You Are a Weapon and Weapons Don't Weep

Fucking Cu Alter, Artoria finds, isn’t so different from fighting him.

It bruises just as much, for a start. There is nothing gentle in the way he shoves her against the wall, no tenderness when his teeth find her skin. He doesn’t care, that she’s a frail caster and not a sturdy knight, that she’s a full head shorter than him and that any attempt at touching him ends with a handful of spikes. He kisses her with savage restraint, his mouth carrying the scent of blood and iron.

Here is the thing: it’s in his nature, this violence. He’s a berserker, a beast, a mad king crowned in bones. He’s holding back as much as he can, she can tell; there is no path to intimacy for him that isn’t paved in bruises. Even if he wanted to, he could not do this without hurting her.

Artoria snarls into the kiss, biting back with all her might. Her nails claws at him, sliding over the chitinous shell but digging into the soft skin at the joints.

Here is another, lesser-known thing:

This is her nature, too.

Artoria kicks, punches, spits like an animal. She holds so much rage inside her small body, so much it feels like she’s going to explode at times; and here he stands, Cu Chulainn, the man doused in holy mud, someone who is able and willing to take it.

They’ve never talked about it, never discussed their respective conditions. But she knows. And she knows he knows.

They’re the same, the two of them. Weapons of fate forged in flesh and steel.

Suddenly, she pushes back. Whether she took him by surprise, or he decided to humor her- she doesn’t know. Either way, he staggers back, and she shoves him on the table, climbing on his laps.

“Don’t move.” She reaches in her breastpocket, pulling out a small vial. With a pop, she opens it, and pours it over the man’s tits. The chemicals sizzle with heat as it slowly turns into a texture closer to wax, tearing a singular grunt out of Cu Alter’s throat. “Does it hurt?”

“Fuck, it does.” He blinks up at her, slit eyes in slit eyes, sharp grin to sharp grin. He’s an exoskeleton without a wearer, a spear with no wielder- his sense of touch is absolute shit. But this- Artoria made it specifically for him, the most potent chemicals she could put her hands on, in a powerful cocktail that will give him burns for days. The wax spreads, scorching his skin, and the man has never looked so alive. “So, you gonna start pounding, or what?”

“Getting there, getting there.” She replies, fishing his cock out. He’s stupidly big, but she’s no quitter. She sinks onto him in one go, feeling the thorns of his legs digging into her thighs. It always feels like this, like she’s being split in half and torn asunder. It’s intoxicating.

Sometimes, when he bottoms out, when their most sensitive parts are bared to one another- cock and clit and open wounds and sizzling burns- sometimes, Artoria wonders if they’ve already met each other, in another life. If King Arthur has ever fought Cu Chulainn. If Excalibur and Gae Bolg have ever crossed blades. Because she feels something, in the bottom of her stomach, a ripple, an echo, something carved so deeply inside her being that she knows it would remain even if her whole being was forged into a sword.

Then Cu Alter starts thrusting, and Artoria finds that she has much higher priorities than pondering over what fate sealed them together.

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