((Jack took his personal knight out drinking to, you know, take the edge off your nerves from the incoming war on humanity and it's allied monsters from an incoming evil. a Mistake.))
[Crack but also it's just fanfiction lmao // SUGGESTIVE BUT IN A WEIRD WAY BUT STILL MDNI GO TF AWAYYYY]
A/N: =^) No descriptors for Reader, except she has cropped curly hair and can tan??? girl idk figure it out. **WRITTEN BY @ERISMAKESCHAOS AND HER OWN TWO GOD GIVEN HANDS ON THE LAPTOP KEYBOARD**
Jack didn't think this would happen, never in a thousand years.
He's the one people fear, he's the one who towers over his enemies and roots himself in vices like an oak, never toppled. He's the one to be wed to powerful nobility, and the one people say should have the throne—if for his reputation and past actions in boarding alone.
But here he is, cradled in the arms of this deluded, drunken, bastard knighted woman, in full display of the tavern whose patrons are having a fit and a half.
"Put me down." He snapped and growled. Tried to, and wouldn't admit that struggling out of her arms was actually making him struggle. It's the ale. The broken arm, makes it awkward. He's… also in shock. "Put me down, woman, I'll gut you with my hands—"
Never in another hundred million years would he admit his voice wavered when her arms tightened around him as she walked, shifting him to avoid the edge of a seat and a patron.
"Floor's wet, Sire, so I wouldn't dream of it." He can hear her smiling through her mask, he swears it. "Safer up here than slipping down there."
Jack shoved her away from him after she hoisted him on the bar top. He all but scrambled back from her and nearly tipped backwards as she stumbled back, a little afraid of her next move and the strength she'd put behind it. Jack looks his knight up and down, trying to analyze her audacity. Her black armor seeming darker than reasonable in the shadows and candle light of the tavern where it's fastened over her casual wear. He'd no idea why she'd insisted on keeping the half set of garb on when he'd requested a low profile, but now he guesses she was hoping for a scene to happen and to be recognized.
Let it be known the 4th Prince was saved by his knight he'd tried to share a drink with—his brothers are going to have a ball. Not like this was the first time, and that fact pissed him off more. It would have been fine, if not for a slight of chance. Now, his first mistake was letting her drink something as strong as what he liked.
But he couldn't have stopped her from having a bit of fun with spirits… he's seen nothing but tension follow her after the latest council meeting with the Witch. Warnings were given, hopes of peace snuffed, and her mind has been lost to thoughts of the farms of her friends and family on the outskirts of the city going up in flames. He'd overheard her crying in the morning, and demanded reason; she's his knight for gods' sakes, she shouldn't cry. It… makes him uncomfortable.
She'd been ordered to go along then after. Jack just wanted to be nice, didn't he. Well he can go fuck himself next time and tell her to shut up instead. He can hear her now, using the invitation to drink as justification for her humbling actions in the morning, and wants to kick her this second.
Jack swears [Y/N] doesn't care about her pay that's dusted off of the King's coin purse, that she prefers sapping the life out of him one grievance at a time. He flinches as she grabs a rag from the barkeep that's bent and laughing a little too much for someone who could be easily hanged, walks over to the mess, gets on her knees and begins wiping up the spill haphazardly. Jack doesn't like the fact he can imagine which tune she's humming as she does.
Jack doesn't know what to say, all he looks forward to is hunting down the one who'd started a brawl—tried to—and tried including him. He'd have fought regardless of his broken arm—his splint, an original design he'd tested on his more than willing knight when she thought wrestling with a stubborn heifer caught in a fence was a reasonable idea (he knows she just wanted to impress him. It was impressive how hard he laughed) was paying off beautifully. Jack would loved to make an example of his capability.
But nooo, the most lightweight Dame, [Y/N] of Blu, bastard daughter of the king's executioner and the 4th prince's personal servant and guard, had to step up and swing when he'd been shoved—tripped!—and put the prick on his ass, screaming, making him drop his mug. Jack isn't a little prince, he's a grown fucking man and he'd gladly kill and bury the body himself.
But something got twisted in her mind alongside the sweet grass she braided on the farm she grew up on. He didn't know—well. Yes, he did—whether he likes it or not. He just won't admit or hint to anything. Not like a lack of a sentence is proof of itself, he's hung other failures for doing more and less. The memory of her lifting-rather-tossing the bastard like a sack of rice by the collar of his shirt into a support beam replays in his head, and he debates on if the heat he feels is from embarrassment, or some kind of reaction from the ale that's making his clothes too tight. Mentally checking for symptoms of any poison, he finds none, but maybe an aphrodisiac…
Someone whistled, and he snapped out of his blind stupor when he realized she'd taken off her helmet, setting it down by her knees gingerly, wavering where she knelt. Jack glared at her smiling face, he knew it; As [Y/N] looks up at him with smudged black-gray pigment around her dark eyes and her face flushed from the one drink and the chafing metal on her skin, he resents her. Jack resents [Y/N]'s cropped hair that's longer and even curlier now from the sweat, and he resents her pretty scars and her even prettier sun scorched skin and the dusting of moles and freckles that decorate all over it-
"You're not hurt, are you Sire?" She called to him, and the tavern has gone quieter for however long, and now quieter again. This isn't the damn theatre. Jack wonders how she'd look in a play if he sold her to a traveling act, and tells himself he didn't care. He'd throw something at her on stage if she'd even tried to get by.
"What do you think?" He glowered.
She tilts her head, her eyes blinking at two different rates, looking dumber and duller than a bag of bricks, and he wonders why he hasn't dissected her yet, imagining her body placed on his examination and surgical table. Naked, perhaps dead or sedated, watching him with wide eyes as he tells her she deserves a lesser mercy than he's giving her-
… Is the aphrodisiac getting stronger-
"I think you took a nasty spall- fall," Good gods, Jack thought. "N' I think you need to rest 'fore we can walk y'home." She hiccups and nearly topples over from the force of it. Jack deadpans, defeated, and evaluating the fact the King approved her for the umpteenth time that month.
… No, he thought, watching her slip when she tried getting up. Jack doesn't know how [Y/N] carried him at all.
