GOOD JOURNEY, STRUGGLER

As often was the case of Guts’ sad tale, luck was not on his side this day.

“Ohhh,” Feigned surprise mocked the swordsman from above where he lay face first in the dirt, “so you do need my help. Very well.” Shoes grinding the dry earth filled the mercenary’s left ear as the glimpse of a knee tucking in next to his shoulder. A few strands of flaxen blonde hair daring to slip and dangle next to his grimy cheek when he’d suddenly feel a a cold hand close firmly around the back of the cursed armor’s lapel; knuckles brushing against the nape of his ever so vulnerable neck.

With a swift heave, the dirt, trees and bits of the sky whipped past Guts’ vision in a blur. Suddenly, he’d find himself gaping up at the heavens smeared with patches of fluffy clouds. The sun, bright and warm this midday, gleamed down on them as a familiar sly grin appeared far too closely next to the mercenary’s face.

“Think you can walk, princess?” Somehow, in that blur of movement, the serpent had taken Guts and literally swept him off his unsteady feet. Any mortal man would have broken his back attempting to carry Guts in all his armor, but the leviathan bared the weight effortlessly. And he hardly seemed deterred by the smell that clung to his “catch” as he walked them over towards where Dragon Slayer laid in wait.

   Yeah, yeah, he had better eat this moment up before the struggler regains enough strength to run the Dragon Slayer through his smug jaw. It might not amount to much--Jeremiah could shrug off the blast of a goddamned cannonball--but it’s the satisfaction of the act that counts.

   A bitterly defeated scowl refuses to leave Guts’ face as the serpent looks down on him as though he were a noble and Guts a trodden-on peasant. He’s betting Jeremiah’s gonna pull something funny, but much to his surprise--other than a telling swipe of the neck--he’s safe.

    “I don’t know, sweetheart; wouldn’t wanna ruin this moment between us.” Even in jest, the words are a bad taste, and make Guts want to puke. A few seconds is more than enough to feel his ego bruising while he’s being carried like this. Isn’t much longer before Guts begins to struggle and writhe, until he wrestles free and smacks the ground hard again with a grunt. Unlike last time, however, the Dragon Slayer lays within his reach. It’s like his second wind, for the moment he takes hold he finds enough strength to help himself to his feet. By the hilt, the blade is his crutch. Guts looks to his old pal, offering a smile and a nod of thanks.

   And then he lurches just one little step, launching the tip of the Dragon Slayer for that spot right between Jeremiah’s eyes. It’s a feint---the point stops a mere inch from the bulls-eye.

   She knows Guts is mad at her. Casca gives too much attention to that stupid pet fish of hers---attention that should be his. She knows he’s mad, but she also sees through a ruse only a child could ever naively think might work. He’s been sitting in the same sun-beaten spot for most of the afternoon, his occasional glare her only contact from him since breakfast. It’s second nature of Casca to just ignore his stubborn pouting whenever it concerned Fillet but Casca wasn’t seeing any fun in playing dumb this time, and her smiling can’t be stopped.

   Guts knows she’s planning something when she draws near, but is too busy pretending to be grumpy to call her out on it. When she finally strikes, however .  .  . it feels good. It’s an itch Guts didn't know needed scratching. He’s in trouble. He’s sure it’s her influence, making his eye slowly close and his head lean back on her for a just a little bit more. It’s her influence that brings a low rumble to his chest, confessing to her it’s what he’s wanted all along. Damn her.

          “I missed you today.” Apparently, he’s finally deemed her worthy of his words.

                         “And whose fault is that, Guts?” she rose a teasing brow.

                                                               “The fish.”

                                           Casca groans. “You’re such a dork.” 

fucking tired: fake “monster girls” that are basically uwu kyoot feisty animay gurls with barely monstrous features like horns or a tail big tits and skimpy underwear zzz gross boring as hell

   Among the island inhabitants—both native and otherwise—it isn’t exactly a secret that Guts and Casca have started to become like surrogates to many. Some human, but most not. 

   Guts had originally come up here to spend some time alone, but a half-pint’s company couldn’t be so bad. Thursday’s a rather timid kid anyway, so perhaps he too seeks some time away. That kind of thinking is what takes Guts by surprise all the more when unlike the others, Thursday asks him outright. It takes a moment for the swordsman’s silent stare to break away from the boy. The name papa is still quite a heavy burden for him to adopt, but it isn’t exactly wrong at this point, is it? A minute passes, and the blank slate of Guts’ features relaxes into a half-smile beneath the collar of his cloak. Ah, whatever. Anything is better than Mr. Guts.

              Indeed, this island has softened him more than he likes to admit.

   “Well, if you did, I guess I could let it slide once or twice.” It rolled off the tongue nicely. A massive hand reaches out to cover the top of the boy’s scruffy head in an affectionate pat.

   That message is swallowed up and spat out as wrinkles upon seething wrinkles line the length of its muzzle. Its lips are pulling back, revealing gums of teeth upon teeth upon teeth. Every bend and crease that makes this threat is far from a natural creature of this world. 

   Like yin and yang, the dual predatory beasts circle each other and size each other. Spittle splays from the dark one’s maw at the sheer force of the snarl it is all too eager to return to the panther, bringing with it a furious warning that the Beast’s lips need not move to speak.