they smile so wide he thinks it could crack the porcelain of the mask of indifference they’re wearing so perfectly. They strangle their tail as if it were their neck, and he knows that must hurt.
They have blood, staining their feet. Every part of them is pristine, but the dried blood is crusted on their feet, covered with dirt.
He watches them go, tired eyes and bloody feet.
He makes his dinner by himself. He makes the fire by himself, he sits by the fire by himself. He sleeps by himself. He travels by himself.
There is no voice, pointing out different flowers. He doesn’t hear about this certain mixture that can cure this illness. He doesn’t get any anecdotes, he doesn’t hear the patter of feet as they run ahead.
It’s quiet, save for the typical sounds of the forest. As it should be.
The Six-Eared Macaque walks alone.
Just like a warrior should be. Isn’t that why they left, to be alone? Isn’t that what he wanted?
Macaque ends up back on that cliff, where they stared up at the sky on New Year's. He never cared much for the holiday, but the Kid was insistent, so he'd let them drag him along.
He closes his eyes, and for the first time when he thinks of fireworks he doesn't see Wukong's smile. When he opens them, the sky looks devoid of stars.
The moon looks lonely, without them.
.
.
.
Centuries later, a silver token with amethyst gemstone eyes buzzes in Spirit’s pocket.
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Come Back (Obi Wan x Reader) | Part 2/2
Rating: T (Teen and Up Audiences)
Type: Angst
Summary: About a year later since Reader was last seen, word comes to the Jedis that there is a new Sith Lord that has been building a reputation on killing Jedi Masters. Obi Wan is sent to investigate.
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: Swearing, deviations from canon, descriptions of violence, death.
A/N: Really poorly written, I apologize but my mind is all over with uni work
MASTERPOST | REQUEST HERE | KO-FI
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Dagobah.
A new Sith Lord had been tormenting the galaxy for the past few months, taking villages at a time in search of Jedi Masters, or so the word ran. As it had been made known by the Council, this Sith hasn’t taken a single civilian life but rather targeted the Jedis that would come to defend them. Almost as if luring them to their deaths.
Mace Wu managed to detect a pattern in the planets this Sith Lord visited and deduced that Dagobah was the logical subsequent destination.
It was a rupture in the path of civilian planets the Sith had visited: Dagobah was one of the purest locations in the galaxy, one of the strongest with the Force, Qui-Gon had taught him once, only ever visited by Jedis – the perfect trap.
Obi-Wan felt a dutiful need to be the one to fly out to this planet and be the one fighting with the Sith and, hopefully, bring an end to their destruction.
Dagobah’s ground was hard to walk in, the mud and soft soil pulling at each of Obi-Wan’s steps made his expedition all the harder and slower. He was alone, only accompanied by trees and the animal lifeforms that inhabited the planet, but there was something else.
Just as he had expected the Force was strong on this location, both Living and Cosmic. All of his senses were enhanced and his head felt in a state between euphoria and bliss, and he had to focus harder in the task in hand and not let the Force have that sort of effect in him.
Then, from his right side, he felt the quick passing of a presence, no voice, no sound of running, just a passing presence – he stayed still, looking around him with his blue eyes, ready in anticipation of the presence returning.
And sure enough, it did. He felt it on his left side, then behind him and finally at his front, where it stayed beaming through the atmosphere as if beckoning him closer.
Igniting his lightsaber, Obi-Wan uses its light to guide him through the bushes and hung plants that fell in front of his face. The energy growing stronger with each step he carefully took forward until a faint red gleam starting to show through the thick mist.
The closer he got, the easier it was to make up a shape ahead of him, a human one. A cloak draped over your head and shoulders cast a shadow over your features that prevented him from making out the face of the person that he was about to oppose. They had dark leather knee-high boots with absolutely no scratches, a clear indicator that no one had managed to strike them there, what was normally the part most people forgot to protect – they were experienced.
“I must say, your reputation precedes you.” He shouts over so that his voice can cross the safety distance between the both of them. The Sith remains stoic, in a wide leg stance facing the Jedi General, no answer to be heard.
“You’ve killed plenty of Jedi Masters, on your own. I have to say, I’m impressed.” He tries to make conversation with the person in front of them in hopes of at least hearing their voice but they are giving him nothing, so he steps closer, slowly, gripping his lightsaber tighter.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yours-“ he doesn’t even finish the sentence as the Sith raises their arms and brings it down almost striking Obi-Wan weren’t it for his fast reflexes. The blades clash and sparks fly between them and the Sith forces their path forward continuously attempting to strike his upper body. He deviates every hit quickly as he keeps stepping back.
The clashes and sparks that fly let some light reach the Sith’s face but it’s still not enough to see their faces completely.
Then, Obi-Wan quickly charges forward at the Sith, but they beat him to the punch and block his swing towards their neck. The Sith shoved him off and backed away from him, keeping their defence up, waiting for Obi-Wan to make the next move. He swings at the Sith’s torso, but their attack is quickly deflected it and he is shoved back once more.
He goes in on the Sith once more, rotating the lightsaber behind his back before going in for their right side, an attack that always proved itself to be efficient as the swing was unexpected most of the time but he is beyond shocked as his torso is struck on his left side just as his blade swings over his head.
He lets out a grunt of pain, stumbling back, looking up at the Sith with wide eyes.
It can’t be. Only 3 people, besides himself, are familiar with this move.
It can’t be.
Looking down at the blood that gushes trails out of his wound he forces a two handgrip of the handle of his lightsaber before charging ahead at the Sith. They mimic their actions, weapons gripped on opposites side as they clash forward and stay there, trying to push the other away, and that’s when he sees it.
The light irradiating from the contact of the blades irradiates the Sith’s face from below the cloak’s hood and weren’t it for his rational mind and the possibility of dying then and there, Obi-Wan would’ve dropped the lightsaber to the floor.
“Y/N.” He whispers, looking you in the eyes through the blades. He is angry, any softness in his face and heart gone and instead replaced by the rage of knowing that you, of all people, a Jedi yourself would’ve done all this.
Pushes you back with more force than you were expecting and you fall back into the floor, hood leaving your head and revealing you in all of your glory.
Obi-Wan looks down at you, blade at your throat, illuminating your features. Your face was thinner, sharper than before, eyes darker and heavier on their sockets. Not that you’d lost weight but rather as if the life and brightness that you once sported had been drained out of you, leaving you a shell of what you once were.
“I knew they’d send you, eventually.” You hiss up at him, face challenging, breathing heavily “They were running out of Masters, it was only a matter of time before they sent the almighty General.”
“What the hell do you want?” he asks desperately down at you. His heart aching at the situation.
“What I want, General Kenobi… is to end the Jedis. Starting with you.” With a swift movement, you strike your lightsaber up and jump to your feet, delivering blow after blow to the Jedi’s blade.
“There is no reason for you to do this Y/N.” he speaks between clashes.
“NO REASON?” You shout over your own attack “You Jedis sent me to die away from your precious temple!”
“We didn’t send you to die, it was what was necessary.” your blade stops a blow of Obi-Wan’s coming from above.
“Necessary?” you push him away with brutal force. “How fucking dare you?”
That notion of his, that it was a necessary measure to send you away with not even a goodbye and rather a cold shoulder struck a nerve in you, raising your hand and flicking it at Obi-Wan, his lightsaber flying from his hand and before he even has time to react your raise your hand and the Force pins him to the tree right behind him.
He is struggling to breathe and holds his throat as a way to try and alleviate some kind of pressure. You weren’t this powerful the last time he saw you. Sure you were a magnificent Jedi Master, one of the best, but your use of the force had grown stronger and sharper – deadlier.
Your voice is coarse, bubbling with rage, and your hand unmovable as you step towards him.
“Have you ever been in an exile pod? Have you ever been throw to the ends of the galaxy with no means to ever get back? I reached out to the Sith Order where I landed. They gave me everything the Jedis couldn’t. They made me stronger, and they aren’t blinded by a code as ridiculous as the one of the Jedis.”
“They made you deadlier.” He mutters
“Is that supposed to be a bad thing? The Jedi Order spent their time limiting our abilities. No emotion, no passion, no chaos, no death? That’s bullshit.”
“Y/N…” Your rage rises as you speak and your grip on his throat grows tighter, the Force shrinking his airways.
“How many creatures have you killed General Kenobi?” you snap at him, your hair rustling with the movement “In all of your years as a Jedi, how many creatures have you killed? Because my guess is pretty fucking high.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t answer, rather averting your daring gaze.
“Jedis are just Siths with a God complex, and it was only a matter of time before I realized it.”
With a sudden movement of his legs, Obi-Wan kicks you in your stomach, sending you tumbling back and the grip on his throat dissolves away. In a split second, you both reach for your lightsabers and stand in a fighting stance in front of each other, just a few feet away.
“Don’t make me kill you.” He grunts, looking you in the eye.
“You’ll die trying.”
You charge at him, swinging with all your might hoping to hit him in all the places that hurt the most, despite a silver of love for him still remaining in your subconscious, holding you back from delivering the ultimate blow just yet.
One of your swings was unsuccessful and Obi-Wan ends up delivering a deep cut in your shoulder, lightsaber falling down on the mud. On the following second, he moved and cut you in your calf, right through the leather, making you collapse to the ground in pain.
It’s his turn to raise his hand in the direction of your body, holding you still to the ground, the bright blue blade of his weapon disappearing, remaining only the handle.
With his steady hand, he gets close to you, kneeling one knee close to your body.
“I did love you, you know.” he huffed out, his injury and the tiredness that the fight had caused weighing down on him.
Below his hand, you were still trying to fight his hold, unsuccessful as the strength that you are trying to conjure rather turns into pain once it contracts your injured muscles and you wince in pain.
“I was supposed to tell you that morning but then we got called in and you know what happened. It wasn’t right to say it back.”
“Always following the fucking Code.” You throw your head back the pain starting to be too much. You couldn’t be bothered with this soft talk right now. Maybe once you did, maybe once you yearned for it. But that you died a year ago.
“You were such an amazing girl.” His free knuckle brushed a stray hair out of your forehead, tainted with sweat. “Y/N, come back. Remember who you were.”
“A Jedi puppet, that’s who I was. I’m free now and I will take down every single one of you, you can’t stop me.” Your growl at him, face hard and challenging despite the pain that you hid behind your eyes.
“Don’t make me kill you.” He bites down his lip and you swear you saw a tear glisten at the corner of his eyes “Please.”
“It’s only a matter of time before the Republic falls, General Kenobi.”
“You leave me no choice.” Trying to keep the hold of his strong facade, Obi-Wans shaky breathing betrayed him as it exited his body when he reached for the handle of his lightsaber and pressed it against your stomach, but he hesitates.
“Do it, you coward.” You mutter, a sentence that could be confused for a plea by the way it was said.
“I will…” he takes a dry gulp, fearing his next action and the ultimate consequence he knows it’ll bring. “do what I must.”
And then, in that moment, the blade in his lightsaber ignites, trespassing you from how close it was to your stomach, practically pressed against you, delivering you a quick and painless death, the one act of love Obi-Wan could possibly carry out at that moment.
Your soul left your body not with a scream but with a slow breath, your frame relaxing beneath him, your eyes falling lifeless. Finally falling to both of his knees, all the pent of emotions of this encounter and the pain that he had lived with since the day you were sent to exile come rushing up and he succumbs to the tears that he was trying to hold back.
Silently sobbing, he gently pulls your head on top of his knees, gently stroking your wet cheeks and the face that he once adored so much, now forever cold under his touch. Leaning down, a few stray strands of hair falling from his head, Obi-Wan closes his eyes as he lays a long and warm kiss on your forehead, before his own connecting with yours.
And there he laid for a few hours, holding the only person who ever managed to come the closest to his heart now dead in his arms having destroyed herself and the people he owed his life too.
A broken Pietá, that could make any romantic weep, had they known their story.
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Across Shared Skin (Chapter 3/?)
“Callum,” the assassin repeated, and it was wholly obvious that he knew what that meant. “Oh, Rayla. What have you done?”
(Chapter length: 2.2k. ao3 link)
Alternate summary 1: hey. Hey, psst, Rayla, I hear you like TRAUMATIC EVENTS. I’ve got some TRAUMATIC EVENTS for you here, you want some? ….no? TOO BAD.
See end notes for alternate summary 2.
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The meeting with the lead assassin went like this:
Rayla went out onto the battlements and called for someone named Runaan. An elf appeared on the crenelated wall, looking far taller and more threatening than Rayla seemed now. He had a bow, and – suddenly, Callum had a terrible feeling about this.
Her ‘uncle’, one of the ones who’d taken her in, the one who trained her…hadn’t she said that he was an archer? And she thought this elf here might want to kill her human soulmate for her own good? Was that something any assassin leader might do? Or…
Or, was this man family to her?
Family or not, he didn’t seem impressed by her initial attempts to call the mission off. So Rayla called Callum out of hiding. By name.
He was tense when he emerged, and tense when he saw the elf’s eyes fix on him with a dawning, angry understanding. “Callum,” the assassin repeated, and it was wholly obvious that he knew what that meant. “Oh, Rayla. What have you done?”
She set her jaw stubbornly, stepping in front of them. “We can’t choose how we meet our soulmates. And that’s a good thing now, because what I’ve seen-“ She turned her face to Callum, a silent request. He exhaled, and gestured Ezran out of the doorway.
The sight of the egg left Rayla’s not-uncle momentarily speechless. But, as she’d predicted, it still wasn’t enough. “We bound ourselves,” he said to her, severely, face hard. “There is only one way to release. The mission comes first, Rayla, do you understand?”
She exhaled, and unsheathed her weapons. She exchanged one more glance with Callum, then turned to her commander with a battle-ready stance. “No,” she said, quiet and resolute. “Peace comes first. This is so much more important than the mission.” She lifted her chin. “If you want to kill Ezran – or the king – you’ll have to go through me first.”
A snarl twisted the man’s face. “Then you will die here,” he pronounced grimly, and lunged at her.
The sheer speed of that initial clash left Callum reeling. He could hardly see anything but blurs of metal, blurs of limbs. Suddenly, he had no idea how he was supposed to help. How could he shoot a spell at one of them when both of them were moving that fast? Cursing, he pushed Ezran and the egg back into cover.
A pause in the combat: “Callum! Ezran! Go!” Rayla shouted at them, and then whirled around to dodge a sword-blow that might have impaled her. Where had the swords even come from? Hadn’t there been a bow a second ago?
Callum pushed Ezran gently back. “Go hide in that passageway, Ez.” He said, lowly. “Don’t say anything. Don’t move. I’ll…we’ll come get you when this is over.”
His brother’s eyes were wide and afraid. His arms tightened around the egg. “Don’t get hurt,” he pleaded. “Be careful.”
“I will. Now move.” He watched out of the corner of his eyes, afraid to look away from the furious conflict of his soulmate and her guardian, and only relaxed when he couldn’t see Ezran anymore. Slowly, he exhaled. He held the primal stone tightly and waited for an opening.
It came when the moon rose. As soon as the first rays of moonlight lifted over the battlements, as soon as they fell on the elves’ skin – they stilled suddenly, blade-to-blade, eyes going to the moon. In the second afterwards, they were transformed to shadow, dark and flickering against the sky. “I’ll give you one more chance to stop this, Rayla.” The assassin’s voice was tight. “See sense. You’re better than this.”
Callum knew Rayla well enough to know what her response would be to that. He didn’t give her a chance to speak it, knowing that the moment she did, they’d be moving again, and he’d have no chance of doing anything to help.
Fulminis was the fastest spell he had. The only one that might be fast enough. He drew the rune, spoke it, and let it loose.
The elf’s eyes flew to him at the first hint of electricity, and then – impossibly – he dodged it. It was lightning and he dodged it. For the first time, cold terror gripped him by the throat, and he believed all of the many, many stories he’d heard and read about Moonshadow elves.
He didn’t have much time to regret his action, because the elf had already changed target. He flipped over Rayla and headed straight for Callum, shadow-dark face contorted with fury. Panicking, he tried to draw the rune again, lifting the primal stone up as if it were a shield – Rayla cried out and lunged after her guardian-
In the space of a second, there was a sword at his throat. He felt it there, sharp and ruthlessly cold. He stared into phosphorescent blue eyes and knew with certainty that he was about to die.
And then Rayla closed her arm around the elf’s neck and pulled him back.
There was a sting of pain at his throat. A sear of considerably greater pain at his hand, clutched around the primal stone, the sword dragging through his flesh as its wielder was dragged back. It was some combination of the injury and the shock that loosened his fingers. Rayla bore her guardian to the ground, struggling to keep him in a choke-hold; the primal stone fell from a bloody hand.
He tried to snatch it up with his other hand. He wasn’t quick enough. It shattered on the battlements with a crash of magic that nearly sent all of them flying.
“Callum!” That was Ezran, shouting out at him from the doorway behind them. He’d not left after all. Callum’s fear and anger were enough to finally break him out of the shock of pain, and he whirled to hold up his bloody hand.
“Stay back, Ez!” He stared wildly back at Rayla, locked in desperate melee with her own guardian; she’d taken the opening and had brought him to the ground. One of his swords had been wrested away, the other was trapped beneath her foot. She had an arm in a vicious choke-hold around his neck while he struggled – she flinched every time his elbows hit home in her side, flinched at every well-aimed blow, but refused to let go.
And then the storm screamed itself into being around them.
It was so sudden. Just a few traces of wind, and then all at once there was a cyclone spinning into the sky, erupting around the castle with the all the rage of an unleashed god. Callum staggered, struggling to stay upright, and the winds instantly slammed Rayla and the assassin against the crenelated walls. Both of them swore, still struggling against each other.
“You must – let go,“ snarled the elf, voice hoarse past the chokehold. Callum could see what he meant; without either of them having arms free to hold onto anything, they might both be swept from the battlements within seconds. The wind already seemed to be clutching at them, wresting them ever-so-slightly from the ground.
Callum was grabbing for the wall himself when he saw the indecision flicker through Rayla’s eyes. The was a split-second of terrible resignation passing over her face; a glance out to the howling air beyond the wall. She exhaled, uttered “I’m sorry,” and then flung her guardian over the edge. He wasn’t in a position to resist her. For all that he was obviously deadly, she seemed stronger, and she’d been choking him for half a minute already.
The elf’s fingers scrabbled at the edge of the wall, and then he fell.
Rayla made an awful noise as she watched it, then gritted her teeth and reclaimed her weapons, panting with distress. In moments they’d shifted to some new form, pick-shaped, held at the ready as she struggled through the vicious winds to Callum’s side. “Come on,” she shouted, barely audible over the shriek of the cyclone. “We need to go!”
Numbly, he let her pull him into the shelter of the doorway, where Ezran was waiting anxiously with the egg. “Callum, your hand!” his brother exclaimed, and for the first time, he saw that it was dripping blood as they moved. Rayla collapsed against the wall as soon as they were out of the wind, hair still whipping around in the gusts billowing down the hallway. She stared out behind her for a moment, eyes fixed on where her guardian had fallen. Her skin was terribly pale.
“It doesn’t feel that bad.” Callum said, weakly, though he could already tell that his glove was ruined.
“You’re bleeding.” Ezran’s voice was almost indignant.
That seemed to snap Rayla out of her turmoil; she whirled around and knelt down beside him, reaching for his wrist. “I felt it,” she said tightly, and – suddenly, he realised that it was his left hand, that the pain was definitely in the approximate region of their soulmark- “I don’t know how bad it is, though.” She very carefully did not try to remove his glove. He thought he knew why.
Ezran didn’t have any such reservations. He set the egg down and pulled the glove off, making an unhappy noise at the sight of it: a long slice curving across the back of Callum’s hand, just under the knuckles; it brushed the edge of the soulmark. Rayla inspected it, face tight.
“It doesn’t look deep.” She said, after a moment. “You got lucky.” She pulled a roll of bandage out from her jacket. It was only a small thing, probably an emergency supply, but she set to work with it quickly…still being very, very careful to avoid touching the skin at the back of his hand.
“Are you bleeding too?” He wondered, thoughts so scrambled from the confusion and the pain that he didn’t even know what to ask first. “Did it get the mark?”
She lifted her gauntlet and wiped away a little blood. “Yours, not mine, I think.” She exhaled, and once more, looked out at the crenelated wall in the middle of the howling storm.
He looked with her. “…Is he dead?” He asked, uneasy, and she flinched. Her hands tightened into fists.
“The fall wouldn’t have killed him,” she said, tightly. “He still had a sword. He’d have used it to score the cliffside, slow himself down. But…” A harsh, unhappy puff of breath. “There’s rapids at the bottom of that cliff. And in this storm…”
A short grim silence hung between them. Callum didn’t even know what to say to the idea that Rayla might have killed her own family to – to protect him, them, the Dragon Prince….
Then: “Where did the storm come from?” Ezran wondered, staring out at the rising fury of it outside the doorway, so loud it was hard to hear themselves speak. There was a strange calmness building here, though. A clear spot, right in the centre. Like a walled-off circle of refuge against the winds.
Callum’s gut twisted. “Primal stone.” He said, shortly. “I – dropped it, when my hand got cut. It broke.” So much for that avenue of defence.
“Oh.” Abruptly, in that strange calm spot, it was much easier to hear his voice. Callum’s ears popped with an unfamiliar feeling of pressure, and a hint of an oncoming headache. “…What are we supposed to do now?”
“We have to get out, somehow.” Callum exhaled. “If the assassins won’t stop – if we can’t get to the king-“ And they certainly couldn’t, in these conditions- “then we need to leave. Carry the egg back to Xadia ourselves.”
“There’s no way any of us are going anywhere in this storm.” Rayla said, uncompromisingly, and he couldn’t doubt her.
“We could lay low in the secret passages for a while?” He suggested, half-heartedly, and then-
-a flash of colour in his periphery.
He turned and stared. “Is the egg supposed to do that?”
All of them followed his gaze and went still. Because the egg was glowing, and not just like it had been all along – it was shining, burning with incandescent colours like light through a prism, pulsing so virulently it hurt to look at. And then, straight through the open doorway, a bolt of lightning seemed to be sucked into it from nowhere. It was absolutely silent, without even a thunderclap to herald it, just-
“It’s a storm-dragon egg.” Rayla said, faintly, and scrambled back and away. “Maybe the storm’s affecting it somehow?”
Ezran stared for a long, long moment. A moment long enough to accommodate the absorption of two more spontaneously-generated lightning-bolts into the shell. “…Yeah, I think so,” he said, slowly. “But…in a good way?” He furrowed his brow. “Help me roll him out closer to the door?”
Callum looked at Rayla. She looked back. Helplessly, he shrugged, and she seemed to share the sentiment. For lack of any better response, they shifted the egg closer to the doorway to see what would happen.
---
What happened was this:
The damn thing hatched.
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End chapter.
Notes:
Alternate chapter summary 2: in which I live up to my brand by traumatising one character and injuring the hand of another.
Did I say we were pitching canon off of a mountain?? WELL THAT’S NOT THE ONLY THING, BABY. *slaps roof of Runaan* this man can fit so much misfortune.
Also, rip primal stone. I WONDER HOW THIS WILL AFFECT CALLUM’S MAGE PLOTLINE.
(also, a note to my most persistent readers: I have to say, writing a scene where the mc has a sword to his throat and about-to-die vibes followed by hand injury gave me some very distinct nostalgia)
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sunkissed
A/N: the fic we never asked for but didn’t know we needed;; shirtless quidditch matches at the burrow. pond fights. high asf emotions. soaked through t-shirts clinging to wet bodies. wildflower makeout sessions. it’s fine, are y’all emotional yet? ‘cause i am. OKAY WAIT I HOPE THIS LIVES UP TO EXPECTATIONS SOMETIMES I WORRY THAT I SUCK; also i did not proofread this so forgive me
pairing: george x fem!reader
concept tag list: @dreamer821 @thoseofgreatambition @frediweasley @andromedaa-tonks @laneygthememequeen @myblissfulparadise @harrysweasleys @enjoying-fantasyland21 @samnblack @fortrapsandfordaphne
george tag list: @mintlibri @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @bobduncanlover @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings
When he tapped you on the shoulder, very rudely interrupting your game of exploding snap with his sister and Hermione, you groaned in frustration. You whirled around, the sight of him sending you into a frenzy. You gulped over your nervousness; why is it, you thought, that you found yourself, time and time again, attracted to someone that was off limits. An absolute no-no. Definitely not allowed to happen, according to Ginny. You’re not allowed to date any of my brothers, she’d said. You’re my best mate! But that was years ago, back at the mere age of eleven. She couldn’t possibly still feel that way now, could she? You suppressed the thought with a slight cough.
“Y/N,” he began, his air of confidence engulfing the room fully, “come join us, would you?”
You tried your best to ignore the thin line of sweat at his hairline, the water-droplets of beady sweat attaching themselves to the fabric of his shirt; clearly, you weren’t doing so well at suppressing your feelings, as adrenaline coursed through your veins like a rapid fire. Bloody hell, it was already one million degrees — you didn’t need the sight of him alone getting you all hot and bothered.
“For what?” you asked George, trying very hard to not sound as excited as you felt.
“Quidditch,” came Fred’s voice, and he appeared next to you. He ran his hands through his hair. “Perfect day for it.”
Ron and Harry appeared as well, looking positively dreadful. “The earth is on fire, mate — I’m not playing Quidditch in this weather,”
“Come on,” the twins chorused together. Fred continued, “don’t be so dramatic, Ronniekins. Besides — why not make it more interesting?”
You and Ginny peered up at the twin grinning cheekily to himself. To her older brother, Ginny inquired, “Interesting? How d’you mean?”
“Winner gets two galleons,”
Ron’s eyes widened in delight alongside Harry’s smile; Ginny immediately began tugging her long hair back into a ponytail, as Hermione went to fetch the brooms with Fred from the garden shed. Guess you were all about to play for some money.
“So,” George started, taking you by surprise, “you coming or not?”
You stood, sizing him up; he was nearly a foot taller than you, easily better at Quidditch than you’d ever be, and yet — you felt this strange surge of confidence take you over. You pushed him gently on his chest and said, “Can’t wait to kick your arse, Weasley.”
“Oooh, confident, are we?” he teased, jabbing you in the ribs as you both headed out toward the field, the hot, sticky air attacking you as soon as you’d stepped out the door. He slammed a pair of sunglasses onto his face and suddenly you weren’t feeling so confident anymore. You hated that. He just had this way about him. “We’ll see who wins in the end, darling.”
You were about to throw a rather rude suggestion his way, but you were a bit taken aback at the sight of him. You nearly choked on the air you were breathing in. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion when he ripped his shirt off of his back, displaying his very toned torso and beater arms, and he winked at you before taking a place next to his twin, who was doing the exact same thing. Once more, George turned around and tossed his shirt in your direction; you were frozen solid, it nearly hit you, but landed gently at your feet. He laughed a bit haughtily at your flustered state before mounting his broom and soaring into the air, the piercing sun biting at his exposed skin.
“Y/N?” The sound of your name made you jump; you turned slightly to see Ginny standing there, hand on her hip, growing smirk plastered on her face. Shit. Her words from all those years ago echoed in the back of your head. You’re my best mate! Guilt engulfed you, but you hadn’t even done anything wrong. You regained your focus when she tossed the Quaffle at your head. “Ready to play, or not?”
The match had only lasted about fifteen minutes before Ron, rather dramatically, mind you, fell to the ground and lay directly in the knee-high grass, not moving, but instead moaning, “It’s too bloody hot — I’ve died — I’m dead — I’ve survived, but I’m dead,”
You were rather happy, actually. You’d missed more goals than not, and you very much wanted to blame the stupid redhead in front of you, twirling his shirt in the air like the idiot he is, but you held your tongue. It was very rude of him indeed to look the way he did and flaunt it so dramatically, especially when he knew how you felt. Of course he did. Everyone did. You wondered if Hogwarts Quidditch could rid the uniforms, because Blimey —
“Grow up,” Ginny growled at her brother. Before Ron could answer with a snarky retort, he found himself biting down on his lip, both due to the sharp blow he took to his shin, and also to prevent himself from shouting words he knew his mother would most certainly not approve of.
“Alright, I dunno about you lot,” Fred started, shaking the sweat from his hair, “but I’m about two seconds away from sticking my head under the sink. We’ll all go in pairs — us first since we’re mums favorites,” he smirked.
The unmistakable sound of Ron snorting from the meadow hung in the air. “In your dreams,” he replied, earning yet another sharp blow to his shin from George. This time, he wasn’t so careful at keeping those inappropriate words to himself. Hermione scolded him while Harry did a right awful job of holding back his laughter.
You tried desperately to ignore George’s lingering look — it didn’t help that the sun was highlighting each and every crevice of his body where the sweat had pooled; your knees buckled at the thought of pulling him into the nearby garden shed and shagging him senseless. Instead, you ignored it, “I’m not waiting for you idiots to use up all the cold water,” you told them, tying the bottom of your shirt in a knot at your waist. You met George’s gaze, and you were both baffled and elated to see him a bit taken aback at your stance; eyeing you up and down as if he was only just seeing you for the first time. And without a second thought, you pushed past them all, kicked your shoes into the grass at the water’s edge, and jumped into the very inviting looking pond just outside the Burrow.
The cool water rushed over you; you felt revitalized, as if you were breathing properly again. When you resurfaced and peered toward the group, the majority of the lot just laughed but didn’t seem to keen on swimming, so instead they left for the Burrow — you could hear Ron and Fred arguing over who was going to use the sink first, and were almost certain you could hear Ginny’s frustrated groans lingering in the air.
George was standing at the water’s edge, looking intrigued. It’s really not bloody fair, you wanted to tell him, that playing Quidditch for years has done wonders for his physique — you were both pissed off and dangerously attracted to him. You noticed the tan line from his jeans near his waist; the sun had kissed his skin perfectly. He slowly dipped his foot in and slammed his hands into his pockets; instead of diving in, though, he just watched you with dazed eyes and a lazy grin.
You bobbed back and forth in the water, still feeling the side effects of the heat. Was it the heat? Or was it —
“You going to join me?” you asked, floating on your back in the cool liquid. “Or not?”
When he only laughed, you made sure to kick enough water that it hit him square in the chest. He painted a shocked expression on his face, earning himself a laugh from you, before running a hand through his bright red hair. “Now that’s just rude.”
“It’s called, getting you back for nearly knocking me off my broom,” you told him straightforwardly, again kicking him with a bit of water, “so now we’re even.”
“No we’re not,” he replied, and he kicked off his own shoes and jumped in, completely drenching you and causing you to swallow a mouthful of pond water; you shivered a bit and managed to elbow him in the ribs underneath the water.
“Thanks a lot, you prat,”
“That’s not a very nice thing to call your favorite person,”
“What’re you on about? Last time I checked, I called him Fred,”
“That’s cruel, Y/N.”
You replied by splashing him a bit, and he did the exact same thing back.
It must’ve been hours the two of you were out there; eventually, the heat began to subside, the sun fell behind the trees, and yet there you both were, still goofing off and splashing one another like five-year-olds, ignoring Hermione’s calls from inside the house that dinner would be ready soon. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something very sharp was lodged in your throat; each and every time George sent eyes your way, you felt that sharp feeling growing stronger — nothing could rid you of it.
“Hey,” he replied, wiping the water away from his eyes. “Y/N?”
Just then, a very enormous storm cloud above you both that you’d neglected to notice opened up; you were lucky you were already drenched, or you would’ve stormed the Burrow immediately. But instead you stayed where you were, dancing foolishly in your rain-soaked clothes, as George just watched you again.
Each and every time he blinked, you watched the water droplets from his eyelashes fall onto his cheekbones.
And each and every time he glanced at you, he couldn’t help but peer admiringly at your soaked-through shirt, the amused expression you had painted onto your face. When you removed your shirt completely, squeezing the excess water out, exposing your abdomen and chest, George felt his insides constrict. He tried his absolute hardest not to pounce on you.
“What?” you asked him, noticing the very rise and fall of his chest. Teasingly you asked, “not going shy on me now, are you, Georgie?”
When he inched forward, both of you stopped short at the sound of a shrill voice coming from an open window at the Burrow. “Kiss her, you idiot!”
The unmistakable sound of Ginny laughing echoed through the air; you supposed, if she was yelling at you both through her window, she could see what everyone else could — what everyone had been screaming at you for the longest time. What you’d yearned for for years. This, this exact moment, when George finally took the next step and closed the gap between you both.
His bare skin felt electrifying beneath your fingertips; clumsily you both slipped a bit, causing yourselves to fall into the water in a very un-graceful like state. It was hungry and dizzy and desperate, years in the making so there was absolutely nothing innocent about it. You tugged gently on his hair, nearly sending him backwards into the water in a flustered mess. But his hands found your body again; he gripped you tightly around your hips as you both bobbed absentmindedly in the filling pond. You ran your fingers gently over his muscles, breathing in the scent of rainwater mixed with sweat, nipping gently at his bottom lip before he hungrily moved toward your neck. Then a call for dinner came.
You hummed a bit dramatically against him. “C’mon,” you laughed begrudgingly, standing up and attempting to pull him to his feet, “your mum’s going to kill us.”
“So let her,” George replied breathlessly, pulling you back into the water. His wandering fingers made their way up your back, and he found the clasp on the back of your bra. The garden shed idea once again flooded your mind. He pressed his lips to yours again, grinned like a cheeky bastard and said, “‘m not quite finished with you yet, love.”
reblogs, feedback, comments, all are appreciated! thanks lovelies x
#george weasley#fred weasley#fred and george weasley#weasley twins#weasley twins imagine#weasley twins fanfic#weasley twins fanfiction#george weasley x reader#george weasley reader insert#george weasley imagine#george weasley fanfic#george weasley fanfiction#hp imagine#hp fanfic#hp fanfiction#ginny weasley#ron weasley#hermione granger
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Commissioned by @hinokami-s
Art originally done by @/n2514 on twitter
Kamado Tanjiro x OC
- It's been too long since Tanjiro and Hayami have seen each other. Tanjiro knows he's a fool in love, but there might be chance that Hayami feels the same. Together, they're meant to bring down a powerful demon with a Blood Art that neither one has seen before - the catch? It's an aphrodisiac. -
warnings: NSFW, mentions of blood and violence, oral sex, a sprinkling of praise kink, a dash of breeding kink, a good dose of creampie
words: 7.4k
-
Breathe in, breathe out. Focus, Tanjiro, focus.
Swinging his blade gracefully, Tanjiro pivots on his heel to follow up on the frontal attack with a jab of his elbow. The demon grunts as it’s knocked backwards, stumbling to catch its footing. Hissing out yet another curse, it surges toward the man, sharp claws splayed out. Tanjiro easily sidesteps it, bringing his blade in front of him in a defensive stance. Again, the demon tries to strike at him, only to get deflected.
“Damn human,” the demon spits, “stand still so I can rip your guts out!”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that!” Tanjiro exclaims. “You’ve taken enough lives already – I refuse to let you take any more!”
Again, the both of them brace themselves for yet another attack; simultaneously, they leap at each other, blade and claws extending out in deadly arcs. Tanjiro grits his teeth as the claws make a pass at his shoulder, ripping through the layers of his haori and uniform and tearing into the muscle. Still, he pushes forward, cleanly bringing his blade through the demon’s neck and successfully decapitating it. A cloud of dust rises as they both unceremoniously land on the ground; the demon crumbles away instantly, leaving Tanjiro by his lonesome.
Finally.
Rolling his shoulders, Tanjiro slips his blade back into his sheath and drags a forearm over his forehead, wiping away the sweat. A sizzling heat roaring in his shoulder draws his attention; glancing at his shoulder, he’s met with the wicked sight of shredded fabrics and torn flesh. Blood steadily pours from the wound, soaking his clothes a dark red. With a sigh, Tanjiro presses a flat palm to the wound and glances toward the sky. Fortunately, bits of light break through the canopy of the forest. He shouldn’t stick around for long, though – not if he wants to fight even more demons.
Taking a step forward, he suddenly stumbles and lands on his knees. “What the-“ he begins, but he cuts himself off at the spark of pain located in his ankle. Oh, this is just wonderful. Taking a deep breath, he steadies himself on his hands and forces himself to a stand, leaning his weight on the opposite foot. There’s no other option than to hobble towards a Wisteria House; luckily, he passed by one earlier, so it shouldn’t take too long for him to arrive.
As long as he can make it back before night falls, he should be in the clear.
-
“A letter, yes! A letter!”
Looking to the window, Tanjiro’s greeted by his Kasugai crow. Its beady eyes stay focused on him while it hops from side to side; Tanjiro’s interest piques as he notices the little scroll of paper tied to its foot. An easy smile spreads across his face as he hobbles to the window. The letter had to be from his friend Sumiyuri Hayami – it had to be! The two usually communicate via letters sent by their crows since they’re busy dealing with their own missions to visit each other. Still, no matter how many letters he’s received, that same gentle warmth encases his heart as he slips the bit of twine off the crow’s foot.
Tanjiro’s blood practically pounds in his ears as he unravels the letter, unconsciously holding his breath while his eyes scan over Hayami’s neat handwriting.
Tanjiro,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
Tanjiro pauses, smiles sheepishly.
It’s a lonely journey, the letter continues, traveling without someone. I don’t mind the quiet, but you know how much I dislike being alone. Even my crow won’t keep me company, won’t you believe that?
I miss you, Tanjiro. I can’t wait to see you again.
Forever and always,
Hayami
The bottom of the letter is covered with multiple doodles of cherry blossoms, one of Hayami’s favorite types of flowers. She always ends her letter the exact same way, and it never fails to bring Tanjiro a sense of comfort. But “I miss you”? “I can’t wait to see you again”?
That’s new.
Tanjiro can’t help the blush that spreads across his cheeks, nor can he control the rapid beating of his heart. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have special feelings for the girl; for so long, he’s been pining after her, craving to hold her hand and kiss her sweetly. He’s such a coward, though. Time after time, the confession sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble from his lips at the simplest command, but he couldn’t do it. It always felt like it wasn’t the right time to tell her his feelings, especially with how the world is.
But oh, knowing that she’s thinking of him – that she misses him – makes his heart soar. He can’t tear his eyes away from the small piece of paper, attention fixated on those two little sentences. “Oh, Hayami,” he breathes, looking away and willing his heartbeat to slow down. His crow merely cocks its head at him.
“Well?” it caws, fluttering its wings expectantly. “Return letter, yes?”
That’s right.
Hobbling over to the desk in the room, Tanjiro reaches for the inkwell and brush and carefully constructs his own letter, a dreamy smile plastered on his face.
Hayami,
I can’t wait to see you, too.
Tanjiro
Again, he crosses to wear the crow sits on the windowsill, rolling up his paper and hastily tying it around its foot. “Thank you, my friend,” he tells the crow, giving it a gentle pat on the head. With a singular squawk, the crow takes off; Tanjiro watches long after it’s turned into a black dot in the sky before turning away from the window. He truly hopes he can be graced by Hayami’s presence sometime soon. He misses her dearly, and the fact that she feels the same way makes him giggle into a hand.
What can he say? He’s in love.
-
Perhaps the gods are watching over him more closely than he thinks. Maybe he’s just lucky. Either way, Tanjiro is truly blessed whenever the sliding door to his room opens, revealing a familiar face. It’s a face that visits both daydreams and regular dreams alike; a masterpiece, truly, carved straight from ivory and inlaid with purple gems for eyes. Tanjiro almost can’t believe it.
“Hayami?” he breathes.
A gorgeous smile cracks her face. “Tanjiro.”
By the gods, it really is her.
Before he can even register it, he’s shooting up from his futon, hurrying to where she stands, and flinging his arms around her in a hug. His heart beats impossibly hard in his chest and his face flushes with warmth, but gods he’s really, really missed her. At first, Hayami stiffens in surprise, but it quickly melts away and there she goes, mimicking his movements and hugging him back.
When they were younger, Hayami used to be outright massive in height; Tanjiro has never been bothered by the fact (instead, he’s always found it as a part of her charm), but now… Now it’s different. Even in her infamous heeled boots, she’s still a few centimeters shorter than he. Tanjiro can see the crown of her head with ease. Has he always been this tall? Has he grown since the last time they’ve met? Peering downwards, his breath catches in his throat.
Like Mitsuri, Hayami always opted for the open-chested gakuran; and, just like Mitsuri, she’s also well endowed. Tearing his gaze away, Tanjiro pushes away the sudden spike of warmth swirling in the depths of his stomach. After all this time of being apart, their first interaction can’t be with him acting inappropriate! Besides, it’s always been more of Zenitsu’s thing to openly ogle at women, not Tanjiro’s.
A hand cups his face, forces him to look back down. “I’ve really missed you,” Hayami whispers. Her smile is pure saccharine, so delightfully wonderful and sweet. The urge to kiss her is strong, Tanjiro quickly realizes. He can’t scare her away, no, not now. But it’d just be so easy to let his feelings loose, to tell her everything she deserves to hear.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Tanjiro flashes her a smile in return. She’s so soft in his arms and smells like lavender soap. It’s incredible to know that someone of this ethereal beauty exists, much less to be friends with them. Perhaps he’s being too sentimental – romantic, maybe even poetic – but he honestly cannot get enough of her.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he says.
A pang of longing strikes his heart whenever Hayami pulls away. “I got your letter. I thought it was kind of odd, though – you’re usually not one for short messages, Tanjiro. I was worried that something happened.”
Yeah, he thinks, I nearly had a heart attack on the spot.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He looks at her, truly looks, and it’s only then that he realizes she has light scratches on her face and a bandage wrapped around a strong thigh. Blinking owlishly, he has to recall that they’re in a Wisteria House of all places, not at some random inn or anything of the sort. A shameful blush spreads across his features. How foolish could he be not to notice her injuries right away?
“You’re hurt!” he exclaims, brows furrowing. “What happened?”
At that, Hayami merely waves a dismissive hand. It’s enough for him to want to be pissed off, but again, he knows her all too well. Hayami’s always been the type to place others before herself, always striving to become even stronger to protect everyone she cares about. It’s this ideology that’s led her to become a somewhat reckless person on almost all accounts; however, Tanjiro knows she’s a formidable opponent. He simply wishes she would take care of herself every once in a while.
“I could ask you the same,” she shoots back, gesturing to his heavily bandaged shoulder. “Tanjiro, I really wish you would be more careful. What if… What if something worse happened? What if you didn’t make it to a Wisteria House in time?”
Tanjiro rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m really sorry to make you worry, Hayami. I really am. It’s just… Things can get out of hand sometimes, you know? But I defeated the demon, so don’t worry! As long as I can continue to help others out, I’ll take as many hits as it takes.”
Hayami sighs. The both of them know how serious he is about dealing with demons; each little step is necessary to reach Muzan Kibutsuji, to finally put an end to his reign of terror and find a cure for his younger sister, Nezuko. He and Hayami are truly two of a kind, hopelessly selfless and always willing to help others even if it means disaster for themselves.
“Well,” Hayami starts, reaching out and clutching one of Tanjiro’s hands in both of hers, “promise me you’ll stay alive. Do it for Nezuko. Do it for me.” A pleading glint shines in the depths of her eyes. “Promise me, Tanjiro.”
At this rate, Tanjiro’s heart will burst. It swells to a near impossible size, thrumming against his ribcage and begging to be free. He doesn’t know how she does it, doesn’t know how she can be so lovely, yet here they are, hands intertwined and almost too close for comfort. If Tanjiro didn’t know any better, he’d say Hayami is purposefully trying to get a rise from him, possibly make him a melted mess on the tatami flooring.
Again, he swallows thickly. Clasping onto her hands tightly, he nods his head. “I promise.”
-
Things have been going… odd.
While it isn’t out of the ordinary to catch up and swap stories after being apart for so long, Tanjiro’s quickly come to notice that every time he turns around, Hayami is usually within sight. He can’t say much, though, since he’s been dealing the same treatment to her. The two have practically grown attached to the hip, nearly fawning over each other, and doing everything together.
Tanjiro can’t complain; he secretly adores the attention Hayami showers upon him, the cooing she does when she brushes his hair, or the delightful gleam in her eyes. Being in her presence is enough to have his entire being flood with warmth, to have his heart beat wildly in his chest.
Even now, in the dwindling hours of twilight, the two are cozy in Hayami’s room, surrounded by flickering lanterns. Hayami has personally taken it upon herself to mend Tanjiro’s beloved haori, to fix the dreadful hole left behind that slashing demon. Tanjiro merely watches on, relaxing on his side with his head propped in a hand. He watches as Hayami works every so diligently, her lovely features set in a focused look. Granted, he’s always thought of her as beautiful. She reminds him of the maidens in the stories his mother used to read to him when he was younger, ever so graceful and good natured.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been watching her. Minutes, hours, maybe days – it feels like his eyes haven’t seen her in an eternity, and he’s almost desperate to soak in the sight of her and commit it to memory.
Although Hayami hasn’t said a thing, her eyes flicker towards Tanjiro every so often. She doesn’t bother to make it a secret, either; Tanjiro swallows thickly, wonders just what exactly is going on inside her head. Like him, her wounds are healing nicely, mostly due to the care given by the members of the Wisteria House. The scratches that adorned her face are gone, leaving behind a canvas of an unblemished, creamy white.
“You’re staring,” Hayami says, still not looking up from her work. Tanjiro flushes at her comment, but he also picks up on the playful lilt to her tone.
“I’m sorry,” he half blubbers, rolling onto his back and focusing on the ceiling to calm his erratic heart. “It’s just… It’s been so long. When’s the next time we’re going to see each other like this again?”
While Tanjiro does have a point, it’s one that neither of them has decided to discuss. The ways of being a slayer can be somewhat picky – not much time can be set aside for leisurely purposes. And, taking in Tanjiro’s mission into account, he has to work harder than anyone else if he wishes to save Nezuko.
“Well,” Hayami speaks up, finally turning fully to Tanjiro. Setting down her needle and thread, she shuffles over to where Tanjiro lies on the floor, hovering in his field of vision. “We should make the most of it, huh?” With a flick of her wrists, a flash of green and black fills Tanjiro’s vision; the haori settles gently on him, the delicate smell of fresh laundry and lavender flooding his nostrils. Oh, by the gods, now his haori smells like her.
“You should consider yourself lucky that they were able to wash the blood out,” Hayami continues on, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her full mouth. “It’d be weird to see you wear anything else.”
“Maybe I’d have to wear yours,” Tanjiro says. It’s out before he says it – his eyes widen as realization dawns on him. He really said that, didn’t he?
For a moment, Hayami’s expression mimics his. She seems just as surprised as he is at the blatant comment – or was it flirting? The initial shock melts into a somewhat panicked version, then, and Tanjiro instantly regrets saying anything at all.
Shit.
Hayami looks away, and Tanjiro swears he can see the beginnings of a blush on her face. Oh.
Oh no.
“Perhaps,” she mutters, taking a strand of long hair and twirling it around her finger. “Purple would look great on you.”
Yeah, Tanjiro thinks, attention honing on her flushed cheeks, and you look great in pink.
-
The semi awkward behavior continues.
Well, scratch that – this weird, mustered tension continues.
While the two remain attached at the hip like usual, things feel more intimate between them, if that makes any sense. Perhaps it’s Tanjiro overthinking things (which he certainly has a habit of doing), but his heart never stops its hurried beating, nor does the warmth swirling around in his belly seize from making him feel like mush. What’s more, Hayami’s eyes seem to glitter more whenever they’re trained on Tanjiro, and her lips are usually parted, almost like she’s silently asking for a kiss.
Things are usually toned down when they’re in other people’s company – namely Nezuko, whenever she decides to awaken. It’s at very moments like this when the three are taking comfort in each other’s company; hidden in the shade on the engawa, a flower-scented breeze passes through the thin material of their yukatas, yet the mere warmth of the day is enough to keep even the slightest chills away. Nezuko sits before Hayami, legs drawn up to her chest while the latter braids the inky strands of her hair. If anything, the sight of the two of them together makes Tanjiro’s chest swell with joy.
He openly admires Hayami’s profile, at the cute little beauty mark dotted above her lips. At first, Tanjiro would always feel silly whenever he’d catch himself staring. He isn’t outrightly bold like Zenitsu or ignorant like Inosuke, so knowing that his eyes are lingering longer than they should makes him feel slightly uneasy. But now – now he doesn’t care, for Hayami will often times catch his gaze with her own.
Something wonderful is happening between them, Tanjiro knows it, but he just doesn’t know what it is yet.
“A mission for you! A mission for you!” the lone cry of Tanjiro’s Kasugai crow sounds from above.
Tanjiro’s heart plummets to his stomach. No, this can’t be happening. Not yet. He can’t say goodbye to Hayami just yet, not when things are going so well between them.
“Kamado Tanjiro! Sumiyuri Hayami!” the crow squawks, fluttering onto the end of the engawa. “A demon has been spotted in the nearby area! To the East, yes! You two are to take care of it!”
Tanjiro blinks owlishly at his crow. If that’s the case-
Both he and Hayami share a look. The break was nice while it lasted, but now it’s time to suit up.
-
There’s always been something so sobering about pulling on the slayer uniform. It’s a blatant sign that this day could be your last, that whatever lies ahead could be the very thing that kills you. Still, the thick fabric brings an odd sense of calmness and comfort – that everything will be alright.
“You ready, Nezuko?” Tanjiro asks, turning to his sister.
Nezuko hums her agreement, nodding her head along with it. His heart pangs once his gaze falls on the thick braid hanging down her back. It’s quite possible that that could’ve been the very last time Hayami ever does her hair like that. No, Tanjiro hastily scolds himself, never think like that. Both he and Hayami are strong fighters.
They’re going to make it out of this alive, no matter what.
Nezuko shrinks in size and crawls into her box; Tanjiro shuts the door behind her before heaving it up and slipping his arms through the straps. Once he’s sure she’s properly adjusted on his back, he picks up his blade and steps out of his room, easing the shoji door shut. He’s just in time to see Hayami do the same thing. Their eyes meet automatically, a silent message passing between them.
Be careful.
Tanjiro clears his throat. “Are you ready?”
Smoothing down her haori – yes, that one – Hayami gives a curt nod, her long ponytail bobbing with the movement. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Besides, with the both of us on the same side, this shall be easy, no?” She flashes him a reassuring smile. “It’s like the good old times, Tanjiro. We get to finally travel together again.”
Biting back a smile, Tanjiro resists the urge to giggle like some love-stricken fool. Which, if he’s being entirely honest, he is one, but he also wants to keep some sliver of dignity. “You… do have a point.”
Hayami merely waves a hand. “Of course I do. But Tanjiro,” she pauses, cocks her head, “you should really pull your hair up.”
Instinctively, a calloused hand shoots to his head, rough fingers pawing at the strands. While it’s nothing compared to Hayami’s length, the ends of his hair kiss his collarbones. “You think so?”
“Absolutely. Hang on, I’ll take care of it.”
Before he gets the chance to say anything, Hayami promptly opens the door to her room and disappears from sight. A moment later she returns, although this time with a black ribbon in her hand. If its lustrous sheen has anything to say, Tanjiro knows it’s one of her expensive ones.
“Wait,” he quickly says, eyes widening, “I don’t want to ruin one of your good ribbons-“
“Tanjiro,” Hayami cuts him off, voice soft. “Don’t worry about it. I’m giving this to you. Think of it as a good luck charm or something.” Again, she flashes him a pretty smile and Tanjiro practically melts on the spot.
Without another word, he drops down onto his knees, allowing Hayami to get a better reach for his hair. The heels of her boots clack against the floor as she steps behind him; the familiar scent of lavender fills his nostrils as she gets closer, her fingers running through his hair and combing out any potential knots. He relaxes at the contact – it feels good to have her fingers running through his hair. A sigh passes through his lips as his eyes flutter shut.
Hayami takes her time, carefully smoothing out the strands and gathering Tanjiro’s thick hair in a fist while the other quickly wraps the ribbon around the base of the ponytail. After tying a secure knot, Hayami’s fingers linger on Tanjiro’s head just a bit too long. Clearing her throat, she pulls away, leaving a pang of disappointment to stab Tanjiro in the heart.
“There,” she says, stepping around to his front, “that’s better, yes?”
A hand reaches back and smooths down the ponytail. Tanjiro’s face crinkles as he grins at Hayami. “It’s great.”
After that eventful encounter, the two take off away from the Wisteria House, heading East as the Kasugai crow had instructed them earlier. The sunlight gradually dwindles as they venture further into the forest, the thick canopy throwing a green-hued shadow over everything. It’s a beautiful day outside, the birds chirping and bugs humming as yet another breeze picks up, carrying through the woods and rustling their haoris.
“What kind of demon do you think we’re looking for?” Hayami speaks up. It never fails to take Tanjiro by surprise when her friendly demeanor drops once demons are in the question. It’s almost if she becomes an entirely new person, incredibly strong-willed and cruel; in a sense, it puts Tanjiro in mind of Sanemi.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Tanjiro says earnestly. “Since the two of us were sent after it, I have a feeling that it’s not going to be easy to deal with.”
Maybe Tanjiro should’ve placed a bet on it. Maybe he’s been around the block too many times.
Either way, he was right.
After an hour or so of walking through the woods, the shade drastically darkened as they neared an alcove; a somewhat bitter odor hangs in the air, causing Tanjiro to scrunch his nose. Immediately, he forces himself to a halt, throwing out an arm in front of Hayami to stop her as well.
“There’s something here,” he murmurs.
Both of them place a hand on their blades, eyes scanning the surrounding environment for any sign of movement. The bitter smell grows more prevalent; Tanjiro can tell by the way it seems to pressurize his nose, but even now Hayami’s scrunching her face in discomfort. If only something would make a move-
Snap.
“There,” Hayami breathes. “Breath of the Swan, Seventh Form: Feint!” At her cry, she hurls her blade in the direction of the sound before disappearing in a flash of purple, following through with her attack and keeping out of sight. Leave it to Hayami to rush into battle without analyzing the situation first.
Even so, Tanjiro draws his blade and rushes forward, following the scent to its origin. Curving around the wide trunk of a mighty maple, Tanjiro slants his feet to draw himself to an immediate stop, kicking up dirt and foliage alike. Only a couple meters away stands a demon – the demon they were hunting after.
The beast resembles a woman, although her skin is entirely a light red and four arms sprout from the sockets of her shoulders. She’s huge, easily four or five heads taller than Tanjiro himself. Despite the monstrous qualities, her face is beautiful, lips full and eyes curtained by heavy lashes. Tanjiro finds himself hesitating when she turns to look at him; her eyes are completely white, no trace of an iris or pupil anywhere. Creepy.
“Were you the one who threw this?” the demon demands, her voice commanding yet melodic.
Shifting his gaze to her hand, Tanjiro pales at the sight of Hayami’s blade clutched in a strong fist. Her breathing form didn’t land its hit, he’s quick to realize.
Shit.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tanjiro says, holding out his blade before him. “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.”
“HYAH!” Hayami’s voice shouts. She emerges from the wall of trees, legs raised high in a lethal kick; the gleam of her bladed heels catches Tanjiro’s eye. The demon turns just in time to have its cheek sliced as Hayami’s feet fly past. Dark red pours from the cut and the demon hisses in pain, white eyes flashing angrily. Hayami gracefully falls into a tumble as she lands, rolling over her shoulder and lessening the impact.
“Hayami,” Tanjiro says urgently, “your blade didn’t land on her.”
Spitting out a curse, Hayami’s glare lands on the very hand clutching onto her blade. “Well, clearly I have to take it back from the damned thing,” she snarls. Tanjiro shudders at her tone – the venom clearly dripping from the words, the icy edge. Hell, her voice is enough to send demons running, and Tanjiro can’t blame them. “Tanjiro,” she shoots, turning her gaze to him, “let’s get rid of this bitch once and for all.”
The demon laughs, a singular had cupping her mouth while the other two brace themselves on her hips. “Oh, pathetic humans, do you really think it’d be that simple?” Reaching out a hand, she curls her fingers salaciously, her black claws wickedly sharp. “It’s been so long since I’ve had any proper fun,” she drawls, using that very hand to clutch her neck. “Do me a favor and take a deep breath.”
Tanjiro grunts as that sharp, bitter smell clogs his nose, fills his lungs. The more he breathes in, the dizzier he feels; a flush erupts on his face, paired along with beads of sweat. What the hell even is this?
“Oops, my bad,” the demon taunts. She makes a show of flinging Hayami’s blade back to her before crouching low, all four arms spread in an offensive stance. “And I’m suddenly feeling very hungry!” she booms. “Come on, come at me with all you got!”
Jaw ticking, Hayami snatches her blade off the ground and wipes the handle off with a look of disgust. “Tanjiro?”
“Already on it.”
Like the flick of a switch, the both of them spring into action, swerving around each other and taking either side of the demon. A deep growl emanates from the demon’s chest; her gaze flickers back and forth between the two as they charge at her, their movements invisible to the human eye – human eye, not demon.
This is a battle between life and death.
Maybe it lasts for seconds, minutes, hours. The constant twisting of bodies, water, and feathers create a hurricane in that small alcove; there’s an endless round of shouting and spitting curses, mixing in with the clang of metal hitting tough skin. And yet, the florally breeze still sweeps through their hair and the birds still sing – because, even where danger lurks, peace can still be found.
The demon howls as Tanjiro promptly slices off an arm, the meaty thud of it hitting the ground seemingly echoing. It disappears in a cloud of dust, leaving behind flattened grass in its shape.
That warm, dizzying feeling never recedes, either. Tanjiro figures it must be for weakening prey or something of the sort; his nose scrunches at the strong scent and he reminds himself to not breathe, but it’s also somewhat hard to do since all slayers’ fighting styles revolve around breathing. How utterly ironic and a pain to deal with.
“You bastard!” the demon screeches, baring her fangs at Tanjiro. “I’ll rip your guts out!” She swings another arm, then, landing a direct hit and sending him flying backwards. Tanjiro grunts as his side collides with the fat trunk of a tree, all wind getting knocked from his lungs.
Tanjiro groans as he forces himself to sit up, a hand clutching his ribs. Shit, he’d be lucky if he didn’t crack a rib again. The wild, howling cry of a beast rips through the air, makes Tanjiro’s blood still in his veins. Through his hazy vision, he sees Hayami successfully bring her blade down on the demon’s neck, slicing through the thick skin and decapitating the damned thing.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Tanjiro leans back against the tree, wincing at the thrum of pain in his side. He continues to watch as Hayami lands on her feet, the demon collapsing onto its stomach and screeching profanities as it disintegrates. Thank the gods, Tanjiro says to himself as he staggers to a stand, hand splayed on the trunk to keep himself steady. He and Hayami made it out alive, but…
Something’s wrong.
His heart drops to his stomach as Hayami falls onto her knees, hunching over and retching. Calling out her name, he hobbles over to where she kneels; immediately, he clamps a hand over his nose, that bitter smell the demon emanated stronger than ever before. It positively reeks where its dead body lied. Tanjiro figures it must have unleashed a huge burst of the odor before it was slain – probably in an attempt to get Hayami to back off, no doubt.
“By the gods,” Tanjiro breathes, dropping to Hayami’s height and holding her hair back, “are you alright? What happened?”
“She released a wave of her Blood Art,” Hayami grunts, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth and grimacing. “I don’t think I’ve ever smelt anything to foul in my life.”
“You killed it – that’s all that matters,” Tanjiro assures her. “You did great!”
Finally, Hayami turns to him; her fair skin is even whiter than usual, fat droplets of sweat beading at her hairline and trickling down her forehead.
Tanjiro’s jaw slackens. “She didn’t hurt you, did she?”
Hayami waves a dismissive hand. “I just threw up – do you really expect me to look good after that?” Despite her sickly pallor, she flashes him a tiny smile. “I’m fine, Tanjiro. Besides, you’re the one who got hurt!” She makes a desperate clutch at his hands, eyes roaming over his features for any injuries. “I just – I got so mad that she hurt you. I mean, what if it was worse?”
“Says you!” Tanjiro exclaims, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of his haori. “We should get you get to the Wisteria House before you get sick again.”
“I told you I’m fine.”
“At least let me carry you! I can put Nezuko’s box on my front and you can hitch a ride on my back.”
“No need,” Hayami grunts. Turning to the side, she spits the gross taste from her mouth and hauls herself to a stand. “I’m a big girl, Tanjiro. If there’s anybody that needs to be carried, it’s you.” She holds out a hand for him to take. “You worry me too much,” she says, voice now soft. Swallowing down his unease, Tanjiro grabs onto the extended hand and allows himself to be pulled up.
Leaning into Hayami, they turn away from the alcove, letting the singing birds and humming bugs be the only noise as they head back to the Wisteria House.
-
It’s a miracle they both came out unscathed.
After a quick checkup at the Wisteria House, it had been deemed that the two were mostly uninjured (the term was tossed around lightly since Tanjiro managed to get a bruise on his side after the impact). Thankfully, Hayami was free of anything of the sort, but her fever remained.
It was evening time when they finally arrived back, the glowing bulb in the sky making its gradual descent. Hayami decided to call it a night and retired to her room, leaving Tanjiro and Nezuko behind in her wake. Nezuko followed suit and decided that she, too, wanted to relax, so she took off towards the bathing chamber.
Back in the comfortable silence of his own room, Tanjiro slides the shoji screen closed behind him, all the while heaving a sigh. Easing himself onto the sprawled-out futon on the far side of the room, he leisurely kicks off his seta and undoes his kyahan, his tabi quickly following suit. It’s when he’s shucking off his haori when he hears it – a light, muffled groan, almost like the kind someone makes when they’re uncomfortable. Stilling his movements, Tanjiro waits for it again.
There.
“Gods, please…”
Tanjiro’s eyebrows furrow. It’s clearly Hayami’s voice alright, but what’s going on? Is she alright? Is she in trouble?
Without another moment’s hesitation, Tanjiro grabs his blade and brings himself to a stand; hurrying out of his room and to Hayami’s, he nearly wrenches her door open in his thoughtless rush to help. Like usual, the paper lanterns in her room radiate a welcoming glow. The somewhat dim light throws shadows over the tatami mats and the rice paper walls alike, but what instantly catches Tanjiro’s attention is the human-sized lump lying on the floor.
Tossing and turning on her futon, Hayami continues to grumble to herself; an arm is thrown over her eyes, the other draped over her stomach. Her boots lay off to the side, clearly tossed away as a second thought in her rush to get comfortable. Feet planted squarely on the futon, her knees are bent, the skirt to her uniform flipped and showing off way too much skin.
At first, Tanjiro blushes at the sight of her bare legs and thighs, but then she groans again and it’s enough to snap him back to reality. Setting his blade down, he hurries to her side, kneeling down and smoothing her bangs away from her face. Keening at his touch, she tears her arm away from her face and looks to him with pleading eyes. Her skin is unbearably hot to the touch, flushed a bright pink and covered in sweat. Hell, she looks even worse now than she did so earlier.
“Shh, I’m here, I’m here,” Tanjiro coos.
Gods dammit, that demon’s Blood Art was still taking its toll on Hayami. While its side effects have already worn off for Tanjiro, it’s clear that it’s way worse for her. Poor girl, getting horribly sick and having to suffer like this.
“Tanjiro,” she croaks, “it hurts.”
Oh, and the tone she uses. Tanjiro’s heart aches in empathy at the pain she must be enduring. “Where does it hurt?”
Perhaps he may have given her too much of an opening for that question.
His eyes widen as the hand resting over her stomach drops downward, shamelessly clutching at her crotch through her underwear. “Right here,” she breathes. “Please, Tanjiro…”
Surprise swells in his abdomen as she lightly paws at her sex, at the noises that almost sound like whines falling from her full mouth. There’s something else – something that Tanjiro recognizes as the weighted, hot feeling in his gut that only visits him in the hours of the night, only when he has a hand wrapped around himself, pulling and flicking and-
Oh no.
Tanjiro sucks in a breath, trying to rein in his composure, but then the smell of lavender and something sweet fills his nostrils. His mouth waters at the scent and he swallows heavily.
“Tanjiro,” Hayami pleads, squirming underneath his gaze, “please, help me. Please.”
The bitter odor. The way Hayami got sick. This.
“Gods, Tanjiro, help me!” Hayami cries.
Aphrodisiac.
A surprised yelp bursts from his chest as Hayami abruptly yanks him forward, pins him to the futon, and straddles his waist. “It’s too much!” she pleads, voice shaking. “Please, please, help me.”
“Hayami-“
Before he even gets the chance to finish, Hayami ducks down, sliding her mouth against his. Tanjiro’s mind screams at him, his heart leaps to his throat, his stomach tightens into a knot – Hayami is kissing him. After all this time, it’s happening.
She tastes so sweet, her lips unbelievably soft against his. His head is spinning at the unfolding events, but then his mind goes completely blank as her lips skim over the line of his jaw and latch onto the side of his throat instead. His breath hitches as her teeth nip at the tanned skin, crawling downwards toward the edge of his uniform.
“It’s too much,” she murmurs, reaching between them and yanking the buttons to his gakuran open. “Too many layers.”
“Hayami,” Tanjiro says, catching the growing rasp in his voice, “wait a second-“
A strangled groan escapes his throat as Hayami presses into him, her clothed pussy rubbing against the obvious tent in his pants. Hands twitching at his sides, he wonders what the hell he should even do. He doesn’t want to take advantage of her like this – in fact, he doesn’t want to take advantage of her at all. It’s already bad enough that she’s told him about past bad experiences, how they’ve taken a toll on her, how far she’s come to get over the trauma. No, Tanjiro doesn’t want to put her through that again, not even if the constant friction against his cock feels heavenly.
“Tanjiro, look at me,” she says, sitting up and looking him right in the eye, “I… I don’t think the Blood Art is going to wear off by itself.” Leaning back down, she presses her luscious breasts into him, eyes catching the flickering lights of the lanterns. She looks like she’s damn close to tears. “I trust you, Tanjiro,” she confesses. “I trust you more than anybody.”
I trust you.
Heart beating a thousand shades of red, the backs of Tanjiro’s eyes sting with emotion. She trusts him. Gods, she trusts him in a time of upmost vulnerability, to take care of her and give her what she needs. No, he tells himself, I need this just as much.
Cupping her face, he pulls her into another kiss; the two of them mold perfectly together, lips slanting and tongues caressing each other in way that is utterly incredible. Together, they sit up, hands intermingling between their bodies and yanking away at Tanjiro’s uniform jacket and shirt. The air feels warm against his bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating off Hayami’s. The layers of clothing seem to melt off, leaving them gasping into each other’s mouths and wandering their hands over uncovered territory.
There’s a slight quake to her movements, Tanjiro notices. If he didn’t know any better, he’d simply say it’s because of arousal, but it’s not that.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, brushing his calloused fingers down her back.
“You won’t.” She kisses him again, tongue sweeping into his mouth in a fit of passion.
It’s just so easy pressing her onto her back, kissing her sweet, sweet skin; Tanjiro makes his descent, lips brushing over her collarbones, the swell of her breasts, her tummy, all the way down to where that delicious smell comes from. He goes easy at first, his inexperience clearly showing, but Hayami doesn’t seem to mind.
The noises slipping from her mouth are otherworldly. They grace his ears, drive him to work harder, to slip his tongue further into her dripping arousal, to clutch at her strong thighs. Fuck, and he’s so hard, cock brushing against the futon and leaving a sticky mess.
“Pretty boy, so good, so fucking good,” Hayami murmurs. Tanjiro’s cock twitches at the words, causes him to shudder. “More, I need more – gods, Tanjiro, my handsome boy, give me more.” He moans into her pussy as her fingers grip onto the base of his ponytail and yank.
Everything is just so hot and it feels good and Hayami tastes as sweet as she smells and Tanjiro can’t get enough-
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tanjiro grits, tongue lashing out as Hayami’s slick floods his mouth. “Sweetheart…” Propping himself up, his eyes frantically search for Hayami’s. He feels tremendously dizzy, a fog covering his mind and making him want everything he can take. “Can I – can I fuck you?” he blurts.
Hayami nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Groaning, Tanjiro pumps at his neglected cock, smearing precum over his meaty girth; leaning in, the head brushes against Hayami’s folds, gathering slick before pushing in, filling her up in a way that has them both moaning. He shudders as Hayami slings her arms and legs around him, shifting her hips and fucking herself on his cock. He doesn’t want to hurt her – he wants to go slow, show her how much she truly means to him, but fuck if he doesn’t feel like some wild animal.
He’s desperate in his movements, pumping his cock in and out of her tight heat, murmuring you’re so beautiful, you’re so beautiful, gods, you feel fucking amazing into her neck. The scent of her arousal clings to the insides of his nostrils, makes him even dizzier in the head. A little nagging thought in the back of his mind tells him that the effects spread from her to him, but he doesn’t care.
Her velvety walls suck his cock back in so easily, the lewd squelching and smacking of skin against skin making him want to fuck her even harder.
“Tanjiro, shit – your cock’s amazing,” she mutters into his ear, fingers yanking on his hair as she quickens the movements of her hips. “You trying to make me feel good, yeah? Fuck me with that thick cock of yours?”
Her words do wonders for his libido. If she continues to talk to him like that, he’s gonna cum in no time. “Can I,” he pauses, swallows thickly, “can I put a baby in you? Please, beautiful, you’d look so gorgeous being all nice and plump with my child.”
“Yes,” she purrs, digging her fingernails into the dips of his muscular shoulder blades. “Make me yours, Tanjiro. Show the world that you fucked me so good.”
It’s those words that push Tanjiro over the edge; ramming himself in deep, he releases his load, painting her insides white. He mouths at her throat, whimpering slightly as he bucks his hips a few more times, the sheer amount of cum being too much for her precious little pussy to handle.
“Good boy,” she purrs. “Now just-“ cutting herself off short, she directs his hand to her pussy, placing his rough fingers to her clit and guiding him through the movements. She cums soon after that, head lolling backward as a breath of Tanjiro’s name catches in her throat.
Tanjiro takes extra care of her after that, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear as he wipes the both of them clean. It pains him to leave her side for that short amount of time, but then he’s soon slinging his arms around her body, nestling his chin in the crook of her shoulder as they drift into a dreamless sleep.
-
Tanjiro wakes up to the sound of birds chirping.
With a groan, he tries to stretch, but he soon tenses up at the fact that he can’t move. Glancing downwards, his heart skips a beat as he’s met with Hayami’s pretty face; she’s still fast asleep with her arms linked around his waist and keeping him in place. Flashes of the night prior fill his vision, leave him heavily flushed and smiling sheepishly.
Breathe in, breathe out. Focus, Tanjiro, focus.
He thinks he’s finally died and went to heaven.
#kny#kimetsu no yaiba#demon slayer#kny x oc#kimetsu no yaiba x oc#demon slayer x oc#tanjiro kamado#kamado tanjiro#tanjiro kamado x oc#kamado tanjiro x oc#commission#hinokami-s
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Panther VS Enigma.
FRIDAY APRIL 16TH 2021 ; ATTACK ON THE ARMORY
PANTHER HAS CHALLENGED ENIGMA TO AN ACE FIGHT.
This had not been the easiest of paths to take.
Mallick was stilled by the silence that subtlenly fell around them, they took turns facing Thaggard and his guards. Once he was facing the Ace, one of his comrades reached over, and the handle of a heavy weapon was passed from their grip to Mallick’s. He held on tight, his senses on the edge of something he’d only felt once before. When he’d been faced with his wife’s murderer, and the choice to avenge her or to let it simmer until the moment was right. The choice to take a life had never been one so heavily weighed in his mind prior to the tragedy that struck in his life.
Because the choice had never crossed his path before hands, or had any right to be there. Fighting had always been to gain leverage, to become stronger, not to spill blood. At least not with the hands of the man he’d been raised to become, despite the wilderness of the faction where he’d been born. Mallick had never thought he’d ever let the scale tip from not ever considering taking the life of someone else being the worthy choice, to not even thinking twice about whether it was the right thing to do or not. His logical senses had decided that if Saiyah’s life was worth nothing to all, then the lives of all would be worth nothing to him. The radicality of it had struck him somewhere in between his last kill for the resistance and the fifteenth year of her death. His reputation had suddenly made it too easy for him to not consider that to keep those they considered antagonistic alive.
Right now, Mallick was feeling like the last time he’d slid in the chambers of a target in order to make sure they never saw another morning. He felt dangerous, even to himself. The man standing before him, the guards behind said man, they might not be able to tell, and quite frankly if not for the way he was gripping the handle of the heavy blade weapon tightly, but firmly and without a quiver in his fingers, Mallick would not have been able to tell himself, which side of him was tilting the scale tonight.
At least the Gods seemed to have been lenient when it came to protecting Thaggard and his men. It suddenly seemed as if they were weighing for Mallick to lose senses of not doing what was right by spilling blood, like he’d tried to think it was possible to do to solve this issue. As if they were whispering to him, with the fortune wheel of this operation that it was the worthy choice. Mallick advanced, the blade of the weapon dragging on the ground, and drawing with it a cloud of dust, lost in the shadows of the night.
“Thaggard,” He said the name of the man, and hoped the silent threat was taken as lightly as it sounded, he hoped it was taken with the idea that it weighed nothing more than that of a feather, “The man who has managed to make a fool out of me, for believing you a capable Ace for our people.”
Mallick had had hope, after all. Foolish, always treacherous, hope.
Kol regarded him with narrowed eyes that matched the air between them, everyone else seemed to understand that something was shifting. The wind was not present, yet the air carried something akin to a sleeping storm, ready to rise and wreak havoc on whoever risked themselves to reach between the two men facing each other. The tension would cut straight through a vein and leave one bleeding without any hope of remaining alive.
“Your faith is not something I seek, you’re nothing but resistance scum!”
Of course, the man looked to have no remorse for the accusations Mallick had towards him in his eyes, and in the way the men around Mallick moved forward with him. Instinctively trying to tighten the circle around Kol and his guards. They let Mallick take a step further without moving though, this time Kol’s guards were the ones moving forward, as Mallick raised his weapon with a slow movement. The axe was heavy, the pointy side of it looking up to the sky, the sharpened blade facing Kol as he spoke gravely.
“This resistance scum that I am, would make a better Ace.”
To that Kol moved with intent too, his narrowed eyes turning into a frown. He looked menacing, and Mallick much prefered the idea of fighting him when he knew the man he was going to fight was the exact idea of the type of men meant to be taught a good lesson. The kind of lesson that might require them to raise a white flag, or choose between taking Mallick down or being the one erased from the map.
“Are you challenging me?”
However, when Kol asked this question, it hit Mallick of where his position and his words were taking him inadvertently. A position that he understood as soon as Kol’s words reach his side of the fence, Mallick realized he didn’t need to turn around to know that his men were waiting for him to confirm his answer in an affirmative tone. He didn’t need to take a look around to know what he’d said had clearly sounded like he was going to take the title of Ace away from Kol, and if he’d said so without thinking with his choice of words, it meant that he’d suggested that he’d be the best man to take that title away from Kol.
To do so, would also mean that Mallick would then wear the title.
He stood a little transfixed by the way this event was transpiring, unexpected turns after unexpected turns, and here he was, at a crossroad, where it seemed the gods had once again made him speak in a way that he’d never anticipated. Mallick had always despised the way they had to surprise him at every turn in his life, these surprises had been growing in shock value, and in how they would change the path he’d been content to be on, too comfortable to leave, rather drastically. Almost as if they were never content when he was, as if they preferred him to always be shifting his gear, getting ready for the next mountain to climb.
As it was, Mallick never seemed to fail in letting them take the lead in his life. At times because he had no choice, at other times, because the choices he was given would all lead to the same outcome.
So it was with great resignation that he sent a small prayer to Saiyah’s soul, as he lowered the weapon to the ground, only to slice through the earth and raise it, creating its own wind as it was lifted and held with both of his hands.
“If that’s what it takes to stop you, then I am.”
Kol too, found a fighting stance, a grin stretching his lips, almost from ear to ear. Clearly, the man was taking a sick pleasure in how things were turning out to be. Whatever the reason behind it, Mallick cared none.
“I will take pleasure in taking your miserable life, and watching you suffer while I do so.” Kol’s fists took turns hitting the opposite palm, before one of his guards reached over to throw him a sword. The size of the weapon was not going to make Mallick underestimate his opponent, both men had lived long enough to be adept at handling themselves in any type of fight. He was going to assume he had to fight like he was going against the most barbaric of all fighters, because surely, Kol hadn’t managed to undertake the previous Ace by being a terrible warrior. Although, to see his guards step forward, as if to join in the battle that Mallick had assumed would be only one on one, made him question the integrity of the man. He didn’t have to worry about them though, his own men moved as well, showing signs that they would not hesitate to take down any and all of the guards. Arrows were quick to shoot in front of Kol’s guards as well, making them take a step back.
If it made Kol look more morose than before, Mallick pretended to not grin at it. Once this was all done and over, whatever the outcome, he knew he would have done all he could, in the name of the one person he would always love more than this life itself.
Everything would always be for Saiyah.
Kol roared, and launched, he sounded heavy, he sounded feral, as if the beast in him had corrupted the rest of his mind. As if even though it was hidden under the skin of the man he appeared to be, it was still the most prevalent aspect of his existence. He roared and charged and forced Mallick to step back. It made Mallick lose his balance, for quick seconds that would be crucial if he stayed put, but he was agile as the panther that laid dormant in him and slid his feet in the dust, turning to move to the left before Kol’s sword reached his head and risked splitting his skull from above.
The strike that came next was Mallick’s move, but Kol was not hit, his sword was raised to counter attack and in doing so, the blade broke under the power of Mallick’s swing. Kol’s roar this time came from even deeper within his chest and Mallick knew before the dust dissipated to show the transformation, that the sound of the metal falling to the ground had announced that his opponent was opting to shift during the fight.
Mallick would not do so, especially not after seeing the bear moving through the cloud of dust, now cleared up enough for him to be able to catch sight of the charging animal before it reached him. The earth seemed to tremble, Mallick seemed to scramble with ease but it took a great deal of effort to roll away from the bear’s attack. The animal stood on its rear hinds, and let out a few growls before looking for its prey again. Mallick this time was holding his arm out for the people behind him, so they could move back.
He would not take anymore deaths with him, not tonight, not by the hands of this enemy.
The bear fell back on all fours, and once Mallick had a clear window and the advantage of speed over strength, he ran with his weapon raised, and he heard his own voice raising the dead as he charged with the intent to harm. The head of the bear turned to the noise, but Mallick would not stop in his hunt to carve through its flesh, and so he finished his sprint and slid right under the animal as it came for him, under its belly was where he found himself slashing a wound.
It made the animal growl, and topple down for a few seconds. But Mallick had to catch his breath, unable to move further, he rose while leaning on the weapon, the sharp end of it lodged in the earth. Mallick used it as a cane to find himself back on his leg, standing and trying to gauge the damage he’d done. But it seemed, despite the bloody mess it left as it rose back to attack, the animal was still standing strong and charging. It effectively took Mallick by surprise, crashing into him and making him drop his weapon to the ground as the head of the bear sent him flying right into a wall. Mallick’s skull felt displaced, his surroundings turned foggy and distorted, a piercing sound made its way through his ears, and for a few seconds, he was both blinded and deaf. All he could perceive was the smoke of dust left behind by the animal, the wound the bear carried did have it catching its breath after the attack on Mallick.
So both opponents were panting, Mallick holding his head down, and kneeling in the sand as he tried to get himself back together. It was an arduous task, the one who would recover first might be able to land the fatal blow. The victorious strike, and fortune seemed to smile at the animal, because the bear, panting as it was, was suddenly moving towards Mallick who still hadn’t managed to get himself back on his feet.
The urgency of the moment was not lost on him, despite his head aching in places he never knew existed. But Mallick kept stumbling as he tried to get up, he kept hearing himself, his own voice and that of Saiyah, chanting in the back of his ringing like the dead’s mind, get up, get up. Mallick tried with all of his might, he felt he might scream through the num feeling that was keeping him nailed to the ground, and he did, he screamed with all the strength and willpower he needed to get out of the way before the bear’s claws, swinging in the air and aiming for his head, managed to slice through him.
All it did was make him move weakly forward, right by the side of the weapon he’d been forced to abandon. But to have escaped the full force of the bear’s claws, did not mean he was left unscated. Mallick could feel a burning sensation of slashed skin, cut flesh, of blood dripping against his skin, right under his chin, he raised his fingers to touch where the claws had not managed to cut too deep. He’d moved away just in time, but not fast enough, and he still felt groggy.
Mallick had a moment of wonder, to think about what he could be grateful for, if this was to be his last moment on earth. Of all the things he could have said to the people he loved, as he knelt, one knee in the dust, the other with his hand on it, his other hand blindly grasping the handle of his weapon. Mallick’s head was lowered, the fog behind his eyes was not clearing, but his breathing was catching up, steadying. The words he was thinking he should have given to Saiyah before her death, and the ones he wanted to give to his loved ones still alive; they were clogging his mind, and making him unable to focus on anything else but the pumping of blood to his head. The rush of it felt like the whoosh of the wind right before the rain was about to come forth.
The way it held itself still in his lungs, and Mallick loved taking a big inhale of it, waiting for the rain to fall and wash away Saiyah’s blood from his skin. Mallick couldn’t think, but the wood in his grip was solid, and the whisper of death was familiar, everything tangible in the metallic scent of his own blood made him zero in on one thing only. The pounding of the animal’s rage coming forward once again, this time, Mallick knew he would not be able to dodge. He’d lost too many precious minutes, he wouldn’t escape it, if he did not raise his weapon to make sure the bear did not reach him.
This time, Mallick knew it was going to be him or Kol.
If it was up to him, and only him, Mallick might have let himself finally find out what laid beneath the whispers that death constantly slithered against his throat. Past the boundaries of a life he still cherished, despite its crucial missing component. But the silence was deafening, the bear’s paws was filling in his ears, the ringing was enraging and Mallick was suddenly lost in everything else but the stillness of time. He was moving with the rhythm of the racing bear, his legs wobbled slightly as he rose, but his throat held the cry of the night he’d always sworn to carry.
For Saiyah, and all those who like her, had never had anyone fight for them. Mallick rose, and took the weapon with him, when the bear was close to his skin and throwing his paws, reaching with his claws, he swung the only way he could in his position, his kneel turning his body and in turn making the weapon swirl in his hold. Mallick heard more than a slash this time, the blood splashed, the splattering sound it made was drowned out by the sputtering of something less animalistic, and more human. He wasn’t certain of where exactly the fatal wound landed, but he knew it had because of the gurgling noise he could hear from behind.
Mallick had had nightmares of that sound, the way one could choke on their own blood, as they perished, and how the flesh was more mush than tight elastic. He knew without looking, that the bear was no longer there, and Kol was the one falling on the ground. Mallick could not look, all he could do was blink at the dust in his eyes, the sweat mixing in and irritating his sight. Mallick could only take one last breath in, before he was toppling over and meeting the ground beneath him. Although, he did not do so without the sting behind his eyes confirming that his tears had managed to once again, come forth with the familiar touch of death, once again caused by his own hands coming to greet him.
Two bodies laid on the ground, one with no sign of life, torn clothes from the shift.
The other holding on by a threat, with blood, sweat and tears pooling in the sand.
Each party was quick to move to gather their leaders. Mallick was held by a man, thrown over a shoulder as they each silently accepted what had needed to be done had been done. Those who would mourn, were quickly left behind as the vanguard retreated back in the shadows, the escape made easy by the distraction of the Ace’s corpse turning into more of a preoccupation than the resistance’s presence, or how he came to die.
One could only wonder what kind of day tomorrow would turn out to be.
#the wounded widow (solo)#idk if you can tell. but i finished ac origins today and i have obv been playing too much assassin's creed and that's why#this came out so dramatic ok#anyways. i am going to hibernate or smth#angryteddyarc#the grand finale?????
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Not Today VII
A/N: We're getting there now, folks! A little bit of action here, the next chapter will pick up a little more from this, and we'll soon be seeing the journey to Kattegat! Under what circumstances though... We'll see what happens, hm? Skål!
Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.
Masterlist
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The clash of swords rang out through the courtyard, and Aethelind grinned as she pushed Lagertha back. It was a success, and the Shieldmaiden Queen stumbled away from the English Princess. This allowed Aethelind to go on the offense, and she did so readily, fighting hard to try and unbalance Lagertha. Torvi was watching them, as were Heahmund, Björn, and Ubbe, giving Aethelind tips and pointers as she and Lagertha fought.
“Good! Shield up! Sword arm strong!” Torvi called to her. “Let it be part of you, like an extension of yourself, and do not hesitate when you attack!” Aethelind put more strength into her attacks- strength she hadn’t had yet when the Vikings first arrived. Lagertha tried to attack, and Aethelind caught her sword with her shield, before shoving up hard on it and pushing her sword out toward her. Lagertha jumped back, and brought her shield down to try and knock Aethelind’s sword from her hand.
Some of the English soldiers had taken to watching these training sessions, at first because watching the Princess try to lift a sword and shield had amused them, but now because they were stunned by the progress she had made. Whether she defeated Lagertha or not, she could certainly hold her own against her. The two came together again, their swords clashing between them as they pressed their weight together. It was going to come down to which of them was stronger, and Aethelind knew that wasn’t her.
She needed to use her strengths, when her physical strength wouldn’t be enough. Suddenly, Lagertha twisted her sword around to throw Aethelind’s sword to the side, which made Aethelind decide it was then, or never. She tossed her shield to the side, and Torvi was about to warn against that, but then Aethelind had thrown all her weight into Lagertha. Everyone’s eyes widened, and it was then that Alfred stepped out to see how things were going. Lagertha and Aethelind both hit the ground with a grunt, and immediately Lagertha was trying to flip Aethelind over. At this point, the victory would go to whichever of them was pinned, and unable to get back up.
Lagertha did get Aethelind onto her back, but the Princess threw herself back as if trying to roll, and she caught Lagertha by surprise, tossing her right back over her head. That was when she made her move, scrambling to get on top of Lagertha, grab her arms and pin them back, at which point she made a grab for the sword nearest them- Lagertha’s- and she drove it down into the dirt beside her head. The point was made clearly- Aethelind won. Behind her, however, Torvi nodded to Ubbe, who moved in. She was too busy grinning, realizing she’d defeated Lagertha for the first time, to notice the man approaching until he drew his sword. The metal sound rang out through the courtyard, and his sword was suddenly at her neck. In a real battle, she’d have been dead.
"What?!” Aethelind cried, looking at Ubbe with a slightly betrayed look. “I won!”
“One fight, yes,” he said, before dropping the sword and offering a hand to help her to her feet. “But in battle, there’s no chance to stop. You need to be on your feet the moment you win that fight, prepared for the next one. If this were a real battle, I’d have killed you just now because you didn’t get up.”
Aethelind huffed as she took his hand and accepted the help, and Lagertha stood as well, chuckling. “But we should still be proud of this,” the Queen said, patting Aethelind’s now rather muddy back. “This is the first time you have defeated one of us. You are getting better.”
“And I was immediately attacked,” Aethelind said, pouting playfully up at Ubbe. Lagertha chuckled, wrapping her arm around the girl.
“It was a lesson you needed to learn,” she replied. “But, it has been learned, and now we will celebrate your progress.”
This caused Aethelind to beam, and she wrapped her arm back around Lagertha. Watching his sister with them, Alfred smiled a little. He noticed their mother approach, stand beside him, but when she stayed silent, he took it upon himself to be the first to speak. “She seems happy with them,” he commented.
Judith gave a small hum, and nodded. “She does,” she agreed. “I can’t say I’m surprised by this. Your father chose theirs each time he had to choose. And now, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok have returned. I can’t help but think it makes sense that one of you, at least, has already taken to them so well. And now, she’s making the same decision your father did.”
Alfred turned to Judith then, confusion written across his face. “What decision?” he questioned. “To help the Vikings?”
Judith shook her head. “To return with them to Kattegat. When she was younger, when Ragnar and his son Ivar came, do you remember how she was?”
Alfred frowned slightly as he turned in time to see the way Torvi had cupped the back of Aethelind’s neck, pressing their foreheads together in what he knew was an almost familial display of affection between the Viking people. The Shieldmaiden was treating the Princess like a sister. Well, he wondered if shieldmaidens didn’t see each other as sisters, and if perhaps Aethelind wasn’t becoming such to her. Ubbe even moved to pat her on the back, and she grinned up at him. Her dark black hair was plaited down her back, and she wore trousers just as Torvi and Lagertha did now, with boots that reached her knees. His sister looked like a Viking woman. To him, this appeared to be Aethelind’s most natural state. If someone argued to him that she was born for this, to become a Viking, he wouldn’t have disagreed.
“I remember,” he said. “She was enthralled by them. Hearing Grandfather’s stories of the Vikings even intrigued her far more than any other stories we were told growing up. Then Ragnar and Ivar came, and I thought she was going to hop in that boat with Ivar and go back with him, then.”
Judith nodded, sighing a little. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her so much about her father’s life with the Vikings, all he’d told me about his life with them. You had gone away on that pilgrimage, and she stayed here. All that time you were gone, I was telling her of the Northmen, of the way your father had spoken of them, and the way they’d surprised me, even. Had I not filled her head with those stories…”
“You can’t blame yourself for this,” Alfred commented. “And she may do some good there, we don’t know yet. She’s strong, certainly strongwilled. And her physical strength grows every day.” As he spoke, Aethelind was getting into another fighting stance, this time lifting her sword and shield to defend herself against Bishop Heahmund. The sight of his sister preparing to fight the Warrior Bishop sent a strange sort of chill down Alfred’s spine, like he was watching her become a true Viking before his eyes. He swallowed. “We can only pray for her, now.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Judith said. “But still, perhaps we should try to keep her connected to her English roots, somehow. I think I’ll ask her to join me in the market this afternoon, or in the church to pray. We want her to return from their lands, not choose to stay.”
As promised, once the training for that day was deemed to be over, Judith did approach her daughter and ask her to join her in the church so they could pray together. Aethelind readily agreed to this, and went to change into something more appropriate for that journey. To her mother’s dismay, she did strap a sword to her side. She heard it was common for shieldmaidens, even those off the battlefield, to still carry a sword. One could never be certain, after all, when a battle would find them.
They walked through the town toward the church together, and Aethelind was smiling widely, telling her mother how she’d progressed. “I don’t think you saw, but I defeated Lagertha today,” she was currently saying. “Ubbe attacked me right after, but I’m still glad to have won.”
“Yes, and I saw you fight Bishop Heahmund,” Judith said. “Have you begun to stand against all of them, at least on their own?” Aethelind nodded proudly.
“I have,” she confirmed. “Lagertha, Torvi, Ubbe, Björn, Heahmund… I still struggle against Ubbe and Björn, but the others are becoming far easier to fight.”
“That’s good,” Judith said. “I still wish you wouldn’t go, but I know your mind won’t be swayed. And so, we must pray for your safe travels, and your safe return.”
“I agree, we must,” Aethelind said. “But still… I can’t help but feel Father would have been proud of me.”
The slight smile on her face as she mentioned Athelstan broke Judith’s heart a bit. As much as she would voice her concerns to Alfred about Aethelind leaving Wessex… she still saw the Viking spirit in her daughter that she’d liked so well in Athelstan. She saw her daughter searching for that part of her heritage, of her legacy, and truly…
How could she blame her for seeking that out?
“He would have been,” Judith said. “He is. I’m sure of it.”
Aethelind smiled to her mother, her eyes seeming to water a bit. “Lord,” she said, laughing wetly and shaking her head. “I never knew the man, how is it only mentioning him can affect me this way?”
“He was your father, and I’ve told you enough about him that you feel as though you knew him,” Judith said. “It’s no surprise to me that you miss him.” Aethelind nodded a little. “And I still wish you’d gotten the chance. If he’d never gone back with them…”
The thought of Judith’s was interrupted by the sound of a sword being unsheathed, and Aethelind barely had time to pull her sword, before she was dodging Björn’s. Judith let out a yelp of shock as she saw her daughter so suddenly having to defend them from the Viking, and even Aethelind herself had given a gasp of shock.
“Björn!” she gasped. “What in the world are you doing?!”
He swung his sword at her hard, and she had to dodge, knowing the strength behind that swing would be too much for her to deflect. “I have decided I do not want you to go,” he said, his words harsh. “I want to fight Ivar! I want him to suffer for what he has done for my family! And if you go, and change his mind, I will not have that chance!”
Aethelind backed up as he continued to advance on her, looking for any kind of opening. Judith made to call for some soldiers to come and stop Björn, but Aethelind held up her hand. “No!” she said, and already they had drawn a crowd. "There's no need to attack him." It was noticed how the Princess had begun to stay armed at all times, but most assumed it was a precaution, considering the time she spent with the constantly armed Vikings. She needed to be safe in case… well, in case this happened. In case one of them turned on her. “Björn, what’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “Ivar is your brother! Perhaps he has caused you great pain, but sending me will only give him the chance to make things right between you!”
“I do not want him to have that chance,” Björn growled, bringing his sword down on hers again. “I want him to die with the knowledge of what he’s done, with it weighing on his mind and shoulders. I don’t want him to die with peace in his heart! I want him to die afraid of what he has done, and of what the gods will think of him when he finally sees their faces!”
It almost seemed as if he was directing his anger at her, using it to fuel him in this fight. Aethelind decided to use that to her advantage, if she could. “And so what good does fighting me do, to achieve that end, hm?” she asked, dodging another blow and making a sweep for his feet. Björn evaded her skillfully, and she huffed in frustration.
“You are standing in my way of revenge against Ivar,” he said, using the way she stumbled when he evaded her to strike while she was preoccupied. “If I have to take you down so you cannot stop me, I will do so.”
The flat side of his sword struck her in the back, and she fell forward, barely stopping herself from falling entirely. She whipped around and caught his sword again with her own. “Why do you fear I would stop you?” she questioned him. “Why not speak to me about this, instead of attacking me?”
“I know the way he talked about you!” Björn said, moving to take a very literal stab at her. “He told us how you embraced him before he left! He spoke of your beauty, even if Hvitserk had to pull it out of him! The way you spent your time with him, even though you didn’t understand a word that came from his mouth! Do you think I am blind, Aethelind? Hm? Do you think I am deaf?” With every comment on what Ivar had said, with every question, the blows became more frenzied, more precise, more powerful, until Aethelind was about to trip over her own feet, and the long hem of her dress. “No, I know the truth,” he said, and with one final hit to her sword, she finally hit the ground, letting out a yelp at the suddenness of her fall.
Her eyes were wide, stunned but not frightened, as she tried to grab anything that she might shield herself with. “You,” Björn began, and though she found a basket to hold up, his sword pierced through it, and drove into the wood right beside her head. Her hands released the basket, and Björn let go of his sword as the basket fell away to reveal her face. “You are not ready to make that journey yet. If I were one of Ivar’s men, you would be dead.” Just like that, he finally pulled his sword out, sheathed it, and offered her a hand.
Confusion flickered across Aethelind’s face, and she tilted her head. “What’s going on here..?” she asked, her voice coming out far more high pitched than normal.
“That… was a test,” Björn answered. “You failed it.” He chuckled a little as she swatted his hand away and stood on her own.
"A test?!” she demanded. “You could have killed me!”
“That was the point,” he said. “But I was never going to kill you. Only showing you that you have to always be prepared to fight. If Ivar wants you dead, then you could be attacked at any moment. You were unprepared, and I could have killed you if I’d wanted to.”
Aethelind glared at him, and began to brush herself off. “I defended myself as well as I could with you… with you raging at me the way you were,” she said. She bent down to pick up her sword, which she returned to its sheath on her hip. “I was starting to wonder if you were jealous, and that was why you were attacking me so suddenly.”
“Oh, I do not envy you having to go and speak to Ivar about turning the throne over to me,” Björn said, and Aethelind fixed him with a pointed glare.
“That is not what I meant,” she said. She started to walk away, almost marching back to her mother- who, it should be noted, was standing by anxiously and preparing to interfere if needed.
Björn laughed as he followed her out, much to, really, the whole town’s confusion. “Then what do you think I have to be jealous of?” he asked.
Aethelind stopped at Judith’s side, and turned back to him. “Ivar,” she answered bluntly. “Did he really say all that? Everything you tell me he told you?”
“About your beauty? The fact you embraced him, and spent all your free hours at his side when he was here?” Björn clarified, and Aethelind nodded. “He did.”
Her cheeks reddened. “And there is why you might be jealous, hm?”
“I am not jealous,” Björn said. “I am not the jealous type.” Aethelind didn’t know if she believed him or not. “But tell me... would I even have anything to be jealous of?”
“That would depend on if that were all true, what you say,” she defended, which earned another chuckle from Björn.
"Well, I suppose that if I were the type to be jealous, then I could be,” he began. “Because every word of it is true.”
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#ivar the boneless#ivar x oc#vikings#vikings history#history channel vikings#not today#chapter seven#ivar's heathen army#ivar fanfic#ivar ragnarsson#alex hogh andersen#ivar x ofc#ivar x original female character#ivar x christian!oc
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Hi! I love the way you write and was hoping I could make a request ☺️. Could it be either Giyu or Kyojuro (I can’t decide) where they’re in battle and their significant other saves them and sacrifices themselves for them. Thank you💖💖
Hello! Thank you so much! I did Kyojuro first, but I plan to write for Giyuu in another post. I couldn’t decide either. I included a little bonus at the end to make it a little happier. I hope that’s okay! I hope you enjoy it~ Also, I did include a spoiler in this one! If you haven’t seen the movie or read the manga, I’m so sorry!! Please message me or send me another ask and I’ll be more than happy to change it. I’ll also be writing for Giyuu next and I won’t include spoilers in his.
MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!
Word Count: 935
“There is no need to worry! I will return, I promise! I know you can’t help but worry, so I will be extra careful!”
Despite his protests and his reassurance, you followed Kyojuro on his mission. A pit had settled in your stomach, one you couldn’t ignore. You didn’t understand it, but just the idea of this mission kept you up at night. Something would happen on that train. You would be there to do something about it.
You barely made it on time, just reaching the fight during it’s climax. Kyojuro stood, covered in blood, facing a demon. It was an upper moon. There was no doubt in your mind. White hot rage filled you, consuming you. They had taken so much from you, from everyone. You will not let them take someone else. You thanked the heavens for giving you a warning, even if this would mean your demise.
When the smoke cleared, Rengoku’s one eye widened. Before him, stood his significant other. You had blocked the attack, and took the brunt of the hit. You turned with a smile.
“I know you told me not to worry, but I couldn’t help myself.” Rengoku was speechless, caught completely off guard. Then, panic and worry set in. He had a feeling what you were planning, but he hoped he was wrong.
“Kyojuro,” You spoke, “I’m being selfish and for that, I’m sorry. I will not let this demon touch you again.” You widened your stance. Akaza narrowed his eyes.
“My fight is with Rengoku Kyojuro. Get out of the way, I have no interest in you.” He sent an attack your direction and once again, you blocked.
“If you want to cause him any more harm, you will have to kill me first. You will not get past me.” Then, you vanished. No matter the injuries, you kept your word. Akaza could not get past you and had turned his fixation on you for the moment. Rengoku tried to jump into the fight and every single time, you would scold him over your shoulder.
“Kyojuro, no! Stay back! Please!”
Rengoku wanted to beg and plead with you to step back, to run away. However, he could never bring himself to say that when he would never do the same. Your passion and resolve was burning as bright as his. There weren’t many times where he had seen you this mad. Nothing he would say would deter you.
It was close. The sky was beginning to lighten. You only had to hold out a bit longer, just a bit. Kyojuro’s heart clenched at your injured form. He wished you never had to put yourself on the line in the first place.
Time slowed down and Kyojuro’s heart, stopped. Akaza’s hand was shoved through your chest. Blood splattered on the ground as you coughed. With a surprisingly strong grip, you held onto Akaza and a faint smile graced your features.
“At least I’ll get to see you burn to ash.”
Akaza quickly got away, vanishing into the forest. He swore he’d find Kyojuro again and finish the battle properly. Kyojuro ran to you, ignoring his body screaming in protest. He caught you as you fell, bringing him to his knees. Your light laugh turned into a cough.
“I’m sorry…I should never have done this to you. It was selfish.” Your voice was so soft, much softer than usual. You knelt in front of him, barely able to keep yourself up. Kyojuro was on his knees in front of you, gently holding you up by your shoulders.
“My love, you should have let me finish that fight. Then you wouldn’t be…” He trailed off, struggling to keep his smile. You shook your head.
“Kyojuro, there are so many that need you. These four need your guidance and your brother is waiting. I saved you not because you’re weak, but because I am weak. I could not bare the thought of living without you, but now I’m doing the same to you. Use that strength of yours, Kyojuro, and your beautiful heart, to bring peace to this cursed time. Burn those demons to ash. Become even stronger and prove him wrong. I will be waiting.” Your breathing was beginning to slow. Kyojuro took in a deep breath, and grinned.
“Rest, my dear. I will finish the fight with the corps, then we will see each other once again. My passion will always burn for you, so promise me you’ll be watching me.” His voice matched your softness and your heart broke.
“I promise. I can never seem to look away from you and that will never change. I love you, Kyojuro. Forever and always.”
Your forehead hit Kyojuro’s shoulder as you took your last breath. He placed a hiss on your head, then hid his face in your hair and wept softly. The younger slayers nearby wept with him.
Bonus:
Footsteps pulled your attention from the water underneath you. You sat on the railing of a red bridge, kicking your feet lightly. You looked as beautiful as he remembered.
“I am home!” A loud voice spoke and a large smile made it’s way onto your face.
“Welcome home, Kyojuro.” He uncrossed his arms and approached you, hugging you from behind. Your heart raced, like it was the first time he was embracing you.
“I’m sorry for making you wait!” At his words, a laugh escaped you.
“I think I should be saying that, not you!” You responded. He helped you off of the railing. Your fingers intertwined and the two of you walked to the afterlife, together.
#KNY#kny x reader#kny kyojuro#rengoku kyoujurou#kyoujuro rengoku#demon slayer#demon slayer kyojuro#oneshot#Kimetsu no Yaiba#kimetsu no yaiba x reader
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Seashells and Dandelions
Chapter Two
Summary: Marco Bodt's childhood friend joins the scouts in hopes of making a better life, Marco being the person he is refuses to let her do it alone and insists he comes with her. They go through highs, (making friends, growing a stronger friendship, and making memories with each other and their new friends) and lows. When Marco's death hit Y/N it hit hard and they sought out the comfort of Armin, the two being previous friends to get closer and eventually form a romantic relationship. However, living in a world of demons can take a toll on relationships platonic and romantic.
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"You're going to get wrecked by her Y/N," Marco said jogging to keep up
" I'm sure ill be fine, it's not like she'll kill me" I scoffed rolling my eyes
"Y/N don't be so cocky, have you seen her in a match," Jean said walking backward in front of you.
"Guys, I'm going to be fine. Stop worrying" I said, getting annoyed, I get they're worried but really? It's not that big of a deal, we all have to match with each other at least once.
"All we're trying to say is-" Jean cut off as he tripped on his foot and fell on his back
"Maybe you should worry more about yourself Jean," I said going to meet up with my training partner. Annie. She was a very beautiful girl, very stoic, and kept to herself
"Go easy Annie" Connie shouted from where he was "training" with Sasha
"I'm sorry about them, they're idiots, let's just start" God they were embarrassing. We took a stance and Marco was staring, worry clear on his face. Neither of us was throwing the first punch just circling. It was getting rather boring so I faked the first move causing her to react and throw a punch to my left side but I dodged, moving to the right. She moved quickly and precisely. She knew what she was doing and she definitely had experience, but so did I. I had an upper hand being taller than her but she has easily taken down people twice her size. I threw a kick to her side but she dodged with ease. This went on for a while we both got some good hits in but neither of us was down. It started to draw attention and soon there was a crowd observing. After a while, I decided to use my "special" move. I got behind her and ran kicking her in the back of the knee then the middle of her back then I forced her down by putting my feet on her shoulders and pushing off on them doing a flip and landing in a crouching position on the ground. I looked up and saw Annie on the floor, soon getting up. I got up and walked towards her as she put her hand out. I shook it and she gave a nod before walking away.
"Holy shit Y/N!"
"Did you just beat Annie?!"
"That was so cool"I looked to see the crowd going crazy before commander Sadies came to stop the "ruckus" as he put it. At a distance, Eren was trying to figure out to ask you for help regarding the training
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"Come on Armin you're smart, how do I approach her?" Eren said to his close friend while he paced back and forth
"I don't know Eren, people arent my best subject" He replied sitting down with a book in his hand next to Mikasa"But I have to be subtle about it, I can't just say "Hey help me with the training" that would sound weird" He sighed
"Y/N is an approachable person, just be straight forward," Mikasa said like it was obvious
"Ok fine Mikasa! Armin, you have to come with me" Eren stated
"Wa-what why?" Armin said getting nervous, he had an attraction to you that he wouldn't admit. Seeing how you would take punishments for things you didn't even do, and how determined you were to accomplish whatever your goal was. You attracted him and the thought of actually talking to you scared him. What if he made a fool out of himself, yeah he had a way with words but he never used them like that.
"Let's go," Eren said, grabbing his friend's arm and dragging him to where you were currently, talking to Connie and Marco. Eren stopped about 2 feet away, Connie was the first to notice. He nudged Marco and he got the hint and they left. You turned to face the two boys.
"Hey Eren, Armin how can I help you," You said it with such sincerity, and the small smile that played on your lips nearly made Armin pass out. He had to pull himself together, he just needed time to put the words together that's all....right
"Y/n.......um....Armin has to ask you something" Eren blurted out pushing Armin in front of him and in turn, closer to you.
"Eren, what?" he said confused at what his friend was doing
"What do you need" there was the stupid smile again, Armin started to breathe heavily and his eyes were darting everywhere. He didn't even understand what was going on with him which lead to him panicking. He never felt this way before.
"Armin, are you ok," you asked, stepping closer to him with concern etched across our face. He fell to his knees trying to calm down.
"Fuck Armin, what's wrong do you need water, um.. just breath focus on breathing," you said dropping to your knees and taking his face softly in your calloused hands. It was comforting but he was internally cursing himself for crumbling so easily.
"Hey, it's ok, calm down. Breathe Armin. In and out" you said moving one hand from his face to hold his other hand he began to calm down
"Ok that's good, here drink some water ok," you offered, opening your water and placing it up to his lips and he took a few small sips. Standing up and offering Armin a hand, pulling him up.
"Ok I'm sorry I didn't realize that was going to happen, we came here because I wanted to ask you for help with the training, I'm not very good and you are so...'' Eren confessed. Looking ashamed and embarrassed a light hatred laugh escaped your lips
"Eren you don't have to be embarrassed to ask for help, no one will think less of you for needing it. I'll be happy to help you," you replied to the stunned looking boy. He was not expecting that response, Mikasa was right you were approachable. Of course, he wasn't going to admit she was right
"I should probably take Armin to the Bunks to rest," Eren said awkwardly scratching his neck
"Alright, well whenever you want me to help please feel free to let me know I'm not a very busy person," you said walking away
"You like her don't you," Eren asked looking at his friend who had a blush going all the way down his neck
"Shut up Eren"
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"Y/N look at me and breath," Armin said trying to get you to focus
"Why was it him, I promised. I promised" legs giving out underneath your, sending you to the ground with a shaking body caused by sobs and adrenaline. You just kept repeating how it was a promise and it wasn't fair.
"Y/N listen to me ok," Armin said, crouching down and softly pulling your hands away from your face. He was silently grateful they were in a rather private area. Looking into your eyes, they looked broken
"It's not your fault, how could you have known that something was going to happen. Marco wouldn't want you to blame yourself" you managed to compose yourself rather quickly, getting breathing and thinking under control
"I promised his mom I would keep him safe, it should have been me. I should've been with him to protect him but I wasn't and now....how am I supposed to tell her he's...." Armin felt hurt seeing you so hurt. She didn't deserve this, Marco didn't deserve it, and you especially didn't deserve it. He was pulled out of his thoughts when you started to speak
"It doesn't make sense Armin, he didn't have his gear on, they wouldn't have taken it yet it was too soon, this wasn't an accident," you explained standing up with some help from Armin.
"You think someone purposely.."
"I don't know Armin but I'm going to find out," you said coldly turning and walking away
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"Sasha shut up, you going to get us caught" I scolded the girl
"Y/N shut up and let me concentrate" Sasha shot back as they snuck through the doors of the mess hall.
"Marco come on!" Sasha yelled at the boy who quickly went inside"Are you sure we'll be fine?" he said worried about getting caught
"You didn't have to come, Marco," I said, rummaging through the bin of food. Suddenly they heard a banging sound coming from one of the closets. All three teens looked at each other making a silent agreement. Slowly walking toward the closet Marco reached for the door and quickly pulled it open. Inside the closet was Christa and Ymir huddled together. They all let out a relieved sigh
"Thank goodness it's just you guys," Christa said, pulling them into a light hug.
"We thought you were Sadies or something," Ymir said, closing the closet door and wrapping her arm around Christa's shoulders.
"So why are you two up this late?" Sasha asked looking through a bin"Probably the same reason your up" Ymir replied with a slightly annoyed tone
"Damn did we interrupt your date or something," I said, going to help Sasha find something good to eat. Meanwhile, Marco stood there kinda awkwardly.
"Maybe you did Y/LN" Ymir shot back while Christa blushed a bright red.We found some decent snacks and ate and chatted
"Well I'm heading out," I said, getting up from where I sat, leaned up against Marco. A chorus of "good night" and "see you later" was what I heard as I shut the door I decided to take a walk before heading to bed. It had to be at least 2 in the morning meaning we had to be up in 5 hours. The moon was big and bright. Very beautiful, I started walking over a small hill and was soon met with 4 familiar faces. Eren, Reiner, Armin, and Bertholdt.
"Well if it isn't my favorite bitches" I said to purposely piss Reiner off. I have nothing against him and he has nothing against me, I hope, but it's sorta a game we play. We like to mess around with each other a lot. He like an older brother
"Real mature Y/N," Reiner said rolling his eyes
"Christa is in the mess hall with some other people, they're all having a little late-night get together," I said kicking some rocks
"Well it was nice talking to you Y/N, let's go, Bert," Reiner said grabbing his taller friend and running off to probably "talk" to Christa which means flirt while Ymir silently tries to murder him. I looked back at the other two boys
"And then there were 2, so what were you all doing in the forest so late at night," I asked with a sly smirk
"Gross Y/N, don't think as that" Eren exclaimed scrunching his face up in disgust
"ME? I didn't even say anything, I guess I can only talk to Armin. He's the only one who will understand" I say dramatically before grabbing Armin's hand and pulling him away
"Let's go, Armin, we can associate with dirty-minded scoundrels," I say listening to Eren yell about how he's not dirty-minded, eventually saying he's going to join the others in the mess hall.
"Oh sorry," I said looking down to see mine and Armin's hand still laced together, I started to remove my hand but he held it tighter
"I like it," he said, his face a bright red. I felt my face heat up and I couldn't help the smile that formed on my lips
"Yeah I like it too," I said looking at our hands and then looking at Armin to see him looking back at me
"Y/N!!" a voice yelled making us pull our hands apart and look for the source of the noise. It was Sasha
"Let's go, I'm tired," she said, dragging her feet as she got closer. She was probably one of the most dramatic people I have met but that is what I liked most about her.
"Ok im coming," I told her, annoyed she ruined the moment
"I'll see you later, yeah?" I asked looking at Armin for a final time
"Yeah" he answered before I turned and started walking with Sasha, meeting up with Ymir and Christa as we got closer to the bunks"
So you and Y/N?"
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#annie leonhardt#armin aot#armin arlet x reader#AoT#snk#mikasa ackerman#eren jäger#reiner braun#bertolt hoover#sasha braus#conny springer#jean kirstein#marco bodt#LEVI ACKERMAN#levi squad#hange zöe#historia reiss#christa#ymir
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The Frog Princess. Chapter 8
She had no wish to be bound down to anyone, but Y/N none the less found herself being dragged across the continent; to marry King Foltest of Temeria.
Instead of pomp and spectacle; she was accompanied by the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Their travels would bring both monsters, lust, love; and heartache. All sound tracked by an endearing buffoon of a bard, named Jaskier.
TW: Violence, language, sexual themes. Rated M.
8
We rode for days, due northeast; each mile we put behind us bringing me closer to my inevitable end. At least, that was how it felt.
I felt my limbs growing stronger from riding and carrying wood for fires; and though the sun was never shining brightly; my skin grew more tanned by the day.
Geralt had begun to train me with the sword he’d taken from O’Dimm’s man. I wasn’t a skilled swordswoman by any means; but I was sure I’d be able to defend myself in a fair fight.
We made breaks for eating, resting, training, arguing, making up; and the occasional fuck against a tree – a least once a day, on a bad day.
On one of these occasions; in his eagerness; Geralt almost ripped the buttons off the breeches Ajvin had given me.
“Fuck!”, he growled. “I don’t like these things; they make it too difficult to have you”.
“You were the one who insisted I need new clothes”, I laughed. “Besides, practicality over easy access”.
I opened the buttons myself, and slid down the breeches over my bottom; before bracing myself against a tree with my hands, and pushing my backside out.
Geralt accepted the invitation, and felt for my wetness; before pushing himself into me, slowly.
“I thought you were in a hurry”, I breathed in complaint.
Geralt pulled himself back; and slammed back into me, hard.
“Shit!”, I cried out.
“Too much?”, Geralt chuckled hoarsely. One of his hands held on to my hip; the other found my nub, and stroked it to the rhythm of his thrusts.
“W-why do you always ask that?”, I panted.
He slid his arm around my torso, and took a light hold of my throat; pulling me flush against his chest.
“I don’t want to hurt you”, he said, kissing my neck.
“You haven’t yet”, I smiled; before groaning loudly, as he pushed himself hard into me again.
He let me come before finding his own relief – as always; inside me. I suspected it was his way of making his mark on me – even if we both knew there was no chance of a child coming out of it.
After cleaning myself up – with a clean wet cloth provided by an embarrassed looking Geralt – I straightened my clothes.
I’d had to make alterations to them – clearly they were Ajvids own old clothing; including the purple shirt that hung low on my shoulders.
My new outfit furthermore consisted of dark grey breeches, that I’d adjusted so they hung snugly to my frame – making a certain witcher have to occasionally adjust himself, when I bent over – and a dark brown leather jerkin, without sleeves. I still had my grey cloak; which kept me somewhat warm during the nights, when Geralt had to patrol the area around our camps for sounds he’d heard – and therefore could not lay next to me.
There was a strange domesticity to our days. As if we’d be travelling like this for the rest of our lives. But we won’t, I kept reminding myself.
The man travelling with me – my lover, my friend, my confidant – was transporting me closer and closer to a land further from mine than I had ever been.
The man who spent most of his nights between my legs and staring into my eyes; was handing me over to a stranger, who would from then on have a claim on doing those things himself.
The thought made me sick to my stomach; but I kept returning to it, to remind myself – so that my heart wouldn’t break as much when the day came that our journey was at an end.
The glade we were occupying was quiet. Food had been scarce for a few days, as we hadn’t come across any villages; and it seemed that most of the wildlife had fled.
I sat by the dying embers at our fire, thinking.
“I want to see Mousesack”, I said, catching Geralt of guard.
“Why?”, he asked, voice gruff.
“He has information for me. The butcher’s wife said so”.
Geralt poured a bowl of water over the embers.
“He’s going the opposite direction than we are”, he said dismissively.
“Who’s eager to reach our destination now?”, I mumbled.
Geralt went to pack Roach’s saddlebags. He still kept our horses apart, for fear that Bayrd should act on his carnal desires towards his mare.
“I don’t want to do this now”, he said.
“Do what?”, I asked.
“Fight”, he answered.
“I’m not fighting”, I said, standing to kick dirt into the smoking ashes in front of me. “I’m stating facts. You made a contract to transport me to Temeria. You are acting on it. I’m just surprised you were in such a hurry to get rid of me”. I clenched my jaw.
Geralt grunted, and continued his task, moving on to Bayrds saddle.
“I understand it, you know”, I said, putting on my cloak. “You’re a witcher. I age; and you do not. Besides, you’ve already had me every which way you could want”.
“Stop…”, he muttered.
“It’s inevitable that you were bound to get sick of me at some point…”, my voice broke.
“Stop!”, he roared.
He strode up to me; and took my face in his hands.
“Y/N”, he said. “You are the furthest thing from easy to be around. You are stubborn; rash; you never listen… and your mushroom stew is bad enough to kill a dead man”.
He put his forehead to mine.
“And I would have you no other way. I wish I could keep you; but that’s not how destiny has made it”.
“Fuck destiny”, I snarled. He chuckled.
“If only I could”, he answered.
He kissed my forehead; and wrapped his arms around me. My eyes welled up, and I cried against his shoulder.
“I have to see Mousesack”, I whispered through my tears.
Geralt exhaled.
“I know. But I don’t know where to find him for you”, he said. “We can’t go backwards…”.
He was interrupted by a rumbling of hooves, that almost made the ground quake.
He pushed me towards the trees.
“Go! Cover your face. Don’t let them see you!”, he hissed, and pulled his sword from his back.
I ran to Bayrd, and grabbed my new sword; then fled towards the edge of the trees; crouching behind the largest one I could find.
The riders approaching bore Cintran colors. It was a large group; of about 20 men; all dressed in armor.
I saw Geralt glance in my direction, before facing the rider at the front.
“Witcher!”, the man called. “What is your business so close to Ortagor?”.
Geralt relaxed his stance.
“I have a contract”, he answered. “A bruxa. Near the border of Sodden”.
“And your companion?”, the man asked.
“I have no companion”, Geralt said.
“Since when do witchers travel with two horses?”, the man barked.
Geralt put his sword back in its sheath.
“No answer?”, the soldier said. “You’d do best to respect your betters, mutant”.
Geralt clenched his jaw.
“Right!”, the soldier called to the men behind him. “Take the mare. As a gift for her majesty’s war efforts”.
Geralt snarled and went to draw his sword again.
“Calm the fuck down, Thaggert!”, a familiar voice called. “I have enough horses. Besides, I like the stallion better”.
From the middle of the group of riders, strode a tall woman; dressed in intricately decorated armor. She got of her horse, and walked up to Geralt; flanked by two of the soldiers.
“Witcher”, she hissed. I recognized her instantly. Calanthe. The Lioness of Cintra!
“Your majesty”, Geralt grumbled; and nodded slightly. Nothing in the world could get him to bow to anyone, I knew that – something that at that moment made me fear for his life.
“You made a promise!”, she snarled.
“I did, your majesty. And I am upholding that promise as we speak”, Geralt answered her. “I am here for a contract”.
“What contract?”, Calanthe demanded.
“As I told your man”, he replied. “Bruxa. Near Sodden”.
Calanthe spat at the ground.
“Horse shit”, she said. “We were just coming from Sodden; no word of vampires there. Tell me the truth”.
Geralt exhaled slowly.
“Men!”, Calanthe called. The soldiers drew their swords.
“He’s here with me!”, I yelled; and stepped out from behind the tree.
Geralt looked at me angrily. I sent him an indifferent look back.
“You? Show your face girl”, Calanthe barked.
I stepped into the glade, and pulled down my hood. Calanthes face lit up.
“Y/N!”, she laughed. “What are you doing here, girl?”. She stomped up to me, and took me in her arms for a tight squeeze.
“Lower your weapons, men. This is the lady Y/N, my husband’s cousin”, she said; and patted my cheek. “And; the future queen of Temeria!”.
The soldiers on the ground took a knee, and the ones still on horses bowed their necks to me. I felt a strange knot in my stomach.
“Where is your guard, girl? Your following?”, she asked.
I nodded in the direction of Geralt.
“Him?”, Calanthe asked; frowning bewilderedly at me.
“He is… my guard”, I answered.
Calanthe stepped back, looking from me to Geralt.
“What in Hels ass was Eist thinking?”, she snarled. Calanthe was married to a Skelliger, not one herself – but she had taken on some of our profanities; at least the ones she liked.
I walked towards Geralt.
“My cousin seemed to find it a necessity to keep my travel arrangements a mystery to certain parties. So, he hired the witcher”.
The queen laughed sarcastically.
“Oh, I am going to have words with my husband”, she growled.
One of the riders called out to her.
“Your majesty; Ortagor awaits your arrival”.
Calanthe sighed.
“Yes, yes. Someone is always awaiting my arrival”, she groaned. “We take them with us. The lady rides along side me… the witcher takes the back. Keep an eye on him”.
Geralt sent me a poignant look, and went to saddle up on Roach.
Before he got all the way over to the mare; Calanthe grasped his arm and looked at him – her eyes ablaze.
“If it wasn’t for my cousin-in-law, your head would be rolling on the ground!”.
Geralt tried for a mediating expression.
“Your majesty…”.
“Don’t!”, Calanthe hissed. “If I hear you’ve been asking about the child – even so much as mentioned Pavetta – I’ll personally cut of your bollocks, and feed them to my dogs!”.
My heart dropped. Geralts eyes found mine for a second; before falling to the ground.
Calanthe let go of his arm, and went back to join her men.
I went to saddle up, my hands shaking so much in the process, I almost lost my footing in the stirrup. One of the soldiers on the ground grabbed my calf; and helped me up. I could feel Geralts eyes on us.
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The ride to Ortagor wasn’t long; but it felt like an eternity. I was deep in thought.
“How is my husband?”, Calanthe suddenly asked from beside me.
She’d caught me off guard.
“What?”, I said.
She chuckled at me.
“I said, how is my husband?”.
I smiled.
“Well, last I saw him. No less annoying, no more regal”, I said.
“Good”, the queen laughed. “And his bed?”. Her eyes were suddenly hard.
“Empty, save for him”, I assured her. She grunted, satisfied.
We rode on in silence for a little while.
“And… the princess Pavetta. How does she fare?”, I asked as casually as I could.
Calanthes face hardened slightly.
“About to pop”, she said. “She’s going the way you came. Eist convinced me she should give birth in Skellige, for some reason”.
I felt a rush of blood to my head.
“Oh!”, I said. “I didn’t know. Congratulations!”.
Calanthe scoffed. I tried to smile.
“And the father is?...”.
“Not who I would have picked”, she snarled. “But... no matter now. The child will be loved and raised by the right people”.
I smiled and nodded; wanting to scream.
We arrived at the fortress of Ortagor to great fanfare; the crowds cheering for their queen. All around people were celebrating the arrival of the Great Lioness; with drink and music.
Great, I thought. Another feast. Just what I needed. I was in no mood for any celebrations myself.
We unsaddled, and followed the queen towards the great hall. I suddenly felt a tug on my arm.
Geralt was looking at me with hard eyes.
“Little frog…”, he said.
“Not now”, I stopped him, and pulled my arm from his grasp.
“Witcher!”, Calanthe called from behind us. “Lady Y/N is perfectly safe within these walls. We have no need for you. Go do whatever it is, your kind do”.
Geralt clenched his jaw.
“My kind eat, drink and rest when we can”, he said.
She looked at him dismissively.
“You can do that at the other end of the hall; where I don’t have to look at you”, she said. “Come, girl. We have feasting to do!”.
I followed the queen into the hall – having much rather wanted to find a dark corner to calm myself.
As the door opened; horns blazed a salute.
“Yes, yes. Fuck off. I’m here now”, Calanthe growled, and threw her helmet at a servant. “Music!”.
A familiar voice began a song I had heard before.
“Once a lady from Kaer Trolde fared,
with skin so smooth, and beautiful hair.
She held the heart of many a man;
but mouths stood agape, when she speaking began.”
Jaskier!
“Foul mouthed lady, be kind onto me
And I’ll be your thrall, I will never flee.
Foul mouthed princess, have mercy, I plea
And I shall be ever a servant of thee”
The crowd sang along to the chorus.
“The foulmouthed princess of the Skellige Isles
The foulmouthed princess,
the foulmouthed princess,
the foulmouthed princess of the Skellige Isles!”
Jaskier strummed the last chord to a roar of applause. He bowed and sent air kisses to a buxom redhaired girl standing nearby.
I sat down next to Calanthe at the head table; and soon food and drinks were placed in front of us.
Catching Jaskiers eye; he rushed over.
“Your majesty”, he said; and bowed so deep his nose was almost touching the floor. “My lady Y/N!”.
“You know each other?”, Calanthe asked.
I cleared my throat cautiously.
“We met in Skellige”.
Calanthe grinned.
“No…”, she laughed. “You’re the foulbreathed princess?”.
“Foulmouthed, your majesty”, Jaskier smiled. “I’m quite certain there’s nothing wrong with the lady’s breath”.
I chuckled nervously.
“My lady, where is…”, he began.
“The witcher”, I interrupted, sending him a poignant look. “He is somewhere in the hall; probably buried in some servant girl’s cleavage”.
Jaskier narrowed his eyes.
“As he does…”, he said.
Calanthe threw a gold coin at the bard.
“Go. Do your work, minstrel. I want music and cheering. It’s been a long day”.
Jaskier bowed.
“As you wish your majesty”. He sent me a final look, and went back to the makeshift stage in the middle of the room, to play for the dancing crowds.
“So”, Calanthe said, smiling at me. “You’re on your way to Foltest, I’m told”.
“I am”, I replied.
“You seem… less than pleased”, she continued.
I sighed.
“Am I supposed to be pleased to be shipped of to a man twice my age? – with an inbred daughter to boot…”, I said; and took a sip from the goblet in front of me.
Calanthe tightened her lips.
“Temeria is not much different than Skellige”, she said. “Less water surrounding it… The winters are cold as a witch’s tit, but the summers are bearable”.
I scoffed.
“It’s not the weather that concerns me”.
Realizing the quail in front of me had been served without utensils for carving it; I pulled my knife from my boot, and cut in to the bird – ravished from the last few days lack of real food.
Calanthe smirked.
“Travelling with the witcher has made you rough, Y/N”.
I looked down at my dirty nails; realizing she was right.
“I told Eist to get you your sgian-dubh for your 15’th birthday”.
Calanthe and Eist had been sending each other eyes for years before they were married in a small ceremony, I’d heard very little about. She’d visited for my coming of age celebration years before – mostly, I think, to see my cousin.
“He wanted to give you a new dress”.
I laughed out loud.
“Of course he did”, I said.
“Yes, well”, she continued. “I would have gotten one for Pavetta, but apparently that is cultural appropriation”, she sneered. I held my tongue.
She looked at me solemnly.
“He cares for you deeply, Y/N. I know this isn’t the union you’d dreamt of… but it is the right move”.
“For your war?”, I said hesitantly, careful not to look the lioness in the eyes – admittedly, she scared me, and for good reason.
“It’s true”, Calanthe admitted. “Foltest has promised his help in the war effort, in return for his marriage to you; and the dowry you bring with you”.
We were quiet for a while.
“The witcher”, the queen began again. “He protects you well?”.
I half smiled.
“He does”, I said. She took a long sip from her goblet.
“And in bed?”
My face turned white.
“I-i… that’s not…”, I tried.
“Come now, Y/N”, Calanthe smirked. “I’ve seen how he looks at you”.
“And how’s that?”, I said; trying for dismissive.
“Like you’re a freshly cooked rabbit; and he hasn’t eaten in a week. Reminds me of how Eist would look at me, before he had me the first time”.
She smirked, and took a bite of her quail.
“More like a frog”, I muttered.
“What’s that?”, she asked.
“Nothing”, I answered.
She leant back in her chair, and looked at me seriously.
“He’s not a good man, Y/N”, she said.
”I’m beginning to see that”, I answered.
We ate the rest of our meal in silence; only interrupted by the occasional lord coming forward to wish health on my upcoming marriage. I wanted to stab each and everyone of them in the neck.
---
A guard was posted outside the room I had been given for the night. It was larger than the one Geralt and I had shared in Tigg, and much grander in its decorations.
A large bed with beautifully embroidered bedding; rich carpets decorated the walls and floor; a table set with fruits and wine; a roaring fireplace, and – thank the gods – a warm bath in front of it.
I shed my dirty clothes, and stepped into the tub; lowering myself into the water, until only my face was above the surface.
For the first time in days – weeks – I was alone. And I cried.
I wept so long that it felt like there were no tears left in the world. My chest hurt from the contractions of my sobbing; and I was beginning to struggle for breath in the end.
I heard a skirmish outside the door. Someone was banging loudly at it.
“You can’t go in. The lady is not to be disturbed!”.
“She’s in my charge, and I’ll see her!”. I recognized Geralts voice.
I stepped out of the tub, and put on the clean robe that had been warming by the fire.
Opening the door, I saw Geralt pressing his lower arm against the neck of the guard; forcing him against the wall. Two other guards were holding their swords to his back.
“It’s fine”, I said. “Let him in”.
“But my lady; Queen Calanthe made it perfectly clear…”, the man against the wall said.
“Fuck off, dingleberry”, I growled; earning a gasp from all three guards.
Geralt removed his arm from the man, and the three guards slowly stepped back.
“Foulmouthed princess, indeed…”, I heard one of them mumble, as they walked away.
I stepped aside for Geralt to enter the room. He looked around; as always ready for an attack from any corner. They’d taken his weapons and armor, it seemed; as he was left with only his plain clothes.
“The bathwater is cold”, I said; and sat down by the table. Geralt grunted and went to stand by the fire.
“I heard you cry”, he said.
“From where?”, I asked.
“From the courtyard”.
I covered my face in embarrassment.
“No one else heard you”, he said.
“Right…”, I mumbled; remembering his enhanced hearing.
Geralt went to take my hand; and examined my face.
“What’s wrong?”, he asked.
I pulled my hand away from him furiously.
“A 15 year-old girl, Geralt”, I snarled. “How could you?”.
He looked genuinely confused.
“The child!”, I said. “And here I thought witchers couldn’t procreate”.
“We can’t…”, he grumbled.
I stood up, and threw an apple into the fireplace; cracking it against the back wall. The juices dripped down, and made the fire sputter.
“Then, why…”, I growled, punching him as hard as I could in the chest; “… is princess Pavetta on her way to Skellige to give birth to your child?”.
His face went from confused, to relieved – to finally; angry.
“You think I would get a girl pregnant, and then just leave her? A princess, no less?”, he scoffed. “Do you not know me?”
“No!”, I yelled. “I don’t know you. At all!”.
He took a step backwards.
“No”, he said. “It seems you don’t”.
He walked towards the door.
“We leave in the morning. Your husband will want to see you soon”.
I lost all composure. Picking up the entire bowl of fruit from the table; I threw it at his back; grapes, oranges, plums and apples splattering across his shirt. And then I screamed.
Geralt growled, and sped at me; grabbing my shoulders, and throwing me on the bed.
I clawed at his face – doing my best to scratch him – but he held my wrists down.
“Stop!”, he roared
“Go to Hel!”, I screamed.
“You can go right along with me, woman!”, he answered.
I wrestled myself free from his grasp and struck at his head. He narrowly avoided my hand by rolling onto his back; and I straddled him – once again getting my wrists caught in his grasp.
Suddenly the door opened, and the three guards were standing in the opening.
“My lady!...”, one of them called.
“Get the fuck out!”, Geralt and I roared at the same time; staring at the dumbstruck men.
They silently closed the door.
“Bloody crazy, that one”, I heard one of them say through the door, as they walked away.
I got off Geralt; and laid on my back next to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”, I said.
“There’s nothing to tell”, he answered.
“But you have a child on the way with another woman!”, I half whimpered.
“And you are marrying another man!”, he grunted.
I sat up and shook my head in exhaustion.
“I never wanted to marry him!”, I said.
“And I never wanted a child”, he muttered.
I stood up, picked up an orange from the floor, and threw it at him. He sat up, and looked at me angrily.
“Would you stop throwing fruit at me?”, he snarled.
I scoffed.
“You never wanted a child”, I hissed. “Maybe you should have thought of that, before you stuck your dick in the 15 year-old lion-cub of Cintra!”.
“I didn’t!”, he roared, making me jump. “It’s a child of surprise!”.
He walked over to me slowly; prepared for more flying fruit.
“It was an accident”, he said. “I didn’t know she was pregnant, and neither did the father when I asked him for the law of surprise. I thought it would earn me a keg of ale at the most”.
I laughed, and shook my head.
“A keg of ale?”, I said. “You stupid man…”.
He put his hands on either side of my face.
“Yes. Stupid enough to fall for a woman, who by rights belongs to someone else”. He put his forehead to mine. “Stupid enough to want your heart, when I know it’s not mine to have”.
I put my hands on his chest; and grabbed at the fabric of his shirt.
“What are we doing, Geralt?”, I whimpered.
“Everything wrong, it seems”, he groaned.
He pulled back from me; holding on to my shoulders; and boring his amber eyes into mine.
“I can’t help it, little frog”, he said. “You said you didn’t want to be a part of someone else. But you are. You’ve shaped me; and I’ve shaped you. It’s unavoidable”.
A single tear fell from my eyes.
“But it doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself; or I myself”, he continued. “It only means that we... change”.
I sniffled – embarrassed at my own reaction to his words.
“But you said you don’t change…”
He smiled.
“I have changed. You’ve been a part of that change”, he breathed. “You wrote your name on my life, as I have written mine on yours. No matter where I travel and who I meet; you have made your mark on me.
We aren’t an entity; but we are two of a whole”.
I put my hands on either side of his face; and laughed through my tears.
“Please stop crying”, he said.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?”, I sniveled.
“Yes”, he admitted.
I laughed out loud.
“For someone so uneasy with human emotion, you do have a way with words”, I said.
“Only for you, my lady”, he whispered; and kissed my lips.
---
We made love softly that night; taking care to not leave an inch of the other untouched.
Geralts lips were the nourishment of my being, it seemed; and he let those lips touch every part of me that would bring me pleasure – seemingly finding pleasure himself, in nothing but the moans and whimpers he could draw from me.
I came undone so many times I lost count, and the witcher came along with me. We were two of a whole.
When morning came; we hadn’t gotten much sleep – but for some reason, I’d never felt more awake.
I knew what needed to happen. I knew that we would continue on our journey to Temeria; that I would marry Foltest; and that it would break both of our hearts when I did. There was nothing else that could be done.
I could not spend the rest of my life travelling with this man. I’d grow old, and he wouldn’t. I couldn’t be chasing monsters around the continent; when I was old and grey, and my bones were creaking.
He could not give me children. Not that I was sure I wanted any; but our lives together would never be truly fulfilled – and his job never truly done.
We had each other now. And should we never see one another again; the marks we’d left on the others being would never be erased.
Geralts head was resting on my chest, and I was running my fingers through his hair; when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in, Jaskier”, I called – quickly covering myself with the sheets.
The bard stepped inside; almost tripping over a plum. He looked around the room – stray fruit scattered across the floor.
“Well”, he smirked. “Nothings changed here; I see”. He sat down by the table; pouring himself a goblet of wine.
“So… when do we leave?”.
Geralt and me both looked at him with wonder.
“Whose wife did you diddle this time?”, Geralt grumbled; laying back in the bed with his arms behind his head. I chuckled.
“Uhm, sister; actually”, Jaskier replied; and took a sip of the wine. “Mmm! 1249; good year”.
“Jaskier?...”, Geralt demanded.
“Some lord, or another”, the bard said dismissively. “Apparently Jas… Jel… Jissanya, it was. Well, she’d been promised to Aretuza”. He looked at me apologetically. “They are quite fond of their virgins there. But I can tell you right now; that girl was not a maiden!”.
“Hels ass, Jaskier. Are you insistent on getting yourself killed before the end of the year?”, I chuckled at him.
He stood up, looked at me; hurt in his eyes.
“What if I told you it was true love?”, he said. I raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, you’re right. It would never work”, he chuckled.
I went to get out of bed, and gestured for him to turn around.
“What?”, he shrugged.
Geralt sat up and looked at him menacingly.
“All right, all right. It’s not like any of you have anything I haven’t seen before – right, Geralt?”, the bard smirked; and covered his eyes with his hands.
“I don’t want to know what that means”, I mumbled, and went to get dressed behind a divider in the corner.
---
We were met in the courtyard by Calanthe and her men from the day before.
“Lady Y/N”, the queen said. “I hear there was trouble in your room last night”.
My face reddened.
“No trouble, your majesty”, I said. “Just… a discussion on our next move”.
“Hmm…”, Calanthe frowned, looking from Geralt to me. “I trust you remember our conversation?”.
I nodded and smiled.
“I remember it well”, I said. “And I trust you, of anyone, will understand why I must live the life I choose, until I have to live the life I must”.
Her face contracted into a smile for a second.
“I do, my dear”. She sighed. “I just wish you hadn’t chosen as you have”.
I smiled again.
“Thank you for your kind hospitality, your majesty”, I said.
“And thank you for sacrifice”, she answered. “This is my war; but part of the burden of it has fallen upon you. If I could, I would undo it”. She looked at me earnestly; and then held my face in her hands; putting her forehead to mine.
“If Foltest ever… should he ever be cruel to you; I will come up there; and I will rip his cock of with my bare hands”.
I laughed.
“I might take you up on that offer”.
She chuckled, and kissed my forehead.
“Be well, cousin”, she whispered.
Jaskier cleared his throat.
“I am very sorry to disturb this special moment, your majesty, but I think one of the lords in there has an arrow with my name on it”.
Geralt grunted.
“Witcher”, Calanthe said, letting go of me. “You will protect this woman with your life”.
“You have my word”, Geralt said, and nodded at her.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
”And go north. There are Nilfgaardian outposts further east”.
Geralt frowned, and nodded again.
“All right”, she said. “Now fuck off, all of you”.
We saddled up; Geralt and me on Roach; and Jaskier on – a quite unhappy – Bayrd.
On our way out the gates; I turned to the bard.
“Jaskier; do you like my mushroom stew?”
He didn’t answer.
---
Thanks for reading.
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- no lady
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