A/N: Hey everyone! Me again with my first CaiLight oneshot! This is an idea I've had a while, but I just COULDN'T decide how I wanted to work it out until now! I wanted to use the prompt "Pretend". I think the oneshot turned out... Well, not to toot my own horn, but I don't do fics in this style all that often, and I think I did REALLY FUCKING WELL with this. O.o

Well, not much else to say. Read, enjoy, and reviews are—as always—forever loved! *heart*


Lets Just Be Pretenders

by: Chasing Yuffentine


The sound of swords clashing rings throughout Valhalla, echoes throughout the beautiful wasteland. One combatant is larger, male, his mane reminscent of a flowing miasma. The other one is smaller and female and her own locks the hue of a pale rose. Despite her size, she is an even match for him.

The male combatant is a ferocious dragon, his eyes cold, greedy with the protective glint within them. He has a treasure and he wants to protect it at all costs.

The female combatant is a fierce valkyrie, an agent of the Goddess sent, not to slay the dragon, but to keep him bound in chains. Her muscles are tense with determination and resolve.

Her ability to constantly defy fate astounds the dragon, intrigues him; it always has. His resolve amazes the valkyrie; never has she seen one so dedicated. She briefly remembers a certain woman who would have torn down the sky to find her companion, but this man was willing to rend time and space itself for his. And as was part of the routine in this dance of theirs, she's parrying another thrust of his blade. It's second nature by now.

Clash.

Break apart.

Rush.

Clash once more.

Block...

...Found an opening.

And the valkyrie lands a well-aimed hit on the dragon's hide—his arm. He curses as his own blade lands with a loud clatter; it's useless until it heals—a tendon was sliced.

The dragon hurriedly grasps his sword with his other hand, then leaps away, out of range. For the time being, he is admitting defeat. And the valkyrie lets him. She'll seek him out later when he's dressing the wound. The trail of blood will last a good distance, and he never goes far. But what meaning does 'far' have in a place with no beginning or end? The valkyrie ponders this, ponders her—their—existence in a place that does not exist yet does. She ponders the meaning of their eternal struggle, but cannot come up with an answer, and so waits, and waits, giving the dragon time to recover, only to realize that while lost in her musings may have given him too much time; he must be wondering why she had not yet come for their ritual.

And so she leaves the destruction and she arrives at the dragon's nest. He is already without his armored hide. He is vulnerable before the valkyrie. He clenches and unclenches the hand of his dressed, formerly wounded arm, testing its function; wounds heal faster in this place—allows for more battle and bloodshed. He nods—the wound's recovery seems to satisfy him—then turns to her. "I was beginning to think that you would not come," he comments; his expression makes the valkyrie think that perhaps it was a malicious taunt instead.

She scoffs. "Shut it." And she begins to shed her own blessed suit of armor; casually and with a fluidity that only she seems to have. The dragon gazes upon the valkyrie with a sort of hunger, a dangerous hunger that makes the valkyrie slow her actions; she is teasing him. She is the victor of their most recent battle, and as thus, the dragon is hers to do with as she wishes. She will bind him in chains as she is meant to, but the dragon doesn't mind; he enjoys it.

The dragon runs his tongue along his chapped bottom lip as the valkyrie's body is finally beginning to be bared to his sight. He allows a small smile to stretch across his countenance. "Such an ephemeral figure hidden beneath metal and feathers and hide; the body of a goddess, if I do say so myself." Another taunt of sorts, though this one is colored with hues of delightful teasing and shades of dark lust.

"Do you want this, or not?"

The valkyrie's tongue is as sharp as her blade.

"Point duly noted," he says. He rises from the ground of crystalline soil and makes his way to the valkyrie. He catches her offguard; she drops her armor from a greater height than she had meant to. She curses under her breath, but heaves a sigh soon after—what has been done has been done. Then she looks briefly into the dragon's eyes before his lips come down onto hers.

The valkyrie quickly dominates him, their tongues clashing just as is so often done with their blades. Her hands make their way towards the dragon's broad shoulders, shoving him down.

The valkyrie straddles his hips and grinds her bare sex against his. Soon, they are clashing once more. Their lips and tongues clash above, and they also clash down below, but somehow it is also more; somehow, they are clashing, body and soul.

This ritualistic battle is sacred to them. Neither really knows how it started, and neither desires for it to end. Nothing seems to have meaning here in Valhalla, yet for them, this ritual is meaning itself.

And so they clash, body and soul, and each ones move is lost amidst the other's, amidst moans and sighs, amidst deep, quickening breaths and rough mutual thrusts.

It comes as no surprise to them that a victor could not be determined when names are whispered and essences mix in a moment of a special kind of euphoria that the two only reach when with one another in this manner. But it's okay; they don't care. It doesn't matter to them if she binds him or if he manages to shatter the chains. Everything just is.

Nothing seems to have meaning here in Valhalla, so it surprises the valkyrie when the dragon asks her, out of the blue, "Lightning... what do you want us to be?"

The valkyrie—Lightning—sighs. She never expected the dragon to ask her anything akin to this.

But she manages to come up with an answer, even in the hazy bliss of their afterglow.

"... Pretenders, Caius... Let's just be pretenders."

And they know it to be true.

They are soon clashing swords again. Caius—the dragon—grazes her leg with his blade, but then drops it in favor of grabbing her ankle and throwing her in the direction of a ruined crystalline structure.

As Lightning is flying through the air, she thinks on her words from their most recent ritual.

Lets just be pretenders.

Then, she wonders: are they pretending to love or to fight?

But then she remembers that nothing seems to have meaning here in Valhalla and chuckles before she crashes into the ruins, leaving them as rubble and dust.