Granny Thayer, Demon Slayer || Collab with SophieKestrel

Chapter 4: Of Tyrannical Despots and Patronizing Princes

Grass.

Grass, and rocks. And also... ants?

Violet frowned. It wasn't often that she saw the ground at close range, and she was surprised by how many insects appeared to be going about their business in the soil right next to her head.

Sensations trickled through her dazed brain. Her right arm ached from where she'd tried to break the young man's fall. Something squishy was pressed into her side, which might have been Jiggles, but might also have been...

"Hnngh."

Shoot, she thought. That didn't sound good. In fact, it sounded almost like something she might have to sit up for. Violet did not want to sit up right now. She was certain all her bones had broken in the fall.

"HNNGH," came the sound again, more insistently. The noise vibrated through the fabric of her dress, tickling her abdomen. Something pushed, almost angrily, against her belly.

With considerable reluctance, Violet pulled herself to sitting, rubbing her bruised forehead.

The "HNNGH"ing had come from the young man she'd 'rescued' a few moments earlier. Specifically, the sound had originated from the region of his face, which she'd been lying directly on top of. They were a goatfuck of tangled limbs and body parts.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked.

"Fine," said the young man. There was an undercurrent to his tone that suggested he would have very much liked to add, now that you're no longer smothering me. "Are you?"

Violet took stock of her injuries with considerable surprise. At her age, she should have at very least fractured an arm and possibly a hip, but she felt only a tingling numbness in her knees and elbows, like when she left the rocking chair too quickly. Were latent powers finally manifesting?

Or had the authors simply given her plot armor?

She turned back to appraise the young man. He was strikingly handsome, with the sort of chiseled jawline she would have swooned over as a young woman, with dark eyes, brown skin, and black-as-midnight hair that framed his face in glossy waves. Despite his face being recently smothered, a twinkling golden crown still perched on his thick hair, by some miracle of the Goddess.

Or perhaps it was held on by superglue.

Whatever form his magic took, he surpassed her childhood crushes by leaps and bounds, with broader shoulders than Grampy Hector and longer eyelashes than Granny Smith. He was—to quote young Arty—jaw-droppingly, mouth-wateringly attractive.

He was also the face featured on the back of the wagon.

For a moment, her stomach fluttered. Ridiculous, really. He was younger than her children, and she was beyond such crushes. But his wide eyes met hers with the kind of expression reserved for...someone special.

"I am just fine," she said, a bit breathlessly.

Fortunately, his next words yanked her back to her senses.

"It would be better if you had not attempted to save me, particularly given your age."

Violet's eyebrows shot up. Better she had not attempted? Given her age? So that was why he was staring—not because of some unexpected connection, but because his young brain couldn't fathom someone her age accomplishing any noteworthy feat.

It hurt all the worse for the flutter she'd permitted herself to feel moments ago. How dare he lead her to believe she was worthy when he only pitied her?

He did not notice the brewing storm. His eyes were now fixed on a nearby puddle of rainwater. He seemed to be checking his hair. "It's a miracle you were unharmed," he continued offhandedly, combing through his glorious black locks. "The demons usually injure at least a few people with each attempt on my singular"—sigh—"unworthy life."