I am a normal person who understands thought crimes are not real, fiction is not reality, and people can read/write/enjoy whatever they want as long as itâs fiction and no one in real life is harmed. I donât have to like it, because I know how to mute, block and scroll past what I donât want to see. Overall I think labels are childish, but by definition I am proship and profic. I am also against censorship.
And if you (general you) shame or harass real people over fiction, youâre a bully and this blog is not a safe place for you.
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Might need to fundraise for a lower end proper 3D printer soon, it seems like they are trying to put laws in place that would make new printers verify every 3D print and I would rather avoid that
Honestly, as much as I love "Fiction isn't reality" as a proship belief, I also saw someone using "Fiction isn't education" and I think that might be even better. Because the idea of fiction affecting reality has a different meaning to everyone and is pretty easy for antis to try and twist against us, but "You should not assume that any piece of fiction is meant to instruct you on how to think or act" is a much more clear-cut message that I think is harder to dispute. I like it a lot. Fiction is not education.
I am begging you. Please learn about stress/discomfort tolerance. Practice raising it. You need this to survive. If someone online can ruin your day with a throwaway comment, you desperately need to understand discomfort tolerance and consciously, systematically build that shit.
Also! Stress tolerance is such an important skill that having a learning disability in that area is a major symptom of a whole lot of other disabilities/mental illnesses! Struggling with it is a huge part of life! It sucks!
Am I saying everyone with misophonia needs to listen to chewing noises all day? No. But you need to find ways to tolerate it enough that you don't treat others like shit if they make a mouth noise near you.
No, you don't have to read the fic with your trigger tags. But you do need to be able to handle scrolling past the tags without being upset.
It is hard! But not having it also makes you so so so easy to manipulate. That grandma is racist AF because her mom raised her to be uncomfortable around black people and she never fought that discomfort. Trans people make so many cis people uncomfortable and that discomfort turns into bigotry real fast.
Letting your discomfort dictate your actions and beliefs about things is a great way to become a terrible person. Learn. Discomfort. Tolerance.
Thank you for finding a much nicer and more properly explained way to say what I've been yelling in my head for years.
Mine always came out "it's like not a single fucking one of you ever learned that sometimes it's good for you to be uncomfortable. How do you expect to survive??"
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why are we forgetting that fanfic writers write whatever they want to read because they write for themselves and are just kind enough to share their hours of hard work with us to read for free?
donât like something? donât read them
realizing you donât like what youâre reading? click that back button
not understanding why there are so many fics about x and not enough about y? read the beginning of this post, âfanfic writers write whatever they want to read because they write for themselvesâ
wanting more fics about y? then you write fics about that thing you want to read for yourself the way others write fanfics about things they want to read for themselves. thatâs the point of fanfiction
fandoms become more toxic when we think we have the right to shit on fanfic writers just because what they write for themselves isnât to our personal liking. so hereâs the thing, itâs not to your liking because they didnât write it for you.
Look. I didn't want to say anything because it's kind of a touchy subject, but the dragon doesn't actually take these "brides" back to its lair full of riches and add them to a harem. Okay? It's a big fucking lizard with a brain the size of an orange, it just roasts and eats them.
Now come on, get those chains off. Where did you even get these? Oh you made them? See that's the kind of craftsmanship the village needs you for. We'll have a big orgy after the ritual and if you want a bunch of us will dress up as dragons and take turns having a go at you. It'll be nice, you'll see.
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Some people have already seen this as an OC story, but I did a poll a little while ago asking what format people would like me to use for the part 2 of the cursed knight!Drake story. 'x reader' got the most votes.
So, now I present to you a continuation of the story, partly in summary, partly in scene. It's self-indulgent and romantic, but it was fun to write.
Part 1 has also been included for your convenience. Enjoy! Feel free to let me know what you think.
As a knightâs son, Drake grew up in the courts surrounded by valor and chivalry. A small but eager boy, he dreamed of the day when he would be old enough to protect the realm like his father (a knight of some renown).
He loved animals and could often be found helping to take care of the horses and hunting dogs. He was also fascinated by the stars and lingered around visiting astronomers, gleaning what knowledge he could from them.
During his childhood, Drake was easily captivated by bardsâ tales of knights performing miraculous deeds, wielding magic swords, slaying dragons, and standing firm against the forces of evil that would destroy the realm.
His chance came during the winter of his fourteenth year. He was old enough and had proven sufficient skill with a blade to ride out as a squire in his fatherâs company.
News of treachery swiftly followed. The company had betrayed the crown and become brutal mercenaries, sell-swords for the highest bidder. For years, that was all the court knew until, one particularly cruel winter, Drake returned. He was the sole survivor of a battle with a rival mercenary band that had claimed the lives of his father and all the company.
It was clear that Drake had come backâŚchanged. He was now nineteen but appeared nearly as young has he had when heâd first left. His face and body were scarred, and he walked without making a sound. There was little shine in his once bright eyes. He had no interest in the pleasures of the court and threw himself into training.
It was also clear that Drake was now cursed. When he fought, his nails and teeth grew sharper and scales erupted in the creases of his body. If he so willed, he could transform into a draconic beast, awful and fury-filled but lacking the wings of a true dragon â one final indignity. Rumors abounded. Heâd stolen fruit from a wizardâs orchard. The fae had altered him for their amusement. He had delt with devils and forsaken his immortal soul for power. Whatever the truth was, Drake would not speak of it.
Over the next decade, Drake grew in both strength and height, until he topped two meters and could wield multiple blades with ease. (âThe curse,â the courtiers whispered. How else could such a soft, small boy become so powerful?). He also grew in isolation and apathy, fighting like a man who did not expect nor care to see the next dawn.
You, a budding polymath, came to court as a royal attendant. Despite the lavishness of the palace, you found no rest there. Your house had fallen on hard times, shaming the crown in the process. Furthermore, though the royals found your displays of knowledge amusing, the kingdom had become more orthodox of late, and studies of the natural world were held as uncouth. You had been taken in out of charity and everyone knew it.
With no wars to fight, Drake found himself restless and without a raison dâetre. He behaved recklessly in simple border skirmishes and often trained to the point of collapse. Unwilling to âlet so useful a weapon dull itself,â the royals assigned Drake as your protector. Ostensibly, it was because, fallen house or not, you were still a noble and somebody had to make sure you conducted yourself in an appropriate manner.
You detested this. Being saddled with a babysitter? Horrible. Whatâs more, knights were boorish men who enjoyed only violence and could barely think for themselves. For some reason, this situation amused the courtiers to no end.
You heard rumors about Drake. He had traitorâs blood. He was fae-touched, cursed. But what did it matter? He was an irritating obstacle. A large, perpetually-frowning presence who said only the most basic of things to you: âYes, Your Grace.â âNot right now, Your Grace.â âIt is time to go inside, Your Grace.â
Yes, you were content to ignore Drake. Until one night.
You were up on the ramparts charting the stars. He stood beside you, frowning as always. As you observed the sky, you found yourself unable to recall the name of a particular star. You tapped quill against parchment and hummed. The name wouldnât come. You made a guess. Crossed it out. You were just about to give it up when a quiet voice beside you said: âObscuris Minor.â
Those were the first words unrelated to his duty that he had ever spoken to you. You looked at him in confusion; he was right.
âHow do you know that?â you demanded.
Drake looked away. âI learned it when I was a child, but the knowledge is useless to me.â
You bristled at his statement. Then you covered up your notes and pointed into the sky. âWhatâs that one? The one all by itself, as if the other stars have fled.â
âAre you ordering me to-â
âYes.â
He sighed. âDracona.â
âAnd that one?â
âYrsa.â
The exchange repeated a few more times before you crossed your arms, satisfied.
Over the next several months, you paid more attention to Drake and sometimes engaged him in conversation, though his responses were always curt and proper. You learned that he was serious and stern, true, but he was also virtuous and kind. The only time he seemed to lighten up was in the presence of the small group of knights he had recently assumed command over. He also doted on his horse.
âYouâs the only steed that will bear me,â he confided, in another rare moment of openness. Even then, he looked away from you. âThe others all spooked when I came near.â You couldnât bring yourself to ask why.
Drake was obviously strong, but you had never seen him fight. Every time you tried to follow him to the training grounds, he would notice your presence, no matter how stealthy you were, and send your away.
Still, you and Drake grew closer, and it wasnât long before you felt the first traces of romantic feelings for the stoic, but kind-hearted knight. You hid these feelings well, or so you thought.
For his part, Drake had begun to suspect that you now saw him as more than just a protector. He wished he could feel honored, maybe even return those feelings, but he wasnât a fool. It must be some courtiersâ game at his expense and, even if it wasnât, your feelings couldnât possibly last. You werenât aware yet of the nature of his curse, after all.Â
Unfortunately, peace in the realm could not last. War broke out with a neighboring kingdom, and Drake was removed from your service. In the relative safety of the palace, you worried for him and his small company. The fighting was said to be fierce, and you heard tell that, in many skirmishes, a beast would appear on the field and turn the tide of battle.
Feeling useless, and to distract yourself from the worry, you began to study herb-lore and simple medicine.
Soon, the palace where you resided was no longer safe, and the court moved to the capital.
On route, your retinue unexpectedly passed the site of an ongoing battle and was caught up in it. The knights with you defended the courtiers admirably, but all seemed lost untilâŚ
A creature, larger than the carriage, four-legged and wingless appeared on the battlefield. Covered in a black and red scaled hide and with teeth and claws sharper than any blade you had ever seen. As you watched, you realized that the rumors had been true. This beast fought with intelligence and fury precisely directed at the realmâs enemies. When the opposing army began its retreat, the beast collapsed, a number of fresh wounds on its side and belly.
You were shocked to see your realmâs forces also begin to move on, no one sparing a thought for the creature that had saved their lives. The unfairness of it ignited something in you, and you leapt from the carriage, ignoring cries of protest as you made your way to the fallen beast.
Its amber eyes swiveled to you, and a low growl began in its throat as you came near.
You stood your ground.
âI believe you can understand me,â you said, fishing a jar from your satchel. âIâm not going to hurt you. This is a poultice of comfrey and sage. It staunches wounds, prevents them from rotting. See?â
You uncorked the jar and held it out, fighting the shaking in your hands. The beast raised its head and appeared to sniff the contents. Satisfied, it lowered its head, but a growl still rumbled in its throat.
âYou fought valiantly, and you donât deserve to be left behind this way. Please, let me help you.â
Reaching one poultice-covered hand out, you gently placed it against a shallower wound. The beast shuddered under your touch, but allowed you to rub the salve into the wound. You moved on to the next.
âIâm sure this sounds selfish,â you sighed, âbut I believe your interventions are saving someone dear to me. Iâve received no word of his death, so I have to keep hoping.â
The growling stopped. You continued your work.
âItâs better protection than the charm I sewed into the lining of his gambeson before he left,â you laughed. âThat little trinket has no rending claws or sharp teeth. Just my love, whatever good that will do. There. Iâm finished.â
You backed away as the beast rose to its feet. It gave you one last glance before darting away across the field. With it gone, you hurried back to your retinue, preparing for their admonishments.
The party made camp in relative safety, having met up with the kingdomâs forces from the earlier battle. You were confined to your tent, restless and frustrated, unable to scout around for news of Drake.
You had just resigned yourself to ignorance when your tent flap was thrown open and you stared, gaping into a pair of sea-blue eyes. Drake looked haggard, still in his armor and painted with mud and drying blood.
It took all your practiced decorum not to embrace him, but you leapt up nonetheless.
âYour Grace,â Drakeâs face was crimson, though from anger or another emotion, you could not tell. âMy duty once-upon-a-time was to safeguard you from all harm. Why would you do something so reckless?â
âThe summer palace was no longer safe.â
He shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh. âYouâre willfully misunderstanding me. I heard what you did this afternoon.â
You crossed your arms. His attitude had returned to how it had been when youâd first met him. Serious, stern, no hint of softness. And youâd waited so long to see him again. Your voice rose before you could stop it.
âThe knights all say the beast fights the realmâs enemies. Yet when it appears, they leave it to fight alone. And when itâs injured, they leave it to lick its wounds alone. Itâs too cruel.â
âDraconic creatures are dangerous and unpredictable. They are outside of the godsâ graces. I cannot allow you to taint yourself that way! I would never forgive myself.â Drake seemed to be looking through you, and you noticed the tremor that had started in his gloved hands. Was he injured? Had he eaten anything since the battle? Drank anything? You stepped closer to him and lowered your voice, making it soft and soothing as you had done this afternoon when you had gained the beastâs wary trust.
âSer Knight, youâre speaking nonsense. To me, it seems as if the gods have sent us a divine protector. Who are we to judge the skin it wears?â You reached out, intending to take his hand. âCome. At least let me give you water, wash the dust from your face.â
Drakeâs stern countenance began to soften, and he let your fingers brush his for just a moment before swiftly turning away. When he spoke, his voice was tight.
âNo, Your Grace. I should take my leave. Goodnight.â
Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Drake left the tent.
You stared after him for a few minutes, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. Getting up to tie the tent flap closed for the night, you paused. In the space where Drake had stood was a faint odor of comfrey and sage.
In his own tent again, Drake clenched and unclenched his fist. His armor felt too hot, too restrictive, in a way it never had before. Would it have been so terrible to allow you to take him by the hand, rub the grime from his face?
He started to pace, doffing pieces of armor as he went - hauberk, arm guards, greaves - until he was down to just his gambeson and chausses. With suddenly shaking hands, he unlaced the gambeson and pulled it over his head.
Your words echoed in the silence of his tent: someone dear to me.
Drakeâs fingers quested over each stitch in the lining until he felt it through the quilted fabric, a thin circle of metal, no more than an inch in diameter. Heâd seen charms like this dozens of times; they were common; given by worried mothers and dutiful lovers. Charms against physical harm, against frailty of spirit, for honor and glory in combat, for a safe return. Drake had never received one before.Â
Just my love, whatever good that will do.
A breeze slipped in through a gap in the tent flap and chilled his sweat-drenched skin. The wounds you had treated had stopped stinging. On his human body, they looked less severe, their ragged edges already closing. His extraordinarily fast healing kept him out of the surgeonâs tent. Just as well. He could tell from the way they whispered and grimaced that he made them uncomfortable.
As he should have made you uncomfortable. But you hadnât been.
This afternoon, when heâd seen you approach, resolution and concern fixed on your face, Drake had been struck dumb, wanting to flee but unable to. Your touch burned and soothed all at once.
He waited for you to scream, to flee, to try and strike him. But you had not.
Drake avoids you (and his own feelings) as best he can. The night before the knights and the traveling courtiers are due to go their separate ways, Drake is visited in a dream by members of an infamous mercenary group: The Band of Beasts (the Kaidou and officers equivalent of this world). Theyâve been working with the kingdom that is currently fighting DrakeâsâŚ.and they have an offer.
âYouâve caught my attention,â a voice boomed.
Drake spun around, searching for the source of the voice, hand flying to a sword he didnât have. His mind had left him unarmed.
He was face to face with a man double his height, and certainly much much stronger.
âThere are more curses in this world then just yours, knight captain.â
Around the massive man, a half dozen creatures stepped up to flank him. Some draconic, others not, but all fierce.
As Drake watched, the creatures shimmered and shifted, their bodies rippling for a moment, until he was faced with regular humans, their smiles inviting.
âAll of you,â he muttered in awe, âlike me.â
âOf course,â rumbled the massive man. âWouldnât you like to be among friends?â
âMy duty is to my realmâ Drake shot back, once again reaching for a sword he didnât have.
Six eyebrows raised at him, unconvinced.
âNot just duty,â Drake insisted. âItâs my purpose, the only reason Iâm alive.â
âBut what do they give you in return,â said a lean white-haired man whose bestial form had been winged and black. âMistrust? A wary eye? I can see their fear has lodged in your heart.â
Drake reached up and felt the charm sewn into his gambeson. It felt like the only solid thing in this dream.
âAnd youâll never have their affection.â In a blink, a black-haired woman appeared next to him. Minutes ago, she had smiled at him from atop an arachnid torso and legs. She stroked his arm, face full of pity. âI know what youâre thinking. Youâll hide it. Theyâll never discover. But did you know? Itâs not just battle. Anytime the blood grows,â she whispered in his ear, âhot, out come the talons, the unsightly scales. There is no hiding this. There is no wishing it away.â
Drake shuddered. He reached again to feel the charm, but the woman held his hand down.
The mountain-sized mercenary leader stepped up to him.
âWhen we next meet on the field,â he rumbled, âyou will be outnumbered. Iâll offer you one chance to save your company, to save the people you hold dear. If you agree to come with us, fight with us, we will end our agreement with your kingdomâs enemies. Do not be a fool.â
Unfortunately for the Band of Beasts, Drake has a little more integrity than they were counting on, and a plan is concocted for him to feign desertion and become a spy in the infamous mercenary group.
He cannot bring himself to say goodbye to you, as he realizes that you will soon despise him for what he is about to do. He rips the charm from his gambeson and leaves it in your tent.
After his desertion, you are confused and distraught. But you are also a clever and intrigued. The charm should have been very difficult to find and, even if Drake had found it, how did he know to return it to you? You put two-and-two together very quickly and set out to interrogate the members of Drakeâs little knight company (basically medieval SWORD) who confirm your theory about Drakeâs cursed form. They also inform you that he is the one who orders them off the field when he transforms, as he feels that if the battle has gotten that serious, only his life should be risked. Our boy has some self-destructive tendencies.
You also speak with an elderly knight trainer (medieval Sengoku) who knew Drake when he was younger and is fond of him but was unable to give the young man the affection he craved due to the courtâs expectations/pressures (needless to say, he regrets this now). The trainer says that Drake is doubly cursed. The first is his draconic form, a power Drakeâs father had wanted for himself and treated his son harshly because of it. The second curse is self-inflicted and is Drakeâs self-hatred manifested in a desire to sacrifice himself (either all at once or piece by piece over many years) in a twisted attempt to finally achieve purpose and love.
Well, you are not having any of that nonsense, so you travel into the territory controlled by the Band of Beasts to bring Drake back.
Drake is the first person you encounter there, and he approaches you in his draconic form in an attempt to scare you off (ooo heâs being so big and scary). You are unfazed.
Either way, you and Drake do meet up (he refuses to reveal his human form to your, still believing that you have no idea they are the same), and he travels with you, hoping to lead you out of dangerous territory and back to the free lands.
During this time, you play dumb and do not reveal that you know the beast is Drake. You do, however, speak very highly of âyour knightâ and try to explain how much those who take the time to know him value him. You also tempt him to reveal himself by being a littleâŚ. scandalous. I mean, people change in front of their dogs and cats all the time, right?
You were using the last of the daylight to make notes on a sheaf of parchment. With your tongue between your teeth, you drew symbols with a piece of blackened kindling from the fire.
Much of the hesitation youâd shown around the beast a few days ago had faded and, when you noticed him curl up after supper, you quickly moved to sit against his side.
âYouâre quite warm, you know,â you said and started writing.
For the first time in his life, Drake found himself jealous of the beast. Social decorum did not apply to animals, and the beast was free to lay its head down while you scratched its ears or ran a slow hand down its back, over the spikes that, at rest, flattened themselves against his spine. When the touches became overwhelming, the beast was free to roll on its side, belly exposed, in an instinctual act of trust. Sometimes, you would touch it there as well, hands always gentle as you stroked.Â
Gentleness. What sort of justice was it that a cursed beast should be handled so gently while Drake, who was coming to realize he craved just such a thing so intently it was making him ill, should remain untouched?Â
Change back, said the selfish part of his mind. The childish part that still naively believed love and gentleness were freely given and without condition. No, it was too late now. You were only so kind because you believed the beast to be merely a creature acting on instinct. An animal who would react like any other when you had its trust. To reveal himself now would not only shame you (youâve slept against each other! You'd ridden on his back!) but reveal the true horrific extent of his curse and shatter any affection you felt for his human self. And Drake clung to that affection like a drowning man clings to a fallen timber.
When you reached the forest border, Drake planted his feet and would go no further. This was the edge of the Band of Beasts' territory.
"I see," you said. "You've led me out of the forest against my wishes."
Drake bowed his head in the gesture you had come to learn meant yes.
You stepped out of the forest and into the afternoon sun. Drake remained shadowed in the trees.
"And you won't come with me? You're missed you know."
The draconic head swung side-to-side. No.
"Does some magic keep you bound here?"
 No.
 "Your own will."
A slight hesitation and then: yes.
"I see," you said again. "This must be farewell, then. I don't suppose we'll meet again, though I'd like to."
Your piece said, you watched Drake intently, searching for a reaction in the scaled face, the slitted eyes. He looked defeated and somehow more animal-like than you had ever seen him.
To truly set him free, you'd have to break the curse he's placed on his own mind, the one that makes him hope for no more than to die having been a useful weapon and then to be forgotten like any shattered blade.
 "Would you lower your head, please?" you asked, reaching a hand into your satchel. "I have something I'd like to give you before I go."
Drake's head tilted in confusion, but he complied, lowering himself until you were at eye-level. He bowed his head.
You drew out a braided cord looped into a long circle. At one end was a copper token, no bigger than the center of a daisy. You held the circle in Drake's view.
"I gave this charm to a kind and virtuous man. It was given freely and out of love. Now, I give it again to that same man. He is brave and loyal, even to those who don't see his worth. He can be reckless at times and holds his own life far too cheaply. Still, I give this charm freely and out of love."
Smiling softly, you placed the cord around Drake's neck and leaned in, touching your forehead to his and your hands to either side of his jaw. You closed your eyes.
The scales beneath your fingers and forehead burned and softened, the new skin shifting under your touch.
When a pair of large gloved hands enveloped your own, you opened your eyes and met blue eyes wide and flecked with fear.
Drake stared at you for one heartbeat, two, then cast his gaze to the ground. The words came out in a rush and in a voice hoarse from disuse. A deathbed-style confession from the man who had held everything back.
"You must understand, there will always be shadows of the beast on my body. I have traitor's blood in my veins and will never be able to attain titles or land. Animals fear me. I don't know how to relax, or make small talk with courtiers. I can't dance or recite poetry-" he paused for breath and you took the chance to cut in.
"Please," you whispered, "raise your head.â
He shook it instead, but his hands gripped tightly, and his forehead remained pressed into yours.
"I cannot. If I look at you now, I will be lost."
"Then I will find you again."
The words drew his eyes to yours like a compass to a north star, and there was no more hint of fear in them. Instead, they shone with awe and wonder.
Drake stood then, and you realized that the transformation had left him kneeling on the dewy ground. His hands never left their grip on yours but dropped to his sides. Now, he seemed at a loss for words, simply squeezing your hands as if for reassurance that he wasn't dreaming.
"I should confess," you muttered. "You gave yourself away when you returned the token to me. I've known it was you all this time, but I was afraid you'd run if I admitted it."
"I-I probably would have."
"Some of the things I did to you were...teasing at best and improper at worse."
A blush and a smattering of red and black scales surged up Drake's cheeks.
"But I don't regret any of them," you continued. "And I don't believe you do either."
"I don't. I, I â damn," Drake dropped one of your hands to scratch at the back of his neck, and he suddenly became very interested in the grass beneath his boots.
"Go on," you encouraged, a smile teasing your lips.
"I'll tell you some other time. I think I've exhausted my courage for the day, for the week probably." He dropped your hand and readjusted himself, straightening his clothes and running a hand through his hair. It looked as ragged as the rest of him.
"If we can find a stream, I can do something about your hair," you offered. "I'm sure the knots must hurt."
"As you say," Drake murmured, still staring at you as if in a daze. You had the impression that, at that moment, you could have suggested just about any course of action to him and he would have complied.
Drake moved to take a few steps back the way you had come and stumbled. You tried to catch him, but you both sank to the ground under his weight.
Drake tried once again to stand, but his limbs did not cooperate. He collapsed and faced you.
"I apologize, but I- it's been so - I'm not used to spending so much time in that other form. My body needs to readjust. Would it be alright if I took your hand?" He asked, face terribly flushed as if he hadn't been holding both your hands minutes before.
You laughed. "I'll give you both hands and both arms. Though this does not bode well for you ever learning to dance." You smirked.
The noise startled both of you. A voiced exhale and then a second, bubbling up into the air one after the other.
Now, it was your turn to look at your companion in awe as you realized the source of the sound the same time he did: laughter. And Drake did not stop laughing as he embraced you and pulled you down into the heather. Then he lay, breathless and quiet but smiling, beside you, his fingers intertwining with yours.
You walked out of the mercenariesâ territory together, hand-in-hand. At first, Drake gripped your hand like a crutch while he waited for his body to remember what walking on two legs felt like. As his balance returned, he loosened his grip but couldnât bring himself to let it go.
You were keeping up a mostly one-sided conversation. Drake nodded and commented at the appropriate times, but he couldnât help but feel dazed. His thoughts tumbled the way his body wanted to. What you were telling him seemed unbelievable. Not just you, but his comrades, and even old-man SengokuâŚthey were hoping for his return, not because they needed his strength but because they missed his presence.
âCome home,â you had said.
Home. The word had meant nothing to him for such a long time. A useless, grey word that always settled wrong in his ears. Now, the word shone golden and warming. Home. Iâm coming home.
You stopped your monologue and turned to him.
âHow are you feeling? Getting used to two legs again?â
Drake nodded. âI feel steadier, though I donât think I could run.â He looked down at your clasped hands. Yours was so much smaller, warmer than his own. Suddenly, the seriousness of it all struck him; he cleared his throat and dropped your hand.
âThank you for, ah, letting me use your hand. I wonât impose any further on your kindness.â
You frowned but didnât press.
You continued your journey as the day grew hotter. There was less tree cover here, and you both wiped sweat from your brows.
When you came across the river, your eyes lit up.
âFinally!â
Drake followed you to the shore as you dipped a hand in the water. A few minnows brushed your fingertips.
âThe temperature is lovely,â you sighed. Without another word, you rolled up your trousers and began to wade out. Drake turned away, blushing fiercely; he thought heâd gotten used to the sight of your bare ankles and calves while you traveled, but your confession cast even familiar actions in a new light.
âThe depth is perfect,â you called. âThough it may be a bit shallow for you.â
Back on the shore, you rifled through your bag and pulled out a thin bar of soap. You snapped it in half and handed one half to Drake.
âI did say weâd do something about your hair once we found a stream,â you explained. âThis is much better than a stream, and now I want a proper bath. You deserve one, too.â
Once again, Drake felt heat creep up his neck and scales bloom on his palms. He closed his hands into fists. âMy Grace, we should still try to do things properly. I wouldnât want to shame you by seeing you disrobed or by you seeing me.â
Now, it was your turn to blush. Not from his mention of nudity but from the way heâd addressed you. Since youâd known him, Drake had used a few formal titles for you, but never âmy.â Once again, for some reason you were still working out, heâd thrown politeness and formality up as a barricade between you, but the âmyâ gave you hope. You could take small steps, and youâd take care not to push him too far into unknown territory.
âIâve thought of that,â you shook off your embarrassment. âSee those large rocks in the middle of the river? We can stand on either side of them and catch no glimpse of each otherâs bodies.â
Despite Drakeâs initial protest, you found it took little convincing to get him to agree to a quick dip. Then, it was only a matter of strategic eye closing and staring pointedly away from the river until, at last, you stood on opposite sides of the rock, clothes and Drakeâs sword (heâd refused to leave it on the shore) on the stone between you.
You took your time, working the lather over your body thoughtfully, as if painting. Drake, meanwhile, was efficient and rough, scrubbing his skin as if scouring a pot. When it came time to clean his hair, Drake kneaded the soap into his scalp with business-like fingers.
The soapâs scent hovered around him, herbal and heady. He paused his scouring and breathed deeply. He did his best not to think of you behind him, of your bare skin and dripping hair, of the way you hummed to yourself. Drake praised and cursed the rocks between you. Then, he knelt and dunked his head into the crisp river, coming up only when his breath ran out.
After another round of closed eyes and averted gazes, you and Drake were back on the shore and clothed. You were once again digging around in your bag and trying to figure out what to do next; Drake had said little during the whole bath, and you were beginning to fret. You knew you could be overbearing at times. Perhaps you had pushed him too far.
Apologize, said the voice in your head. The voice belonged to a part of your that had gotten used to being politely suffered through.
You were working out the phrasing of an apology in your head when Drake held a small wooden comb in front of you.
âIs this what youâre looking for?â
You sniffed. âYes, thank you. It must have fallen out when I got the soap.â Facing him, you rubbed your fingertips over the teeth of the comb. âAre you certain you would like me to fix your hair? I realize I asked you during anâŚemotional moment, and I couldnât stand it if I made you uncomfortable.â You added a laugh to the last bit, burying any hint of worry.
âYes, if it wouldnât be too much trouble.â
âAlright then.â You placed your bedroll on a soft patch of ground and knelt on it. âSit in front of me and face the river.â
Drake did so, and you examined his hair. Washed, it wasnât as tangled as it first appeared, and the color was brighter.
âGoodness,â you murmured. âItâs like a flame.â
In front of you, Drake shifted, and you chastised yourself again. Youâd become so used to speaking your mind around his bestial form, that youâd forgotten to keep your thoughts to yourself.
âIâm going to work out the knots,â you continued. âI apologize if it pulls. If you would like me to stop, simply say so.â
At Drakeâs slight nod you began, fingers gentle and lips pursed.
After you picked apart each tangle, you apologized. Drake insisted he didnât feel a thing. It was strange to have so much concern directed at him, and he hardly knew what to do with it. Surely, you understood that heâd borne worse pain than a wooden comb could inflict, and yet you still treated him with the care reserved for people who hadnât had to hold the raw edges of their own wounds together.
He only wished you would speak to him â he could have listened to you talk about anything, and heâd grown used to the way your voice brightened the stillness - but you seemed determined to do your work silently.
âUsually, when my hair gets like this, I hack it off,â Drake said suddenly, surprising himself.
Your hands stilled. âDo you prefer it short? I could try to cut it.â
âNo. I prefer it longer. My,â he swallowed, âfather wore his short.â
A few heartbeats passed, during which Drake hardly breathed, before you resumed your combing.
âThen longer it shall be,â you said. âIâm nearly finished. Would you hand me the brush?â
Drake passed you the brush and took the comb. He stared at the little tool in his hand. A few strands of his hair were wrapped around the teeth. Like a flame you had said. Drake had the misfortune of inheriting his fatherâs appearance, hair most prominently of all. An outward sign of tainted blood. But what if it could become something different, something goodâŚ
Serious though Drakeâs ruminations were, they were all forgotten when you began to brush his hair. Your movements were rhythmic, gentle, and his thoughts became lost in them.
Finally. Finally, it was your fingers against his skin, your breath that blew a stray lock away from his nape. Your gentleness was no different than it had been when he wore scales and fangs.
Exhaustion crept through his body. Since Drake had found you in the forest, the beast had maintained a constant hypervigilance. It was only now that its muscles unwound themselves and its breathing slowed. Safe he reminded himself. Home. Drake repeated the words with each stroke of the brush, as his eyes closed and he leaned, little by little, against your chest.
When Drake woke, the sun was setting and his head was resting in your lap. His muscles tensed, ready to leap up and apologize, but your hand on his forehead soothed him.
âShhh,â you murmured. âBe still. Youâre not doing anything wrong. Iâve rested against you a fair few times, so let me return the favor.â
Words wouldnât come, so Drake only nodded and closed his eyes again.
Unfortunately for all of you, I had some feelings about it, and those feelings resulted in almost 2000 words of (probably self-indulgent) thoughts including a little bit of x reader in the second half.
Woe! Knight!Drake be upon ye!
As a knightâs son, Drake grew up in the courts surrounded by valor and chivalry. A small but eager boy, he dreamed of the day when he would be old enough to protect the realm like his father (a knight of some renown).
He loved animals and could often be found helping to take care of the horses and hunting dogs. He was also fascinated by the stars and lingered around visiting astronomers, gleaning what knowledge he could from them.
During his childhood, Drake was easily captivated by bardsâ tales of knights performing miraculous deeds, wielding magic swords, slaying dragons, and standing firm against the forces of evil that would destroy the realm.
His chance came during the winter of his fourteenth year. He was old enough and had proven sufficient skill with a blade to ride out as a squire in his fatherâs company.
News of treachery swiftly followed. The company had betrayed the crown and become brutal mercenaries, sell-swords for the highest bidder. For years, that was all the court knew until, one particularly cruel winter, Drake returned. He was the sole survivor of a battle with a rival mercenary band that had claimed the lives of his father and all the company.
It was clear that Drake had come backâŚchanged. He was now nineteen but appeared nearly as young as he had when heâd first left. His face and body were scarred, and he walked without making a sound. There was little shine in his once bright eyes. He had no interest in the pleasures of the court and threw himself into training.
It was also clear that Drake was now cursed. When he fought, his nails and teeth grew sharper and scales erupted in the creases of his body. If he so willed, he could transform into a draconic beast, awful and fury-filled but lacking the wings of a true dragon â one final indignity. Rumors abounded. Heâd stolen fruit from a wizardâs orchard. The fae had altered him for their amusement. He had dealt with devils and forsaken his immortal soul for power. Whatever the truth was, Drake would not speak of it.
Over the next decade, Drake grew in both strength and height, until he topped two meters and could wield multiple blades with ease. (âThe curse,â the courtiers whispered. How else could such a soft, small boy become so powerful?). He also grew in isolation and apathy, fighting like a man who did not expect nor care to see the next dawn.
[Now for the X Reader stuff]
A minor noble, you came to court as a royal attendant. Despite the lavishness of the palace, you found no rest there. Your house had fallen on hard times, shaming the crown in the process. You had been taken in out of charity and everyone knew it.
Drake was assigned as your protector. Ostensibly, it was because, fallen house or not, you were still a noble and somebody had to make sure you conducted yourself in an appropriate manner, but to you it felt as if you had been saddled with a babysitter. With a realm at peace, was there really nothing more important for a knight to be doing? For some reason, your being paired up amused the courtiers to no end. You heard rumors about Drake. He had traitorâs blood. He was fae-touched, cursed. But none of those rumors seemed to fit the man you grew to know.
He was serious and stern, true, but he was also virtuous and kind. The only time he seemed to relax was in the presence of the small group of knights he had recently assumed command over. He also, and you smiled to think of it, doted on his horse.
âSheâs the only steed that will bear me,â he confided, in a rare moment of openness. Even then, he looked away from you. âThe others all spooked when I came near.â You didnât ask why.
Drake was obviously strong, but youâd never seen him fight. Every time you tried to follow him to the training grounds, he would notice your presence, no matter how stealthy you were, and send you away.
Still, the two of you grew closer, and it wasnât long before you felt the first traces of romantic feelings for the stoic but kind-hearted knight. You hid these feelings well, or so you thought.
For his part, Drake had begun to suspect that you now saw him as more than just a protector. He wished he could feel honored, maybe even return those feelings, but he wasnât a fool. It must be some courtiersâ game at his expense and, even if it wasnât, your feelings couldnât possibly be true. You werenât aware yet of the nature of his curse, after all. Â
Unfortunately for you both, peace in your realm could not last. War broke out with a neighboring kingdom, and Drake was removed from your service. In the relative safety of the palace, you worried for your knight and his small company. The fighting was said to be fierce, and you heard tell that, in many skirmishes, a beast would appear on the field and turn the tide of battle.
Feeling useless, and to distract yourself from the worry, you began to study herb-lore and simple medicine.
Soon, the palace where you resided was no longer safe, and the court moved to the capital.
On route, your retinue unexpectedly passed the site of an ongoing battle and was caught up in it. The knights with you defended you admirably, but all seemed lost untilâŚ
A creature, larger than your carriage, four-legged and wingless appeared on the battlefield. It was covered in a black and red scaled hide and had teeth and claws sharper than any blade you had ever seen. As you watched, you realized that the rumors were true. This beast fought with intelligence and fury precisely directed at the realmâs enemies. When the opposing army began its retreat, the beast collapsed, a number of fresh wounds on its side and belly.
You were shocked to see your realmâs forces also begin to move on, no one sparing a thought for the creature that had saved their lives. The unfairness of it ignited something in you, and you leapt from the carriage, ignoring cries of protest as you made your way to the fallen beast.
Its amber eyes swiveled to you, and a low growl began in its throat as you came near.
You stood your ground.
âI believe you can understand me,â you said, fishing a jar from your satchel. âIâm not going to hurt you. This is a poultice of comfrey and sage. It staunches wounds, prevents them from rotting. See?â
You uncorked the jar and held it out, fighting the shaking in your hands. The beast raised its head and appeared to sniff the contents. Satisfied, it lowered its head, but a growl still rumbled in its throat.
âYou fought valiantly, and you donât deserve to be left behind this way. Please, let me help you.â
Reaching one poultice-covered hand out, you gently placed it against a shallower wound. The beast shuddered under your touch, but allowed you to rub the salve into the wound. You moved on to the next.
âIâm sure this sounds selfish,â you sighed, âbut I believe your interventions are saving someone dear to me. Iâve received no word of his death, so I have to keep hoping.â
The growling stopped. You continued your work.
âItâs better protection than the charm I sewed into the lining of his gambeson before he left,â you laughed. âThat little trinket has no rending claws or sharp teeth. Just my love, whatever good that will do. There. Iâm finished.â
You backed away as the beast rose to its feet. It gave you one last glance before darting away across the field. With it gone, you hurried back to your retinue, preparing for their admonishments.
Your party made camp in relative safety, having met up with your kingdomâs forces from the earlier battle. You were confined to your tent, restless and frustrated, unable to scout around for news of Drake.
You had just resigned yourself to ignorance when your tent flap was thrown open and you stared, gaping, into a pair of sea-blue eyes. Drake looked haggard, still in his armor and painted with mud and drying blood.
It took all your practiced decorum not to embrace him, but you leapt up nonetheless.
âYour Grace,â Drakeâs face was crimson, though from anger or another emotion, you could not tell. âMy duty once-upon-a-time was to safeguard you from all harm. Why would you do something so reckless?â
âThe summer palace was no longer safe. We had to leave. How were we to know we were stumbling into a battle?â
He shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh. âYouâre willfully misunderstanding me. I heard what you did this afternoon.â
You crossed your arms. His attitude had returned to how it had been when you first met him. Serious, stern, no hint of softness. And youâd waited so long to see him again. Your voice rose before you could stop it.
âThe knights all say the beast fights the realmâs enemies. Yet when it appears, they leave it to fight alone. And when itâs injured, they leave it to lick its wounds alone. Itâs too cruel.â
âDraconic creatures are dangerous and unpredictable. They are outside of the godsâ graces. I cannot allow you to taint yourself that way! I would never forgive myself.â Drake seemed to be looking through you, and you noticed the tremor that had started in his gloved hands. Was he injured? Had he eaten anything since the battle? Drank anything? You stepped closer to him and lowered your voice, making it soft and soothing as you had done this afternoon when you had gained the beastâs wary trust.
âSer Knight, youâre speaking nonsense. To me, it seems as if the gods have sent us a divine protector. Who are we to judge the skin it wears?â You reached out, intending to take his hand. âCome. At least let me give you water, wash the dust from your face.â
Drakeâs stern countenance began to soften, and he let your fingers brush his for just a moment before swiftly turning away. When he spoke, his voice was tight.
âNo, Your Grace. I should take my leave. Goodnight.â
Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Drake left your tent.
You stared after him for a few minutes, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Getting up to tie your tent flap closed for the night, you paused. In the space where Drake had stood was a faint odor of comfrey and sage.
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Here my X- Drake fan art complete. It was so refreshed to draw something different. As I said, next week Iâll receive this character figure (this fact inspired me to draw something about him). Hope you like it.