"If you refuse to make a move, i will."
An extremely ballsy manouver from Kojiro to push a lovestruck Lancelot to tell its emotions to Arty.
(A/N): my good fellow, I did not know whether you meant Zerkerlot or Saberlot. ...anyways I made *both* HAHAHA I'll reblog this post with the Saberlot one enjoy~~~~
beautiful catastrophe_____________
Words: 1.8k
Characters: Lancelot of the Lake | Berserker, Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Kojirou Sasaki | Assassin
Ship: Lancetoria, Minor Kojitoria
Tags: Intense Pining, Obsession, Angst, Madness Enhancement is...something
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Loving her was catastrophic.
His gravity shifted the day he met King Arthur, her brilliant green eyes destabilizing the axis that he’d been spinning on all his life. In an instant, his whole universe changed, destroying and rebuilding itself ‘til she was its center, its focus, its reason for being. Before long, he’d forgotten all the history she’d replaced and all its weight, because it didn’t matter, not anymore. His life revolved around her, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He had been happy with that life. Serving her, worshiping her, cherishing every moment of her time that he was given. She shined a light so bright Lancelot wanted nothing but to bask in her glory, and he did just that, glad to be designated her strongest, her most trusted.
But, he would come to learn, the brightest light casts the longest shadow.
It was Guinevere that first shattered the image of Arturia he’d come to know. The queen pointed out every flaw and imperfection she could see, familiarizing him with all the cracks in their king’s beautiful facade. But she hadn’t done so out of malice, and somehow that made it even worse. The two of them thought they could heal all their beloved king’s gaps and imperfections. Instead, they became the hammer and nail that together shattered King Arthur’s castle of glass.
But even suffering through the madness that overcame him after his king's death–the same madness that eventually led him to his own grave–she was his one constant. In his world of aimless wandering, she was his direction. She was the one coherent thought in the insane chorus blasting throughout his mind. Through his despair there was Arturia. Through his pain, there was Arturis. Through the manic glee, through the blind rage there was Arturia, Arturia, Arturia.
It was no surprise that the mere infinitesimal chance of meeting her again brought him to the Fourth Holy Grail War. Nor was he surprised to wake in Chaldea, vision filled with blonde hair, green eyes, and royal blue. His obsession with the King of Knights was just so potent, so deep, so obviously undeniable, that even the Throne knew to reunite the black knight with his king lest it suffer his wrath. Lancelot would grab fate itself by the neck if he had to, if it meant he would be with her once again.
Now that they were together, however, he hesitated.
The fact burned through his veins, igniting every single one of his cells with rage and making him teeter right at the edge of insanity, but it was quite apparent.
Lancelot was not alone in his love for her.
There were others that dared venture into her space. Unworthy hands that held hers for too long. Dirty fingers that snuck up the curve of her waist; traveled the delicate shape of her neck. There were others that spoke to her so familiarly, made her smile, made her laugh, made her circle through a range of emotions he had never even seen from her before. There were others…and they made him doubt the validity of his claim on her, and whether or not their shared history held any weight at all.
Top of that list–as well as the list of people he wanted to murder in their sleep–was Kojiro Sasaki. He stood out from the rest because he was no knight, or king, nor some monstrous bastardization of either. His title was a fabrication. His summoning, illegal. Sasaki was a swordsman shoved into the honorless, cowardly role of an assassin, and yet he dared believe himself worthy enough to stand beside Lancelot’s king without the slightest hint of shame. He spoke to her with no shame. He touched her with no shame. And though Arturia had not quite realized it yet, he lusted with no shame.
Indeed, it seemed if not for Lancelot’s constant vigilance, the slimy bastard would have weaseled his way into her bed by now. But what irritated the French knight the most, what ate him up inside, was that Arturia likely wouldn’t refuse.
It was all Lancelot could do to grab her wrist and yank her away whenever the worm got too close; to distract her with spars, to keep her eyes trained on himself instead. However, Lancelot didn’t need to be completely sane to know those measures wouldn’t last. Though he tried to be gentle, he knew she was tired of bruises on her wrists. He knew she grew impatient waiting for an explanation beyond his angry grunts and ill-worded thoughts. He knew that one day, she would no longer tolerate how roughly he treated her–
“Lance, enough!”
Arturia ripped her arm out of his grasp with a vengeance, caring not that the force made him stumble. Her expression looked like it had been set aflame, a scowl and crossed eyebrows marring her usual placid face. Her shoulders rose and fell with her every hastened breath. Had she been speaking? How could he not have noticed?
Arturia rubbed her wrists, concealing the red marks on her porcelain skin from the Assassin that stood speechless behind her.
"I cannot forgive this conduct any longer, my knight, no matter how much favor you've incurred with me in life," she nearly shouted, her words echoing down Chaldea's halls and stopping Servants in their tracks. "Either you explain your behavior to me this instant, or I'll be forced to rescind whatever friendship we've managed to salvage thus far."
She must have intended for her words to be more scathing, but her voice wavered in the latter half. There it was again. Proof to all that against all odds, she still went soft for her First Knight. Kojiro liked to think she did so out of guilt. In reality, it may have been the same complicated feeling he'd been harboring for her the last few months.
"If…if you would just tell me why…" she mumbled, prompting him again when he didn't answer.
Lancelot stared down at his king, mouth hanging open to reply. But no matter how much the knight tried, he choked on every word that rose to his throat, and it was silence that filled the air instead. Silence was not what Arturia wanted to hear.
So, she filled the space with a long and melancholy sigh, shoving past the Berserker before he could reach for her again. Suddenly, Lancelot was left with company he didn't want, company that consisted of the very man he hated almost as much as he hated himself.
Arturia wasn’t even out of his sight yet, but he began to ache for her presence. He wasn’t calm when she wasn’t around. He couldn't be held accountable for what he was about to do.
Before the second was over, an armored fist shot out toward the Assassin, speeding straight to his jaw with a velocity that would surely pop it out of its socket before the clock ticked. And right on time too, when they were both safely in Arturia's blind spot. Milliseconds to spare, Lancelot began to grin, the satisfaction of putting this nobody in place already catching up to him. He would have been able to savor the moment too, if Kojiro hadn't predicted the blow.
A quiet, metallic whoosh resounded through the hall as Lancelot's fist missed its target, who maneuvered out of the way just before impact and locked an iron grip around the Berserker's wrist.
"She wouldn't endorse violence for these petty matters," the Japanese legend drawled lazily, unfazed and slightly amused by the knight's actions, "But I guess I shouldn't have expected the lioness's righteousness to trickle down to every one of her cubs, even if you are supposedly the best of the best."
Lancelot's anger flared and dissipated like sparks on wet flint. Even if the madness began to cloud his consciousness, the bastard was right. But what did he know? Kojiro had only met Arturia twice—thrice?—before they reunited in Chaldea. How much could one glean from the life of another with such little time together, especially when on opposite sides of a war? Sasaki didn't have the right to speak of how she would deliver judgment. Sasaki didn't have the right to speak for her at all.
"Stay...away…from my king," Lancelot grunted between huffs, jerking his hand back.
"And what? Watch you prance around Arturia like a sickly swallow, never giving her rhyme or reason for your mad little dance?" Kojiro queried, raising a sarcastic eyebrow to him in question. It made some of the passers-by wonder if the Assassin had a death wish. Even as Heroic Spirits, it was still quite terrifying to anger the more…unhinged of the Berserkers.
"I don't think so," the ponytailed man continued, hand loosely held over his katana. "She is a beautiful creature that I've already let slip through my fingers once. I will not let that happen again. I believe you know the feeling, don’t you?"
His provocation evoked exactly the reaction he expected it to: a black sword held an inch away from his jugular, and no more—an inch that told the Assassin that the mad dog still cared about Arturia's opinion of him, but more importantly, that Lancelot realized Sasaki meant something to Arturia.
In a sudden wave of arrogance, Kojiro opted for one more jab at the Frenchman, not knowing just how much he’d come to regret it.
"You have the rest of the hour. If you refuse to make a move, I will. This time, I'll make it count," the Assassin shrugged nonchalantly, "You and I both know she will not say no to me, fake hero or not."
A smirk swept across Sasaki's features. Lancelot's grimace deepened. Then the latter turned and stomped the way Arturia had gone, because he knew exactly what would happen if Kojiro succeeded.
His gravity would cease to work. Whatever had kept his gears turning would suddenly stop all function. Before he could fully get a handle on things, his whole universe would implode and scatter, no longer finding purpose to repair itself. Everything he knew, everything he loved, everything that tied his fragile mind to the name 'Lancelot du Lac' would simply disappear. When that happened, he would truly only be a mad warrior, one with no reason to exist, no direction, nothing.
Lancelot knew she would be in her room dealing with her emotions alone as usual. It was almost too easy to find her, to grab her wrist once more, to make her face him. What was difficult was telling her how he felt. So he didn't.
He kissed her. He kissed her, and rain began to pour, lightning peeked over gray clouds, large waves crashed onto the unsuspecting shore. He kissed her and hurricanes ripped the roofs off of houses, volcanos shot toxic fumes into the air, earthquakes tore chasms into the Earth’s surface. He kissed her and snow tumbled off the mountaintops, crashing down, down, down, leaving a trail of icy death behind it. The planet froze over, melted, flooded, dried, lived a million times, died twice over.
But the world continued spinning.
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thanks for reading! I still wanna do some of the prompts I got from this list, although its been so long. lotsa stuff has just been getting in the way aaaaaaaa
take care always,
-a stressed but surviving akampana
