A Hak of a Time
(see what I did there…?)
Hak x reader
The training ground was quiet except for the sound of your labored breathing and the occasional crack of wood against wood.
You'd asked for this. You had to keep reminding yourself of that.
"Again," Hak commanded, twirling his staff lazily with one hand like he was bored. Like you weren't genuinely trying to knock his head off his shoulders.
You lunged. He sidestepped… and barely moved, actually, just a slight shift of his weight. Your practice sword cut through nothing but air.
"Hm." He tilted his head with a lazy grin, watching you recover your footing. "Was that an attack or were you just stretching?"
"Shut up."
"Rude." He clicked his tongue but his eyes were laughing. They were always laughing. "I'm your teacher. Show some respect."
"You're not my teacher, you're a menace."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive sweetheart.”
You made a face at the pet name, knowing just how much he enjoyed riling you up while sparring. You reset your stance: feet shoulder width apart, knees soft, grip firm but not tight, everything he'd drilled into you over weeks of sessions that left you bruised. Though you were somehow coming back for more. You'd be lying if you said the company had nothing to do with it.
Not that you'd ever tell him that.
Hak rolled his neck, the picture of casual arrogance, and gestured at you with two fingers. Come on then.
You came at him with a plan this time.
You didn't go straight for him. Instead you feinted left, pulled back, tried to catch his right side. It was the combination he'd taught you himself, which in retrospect was either a great idea or a terrible one.
He blocked it. Of course he blocked it. But his eyes shifted, just slightly… something flickering in them that wasn't quite boredom anymore.
"Better," he praised with an upward turn of his lips.
You didn't let the small warmth that gave you show on your face. "I know."
He laughed at that, short and genuine. "Oh, getting confident are we?"
"One of us has to be."
"You've got a mouth on you today." He rolled his shoulder and reset, and this time he moved — not lazily, not performing disinterest. Hak came at you properly and your whole body lit up with the familiar electric focus of actually having to work.
Block. Step back. Block again. You redirected instead of absorbing — he'd told you a hundred times that absorbing his strikes straight on was a losing game, use the momentum, use the momentum — and for one shining moment you actually felt like you were holding your own.
Then he ducked under your guard like it was nothing, stepped inside your reach, and suddenly his staff was at your side and his face was about six inches from yours. You pretended not to notice how your face was warming from the overwhelming scent of Hak, especially when paired with the soft puffs of breath that he was fanning across your face from his close proximity.
"Dead," he declared cheerfully, his eyes bore down on you with a devious glint to them.
You glared up at him with a defiant look. He stared back, entirely too pleased with himself, close enough that you could see the particular gleam in his grey-blue eyes that meant he was savoring this.
"You could at least pretend it's a challenge," you snarked with no real bite to it.
"It is a challenge. I'm challenging myself to look less bored." He stepped back, giving you room to breathe again — not that the additional space helped much. "It's not going well."
You shoved at his shoulder. He let you, swaying with it like a tree in wind, completely unbothered.
"One more round," you requested.
"You sure? You're looking a little—" he made a vague gesture at your entire person.
"If you say tired I will actually hit you."
"I was going to say determined." His mouth curved. "But now I'm thinking tired. Or is it you just enjoy being this close to me… hmm?" He teased with a quirk of his brow.
The next round you caught him.
Not by skill, exactly — or not only by skill. You'd watched him long enough to notice that he had one tell, barely visible, a slight drop of his left shoulder before he committed to a right-side attack. You'd been sitting on that information for three sessions, waiting.
You baited him into it. He dropped his shoulder. You were already moving.
Your practice sword caught his staff at an angle that sent it wide, and in the half-second he was adjusting you stepped in and pressed the blunt tip to his chest.
Silence.
Hak looked down at the sword and then looked up at you.
You were breathing hard, heart hammering, trying very hard to keep your expression neutral and probably failing completely.
"...Hm," he mused with a proud look.
"Dead," you told him with an excited smile.
Something crossed his face — surprise, quickly swallowed, replaced by something that sat somewhere between impressed and deeply suspicious. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You've been setting that up," he noted. Not a question.
"Three sessions."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed — a real one, low and warm, the kind he didn't give out often — and shook his head.
"You're sneaky," he stated. "I don't remember teaching you that."
"You didn't." You lowered your sword, willing your pulse to calm down. "I learned it from watching you."
The look he gave you after that was different from the others. Less teasing…. more… something else. Something he didn't put words to, just let sit in the space between you, quiet and warm and heavier than it should have been.
"Don't get smug," he stated finally. "I let you have that. I was giving you an opening, to see if you would catch it."
"You absolutely did not."
"I did. Completely intentional."
"Hak—"
"Great session," he replied loudly, turning away and hoisting his staff over one shoulder. "Same time tomorrow. Work on your footwork, it's still sloppy."
"My footwork just beat you."
"Tomorrow," he said, and walked away, and you were almost certain — almost — that he was smiling.
You came back the next day. And the day after that.
You told yourself it was about getting better.
You almost believed it.
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